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Constant Consciousness Print
Shambhala Sun | January 1999

Constant Consciousness

By: "That which is not present in deep dreamless sleep is not real." -Ramana Maharshi

Sitting here on the porch, watching the sun go down. Except there is no watcher, just the sun, setting, setting. From purest Emptiness, brilliant clarity shines forth. The sound of the birds, over there. Clouds, a few, right up there. But there is no "up," no "down," no "over," and no "there"-because there is no "me" or "I" for which these directions make sense. There is just this. Simple, clear, easy, effortless, ever-present this.
I became extremely serious about meditation practice when I read the following line from the illustrious Sri Ramana Maharshi: "That which is not present in deep dreamless sleep is not real."
That is a shocking statement, because basically there is nothing-literally nothing-in the deep dreamless state. That was his point. Ultimate reality (or Spirit), Ramana said, cannot be something that pops into consciousness and then pops out. It must be something that is constant, permanent, or, more technically, something that, being timeless, is fully present at every point in time. Therefore, ultimate reality must also be fully present in deep dreamless sleep, and anything that is not present in deep dreamless sleep is not ultimate reality.
This profoundly disturbed me, because I had had several kensho or satori-like experiences (glimpses of One Taste), but they were all confined to the waking state. Moreover, most of the things I cared for existed in the waking state. And yet clearly the waking state is not permanent. It comes and goes every twenty-four hours. And yet, according to the great sages, there is something in us that is always conscious-that is, literally conscious or aware at all times and through all states, waking, dreaming, sleeping. And that ever-present awareness is Spirit in us. That underlying current of constant consciousness (or nondual awareness) is a direct and unbroken ray of pure Spirit itself. It is our connection with the Goddess, our pipeline straight to God.
Thus, if we want to realize our supreme identity with Spirit, we will have to plug ourselves into this current of constant consciousness, and follow it through all changes of state-waking, dreaming, sleeping. This will: 1) strip us of an exclusive identification with any of those states (such as the body, the mind, the ego, or the soul); and 2) allow us to recognize and identify with that which is constant-or timeless-through all of those states, namely, Consciousness as Such, by any other name, timeless Spirit.
I had been meditating fairly intensely for around twenty years when I came across that line from Ramana. I had studied Zen with Katigiri and Maezumi; Vajrayana with Kalu and Trungpa; Dzogchen with Pema Norbu and Chagdud; plus Vedanta, TM, Kashmir Shaivism, Christian mysticism, Kabbalah, Daism, Sufism... well, it's a long list. When I ran across Ramana's statement, I was on an intensive Dzogchen retreat with my primary Dzogchen teacher, Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche. Rinpoche also stressed the importance of carrying the mirror-mind into the dream and deep sleep states. I began having flashes of this constant nondual awareness, through all states, which Rinpoche confirmed. But it wasn't until a few years later, during a very intense eleven-day period-in which the separate-self seemed to radically, deeply, thoroughly die-that it all seemed to come to fruition. I slept not at all during those eleven days; or rather, I was conscious for eleven days; or rather, I was conscious for eleven days and nights, even as the body and mind went through waking, dreaming and sleeping. I was unmoved in the midst of changes; there was no I to be moved; there was only unwavering empty consciousness, the luminous mirror-mind, the witness that was one with everything witnessed. I simply reverted to what I am, and it has been so, more or less, ever since.
The moment this constant nondual consciousness is obvious in your case, a new destiny will awaken in the midst of the manifest world. You will have discovered your own Buddha Mind, you own Godhead, your own formless, spaceless, timeless, infinite Emptiness, your own Atman that is Brahman, your Keter, Christ consciousness, radiant shekinah-in so many words, One Taste. It is unmistakably so. And just that is your true identity-pure Emptiness or pure unqualifiable Consciousness as Such-and thus you are released from the terror and the torment that necessarily arise when you identify with a little subject in a world of little objects.
Once you find your formless identity as Buddha-mind, as Atman, as pure Spirit or Godhead, you will take that constant, non-dual, ever present consciousness and re-enter the lesser states, subtle mind and gross body, and re-animate them with radiance. You will not remain merely Formless and Empty. You will empty yourself of Emptiness: you will pour yourself out into the mind and world, and create them in the process, and enter them all equally, but especially and particularly that specific mind and body that is called you (that is called, in my case, Ken Wilber): this lesser self will become the vehicle of the Spirit that you are.
And then all things, including your own little mind and body and feelings and thoughts, will arise in the vast Emptiness that you are, and they will self-liberate into their own true nature just as they arise, precisely because you no longer identify with any of them, but rather let them play, let them all arise, in the Emptiness and Openness that you now are. You then will awaken as radical Freedom, and sing those songs of radiant release, beam an infinity too obvious to see, and drink an ocean of delight. You will look at the moon as part of your body and bow to the sun as part of your heart, and all of it is just so. For eternally and always, eternally and always, there is only this.

Material in this column appears in One Taste: The Journals of Ken Wilber, from Shambhala Publications Inc., Boston. Copyright Ken Wilber, 1998.

    Constant Consciousness, Ken Wilber, Shambhala Sun, January 1999.

Ain't She Still a Woman? Print

Ain't She Still a Woman?

Increasingly, patriarchy is offered as the solution to the crisis black people face. Black women face a culture where practically everyone wants us to stay in our place.

Progressive non-black folks, many of them white, often do not challenge black male support of patriarchy even though they would oppose sexism in other groups of men. In diverse black communities, and particularly in poor communities, feminism is regarded with suspicion and contempt. Most folks continue to articulate a vision of racial uplift that prioritizes the needs of males and valorizes conventional notions of gender roles. As a consequence black males and females who critique sexism and seek to eradicate patriarchy in black life receive little support.

Despite all the flaws and proven failures of patriarchal logic, many black people continue to grasp hold of the model of a benevolent patriarchy healing our wounds. Increasingly, patriarchy is offered as the solution to the collective crisis that black people face in their private and public lives.

Despite feminist critiques of patriarchal narratives of race that suggest black men suffer the most vicious assaults of white supremacy and racism because they are not empowered to be "real" men (i.e. patriarchal providers and protectors), most black people, along with the rest of the culture, continue to believe that a solid patriarchal family will heal the wounds inflicted by race and class. Frankly, many people cling to this myth because it is easier for mainstream society to support the idea of benevolent black male domination in family life than to support the cultural revolutions that would ensure an end to race, gender and class exploitation.

Many black people understand that the patriarchal two-parent black family often fares better than matriarchal single-parent households headed by women. Consequently it is not surprising that at moments of grave crisis, attempting to create a cultural climate that will promote and sustain patriarchal black families seems a more realistic strategy for solving the problems.

Of course, that appears more realistic only if one does not bring a hardcore class analysis to the crisis. For example: many conservative black males have spoken about the necessity of black men assuming economic responsibility for families, and have denounced welfare. Yet they do not address in any way where jobs will come from so that these would-be protectors and providers will be able to take care of the material well-being of their families.

Black females and males committed to feminist thinking cannot state often enough that patriarchy will not heal our wounds. On a basic level we can begin to change our everyday lives in a positive, fundamental way by embracing gender equality and with it a vision of mutual partnership that includes the sharing of resources, both material and spiritual. While it is crucial that black children learn early in life to assume responsibility for their well-beingóthat they learn discipline and diligenceóthese valuable lessons need not be connected to coercive authoritarian regimes of obedience.

While feminism has fundamentally altered the nature of white culture, the way white folks in families live both in the workplace and home, black female involvement in feminist thinking has not had enough meaningful impact on black families. The work of progressive black woman thinkers to encourage everyone in this society to think in terms of race, gender, and class has not radically altered the racist and sexist stereotypes that suggest black women succeed at the expense of black men.

Concurrently, the assumption that white supremacist capitalist patriarchal culture is less threatened by black women, and therefore is willing to grant us "rewards" denied black men, has no reality base. Yet it acts as a weapon of cultural genocide in that it encourages black men to be complicit in the devaluation of black womanhood that helps maintain existing structures of domination.

To the extent that black men are socialized to see black females as their enemies, particularly those who are professionally employed, misogynist and sexist assaults are legitimized. Black women face a culture where practically everyone wants us to stay in our place (i.e. be content to accept life on the bottom of this society's economic and social totem pole).

Significantly, even when individual black women are able to advance professionally and acquire a degree of economic self-sufficiency, it is in the social realm that racist and sexist stereotypes are continually used both as ways of defining black women's identity and interpreting our behavior.

For example: if a black woman sits at a predominantly white corporate board meeting where a heated discussion is taking place and she interrupts, as everyone else has been doing, her behavior may be deemed hostile and aggressive. Often when I lecture with a black male colleague and I challenge his points, rather than being perceived as more intellectually competent, I am deemed castrating, brutal, etc. The reverse happens if he challenges me in a particularly winning way. He is seen as just more brilliant, more capable, etc.

Even in feminist circles, individual black women are often subjected to different standards of evaluation than their peers. When the nationally recognized black woman writer Toni Cade Bambara died, the mass media paid little or no attention. Almost a year after her death Ms. magazine published a long article in which a black woman writer focused on the poor housekeeping skills of the writer and her failure to conform to a standard of desired friendship. Nothing was said about the content of her work or its impact; this was a blatant example of devaluation. It is easy to devalue and de-legitimate black females who do not conform to standards of bourgeois decorum, who do not come from the right class backgrounds. No one objects.

Often individual black women are so worried that they will be regarded through the lens of racist/sexist stereotypes that portray us as dominating, vicious and all-powerful, that they refuse to make any courageous non-conforming act. They may be more conservative in standpoint and behavior, more upholding of the status quo, than their non-black and female counterparts. They may refuse to consider taking any action in relation to individual self-actualization or group participation that would be seen as rebellious or transgressive.

Anti-feminist backlash, coupled with narrow forms of black nationalism which wholeheartedly embrace patriarchal thinking, has had a major impact on black females. Fear of male rage, disapproval and rejection leads some of us to be wary of feminist politics, to reject feminist thinking. Yet if we do not bring feminism out of the closet and into our lives, racist/sexist images that ensure and perpetuate the devaluation of black womanhood will continue to gather cultural momentum.

bell hooks is the author of Wounds of Passion, published by Henry Holt and Company.

Ain't She Still a Woman?
, bell hooks, Shambhala Sun, January 1999.

Click here for more articles by bell hooks

The Llama and the Shmuck Print
Shambhala Sun | January 1999

The Llama and the Shmuck

By: I confide my feelings to Bubo as if he were a therapist. It's important he get to know me so transference can begin. Occasionally his head nods encouragingly; he doesn't comment because he's a Freudian llama.

Three days into a mountain retreat, the worst has happened: I've become a shmuck. In Yiddish, shmuck is literally a penis, but it's commonly used to mean a sad sack or a fool. The realization comes as I run barefoot downhill toward Bubba. Bubba is the llama who carries my gear. The gear which I'm bringing him overflows from a canvas pannier that defies being packed correctly. I am barefoot because I've misplaced my shoes, and running because I'm late, yet again. for the group's morning meditation.
"Hey Arnie, you dropped a sock," someone calls. I run back up the hill, and pick it up. "You left your towel hanging on a tree," rings another voice. As I return to the tree, I think, "No, not just a shmuck, I'm the Mayor, the Mayor of Shmuck City."
The retreat is led by Joan Halifax, who has explored the world's mountains for the past three decades. We have traveled from Santa Fe to hike at 13,000 feet in the San Juan wilderness of Colorado. I've been warned by friends that the journey will be too strenuous but I've dreamed of such a camping trip all my life.
After depositing the pannier beside Bubba, I arrive at the waiting circle of silent participants. They are holding hands and looking at me quizzically, wondering "Why can't he get it together?" Joan singles me out in a kind, patient voice, like a tutor talking to a child with a learning disorder: "Arnie, this is the first time you've camped, so it's all very new to you. But when you lose your gear, and ask others where it is, you drain the energy of everyone, the whole group. Everyone becomes involved in taking care of you. And we need our energy for today's climb."
I lower my eyes and feel my face flush hot. "Please," she implores, "please, you've got to learn to keep track of your things."
"Today," the Mayor of Shmuck City promises, "I don't know how, but I'll learn to do it today." But learning itself is the issue. I suffer from a disorder that has plagued me all of my life. In unfamiliar situations, I sometimes freeze at performing new tasks. If I don't know how to do them, then I don't know how to learn them. I begin making clownish mistakes, like Woody Allen lost in the wilderness. I'd lost my water bottle, although I'd doubled back and found it again. And a sheet of Hebrew prayers that I needed to pray in the morning when I wear my tallis (prayer shawl) and tefillin (phylacteries). My morning prayers now begin by apologizing to God for my doing-the-best-I-can devotion.
In the midst of the meditation, my watch alarm begins to chime because my heart monitor has set it off. I use the monitor because of a heart murmur. It warns me when my heartbeat exceeds 130 beats, the equivalent of jogging too fast. My wrist watch shows that standing perfectly still, breathing calmly, my heart is racing. It's my anxiety at the thought of the day's continuing humiliation: my weak right knee will buckle and I'll begin to walk with a limp; my leaky heart will siphon off my stamina and I'll fall far behind the others; finally the group will pause at a mountain top and look back at my straggling approach, frowning as I mark the pristine path with lost socks, underwear and towels.
I shut off the alarm as Joan makes her usual request-that we commit to taking care of our own selves and each other. "We are here to gain strength from the mountains," she concludes. "They are our teachers."
Then we walk to our respective llamas, as I remember the lines from a psalm of King David, "I lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence comest my strength." I take Bubba's reins and get into line, wondering again about the connection between Judaism and Buddhism. I don't know what it is, I can't put it into words. I just feel a connection to each path.
In my backpack, my tefillin and tallis are like a holy shield. Unfortunately, next to the holy shield there is also a plastic bag full of shitty toilet paper. The used toilet paper is a testament to my ability to follow directions. We've been directed not to bury our toilet paper because animals will dig it up. Instead, we are to carry it with us and wait for the time and place when the group will burn it. No one else seems particularly concerned with this. When I mention it I'm told, "Don't worry about it." Perhaps they've surreptitiously buried their paper. But not The Mayor. No-I have integrity!
Since this is a silent retreat, conversation is highly discouraged. And because I'm a salesman, born to talk & talk & talk, there's an overwhelming need to communicate. Bubba provides a sympathetic ear. I begin confiding my feelings as if he were a therapist. My feelings, my anxieties, my fears, my problems-it's important that he get to know me so that transference can begin. Occasionally his head nods encouragingly; he doesn't comment because he's a Freudian llama.
Along the Continental Divide, we are separated from the group. The view is so spectacular. I open my pack, and beneath the toilet paper and tefillin I'm pleased to find that I haven't yet lost my camera. After a series of pictures, we move on in an ocean of silence. Then the day rips open with a nearby bolt of lightning. It explodes with a cannon shot of thunder. Bubba snaps his head back and locks his front legs. He faces me for the first time with panicky eyes. "Come on, Bubba," I say. "Let's go." But he won't budge. Then small beads of white hail begin to fall and blanket us. The hail grows heavier, but he resists my pull on the reins.
I put my arm around his neck and my face close to his. I nudge him gently, and speak in a voice that's totally new to me. It is a calm voice, soothing, the voice of the man I wish to be. "It's nothing, Bubba, just lightning and thunder, and if we move on into the woods, we'll be safe." Then I step in front of him, and lightly tug the reins. We move into the forest where the others are protected beneath the trees. Waiting the storm out, I remember the words of Kate Doyle, the llamas' trainer.
"How do you train a llama to be a leader?" I'd asked her.
"You can't train them," she said. "The leaders are born. Llamas are herd animals, and only comfortable when they're following each other. When they're young, the leaders just naturally move out in front."
When the hail storm stops we load our packs again and move on. Eventually Alfie, the llama in front of us, stops because the road in front of him is empty. Bubba won't move either, and can't be persuaded. He will not move forward because it means taking the lead. Suddenly I realize that Bubba's fear is akin to my own. Because he needs the safety of moving in a herd, he freezes before the open vista of the unknown. And I freeze when it comes to entering the unknown too.
As if he hears my thoughts, Bubba steps around me and takes the lead. It is a major step for him, although perhaps no one knows it but me. Walking beside him, it makes me feel that I too can step into my own fear. When we arrive at base camp, I follow Bubba's example. For the first time in the trip, I step into the presence of the group. I don't pitch my tent away from everyone to hide my inexperience. Instead, I camp near the others so that I can watch them and learn what to do.
Later, I volunteer to help our guides prepare the group's dinner. In helping to tie the tarpaulin strings to the tree branches, I feel a beginning sense of exhilaration: I can learn. I untie and retie the knots several times, showing myself that I can master this simple art. And no one is laughing at The Mayor because he is doing something so childish-because I'm not The Mayor after all. Being a shmuck was never their judgement-it was my own. Each of us in the group, I come to realize, struggles in some way with the sense of not belonging, of not fitting in, of being too different.
In learning to take care of Bubba, I had learned to take care of myself. This was the essence of what Joan had asked of us-that being mindful meant learning to take care of ourselves and each other. By the last night, I no longer used a tent. I lay awake under a luminous black sky, staring at the shining stars. The sight of them filled me with awe, and I recalled the second line of the morning Hebrew prayer: "The beginning of wisdom is awe of Lord." Recently Joan had said that traveling with me was a joy because my enthusiasm revealed a true "beginner's mind"-a mind that sees the world as constantly new.
Waiting for the dawn, I repeated the phrase, "Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind." If the world is constantly revealed as new, then such a mind would certainly be awestruck. "Perhaps the link between Judaism and Buddhism might simply be awe." I think, "the beginning of wisdom for one, the beginning of practice for the other." Either way, when the dawn rises on another new day, it's a miracle that is both commonplace and unbelievable.

Arnold Meyer is a writer and salesman living in New York.

    The Llama and the Shmuck, Arnold Meyer, Shambhala Sun, January 1999.

Alice Walker in the Archives Print

Alice Walker and Sharon Salzberg on Loving Kindness

A discussion led by

It's too bad you can't hear the tape of this conversation we had with Alice Walker. There is a lot of heart and many powerful ideas in this printed version, but it can't convey the real depth and caring and calm certainty of Alice Walker. While Sharon and I often made reference to our particular Buddhist traditions to try to express our thoughts, here was someone who spoke directly from her own life experience, from intimate, direct knowledge of her own heart. Here is a person of true, self-realized spirituality. By way of background, Sharon Salzberg is a member of the Insight Meditation Society, a very fine Buddhist teacher, and author of
Lovingkindness: The Revolutionary Art of Happiness. Alice Walker is best known for, among her many writings, the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel The Color Purple, and as a committed social activist who has had the courage to take on difficult and often unspoken issues.
óMelvin McLeod

Sharon Salzberg:
I'm really delighted to have this opportunity. I've loved your work and have been so moved by it. In speaking about metta practice, or loving kindness practice, one of the hardest things is not to sentimentalize. That's especially hard in our society, where the whole idea of love can be degraded and considered a weakness. But in your books, the power, the actual life force and potency of loving kindness, comes through so strongly.

Alice Walker: I think my feeling of loving kindness is rooted in a very irrepressible spirit that has always been earth-connected. When I was a child I felt so much a part of the countryside and everything that was in it, that I couldn't avoid the feeling that I had to have been loved very much, to find myself there.
So when I came to meditationóI actually started doing TM when I was living in New York after a divorceóit was a kind of going back. Just after being initiated in doing the training, when I finally sort of got it, I started to laugh, because I recognized where I was. I was back in a place where I had lived as a child, in my spirit, in a very open, spacious, loving place, where I felt totally at peace and in myself.

Then last year, when I was in another period of great struggle and trial, I read your book about metta practice, and it was wonderful. I was so comforted to have again such a place within my reach. It was that incredible thought that we can care about ourselves and not fall into the pit of thinking that just because life is not working now, there's something terribly wrong with us. That is what metta has done for me, this reassurance that of course we go through incredible periods of stress and pain, but if we hold on to our love of ourselves through it, we can come out the other side.

Sharon Salzberg: There's a teaching in Buddhism that suffering strengthens our faith. That's hard to understand, it's hard to even speak about, because so many people are embittered by suffering and are broken by it, rather than renewed by it. It's finding the transformative quality in the openness that makes all the difference.

Alice Walker: For me, it is also not having my love and faith in the earth itself broken. Ten years ago I experienced having Lyme Disease, which at the time I didn't even know existed, so I just thought I was dying of some mysterious thing that nobody had ever heard of. Then when I realized that this disease was caused by a tick bite, I thought that the earth had kind of turned on me. I had always been such a shameless pagan, out there fornicating in the grass and up the trees and everything, and I felt I had to withdraw from that kind of intimate contact with nature, because nature bites back, I thought. So I went for years with this kind of fear, and only after a very long time did my love for the earth and for nature prove so strong that I just decided that I loved it no matter what it did. And so (laughs), it's been wonderful.

Sharon Salzberg: In the tape you did, "My Life as Myself," you say something like, "Love makes me look at what I can't stand," which is a tremendous affirmation of the bigness of love.
Alice Walker: It's true. I think that feeling had to develop in me because so much of what I've had to look at in life is so hard. If I didn't have the love of the people and of the earth and of the life force itself, I couldn't bear it. I couldn't know that children are being subjected to all the things that they are being subjected to. I would just turn away, I think, as many people do. People go into drugs, they go into television, and they go into many things. But you can also go in through love.

Melvin McLeod: Can I ask what your understanding is of the actual practice of loving kindness. Many people might hope that they could access such love in their lives, love for themselves and for others, but how does one actually do it?

Alice Walker: Well, for me it has always been through activism. I've been a very contemplative person by nature, and was fortunate enough always to live very far out in the wilds of the country. I think this is where all meditation really comes from, that feeling of spaciousness in the countryside or with nature. But I was also very lucky to have been placed in a part of the country where one has to struggle politically and socially in order to grow, and actually to exist at all. So I was brought into contact with people and movements and with forces for change in society, and I could not help but grow. It was just inevitable that if I looked out and saw people in all their radiant fighting beauty, then I would just be struck with love for them.

I'm so happy that I lived in Mississippi for seven years, because each day I could see these warriors, who were really the least of everybody. They were poor, they could be thrown off their land, they could be jailed, they were often shot; you know, lynching was not uncommon. And there they wereóthey would stand up to anyone and hold their ground, insist that they were children of God, and that they had a right to exist. This was incredibly humbling, and I just found myself loving them without reservation.   The thing about love that I've discovered in my life is that one love leads to another. It just gets bigger and bigger. You can let it start anywhere; it can be really tiny. You can start with a daffodil, but if you sincerely see it and if you sincerely love it, then it's like the key. The daffodil is like a key to the big, big, big storeroom. Then everything becomes something that is lovable.

Sharon Salzberg: You describe the naturalness of it all. I guess the problem is that we've forgotten, or we've got out of touch. It's not so much a practice to get more loving, but to remember more, and to feel more safe and confident in our ability to love.

Alice Walker: Yes, and also to see the good even in the midst of the dreadful. That has always been very powerful to me. I've known so many people in my life who were almost split in half, good and bad. You could see them doing something that was just horrendous and despicable on Tuesday. And then on Wednesday, you would see them drop all of that and stand up to incredible forces of oppression and despair, and call upon something very deep within themselves that was really precious.

Sharon Salzberg: It's like the creation of the other, even within oneself. We don't incorporate all aspects of our being into this loving space, and so it's that much easier to dishonor others and to feel so separate.

Alice Walker: I think you have to really work at it, to see the good, and sometimes you do it in such peculiar and maybe perverse ways. For me, I have had to recognize a real fear of Germans. When I travel through Germany I feel afraid, and all of that. But I made myself get a German car, and I really like it a lot. I drive around in it and it's perfectly smooth and wonderful and it makes me every day think about Germans in a different way. I don't think about them as people who are hunting me through the woods or frying people in concentration camps. I kind of think about them on the car level, the Mozart car-making level, that this is something very beautiful and very efficient also, in a positive way. I think we have to own the fears that we have of each other, and then, in some practical way, some daily way, figure out how to see people differently than the way we've been brought up to.

Melvin McLeod: Is there also a healthy type of anger or outrage that is compatible with, or perhaps even a companion to, loving kindness? Could this be the sense of the power of loving kindness that Sharon referred to originally?

Alice Walker: Creativityófor me, that is where the power is, that is where the healing is. Even if you don't consider yourself an artist, to make something that is beautiful and not destructive, or to make something that is useful and not destructive, that is the healing power of the artist. For me, as someone who spends so much time in solitude, it has been about making actual objectsómaking stories and making quilts, you know, things that you actually make. And making friends with somebody, that's very good. And we all together make political movements; we make change in society.

One of our big problems is that we live in a culture that bombards us with destructive images that are killing us. I think that the children are battered so badly by destructive, negative images from television, mainly, and the movies, that they often have no idea that they can create in a way that is not destructive. They actually think that creation itself is destructive. That's a terrible place for us to find ourselves, where our children believe that.

Sharon Salzberg: Maybe the power we're talking about is the clarity of truth telling and clear seeing. I would hate to call it the positive aspect of anger, but maybe it has some of the energy of anger.

Alice Walker: I love clear seeing. It is such a wonderful phrase. It just gets right to it, that you try to see things as clearly as they are. Then you try to express them to yourself, and then to the world, as clearly as you can. This, I think, is really the only hope. Because it's as if this world is constructed almost entirely of lies, and so we can't help but be lost. We are floundering about, trying to find the path, and they have deliberately said East where it's West, North where it's South, up where it's down, green where it's blue. And all the time they are wrong. These signposts have been deliberately put on the path to send us off somewhere else. So clear seeing, clear speakingóthat is our responsibility.

Sharon Salzberg: It's also feeling the truth of our own experience, because being cut off from our own suffering, it's that much harder to open to the pain of others.

Alice Walker: That's why it's good to be a writer, or to be a poet, because you can at least offer your own truth. I've had the experience of writing about incest, wife beating, child molestation, female genital mutilation, all kinds of things, and having people say, this could not possibly exist, and even if it does, why would you want to tell us? And at some point you stop really caring whether it makes other people uncomfortable, because, as the Buddhists say, this is just basic human stuff (laughs). Essentially, your experience, whatever it is, is human stuff. And for people to pretend they don't know what it is, or that it's so shocking somebody said it, this is another signpost that says East instead of West. Because deep in your heart, you recognize what is human when you see it.

Sharon Salzberg:
In your novel The Temple of My Familiar, Carlotta says to Fanny, well, maybe the problem is too large for anger. The way you phrased it in "My Life as Myself" is that maybe it's too big not to forgive. That sense of bigness is, I think, a spiritual understanding which is totally inclusive. It's not separate from what's happening, or trying to get beyond it, or transcend it in some way.

Melvin McLeod:
For me, the problem is that it is so hard to recognize what is happening beyond our immediate sight. Literally, at this moment, there are terrible things being done to people around the world. Right now. Just over the horizon. Yet it is so difficult to see this world in its entirety and to see beyond our own lives to the terrible, terrible things that are happening right as we speak.

Alice Walker:
Well, Melvin, you just did. So stop beating up on yourself. Have a little loving kindness, please! (laughs)

Well, I don't know. I think that with me, I do realize it's pretty messy all around. Lots of suffering, lots of pain. And I have just decided that there are places where I feel I am uniquely suited to be, and causes that just fit. Causes where I feel I understand some of what it's about, where I feel I can actually do this without being insulting or ignorant or not good for the people involved.

I work on what I am able to work on, more or less joyously. When I tackle something like female genital mutilation, I think about one child at a time, and I try not to think about a hundred million people. I can't really think about every one of them all in their collectivity. I have to just try to go after one child who has a possibility of not being harmed, if I speak now. And I go into that with a real light heart. It's very heavy, but because I'm off my couch, my heart is fairly light.
And that's it. I give to the extent that I can, and then I sit back and I eat tomatoes. And I enjoy them, and I look out at the landscape and I love it, and I walk and I go swimming and I love being alive, and I enjoy my life. And then when I get my strength back, I go out again. That's all I can do, and I do it with such happiness. It's not in any way a strain, and when it gets to be a strain, I just take a nap. But it's good for me.

Sharon Salzberg:
That reminds me of something out of the classical Buddhist tradition, that at the time of the Buddha, the Buddha would smile, throw a flower, or say three words, and 50,000 people would get enlightened. And it doesn't happen that way these days. I asked one of my teachers once, why not? And he said, it's basically because we can't open up to the suffering all at once. We have to do it gradually. It's not the point to suffer; it's the opening that's the point. It is that lightheartedness, that bigness, that spacious mind and love that can hold the suffering and accommodate it and integrate it and understand it. It's not just to suffer and be broken by it.

Alice Walker:
I've had this experience where I go somewhere, and even on the way, I'll be thinking, oh no, it'll be so rough, how can I stand it? Then I'll get there, and I'll be with the people, and sure enough, they'll be up against some incredible madness, and I'll just find myself getting happier and happier and happier. And we'll all look at each other, and we'll be grinning and grinning and grinning, and by the time it's over, whatever it is, we will have decided that this was absolutely the high point of life. And so there's that to be experienced.

The book I'm just finishing is on activism. The point of it is that unfortunately we live in a time when people think that if their activism is not some huge, grand thing, that if they're not some great hero like the ones who have been assassinated already, then what they have to offer is not good enough. Just writing a letter, for instance, or teaching somebody how to vote, or picking up litter in a neighborhood where picking up litter is unknown, and so influencing the people there. They feel that, well, this is so small, I'd like to do it but what is it, it's so tiny. And I'm saying that the tiniest thing can be very powerful and very beautiful, and it's something that one should do for oneself. That's the whole point of it. It's not to clean up someone else's neighborhood, or feed their children, and just do this for them. It is really for you; that is where your happiness is.

Sharon Salzberg:
It's so healing to recognize our connection. I've received a lot from people who had very little, and that has been an awesome experience. Like going to a country such as Burma to practice meditation, where every single meal is offered to us by people who are sometimes just dressed in rags. They're so happy for the chance to have fed you, and they have nothing. To receive so much from them is beautiful.

Alice Walker:
Also, Sharon, you know what?

Sharon Salzberg:

Alice Walker:
They are quite aware that they have everything and you have nothing.

Sharon Salzberg:
That's true too.

Alice Walker:
You're the one who left home to come to Burma.

Sharon Salzberg:
Yes, that's very true. And sometimes when we do something small, we have no idea where it's going to lead anyway.

Alice Walker:
Never. And also there's just the joy of beginning, beginning.

Melvin McLeod:
I'd like to go back, Ms. Walker, to your ability to maintain a light heart. I saw part of a film on TV, which may have been your film about female genital mutilation, and it was an actual scene of a young girl undergoing some sort of terrible excision of her genitalia. The child was screaming, and I was completely shaken. I couldn't watch it. So when you've seen that sort of thing, as you have, how do you not get your heart broken, on one hand, and on the other hand, not be completely enraged at the people doing it?

Alice Walker:
I think you feel all of that, and you just don't stay there. Once again, here it isóthe most horrible thing in the world is happening, but by some miracle you are there at the beginning of seeing that it stop. So how could you not be light hearted? I mean, ultimately. But it's very difficult, I know. When I was in Africa, I was walking alongóthis was after a whole long line of young girls had been mutilatedóand I couldn't watch it. And out of nowhere there was a little girl, I guess maybe three or four years old, who just came up to me. She'd never seen me before, and she just took my hand, and we walked along holding hands for a little distance. All I could think was, I'm doing this for other children, but we're not starting in time to save this particular child. And I'm telling you, it almost drove me under the ground.

At the same time, I think, well, I am here to help. I'm here with all of the skill that I have acquired as a writer over 25 or 30 years, and all the love that I feel for the people here, and all the love that I feel for myself and my connections to the people of Africa. So I felt like it was okay. It's better to start, even when things are so dire, than to be sitting home not starting.

Melvin McLeod:
This reminds me of Trungpa Rinpoche's metaphor of the "Great Eastern Sun," which refers to the fact that in every situation, no matter how difficult, there is always the possibility of going forward, toward waking up, toward helping others. This situation seems exactly the definition of warriorship, that you can see the possibility of going forward, even while your heart is broken.

Alice Walker:
You know, what are hearts for? Hearts are there to be broken, and I say that because that seems to be just part of what happens with hearts. I mean, mine has been broken so many times that I have lost count. But it just seems to be broken open more and more and more, and it just gets bigger. In fact, I was saying to my therapist not long ago, "You know, my heart by now feels open like a suitcase. It feels like it has just sort of dropped open, you know, like how a big suitcase just falls open. It feels like that."

Instead of that feeling of having a thorn through your heart, that feeling Pema Chodron talks about in tonglen meditation, you have a sense of openness, as if the wind could blow through it. And that's the way I'm used to my heart feeling. The feeling of the heart being so open that the wind blows through it. I think that is the way it's supposed to feel when you're in balance. And when you get out of balance, you feel like there's no wind, there's no breeze, there's just this rock and it has a big thing sticking through it. I don't know how you get from one feeling to the other, except through meditation, often, but also activism, just seeing what needs to be done in the world, or in our families, and just start doing it.

Sharon Salzberg:
I think open heart comes from a sense of community, and it can come from a meditation practice, or both ideally. Because when there's a central connection with others, that's also the source of joy. Realizing that what's happening to those little girls is not different from me, not other than me. Inevitably, it's awful and one's angry and terrified, but at the same time, that connection itself is the joy, that open suitcase heart.

Alice Walker:
I don't know where that suitcase image came from (laughs), but now that I think of it, a suitcase is something that you also fill up again and move on off with (laughs). So it doesn't stay empty. It's also portable.

But I don't know, the world is in such a mess. What has been on my mind a lot lately is the land mines that have been planted all over. They are completely evil and horrible, and the damage that they do is so severe. This is something the world has to face up to and do something about. And the best place to do it is at the point of manufacture of the mines. It's too dangerous to go to these countries to try to remove the mines yourself, so some pressure has to be brought to bear on the manufacturers who sell these things.

Sharon Salzberg:
I was at a conference with MahaGhosananda, who's one of the surviving Cambodian monks, who actually leads peace marches through mine fields. Somebody asked him how he encourages the people he's walking with and keeps them from being afraid, and his response was, "I tell everybody, just go step by step." And of course it's what we all need to do, go step by step.

Alice Walker:
Instead of always being at the receiving end of the violence, maybe a shorter step, and a more effective step at this late date, is to just go after the people who are actually responsible for creating the violence and the disaster. It doesn't make sense for us to always be the ones catching the bullets or stepping on the mines, when there are some very wealthy industrialists sitting somewhere in an office and selling these very things that we have to put our bodies in front of and on top of, so that people will know that they are being made.

Sharon Salzberg:
Perhaps that is also part of the role of community, both to enlighten one another as to what's going on, and also to support one another in taking that kind of action.

Melvin McLeod:
There is also a pervasive issue which I think of as the team mentality, the division of the world into competing teams on the basis of nationality or ideology or race or gender or whatever. And for teams, winning is the issue, not the transcending interests of the whole. I know, Ms. Walker, that at times you've suffered accusations of not being "on the team" for taking on certain difficult issues. It's so easy for "my community" to become "my team."

Alice Walker:
I know. Well, my little theory is that you find that you just keep doing the thing that gets you kicked out, and this has everything to do with living as your true self. And then you meet up with all the other people who've been kicked out. And then you have your team, and it's a team of everybody.

I definitely feel that way. I feel that because of the positions I have taken and the things that I have written, I often find myself totally out. But it never means that I'm alone, because then I discover that there are all these other people who also have subversive thoughts and have also done and written things that their particular clan didn't approve of. And so there we all are, and there begins to be built a whole other community, a whole other family of people who are not related by color, blood, sex or whatever, but by vision. That's how I feel, that I'm a part of a whole community of great people, and it's not about race, it's about vision and what we think the world will be and should be.

Melvin McLeod:
Sadly, in situations of conflict, those people who see beyond the interests of their own side usually get crushed.

Alice Walker:
But there's also the realization that you crush me today, and tomorrow you die of cancer. So it's not as if anybody is winning, and I think that's clearer today than it used to be. When I was growing up in the segregated apartheid South, the white supremacists actually thought that they would crush black people, and they even thought that they would live happily ever after. They would never be sick, and nothing could touch them. In a way, any kind of supremacist system means that the people who are at the top really feel that they're invincible, that they'll live forever. If not them, then their children will inherit the earth and roam over it. But in fact, we know that the earth is so poisoned, and so full of danger everywhere, that it is well for people to understand that whoever they crush on Monday, on Tuesday they themselves may find that Life is crushing them. So there is no winning. And I take solace from that, actually.

The Power of Loving Kindness, Alice Walker and Sharon Salzberg, Shambhala Sun, January 1997.

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Good Medicine For This World

and in Conversation

Buddhist teacher Pema Chödrön and novelist Alice Walker on how tonglen meditation practice opens our heart, expands our vision, and plants the seeds of love in our lives. From an evening of discussion at San Francisco's Palace of Fine Arts Theater.

Alice Walker:
About four years ago I was having a very difficult time. I had lost someone I loved deeply and nothing seemed to help. Then a friend sent me a tape set by Pema Chödrön called ďAwakening Compassion.Ē I stayed in the country and I listened to you, Pema, every night for the next year. I studied lojong mind training and I practiced tonglen. It was tonglen, the practice of taking in peopleís pain and sending out whatever you have that is positive, that helped me through this difficult passage. I want to thank you so much, and to ask you a question. In my experience suffering is perennial; there is always suffering. But does suffering really have a use? I used to think there was no use to it, but now I think that there is.

Pema Chödrön: Is there any use in suffering? I think the reason I am so taken by these teachings is that they are based on using suffering as good medicine, like the Buddhist metaphor of using poison as medicine. Itís as if thereís a moment of suffering that occurs over and over and over again in every human life. What usually happens in that moment is that it hardens us; it hardens the heart because we donít want any more pain. But the lojong teachings say we can take that very moment and flip it. The very thing that causes us to harden and our suffering to intensify can soften us and make us more decent and kinder people.

That takes a lot of courage. This is a teaching for people who are willing to cultivate their courage. Whatís wonderful about it is that you have plenty of material to work with. If youíre waiting for only the high points to work with, you might give up, but thereís an endless succession of suffering.

One of the main teachings of the Buddha was the truth of dukha, which is usually translated as ďsuffering.Ē But a better translation might be ďdissatisfaction.Ē Dissatisfaction is inherent in being human; itís not some mistake that you or I have made as individuals. Therefore, if we can learn to catch that moment, to relax with it, dissatisfaction doesnít need to keep escalating. In fact it becomes the seed of compassion, the seed of loving kindness.

Alice Walker: I was surprised how the heart literally responds to this practice. You can feel it responding physically. As you breathe in what is difficult to bear, there is initial resistance, which is the fear, the constriction. Thatís the time when you really have to be brave. But if you keep going and doing the practice, the heart actually relaxes. That is quite amazing to feel.

Pema Chödrön: When we start out on a spiritual path we often have ideals we think weíre supposed to live up to. We feel weíre supposed to be better than we are in some way. But with this practice you take yourself completely as you are. Then ironically, taking in painóbreathing it in for yourself and all others in the same boat as you areóheightens your awareness of exactly where youíre stuck. Instead of feeling you need some magic makeover so you can suddenly become some great person, thereís much more emotional honesty about where youíre stuck.

Alice Walker: Exactly. You see that the work is right ahead of you all the time.

Pema Chödrön: There is a kind of unstuckness that starts to happen. You develop lovingkindness and compassion for this self that is stuck, which is called maitri. And since you have a sense of all the other sentient beings stuck just like you, it also awakens compassion.

Alice Walker: I remember the day I really got it that weíre not connected as human beings because of our perfection, but because of our flaws. That was such a relief.

Pema Chödrön: Rumi wrote a poem called "Night Travelers," It's about how all the darkness of human beings is a shared thing from the beginning of time, and how understanding that opens up your heart and opens up your world. You begin to think bigger. Rather than depressing you, it makes you feel part of the whole.

Alice Walker: I like what you say about understanding that the darkness represents our wealth, because thatís true, Thereís so much fixation on the light, as if the darkness can be dispensed with, but of course it cannot. After all, there is night, there is earth; so this is a wonderful acknowledgment of richness.

I think the Jamaicans are right when they call each other ďfellow sufferer,Ē because thatís how it feels. We arenít angels, we arenít saints, weíre all down here doing the best we can. Weíre trying to be good people, but we do get really mad. You talk in your tapes about when you discovered that your former husband was seeing someone else, and you threw a rock at him. This was very helpful (laughter). It was really good to have a humorous, earthy, real person as a teacher. This was great.

Pema Chödrön: When that marriage broke up, I donít know why it devastated me so much but it was really a kind of annihilation. It was the beginning of my spiritual path, definitely, because I was looking for answers. I was in the lowest point in my life and I read this article by Trungpa Rinpoche called ďWorking With Negativity.Ē I was scared by my anger and looking for answers to it. I kept having all these fantasies of destroying my ex-husband and they were hard to shake. There was an enormous feeling of groundlessness and fear that came from not being able to entertain myself out of the pain. The usual exits, the usual ways of distracting myselfónothing was working.

Alice Walker: Nothing worked.

Pema Chödrön: And Trungpa Rinpoche basically said that thereís nothing wrong with negativity per se. He said thereís a lot you can learn from it, that itís a very strong creative energy. He said the real problem is what he called negative negativity, which is when you donít just stay with negativity but spin off into all the endless cycle of things you can say to yourself about it.

Alice Walker: What gets us is the spinoff. If you could just sit with the basic feeling then you could free yourself, but itís almost impossible if youíre caught up in one mental drama after another. Thatís what happens.

Pema Chödrön: This is an essential understanding of vajrayana, or tantric, Buddhism. In vajrayana Buddhism they talk about how what we call negative energiesósuch as anger, lust, envy, jealousy, these powerful energiesóare all actually wisdoms in disguise. But to experience that you have to not spin off; you have to be able to relax with the energy.

So tonglen, which is considered more of a mahayana practice, was my entry into being able to sit with that kind of energy. And it gave me a way to include all the other people, to recognize that so many people were in the same boat as I was.

Alice Walker: You do recognize that everybody is in that boat sooner or later, in one form or other. Itís good to feel that youíre not alone.

Pema Chödrön: I want to ask you about joy. Itís all very well to talk about poison as medicine and breathing in the suffering and sending out relief and so forth, but did you find any joy coming out of this?

Alice Walker: Oh Yes!. Even just not being so miserable.

Part of the joyousness was knowing we have help. It was great to know that this wisdom is so old. That means people have had this pain for a long time, theyíve been dealing with it, and they had the foresight to leave these practices for us to use. Iím always supported by spirits and ancestors and people in my tribe, whoever theyíve been and however long ago they lived. So it was like having another tribe of people, of ancestors, come to the rescue with this wisdom that came through you and your way of teaching.

Pema Chödrön: I think the times are ripe for this kind of teaching.

Alice Walker: Oh, I think itís just the right medicine for today. You know, the other really joyous thing is that I feel more open, I feel more openness toward people in my world.
Itís what you have said about feeling more at home in your world. I think this is the result of going the distance in your own heartóreally being disciplined about opening your heart as much as you can. The thing I find, Pema, is that it closes up again. You know?

Pema Chödrön: Oh no! (laughter) One year of listening to me and your heart still closes up?

Alice Walker: Yeah. Itís like what you have said about how the ego is like a closed room and our whole lifeís work is to open the door. You may open the door and then discover that youíre not up to keeping it open for long. The work is to keep opening it. You have an epiphany, you understand something, you feel slightly enlightened about something, but then you lose it. Thatís the reality. So itís not a bad thing.

Pema Chödrön: No

Alice Walker: But itís frustrating at times, because you think to yourself, Iíve worked on this, why is it still snagging in the same spot?

Pema Chödrön: Thatís how life keeps us honest. The inspiration that comes from feeling the openness seems so important, but on the other hand, Iím sure it would eventually turn into some kind of spiritual pride or arrogance. So life has this miraculous ability to smack you in the face with a real humdinger just when youíre going over the edge in terms of thinking youíve accomplished something. That humbles you; itís some kind of natural balancing that keeps you human. At the same time the sense of joy does get stronger and stronger.

Alice Walker: Because otherwise you feel youíre just going to be smacked endlessly, and whatís the point? (laughter)

Pema Chödrön: Itís about relaxing with the moment, whether itís painful or pleasurable. I teach about that a lot because thatís personally how I experience it. The openness brings the smile on my face, the sense of gladness just to be here. And when it gets painful, itís not like thereís been some big mistake or something. It just comes and goes.

Alice Walker: That brings me to something else Iíve discovered in my practice, because Iíve been doing meditation for many yearsónot tonglen, but TM and metta practice. There are times when I meditate, really meditate, very on the dot, for a year or so, and then Iíll stop. So what happens? Does that ever happen to you?

Pema Chödrön: Yes. (laughter)

Alice Walker: Good!

Pema Chödrön: And I just donít worry about it.

Alice Walker: Good! (laughter)

Pema Chödrön: One of the things Iíve discovered as the years go on is that there canít be any ďshoulds.Ē Even meditation practice can become something you feel you should do, and then it becomes another thing you worry about.

So I just let it ebb and flow, because I feel itís always with you in some way, whether youíre formally practicing or not. My hunger for meditation ebbs but the hunger always comes back, and not necessarily because things are going badly. Itís like a natural opening and closing, or a natural relaxation and then getting involved in something else, going back and forth.

Alice Walker: I was surprised to discover how easy it was for me to begin meditating many years ago. What I liked was how familiar that state was. The place that I most love is when I disappear. You know, thereís a point where you just disappear. That is so wonderful, because Iím sure thatís how it will be after we die, that youíre just not here, but itís fine.

Pema Chödrön: What do you mean exactly, you disappear?

Alice Walker: Well, you reach that point where itís just like space, and you donít feel yourself. Youíre not thinking about what youíre going to cook, and youíre not thinking about what youíre going to wear, and youíre not really aware of your body. I like that because as a writer I spend a lot of time in spaces that Iíve created myself and itís a relief to have another place that is basically empty.

Pema Chödrön: I donít think I have the same experience. It's more like being hereófully and completely here. It's true that mediation practice is liberating and timeless and that, definitely, there is no caught-up-ness. But is is also profoundly simple and immediate. In contrast, everything else feels like fantasy, like it is completely made up by mind.

Alice Walker: Well, I feel like I live a lot of my life in a different realm anyway, especially when Iím out in nature. So meditation takes me to that place when Iím not in nature. It is a place of really feeling the oneness, that youíre not kept from it by the fact that youíre wearing a suit. Youíre just in it; thatís one of the really good things about meditation for me.

Judy Lief: I assume, Alice, that as an activist your job is to take on situations of extreme suffering and try to alleviate them to some degree. How has this practice affected your approach to activism?

Alice Walker: Well, my activism really is for myself, because I see places in the world where I really feel I should be. If there is something really bad, really evil, happening somewhere, then that is where I should be. I need, for myself, to feel that I have stood there. It feels a lot better than just watching it on television.

Judy Lief: This is where you bring together your private practice and your public action.

Alice Walker: Yes. Before I was sort of feeling my way. I went to places like Mississippi and stood with the people and realized the suffering they were experiencing. I shared the danger they put themselves in by demanding their rights, I felt this incredible opening, a feeling of finally being at home in my world, which was what I needed. I needed to feel I could be at home there, and the only way was to actually go and connect with the people.

Pema Chödrön: And the other extreme is when our primary motivation is avoidance of pain. Then the world becomes scarier and scarier.

Alice Walker: Exactly.

Pema Chödrön: Thatís the really sad thingóthe world becomes more and more frightening, and you donít want to go out your door. Sure thereís a lot of danger out there, but the tonglen approach makes you more open to the fear it evokes in you, and your world gets bigger.

Judy Lief: When you are practicing tonglen, taking on pain of others, what causes that to flip into something positive, as opposed to being stuck in a negative space or seeing yourself as a martyr?

Alice Walker: I think itís knowing that youíre not the only one suffering. Thatís just what happens on earth. There may be other places in the galaxy where people donít suffer, where beings are just fine, where they never get parking tickets even. But what seems to be happening here is just really heavy duty suffering.

I remember years ago, when I was asking myself what was the use of all this suffering. I was reading the Gnostic Gospels, in which Jesus says something that really struck me. He says basically, learn how to suffer and you will not suffer. That dovetails with this teaching, which is a kind of an acceptance that suffering is the human condition.

Pema Chödrön: It is true people fear tonglen practice. Particularly if people have a lot of depression, they fear it is going to be tough to relate with the suffering so directly.

I have found that itís less overwhelming if you start with your own experience of suffering and then generalize to all the other people who are feeling what you do. That gives you a way to work with your pain: instead of feeling like youíre increasing your suffering, youíre making it meaningful. If youíre taught that you should do tonglen only for other people, thatís too big a leap for most people. But if you start with yourself as the reference point and extend out from that, you find that your compassion becomes much more spontaneous and real. You have less fear of the suffering you perceive in the worldóyours and other peoplesí. Itís a lot about overcoming the fear of suffering.

My experience of working with this practice is that it has brought me a moment by moment sense of wellbeing. Thatís encouraging to people who are afraid to start the practiceóto know that relating directly with your suffering is a doorway to wellbeing for yourself and others, rather than some kind of masochism.

Alice Walker: I would say that is also true for me in going to stand where I feel I need to stand. I feel I get to that same place.

I also appreciate the teaching on driving all blame into yourself. We need a teaching on how fruitless it is to always blame the other person. In my life I can see places where I have not wanted to take my part of the blame. Thatís a losing proposition. Thereís no gain in it because you never learn very much about yourself. You donít own all your parts. There are places in each of us that are quite scary, but you have to make friends with them. You have to really get to know them, to say, hello, there you are again. Itís very helpful to do that.

Pema Chödrön: One of the things the Buddha pointed out in his early teaching was that everybody wants happiness or freedom from pain, but the methods human beings habitually use are not in sync with the wish. The methods always end up escalating the pain. For example, someone yells at you and then you yell back and then they yell back and it gets worse and worse. You think the reason not to yell back is because, you know, good people donít yell back. But the truth is that by not yelling back youíre just getting smart about whatís really going to bring you some happiness.

Judy Lief: The lojong slogan says ďDrive all blames into one,Ē that is, yourself. But there are definitely situations where from the conventional viewpoint there are bad guys and good guys, oppressors and oppressed. How do you combine taking the blame yourself with combating oppression or evil that you encounter?

Alice Walker: Maybe it doesnít work there. (laughter) Pema why donít you take that one. (laughter)

Pema Chödrön: Well, here would be my question: does it help to have a sense of enemy in trying to end oppression?

Alice Walker: No.

Pema Chödrön: So maybe thatís it.

Alice Walker: I think itís probably about seeing. As Bob Marley said so beautifully, the biggest bully you ever did see was once a tiny baby. Thatís true. I mean, I've tried that on Ronald Reagan. I even tried that on Richard Nixon, but it didnít really work that well.

But really, when youíre standing face to face with someone who just told you to go to the back of the bus, or someone who has said that women arenít allowed here, or whatever, what do you do? I donít know what you do, Pema, but at that moment I always see that theyíre really miserable people and they need help. Now, of course, I think I would love to send them a copy of ďAwakening Compassion.Ē (laughter)

Pema Chödrön: Itís seeing that the cause of someoneís aggression is their suffering. And you could also realize that your aggression is not going to help anything.

So youíre standing there, you are being provoked, you are feeling aggression, and what do you do? Thatís when tonglen becomes very helpful. You breathe in and connect with your own aggression with a lot of honesty. You have such a strong recognition in that moment of all the oppressed people who are provoked and feeling like you do. If you just keep doing that, something different might come out of your mouth.

Alice Walker: And war will not be what comes out.

Judy Lief: It seems to me that Dr. Martin Luther King had the quality of a tonglen practitioner. Yet he didnít ask us not to take stands.

Alice Walker: He was from a long line of Baptist preachers, someone who could really get to that place of centeredness through prayer and through love. I think the person who has a great capacity to love, which often flowers when you can see and feel the suffering of other people, can also strategize. I think he was a great strategist. I think he often got very angry and upset, but at the same time he knew what he was up against. Sometimes he was the only really lucid person in a situation, so he knew how much of the load he was carrying and how much depended on him.

As activists, it is really important to have some kind of practice, so that when we go out into the world to confront horrible situations we can do it knowing weíre in the right place ourselves. Knowing weíre not bringing more fuel to the fire, more anger, more despair. Itís difficult but that should not be a deterrent. The more difficult something seems, the more itís possibile to give up hope. You approach the situation with the feeling of having already given up hope, but that doesnít stop you. You said we should put that slogan about abandoning hope on our refrigerators.

Pema Chödrön: Give up all hope of fruition.

Alice Walker: Right. Just do it because youíre doing it and it feels like the right thing to do, but without feeling itís necessarily going to change anything.

Pema Chödrön: Something that I heard Trungpa Rinpoche say has been a big help to me. He said to live your life as an experiment, so that youíre always experimenting. You could experiment with yelling back and see what that happens. You could experiment with tonglen and see how that works. You could see what actually allows some kind of communication to happen. You learn pretty fast what closes down communication, and thatís the strong sense of enemy. If the other person feels your hatred, then everyone closes down.

Alice Walker: I feel that fear is what closes people down more than anything, just being afraid. The times when I have really been afraid to go forward, with a relationship or a problem, is because there is fear. I think practice of being with your feelings, letting them come up and not trying to push them away, is incredibly helpful.

Question from the audience: Thank you both for being here and bringing so much pleasure to so many people tonight. Iím asking a question for a friend who couldnít come tonight. She was at Pemaís three day seminar and she left on Saturday feeling badly because she had got in touch with her anger and couldnít stay. Now she feels sheís a bad Buddhist, a bad practitioner. Iíve been trying to tell her itís okay but I think she needs to hear your words.

Pema Chödrön: Well, tell her weíre used to using everything that we hear against ourselves, so itís really common to just the dharma teachings and use them against yourself. But the fact is we donít have to do that anymore. We donít have to do that. Itís just like Alice saying that the heart opens and then it closes, so she has to realize thatís how it is forever and ever, Sheíll get in touch and then sheíll lose touch and get in touch and lose touch. So she has to keep on going with herself and not give up on herself.

Question from the audience: This is really hard on her because you two are her favorite people in the entire world.

Alice Walker: And she didnít come?

Question from the audience: Sheís so broken-hearted.

Pema Chödrön: She didnít come because she was so ashamed of herself for not being able to stay with it...thatís not true, is it?

Question from the audience: Yes, it is.

Pema Chödrön: Really. Wow. You should tell her that sheís just an ordinary human being. (laughter) Whatís a little unusual about her is that she was willing to get in touch with it for even a little bit.

Question from the audience: My name is Margaret, and I have practiced Tibetan Buddhism for a number of years. About eighteen months ago, right around the time that for the first time in my life I fell in love with a woman, the Dalai Lama made a number of comments pointing out where the Tibetan tradition did not regard homosexuality as a positive thing, in fact an obstacle to spiritual growth. It reached the point that I left the sangha I was connected with and found a different part of the spiritual path thatís working for me now. I have gay and bisexual friends who are interested in Buddhism but some of them have been stopped by what the Dalai Lama had to say and by the lack of coherent answers from other people. I think it would be a big service if you could address that.

Pema Chödrön: Well, listen. I have so much respect for the Dalai Lama and I think thatís where people get stuck. I didnít actually hear those comments, and I heard there were also favorable comments. But aside from all that, as Buddhism comes to the West, Western Buddhist teachers simply donít buy that. Itís as if Asian teachers said that women were inferior or something. I mean, itís absurd. Thatís all there is to it. (applause) Itís just ridiculous.

Question from the audience:
Let me ask you to say that often and loud.

Pema Chödrön: Sure! I go on record. And Iím not alone, itís not something unique with me. Western teachers, coming from this culture, we see things pretty differently on certain issues and this is one, for sure.

But the Dalai Lama is a wonderful man, and I have a feeling that if he were sitting here heíd have something else to say on the subject.

Alice Walker: You know, when he was here at the peace conference he was confronted by gay men and lesbian women and he readily admitted that he really didnít know. He didnít seem rigid on it.

But also, when there is wisdom about, we should have it! Wisdom belongs to the people. We must never be kept from wisdom by anybody telling us you canít have it because youíre this that or the other.

Question from the audience:
I have a question about the connection between tonglen and joy, because I kind of understood the question of the moderator, anyway, Judyís question when you breathe in so much suffering how do you avoid becoming so burdened or martyred by it, and what Iím understanding about tonglen is that thereís something kind of transformative about it, when you breathe in suffering and then you breathe out relief and healing. I keep thinking about that prayer of St. Francis of Assisi about being an instrument of peace, and where there is hatred, let me sow love, and where there is despair, let me sow hope. Iím wondering if joy has a place in the ability to make that transformation.

Alice Walker: I think the practice of tonglen is really revolutionary, because youíre taking in what you usually push away with everything youíve got, and then youíre breathe out what you would rather keep. This is just amazing. I mean, it really shakes you up. Iím sure there are many people who canít believe that youíre being asked to breathe in the dark, breathe in the heavy, breathe in the hard and the hot. They want to breathe in the white light. But the time has come for all of us to breathe in what is the most difficult, to own it, to get to know it, to feel it out. And then to really think about what the world needs, and to try to send that out. I think thatís the transformation.

Question from the audience: So itís the courage to face the suffering and the darkness?

Alice Walker: To bring it into yourself. Think of all the people who donít think that there is any darkness in them. There are millions of people who think they donít have any darkness. But itís something that we all have, and part of the problem is that weíve been pushing all this stuff away and denying it, so of course itís the biggest shadow you can imagine. Thatís whatís clobbering us, everything we pushed away.

Pema Chödrön: My feeling is that itís like taking off something thatís been covering your eyes and hindering your ability to see. Itís overcoming your fear of whatís painful, although actually youíre training in opening to both joy and suffering, You see if itís just aimed at joy, then suffering always seems like then you blew it, like this poor woman who didnít come tonight because she felt she wasnít living up to the instructions. Thatís very common. People want it all on the joy side or the success side or the victory side. Then when itís just naturally is part of life just naturally flips, or the mood changes, or the energy changes, you feel that youíve made some mistake or youíre a failure. So it has to include all of that.

One of the basic tonglen instructions, sort of like the tonglen outlook, is that when anything is delightful in your life, you wish that other people could have it. That heightens your awareness of even those fleeting moments of appreciate you usually donít notice. You start catching the moments of delight and pleasure, just the smallest kinds of happiness and contentment.

The other part of the instruction is that when you feel suffering, you also think of all the other people who are suffering. It covers everything: you share whatís good and you also realize weíre in the same boat with the suffering. So itís all bigger. Some kind of joy comes from that, strangely.

Judy Lief: Pema, how do you avoid the trap that has come up in these questionsówanting to be the perfect practitioner and feeling worse and worse because you canít accomplish it?

Pema Chödrön: You could do tonglen with that feeling of failure and include all the other imperfect failure people. So thereís nothing that can happen to you that you canít use. It takes a while to get the hang of that, but when you start to hear yourself saying ďbad dogĒ or whatever, you stop right there and acknowledge what youíre feeling and the billions of other people feeling the same way. Somehow that shakes up our ways of getting stuck.

When Iím teaching, Iím so aware that most people are hearing with a filter of turning it against themselves. I try very hard, as do most Western teachers, to address that, but it still keeps happening. You just have to keep addressing it. You know, it takes practice. Thatís why itís called practice.

Alice Walker: Itís also important to accept and even embrace the fact of our imperfection. Our imperfection is probably our one perfection. Also I think itís really good, when you have periods of happiness, to say , I am happy. I think that focuses you in the moment of being happy, and you really know that youíre happy. Otherwise, especially in this culture where youíre always being told to buy something or go somewhere or do something, you lose that moment of being happy because youíre projecting happiness as being somewhere or something else. So when you feel happiness, you just say it, even to yourself, maybe especially to yourself, but aloud, I think it helps to say it aloud, Just say, Iím happy.

Pema Chodron: I hadnít thought of making it so simple, but thatís right, just say it. Then you could also say, could other people have this, too. Words are powerful in terms of brainwashing ourselves. (laughter)

Pema Chodron is director of Gampo Abbey in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. Her most recent book is When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times.

 Alice Walker won the Pulitzer Prize for The Color Purple. Her latest novel is By the Light of My Father's Smile. 

Good Medicine For This World, from Shambhala Sun, January 1999

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Days of the Diggers Print

Peter Coyote: Days of the Diggers

An interview with Peter Coyote by Melvin McLeod.
The Diggers were a group of sixties radicals and performers whose formula for building a new society was equal parts utopianism and indulgence. In Sleeping Where I Fall, Peter Coyote remembers his life as a Digger.

Shambhala Sun: After reading your book, I found myself haunted by this dedicated, talented, crazy group of people. You don't romanticize anyone, least of all yourself, and the hard drugs and the violence and the foolishness almost overshadow the ideals you wanted to bring out. So, what were the Diggers trying to achieve?

Peter Coyote:
I think the core value was to create a culture in which it was possible to be something more than either an employee or a consumer. We wanted to create a culture in which it was possible to live a life predicated on the more human impulses and values, with room for one's personal eccentricity.

We were part of a huge wave in the sixties that called in the nation's markers and promises. We were the products of high school civics classes and the Declaration of Independence and the Bill of Rights and we were smacked in the face by the civil rights movement. Remember, this was a culture that had just gone through the paroxysms of the McCarthy period.

So we were a generation of kids looking for something authentic and real, a generation that I think produced a great deal of substance that still exists today in our culture. When you think of the civil rights movement, the anti-war movement, the women's movement, the gay movement, the alternative health movement, the alternative spirituality movement, the environmental movement, the organic food movement-all these have permeated the culture and changed the way people live.
These are manifestations of the intentions of the sixties. I don't care at all about the institutions of the sixties-I don't care if I never see another peace symbol or bad psychedelic poster or pair of bell bottom pants-but the important thing is that the intentions of the sixties have been manifested.

Shambhala Sun:
The key term for the Diggers was "authenticity." Yet you were performers who treated their own lives as art, and you say that as you look back now, you see what you achieved then as essentially a work of art. What is the relationship between authenticity and life as performance?

Peter Coyote:
To me, authenticity means being responsive to your true feelings, thoughts and impulses. That's what authenticity is. One of the things the Diggers had in common was that we were actors, and when we were performing we were trying to invent vehicles to talk about the subject of authenticity. For instance, if we wanted to give people the opportunity to explore the issues that come up around profit and ownership and the roles of manager and shop person, we would invent a theater in which we would be ourselves, but the setting was made highly theatrical. For instance, we had a free store, where not only the goods were free but the roles were free. When someone came in and said "Who's the boss?" and we said, "You are." We could deliver the lines as ourselves; it was the setting itself which was startling.

We felt we could undermine the culture. People will not cross the street to see Bill Clinton, but if you put Tom Cruise in the parking lot of a mall, you'll need police to keep people away. If the people have an image of something they want, they will organize their aspirations and activities to get it. What we realized early on was that a vision was much more compelling than a foot in the back.
We were trying to create compelling visions of the kind of society that people would want. So our challenge as performers was how to invent situations and contexts that would expose people to their own conditioning and the expectations held out for them by the culture, and offer them the opportunity to respond in a fresh and authentic way.

Shambhala Sun:
This reminds me of the vajrayana concept translated as "crazy wisdom," in which a highly accomplished teacher may manifest a true sanity that transcends or even violates convention in order to wake people up.

Peter Coyote:
Like the Zen master who kills the cat: "If someone can show me their true self this cat will live." The only thing was, we were not highly evolved wisdom people.

Shambhala Sun:
Yes, the key element in such a risky endeavor is a great deal of internal discipline, which was outstandingly missing in your cases.

Peter Coyote:
That's right. Part of the arc of my book is the precise stages and mechanisms through which a lack of internal discipline and a submission to indulgence erodes high personal callings and intentions.

Shambhala Sun:
Unless you're coming from a point of view of genuine selflessness and discipline, how do you draw the line between a political choice to free oneself from social conventions and plain personal indulgence? In practice, are they really separable?

Peter Coyote:
Well, we didn't know. If you believe the culture is your enemy, and that you're going to imagine your way out of it, and you're going to make your imaginings real by acting them out, one of the dilemmas you have to face is the possibility that your imagination has been co-opted by the culture. One of the reasons we took drugs, aside from just curiosity and peer pressure, was to consciously try to bust out of the envelope, to make sure we scrambled the mix so thoroughly that the ideas that emerged would be authentic by-products of our own imagination.

Shambhala Sun:
But we're talking about a lot of heroin and amphetamines, not drugs known for their consciousness-expanding qualities.

Peter Coyote:
Except that when you look at the great artists of our time who were our mentors and heroes-Charlie Parker and Billie Holiday and all the great be-bop musicians and the Viet Nam vets coming back-basically we joined that chorus of people singing through the flames after setting themselves on fire. I'm now talking from hindsight, having been a Zen student for twenty-five years, but at the time we thought that this was selfless behavior. We felt that we were giving up concern with health, with identity, with fame, with wealth, so we could achieve this kind of compassionate reworking of the culture to liberate other people.

Shambhala Sun:
Much of your book is devoted to life in various rural communes, in which people attempted to eliminate any manifestation of the personal or the private, often to the point of obsession.

Peter Coyote:
Well, I think it was an adolescent misunderstanding-going to the opposite end of the spectrum without discrimination. In point of fact, there's no such thing as freedom, but you learn that late. You learn that freedom, if it's anything, has to do with accepting absolute and unalterable interdependence. Certainly part of authenticity would have been admitting that we all had possessions that we liked, and that we had certain senses of order that we liked in our private living spaces.

I think you have to look at it as a kind of experiment which found the edges of the envelope. I think that if we had tried to create a village instead of a commune, for instance, it might still be going. But it was too radical a leap to try to put thirty souls into a one-family house and rethink everything. It was too exhausting.

Shambhala Sun:
Which is to say that the revolutionary approach, which is to go back and redo everything in life, failed where a more moderate approach might have worked.

Peter Coyote:
I think the middle ground is the most effective, although that's not necessarily the way that young men and women think. For instance, I think the extremes of the sixties may have led the country into the hands of Reagan. I don't think the American public embraced his conservatism. Rather, I think they embraced his avuncular old fashionedness, because the sixties raised so many questions that people couldn't answer, that they looked for a kind of holding action, a place to rest. They didn't know they would be opening the door to a kind of home grown fascism.

I take a certain amount of responsibility for that. One of the things you learn is that being in a counter-culture condemns you to marginality: if people don't like your style, they're not going to go for your ideas. Had we not been so insistent on our own style, with our own vocabulary and our own everything, we might have frightened people a little less and kept the debate going a little longer.

Shambhala Sun:
On the other hand, the sixties had a significant positive impact on the culture, which it might not have had without the extreme element which you represented.

Peter Coyote:
Well, Malcolm X used to say that Martin Luther King ought to thank the Lord that I'm around, because every time I go out there and frighten everybody, all those white people go running to him and write him checks. So there is a way in which radical forces push the edge of the envelope, and I do think we have moved the cultural ground in a progressive direction.

Shambhala Sun:
One of the most fascinating-and frightening-parts of the story is your deep involvement with the Hell's Angels, who in that period were close to radical elements in San Francisco. The Angels were nothing if not authentic.

Peter Coyote:
Well, it's a complicated bag. First of all, I don't know anything about the Angels now; they may be just another organized criminal class. But at the time, we had to come to terms with these guys who lived on our streets. And my experience was that by approaching them as men capable of intellection and decent people-until I knew better-they would respond, and they did. I had unprecedented access to the Angels for a number of years and met some of the most intelligent and lucid men I've ever met in my life, and also some of the scariest and most psychopathic men I've ever met.

Shambhala Sun:
Tell me about your transition from drug-addicted radical to serious Zen student.

Peter Coyote:
That was in a period where I suddenly was forced to think about a lot of things that I'd never thought about before. Suddenly I was alone; I did not have this nurturing community supporting me, and I realized that a lot of my predilections and impulses had been unhealthy. I realized that I'd damaged my health, and I began to get curious about what constituted good health. I put myself in a course of psychotherapy, I began Zen practice, and I met this woman who seemed like a very healthy person. I wanted to live a life that included good health and respect and reverence for my body and other people's bodies, which had been an enduring criticism of mine of the Diggers. There were a lot of things I couldn't go along with-a lot of our events were so chaotic and unbeautiful that I felt estranged from them. That wasn't the way that I perceived the universe.

Shambhala Sun:
And ironically, beginning with a desire for simple good health, you ended up involved in something that may be fundamentally far more radical than anything the Diggers ever did.

Peter Coyote:
Without a doubt. Buddhism is far more radical, by far the most radical thing that I have ever been involved in. Healthiness was just the path I took getting there. A lot of people didn't have to do that; a lot of people at the monastery where I lived were just innately intuitive and healthy people, who got there by a much gentler and less dramatic path. And god bless 'em. I did a lot of damage along the way, karmically and physically, to myself and other people.

Shambhala Sun:
Why do you think that young people today have turned back past the sixties to the Beats in their search for cultural heroes? Is it because it's hard to see one's own parents as rebels, or is it deeper than that?

Peter Coyote:
I think there's something deeper than that. First of all, you have to remember that from the sixties to the present there's been twenty- five years of aggressive disinformation and re-estimation of the sixties. The Reagan/Bush people did not want another generation of committed activists stirring things up. They've spent millions of dollars paying pundits to dismiss the sixties as a failure, to dismiss committed social activism as somehow unhip. They have created icons like David Letterman, whose attitude of cynicism about everything is the supreme goal of adolescence.
So one way in which they can co-opt the counter culture is to go back to the Beats, who were primarily interested in self-exploration. Certainly the most radical elements, like Gary Snyder and Allen Ginsberg, were political, but the effect of the movement was not specifically political.

Shambhala Sun:
So cynically, you could say that the mainstream can promote cultural rebels like the Beats, but not political rebels like the Diggers.

Peter Coyote:
David Foster Wallace has an essay in which he tracks down the strategy of television ads. What they do is create a sense of irony that kind of washes over everything. Like, yes, of course you're being pitched as a stupid consumer, and we know that you're smart enough to know that, and we know that you're not going to take it seriously because you're so hip you don't take anything seriously. Wallace's essay is a brilliant examination of the kind of convoluted argument that TV has to make to keep a sense of cultural rebellion alive at the same time that it makes you part of a herd of consumers and television watchers.

Shambhala Sun:
The mainstream culture is far more pervasive and sophisticated than it was when you were young-capable of instantly co-opting whatever it wants to. How much chance does a young person today have to genuinely rebel?

Peter Coyote:
Well, I think young people are telling us that they don't have a lot of hope they can change things. When I see a kid walking around with pins through his nipples and twelve rings through his eyebrows, what it makes me think is that he's in a great deal of pain; that's what he's showing me. They've come up against a culture so monolithic that all they can do anymore is reflect how it feels. It makes me feel really bad, because I think there are ways in which they can contribute, if they can get outside of their own pain and they can link up with other people who are in pain. There are things they can do which may not look flashy but which are conscientious. You can start buying less, using less, wasting less-any place your life touches the culture you can make a difference.

Shambhala Sun:
As you look back at the Diggers, what beyond the basic impulse do you think still has validity today?

Peter Coyote:
Well, I think the notion of doing what you do without thinking about fame and fortune is pretty valid. I think the notion of doing things for free is pretty valid. It doesn't work in all contexts, but it certainly works in some. I really trust that compassionate intentions will find the appropriate ways to make themselves manifest and that each generation will think up their own ways to do it. Just as we related to the Beats, kids will be relating to what we did and correcting it and altering it to be more appropriate to their time.

I think it's a new game because we have exhausted the idea of having a pure place to stand outside the culture. I think this is now the time of mahayana culture-this is the big vessel, the big boat, and we're all in it. Things are going to be played out not as outsiders, but as insiders, and I trust that young people will work out their own ways of doing it. You know, things are coming around. It looks like capitalism has won but it's not over 'til the fat lady sings. They're creating a global proletariat, they're creating global oppression, and people are not going to dry up and blow away. I don't know what's going to happen, but it's going to change.

Days of the Diggers, Melvin McLeod, Shambhala Sun, November 1998.

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