About a Poem: Genine Lentine on Gabrielle Calvocoressi’s “The Last Time I Saw Amelia (January 2014)
Shambhala Sun | January 2014
About a Poem: Genine
Lentine on Gabrielle Calvocoressi’s “The Last Time I Saw Amelia Earhart”
Section one from: "The Last Time I Saw Amelia Earhart"
Clem Sanders, bystander
It was late spring and silent,
beach-grass switched like skirts
of women walking past shop
windows on their way to church,
heads bent beside their husbands
come up from orange groves
just greening. I was distracted
by a bird, which was no more
than shoal-dust kicked up by wind.
I missed her waving good-bye,
saw only her back, her body
bowing to enter the thing.
“Clem Sanders, bystander” is the first of ten monologues
that comprise the long poem “The Last Time I Saw Amelia Earhart” by Gabrielle
Calvocoressi, a poet of prismatic empathic imagination.
Clem Sanders is the first to speak, in the first poem, of
Calvocoressi’s first book. I cannot help but assign importance to such
prominent placement, and to hear, in the lyric tautness of his voice, some
instruction about poetry itself, about seeing, about being available to what is
actually happening, rather than holding out for the idealized version.
The poem opens in silence: “It was late spring and silent.”
Silence, and then, pure music: “beach grass switched like skirts.” The sibilant
grass blades give way to the dull chop of propeller blades we hear in the
prevalence of “B” sounds in the final stanza: goodbye, back, body, bowing. Our
bystander enters the scene exactly as he is, listening acutely and possessed of
a kind of panoramic, extra-temporal seeing. It is as if he sees the orange
groves in time-lapse as the green buds break the spring branches.
“I was distracted by a bird,” he tells us. But wait, it’s
not a bird, it’s “shoal-dust kicked up by wind”—that same wind that might have
been set spinning by the propellers of Earhart’s Lockheed Electra. Just wind.
The same wind that may have taken Earhart and Fred Noonan, her navigator, off
Clem Sanders is distracted, yes, but he knows he’s
distracted. He recognizes how quick he is to assign a form to what swirls
before him. I take instruction from him in this. All day long I am constructing
birds out of dust.
Strikingly, Amelia Earhart doesn’t even enter the poem until
the last stanza, “I didn’t see her wave good-bye.” How often do we not get to say good-bye to
someone before they vanish from our lives? Even as I write this, someone dear
to me has been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer and it’s unclear
whether I’ll see him in person again, though last night, in a dream, I crossed
a street with him, leaning in to hear the exact, impossibly kind, breadth of
When Clem Sanders announces himself to be a witness whose
view is partial, he gains my absolute trust. He is not the person who snaps the
photo to prove he was there, inflating his own importance by aligning himself
with a spectacle. He recognizes that he is already aligned.
This poem invites us to think about what it means to be a
bystander and reminds us that our view is always partial, and yet, to inhabit
that incompleteness is a form of completeness in itself. I hold this poem close
because I need its encouragement to speak from within my own fractured,
interrupted, and fallible vision. He didn’t need to see her wave. He could see,
in “her body/bowing to enter the thing,” her vow. ©
Poem from The Last Time I Saw Amelia Earhart,
Persea Books, New York, 2005.
Books in Brief (January 2014)
Shambhala Sun | January 2014
Books in Brief
THE TRAUMA OF EVERYDAY LIFE
By Mark Epstein
Penguin Press 2013; 225 pp., $25.95 (cloth)
Illness, old age, and death—the story is that Siddhartha
Gautama first confronted these realities as an adult when he ventured out from
the family palace. Psychiatrist and author Mark Epstein, however, points to an
earlier source of trauma for the Buddha-to-be: seven days after he was born,
his mother died. Though he wouldn’t have remembered her death, it’s reasonable
to assume, says Epstein, that her absence permeated his life with the vague
sense that something was wrong. “The presence of this early loss in his
psyche,” he continues, “creates a motif that anyone who struggles with
inexplicable feelings of estrangement or alienation can relate to. The traumas
of everyday life can easily make us feel like a motherless child.” Trauma—from
the minor to the catastrophic—is universal. But, as Epstein makes clear, it
does not have to destroy us. It can, in fact, be channeled into wisdom and
compassion. On the face of it, the subject matter of The Trauma of Everyday
Life is somber. Nonetheless, this is an engaging read peppered with
cultural tidbits and the personal experiences of both Epstein and his
THE HEALING POWER OF MEDITATION
Leading Experts on Buddhism, Psychology, and Medicine Explore the Health Benefits of Contemplative Practice
Edited by Andy Fraser
Shambhala Publications 2013; 226 pp., $16.95 (paper)
The Buddha has traditionally been known as the “Great
Physician,” and the root word of meditate is etymologically connected
with the word medicine. Now a plethora of scientific research is proving
what meditators have known for millennia: meditation and mindfulness can be
applied beneficially in health care. The Healing Power of Meditation is
an anthology that details some of the groundbreaking new scientific research,
maps out the history of how meditation became more mainstream, and explains how
meditation is being integrated into hospice care, psychiatry, and other fields.
Contributors include Jon Kabat-Zinn, creator of Mindfulness-Based Stress
Reduction, and the Buddhist teachers Khandro Rinpoche and Sogyal Rinpoche. The
foreword is by Daniel Goleman, the author of Emotional Intelligence.
HAIKU IN ENGLISH
The First Hundred Years
Edited by Jim Kacian, Philip Rowland, and Allan Burns
W.W. Norton & Company 2013; 424 pp., $23.95 (cloth)
Haiku in English is rich with variety. There is the
poignant, such as David Cobb’s “filling the grave/more earth/than will go back
in.” There is the flippant, such Allen Ginsberg’s “Mayan head in a/Pacific
driftwood bole/—Someday I’ll live in N.Y.” And then there is the experimental,
such as John Barlow’s one liner “a dusting of snow light on the apple skins.”
In the introduction, former poet laureate Billy Collins points out that while
simile and metaphor are common literary devices in Western poetic forms, in
haiku they’re not. The moon is just the moon. It’s not compared to anything
because that would distract from its “moonness.” The important element in haiku
is positioning—setting up a startling contrast that leads the reader to see
afresh. The mundane can be just a line away from the majestic, the synthetic
from the natural. Collins states, “I like to think of the haiku as a
moment-smashing device out of which arise powerful moments of dazzling
awareness. But I also like to think of it as something to do while walking the
CLOSE TO THE GROUND
Reflections on the Seven Factors of Enlightenment
By Geri Larkin
Rodmell Press 2013; 178 pp., $14.95 (paper)
The Pali canon lists the seven factors of enlightenment as:
mindfulness, the investigation of phenomena, energetic effort, ease, joy,
concentration, and equanimity. These factors are also, according to Geri
Larkin, a clear and simple formula “for falling into a sweet juicy life no
matter the situation we find ourselves swimming through.” To explain the ins
and outs of each factor she mines a wide variety of sources, including her
personal experiences, traditional stories from the Buddha’s life, tidbits from
sutras, cooking instructions, and Zen koans. Larkin is the founder of Still
Point Zen Buddhist Temple in Detroit and the author of Plant Seed, Pull Weed
and The Chocolate Cake Sutra. With her warm and unpretentious voice, she
manages to make profound Buddhist teachings something you could actually read
at the beach or while soaking in the tub.
PICK YOUR YOGA PRACTICE
Exploring and Understanding Different Styles of Yoga
By Meagan McCrary
New World Library 2013; 240 pp., $15.95 (paper)
Maybe you’ve been practicing yoga for years or maybe your
first mat is still brand-spanking new. Either way, you most likely haven’t
tried every school of yoga out there and you don’t completely grok the
differences between them. My suggestion? Read Pick Your Yoga Practice.
In this new release, Meagan McCrary unpacks the philosophy and practice of
seven leading styles, and gives us tastes of an additional ten. From Kundalini
to Kripalu, Anusara to Ananda, the variety is fascinating, but, as McCrary
points out in the introduction, they’re more alike than they are different.
Ultimately, yoga is always about promoting mindfulness and expanding
self-awareness, and, according to McCrary, every style is valid. The important
thing is finding the one that works for you.
Meditation, Buddhism, and the Next Generation of
By Jay Michaelson
Evolver Editions 2013; 256 pp., $14.99 (paper)
In giving his assessment of contemporary American Buddhism,
Jay Michaelson shoots from the hip. He’s grateful to his teachers; he really
is. Yet sometimes he feels like he’s the only non-baby-boomer psychotherapist
in the meditation hall. In short, Evolving Dharma is Michaelson’s effort
to broaden our dharma discourse and strip it of some of what he sees as its
hippie-dippy fear of irony. He begins by clearly stating his own point of view
as a self-identified (off) white, queer, Jewish male. Then he goes on to give
the executive summary of the history of Buddhism in America, primarily focusing
on the last three decades and their chocablock changes. These are some of the
questions that he addresses: How has feminism informed dharma practice? What’s
the outcome of ancient practices meeting modern science? And what does it mean
when your sangha exists only online? Moreover, what’s next? Where’s American
Buddhism going from here?
THE EMPTY CHAIR
By Bruce Wagner
Blue Rider Press 2013; 304 pp., $26.95 (cloth)
A framed narrative, The Empty Chair is two linked
novellas. In the preface, a fictional version of author Bruce Wagner says he
has spent fifteen years interviewing people about the pivotal events in their
lives and that this book comprises two of these interviews in their entirety.
The first interview/novella is the story of a gay sort-of Buddhist. (His
ex-wife calls him a living master of couch-potato Zen, but he refers to his
philosophy as “vanzen” because he lives in his van and can’t imagine life
without “the ol’ Greater Vehicle.”) This character has a delightfully rambling
voice, but his tale takes dark turns, culminating in his son’s suicide. The
second interview/novella revolves around Queenie, who in her wild-child youth
left no New Age stone unturned. Now midlife is hitting hard, and her
grandfather’s penthouse with its infinity pool and view of Central Park is not
enough to stave off the mother of all depressions. Then the phone rings. It’s
Queenie’s ex-lover, Kura, a criminal mastermind with spiritual leanings, and he
has a proposition. How about a trip to India in search of a long-lost guru?
Editorial: This Laughing, Hurting, Busy World (January 2014)
Shambhala Sun | January 2014
This Laughing, Hurting, Busy World
On retreat at Blue Cliff Monastery, a teenager got up in
front of the eight-hundred-plus retreatants and posed this question to Thich
Nhat Hanh: “What is the hardest thing that you practice?”
As he always does before speaking, the Zen master paused.
“That is,” he finally said, “not being overwhelmed by despair.”
During the Vietnam War, Thich Nhat Hanh, known to his
students as Thay, founded the School of Youth for Social Service, a volunteer
organization that aided victims of the violence. One village located near the
demilitarized zone separating North and South Vietnam was bombed, so Thay and
his young social workers helped rebuild it. Shortly after, the village was
again bombed by the United States, and again rebuilt. This happened four times.
“If we gave up, that would have created a feeling of
despair,” Thay explained to the Blue Cliff retreatants. “That is why we kept
When people have given in to despair, they can be driven to
do desperate and dangerous things. So it’s important, Thay said, never to feed
the seeds of despair in others. That does not mean that you should lie about
dire situations, but you should think carefully about your words and frame what
you say in a constructive manner.
Young Vietnamese frequently asked Thich Nhat Hanh if he
thought the war would end soon. The truth was he could not see the light
at the end of the tunnel; the fighting had been going on for so long that it
seemed like it would continue forever. Yet Thay did not say that to the young
people. “Dear friends,” he told them, “the Buddha said that everything is
impermanent. The war is impermanent also—it should end someday. Let us continue
to work for peace.”
In this issue of the Shambhala Sun, you will find the
story of my retreat experience with Thay at Blue Cliff Monastery in Pine Bush,
New York. During the course of this retreat, I got to explore concrete tools
for working with despair and other unhelpful emotions, and what I took away
with me is this: for transforming suffering, mindfulness practice is key but a
community is necessary to support that practice.
“In order to produce the powerful energy of enlightenment,
compassion, understanding, you need a sangha, a community,” Thich Nhat Hanh
says in my interview with him on page 58. “You build a sangha and together you
help each other nourish the buddha and the dharma in you.”
In “Before He Melts Away,” also in this issue, we get an
intimate step-by-step look at how one practitioner used meditation and
mindfulness to work with his despair, grief, and fear. James Hanmer finds
himself in the middle of a nightmare: his toddler son is diagnosed with a
life-threatening form of cancer. There is no silver bullet that’s going to make
this situation disappear, but meditation gives Hanmer insight, strength, and a
measure of equanimity. He realizes that even in his darkest hour, he’s
fortunate. He is, after all, alive and can put his whole heart into easing the
suffering of his family. Though I’ve read this story again and again, I choke
up each time. Be prepared to be moved, but also be prepared for a happy ending.
On my way home from Blue Cliff Monastery, I went to the Earl
of Sandwich in Newark Airport and had my own small experience with the insight
brought about by mindfulness. A week prior, I’d have thought that the noise and
busyness of the restaurant were just ordinary life. But post-retreat I was
experiencing everything through the surreal lens of reverse culture shock—the
cranked-up pop music, the frenetic clink of cutlery, the
laughing-shrieking-talking tableful of women eating nachos.
My sandwich came and I chewed slowly without picking up my
book or cell phone. I contemplated how many beings had worked to make this meal
possible for me. The cows and factory workers. The farmers and truck drivers.
The cooks, waiters, and dishwashers. After six days of practicing with a
sangha, I was open to connecting with my world this way, bite by bite.
I looked around the restaurant and saw a little girl with a
zebra-print suitcase and a solitary man lost in his Kindle. The people around
me were tired and stressed, bored and excited, slightly irritated and slightly
drunk. They reminded me of other people I knew; they reminded me of me. Then
suddenly, if just for a moment, I saw clearly. This whole laughing, hurting,
busy world—it is all my sangha.
—Andrea Miller, Deputy Editor
Joyful Giving (January 2014)
Shambhala Sun | January 2014
’Tis always the season for giving. Six Buddhist teachers — KAREN MAEZEN MILLER, JUDY LIEF, JAN CHOZEN BAYS,
GINA SHARPE, NORMAN FISCHER, and TSULTRIM ALLIONE — on why generosity
is the starting place of all the virtues.
By Karen Maezen Miller
I begged my father to take me to the store. It was the day
before Christmas, and I had nothing to give to my mother except an art project
I had brought home from school. It was a picture made with painted macaroni.
How embarrassing. Even in kindergarten I knew that it wasn’t a real gift. It
wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t the kind of thing anyone wants. Remembering it, I
can still feel the full extent of a five-year-old’s self-criticism and shame.
Dad took me to a convenience store and I emptied my piggy bank for a set of
plastic drink coasters.
One day my mom cleaned under my bed and pulled out the
macaroni picture from its hiding place. She showed it to me with questioning
eyes. Now I know what she felt inside, her heart breaking with a sudden rush of
tenderness for an injured child.
The most profound gifts are the ones that don’t measure up
to any standard. They are not excellent or grand, but unexciting and ordinary.
They may not look like gifts at all, but like failures. No matter how they
look, they carry the precious essence of life’s true nature, which is love.
“Between the giver, the recipient, and the gift there is no
separation.” This Zen teaching tells us that generosity goes beyond
appearances. There is really nothing that divides us—nothing that defines the
substance of a gift. All is empty and perfect as it is. We practice this truth
by giving what we can whenever it is called for and by taking what is given
whenever it is offered. When we give and take wholeheartedly, without judgment,
separation is transcended. Stinginess is overcome and greed vanishes. We come
to see that everything is already a gift that we have already been given. All
that remains is to share it.
“I love it,” my mother said. And it was true.
In May, New World Library will release Karen Maezen
Miller’s new book, Paradise in Plain Sight: Lessons from a Zen Garden.
By Judy Lief
The practice of generosity may seem simple—it is learning
how to give—but it is the ground that allows discipline, patience, exertion,
meditation, and wisdom to flourish. It establishes the basic attitude of
magnanimity that is the defining characteristic of the path of the bodhisattva.
The word magnanimous, like the Sanskrit term mahatma,
means “greatness of soul.” With magnanimity you are not pinched in your outlook
or heart, but rather you have a quality of richness and spaciousness. There is
room for everyone.
I once visited a temple that claimed to have one thousand
Buddha statues. Among all of those buddhas, the one that most invoked the feeling
of generosity for me was a statue of a very chubby Buddha embracing piles of
children who were tumbling all over him. Laughing with delight, he maintained a
sense of peace in the midst of their chaos. Instead of shooing the children
away because he had more important things to do, he gathered them in with a big
hug. He radiated love and happiness and acceptance.
That kind of
effortless bounty is what generosity is all about, but to get there a little
effort and reflection may be in order. To cultivate generosity it is necessary
to understand the mental obstacles that cause us to hold back.
One obstacle is self-doubt. We may have an impoverished
sense of our own capacities and doubt that we have all that much to offer.
Another obstacle is stinginess. We may have a lot of resources, but no matter
how wealthy we are, deep down we are afraid of letting go of even a small
Generosity is based on interconnection, on looking outside
oneself, noticing where there is a need and responding to it. So a third
obstacle is self-absorption, being oblivious to what is going on around you.
Generosity has the power to cut through such obstacles and it is available to
The sense of richness that allows generosity to flourish
isn’t dependent on external factors like wealth or social status. (In fact,
studies have shown that the wealthiest Americans’ level of philanthropy is less
than half that of the poorest Americans.) No matter how poor or rich we may be,
we all have something to offer. And when we let go of our clinging and extend
our hand to others, we find that we ourselves are blessed. Our pinched state of
mind, which was so alienating and unpleasant, suddenly relaxes and we are
brought into a larger and more inspired sense of the world and our own capacities.
Instead of feeling that something is being taken away from us, we find that the
more we give, the wealthier we feel.
Judy Lief is the editor of The Profound Treasury of
the Ocean of Dharma, a three-volume series of teachings by Chögyam Trungpa
We Naturally Know What to Give
By Jan Chozen Bays
The Buddha said, “If beings knew, as I know, the results of
giving and sharing…even if it were their last bite…they would not eat without
having shared, if there were someone to receive their gift.”
But we cannot force ourselves to be generous. True
generosity comes from a deeper place than acquiescence to the Buddha’s
admonition. Generosity, like all aspects of our enlightened nature, lies
partially dormant within us. It has been obscured by the inevitable wounds,
duties, and worries of our busy human lives.
As people sit a silent retreat, their minds quiet, their
hearts relax, and their faces regain the innocent glow of childhood. Often,
when this happens, they come to me in tears, saying, “I feel such overwhelming
gratitude just for being alive. So much has been given, is being given
to me, all the time.”
When we meditate and quiet the mind, we get a deeper look at
the true nature of our life and see that it is interconnected. This uncovers in
us a well of gratitude. Can we open the mind’s awareness and investigate what
we’re being given right now?
We notice our breath. What in the breath is given to us? We
are given the air and the body that breathes. We cannot make air. We cannot
build and manage our minutely complex body ourselves. We notice the pressure of
the cushion under our seat. We are given its firm support. We notice the touch
of clothing on our skin. We see the people who planted, weeded, and harvested
the cotton, who wove the cloth, who cut and sewed, packaged and shipped, who
drove the trucks, who opened the fitting-room doors, who took our payment. We
realize that the life energy of many people covers and warms us in the form of
this shirt, this pair of pants.
We are not self-made. We are made of the raw ingredients of
sunlight, soil, and water, shaped into the flesh of plants and animals, shaped
into our life. Our life is one big gift, given by countless beings. When we
truly see this, gratitude naturally arises, as does the question, “How can I
repay the many beings who are continually giving to me?”
Is there a gift we can give to anyone, anywhere, anytime?
The greatest gift is the gift of dharma, the gift of relief from suffering. Who
would not receive this gift gladly? We give this gift first to ourselves,
studying and practicing it, transforming our own suffering into a greater
measure of ease and happiness. As we do this, we pass this gift along to
whomever we encounter. It could be a smile for the grocery-store checkout lady
still reeling from an angry customer’s words, a nutrition bar and a look into
the eyes of the homeless man asking for recognition on the corner at the
stoplight, a hug for our child distressed by bullying, a refusal to bomb our
We naturally know what to give. We don’t have to work to
produce generosity. We just have to practice deeply. True and accurate
generosity is the natural outcome of practice.
Jan Chozen Bays is a pediatrician who specializes in the
evaluation of children for abuse and neglect. She’s the author of Mindful
The Heart of Generosity
By Gina Sharpe
The mental states we encounter when we sit in
meditation—difficult emotions, negative thoughts, and even the pains in our
bodies—are the consequences of life-long habit patterns and viewpoints that
result in dukkha, or suffering.
We know from the second noble truth that the source of
dukkha is greed, attachment, and craving. These cause us to hold on to what
appears to give us relief from our suffering—things, people, viewpoints,
habits. Yet, if these give any relief at all, it is at best temporary.
The heart of generosity—giving, sharing, and caring for
others—breaks this cycle of attachment and the resultant suffering. Through
generosity, we let go of self-centeredness and our mind/hearts open into
loving-kindness, compassion, and tenderness. We experience our
interconnectedness—how we rely on the generosity, caring, and hard work of
others for our well-being. These realizations are direct antidotes to dukkha.
Aligning our actions with them brings us true happiness.
Three aspects of the noble eightfold path help us practice
giving: right understanding, the first aspect; right mindfulness, the seventh;
and right effort, the sixth.
With right understanding, we know that selfishness and
miserliness are negative states of mind. When selfishness asserts itself, we
see it, and right mindfulness supports this seeing. Having become mindful of
selfishness and attachment as unwholesome states of mind, we practice right effort:
we make a balanced effort to abandon clinging and to cultivate the wholesome
state of generosity.
One of the ten daily monastic reflections may be helpful in
cultivating the generous heart: “The days and nights are relentlessly passing.
How well am I spending my time?”
Imagine a world in which we all hold on tightly, where
generosity is not an option or worse, is not even known? What would it be like
to live in such a world, where we work only to get and hold on to whatever we
can for ourselves, without any thought for the welfare of others? Is that a
world in which we’d want to live? Or can we together create a world of kindness
and compassion, in which we respond appropriately with generosity?
After retiring from practicing law, Gina Sharpe cofounded
New York Insight Meditation Center.
Nothing to Give, No One to Receive It
By Norman Fischer
“May we with all beings realize the emptiness of the three
wheels, giver, receiver, and gift.”
Zen practitioners chant these words before eating a meal. They
remind us that the food about to be eaten has not been earned; it’s a gift. But
this gift is not to be understood in the usual way. “The emptiness of the three
wheels” means that this giving isn’t a beneficent act one performs for another,
an act you can take credit for or feel worthy or unworthy of. A Zen
practitioner about to eat a meal remembers that giving is life—that everything
is giving, everything is given. There are no separate givers, receivers, or
gifts. All of life is always giving and receiving at the same time. This is our
practice and our joy. So we practice giving—both receiving and giving
gifts—in this spirit.
Some gifts we see as gifts (the birthday or holiday gift)
and others we usually don’t see as gifts (the gift of sunlight, the gift of
breath). The practice of giving extends to all forms of giving.
Traditionally, there are three things to give: material
gifts, the gift of dharma, and the gift of freedom. But really there are many
more things to give: the gift of listening, the gift of love, the gift of
creation, attention, and effort. To make a poem or a painting is to practice
giving, as is cooking a meal, cleaning a room, putting a single flower in a
vase. In his fascicle “Four Methods of Guidance for Bodhisattvas,” Dogen writes
that to launch a boat, build a bridge, and earn a living are acts of giving. To
be willing to be born—and to die—is to practice giving.
I usually think of four simple ways to practice giving:
giving yourself to yourself (that is, to be generous in your attitude toward
yourself); giving materially to others (giving money or other material gifts to
those in need and to those not in need); giving fully and without reservation
the gift of your presence and respect; and giving yourself completely in your
There are six paramitas or perfections that define
the Mahayana path: giving, ethical conduct, energy, patience, meditation, and
wisdom. It is no wonder that giving is the first of these. The more you study
it, the more it seems that giving is the whole of the Buddha way.
Zoketsu Norman Fischer is a Zen teacher in the lineage of
Shunryu Suzuki Roshi. His most recent volume of poetry is The Strugglers.
By Tsultrim Allione
There is a story of a rich man who said that he could not
practice generosity because he was unable to give anything away. The Buddha’s
advice to him was to begin by simply taking a piece of fruit and passing it
from one hand to the other. The Buddha told him to notice how it felt to let
the fruit go and how it felt to receive it. Using this method, the man began to
experience both the joy of giving and the pleasure of receiving. Eventually he
became a great benefactor.
Like that rich man, we may find that giving does not arise
spontaneously and that we need to train in it. The ego-clinging mind always
feels a sense of scarcity, so you might think, “I barely get along with what I
have. How can I possibly give anything to anyone else?” There are, however,
many ways to practice giving that transcend monetary and material means. You
could give something simple like a poem, words of encouragement, or an act of
kindness. True generosity brings the giver a feeling of openness, along with
the enjoyment in the happiness of others.
Even imagined gifts can be powerful. There is a story about
the great Buddhist king Ashoka that illustrates this. The story goes that a
poor child was playing by the side of the road when he saw the Buddha begging
for alms. The child was moved to make an offering, but—with nothing else to give—he
spontaneously collected some pebbles and, visualizing them as vast amounts of
gold, placed them in the Buddha’s alms bowl. Due to this act, in his next life
the child became the powerful, wealthy King Ashoka and benefited countless
To take the practice of generosity a step further, you can
infuse generosity with the view that there is no inherent separate existence in
the giver, the gift, or the receiver. This view, known as the threefold
emptiness, turns practicing generosity into something beyond simple virtuous
action. It helps us not be attached to the outcome of giving, thus setting us
free from any expectations.
In chöd, a Tibetan meditation practice developed by
the famed eleventh-century yogini Machig Labdrön, generosity is practiced for
the purpose of severing ego-clinging. Chöd practitioners deliberately go to
frightening places, such as a cemetery at night, and visualize making their
body into an offering. Since these places provoke fear and clinging to the
body, the offering is a direct confrontation with the ego. Many kinds of guests
are invited to this imagined banquet, including personified forms of diseases,
fears, and demons. As the guests arrive for the feast, chöd practitioners keep
the view of three-fold emptiness and offer their body, which they visualize as
nectar that satisfies all desires. The intensity of making the body offering in
a frightening place is designed to push the practitioner into a state free from
Although we may not be a chöd practitioner who deliberately
goes to scary places, we still meet plenty of frightening inner demons, such as
depression, anger, and anxiety. When this happens we have the opportunity to
feed, not fight, these demons with the nectar of love and compassion. This goes
against the grain of ego-clinging and allows the inner demons to transform into
Here’s an idea: choose a day to devote to the practice of
generosity. Maybe one Saturday from the time you get up until you go to bed,
see how many opportunities you can find to be generous. Start by passing an
object from one hand to the other mindfully. You might cook someone breakfast,
offer your seat on the subway, make a donation, or spend some time with a child
or someone having a hard time. See how many ways you can give in one day.
Notice your motivation, how it feels to do it, and the reactions of others. At
the end of the day, recall all the ways you were generous. Notice how you feel
and what happened as a result of your generosity. ©
Lama Tsultrim Allione is the author of Feeding Your
Demons and the founder of Tara Mandala, a Buddhist retreat center in
Illustrations for this article are by Tomi Um.
In Search of the Genuine (January 2014)
Shambhala Sun | January 2014
In Search of the Genuine
Feeling disillusioned with this artificial world is the
starting place of the spiritual path, say ANYEN RINPOCHE and ALLISON CHOYING ZANGMO. They offer a Buddhist take on the genuineness we long for.
Many of us turn
toward the spiritual path because of our disillusionment with the world we live
in. Some of us have felt disillusioned for as long as we can remember. Even as
children, we saw that the world does not match up to what we’ve being told. For
others, disillusionment may start to surface as we grow into adulthood. We feel
that everyone else is made happy by a hypocritical world that makes us
miserable. Why is that? What is wrong with us? We may self-medicate by using
drugs, alcohol, sex, or food to escape the reality of our lives. Others just
“give it a go,” trying to fit into our families, our workplaces, and our social
circle the best that we can. In the process, we ignore our inner experience. We
self-medicate with denial.
disillusionment becomes too much to bear, we should consider ourselves lucky.
In the Buddhist teachings, we say that human life is precious. But life is most
precious when we wake up and want to do something about our pervasive feelings
of unhappiness. As a result of our disillusionment, we aspire to make a
meaningful change in our lives. Often, this manifests as the desire to live in
a more genuine way.
One common idea is
that being “genuine” means expressing ourselves with sincerity—stripping away
all pretenses and being in the world “just as we are.” We begin to strip away
the layers of personality we’ve built up like a shell to protect us from
painful realities. We make our first step toward genuine living.
have come to associate this quality of living genuinely, openly, and honestly
with the Buddhist path. This is one of the most beautiful ways Buddhism has
interacted with Western culture. Buddhism is an authentic means of
transformation, and when we take the practice seriously we start to notice
changes in ourselves, our attitudes, and our habits that we thought were
The Buddhist path
makes us genuine in every way imaginable. However, this raises several
important questions. What does it mean to be genuine according to the Buddhist
tradition? What does a genuine person look like? How do we actually become more
genuine? The wish to become a more genuine human being is one of the main goals
of Buddhist practice. However, there are both similarities and differences in
the way Western culture understands what it means to be genuine and the way it
is understood by the Buddhist tradition.
In Western culture,
our wish to be a more genuine person may be associated with openly expressing
what is inside of us. We feel that for so long we have been participating in a
world that we do not believe in, a world that disappoints us. As a result, we
want to start living more honestly right away. We want to find a way to embody
our emerging spiritual values and spiritual life, to make our outer life more
closely reflect our inner beliefs. We sometimes describe this process as “being
true to ourselves.”
Honesty is an
important foundation of Western culture and its values. It is something we hold
so sacred that we teach our children about it in school and we expect public
figures and presidents to uphold it. When Buddhist teachers began to teach
Western students, it is quite possible that their first impression of Western
culture was of the value we place on honesty. So we have an excellent place to
start working with the Buddhist path.
In Western culture,
being genuine has to do with changes we make on the outside—we take what is
hidden inside of us and express it honestly to establish some kind of
authenticity in our lives. This is a good first step. But for a Buddhist
practitioner, becoming genuine is much more. It is a complete transformation of
In the Tibetan
language, one meaning of the word “genuine” is “free of deception,” which is
consistent with the Western understanding. But it also means “perfect purity”
and “flawlessness.” Therefore, we say that the truly genuine person is the one
who embodies perfectly purity: a realized person.
This is because
only realized people are completely free of self-attachment. We ordinary human
beings are filled with self-attachment, which causes us to have all kinds of
hidden agendas and unconscious motivations. Such hidden agendas never lead to
true openness and honesty. For this reason the Buddhist practice of genuineness
focuses on cutting through all levels of self-deception and self-attachment,
whether they are related to ourselves, others, or the outside world.
Cutting through our
hidden agendas is not easily done. However, this is something the Buddhist path
specifically trains us to do. According to the Mahayana Buddhist tradition,
wisdom is realized by practicing what we call “skillful means.” These are
techniques to take the aspiration we have to become genuine and bring it to
fruition. Traditionally, these skillful means are described as the first five
of the transcendental qualities, or paramitas : generosity, discipline,
patience, diligence, and meditative concentration. But I would distill all of
these into the essential transcendental quality: the paramita of
On the Buddhist
path, motivation is paramount. Motivation can seem like a small thing, but
actually it is everything. After all, it only takes a single match to burn down
a forest. Even very small thoughts and actions can be the cause of things that
are very great or very destructive. If we cultivate and train in the aspiration
to be genuinely free of self-attachment, then our motivation will ensure that
our actions are genuine, no matter how it appears.
mindfulness is the essential first step to genuine living. When we lack
mindfulness, we forget to reflect on and maintain a positive and unselfish
motivation. We may start off thinking, “I am going to be myself, honest, open,
and genuine,” but when a situation overwhelms us, we go right back to our usual
patterns. This happens because our aspiration wasn’t strong enough to begin
with. We haven’t trained in it enough to make it a true habit that we can fall
back on. Checking in with what is happening within us and becoming more mindful
of our own selfish thought patterns help us purify and cultivate a more genuine
For that reason, we
could say that the path of skillful means requires continual training in our
aspiration. As long as our conduct is infused with that perfectly pure
motivation, we know that our conduct is wholesome.
Other aspects of
the Buddhist path that can support our genuineness are the practices of
listening and contemplation. We can listen to, study, and contemplate texts
that teach about skillful means. We might study texts that present teachings on
how to embody bodhisattva conduct, such as the Way of the Bodhisattva.
We can also read the life stories of realized teachers, knowing that these
individuals have cut through all traces of self-attachment and are the greatest
examples of genuine living we could possibly find. They exemplify how to work
for the benefit of others and, ultimately, for peace.
Another way we can
learn how to become more genuine is to become involved in a community and to
rely on a spiritual teacher. One of the teacher’s primary responsibilities is
teaching students how to embody skillful means. This is done by interaction, by
example, and by direct instruction. It happens because of a deep connection
that forms between a student and the teacher, which enables the teacher’s very
way of being and interacting to influence and permeate the student. In this
way, the teacher becomes an authentic example of genuine living—being in this
world in a manner that best supports others.
Genuine living is
innate and natural. Inside each of us is the potential to cut through
self-attachment and express ourselves openly, honestly, and unselfishly.
With repeated training in and insight into our motivation, we are able to make
real and lasting changes to ourselves and our behavior. When we do this, we
have found the genuine wisdom of the Buddhist tradition.
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