Shambhala Sun | January 2013

About a Poem

RED PINE on Ch’eng Hao’s “Casual Poem on a Spring Day”

CASUAL POEM ON A SPRING DAY

The clouds are thin the wind is light the sun is nearly overhead
past the flowers through the willows down along the stream
people don’t see the joy in my heart
they think I’m wasting time or acting like a child

This would be the kind of poem I would write, or wished I could write, if I wrote poems. Ch’eng hao (1032-1085) was the most famous philosopher of his day and one of the founders of a movement that became known as Neo-Confucianism. His unique contribution to this movement was based on his understanding that the world was the manifestation of li, or principle, and that neither li nor the world existed apart from the other.

Ch’eng was especially famous for his lectures. They were attended by thousands of people and were recorded by his students and later edited for publication by such famous Neo-Confucians as Chu Hsi. But, like all Chinese scholar-officials of his day, he also wrote poems and this one appears in the most memorized Chinese anthology, the Chienchiashih, or Poems of the Masters. In this brief quatrain, Ch’eng leads us through his world with stream-of-consciousness artistry and portrays his sense of oneness with that world. Ch’eng’s philosophy is not merely an academic or intellectual posture. He allows us either to stand outside as his critics might have done or to share his experience so that we might better appreciate the arbitrary separation of ourselves from our own world.

When I first read this poem, I was reminded of the story in which Chuang-tzu was out walking with Hui-tzu and commented on the joy of the fishes swimming in the stream under the bridge on which the two men paused to enjoy their own spring day around 300 B.C. Hui-tzu said, “You’re not a fish. How do you know if the fishes are happy?” Chuang-tzu replied, “You’re not me. How do you know I don’t know the fishes are happy?” Indeed, our knowledge of others is one presumption after another. Then too, our knowledge of ourselves is only slightly less presumptuous. But here, in this poem, presumption disappears. It’s a spring day a thousand years ago in a heart full of joy.


An award-winning translator of Chinese poetry and Buddhist texts, Red Pine was born Bill Porter. In the 1970s he spent more than three years living at a Buddhist monastery in Taiwan. He then struck out on his own, working as a journalist at English-language radio stations in Taiwan and Hong Kong. His book Zen Baggage recounts a pilgrimage to sites in China associated with the beginnings of Zen Buddhism.

From the January 2013 Shambhala Sun magazine. Click here to see more from this issue.

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Shambhala Sun | January 2013

Love & Emptiness

The Heart Attack Sutra: A New Commentary on the Heart Sutra
by Karl Brunnhölzl
Snow Lion Publications, 2012; 160 pp., $16.05 (paper)

Thunderous Silence: A Practical Guide to the Heart Sutra
by Dosung Yoo
Wisdom Publications, 2012; 254 pp., $17.95 (paper)

Reviewed by NORMAN FISCHER

All dharmas are empty: no eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind, no form...

I was thunderstruck the first time I encountered the words of the Heart Sutra. Somehow, no eyes, no ears, no nose made sense to me in a way I couldn’t explain, and I felt great relief. As a child I had always suspected that the world I was raised in didn’t hold up to scrutiny, and on hearing the Heart Sutra for the first time, my childhood confusion was suddenly acknowledged and addressed, even if I couldn’t explain how. It seemed intuitively to me that the sutra was affirming that the world was indeed not the way I had been taught it was. “No, it isn’t like that. It’s like this,” the sutra seemed to be saying.

Shocking as it is on first hearing, the Heart Sutra won’t go away. You wonder and ponder, perplexed and fascinated. “No eyes, no ears... nothing to attain... no hindrance and no fear...” How? Why? It has taken me many years of practice and study to begin to appreciate and understand the Heart Sutra’s words and put them into practice in my life.

At one page, the Heart Sutra is probably the briefest of all Buddhist sacred texts, and the most influential. Foundational to Mahayana Buddhism, it is prized in all schools of Tibetan Buddhism and in Zen, where it is chanted every day in most temples and monasteries. But what does it mean? Can it really be denying the existence of the very nose on our face? And why is that so important to a religion that prizes compassion over all other virtues?

Because of its central importance to so many schools of Buddhism, the Heart Sutra has inspired a number of commentaries in English from scholars and teachers of almost every tradition. Both the Dalai Lama (Essence of the Heart Sutra: The Dalai Lama’s Heart of Wisdom Teachings) and Thich Nhat Hanh (The Heart of Understanding: Commentaries on the Prajnaparamitta Heart Sutra) have taught it, and a number of younger Western-trained teachers, probably many more than I know of, have also written commentaries.

Two recent books of note add some new perspectives and details to an already full picture of this great text. The Heart Attack Sutra, by Karl Brunnhölzl, a German Vajrayana teacher, enthusiastically discusses the sutra from the standpoint of the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, with its rigorous logic and philosophy and careful parsing of doctrine. (The title comes from a Tibetan Buddhist legend that some early Buddhists, on first hearing Buddha preach this sutra, went apoplectic and had heart attacks.)

In Tibetan scholastic tradition, the emptiness teachings are a major topic for intellectual study, and Brunnhölzl has made this tradition completely his own, discussing the various treatises and doctrines with ease and considerable wit. This text includes a sadhana (a visualization practice) of dazzling complexity that is an interesting supplement to the teachings.

Thunderous Silence: A Practical Guide to the Heart Sutra is by the Won Buddhist teacher Dosung yoo. a twentieth-century form of Korean Son (Zen) Buddhism, Won Buddhism now has a strong presence in the U.s., and Rev. Yoo is one of its most eloquent proponents.

The Korean Buddhist tradition strikes me as admirably simple and clear, and this text shines brightly in those qualities. Like many other commentaries, it goes through the text line by line and in the process discusses basic Buddhist teachings thoroughly, with a delightful ease and lightness expressive of the emptiness teachings themselves. It features a wealth of charmingly told Korean folk stories and old Buddhist tales. Using such tales to illustrate, with humor and magical realism, the potentially abstract and philosophical teaching of the sutra is one of the strongest features of the Korean tradition, and of this book.

The key term in the Heart Sutra is the Sanskrit shunyata, usually translated into English as “emptiness.” As the sutra says in its opening lines, “All dharmas [things, phenomena] are empty.” Eyes, ears, noses, tongues, bodies, minds: all external objects—and all Buddhist teachings—are empty. In fact, the Heart Sutra is a brilliant one-page summary of the entire edifice of Buddhist psychological, epistemological, and soteriological teachings, which are enumerated and then denied. A devout and passionate Buddhist, seeing the text for the first time, may well read it as a dismantling of Buddhist Orthodoxy (thus the heart attacks). Judging from the defensiveness you find in other, longer texts of the shunyata literature, of which the Heart Sutra is said be the pith or “heart,” many early Buddhists probably did object to the sutra on exactly such grounds. But in fact, the Heart Sutra does not deny Buddhist teachings. It is merely shifting the ground on which the teachings stand—which changes everything.

The word “emptiness” is a fair translation of shunyata, but it has the drawback of sounding negative, even despairing. In English the words “empty” and “emptiness” sound bleak. An empty life is not a happy life. It is flat, meaningless, hollow. Nothing inside. Alienated war-weary characters in Ernest Hemingway’s short stories often had “a hollow feeling.” T.S. Eliot, in the same period, wrote a poem called “The Hollow Men” describing the lost spirit of the times. Hollow is empty, lost. To be empty inside, to be empty of faith and values, is to be nihilistic and despairing.

The emptiness of the Heart Sutra is something else entirely. It’s good news of joyful freedom and liberation. Commentators to the sutra often ask the question, “Empty of what?” and answer, “Empty of separate self, empty of weightiness, empty of burden, empty of boundary.”

The Chinese, searching for a word that might translate shunyata, used the character for sky. All dharmas are empty like the sky—blue, beautiful, expansive, and always ready to receive a bird, a wind, a cloud, the sun, the moon, or an airplane. The emptiness of the Heart Sutra isn’t the emptiness of despair; it’s the emptiness of all limitation and boundary. It is open, released.

The Heart Sutra is not denying the existence of the world we live in. It’s denying the basis of the world’s sticky intractability. It’s denying the ultimate reality of the basis of our suffering—our separate, burdensome self and all that seems to exist apart from it, all that we think we need and do not have. No eyes, no ears, and so on doesn’t deny the physical; it redefines it. Things do exist—only not in the way we think they do. And when the sutra lists and negates basic Buddhist teachings, it doesn’t mean the teachings are false or unreal. It means they are true in a freer, more expansive, less literal and substantial way than we thought. The Heart Sutra showed me from the start that I could hold and practice the Buddhist teachings in a light, flexible, open-handed way. I didn’t have to become pious. Piety is empty, the Heart Sutra says. Buddhism is empty. And that is why it liberates us.

The other side of emptiness, or, one could say, its content, is connection, relationality. When I am bound inside my own skin and others are bound inside theirs, I have to defend and protect myself from them. And when I place myself among them, as I must, I better do that carefully, which is hard work, because I am often hurt, opposed, and thwarted by others. But when there’s openness, no boundary, between myself and others— when it turns out that I literally am others and others literally are me, then love and connection is easy and natural.

Nagarjuna, the most influential of all Buddhist thinkers, seized on the emptiness teachings as the cornerstone of his Madhyamika, or Middle Way, approach. It’s not that things “exist” (heavy, hard, and isolated) or “don’t exist” (in despairing nihilism). The truth is in the middle: things are empty of both existence and non-existence. There are no “things” at all and never were. There is only connection, only love. This, Nagarjuna argues, is not a new doctrine; it is what the Buddha was pointing to from the start.

This is why the emptiness teaching of the Heart Sutra, which seems to be rather philosophical and dour, is the necessary basis for compassion. Emptiness and compassion go hand in hand. Compassion as transaction—me over here, being compassionate to you over there—is simply too clunky and difficult. If I am going to be responsible to receive your suffering and do something about it, and if I am going to make this kind of compassion the cornerstone of my religious life, I will soon be exhausted. But if I see the boundarylessness of me and you, and recognize that my suffering and your suffering are one suffering, and that that suffering is empty of any separation, weightiness, or ultimate tragedy, then I can do it. I can be boundlessly compassionate and loving, without limit. To be sure, living this teaching takes time and effort, and maybe we never entirely arrive at it. But it’s a joyful, heartfelt path worth treading.

In Mahayana Buddhism, compassion is often discussed in terms of absolute and relative compassion. absolute compassion is compassion in the light of emptiness: all beings are empty, all beings are light, all beings are, by virtue of their empty nature, already liberated and pure. As the sutra says, suffering is empty, and relief from suffering is also empty. Everything is inherently all right and taken care of—even the pain. reality is inherently merciful. It’s okay to suffer, because through that very suffering we find release. The old adage “time heals all wounds” is more profound than it sounds: time, every moment, actually is release, freedom, and healing. in the light of absolute compassion, reality itself already is compassion. Nothing more is needed.

This point of view sounds nice at first but could also be quite monstrous. Carried to its logical conclusion, it might inspire us to ignore wars, natural disasters, illnesses, and deaths: since everything is perfect as it is in emptiness, what’s the point of grief, sorrow, or helping? But this would be one-sided and distorted. Relative compassion—human warmth and practical emotional support—completes the picture. Absolute compassion makes it possible for us to sustain, joyfully, the endless work of supporting and helping; relative compassion grounds our broad view of life’s empty nature in heart connection and engagement. Either view by itself would be impossible, but both together make for a wonderfully connected and sustainable life. Two sides of a coin, two wings of a bird.

This is what I sensed without knowing it on first hearing the Heart Sutra. And I am not the only one: many others have told me they too have experienced this uncanny sense on first hearing the sutra. Its matter-of-fact strangeness, even absurdity, seems to invite such a response. It’s what I sensed as a child was missing in the world around me. Life simply couldn’t be as small, as difficult, and as dull as it seemed. Somehow I was sure there must be another way.

But the Heart Sutra is more than an inspiring vision or understanding. It is also a practice, a course of action that relieves suffering and transforms lives. Practicing the Heart Sutra is training in the feeling for life that arises when we have fully internalized its teachings into our body and emotions. The emptiness/boundlessness of all dharmas is not only something we would like to believe; it is also a way we can hold our lives lightly and joyfully, a texture we can palpably feel at the center of our awareness.

Bodhidharma is the legendary founder of Zen. Once, his disciple Huike begged for his help: “My mind is in anguish, please help me find peace.” Bodhidharma replied, “Bring me your mind.” After some time of practice Huike said, “I cannot find my mind.” Bodhidharma said, “Then your mind is at peace.” Once you feel in your bones and throughout your awareness the emptiness of your mind, you are at peace. Even when problems and difficulties arise, there’s still the thread of peace woven in at the heart of them.

In Zen practice, zazen (sitting meditation) is training in emptiness. The practice is simply resting alertly in the feeling of body and breath, letting everything come and go, without denying or latching on. Sitting this way day after day, retreat after retreat, year after year, Zen practitioners learn to hold things lightly: respecting them, appreciating them, attending to them when the time for that comes, but also letting them go as they naturally will— because they are empty. Everything exists in time; time is existence. Time is empty; everything comes and goes. In fact, coming/going is the reality of each moment. Sitting, you feel the truth of this as your own immediate experience of body and breath.

Emptiness teachings internalized become a way of being fully and easily present with what is—a passing, flowing, empty, ongoing stream of living and dying. At my first long Zen retreat, in the deep snows of Upstate New york, I wandered for hours in the woods above the retreat center as snow fell, my tracks disappearing as I made them, until everything disappeared into a soft uniform whiteness, the trees, the ground, the sky—no eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind.

The Heart Sutra is also practiced by chanting. Since it’s so short, it’s easy to memorize, and anyone who has lived in a Zen temple for any length of time will automatically have memorized it. Having such a text, as they say, “by heart” is an experience increasingly rare in our culture, which makes it all the more precious. A mind that can, at any moment, begin vocalizing, in trance-like fashion (the syllables tumbling out of the mouth even before the brain registers them), the familiar words of the Heart Sutra is a mind that has at its disposal the means for its own pacification and expansion. I remember many dark moments of confusion or despair when I chanted the sutra over and over for comfort, the words lifting me out of the rut I was in, opening up new vistas.

Once, long ago, visiting my parents in a crisis moment when my life seemed vague and directionless and i didn’t know what to do, my mind raged with troubled thoughts I couldn’t share. It was autumn, and leaves were falling from the many oak and maple trees that lined the streets of the small Pennsylvania town where they lived. I walked through the leaves for miles, chanting the Heart Sutra over and over, until the thoughts dissolved and joy arose, my ears full of the sound of crunching leaves underfoot, my heart grateful for the strangeness of the passing of time.

Sutra chanting went in deepest of all at my mother’s hospital bedside, just after her death. Everyone had gone and I was alone with my poor bewildered mother’s body. Not knowing what else to do, I chanted and chanted the Heart Sutra as tears filled my eyes. I was sad and not sad at the same time. The words of the sutra never seemed truer or more comforting.

From the January 2013 Shambhala Sun magazine. Click here to see more from this issue.

To order a copy of this issue, click here.

Shambhala Sun | January 2013

We Need to Be Warriors

The world needs people who are wholeheartedly engaged with life, says SAKYONG MIPHAM. That takes bravery.

These days I am struck by the speed of life. As we get speedier, we do things in half steps. Therefore, the practice of wholehearted engagement is important. How can we be steady and complete, and what kind of wisdom does that bring? In Shambhala warriorship we practice being on the spot: we do things precisely and thoroughly. In meditation, our mind and body are joined and we access and protect our wisdom mind by being present. Then we extend our training into other aspects of our life.

Bravery is the key instruction in the Shambhala teachings. This is why these teachings use the image of a warrior: when confronted by great challenges, warriors rise to the occasion. When cowards are confronted by difficulties, they withdraw. The challenge of being brave points to one specific instruction—that we stop cowering from our basic goodness.

To be brave is to actualize our nature as an offering to others. In paying attention to the details of our daily lives in relation to each other and the environment, we proclaim our worthiness to be alive and to inhabit this planet. We empower our relation- ships with presence and appreciation, because when we see the goodness in ourselves, we recognize it in others. This form of warriorship builds and creates; it does not destroy. Being brave enough to fully embrace our humanity is how we will accomplish good things.

The process of engaging life with bravery has an outer level, an inner level, and a secret level. In terms of the outer level, fifty percent of it is being there, showing up. Whether it is showing up on the meditation cushion, showing up at work, or showing up in a friendship, relationship, or family, how we show up is important. The most important element is care—having respect for what we are doing. Without respect for our own mind, we are not fully engaged, and even the act of meditating becomes hollow. When we pay attention to what we are doing, we naturally care.

Because of all the distractions and trauma in the world these days, it is getting harder and harder to show up for the present moment and engage in our lives. Our kindness and care are on the wane. Our culture tends to lull us into a sense of false security: we think that somehow life is going to get easier. It is like the idea of retirement—we work hard and then there is a lull when we can flop and let everything hang.

The path of engagement does not get easier, and there is no retirement. But when we surrender to the reality that we have to keep showing up to make progress—and that being present takes effort, discipline, and dedication—then we discover a sense of delight. In the language of Shambhala warriorship, this is called trangpo—steadiness, resolve, not having a lot of ups and downs. That steadiness is one of the basic qualities of a warrior. It means that once we have decided to be present and engage in our lives with awareness, we stay with it.

In this culture we are constantly flip- flopping—mentally, physically, and every other way. That is anti-trangpo. So many distractions and obstacles have the power to drag us away from the spot—it is easy to feel helpless, overwhelmed by traffic on the highway or the Internet. The process of truly being on the spot takes energy: we have to surrender our habitual pattern of wanting to escape to the past or the future. Right now the world needs steady people who can show up for the present moment. It is the only time we can touch our basic goodness, which requires wholeheartedly being here.

Steadiness is the inner aspect of the practice of bravery. These days, when people pursue a spiritual journey, they can be very enthusiastic at first. But at a certain point they want to just shelve it and revert to their comfort zone. We seem to want a spiritual path on our own terms. Wanting to be on a path is really just the beginning. To become true warriors and practitioners, we have to repeatedly come back to being present when our attention wanders. This sense of steadiness reflects our decision to hold the view of basic goodness.

The secret aspect of engagement is the inherent strengths on which we draw. Humility is at the top of the list, for boasting about our patience, discipline, or generosity diminishes them. It’s the same with talking too much about our practice. As we mature in our practice of warrior- ship, we grow as individuals, and there is a quality of richness, both internally and externally. This is the ripening of our protector mind—something we need to guard as it develops. Bandying that about in conversation is like opening the door of a sauna: the heat gets out and the intensity dissipates.

Particularly at this time, there is a tendency for us to become sloppy, lazy, and discursive. Even as we practice the dharma, it is easy to have little places to which we escape, becoming comfort- or cocoon-oriented. Personally, the more my path unfolds, the more I see the need for the kind of discipline, structure, and paying attention that keeps us on the spot: how we dress, how we speak, what we do, and how we engage with others. Without that sense of discipline, we are always looking in the back of our minds for our retirement. The training of warriorship helps us to be precise in those neutral and uncomfortable moments. Being on the spot pushes us into a profound form of practice. Even smiling at a stranger can bring us into the present moment, which contains our own simplicity.

We should not shy away from this tradition of enlightened activity of being on the spot. As warriors, engagement is our main buddha activity, trinle. This Tibetan word means that when we are in the process of engaging, we are actually giving our body, speech, and mind to the world. Whether we are meditating, riding the bus, or doing our daily work, we can attain great depth and profundity through engagement. With precision and thoroughness, we also waste less time.

The Shambhala and Buddhist teachings contain examples of enlightened activity in the warrior-king Gesar and the yogi-saint Milarepa, as well as the Shambhala sovereigns. In looking at their lives, we see that they were trained and pushed all the time. That’s what made them great: they all faced challenges. Recently I was looking at the memoirs of Yung-lo, emperor of the Ming, who was a great warrior-bodhisattva king and patron of Tibetan Buddhism. It is amazing to see how early his day started, how late it went, and how he went through the process in a dedicated and exalted way.

Whatever kind of role we are in, we have the potential to bring to it that quality of being there and giving. That doesn’t mean burning ourselves out. We will go through different phases of life, but whatever the phase, we can enrich it with a quality of steadiness and presence.

Fom the January 2013 Shambhala Sun magazine. Click here to see more from this issue.

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Shambhala Sun | January 2013

No Gap: Writings from The Under 35 Project

The Under 35 Project, spearheaded by Shambhala Publications and now a regular online Shambhala Sun feature, is where Buddhism's next generation gathers to share their experiences. Click here to read more of their fascinating stories and learn how you can contribute your own.

Drinking to Distraction

Jenna Hollenstein

You know that moment when you realize you are scared or anxious but don’t know why? You might check your wallet, confirm the oven is off, or scan your calendar for forgotten appointments. Maybe you retrace the rapid-fire sequence of your thoughts, searching for the origin of your discomfort, but can’t identify anything in particular. In Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Holly Golightly calls it the “mean reds”: suddenly you’re afraid, but you don’t know what you’re afraid of.

I used to have these moments all the time. At first I thought it was just my crappy job or that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But even when I changed my environment, the feeling persisted.

Even as a child, I had a recurring sense of impending doom. I began drinking at thirteen and excelled at it. By early adulthood, my drinking became more socially acceptable and more frequent. I could avoid the mean reds, if only temporarily, by picking up a bottle of wine on my way home.

As soon as I walked through the door of my apartment, I’d be in the kitchen, peeling back the foil, easing out the cork, and pouring a glass of wine. My favorite moment was when I raised the glass to my lips, before even taking the first sip. In that moment, there was calm and predictability.

The problem was, that moment never lasted. The relief I sought was always just out of reach—maybe with the next glass?—or already in the past—why didn’t I stop at one? Before I knew it, the bottle was empty. Another night wasted.

I was the party girl who was always up for a cocktail, the advocate of red wine as part of the Mediterranean diet, the foodie who never failed to pair a tasty morsel with its appropriate adult beverage. It all served the same purpose: to distract me from the anxiety and uncertainty of the present moment.

I wondered if I was an alcoholic and assumed I had two choices: identify as an alcoholic and stop drinking or not identify as an alcoholic and continue down this path. Eventually, I realized I had a third choice: stop drinking even if I never identified as an alcoholic. Four years ago, I decided to try life without alcohol.

Life became very challenging. Most everything else remained the same, only now I was facing it unmedicated, feeling the discomfort I had always tried to avoid.

Gradually, I began to peel back the layers of other accumulated distractions. I took a year off from non-essential shopping, began to ask myself whether I was eating out of physical or emotional hunger, and questioned my tendency to turn on the idiot box and zone out. I acknowledged my most familiar and disturbing distraction: obsessive, neurotic, discursive thoughts about the past and the future. These were an addiction in their own right.

After a few years without drinking, I decided to try meditation. Susan Piver’s The Wisdom of a Broken Heart helped me break through my resistance, addressing the surprising power inherent in heartbreak and how meditation can help stabilize things.

At first, my meditation practice consisted of short five- to ten-minute sessions. It seemed impossible to maintain awareness on the breath; I was inundated with swarming thoughts. Finding a meditation instructor proved essential. Her concise instruction and intuitive guidance helped me be gentle with myself, accept whatever arose on the cushion, and continue returning awareness to the breath. Gradually, I worked up to 15- and 20-minute sessions.

 Off the cushion, I began to notice small differences: situations in which I would have immediately reacted angrily or defensively provided an opportunity for reflection and thoughtful response. I felt more open, empathetic, and vulnerable.

Through this practice, I have learned to allow some space into my life without needing to fill it with things that might have short-lived surface appeal but actually distract me from what is happening right now. I have also learned that the predictability I sought in a bottle is no more likely to be found on a meditation cushion. But it is possible—and perhaps the most important skill one can learn in life—to become more comfortable with that discomfort.

Jenna Hollenstein is a writer and nutritionist living in New York City. She explores the themes of addiction, awareness, Buddhism, and meditation on her blog, Drinking to Distraction.

Lost and Found

Ben Hutchison

There is no denying the spiritual power found within the Buddhist path. But what about the dips, those times of uncertainty when moving toward enlightenment feels like not moving at all? Feeling as if you have lost your path can be devastating, especially when you thought you’d found a spiritual practice that might provide you with unlimited peace and wisdom.

A New Chance

Kelley Clink

On Valentine’s Day, 2004, my brother wrote on his blog: “Bitterness is a huge waste of time. That’s right, I said it! But goddamn, goddamn, is it hard to abandon. Peace, peace is where it’s at. I started reading Thich Nhat Hanh’s Creating True Peace, and on a lot of issues the dude is right on. So I’m creating peace in my life, ending violence inside myself, enjoying breathing.”

Two months later, just shy of his twenty-second birthday, he hanged himself.

My mother had sent him the Thich Nhat Hanh book in early 2004, a few weeks before he posted about it. She sent me a copy too, but I didn’t read it. I’d settled, at twenty-four, into a comfortable discomfort. I figured the anger and fear that had plagued me for years, the waves of emotion that drowned me almost daily, were part of my personality.

I was haunted those first years after my brother’s death. We had both struggled with depression during adolescence, and we both attempted suicide in our teens. It looked like I’d come through it: I earned undergraduate and graduate degrees, got married, moved across the country, and started a career. But after my brother’s suicide I viewed my sanity as a taut thread, capable of snapping at any moment.

I couldn’t admit how afraid I was, not even to myself. My grief was a live thing, strong, dark, and foul. I was sure that, if I turned to face it head-on, I’d be devoured.

I sat down to meditate, for the first time in my life, two years after my brother’s death. My practice began as an exercise in stress reduction stripped of spirituality—a successful way to lower blood pressure, the book I was using promised—but it felt like more. After a childhood of turmoil and doubt in the Church; after an adolescence of anger, depression, and atheism; after an early adulthood of anxiety, fear, agnosticism, and heavy grief, was I capable of peace?

Breathing in I know we both suffer. Breathing out I want us both to have a new chance... Our suffering, A new chance
Breathing in I want to be happy. Breathing out I want you to be happy... My happiness, Your happiness
Breathing in I see us happy. Breathing out that is all I want... Our happiness, Is all I want.

The first time I read these words of Thich Nhat Hanh’s, I pictured my brother and I sitting cross-legged, facing each other and holding hands, breathing in and out. Something inside me shifted, and soon I could turn and face my grief.

I began to understand that peace wasn’t what I’d thought it was. Peace didn’t mean escaping my feelings—it meant cultivating the ability to acknowledge and honor them.

Even now, nearly a decade later, I still think of my brother when I sit. I picture him across from me, with a smile easier than the one he wore in life, and I know that both of us have found some peace.

Kelley Clink is a writer and amateur photographer in Chicago. She is currently working on a memoir about her brother’s suicide.

Occupy Heartbreak

Margarita Manwelyan

It’s a windy October Wednesday afternoon in 2011, and I am heading down to Liberty Plaza to meditate at the occupation of Wall Street. I feel an ache in the center of my chest and a lump in the back of my throat that I can’t swallow away. It hurts and it hurts and it hurts. The one I loved and trusted has kicked me to the curb:

“This is not working for me. Please don’t take it personally.”

My pain is real, but this Occupy movement is also real. So I’m taking my aching heart, my eyes puffy from tears, my ambition, my yearning for unity and justice, and I’m hopping the 4 train to the Financial District in Lower Manhattan. Who knows what will happen? It’s a daring escapade: opening to what is, to reality, to the dharma of the here and now. It’s magic and it’s heartache, sharp, tangy, sweet, spicy, and real.

Why do I go? Because I care. How do I know? Because it hurts. Tears spring up for the 99%, for the 1%, for myself, for humanity, for farm animals, for lonely companion animals, for endangered wild animals, for fish in the sea, for birds free and captive, for the planet. Our world is tender, raw, hurt, and angry, and yet remains unconditionally loving in this magnificent present moment.

We are all in this together. There is much to be done, and somehow that actually feels encouraging.

Margarita Manwelyan is a yoga teacher and writer who lives in New York with her dog, Hershey. She is a member of the OWS (Occupy Wall Street) Meditation group.

How May I Help You?

Sophia Aguiñaga

Thank you for calling. How many in your party? I’ll need your insurance information. Our special today is lemon cream custard. Do you have an appointment? Your photos will be ready in an hour. Let me know if you need another size. Blush and foundation are on sale through Monday. These shoes have clearly been worn outside. Are you saying that you’re upset because you had to listen to someone speak Spanish before you reached a representative? My name is Sophia. I’ll find you a clean fork. How may I help you?

The twenty jobs I’ve had since I was fourteen had one thing in common: customer service. Early on, it never crossed my mind to offer compassion to the people approaching me for help. I saw each individual calling in, checking out, or asking a question as just another needy customer. On bad days they were annoyances, rocks in my shoes as I tried to get through another day. Then there were the truly angry and rude customers.

As I matured, it dawned on me: without these people, I would not have a livelihood.

Until then, my customers weren’t quite real to me. “Have a good day” was just an easy nicety that made ending a phone call or seeing a guest out of the office a little less awkward. Work is, after all, different than other basic human interactions. We can spend day after day, for years and years, serving strangers rather than ourselves or those we know and love. Where are we supposed to find all the compassion, empathy, and under- standing that a fifty-hour workweek demands? How can we be sure there will still be enough left for ourselves? reminding ourselves how lucky we are to have a job isn’t always enough.

Sitting on my meditation cushion, I’ve discovered something that I did not expect: each individual calling to lodge a complaint or trying to return a worn pair of shoes is an occasion to simultaneously give and receive. They present the opportunity to plant the seed of compassion while replenishing the supply in the same exact moment.

Suddenly the question, “How may I help you?” has a new meaning, and a new answer: I can offer you what any creation truly needs and deserves—compassion.

And, of course, I’ll be happy to get you a clean fork.

Sophia Aguiñaga lives in Portland, Oregon, and now works as an editor for a private foundation.

Captain Hook and Indian #2

Susan Yao

My first heartbreak happened at the tender age of thirteen. I had a crush on Captain Hook, aka Zach, in the school play. My role was Indian #2, a nothing to a celebrity like Zach. I pined after him, imagining myself as the Tiger Lily to his Captain Hook.

When the play was over, I decided to announce to him that I liked him. I locked myself in my bedroom with a phone and called. He had absolutely no idea who I was. I quickly mumbled, “never mind,” hung up, and cried.

I remember this middle school rejection distinctly because my dreams were epically unrealistic. I somehow hoped that 1) Zach knew who the hell I was and 2) he secretly loved me back. Ten years later, I worry that I’m still that way when it comes to love. I was recently very interested in someone. Let’s call him Joe. We were both Buddhist, had graduated from the same college, and were teachers. I imagined us raising social activist, politically radical (yet humble) Buddhist babies. We started spending time together, and I dared to wonder: Had I finally convinced some unsuspecting fellow to date me?

Nope! According to him, we were Good Friends. We would never be a Buddhist power couple. The disappointment was crushing. Was I being naive? Did I not put out the right signals? Were my hopes as epically unrealistic as they had been in middle school?

Ultimately, I realized that my pain, insecurity, and disappointment were the results of attachments to unrealistic expectations. I use “attachment” here in the Buddhist sense, which means a futile attempt to hold on to what is impermanent. When we do this, we suffer.

Now, with Zach and Joe in mind, I try to date without any expectations. I tell myself, “If we date, great. If we are friends, great. If you are a therapist who can help me overcome my fear of slugs, great. If we never see each other again, then I am at peace with that too. I will enjoy the present moment, whatever it brings.” If I maintain that clarity, then not-dating will not feel like rejection. Not-dating is simply another possible outcome of the interaction of two people.

 When I was thirteen, I wasted time fantasizing about how things could be different with Zach. Instead, I should have just introduced myself. Maybe then, when I called, he would have known who the hell I was. And maybe, just maybe, he would have loved me back.

Susan Yao is a middle school history teacher in New York City.      

We Love Them

Stacy Chivers

I work as a respiratory therapist at a small community hospital nestled by the ocean in southern California. Most of our patients are elderly, and serving them can be difficult. My dharma practice has helped.

Dementia is rampant in the elderly community and it can be ugly. The patients can be very mean and sometimes physically abusive. When patients rear up to hit me while I am stopping them from getting out of bed, I use my calmest voice and try to reorient them to where they are. I see them as confused individuals who don’t mean to hurt anyone. They are victims of a disease that causes them to act out. I use compassion. I will hug them. Sometimes the simple act of telling them that you understand, and touching them lightly on the arm, brings them back. Sometimes not. I just try every time to treat them with love, patience, and compassion—as if they were my Grandpa or my Grandma, but confused and scared. We all need a little love.

Last week I had a patient who has Parkinson’s come to me for an outpatient arterial blood draw. It was a really bad day for her: she was shaking all over and having a hard time walking. Embarrassed and nervous, she kept apologizing for her Parkinson’s. Instead of getting irritated, I used my practice of mindfulness and really talked with and listened to her. She smiled and her shaking eased a bit.

This lady was afraid of having her blood drawn. I tried to get the sample, but she was shaking and crying so hard that I missed the artery. I helped her focus on her breath and come back to the moment. Successful, I wheeled her back down to the lobby and helped her into her husband’s car. She reached for my arm and pulled me close and hugged me and kissed me on the cheek, thanking me for being so kind to her.

That practice of mindfulness and compassion shines through in everything I do. I love every patient in my care, and often get to call them Grandpa or Grandma. They love it. I love it. They feel comfortable and happy, even in the coldness of the hospital. The patients will comment that everyone who works at the hospital really acts like they love them. I tell them it is true. We do love them! Even the hard-to-get-along-with ones. They’re just confused, scared, and sick. Patience, compassion, mindfulness, understanding, and love: I use them at work, at home with my fourteen-year-old son, and with my friends and family. It all helps me get over hurdles with grace and dignity, letting love shine on others and making their lives a little better. Be a shining sun. The light will keep moving and growing. It’s contagious. Try it.

Stacy Chivers describes herself as a thirty-four-year-old single mom and medical worker with a Buddhist heart and punk-rock rebel soul.

Heart On Fire

Brian Otto Kimmel

Brian Otto Kimmel

When I came to Buddhist practice I thought I needed to put on a good show, to be the perfect practitioner. Growing up surviving trauma, before I even heard about Buddhism, I believed that by sacrificing my own needs, by thinking only about others, I would be freed. I believed that if I thought about myself, I would let the mysterious disease of sexual abuse destroy me. It nearly did.

I was eleven years old when I finally told. I was thirty pounds underweight, anorexic, severely malnourished, and as psychologically vigilant as a deer feeding in an open field. I watched for predators and was startled at the tiniest touch or sound.

I testified in court against my stepfather when I was twelve. I believed it was another opportunity to serve. The grown-ups around me, including parents and the prosecutor, said my testimony would help save other kids. In many ways my testimony did help, but left unattended was the little child inside of me.

In my twenties, I took ten years off from school and worked to heal myself through psychotherapy and Zen meditation. I depended on family and friends financially and sometimes lived on the streets. I was told by close friends and teachers, including Thich Nhat Hanh, that I needed to love myself first before I could really love others. I did not understand what that meant and questioned it whenever the advice appeared.

In my late twenties I ordained as a lay member of Thich Nhat Hanh’s Order of Interbeing. Our order is composed of monastic and non-monastic practitioners dedicated to a life of service through compassionate listening, applied mindfulness, and ethics for a healthy life and society.

I began to witness the deep effect of personal transformation. When others find out I am a survivor of abuse, queer, a musician, and an activist, they often ask me questions. Many are curious about how I found Zen at a young age, what allowed me to stay for so long, and how the practice and tradition has affected me. As an Order of Interbeing member, I have learned skills in being more fully present for those with questions and in answering from my heart, from the depth of what is true for me. Because the object of practice, says Thich nhat Hanh, “is to grow our hearts big.”

I came to Zen with my heart on fire. The more afflictions I burn up, the more beings can take refuge in me. After everything I have experienced, others can look toward me as a model for change. If I can do it, so can you.

Brian Otto Kimmel is a non-monastic member of Thich Nhat Hanh’s Order of Interbeing. Professionally, he works with individuals and groups seeking an integrative approach to contemplative practice in daily life.

Sex Happens

Stillman Brown

Radegast Beer Hall, Brooklyn, on a Friday night in February: twenty- and thirty-somethings are three bodies deep at the bar. There’s the roar of conversation, enormous steins of beer being hefted and emptied, a big smoking grill in the corner covered with bratwurst and kielbasa. A chaos of people having a good time.

I was there with friends who were on a mission to hook me up with someone—anyone—after a bruising split with a long-time girlfriend. They located a girl who seemed a little shy (good for me), and she was pushed forward like we were at an eighth-grade dance. I remember thinking she looked a little like a young Amelia Earhart (also good for me). “She has a boyfriend but he’s in France,” one of her friends shouted in my ear. And even though I wasn’t looking for anything but drinks with my friends and an early bedtime, I accessed that familiar hook-up mindset, dusted it off, and got to work.

I went through my checklist: She’s into fashion (negative); she lives in the East village (positive, geographically convenient); she’s a student at FIT (neutral); she enjoys reading Tom Clancy (unexpected, intriguing). I was flirting, sending and receiving energy, but I felt lifeless inside. The reason was simple: I was still in love with my ex.

When I first moved to New York, it seemed like everyone had come there for some particular creative or professional pursuit and had an agenda, and that energy could carry over in to matters sexual and relational. I’m from Indiana, where if you liked someone you simply kind of hung around until attraction, time, and communication got you laid. Not so in New York. You just want to... “get to know me?” the girls seemed to say. Seriously? And for a while I tried to fit in with this culture.

Finding a Buddhist community helped change that. I realized it was possible for me to be genuinely myself and be attractive. It’s not a coincidence that around the time I started meditating and wrestling with self-acceptance, my love life began to pick up.

On the subway during my morning commute, I sometimes daydream about threading my way up misty peaks and contemplating the dharma as a wandering mendicant. But right now I am a practitioner in an American city. I have a job, obligations to friends and family, a social life. I’ve had to ask myself: Is it possible to be mindful and genuine in such a chaotic and sexual environment? And if you take this Buddhism thing seriously, is it possible to practice right conduct and still play the game?

When I took the Five Precepts as part of my refuge vow, the third was, “Abstain from sexual misconduct.” That can mean no sex out- side of a committed relationship, but is it practicable in a modern, urban context? Young people hook up. Sex happens. In taking refuge I was asked to approach the third precept from an intentional perspective: refrain from using sex to mislead or manipulate, to distract from loneliness or suffering, or to fill an addiction or craving.

But back to the beer hall and Ms. Earhart. I was, in fact, breaking several precepts that night: drinking hard to keep up the charade, saying a bunch of untruthful stuff (“I think you’re really great,” “Fashion is awesome,” “I’ll call you”), and engaging in the kind of sexual misconduct that is intentional rather than literal. I missed my girlfriend terribly and there was still grieving to do. My flirting had arisen out of a place of suffering, misleading Amelia and doing a disservice to my own broken heart.

It has been a year since that night in Brooklyn—time enough to sit with a broken heart until it’s mended. As I return to New York’s dating scene, I’m trying to see it not as a minefield but as just another part of practice. In intimacy and sex, we transcend the little walls we construct around our hearts and bodies, and Buddhist practice can help us come to each new encounter as an opportunity to be more honest, embodied, and fearless.

Stillman Brown is a writer, producer, and adventurer who lives in Brooklyn.

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