All articles found here (unless indicated otherwise) were wriiten by Paul Vielle, a lay Minister’s Assistant at the Spokane Buddhist Temple in Spokane, WA. He and his wife have been active members there for about five years. Paul retired four years ago, following a successful career as a school psychologist. To learn more about Buddhism, contact the Spokane Buddhist Temple at www.SpokaneBuddhistTemple.org.

A Lesson from Lone Wolf

Copyright © September 2005 Heart Links / All Rights Reserved

In the fall of 2004, I lived for three months in Berkeley, California. While there, I attended the Institute of Buddhist Studies, which is located some three blocks south of the UC Berkeley campus, in the heart of the bustling undergraduate district. When I needed a break from the tedium of study, I’d take long walks through the streets of Berkeley.

The absolute “ground zero” of undergraduate life is found along Telegraph Street. Students, tourists, homeless people, street musicians, panhandlers, and all manner of street venders mingle in a five block section of the road. The aromas, colors and sounds emanating from dozens of fast food restaurants, the many CD stores blaring music, the ubiquitous sidewalk vendors selling everything imaginable, coupled with the constant jostling of pedestrians—all combine to produce a full-on sensory overload. It’s both exciting and a little disorienting.

Among the many interesting characters I met on Telegraph Street was a homeless man in a wheelchair, who had no legs. Over the course of several weeks I got to know him. I’d slip a buck into the empty soup can tied to the side of his chair and we’d chat for a few minutes. He gave his name as “Lone Wolf” and said he was about 26 years old. Having no family, he had been raised in foster homes and institutional settings until he was fourteen and had lived pretty much on his own since then. Four years ago he lost both legs to diabetes. He supports himself on social security disability insurance and street donations.

What struck me about this man was his worry-free, matter-of-fact attitude about his situation. He never once asked for anything nor did I hear him blaming “the system” for his condition. From my perspective, he existed in hellish conditions. Day in and day out he lived in his chair, seldom moving beyond his favorite corner. Every day brought new uncertainty, hardship, and danger. But he had figured out how to survive and took it all in stride. I decided I liked this fellow and would try to help him in small ways if I could. Over the next several months I had many encounters with Lone Wolf, usually brief conversations lasting no more than a few moments. Depending on the situation, I might hand him a cup of coffee, perhaps a few bucks, or maybe a bagel. He accepted my offerings with a quick nod of his head and a “God bless.” By the time I was ready to return home to Spokane, I had learned several lessons from him about personal dignity and the folly of pious intentions.

One chilly, overcast day in October, I came upon him wrapped in a blanket dozing in his chair. I dropped my spare change into the soup can and he opened his eyes. He said it had been real noisy in town last night because of the Homecoming crowd. After the game, the fans came downtown to celebrate their victory over UCLA. “Lot’s of crazy people in the park last night. I didn’t get much sleep,” he said. As we were talking, the wind picked-up and dark clouds gathered overhead. I asked him where he went when it rained. He frowned. “Well, that’s a good question. Everybody tries to squeeze-in wherever they can find a roof. It gets real tight sometimes. Then you always gotta watch that someone doesn’t try to steal your stuff. Sometimes it’s easier to just stay outside and throw a big garbage bag over yourself. Staying warm is the main thing. Cause if you get wet, you get cold. If you get cold, you start to shiver and if you start shivering, you get hungry, real fast. All you need is a little common sense, that’s all.”

As he spoke, I thought of the great gulf between us in our life circumstances. Here, I’m thinking about heading back to my warm, cozy little room, where I can sit quietly and read and nobody will bother me. He’s probably thinking, “Jeez, it’s gonna rain. Gotta find a spot to stay dry where nobody will hassle me.”

We didn’t speak for a while. Finally he shrugged, as if to say, I’ll deal with it as it comes. I have to respect this guy. In the midst of his poverty he maintains a stoic composure. Looking at him, I understood I had nothing to complain about. In another time, in another place our situations could well be reversed. Would I hold up as well? Later that night I heard the rain pelting the roof. Lying in bed, I thought about Lone Wolf and hoped he found his warm spot for the night.

A few days later, I saw him again. I noticed his hands were all red and raw-looking. He told me someone stole his gloves a while back. So, I bought a pair of cheap, warm gloves and gave them to him. You have to be careful how you do this. You don’t want to call attention to what you’re doing; least other homeless people notice and mark him as the source for their next pair of gloves. They were wrapped in an old paper bag. It was the day before Halloween and someone had dyed his matted hair and beard a ghoulish green color. “I thought maybe you could use these,” I said, while handing him the paper bag. I continued walking for 50 feet or so, turned and looked back. He was trying on the gloves and smiling. I smiled too. Oh man, I sensed one of those “electric” moments coming on, like when you know something BIG is about to happen! For a brief moment, I shared with him his surprise and delight as he examined the gloves. I could almost feel the tactile sensation in my hands as he slid his hands inside. I felt his load lighten just a bit. It was a wondrous but fleeting moment.

Walking home, I felt an ineffable gratitude for my life, my family and friends, and for that shared moment of happiness with Lone Wolf. I understood that true fulfillment comes in those rare interactions with people when you sense, however briefly, life from their point of view. When it happens, you completely forget about yourself and all your self-centered preoccupations. It’s as if you’ve entered into the life of that person and vice versa. I think this is what the Buddha was getting at when he taught that everything in the universe—absolutely everything—is inextricably linked and interdependent. Ultimately, everything is One.

The following week, I got up early one morning and headed downtown for a walk. It was cold enough to wear a jacket and gloves. I admit I was curious to see whether Lone Wolf was wearing his new gloves. Telegraph Street was nearly deserted. I spotted him all bundled in his chair near the curb. I walked by and saw he had his hood pulled over his head, covering his face. His head was leaning to one side, supported by his bare hand. He appeared to be asleep. I walked on. Where were the gloves I wondered? Did he sell them? Lose them? Did someone steal them? I bought a newspaper and started back to ask him. He was waking up as I approached. “Hey, Lone Wolf,” I said. “Cold one this morning.” He yawned and stretched. “Appears so,” he said. Now I’m burning with the question, but . . . I can’t ask it. In truth, it was none of my business what happened to the gloves. There was no quid pro quo here. There was no . . . I gave you gloves, now you have an obligation to wear them. He didn’t owe me an explanation. What was I thinking?

Time to move on. I put a dollar in his cup. He took it out, looked at me and said a most surprising thing: “Actually, I’m OK with the money situation right now.” As he said this, he unzipped a little pouch, pulled out a tight wad of bills, wrapped mine around the bundle, returned it to the pocket and zipped it up. In case I hadn’t heard him the first time, he repeated, “I don’t need money right now.” His face remained expressionless. “Yes, I can see that,” I said. “Well, take care. Catch you later.” Walking home, I mulled over the encounter. He didn’t have to show me his stash, but he did. Maybe he was trying to tell me something here. Something like, “Don’t start buying a bunch of stuff for me, or taking me on as your special charity case. I’m just here living my life, not here to make you feel good.”

I tried to consider our relationship from a Buddhist perspective. As dire as his life situation was (by my standards) it was Lone Wolf (not me) who was living it. Each day, he engaged the world on his terms with dignity and courage. It wasn’t for me to judge it one way or the other. In my ignorance, I believed his life must be full of misery and my acts of charity meant I must be a virtuous person. That was my ego talking. Ego is that elusive construct that allows us to make sense of the secular world. But knowledge derived from ego is always flawed because it passes through the lens of selfish desires and self-centered motivations. We can’t help it; we’re all hardwired to think this way.

However, there are times when quite unexpectedly, we transcend ordinary thinking and see the world with utter clarity for what it is—empty. By empty, I mean free from the judgments and expectations imposed by our ego. Things are nothing more or less than what they are—empty. I experienced such a moment when Lone Wolf tried on those gloves. For a brief moment, I “lost” my ego and he and I were united in life’s compassionate embrace. No judgments, no expectations. To live with such awareness all the time is the beginning of wisdom, I think.

I saw Lone Wolf a few more times before returning to Spokane. My attitude toward him had matured. I understood, a buck now and then, is all he wanted and a buck now and then is what I should give. Just that and nothing more. Our paths will likely never cross again, but I’m grateful for his unintended lesson on the nature of truth.

Bells, Bells, a Season of Bells!

Copyright © December 2006 Heart Links / All Rights Reserved

Of all the images of winter, none is more evocative for me than the sound of ringing bells. As a child of the forties, I grew up within earshot of St. Michaels Catholic Church in south-central Los Angeles. Each evening, beginning in mid-December, the Rector would ring the great steeple bell for 10 minutes or so, about the time we'd sit down to dinner. It was one more reminder to us kids that Christmas "goodness" was on the way. My mother hung her favorite decoration on the front door. It consisted of three large, red bells (the paper fold-out kind) that she had tied to a long strap of sleigh bells. They would 'jangle' each time the door opened or closed. Walk into any bank or department store and there would be someone from the Salvation Army standing there ringing a little bell and wishing you a Merry Christmas. Holiday music brought its own images of bells: "Sleigh bells ring are you listening?" "Jingle bells, jingle bells" and "I heard the bells on Christmas Day" are a few songs that come to mind. I grew up associating the sound of ringing bells with the Christmas season. Bells meant happy times, safe times—the time of year when everyone seemed to get along with each other.

Older now and an ardent student of Buddhism, I've come to appreciate bells from a slightly different Eastern perspective. For one thing, they are shaped differently and "sounded" in a different way. More tubular in appearance, they are rounded at the top and have a no-flare edge at the bottom. Unlike western bells that ring by swinging against a clapper hanging inside, eastern bells are empty. Rather they 'sound' by striking the outside with a mallet or in the case of very large bells, with a long pole or log suspended by ropes. Both types of bells produce equally beautiful but uniquely different qualities of sound. I have found that over the years Eastern bells have come to elicit very different thoughts and feelings in my mind whenever I hear them ring.

Our temple services begin with the ringing of the Kansho (or Calling Bell). It hangs out-of-sight on a sturdy pipe frame. You hardly know it's there until it is struck. Then in rhythmical waves its rich, stately tones fill every corner of the Hondo, embracing listeners in familiar, calming sound. It's a wonderfully satisfying experience, listening to this bell. And I've come to appreciate the unique insights the Kansho offers into the nature of Buddha Dharma.

As I listen, I hear each note as they're struck. But they sink quickly into the ongoing carpet of sound enfolding all. When the last note sounds, what follows is one long, continuous flow of resonating tones. Sitting there, listening deeply, I realize it is not a continuous flow at all, but a constantly changing succession of individual moments of sound. The sound just-heard is gone forever and the sound of the next moment may (or may not) be heard. Only sound in the present instant may be appreciated.

Life may be compared to the sound of the Kansho. Our lives, like individual notes are fleeting. Each flows along for a specific time, contributing its energy to the greater flow and then fades inexorably into the whole. The flow itself is constantly changing. Beautiful tones of the Kansho decay as do our once-youthful bodies. To deny these realities is to live a deluded life. This the Buddha explained fully in his first sermon on the Four Noble Truths.

I listen as slowly the stately tone begins to fade. I want to keep the sound; make it last longer. Alas, it slips away. But while I have it, how sweetly it rings and how dear each moment becomes. I think the lesson here is life is realized and appreciated in the moment. How does that old saying go? "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery; today is a gift, that's why we call it the present."

Interesting isn't it? The word 'present' can mean a gift and also 'now.' When someone gives us a present, we want to open it right now. We don't put it in the closet. We open it and enjoy it now. In the same way, we don't want to waste a single precious moment of this life. Once gone, the moment cannot be recovered or 'done over.' But we're free to spend this moment as we choose. What we do in this moment, affects what happens in all future moments. If we choose what to do in each moment wisely, harmony will follow.

I listen closely and discern another truth about this wonderful bell. It rings so sweetly because it is empty. Imagine how it would sound as a block of solid bronze: 'Clank! Clank!' Its value as a bell is inherent in its emptiness in the same way a coffee cup is useful only when it is empty. If it's already full of coffee and the coffee is not drunk, the cup is useless. You could say the same about a person's mind too. If it's already full of fixed opinions and judgments, there is no room for fresh ideas. A full mind is useless. But like the empty Kansho, an open mind has unlimited potential. Dharma truth is all around us, but it is experienced directly; it doesn't need commentary from an over-stuffed intellect. The mind must be quiet, centered in the moment and empty of dogmatic thinking. Listening to the Kansho helps me to do just that.

December is the month for bells. In the coming weeks, we’ll see them, hear them, sing about them, and some of us will even ring them. If we listen thoughtfully, we may hear some of the wisdom they offer. Bells give us the gift of calming sounds and pleasant revelry. But pleasing though they are, the sounds are fleeting, like the individual moments of our life. We hear the tones as we experience our lives, moment-to-moment. I like to think the tones are reminding us that only in the fleeting 'now' is any action possible. It follows that wise action taken in the present moment will auger well for tomorrow's outcomes. Finally, we can appreciate that bells produce their beautiful sounds by virtue of their emptiness. A beautiful mind works in a similar way. Quality thinking is only possible in a mind able to empty itself of harmful attitudes and opinions. Once emptied, it's free to grow, its potential unlimited.

We can learn many things from bells. During this Holiday Season, may you enjoy them as never before. Sit quietly, close your eyes, breath deeply, relax and just listen. Allow these comfortable and familiar tones to steal through your consciousness, without any words or judgments from your mind. In a few minutes, you just might catch a sense of something deeper, a truth you've always known but have long forgotten—that you are fine just as you are. In the stillness of each moment, we lack nothing. This is the reality of being embraced by universal compassion, the truth we call Amida Buddha. Peace.

Chopstick Wisdom

Copyright © June 2006 Heart Links / All Rights Reserved
(A dharma message delivered at the Columbia Basin Sangha Service
in Moses Lake, WA., March 12, 2006)

A couple of weeks ago, my wife Karen, and I were in a Chinese restaurant enjoying our favorite dish (broccoli and mushrooms stir-fry). Most of the diners there were of Asian descent, but across the aisle from us sat a young couple, in their early twenties who were obviously very much in love. She may have been Japanese-American or Chinese-American; it doesn’t matter. He was Caucasian. When their food arrived, she reached for her chopsticks and with her well-practiced hand began to eat. The young man looked hesitant—trying to decide whether to reach for the fork or the chopsticks. He chose the latter. It was obvious from the start; he had not had a lot of practice eating with chopsticks. This was hard, intense work. Slowly he worked his way through his food, unable to give full attention to the young lady. In the end, it proved too much, for as he raised a piece of broccoli to his mouth it squirted away and bounced onto the floor. Embarrassed, he put the chopsticks down and reached for the fork, giving the young lady a look that said, “We shall never speak of this.”

I’m sure this amusing little drama is repeated over and over again in Asian restaurants. It has certainly happened to me, many times. For me, eating with chopsticks is very much a work in progress; it teaches me patience and the value of finding contentment in small improvements.

You know, when you think about it, learning to use chopsticks is a lot like learning about Buddhism. Success requires effort and willingness to consider different ways of doing things. We’re used to cutting, spearing or scooping our food, not “grasping” it. So when you first pick them up, chopsticks feel strange and foreign in your hand. It’s difficult to make them work and asking someone to show you is of little help. You soon learn what works for one person may not work for you. It’s hard at first, but if you hang in there, it becomes easier.

Our first encounter with Buddhism can be strange and difficult too. Many ideas are so different from our conventional way of thinking. I’ll bet most of us here come from a Christian background which holds that Man suffers because we are full of sin. Redemption is possible only through faith in a savior deity known as God. The Buddhist view of the human condition is quite different. We suffer because we are ignorant and foolish. The basic problem stems from our attachment to desire and ego-centric way of viewing the world. What we think is true-and-real about ourselves and the world “out there” is delusion. We all see ourselves as virtuous and tolerant beings. In Buddhist truth, when all the layers of self-deception are peeled away, we’re motivated by greed, hatred, and blind passions. This is just how we are. The study and practice of Buddhism help us to recognize our true nature and guide us to the path of harmonious living.

So many different ideas! In Buddhism, there is no savior Deity who created and continues to watch over the universe. Siddhartha Gautauma, (the historical Buddha) was in fact, a real person who lived in India over 2500 years ago. He is the one who awoke to “Truth” and thereafter became known as Sakyamuni Buddha, which means “Enlightened Sage of the Sakya Clan.” Unlike the Christian tradition, Buddha is not worshiped as a God, but rather he is honored as a great teacher. Buddhists venerate “Ultimate Truth,” or the “Unity of Oneness.” So many different ideas!

Other things you’ll read and hear about are: dependent origination, emptiness, interdependence, (which I’ll say more about in a moment), the Bodhisattva Ideal, the Primal Vow, Nembutsu, Shinjin, and the Pure Land. Now, some folks do get discouraged and (like the young man), put down the chopsticks. But if we persevere, continue reading, discussing and reflecting, gradually our understanding deepens, and we awaken to the truth of the Buddhist approach to living.

Chopsticks illustrate very well, I think, the Buddhist notion of Interdependence. A single chopstick is not very useful for eating. You can use it for stirring and perhaps skewering the food, but not much else. Clearly, you need two in order to eat. Chopsticks work because they oppose each other at the tips. An interesting paradox don’t you think? Two separate, opposing entities—working together—grasp the food. This is similar to the way we look at the world. We see everything as separate from us. In philosophy this is called Dualism, the idea that everything in the universe is reducible to two contrasting states: Self vs. Other, Good vs. Evil, Physical vs. Spiritual . . . and so on.

We might think of the chopstick tips as symbols for Self and Other. One tip represents I, myself, me, or mine and the other represents everything else in the universe that is separate from me. This tip can be: you, it, them, or those. It’s all the ideas, events, and phenomena comprising our universe. We encounter the world as we manipulate the chopsticks: we grab, embrace, sample, probe, and release—the people, things and events in our life. As we’re doing this, we categorize, make judgments, and have expectations about how things are. In a sense, we make up our own reality. The nutty chatter in our heads becomes the truth for us. You know what I mean—chatter like: “Everyone should own a handgun.” “Car salesmen can’t be trusted.” “Bud light is better than Coors light.” We become angry when people don’t live up to our expectations and we complain when the stuff we buy breaks down. We’re absolutely certain about the rightness of our views. But it turns out that there’s a big difference between what we think is true and the way things really are.

This is how we typically look at the world. I’m not saying it’s necessarily wrong or bad. It’s just how we make sense of the world. If we didn’t label or organize our experience in some way, we couldn’t build bridges, balance our checkbooks, or compose a symphony. At the same time, this kind of thinking can lead to awful consequences: environmental pollution, weapons of mass destruction, and all manner of harmful discrimination.

The Buddhist’s view of the human condition is very different indeed. You hear a lot about Interdependence. Simply stated, it is the idea that everything in the universe is impermanent and constantly changing. Because of that, things appear and disappear due to the coming together of infinite causes and conditions. Nothing has an independent existence. Things exist only within a context of infinite, ever-changing causes and conditions. This line of thinking leads ultimately to the conclusion that everything in the universe is inter-dependent with everything else. We’re all united in Oneness.

Now, I can hear you thinking, “O.K. before you put me to sleep, what does all this have to do with me?”

Well, earlier, I said the chopsticks are able to grasp things because the tips (being separate) are in opposition to one another. This is conventional thinking. We deal with the world as if everything exists separately from us.

In Buddhist logic, there is no difference between Self and Other because everything is part of the Whole. From this perspective, we could say the chopsticks work because of the harmonious coming together of infinite causes and conditions. The fact I am able, in this moment, to grasp a piece of broccoli depends upon many, many causes and conditions. The most obvious is the fact I am holding and moving them properly in my hand. We could also say a secondary cause is the fact I had a good breakfast this morning which I metabolized into glucose to fuel my brain, nerve and muscle cells that now hold the chopsticks. We could stretch it further to include the man who refined the gasoline that I put into my gas tank which allowed me to drive here this morning.

Why stop there? We could also say that this moment is possible because you folks are present. I’d hardly be standing here doing this little demonstration with chopsticks if you weren’t there watching. We might also include this beautiful temple which is keeping us warm as a partial cause for this moment. And while we’re at it, let’s not forget our parents, the sun and the earth that have nurtured us and made it possible for us to be here. When you think about it, there’s an infinite number of causes and conditions that enable this moment to be. Isn’t that amazing! But here’s the topper! This interdependency of everything is the source of that universal Compassion that we call Amida Buddha. The fact that we are here now, is testimony to that Compassion which has supported, nurtured and brought us safely to this unrepeatable moment. Isn’t that amazing? Wow! I mean, this is better than getting free tickets to the Super Bowl!

When you embark on the Buddhist path, you begin to see things differently. You start to appreciate how all elements of life are interrelated. You gain insight into who you really are and begin to understand that, owing to our selfish natures, we’re not reliable judges of what is right or wrong. We begin to appreciate that life is so fleeting and fragile—a gift and not an entitlement. We don’t deserve it, we didn’t ask for it, but it comes to us anyway. When we say Namo Amida Butsu, it is, in part, our expression of gratitude for this gift of life.

To sum it all up, you can learn a lot from chopsticks. They’re simple tools that can teach us a lot about patience and humility. And they can serve as a useful metaphor for understanding the Buddhist principle of interdependence. Chopsticks and Buddhism challenge our conventional ways of thinking. But sticking with them is worth the effort. Both are such worthy enhancements to living.

Karen and I visit that Chinese restaurant often. I like to think one evening soon, we’ll see that young couple again and this time the fellow will reach for the chopsticks with confidence. And if a piece of broccoli should suddenly bounce on to the floor again, I’d hope he’ll just laugh and carry on. Just another example of causes and conditions, ever-changing, ever in flux, bringing growth and wisdom to those with open minds. Namo Amida Butsu!

Grandpa's Old Hat

Copyright © March 2006 Heart Links / All Rights Reserved

For the past several weeks, I’ve been cleaning out my basement. It’s been a grueling process, but I’m nearly finished. Gone are all the half-empty paint cans, the seldom used exercise bicycle and boxes of old cassette tapes. As I work my way through this stuff, I’m amazed at how much psychic energy the task requires. I’ve had to make hundreds of decisions about what to keep and what to toss. I’m down now to the really toughest choices of all, the stuff with sentimental value.

We can become so emotionally attached to things from our past. Holding onto childhood toys, baseball mitts, scouting badges and the like, brings a certain comfort I think. They’re memory-links to happier, safer times. Stuff from our childhood validates our histories somehow, making all the things that have happened to us palpably real. To discard something of great sentimental value seems unthinkable. And so it was when I came upon my grandfather’s old fedora hat. I found it crushed and dirty at the bottom of a cardboard box. Somewhere along the way a hungry mouse had chewed away small pieces of the brim.

As I turned it in my hands, a thousand pleasant memories flooded over me. I blinked-back a few tears as I remembered the kindness and love this dear old Irishman lavished on me when I was a boy. He died over 30 years ago. How can I possibly throw away something that belonged to him? Still, it’s nearly falling apart in my hands. Why keep it?

For several days, I struggled with the decision whether to keep or discard this old hat. Here was a tangible link to him. A dozen photographs, a few hand-tools and now this old hat are all I have that belong to him. They were sacred relics somehow, possessing some vague but powerful essence of the man. Being raised a Catholic, I was taught to venerate saintly relics. If we did (nuns had taught us), the saint in question would be more likely to intercede with God on our behalf to answer our prayers. Seems childish to me now, but such notions are still etched deeply on my brain stem. No doubt about it, I was emotionally attached to this old hat, believing it would somehow be disrespectful to his memory if I threw it away.

Thinking further, I began to consider the situation from a Buddhist perspective. In the Mahayana tradition, it is taught, that all sentient beings are assisted in their spiritual quest by Bodhisattva figures. Bodhisattvas are beings that are committed to the path of enlightenment for themselves and while they do that, to work for the enlightenment of all beings everywhere. In fact, they vow not to attain Buddhahood until all beings become enlightened. Bodhisattvas can be real people or cosmic figures. They can be awesome in their power, radiance, and wisdom, or they can be as ordinary as our next-door neighbor. Bodhisattva activity shows itself in a multitude of helpful ways, but the net effect is always to benefit us mortal beings who must live in this world of greed, ignorance, and blind passions.

These “activities” or virtuous practices include such things as generosity, patience, ethical conduct, persistence of effort, meditative balance, and insight into what is essential. These activities move them closer to their eventual Buddhahood and, at the same time, create positive karmic influences in the world that benefit us.

Anyone can become a Bodhisattva. One of my professors at the Institute of Buddhist Studies, Dr. Leighton makes this point in his book, Faces of Compassion. To quote him briefly:

Everyone has the capacity to act as a bodhisattva. Furthermore, everyone at some times (and in ordinary everyday ways), does act kindly and beneficially as a bodhisattva. Usually they are unknown and anonymous rather than celebrities and function humbly and invisibly all around us, expressing kindness and generosity in simple, quiet gestures. They are somehow beyond the ego-delusions of craving and estrangement. In their very ordinariness, they present inspiring examples that help others along the road to enlightenment.

When I thought about it, my grandfather’s influence on me is very much like that of a Bodhisattva. In my time with him, he was generous, forgiving, and friendly to everyone. “Always do right by people” was his maxim. He had a knack of putting others first and making people feel important. As a boy, I watched him over the years and absorbed a lot of these attitudes.

In the same way, I’m sure a lot of you can look back to similar figures in your early life—a parent, relative, teacher or friend—whose ability to live truly and nurture life, made a deep and lasting impression on you. Even today, you still feel their guiding presence.

I know it’s true for me. It’s been 30 years since he passed away, but I sense him in subtle, fleeting, and indirect ways. Whenever I think I’m acting out of noble intentions, or find myself judging others, or denying my self-centered motives, I’ll sense a little “tug on the sleeve” as it were, reminding me to step away from pride. When I distort the truth to serve my selfish needs, I get a little “nudge” to keep it real. If I’m sunk in self-pity and remorse, I’ll get a “bump” to remind me it’s not about the past but about how to make things right, here and now.

I could be wrong, but I believe these little nudges are examples of the Bodhisattva Ideal at work. Over time, the net effect is to rescue us from our self-centered thinking: our attachment to “I, me and mine, and what I want.” As we move past ego, we start to think like a bodhisattva, working to bring harmony to the discord that surrounds us daily.

Then it came to me: this was grandpa’s real legacy to me. I haven’t lost him at all. He’s become a bodhisattva-like figure for me, a sort of moral compass to steer my life by. He is my Namo Amida Butsu. When I say Namo Amida Butsu, I express my profound gratitude for his guiding presence in my life.

But what about the hat? Well, I realized Grandpa is not the hat. I had developed an emotional attachment to it, that’s all. I didn’t need to hang on to it any more than he would want me too. The thing of lasting value I have from him was not this hat, but his recipe for living life truly.

Still, I just couldn’t toss it in the trash. That simply wouldn’t do. So, early one evening, I dug a hole in the back yard, doused grandpa’s hat in lamp-oil and watched quietly, as it slowly burned to ashes. Then I filled-in the hole and tamped down the dirt. This seemed to me a fitting gesture of respect to his memory. No regrets. It was the right thing to do.

We all benefit from the Bodhisattva Ideal working in our life, whether we know it or not. It’s people doing what needs to be done, with diligence, without fanfare: the airline pilot, the surgeon, the day care worker, the bus driver, the boy who delivers the newspaper, the stranger who steps out of a crowd to help us at the right moment. It’s all the work our parents and teachers did that collectively has brought us here, today, intact, to this present moment. I think this is Amida’s Compassion at work. As we entrust ourselves to Amida’s teachings, our understanding deepens and we begin to appreciate fully, that life is a gift, not an entitlement. Let us all be thankful for the Bodhisattvas in our life who inspire and guide us along our path to Enlightenment.

Saving the Best for Last

Copyright © September 2007 Heart Links / All Rights Reserved
(From Voice of the Sangha, the official newsletter of the Spokane Buddhist Temple,
October 2006. Reprinted with permission.)

Autumn is coming. Days are growing shorter and there’s a little bite to the morning air. Before long I must begin the ‘preparing-for-winter’ rituals, like pulling out the garden, raking up leaves and cleaning out rain gutters. I don’t mind. I like being outside, to enjoy the ambiance of fall, with all its muted colors, misty mornings, and that smell of damp leaves. Then too, the very stillness of the season puts me into a quiet, reflective frame of mind.

In nature, autumn signals decline. The many flowers and vegetables we tended all summer and which gave us such pleasure in return begin to fade. There is nothing to do but accept it and be grateful for the visual beauty and food these plants brought to our lives during summer.

I try to watch for the last flower or vegetable on a plant. To me, that’s when you see the best of the plant. Unless an early frost carries off all the remaining flowers at once, there’s usually one solitary flower nodding bravely in the chilly breeze; the last flower of a plant, or sometimes, the last in the whole garden. It’s often the most beautiful of all.

Those of us who grow vegetables and flowers as a hobby have our favorite plant. For me it’s the petunia. I plant them everywhere in beds, pots, and hanging baskets. It’s such a hardy flower, easy to grow and available in so many varieties and colors. Their trumpet-like blooms seem to shout-out to the world, “Wow, it’s great to be alive! Come, let’s enjoy our time together!”

This year we had a pink trailing petunia in a hanging basket on the patio. It turned out to be in just the right spot with plenty sunlight and just enough water. And it thrived! All summer long it produced countless blossoms that spilled over the rim and hung down in long trails. We’d see it there every time we left and entered the house. It soon became a familiar and most agreeable presence on our patio.

All summer long our trailing petunia lived happily in that basket. On any given day, if you looked closely, you could see the life cycles of individual flowers unfolding. New buds appeared. A few days later, blossoms opened. Three or four days after that, they began to wrinkle, curl inward, and shrivel to dry husks. But with so many new blossoms constantly replacing the old, you didn’t notice the falling away of individual flowers. Rather, the totality of the plant…the sheer volume of blossoms and their intense color overwhelmed the eye. Really, you couldn’t look at these petunias without smiling.

But by early September, the entire plant showed signs of weakness. The once dark-green stems and leaves were taking on a more pale-green hue. The following week, the number of decayed flowers outnumbered the newer ones. Then, yesterday the plant gave its final beautiful gift to the world. The last blossom opened.

I stepped in for a closer look. The contrast was riveting. Surrounded by scores of crumpled husks, this final pink blossom stood out like a sparkling gem. Its delicate trumpet seemed to be shouting, “Here I am, the last and very best offering! My work is nearly finished. So enjoy me. And thank you for allowing me to live.” Reaching out, I cupped it my hand and considered my wonderful relationship with it.

This petunia had spent the summer producing exquisitely beautiful flowers that delighted our senses. It gave up its pollen to countless bees. Now its life was ending. Its work finished, it offered one final tribute to life and will soon depart without complaint or regret. In a few short days, it will be nothing more than a clump of decaying vegetation…utterly forgotten. What insight into my own life this humble flower offers me.

We enjoy telling stories to people about how important we are and how vital our work is. We expect people to appreciate every little thing we do and we’re unhappy when it doesn’t come. Sure, it’s nice when our work is acknowledged, but I think it’s equally important to just do what we’re supposed to do and let it go at that. The petunia produced flower after beautiful flower. It didn’t think, “Hey, where’s my recognition?” It simply did what petunias do, period.

In the Buddhist view, we suffer because we’re unable to see our true natures. Bottom line, our thinking is based on delusion. We see ourselves as basically good, but in truth we’re all motivated by greed and self-interest. We might say we’re doing such-n-such for the benefit of others, but if there isn’t some payback in return, we’re soon frustrated and move on to something else. Like it or not, this is how we are.

This unpretentious petunia has become a Buddha in its own way. It lived in complete harmony with the universe. It didn’t pretend to be a marigold or a daisy. And soon, it will become next season’s promise in the compost pile. Maybe the lesson here is to cherish the virtue of living simply, truly, and without pretensions. Just do your work. And at the end, leave the world with gratitude and appreciation for the gift of having lived. What could be more natural?

Second Chances

Copyright © March 2007 Heart Links / All Rights Reserved
(This article first appeared in the Spokane Buddhist Temple’s Newsletter, July 2006.)

Outside our living room window grows a huge maple tree. Every spring, I hang a little birdhouse from one of the branches in full view of the window. Almost every morning, Karen and I like to spend a few minutes sitting and watching the Great Sparrow Dramas that unfold around the birdhouse.

Most of us are familiar with these avian rites. First, the male sparrows tussle and squabble with each other until one of them takes ownership of the new house. The victor then begins several days of intense chirping and fluttering to attract a female. Soon enough she appears and after brief courtship and mating activity, they set about building their nest. A new season's promise is underway. It's fascinating to watch.

Last year, spring began no differently. By early May, a male and female sparrow were busy hauling small twigs and stems through the dark porthole into the birdhouse. Day after day they worked and although we couldn't see the nest taking shape within, we guessed (from the bits and pieces sticking out from under the eves) it was nearly finished. As the work progressed, our excitement grew. Soon there would be a new crop of noisy little chicks. We began to anticipate the fun of watching our diligent parents trying to feed all those tiny, bobbing heads.

Then one day the unthinkable happened. The female simply disappeared—vanished! For several days, the distraught male called out in vain for his mate. But she was gone. Nest-building stopped. Soon he too disappeared and all activity around the birdhouse ceased.

What a sad turn of events, I thought. But then, catching myself, I realized this was just my point-of-view talking. In reality, the bird's disappearance was neither sad, nor tragic, nor unfortunate, nor anything else for that matter. I described it as sad because I had become attached to the idea of being entertained all summer by these little birds. I expected things to be a certain way and was disappointed when it turned out otherwise.

Alas, such is the nature of attachments and expectations. They’re creations of the mind, having nothing to do with the way things really are. Who knows what happened to the bird? Perhaps it wound up in the belly of the neighbor's cat or maybe it mistakenly flew into a sliding glass door. I'll never know. All one can say for certain is that one day the bird was gone and what might have happened didn’t. It's a perfect illustration of Buddhist truth. Everything in the universe is impermanent and interdependent. Things arise and fall away owing to the interaction of infinite causes and conditions. This truth plays itself out before us all the time, if we’re alert to recognize it. Things are what they are, nothing more. I told myself to settle down, watch and see what happens.

And wonder of wonders! About a month later, another pair of sparrows showed up and began the work anew. Within a few days, they completed the nest and not long after that, they too were expecting! The season's promise was given a second chance. It was tempting to say, Oh, isn't this wonderful and grand! Well yes, of course, it's a welcome development and we were certainly pleased. But this time, I resolved to keep my exuberance in check and simply appreciate events as they unfolded in the moment. We watched as the sparrows took turns squeezing through the tiny hole to incubate their eggs and marveled at their tenacity and perseverance.

In Buddhist truth, nothing is certain. Only the Now is certain. Of course it’s important to have goals and plans for the future. But it's wise not to get attached to expectations about how things must be or should be. Things change constantly and unpredictably.

It turned out the new birds were successful in launching another generation of sparrows. In fact, we were lucky enough to watch as at least two of the chicks learned to fly.

Reflecting on the episode, I think nature is disposed to granting second chances. In some sense, a second chance is like the Universal Compassion that sustains and supports us at all times. We don't ask for it nor are we necessarily entitled to it, but it supports us anyway—just as it did with that second pair of sparrows.

When the doctor says "Congratulations, the tests came back negative," that’s a second chance. All we can do is accept it in gratitude.

Singer in the Subway

Copyright © December 2005 Heart Links / All Rights Reserved

As anyone knows who’s visited there, San Francisco is a fascinating place—just made for people watching. Stand at any street corner and you’ll see all manner of people walk by—people from all over the world, from all social strata, from the sophisticated to the insane. Everyone passes before you: tourists, students, businessmen, homeless people, street musicians, and panhandlers.

During the fall semester of 2004, I lived across the Bay in Berkeley, where I attended the Institute of Buddhist Studies. Once or twice a month, I’d take a break from study, hop on the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) and go into San Francisco to do some shopping and people-watching. On one of these outings, I had a chance encounter with a woman in the subway who made a deep and lasting impression on me. It was one of those brief but extraordinary moments that snaps you out of self-absorption long enough to appreciate how truly  interconnected we all are with one another.

Late one afternoon, I stepped aboard the BART for the 32 minute return ride from Powell Station in San Francisco to Berkeley Station across the Bay. Every car was full. Plenty of people were standing, holding onto the overhead straps. I was tired and hungry. My feet were sore from so much walking and I was looking forward to getting home. My mind was engrossed in the details of a paper I was going to write for one of my classes.

The train pulled into Berkeley station. The doors slid open and nearly everyone on the train got off. Amid the noise and congestion, gradually the crowd began ascending the stairs to the exit. I joined the pack and started up.

From somewhere up ahead I could hear the voice of a female singer. It was high-pitched and strong like that of an opera singer. As I climbed higher, I recognized the song. She was singing “Danny Boy.” Through the din and clatter of the subway came those familiar and haunting lyrics:

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen and down the mountain side…

I’m sure everyone knows this haunting ballad. The words tell of a person’s longing for the return of a young man named Danny. We don’t know why Danny’s gone . . . whether to war or off to America . . . but the sense is he may not be coming back. We don’t know who the singer is. Is it a parent pining for her long-absent son or perhaps a young woman yearning to rejoin her sweetheart? Beyond the longing, there is hope that one day they’ll be reunited, because the singer promises to wait even into the next life. The piece appeals because it speaks to the depths of our connections with loved ones.

As I reached the top of the stairs, the heads in front of me began to clear and I spotted her. She was a short, thin, elderly lady—I’m guessing well into her 80’s. She was wearing a 1940s style strapless evening gown, a little tiara in her white hair and her wrinkled face was a little heavy with rouge and lipstick. Still, her eyes were bright and she seemed full of vigor. On the ground in front of her was an open cookie tin which contain spare change and the odd dollar bill. In her youth this woman might have been a professional singer, for despite her years, the voice was clear and on key. She was totally into her song. Her hands were clasped in front of her heart and she gestured with her head to emphasize the feeling in the lyric.

But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow
’Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow…

She smiled at the people hurrying past her. They ignored her, but I couldn’t take my eyes off this woman. As I drew abreast of her, she drilled me with her eyes, just as she hit the end of the verse, “Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up as our eyes met for one electrifying moment. But no time to think. In the next instant I was past her, carried along with the crowd. I swallowed hard. “Wow, what just happened there?” I wondered. Her voice trailed off behind me as I made my way up to street level. I was almost out of the station, when I just stopped. My eyes filled with tears. “This woman sang so beautifully and everyone ignored her!”

I turned around and headed back down the stairs, determined to thank her. But the beautiful voice had stopped and for a second I thought I’d lost her. She had just moved off to the side and was packing up her things. I hurried over, put a couple of dollars in the cookie tin. “I really enjoyed your ‘Danny Boy’.” I said, “It’s one of my all time favorites.” She seemed surprised and even a little startled that I was talking to her.  “Why thank you, sir. It’s kind of you to say that. It’s one of my favorites too. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” While saying this, she emptied the cookie tin into her purse. She smiled and winked at me. “Well, you have a nice day now. God bless you.” With that, she picked up her bags, turned and headed toward the exit.

“Good bye,” I said. Watching her leave, I smiled too, feeling strangely contented inside and wishing I could talk with her longer. She seemed so happy. On the way home, I tried to understand why this woman had made such an impression on me. How was it, that a complete stranger could touch me in such an unexpected way? On one level, there was the element of surprise. Imagine coming upon this sight of an elderly lady with a beautiful soprano voice singing “Danny Boy” in a subway. The encounter was so unexpected; how could you not notice?

But there was deeper chemistry going on there that eluded me at the time. It wasn’t until I remembered something I read (in Takamaro Shigaragi’s book, A Life of Awakening: The Heart of the Shin Buddhist Path) that I was able to articulate it.

According to Shigaragi, Amida Buddha may be understood as the approach of Ultimate Truth in our life. This Truth coming toward us is nothing less than Wisdom and Compassion operating in the universe. By Wisdom, he means the content of the historical Buddha’s enlightenment: his Four Noble Truths, the Eightfold Path, the Law of Karma and his insight into the notion of non-self. These are the elements of Wisdom. By Compassion, he means the phenomenon of life sustaining itself in all its forms and conditions. It is the principle of infinite causes and conditions that give rise to, supports, and animates all life. Amida Buddha is wisdom and compassion operating in our life.

This truth is universal—independent of culture or age—and has absolutely nothing to do with religious forms, sacred texts or time-honored rituals. Each of us can distill and personalized these truths for ourselves, just by reflecting on our everyday experiences. Truth manifests into our lives. It’s all the stuff, both positive and negative, that happens to us. Each encounter matters. Whether it’s teaching a child to whistle, arguing with our spouse, greeting the mailman, or stopping to thank an older singer in the subway, each encounter has the potential to open into and set in motion, a spontaneous process of deepening awareness.

This “focused thinking” leads us to scrutinize ourselves, our attitudes, beliefs and values. Gradually, we come to recognize ourselves as beings full of blind passions and foolishness, motivated by greed and self-interest. No matter how virtuous we think we are, in the end, it’s “Me first.” This is how we really are. By awakening to Amida’s Wisdom and Compassion, the bond ego-attachment loosens and we begin to live an authentic life filled with contentment, gratitude, and meaning. This is the essence of the Shin teaching.

Looking back on the episode with the lady in the subway, I think for me, it was an encounter with Truth—the truth of Interdependence. This stranger gave me (and everyone else within earshot) the gift of her voice. Her “Danny Boy” elicited in me such wonderfully pleasant memories from my youth—another gift. She arrested my attention long enough to allow me to stop thinking about myself and really “see” her as a part of me. Indeed, for the briefest span of time, we were part of each other. There were no differences between us. The usual categories of age, gender, education, and economic status didn’t apply. We were just two human beings standing on the same planet, breathing the same air and exchanging simple conversation with one another for the first (and probably last) time in our lives. What an extraordinary realization!

Walking home, I felt what can only be described as joy in my heart and gratitude for my life. Although I passed through Berkeley station many times after that, I never saw her again. I’m back in Spokane now, but I like to imagine her still there, serenading the afternoon commuters. Her "Danny Boy" and our encounter will live in my memory all of my days. Maybe that’s why, I find myself today, more willing to drop my spare change into the donation cans of Spokane’s street musicians and homeless people. We’re all connected. In helping others, we help ourselves.

Spiritual Overhaul for a Western Mind

Copyright © September 2006 Heart Links / All Rights Reserved

When our car’s engine looses power, we know it’s time for an overhaul. The mechanic replaces worn-out parts, readjusts the settings, and power is restored. Minds are like engines too. So long as they operate within the knowledge limits set by the owner’s culture, they can operate smoothly, even for lifetimes. Daily, they accumulate knowledge, make decisions, and render judgments about everything in the world. In time, our minds figure out how the world works. We become attached to notions about what is good and evil; what is wholesome and what is abhorrent. These ideas are firmly entrenched in our psyche and define who we are and enable us to make sense of the world.

But the mind-engine can develop serious malfunctions when placed in an unfamiliar environment. Such was the case for me in the summer of 2004, when my wife Karen and I traveled in India. My Western mind was not prepared for the reality that is India. It turned out that nothing short of a spiritual overhaul could restore balance and calm to my agitated mind.

I knew India was a third-world country. In a vague bookish way, I understood that to mean: overpopulation, poverty, and pollution. But nothing in my experience prepared me for what awaited us at the train station in Bodhgaya, our first major stop on the trip. We had taken the overnight train from Delhi and arrived in Bodhgaya (the place where the Buddha received his Enlightenment) a little before 5:00 in the morning. It was just beginning to get light. We stepped off the train, gathered our bags and started walking toward the station entrance.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I became aware of movement on the ground, of grey shapes stirring. They were people who had been sleeping on the ground and just now rousing themselves. Suddenly, it seemed everyone at once jumped to their feet and moved toward us. “Carry your bag sir?” “Need a guide, sir?” “Madam, take your bag?” “Sir… sir…” Beggars with wretched faces closed in, their grimy hands outstretched. “Please, sir! Something for the poor?” The acrid odor of sweat and the sewer rolled over us. We pressed our way through the crowd (refusing every offer of assistance). Moments later, we were jostled on all sides as other travelers streamed through the front door of the station. The noise was deafening—a cacophony of shouting porters, blaring loudspeakers, crying babies, and shrill whistles.

Outside the station door, the way opened onto a large plaza. Scores of people were sitting on the ground, some still sleeping, and some preparing tea on small fires. Cars and buses roared up the station, weaving in and out among these people, horns blaring. Cows roamed freely rooting in the trash that littered the plaza, their excrement seen everywhere.

Moments later, we were in a mini-van lurching our way through a narrow, congested, pothole-covered street to our hotel. I was in sensory shock—nothing short of total emotional overload. My mind reeled with denial, disbelief, and revulsion. “This is insane! It’s awful! How can they live in such misery? Have they no pride?” The only way my Western mind-engine could cope with what I saw, was to conclude: “I am not like these people. I have nothing in common with them.”

Several depressing days followed. My mood swung between helplessness and anger. Clear thinking eluded me. I felt dopey, unsteady on my feet and vulnerable to physical injury. I struggled to understand what was happening. Over and over, the question came up: “Why all this mental agitation? Why is this so hard for me?”

On the fourth day, we were in a bookstore. I happened upon a copy of the Dhammapada, a collection of the Buddha’s teachings. I opened it to a chapter entitled, “Twin Verses” and read the following:

Our life is shaped by our mind;
We become what we think.
Suffering follows an evil thought,
As the wheels of a cart follow the ox
That draws it.

Our life is shaped by our mind;
We become what we think.
Joy follows a pure thought
Like a shadow that never leaves.

Reflecting on this insight, it came to me that the cause of my depression was in my head. Not out there. The old mind-engine was sputtering because my long cherished Western attitudes didn’t apply here. My spiritual overhaul had begun.

The first faulty part to be stripped out was my perception that life here was intolerable. True enough, potable drinking water, and toilet paper were not available everywhere as I expected they should. So what? Life goes on. People adapt. You carry bottled water. You adopt new toileting behaviors. True, life in the street was chaotic and at times frightening. But looking closer, I saw that people were not frantic, no one was yelling; there were no shaking of angry fists. Looking at myself, I still had all my limbs and had not been physically threatened in any way. I realized my first task was to stop characterizing everything as bad or undesirable.

The overhaul continued. The second component to get tossed was my foolish delusion that I, me, myself…was somehow different from (and superior to) the people around me.

All people everywhere grasp at things they believe will make them happy and avoid situations they believe will bring them unhappiness. The Buddha taught that all things and events in the universe are impermanent and interrelated. We suffer when we don’t get what we want, when things “out there” don’t live up to our expectations. He went on to show that what we think of as reality (the world of permanent, separate things) is in fact in a constant state of flux. Since phenomena are always in flux, they possess no fixed, permanent attributes of their own. They just are. Neither good nor bad. Neither better nor worse. We can see reality by just looking—before any thought, or judgment, or evaluation is brought to it.

It dawned on me—my belief that I was “better than” the people around me—had no relevance to Truth. Such views arose purely from my arbitrary judgment that having a nice home, a clean toilet, new clothes, fresh bedding, sparkling water and wholesome food—all these things—somehow conferred superiority. These are distinctions I churn out with my mind. They are not real. Possessing these so-called “fine” things has nothing to do with goodness or entitlement. That’s just my arrogance talking. Nothing is permanent. Everything could change in the next moment. Under a different set of causes and conditions, I could find myself begging in the streets instead of looking out the window of my air conditioned hotel room.

Realizing this, things started to get better for me.

My Western mind-engine began to perk up. I stopped comparing every experience to conditions at home. Instead, I tried to be in the moment, simply watching whatever there was to see. Gradually, I began to see all kinds of wonderful things, just as they unfolded moment by moment. I saw a woman climbing out of the Ganges River, shouted happily to no one in particular, “Om nama Shviya!” (Praise to Lord Shiva!) A beggar smiled when a 5 Rupee coin dropped into his cup. An old man gently pushed a cow away from his fruit stall. A barefoot child darted past me wearing a garland of marigolds. Everything was just as it should be. There was nothing to fear. There was nothing to need.
 

Letting go of preconceived ideas is a wonderfully liberating experience. Like the Buddha said, you are what you think. Like cars, all minds benefit from spiritual overhauls now and then.

What Do Flowers Know, Anyway?

Copyright © June 2005 Heart Links / All Rights Reserved

As I grow older, I’ve come to appreciate flowers more than ever. Flowers are such remarkable entities. They enhance our lives aesthetically and demonstrate simple realities about the human condition.

Each summer, my wife and I like to visit the rose garden in Manito Park. What a pleasure it is to walk among the roses, bending over now and then, to inhale the fragrance of a bloom and to marvel at the rich color of its petals. For me, this experience often brings an exquisite sense of inner peace. In that moment, when the flower offers its essence to me, nothing else seems to matter. The constant stream of chatter in my mind—the endless planning, cataloging and judging—simply fade away. I’ve come to believe these quiet moments with a flower can help us glimpse some of the higher wisdom of which the Buddha spoke.

Take a little walk with me now, in your imagination, around this lovely rose garden.

As we walk, we notice many people looking at and smelling the roses. The blossoms work their magic; people seem relaxed and contented. They are smiling, each savoring the gifts these fragile creations offer. Yet as Buddhists, we’re aware this enchanting scene is temporary. It is changing even as we behold it. Across the garden, roses display their life and death dramas for all to see. In one plant we see tightly packed buds waiting to open. Over there, a recently opened blossom displays its gorgeous color and perfect proportions. Just behind it another bloom looses its grip and petals fall away. Ahead we spot the brown, shriveled remains of a dead blossom. We’re reminded: it’s the same for all beings. The inexorable process aging visits us all . . . all the time. We look around and see infants, children, adults and seniors—people in different stages of life. How fragile and impermanent all this is. Some people here today, smelling these roses, may not be here tomorrow. Why, I might be one of them! Come to think of it, how many people have passed this way in years past, stopped here to smell a rose, and have since passed away? There’s an old Chinese saying that captures this point aptly:

“Each coming year, the same flowers bloom;
Each passing year different people admire them.”

In their brief appearances, flowers tell us much about the impermanence of life. The Buddha said we all live in a house on fire. There’s just no time to brood about opportunities lost, to blame others for our misfortunes, to expect special treatment at the expense of others, or to pass judgment about what is right or wrong behavior in others. We do these things anyway of course, despite noble intentions, because of our self-centered nature.

Shinran Shonin, the founder of the Jodo Shinshu sect of Buddhism, stressed the importance of becoming aware of one’s true nature, which is incomplete, foolish and self-centered. It is said the eye cannot see itself. In the same way, our self-centered ego is unaware of just how much our righteous intentions and virtuous behavior are tinged with self-interest. The fact is, greed and blind passion motivate much of what we do. Sadly, there is no rational way to think oneself out of this dilemma; it’s our nature to be this way. Only by entrusting ourselves to the Buddha-dharma, can we learn to abandon our attachment to Self. This is all pretty heady stuff and not easy to do even for the most ardent of Buddhists.

We look again at the rose. Wouldn’t it be great if we, like it, could live life in harmony with our surroundings, free of pretentious behavior and self-serving schemes?

We walk a little further. We’re impressed by the fact that this rose garden has been here for more than half a century. Some of these bushes are descendants of the original plants. Consider for a moment the care, effort and the many supporting conditions that have, over the years, resulted in this lovely park. Many gardeners have labored here, cultivating, fertilizing, watering, pruning, and weeding. The sun furnished energy year after year, allowing the plants to grow. Generations of birds protected the plants from hungry insects. Less obvious are the contributions of others: the responsible civic leaders who preserved this park from the predations of land developers, the factory workers who manufactured the rakes and wheelbarrows used by the gardeners, and the trash collectors who carried off tons of grass clippings. Stand back far enough and we see a limitless, interrelated network of causes and conditions that came together in just the right way to produce this park, this garden, and this individual rose we admire today.

But the process doesn’t just stop with this rose. Each rose in the garden plays its part of extending the network of caring. Each flower offers its color and fragrance to attract bees who pollinate the flower and carry away nectar to make honey, some of which may wind up in our tea. The blossom’s fragrance and intricate shape delight us, inspire the poetic muse, and kindle appreciation for the beauty in our lives. When the flower dies and falls to the ground, it returns nutrients to the soil. In its life cycle, the rose demonstrates two important truths: that its very existence depends upon countless causes and conditions and at the same time, that it is part of an ongoing process of renewal. In other words, the rose like everything else in the universe, is part of the Buddha Dharma, the Ultimate Truth that All is Oneness.

As Shin Buddhists, we characterize this supportive network as the operation of Amida’s compassion. We don’t do anything to earn it but it comes to us anyway. Just as this rose exists as a result of countless, supportive interactions in the past, so too are we, here at this moment, because of the remarkable coming together of infinite causes and conditions that support our existence. This phenomenon is nothing less than Amida’s compassion working in our lives.
Our tour of the rose garden is nearly over. We’ve returned to the place where we started. Before leaving, we take a final look out over the garden and see the blossoms nodding in the warm breeze. They remind us just how impermanent everything is and how dependent we are on the compassionate work of others in our life. How can we not respond with an attitude of gratitude?

Let us try to live our brief lives simply and honestly, free of self-delusion, prejudice and greed. If we can learn to live each moment fully, we just might come to appreciate the limitless compassion that sustains and nurtures us at every turn.

Such are the lessons flowers teach. Such are the things flowers know.

What Makes A Buddhist

by Tina Rodeen

Copyright © June 2007 Heart Links / All Rights Reserved
(This Dharma talk was given at the Spokane Buddhist Temple’s Sangha Service on February 25, 2007)

In his teachings, Buddha tells his followers that after examination and analysis, the doctrine to believe and cling to and use as a guide for life, is whatever is found to be kind and conducive to the good, the benefit, and the welfare of all beings. Recently I was skimming through an issue of Tricycle magazine. I like to read the book reviews at the back of the magazine and one particular book title really intrigued me. The book is What Makes You Not a Buddhist by Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse. I read the review and then did some more research on it at Amazon.com. It’s definitely a book I plan to read, but because I’m thoroughly engrossed in a fiction bestseller at the moment, What Makes You Not a Buddhist will have to wait in my waiting-to-be-read stack of books for a while longer. But for purposes of this dharma talk, I decided to borrow the author’s premise and examine all the ways in which I might not really be a Buddhist. Yet.

I remember way back in grade school in a science lesson where I had to determine what something was by examining everything that it was not. What better way to determine if I really am a Buddhist than to examine the ways in which I am not a Buddhist. Self-examination is most often not a pleasant experience, but I eagerly took on the task this time.

For the first thirty years of my life, I was not a Buddhist. I was raised Presbyterian, but my family rarely went to church, except perhaps on the occasional Easter or Christmas Eve. While in church, my mother would often reach over and swat my legs with her program because I was not paying attention or because I was being disruptive in some way. During much of the sermon, I would practice writing my name in cursive on the friendship pad. I just wasn’t into it. And when I went to Sunday school, I spent most of the class thinking about the chocolate chip cookies and fruit punch I’d have during snack. When I moved to New Jersey to work as a nanny, I went to a Presbyterian church for a while to give it another try, but again, I quickly lost interest.

My first real experience with Buddhism came while watching on television the celebrity concert given for the families of the victims of the 9/11 tragedy. I was watching because Bruce Springsteen would be performing. During the concert, I was deeply moved when actor Richard Gere, whom I knew was a Buddhist, asked that compassion be extended to the Muslim communities who were not responsible for the horrors of that day. He was practically booed off the stage. I knew that the American people were hurting from what had happened, but I found myself totally understanding what Richard Gere was saying. I wasn’t a Buddhist yet, but I actually did feel compassion for not only the Muslim people, but for everyone who was affected by the tragic events of 9/11.

After that day, I began to research Buddhism. Almost from the moment I started learning about it, I knew it was right for me. And the more I learned, the more I felt like I had been a Buddhist my whole life. This confused me because I had been raised in a Christian home, and I had Christian beliefs. Yet what I was learning from my study of Buddhism made more sense to me than all the academia I was absorbing while in grad school. It is only now that I have proclaimed myself to be one, that I am learning how much I’m not yet a Buddhist.

For people who are parents to more than one child, picking a favorite child is, I would hope, an impossible task. But unlike choosing a favorite child, picking my favorite Buddhist principle is not impossible. For me, it’s definitely the idea that every person, everywhere, is worthy of compassion. Because I believe this, I am a Buddhist. What makes me not a Buddhist is that I often do not extend compassion to everyone. Bad days often find me harshly judging people who have been less than kind to me. A Buddhist would still offer those people compassion; a what-makes-you-not-a-Buddhist-Buddhist calls them names under her breath and forgets that those people may be experiencing hard times or difficult circumstances.

As a Buddhist, I make time to sit quietly and just be. I let my thoughts come and go gently, and I experience each moment for what it is. My not-so-much-a-Buddhist self tells me I am too busy to just sit and do nothing. There is laundry to fold, bills to pay, groceries to buy, mail to read, leaves to rake, bookshelves to dust, dishes to wash. But sometimes as I’m washing those dishes or folding laundry or scrubbing the toilet, I find that I am thinking only about scrubbing that dish or toilet or only about folding that towel. I am a Buddhist again.

I am so not a Buddhist when I drive. I’m mindful enough to watch that I don’t hit a pedestrian or forget to use my turn signals, but Right Speech ceases to exist when I get behind the wheel. I have cursed at every red light in downtown Spokane. I have demanded that every old man driver have his driver’s license taken away. And I have done plenty of honking at drivers who cut in front of me on Division or I-90. But I have also spent many red lights sitting calmly in my car, watching the plastic Buddha on my dashboard bounce up and down. It reminds me that I am, in fact, a Buddhist, and that red lights are meant for stopping to take deep, centering breaths. I was a Buddhist the morning I watched the driver next to me at the red light at the downtown library scold me and point her finger at me because I had dared to drive the speed limit across the Monroe Street Bridge during morning rush hour. I just smiled at her and hoped that her day would get better. My not-such-a-Buddhist self would have responded to her with an obscene gesture.

When I’m not being a Buddhist, I have walked through Riverfront Park without so much as smiling. I have not heard the carrousel sounds, or watched the children run through the fountain. But then on my next walk, I will stop and watch as a young child goes down the big red wagon slide. I will walk close enough to the fountain to feel the cool water mist my face, and I will smile at the elderly man who has stopped to rest for a moment on the bench.

On some days at work, my what-makes-me-not-a-Buddhist self allows my co-workers’ bad moods to become my bad mood. I complain to myself that I am not paid enough to put up with my co-workers’ issues, that I am underpaid because I can’t afford a brand new car, that my job is boring and has no purpose. But the next day I come to work as my Buddhist self. The Buddhist I am is grateful for the employer-paid benefits I receive. I remember that I am paid enough to afford a warm apartment and groceries and that my twelve year-old car is paid for and runs perfectly well. My purpose at work is to answer phone calls, make coffee, photocopy documents so my co-workers can accomplish their work knowing that such mundane things are getting done.

As a Buddhist, I know and believe in the Four Noble Truths. But of late, the part of me that isn’t quite a Buddhist yet has been all too present. I allowed hurtful words spoken to me by my grandmother to cause me great suffering. For many years, my un-Buddhist self carried great anger and pain because of what my grandmother had said to me. But I found the Buddhist in me again as I helplessly watched my other grandmother struggle with cancer. In her last days, my sick grandmother helped me find forgiveness and I was reminded of the impermanence of all things, conditions, and phenomena. As sad as I was feeling, I knew it would change. I was sad and angry that Grandma was dying, but I also knew that I would become happy again soon, just as I always had. The hurtful words spoken to me by my other grandmother were no longer important. I let them go and forgave her. That is when I knew I am really on my way to becoming the Buddhist I want to be.

In his book, What Makes You Not a Buddhist, Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse describes a Buddhist as someone who believes that all compounded things are impermanent, that all emotions are pain, that all things have no inherent existence, and that Nirvana is beyond concepts. Buddha advises that all beings should not believe anything on the faith of traditions, even though we have held those traditions in honor for many generations and in diverse places; we should not believe a thing because many people have spoken of it; we should not believe simply on the faith of the sages of the past; we should not believe what we have imagined, persuading ourselves that a God is inspiration for us; and we should not believe anything on the sole authority of the masters and priests. Rather, according to Buddha, one should, after examination, believe what he/she has tested and found to be reasonable, and then conform all conduct thereto.

I am certainly no expert on Buddhism, but I do believe in its most basic principles. As a Buddhist, I believe that every person everywhere is deserving of compassion, that all things are impermanent and inter-connected, and that in this thing called life we will all experience suffering and that we can all overcome our own suffering. But believing I am a Buddhist does not make it so. Like in that grade school science class lesson of many years ago, I find that only by examining how I am not yet a Buddhist do I truly understand my Buddhist self. It’s a lesson I, as a Buddhist, will always believe in.