Category: EVENTS

Understanding Refuge in Modern Times

Ever wish you could just run and hide? Ever play hide and seek with your life because it all becomes too heavy? Do you ever reach for the panic-button in reaction to difficulty? Ever slump in discouragement because it’s all on you, but you just can’t figure it out?

Well, maybe it is on you. But maybe it’s not your fault.

Many of us have never learned to see our lives as they are. Many of us have never learned how to think. We just accept the mind’s confusion, blame our woes on others, and pray for a way out. But maybe there is no way out, except to be here—to learn to see what’s happening and work through it.

We can do this. With patience, kindness, and love, we can gain agency in our lives. We can become players instead of victims—if we are willing to learn. In Buddhism, we look to the example of an enlightened mind, which reflects the enlightenment inherent in all of us.

It takes training to learn to see beyond the compulsive thinking that grasps at the wrong straws. We create more confusion out of a confused world when we blindly reach for what we think will save us. This might be as grand as a lifelong commitment to a nation or spiritual community—or as quick and impulsive as a harsh word, or hitting “send.”

When we feel pressured and need relief—when we’re challenged, triggered, or brutalized by life—our immediate defense is often to lash out. We turn to anger and aggression, or to something or someone we hope will save us. Or we retreat to a private island in our mind, looking for refuge.

But when we seek refuge in something not grounded in what is, we only deepen our confusion. We stop learning.

Throughout history, there have been countless religious, cultural, and commercial icons of refuge. Yet—if you’ll grant me a cliché—wherever you go, there you are.

And if we’re not willing to be here, how can we ever move beyond?

We’ve taken the beautiful teachings of Jesus, Muhammad, and the Buddha and used them to condemn one another—or to save ourselves. Perhaps we spin on a bipolar wheel of condemnation and salvation, swearing off our vices each morning and forgetting by nightfall.

When I was lost in the self-abusive cycles of alcohol and drug addiction, I was blind to any direction my life could take. I spent all my time trying to extricate myself from the sins I’d committed the night before. I took refuge in blame and resentment.

The legal counsel of my rattled brain was perpetually building cases against some system or person. The biggest problem was that I thought I could do it alone. I kept my self-professed sins to myself, spinning outward appearances however they needed to look.

The phrase is “close to the vest”—but “vest” is close to the heart. And putting all that guilt, shame, and doubt into my own heart was as unhealthy as it was ineffective. Because no matter how intelligent we are, it’s our heart that communicates. Whether we understand that—or the recipient of our communication does—we still feel each other. No one needs facts to stop trusting us. If our heart is not in sync with itself, our confusion communicates. And the world responds by withholding trust. This only deepens our isolation, as we carry a broken heart in secret through a world of resentment.

At some point, in utter frustration at nothing working, I just surrendered. There was nowhere left to run. Which left me here. The way out is the way in.

We sit. And we sit. Until we begin to disengage the compulsive mind from the mind’s potential. We get lost in fantasy. We train the mind to recognize that—and return to ourselves, and this very moment. At any time, again and again, as we drift into delusion, we can return to now.

That is our refuge.

In meditation, we train the mind to recognize delusions of blame, shame, doubt, and confusion, and to turn back to trust—in our own heart, and in the present moment.

This is the example of the Buddha. No one saved him. He worked through is shit. He awakened.

With nowhere to run and no external salvation, Buddhism offers practical remedies. We turn to the Buddha—not for rescue, but as an example of a liberation we can achieve. How is this different from running to a god, a savior, a corporation, or a country to save us? Well, the Buddha will not save us. He is long gone. But the enlightened mind he accessed is available to all of us if we follow his example.

But taking refuge in his example means being willing to face ourselves, now in this moment. Not blaming ourselves for the past. We have no control over the past, so how can we be faulted for that which we have no control? Maybe there is no fault, but it is an opportunity to change the present. And no matter how difficult that present may be, it is always better to face it than to turn away.

So when we are triggered, panicked, or confused, we have the opportunity to turn to the enlightened mind within us. You may see this as your higher power, the awakened mind, which offers us the strength to face the moment, through each moment of our life.

Instead of grasping for external salvation, we can turn to the example of an awakened mind, which liberates the awakened mind within us.

The Buddha was not a god. He was a human being—who lived, died, failed, and succeeded. He had no supernatural powers. He was a teacher and student of the Dharma (the path to liberation) who worked diligently to free himself from his own suffering. Because he did the work, he understood how others suffer—and offered teachings to guide people to their own liberation.

Turning to this example is Taking Refuge in the Buddha.

“Buddha” means awake. We are taking refuge in our own wakefulness—both the part that already exists, and the part still developing.

To guide us on the path, we turn to the teachings—a map, not a doctrine. This is Taking Refuge in the Dharma.

The Buddha offered his teachings (the Dharma), and he offered the wisdom of the community around him—the teachers and students walking the path together. This is Taking Refuge in the Sangha.

The idea that we could wake up tomorrow free of guilt, resentment, and limiting patterns might seem like magic. But the Buddha offered no magic—only an ordinary path to learn how to see.

A Beginner’s Guide to The Mind’s Great Awakening

Enlightenment. They say those who have reached enlightenment never speak of it, and those who speak of it have never reached it.

This makes me uniquely qualified to speak about it.

First, we might define this well-worn, well-used term. To me, enlightenment is the experience of a mind stabilized in a state of perpetual wakefulness. Wakefulness is the mind freed from its habitual misconceptions—those distortions shaped by attachment, bias, and ignorance. When the mind is free of ignorance, it naturally reveals its innate wakefulness. In other words, it connects with wisdom. So wisdom, it seems, is the mind’s natural state. So, reaching enlightenment should be easy. All we need to do is identify and remove any obstacles to the mind finding its way home.

Simple, yes. But not so easy. Awakening into our natural state requires dis-believing all the sticky things the world throws at us, as well as the equally sticky parts of a mind that has been conditioned by sticky views based on avarise, aversion and avoidance. Buddhist texts refer to these wrong views collectively as ignorance as they are based on not knowing – or believing our true selves. Ignorance, therefore, is the converse of wisdom.

Wisdom is not the same as knowledge or learning. It is not an accumulation, but an opening—an attunement to something already present, both within and beyond the individual. Some say it is a cosmic state, natural throughout the universe. The experience of that knowing openness is what we call wakefulness. Enlightenment is when this wisdom experience becomes stabilized.

If wisdom is an experience of an open mind rather than a product of accumulated learning, then learning, while important, can also become an obstacle. It develops the mind, yes—but it also risks inflating the ego, which encumbers the mind with things about itself, thus reducing the clarity of mind needed for direct perception. The enlightened mind sees beyond concepts and egoic frameworks to direct contact with reality as it is. Terms like “as it is,” “just so,” or “things as they are” are used traditionally to describe clear seeing. In this sense, enlightenment may not be the exalted or elevated state that some fancy it to be. In fact, enlightenment might be quite ordinary. simply seeing reality, within and without, clearly, as it is.

Just so.

Chögyam Trungpa once suggested that enlightenment is not a higher state, at al but the “lowest of the low of experiences.”  This opening of the mind occurs when the conceptual mind exhausts itself.

The process of exhausting can sometimes be an excruciating. I’m not convinced the path must be torturous, but traditionally, it does involve a dislodging of pride, ego, and fixed identity. That dislodging—the letting go of our tight grip on self— happens to all of us, often through painful experiences. It happens when the world dissolves and our hearts crack open leaving us with no energy to struggle, and no. recourse but to accept and open.

There is a saying: Disappointment is the chariot of liberation. For example, when we break up with a partner to whom we were deeply attached, the pain is twofold. First, we grieve the separation. But more subtly, we also grieve the loss of the identity that was constructed around that relationship. And it is precisely that identity that can obscure sustained wakefulness. Some traditions suggest renouncing relationships for this reason. Others say that enlightenment can emerge even amidst attachment, addiction, and the turmoil we create by continually substantiating ourselves to ourselves.

This leads to the idea of the inseparability of Samsara and Nirvana. Samsara is the endless wheel of attachment, addiction, and suffering—the habitual conditioning of the mind. Nirvana is its absence: the opening to clarity, to wisdom beyond the self. While some traditions aim to withdraw from Samsara entirely, my tradition teaches that we can live within Samsara and still see its emptiness—its insubstantiality—and the illusory nature of what the world claims as true.

Astronauts who have seen Earth from space often describe it as a profound, perspective-shifting experience—one filled with awe, tenderness, and love for this fragile blue orb that nurtures life. In this way, enlightenment can be likened to a vast perspective—one that sees beyond itself, and continues to see beyond itself, again and again. As Pema Chödrön says, it’s like peeling the layers of an onion. The unveiling of misconception and delusion is an ongoing process.

From this point of view, perhaps there is no fixed, stabilized state to attain. Stephen Hawking, in his later work, concluded that there is no single grand unified theory of physics—only different theories that illuminate reality from different angles. Understanding, then, is not about finding the final answer, but about seeing through various perspectives, again and again.

If enlightenment is, in fact, the stabilization of perpetual transition, then it means the mind has trained itself to remain open regardless of circumstance. Tara Brach refers to this as “radical enlightenment”—the mind’s ability to experience, open, experience, open, again and again, never resting in the security of fixed ideas.

Perhaps the enlightened experience is completely present and spontaneous—leading nowhere, clinging to nothing, understanding nothing beyond what is actually here, now. Maybe it is very simple and our journey is to stop complicating it. This open naivete is called “beginner’s mind”.  Not over thinking, but learning. Enlightenment for dummies, you might say. Chics hatching into a new world. Babies opening their eyes. Life all around us, indomitable unstoppable often overlooked but always there.  And we can join that quite simply.

A being in a state of perpetual learning.

When Cruelty Becomes the Norm

Photos by Maria Lau, on site at “No Kings” NYC

As violence in our culture becomes increasingly normalized, we naturally begin to grow desensitized. This is, in some ways, a psychological adaptation—our minds regulating themselves in order to survive the constant barrage of suffering and threat. But this normalization shifts our internal baselines: what was once unthinkable becomes merely uncomfortable… and then, quietly, becomes acceptable. Like the proverbial frog in water slowly brought to a boil, we may not notice what’s happening until it’s too late—until the flesh falls from our bones. I only hope we make a wonderful human stew.

At a recent No Kings protest, a photographer friend of mine saw a sign that read: “When cruelty becomes normal, compassion seems radical.”

That idea struck me deeply. The forces of hatred and cruelty have become so embedded in our society that speaking out against them can provoke backlash, censorship, or isolation. Yet if we don’t speak out, that same darkness begins to seep inward. As Joe Strummer once warned, “We’re working for the clampdown.” And here we are—told to “get along, get along.”

How does someone committed to nonviolence and kindness push back against a rising tide of ignorance? Perhaps the answer is in the question. If ignorance is the disease, then the antidote is the clear and courageous offering of truth. Wherever we can—through conversation, media, art, or daily example—we must counter distortion with clarity.

This is a time for artists, creatives, philosophers, and writers to rise up—not with dogma, but with presence and heart. We must choose roles that contribute meaningfully to society. Art matters. It always has.

I’m reminded of how, during the Nazi occupation of France, playwright Jean Anouilh staged Antigone as a veiled indictment of collaboration and authoritarianism. The occupying forces didn’t catch the deeper meaning—but the people did. Similarly, Eugène Ionesco’s Rhinoceros warned of creeping fascism through absurdist allegory. Not all protests need to be loud; some speak powerfully through metaphor.

The same applies to our own hearts. If we root ourselves in compassion—true, fearless compassion—we tap into something far more potent than self-righteous anger. The image of the bodhisattva comes to mind: a humble servant, setting aside ego and personal gain in order to benefit others. This isn’t weakness. It’s one of the most powerful stances we can take.

Compassion doesn’t have to be grand. It can start with expanding the circle of our care—from pets, to friends, to strangers, and even to adversaries. If we nurture that inner warrior of compassion, we can become strong in the face of repression, wise amid ignorance, and peaceful in a violent world.

Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche once used the image of the Garuda—a mythic bird that soars with fearless compassion—to represent what he called the “outrageous” bravery of an open heart. He said this kind of bravery defies our narrow, self-protective instincts. It dares us to leap beyond the smallness of self-concern into the vastness of humanity.

And make no mistake: those who cling to strength through violence, hateful rhetoric, and domination are often the most frightened among us.

How, then, do we respond? By showing up. By being sane, balanced, and clear—even when the world around us isn’t. Each moment of calm presence, each small act of compassion, offers sanity back to a world that desperately needs it. Whether it’s just one person at the coffee shop or a room full of people at a talk—your kindness matters.

Even more outrageously: we may end up benefiting the oppressors, too. That’s the radical nature of true compassion. No enemies. No kings. No victims. No heroes. Just human beings—some who will listen, and some who won’t. But compassion doesn’t require agreement. It requires courage.

When I hear the phrase “We are all children of God,” I feel the deep equality of sentient life. In Buddhism, we speak less of God as a figurehead, and more of the innate Buddha nature in all beings that sparks awakening in us all. That is the wellspring of our strength. Tapping into this goodness allows us to face cruelty with clarity, to stand in danger with dignity, and to act with courage.

When cruelty becomes the norm, those who remain awake become strong reminders of sanity.

But have as we face cruelty in our world can we face the cruelty in own mind? How do we treat ourselves? How do we speak to ourselves? We don’t have to follow along with oppression, even our own. We can take the brave step of facing our own life with kindness, so we have the strength to face the world. The Shambhala teachings urge us to be “kind to ourselves and merciful to others.” It all starts with “Maitri” or lovingkindness for ourselves.

When we choose kindness in the face of cruelty, whether in our society or our mind we are taking an outrageous step—not just to change the world, but to trust in our own basic goodness. And if that changes nothing but our belief in ourselves we’ve taken an outrageous step forward.

 And maybe that changes everything.

Opening to Compassion

The ideal of a mother’s love as being nurturing and sustaining is an archetype deeply embedded in nature and consciousness. Regardless of the individual relationships with our mother, the essence of motherhood—the embodiment of love and loving-kindness—pervades our experience. This ideal is not just a sentimental notion; it is a foundational aspect of the path of wisdom.

Wisdom alone can become cold, sharp, even unyielding. But when united with love, wisdom finds true expression. Love and loving-kindness are essential forces that balance and ground wisdom in compassion. They bind the clarity of insight to the warmth of connection, allowing both to flourish together.

In many spiritual traditions, this love is awakened through devotion—whether to a teacher, a lineage, a deity, or even our ancestors. For some, it comes from connection to a godhead: a creator or a divine messenger such as the Father and the Son. My grandfather, a pastor in a small community church, had a banner above his pulpit that read: “God is love.” He believed that this was an essential truth. Not a god of war or wrath, but a god that is love. This love is nurturing, caring and complete. This love is larger than us, but one one that we could grow into.

Love and loving-kindness are natural to sentient beings. Because they are part of our primordial nature, we don’t need to acquire or construct them from outside ourselves. Instead, devotion—to a teacher, to the divine, or to life itself—can awaken the love already within us. This process has been described as a mother and child reunion—not only by Paul Simon, but in the sense that our opening heart reconnected to the primordial love that gave birth, and continues to nurture, the universe.

On a journey to developing transcendent compassion we are not seeking to possess this love. Rather, we allow it to ignite our own inner capacity for love. It is not about gaining something new, but uncovering what has always been there—our inherent ability to respond to the universe with love.

So our task is not to create love, but to liberate it. We open to it—not by striving, but by dissolving the obstacles that prevent it from flowing freely.

These obstacles show up in both our ability to receive love and our willingness to express it. Most often, these blocks are rooted in fear. Fear causes us to shut down and react from our most primal conditioning. Biologically and psychologically, this manifests in what Western psychology calls fight, flight, or freeze—and what Buddhist psychology identifies as passion, aggression, and ignorance. We are either grasping toward something, pushing it away, or dissociating from it. These reactions are not mindful; they are reflexive, often pre-conscious. They hijack our awareness before we even realize what’s happening.

Tibetan teacher Zigar Kontrul, Rinpoche and his student Pema Chödrön refer to this as “shenpa“—the experience of being “hooked.” While often translated as “attachment,” shenpa more accurately describes that moment when something grabs us and pulls us out of our natural state. Before we even choose to cling; the experience has taken hold of us.

In classical Buddhism, passion, aggression, and ignorance are all forms of desire—desire to grasp, to resist, or to escape. While it is possible to open to desire, and release the clinging, when fear is involved, our clinging is closing down.  This blocks the radiance of our natural passion and love. To love is to open—and clinging – even when we believe we are expressing our love, is actually the opposite of opening. Sometimes, the power of our love, causes us to be fearful and cling, such as when we  expresses our love through control, manipulation or aggression.

True love arises when we open to experience without grasping or avoidance. But this kind of openness is deeply challenging, even excruciating. To stay still and present while a storm of emotion passes through us requires discipline, training, and deep courage. We are learning to remain still within the fire.

In Tibetan Vajrayana, the deity Vajrayogini embodies this teaching. She is depicted as a young woman standing within flames—the flames of compassion and passion. In one hand she holds a skull cup filled with Amrita, a nectar that intoxicates fearful beliefs and allows us to let go; in the other, a curved knife that cuts through clinging. Together, these symbolize the essence of love and wisdom—complete openness coupled with sharp discernment. We open fully to love but do not cling, possess, or manipulate it. We do not run toward or away; instead, we stand still and dance within the flames.

In certain tantric rituals, such as Chöd or Tsok, practitioners visualize themselves as the deity, allowing all fear, negativity, and clinging to be consumed by the flames of compassion. In doing so, we burn away our neurosis and awaken our natural capacity to love.

On a practical level, we can trust this: we are loving beings. We are the result of love. The Mahayana ideal tells us that all beings, at some point in the cycle of existence, have been our mother—and we theirs. Whether or not we believe in literal reincarnation, the message is clear: we are all interconnected through the web of care, nurture, and compassion.

Our role is to accept love, to recognize it, to avoid clinging to it, and to offer it back to the world—without expectation. Like the rain, which falls without concern for whether flowers will bloom, we offer our love freely. And in doing so, we create the conditions for the blossoming of life wherever it can take root.

 

Right Action in the Face of Hatred

I woke up today feeling crushed. It’s odd to wake up in the sweaty arms of defeat. Then I sat for morning meditation and a personal check-in. Feelings are part of our reality—but they are not reality. They are expressions of a part of our being that is constantly changing. However, when we become triggered, our feelings solidify into narrative environments that we interpret as reality.

We freeze, believe, identify.  Then we’re off to the races as we script our story with ourselves as the protagonist, whether it be victim or hero. The more we are triggered, the more our universe feels real. But what’s real is that we are at the center of that universe. This very solid Me rolled from bed into a universe of defeat.

However, once I sat for my morning meditation and adjusted my posture, my brain changed. A posture of gentle confidence changes the perspective. Seat your ass, and your mind will follow. As my mind relaxed its grip, I could see how exaggerated feelings like fear and doubt had been obscuring gratitude, clarity and strength. I did a “check-in and simply noted what I saw and felt—without interpretation. Just so. This is what there is. Sadness, fear, anxiety. But also, calmness, clarity and gratitude.

And none of my feelings accurately predict the future.

We live in violent times, and often feel beaten down even when we’re not directly affected. Fear inflames our feelings and makes them personal. This is not new. In my childhood, progressive leaders were murdered in the streets. Four unarmed students were shot for protesting a war in which their country poured napalm on villages. The 1970s brought recession; only three decades before, a full depression. African Americans have long faced violence from neighbors, police, and their own Armed Forces. Native populations have had their cultures starved into silence. An affluent Black district in Tulsa was looted and burned—and wasn’t widely reported for decades.

Violence and ignorance have always been a part of our country’s history. It’s just more meaningful when it’s happening to us. In real time. The immediacy intensifies its impact on our nervous system. We catastrophize, lose perspective, and imagine futures we cannot know. We see only what panic shows us and miss the fullness of our actual experience. We forget that it has always been this way and for some, its has been much much worse. Take this personally is profound egotism. It’s not about only ourselves. It’s about our world, and our ability to remain strong in the face of the storm.

But, we are part of our world, and so Compassion begins with us. Not exaggerating our self importance and our pain, but activating our empathy. If we settle our heart, mind, and body, we can see past the fog of panic. By simply taking our seat and sitting tall, we access natural wisdom. That’s wisdom, not wisdoom. Not believing the worst, but seeing what there is – everything there is. Like sediment settling in water, clarity dawns. We see what is—not an exaggeration of fear.

Wisdom is seeing without judgment or expectation. This kind of seeing, beyond self-interest, is foundational to what the Buddha called right action. It’s tempting to go numb or reactive. To armor ourselves in ideology or turn away. But there’s another response. A deeper, braver one:

Compassion.

When we freeze or fight, we can pause, take our seat, and choose to respond. Compassion isn’t weakness. It isn’t blind forgiveness or passive acceptance. It’s not about being nice.

Compassion is a revolution.

Not one that screams or fights fire with fire, but a revolution of presence. A rebellion against dehumanization. A refusal to become what we oppose. It asks us to see the humanity in those who suffer—and sometimes even in those who cause suffering—without condoning harm or retreating into neutrality.

This kind of compassion isn’t sentimental. It’s a discipline. A practice. A path.

True compassion doesn’t dull our edge—it sharpens it. It helps us respond with precision and clarity. With compassion, our actions become more effective. Without it, we risk replicating the patterns we seek to dismantle. We fight fire with fire until everything is ash. With compassion, we fight fire with awareness, fierce love, and sanity.

The world doesn’t need more opinions. It needs grounded hearts. Hearts that can grieve. That can see suffering behind violence. That can stand up without being poisoned by hatred. That won’t be swayed by stupidity or false logic.

Compassion is bravery.

It’s brave to keep the heart open when it would be easier to shut it down. Brave to meet anger with understanding—not because we’re doormats, but because we’re warriors of spirit. It’s brave to weep when the world breaks, and still choose to return to our cushion, our vow to remain undaunted.

We can’t fix a world that has always been broken. But we can stay present and do what we can. Freaking out helps no one. But sitting in silence helps only ourselves. If a monk gains enlightenment in a cave and no one hears it…? It’s said the Buddha was reluctant to teach after awakening. But continual supplications, and empathy for those suffering moved him to act.

Acting from a seat of wisdom for the benefit of others is compassion.

When we feel broken-hearted, it’s not a weakness. It’s a doorway to power. If you’re angry—good. Let that fire be lit by clarity, not hatred. Let it be tempered by practice. Let it protect and uplift, not divide and destroy.

Combining stillness of our being, the Clarity of our Heart and the courage of our heart. That is warriorship. That is strength.

In this violent time, compassion is not a retreat.

It is a revolution.

A radical act of presence.

A refusal to collapse into cynicism.

So breathe.

Feel your heart.

Let yourself care.

Let that care guide your words, your actions, your presence.

The world is aching for it.

Sit your ass, and your mind will follow.

Free your heart—and the world will follow.

Or, How We Choose to Avoid The Point

If the purpose of a spiritual practice is to develop awareness and the ability to be mindful of the details in our lives, then it is crucial for us to acknowledge that we are training ourselves. Training ourselves in what regard? Training ourselves from the conditioned tendencies that promote addictive behaviors, neurotic patterns, Judgement and blame – all of which set the ground for unhappiness.

Disclaimer: Meditation practice will not eliminate unhappiness. However, it can help us develop the mindful awareness to turn unhappiness into learning.  This requires us to be willing release our objectification of the other and to take the opportunity to look at what we’re feeling. When we are triggered by something disagreeable, disconcerting, or discouraging, meditation helps train ourselves to uncouple the usual co-dependent reaction and look inward to see our part in the process, and how we actually feel. This doesn’t mean further victimization or self blame. It means looking at what we can learn about ourselves. We are the only ones we can change. It’s a fool’s game to believe we can change others to secure our own happiness. Other people are notoriously resistant to change, and relying on them for our happiness sets us up for further disappointment. And this disappointment fuels the blame game.

The blame game is a codependent cycle of suffering that happens when we fixate on another to the detriment of our own self-awareness. If we want to grow in our spiritual practice, developing the honesty to see how we create suffering for ourselves is integral. Regardless of what someone may have done to provoke our unhappiness, we can only look within to see our part. Were we expecting to much? Were we wrong about this person’s intentions? Were we duped by our own greed or neediness? These are things we would do well to understand about ourselves, because they are vulnerabilities that leave us susceptible to further suffering. If we hope to create lasting change in ourselves, blaming others, even when it seems justified, blocks self-examination.  Frankly, it’s an easy out when we latch onto blame. We avoid seeing ourselves and miss the opportunity to learn from the situation.

Honesty is admitting to ourselves that we don’t know other people’s intentions. And even if we could, what other people think about us is none of our business. That includes what we assume they think when they act in certain ways. This mental convolution too much work and is the opposite of clarity and mindful thinking. We’re lost in a hall of mirrors, trying to find what’s real, and in our frustration, we fixate on something we can be angry about or hurt over. Often, our unhappiness is rooted in various internal circumstances that are only referred to by the object of our blame.

Blame is a cop-out. It keeps us stuck on an imaginary surface while discomfort brews underneath. Rather than looking inward and learning to navigate our feelings, we focus all our anger outward. The more uncomfortable we feel inside, the more we cling to blame. Rather than looking inward at our own actions, by blaming others we make ourselves the victim and become the center of everything. When we feel badly, it often becomes all about us although we’re not seeing ourselves at all. We can either look inward with honesty and work to deconstruct our suffering, or we can lock onto the other and, so doing, inflame our suffering into an ego state. In any case, the suffering is our own. We can choose to work with it, or be worked over by it.

Blame is not honest. We either misrepresent our internal feelings or distort the truth of a situation. Therefore blame is a common tool used by demagogues and despots throughout history as they assign blame to a set of the populace or an opposing political party, in order to amass power. Blame creates an adversarial stance towards circumstances, that disallows communication and distorts reality. The blame game, so hurtful in personal interaction, becomes horrific on the global scale. We’ve seen this throughout history and we can see this happening now. But, rather than blame those who blame, a better approach is to look inside. How am I contributing to this? What can I do to help? How can I build the inner strength and balance to never be swayed or manipulated?

Mindfulness Awareness practice helps strengthen our inner core.  This helps us to deal with life’s challenges by recognizing the blame game and looking into ourselves for clarity and strength.  Then our interface with life becomes honest and positive.  No one makes us suffer except ourselves. The remedy is to return to our center. Drop the story, pull back from the attack, feel inward, and explore beneath the surface. Shifting focus from others to ourselves opens vast possibilities for self-discovery. The truth is pain exists and is no one’s fault. When we boycott blame and judgement, and look into  painful circumstances, we see they are an opportunity to take responsibility for our feelings and begin to grow.

Rather than checking out in blame, what if we simply checked in to see what we need?

IT’S BEEN HERE ALL ALONG

In meditation today, I noticed myself trying to push my mind toward where I thought it should be. This morning my mind most certainly did not comply.  As my focus wavered, ancillary stories began to surface — aging, memory, the need for better sleep. I started vetting strategies like caffeine or ginkgo. None of this was meditation. Then it struck me: my meditation had become an attempt to “fix” my mind.  Rather than simply seeing it as it is I was trying to change it. By stepping back and letting go of the pressure to fix, I allowed myself the space to simply see.

The ideal meditative state—clarity and acceptance—rests on the openness and settledness of the body, heart, and mind. However, life rarely offers us perfect conditions. For me, morning practice often begins with a scattered or resistant mind. The first step, then, is acceptance—meeting the mind as it is and not as I wish it to be.

Acceptance begins with recognition. We notice the mind’s current state— distracted, cloudy, resistant, or grumpy— and then acknowledge what we meet without judgment. This allows us to step away from struggle to control anything.  We open the door to meet our mind as it is. Instead of ego’splaining we listen. This acceptance is an act of love. We are opening our mind to accept ourselves in this very moment.  Once we accept, synchronization naturally follows. This isn’t something forced but rather a harmonious alignment that arises when we stop struggling and simply allow things to be.

Miraculously, we find ourselves in meditation.

From synchronization grows wisdom. Wisdom sees a larger process unfolding: the mind observing itself, guiding itself, and offering comfort and love to its own experience. Wisdom understands that all states of mind, even those we perceive as negative or incorrect, have value simply because they are part of us. Awareness embraces the distracted, discouraged, angry mind as colors in the painting of the present.

When we are frightened, our mind tightens in defence. When the mind tightens, it reduces what is sees to binaries such as good and evil, right or wrong. Thus triggered, the mind sections itself in order to reduce the landscape of reality into that which is controllable. Although rarely helpful, this narrowing is a natural process we need not fight. But if we don’t buy into the game, and simply listen or see, we connect to the space around the event. This allows the wisdom of awareness to resolve the binary. Wisdom never chooses a side as it holds the entire picture. Wisdom isn’t the opposite of confusion—it’s the space that contains it. This spaciousness lets us recognize, accept, synchronize, and ultimately return to the present, using tools like the breath or an object of focus with a light, precise touch. In this way, the mind naturally meets itself. And it will quite naturally allow itself to develop toward further awareness.

Once again, meditation isn’t about fixing; it’s about seeing. The mind of meditation arises in awareness like a point in space. And as the space of awareness is relieved of the pressure to fix itself or chose a side, it remains loving and supportive. It is a state of grace. By stepping into the grace of awareness, we don’t need to force change—we simply allow what we notice to be with us, remembering none of it is as real, solid or urgent as our fear suggests. Trungpa Rinpoche famously wrote, “good, bad, happy, sad – all thoughts vanish like an imprint of a bird in the sky.” Once we release ourselves from the grip of control, we see everything as ephemeral, diaphanous and in dynamic transition. Sakyong Mipham calls this the displaysive activity of mind. All of our worries are the mind revealing itself. Many of our worries are kid fears. And like kids, they need to be loved and accepted, but not always believed.

Meeting our mind is meeting our oldest ally. It’s been with us longer than any relationship we’ve had. Accepting it with the loving space of awareness we see its many colors and configurations. Sometimes it displays in black and white, and sometimes it opens into a rainbow painting.  When we return to present awareness, we are in a point in space where the colors of life become clear.