FINDING SANITY IN THE CYCLE OF LIFE

 

Watching a documentary about the ascent of life on Earth, I was struck by how beautiful—and at the same time, horrifically brutal—evolution has been. The dulcet tones of Morgan Freeman’ narration aside, the ferocity of creatures devouring each other, bodies trembling in panic, survival taking center stage was palpable. Yet, the lush beauty of the rainforests, the blossoming of flowers and the ageless beauty of  mothers and their offspring offered a glimpse of the love and inspiration that is the continual rebirth of life on our planet.

However, the chases and the kill scenes kept me engrossed. I felt a kind of invisible brake in my gut squeezing, not wanting to watch but unable to look away.

The power of our vicious nature is compelling.

This poses an existential question: how do we reconcile this raw, bloody legacy – and our attraction to it –  with aspirations of peace, compassion, and awakening?

Buddhist teachings often point to the Middle Way as a  means to resolve extremes and polarities in life. In this case, it would be naïve to deny that violence and cruelty played a role in our evolutionary history. But it would be equally wrong to ignore the yearning for all life to express itself in beauty and love.  In fact, both things are true and remain interwoven in the ascendency of life on the planet. It would be simplistic to reduce our journey to a straight line from single-celled organisms to sentience. The documentary made clear that life evolved not through linear progress but through cycles of collapse and rebirth—five mass extinction events where most of life was wiped out, leaving only fragments to carry on the story.

The documentary ended with the point that we are currently on the cusp of the sixth mass extinction event. The hope it offered was though this seems an eventuality, each extinction event leaves the seeds of the future iteration buried in the darken folds of fearful survival. And that the ensuing emergence of life has heretofore been forms of lesser size and dominance. On the other hand, with each iteration of destruction, it is the dominant species that become sacrificed. Perhaps this explains the Buddhist concept of reincarnation that our culture finds so hard to accept. It may be that the dominant aspect of our life stream – the idea of “Me” – is what is sacrificed. Our culture has difficulty seeing beyond its self-centric understanding. We find it hard to conceive of a life without ourselves at the center. Yet our bodies, accumulations, status, and personalities – everything we see as “Me” are dependent upon other temporary circumstances, all of which will give way in the great change of existence. Yet, something remains to give birth possible, then, to fiercely survive in our bodies and still awaken to our spiritual nature?

Buddhism holds that samsara and nirvana are inseparable. Unlike theistic traditions that define good and evil as opposing absolutes, the awareness of Buddhism sees and values nuance. Samsara is not just suffering—it is the endless cycle of birth, fear, confusion, and desire. Nirvana is not a utopia but rather the cessation of struggle, the clarity beyond reactivity. In every moment of cruelty there lie the seeds of rebirth. And even in the darkest circumstances, love and care are still possible.

Viciousness does not cancel beauty. Cruelty does not erase the possibility of liberation. The end doesn’t justify the means. The means are what shape us.

The path forward isn’t denial or withdrawal—it’s learning how to open wisely to our current experience so we can make conscious choices that benefit ourselves and the life around us. Compassion and kindness aren’t just moral virtues; they are intelligent strategies. They allow us to learn, to feel, to listen. If we cling—whether to pleasure, aversion, or fear—we freeze. The mind locks down, and no learning can occur.

Sometimes, we cling even in love. We try to preserve those we care about in a fixed form, as if freezing them in place could protect them. But clinging to love, to resistance, or to fear all create an unnatural stillness—a holding pattern that prevents real connection and growth.

Still, the Middle Way also acknowledges that constant openness is not always safe. Sometimes we need to close—for protection, for healing. But we should recognize that closing is a temporary measure, not a destination and shutting down can be a choice. The aim is always to reopen when it’s wise to do so. Just as nature combines violence and creativity, so too does our psyche hold pain and promise in equal measure.

Is it to the next iteration of our stream of life.

This echoes Buddhist ideas of residual karma—the seeds of action embedded deep in our seventh consciousness. Even when the slate appears wiped clean, tendencies remain. Just as life on Earth rebooted from its remnants, so too do we carry unconscious imprints across lifetimes. Whether or not we recall them, these imprints shape how we evolve. It’s not just nature or nurture—it’s both, dynamically interwoven.

What we think changes repeatedly each moment. But what we do shapes the path our life will take. Every moment is surviving and thriving. Every moment we are awake, we become part of the process of life.

 

FINDING RESILIENCE IN OUR EVERYDAY LIFE

Bowie’s song Changes was something of a clarion call to meeting our next moment. Not the idea we have of a dismal or tremendous future, but simply whatever happens. Can we meet whatever eventuality we meet with humble strength and, maybe a smile.  We’re meeting what is. And what is is rarely what we want it to be. Facing the strain – or facing the strange and meeting life as it is, requires us to stand tall and accept what comes next.   

Acceptance is neither acquiescence not surrender. It is the ground we stand upon for meeting life. From that ground we can relax our inner struggle and face the strain with poise and humor. Life is relentless. It doesn’t ask our permission to change, to rupture, to ache. Every one of us—if we’re honest—carries wounds we didn’t anticipate. We grow up believing strength means powering through, but eventually, life teaches us that armor is heavy. It cuts off our circulation. It separates us from others.

Resilience is often misunderstood as toughness, as stoicism, as the ability to take a punch and keep standing. But in Dharma practice, we learn that true resilience is not a hardening—it is a softening. It’s the capacity to remain present with our life as it is, without shutting down. It’s the willingness to feel, to care, to remain available in the midst of adversity.

We all have nervous systems designed to keep us safe. The fight-flight-freeze response is wired into us for survival. But in modern life, especially in emotional and interpersonal terrain, this wiring can misfire. We interpret everyday stress as threat. Our amygdala hijacks the clarity of our awareness. And suddenly, we are reacting to the world as if we are under attack.

So the question arises: can we stay connected without getting swallowed? Can we care deeply without falling apart?

Well, to quote a great statesman, “yes we can,” But, this acute severing of triggers from reactions takes practice and patience.  A classic mindfulness tool is to pause and name what is happening. “This is fear.” “This is grief.” “This is activation.” When we do this, we begin to disentangle from the reactivity and step into the space of awareness. The energy is still there, but we’re no longer riding the rollercoaster blindfolded.

Resilience without armor also requires community. Our neurosis breeds in isolation. But recovery happens with connection. Many of our most painful reactions come from a belief that we are alone. Meditation practice—and compassionate presence with others—reminds us that we’re not. We don’t need to have the answers. We don’t even need to be calm. But we do need to, as Pema Chodron teaches, learn to stay. Stay with ourselves. Stay with one another. Stay with the moment.

The urgency that the triggering elicits makes us feel we need to ACT NOW. But, in fact as a rule there is always more time than we realize. Its okay to pump the breaks. Its okay to pause. Its okay to feel what we are feeling. 

Another tool: mindfulness of body. When we’re triggered, the body tightens. The jaw clenches. The breath goes shallow. By simply bringing awareness to the physical response, we open up the possibility of choice. Try it: notice your shoulders. Feel your feet. Take a longer exhale. This is not a trick to bypass reality; it’s a way to anchor within it. Freeing ourselves from the constraints of the armor of body tension means we are creating the somatic space for the mind to find the space for a creative response. A creative response is not an habitual reaction, but is based in mindfulness of our body and our feelings. A mindful pause gives us the space to actually feel what we are feeling.  

Here’s the paradox—when we stop resisting what we feel, when we stop trying to be strong in the old way, a different kind of strength appears. A strength that doesn’t need to posture or defend. A strength that doesn’t retreat into numbness. It is open. It is rooted. And it can be quite tender.

When we practice resilience without armor, we begin to trust life again—not because it’s safe, but because we realize we can meet it. We don’t have to disappear when things get hard. We don’t have to put on the mask of invulnerability. Instead, we show up. With our hearts exposed, yes. With our breath shaking, sometimes. But we stay. We respond. We listen. We cry when it’s time to cry, and we laugh when we can.

Finally there is the tool of humble constancy, or as Dylan said, “keep on keeping on”. We don’t need to change everything. In fact, we may not need to change anything. We can lay aside the narcissistic belief that it is on us. We can breathe out and humbly take our place in our community. All we have to do is show up. And what a relief that is! We don’t have to do anything more than cheer up and keep face the strain with courage, humor and dignity. This is a kind of humble bravery doesn’t get much press. It’s not dramatic. It’s quiet, slow, and deeply human.

And from this ground of openness, we discover a new kind of power. The power to be moved by life—not manipulated. The power to care without collapsing. The power to be resilient not because we’re armored, but because we are utterly, and fully, here.

 

And the Key to the Kingdom

Let’s begin with something radical: what if we’re not fundamentally broken? What if, beneath the static, striving, and self-doubt, we’re already good—innately, luminously, primordially good?

This morning, as I was writing, my mind drifted into discursive worry and began rifling through all the ways I was failing—at the moment, in my life, and forever. A litany of self-doubt. My posture slumped, forehead heavy, like Rodin’s Thinker caught in a constipated loop of rumination. Thinking, judging, trying to fix something that might not be broken.

Then I caught it. The absurdity of acting out this scripted defeat. I literally sat up and something shifted. Not just in posture, but in perspective. I felt a flicker of clarity, confidence, and strength. I connected with my basic goodness. And this, as I have learned, is the birth of the warrior within. I relaxed into basic confidence. Nothing was amazing. It was just as it was. But I was here to face it—and play along.

April 4th was the anniversary of Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche’s passing. His life was a meteor of wakefulness—abrupt, provocative, alarming, but always and completely authentic. He encouraged our humanity and taught that warriorship begins not with a sword or a fight, but with gentleness and bravery. The ground is basic goodness. It is not a moral judgment, not about being a “good person.” It is the inherent brilliance of our being. Not something we can buy, but something we can recognize as having always been there. We are basically good—and we don’t have to do anything but stay present for our world.

It’s easy to forget this. Especially in a culture obsessed with self-improvement, complaint, and performance. But if we can take a moment, feel our feet on the earth, lift our gaze beyond the horizon of habitual thought, and simply be—without pretense, artifice, or struggle—we reconnect to ourselves, our moment, and to the greater energy all around us. Trungpa called this the “rising sun view”: a world suffused with goodness and possibility. He contrasted it with the “setting sun” view of cynicism, doubt, and complaint. The setting sun leads to darkness and stagnation. The rising sun view—based on recognition of our own and the world’s fundamental goodness—opens us to the Kingdom of Shambhala.

This is the Shambhala vision. The kingdom—or rather the quality—of an awakened society begins with the individual who can stand up in the present moment and say: I’m already good. I’m already enough. I’m here.

So what happens when we contact that basic goodness? In a sense, something is born: the inner warrior. Not a fighter, not a hero, but a human being willing to stay present when everything in them wants to bolt. A person who greets discomfort as a teacher, not a mistake.

My own journey began just after Trungpa’s passing. I moved into a handmade shack at Rocky Mountain Dharma Center. The place was rustic, even wild. It had been settled decades earlier by a ragtag crew of hippies, artists, exiles, and mystics known as the Pygmies, who built shambolic houses and cabins. Their first shrine was a tablecloth thrown over a console TV. Over time, more students came, and slowly—through Trungpa’s legacy—they transformed into clearer and more uplifted versions of themselves. They built proper buildings, bought better clothes and began to carry themselves with confidence. Trungpa didn’t ask his students to become spiritual clichés. He asked them to become human.

The act of simply being oneself—without pretense, apology, or aggression—was called in Tibetan Wangpo, which translates to “authentic presence.” Trungpa Rinpoche called this being a warrior. His teachings offered a new path—not one of transcendence, but of vast vision grounded in the kindness, clarity, and strength to live freely in our world. As Trungpa said, “It’s not about escaping the world, but falling in love with it.”

Warriorship is not a solo act. The path doesn’t end in some personal enlightenment trophy room. It culminates in an enlightened society—a world woven not by ideology, but by kindness, honesty, and presence. That enlightened society has its inspiration in mythic traditions such as Camelot, Atlantis, Shangri-la and the Kingdom of Shambhala. The image of an enlightened society is important to the spiritual and inspirational development of cultures. Trungpa took inspiration from Shambhala which was a society where people were in touch with their basic goodness and lifted up to their highest potential, like flowers to the sun.

In the Shambhala teachings, this begins with the simple things: how you speak to the barista, how you care for your space, how you show up for your own life. Small acts of elegance. Dignity. Care. Approaching all situations with a joyful mind, as the slogan says. Even traffic. Even grief. Even your own neurotic mind. Awakening the warrior means touching in to our basic goodness and seeing the basic goodness of our world.  This is not to imply that the world is devoid of cruelty and injustice. It just means there is more than that. And the world needs us. It is worth working for.

We don’t have to be without fear. We just have to be willing to come back again and again—to our seat, our breath, our inherent dignity. The Tibetans call the awakened warrior Pawo—not someone who fights, but someone who has transcended the paralysis of fear and discovered bravery in their very bones.

The warrior masters themselves each time they return to the present—to their seat, to their posture, to the moment as it is. You can be frightened, nervous, angry, horny, or depressed—as long as you sit with good posture and an open heart, accepting who and how you are. That’s how fear becomes fearlessness. That’s how we open our hearts to ourselves and our world. That is the warrior’s vow of bravery.

Whether you view Shambhala as a mythical kingdom, a metaphor, or a method—it always points to the same truth: within chaos, dignity is possible. Within confusion, wisdom is present. The awakened world begins not in a fairytale, but in the very seat you’re sitting in now.

So today, whether your posture is slumped or strong, whether your mind is buzzing or clear—pause. Feel your feet. Lift your gaze. And give birth to the warrior in your heart which is the key to the kingdom.

This aspiration is dedicated to the lineage, to Trungpa Rinpoche, and to every human being who’s ever stood up against their own despair and said, “I’m still here.”

 

Welcome to the Kingdom.

The Way In is the Way Out

Remember those finger traps? The woven tube that tightens when we pull? The harder we struggle, the more stuck we become. The only way out is to stop resisting and accept where we are.

Tibetan yogis compare the wisdom path to a snake moving through a tube—it cannot turn around. Zookeepers use restraining tubes to calm snakes, and unlike us, the snake doesn’t waste energy resisting. It may not be happy, but it surrenders to the reality of the moment.

A Wisdom Path is a journey toward clarity. Over time, we see ourselves and the world more clearly. Lakthong—“clear seeing”—is the ability to move beyond ego and perceive reality as it is. But obscurations—blockages in the body, shadows in the mind, blind spots in life—distort our view. These obstacles, frustrating as they are, require patience, care, and awareness. The only way forward is to relax, release the struggle, and begin to understand our imprisonment.

Once we enter the spiritual path, like the snake in its tube, we cannot turn back. We cannot unsee what we’ve seen. Fear, doubt, and worry attempt to enclose us in protective bubbles. We rationalize our imprisonment, repeating ideas that justify suffering: The world is dangerous. These people are that way. I am this way. This self-definition comforts but confines us. The idea of “me” is a refuge, but it comes with limitations. Connecting with clarity beyond “me” is unsettling because we can’t control it. Yet this is how we grow. Even trying a new flavor of ice cream expands the brain’s experience. The brain thrives on novelty—reiterating the familiar only reinforces limitation.

Turning outward is both threatening and necessary. We must be brave enough to err, to be embarrassed, to have our sense of self challenged—because this is how we learn. The brain loves experiential learning more than accumulating knowledge. Moving beyond negativity bias, we open to new experiences that build fresh neural pathways. But growth isn’t always outward; it is also inward. When we feel stuck or trapped in patterns, we can investigate the present moment. Awareness loosens the grip of constriction. Moving toward wisdom means shedding what keeps us from clear-seeing. It’s like peeling an onion—there is no ultimate center, only the process of discovery.

When fear or doubt overwhelm us, we can love ourselves—not through distraction, but by turning inward and asking: What is happening? Conceptual knowledge often blocks deeper learning. True understanding happens in the depths of experience. Growth isn’t always triumphant—our first steps into a new paradigm are often fragile. As Sakya Pandita noted, the shaft of an arrow runs true into the future—brave and steady—while the arrowhead panics: Oh no, oh no!

When we stop struggling and instead relax into our constraints, we begin to see them. We feel the fear holding us in place. This transforms obstacles from obstructions into transparent aspects of experience. What if our struggles lost their oppressive weight and became part of our wisdom? I lock myself in my room and refuse to move. But when I turn inward and map the experience, I loosen its hold. Negative actions create negative consequences, reinforcing themselves. The same is true of positive actions. We become obligated to these loops, whether good or bad.

In the highest view of Tibetan Buddhism, samsara and nirvana—heaven and hell—are inseparable. Even good karma, if it perpetuates itself, can obscure reality. The point is to see our actions with clarity. It is said that when we fully see our activity, there is no karmic consequence. This radical statement suggests the power of awareness. Even when our actions harm ourselves or others, seeing them fully is the first step toward liberation.

We move through the tube of fear not by ignoring it or lashing out, but by looking inward. The way out is in. Instead of struggling and becoming more entangled, we observe ourselves. Gently and persistently, we realize our obscurations are the path. There is nowhere to go but here. There is nothing to see but our own experience. Instead of chasing an imagined destination, we can rest in who we are and learn from what is here, now. Letting go doesn’t mean pushing away; it means releasing our grip. Struggle is holding. Accept what is happening and relax into the tube.

Padmasambhava, known as Pema Jungné—“Lotus Born”—was said to have been born fully awakened atop a lotus. The lotus grows from the muck, yet blooms into open awareness. The story illustrates that awakening is not something we become, but something we uncover. The path is long, requiring full acceptance of our imprisonment, yet awakening is instantaneous because it has always been there—like a lotus opening to the sun. We will never become enlightened someday; we can only become enlightened now.

It takes humility to accept ourselves and patience to stay present. Whether sitting atop the lotus or in the muck, turning toward our experience leads us out—not because we are going anywhere, but because life itself is change. Meditation is surrendering to now. The universe is in movement; by being here, we surrender to that. During a talk, Chögyam Trungpa said something chilling: “It’s happening right now.” The room fell silent.

Maybe that was the point.

 

 

 

I lay in bed this morning, unable to get motivated, pondering the deep existential question why bother? And when I get like this the only answer to why bother is … eh, fuck it.

In meditation training, we learn that every experience is worthy of investigation. Yet this sense of “why bother” is one I reject outright. Its insidious banality suggests “keep moving,  there’s nothing to see here.”  So I lay there, scratching about the corners of my brain, scrolling through the internet, seeking distraction, or maybe even a little self-reinforcing negativity. One positive about our world these days is there’s no lack of material to support a depressive state. Despite my worst intentions, I stumbled upon a You Tube short of Jim Carrey’s. I assumed it would be a laugh. Instead, I caught him talking about depression. He quoted his teacher Jeff Foster’s notion that “depressed” could translate to “deep rest”. Carrey said depression was the body’s way of telling the brain “Fuck you, I don’t want to be this avatar you’ve created anymore.” My ideas about myself are so much to live up to.

Then I began to see my morning malaise as a strike, of sorts. A part of me had grown tired of being ignored and unseen.  My social self—what Martha Beck calls the “pretend self”—is built around teaching, coaching, being available to others. I love this work, I feel at home in it. And yet, this is only a part of myself. It’s clear there are parts I’m not comfortable seeing or sharing. When this happens, maybe the mask I’ve created has become too heavy for the rest of me to wear.

Sometimes depression is angry and volatile. This angry depression is sexy enough to keep me interested. But these wet blanket moments when the world is dull and uninspiring are truly maddening- or would be if I cared enough to get mad. Perhaps this dull depression is designed to keep me from looking beneath the surface, from uncovering what may be really happening. Maybe before I could decide what’s really happening beneath, before I analyze anything further, I could apply Ockham’s Razor and reduce it down to what is actually happening right here. Right now, I’m stuck.

Stuck.

In my meditation training they would call this resistance. And they would say that resistance is the path. When I first heard this, it seemed to absolve me of my natural reluctance, it made me feel like it was OK and part of the process. However, many years later, I’m becoming impatient with these delays in the progress of my life and it feels galling. But that’s not looking from where I am, it’s looking from the point of view of the avatar, my imaginary-supposed-wanna-being. Being stuck in my resistance is what is happening now, all that is happening now. I’ve experienced this often in my life, so maybe it’s time I decided to look at it. Instead of thinking “dammit, not you again” I might invite the experience in, let it have a seat and get to know it. When we meet our resistance, we are touching the path itself.

Resistance is where the rubber meets the road or, as the Tibetans say, “when rock hits bone.”  This initially may shock us into numbness. All we feel is that erie Lackawanna, like a 2 year old’s mantra of “NO NO NO!”  But maybe I can just look at this. Maybe it’s not a grand existential crisis, not a dramatic psychological wound, maybe it’s—just I don’t want to.  Instead of assuming I should be different, I could explore what it actually feels like to be here not wanting to be here. Resistance is not an obstacle to the path; resistance is the path. It’s the moment we are forced to sit down, to feel the discomfort fully, and to learn from it. The more uncomfortable it is, the more there is to see. Instead of searching for complex explanations, maybe the truth is simple: my body and mind are saying, Pause. Feel this. I sometimes look out my window at people working, doing jobs I have no interest in, and yet I feel guilty. They’re working hard, supporting their families, and I’m lying here chewing on my own thoughts. But maybe this is my work—to investigate my own experience, to make sense of it, to translate it. Maybe these periods of shutdown are moments of resynchronization.

I think a lot of depression hides behind this deep exhaustion that makes even the smallest movement seem impossible. I thrive on offering myself to others, in being present for them, but there’s a disconnect when it comes to directing that same care toward myself. It’s not that I’m incapable of engagement—I’m deeply engaged when it comes to others. But when I turn inward, that engagement becomes resistance, inertia, even paralysis. It makes sense that this might be an invitation, a signal to pause and investigate: Where am I not living truthfully? When I’m with others, my next steps are clear—I listen, I hold space, I respond. But alone, lying in bed in the morning, wondering why I should bother, I feel lost. Depression, I suspect, creates a loop where each time it returns, it feels like it has always been there. And since I spend so much time in this inert state, maybe it’s time to stop resisting it, to really experience it instead. Not to judge it, not to push it away, but to let it unfold and see what’s there. We often want change without fully acknowledging what is. But how can we move forward if we don’t first accept where we are?

Depression, when experienced as deep rest, may be a forced resynchronization, a way to reset the system. The Japanese philosophy of Kaizen suggests that when we’re stuck, it’s not because we’re failing but because we haven’t yet learned how to succeed. It teaches that small, incremental steps can help us move forward. If my room is a mess, my desk is piled high, and my taxes loom over me, tackling it all at once feels impossible. But if I decide that today, I will write this, meditate for a few minutes, and make a good cup of tea, those are small, doable actions. I don’t need to force myself into massive leaps—I need to align with what is possible right now. It’s strange how we expect ourselves to emerge from depression with force, to suddenly regain clarity and momentum. But what if the way forward is softer, more patient? What if, instead of pushing myself to break through, I let myself dissolve into the experience fully? Depression doesn’t mean I am broken. It means something inside me is asking to be heard, asking to rest, asking to be real. And maybe the more I resist that, the more it holds on.

Maybe the real work isn’t about changing myself to fit a mold. Maybe it’s about becoming synchronized with who I actually am. Not who I think I should be, not who I wish I were, but this person, in this moment, as I am right now. And maybe that’s all we need right now. Then we can ask the big questions. Where am I not living truthfully?  Are there things I want to feel, but can’t?  Am I frightened?

Maybe today I can forget where I’m going and discover who I am beneath the heavy mask. The method here is holding space and asking questions, just as I would do for clients or friends. Discovering implies learning something new. We are not obligated to do anything with the information, except listen. Sometimes our inner voices want the wrong things. Sometimes they may be yelling from the rooftops. But, all they really want is their voice.

Sometimes they just need to be heard.

 

First Thought, Best Thought

Commiting to Yes (And…)

First Thought, Best Thought was the title of a book of poetry by Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche and a phrase he used to describe engaging fresh mind in any creative endeavor. Last week, we discussed the idea of a fresh start—how returning to the breath brings us into the present, allowing our next step to be free of past attachments. In this sense, first thought is the moment the mind comes to a creative inflection point, that is stepping forward with confidence and clarity.

However, first thought is not the first thought we notice. By the time we become aware of our thinking, we are generally enmeshed in a point of view shaped by past experience. This natural function of the mind contextualizes the present based on what we’ve learned, which, while useful, can lend itself to reiteration, blocking true creative exploration.

There are two aspects of mind we can consider: the fresh, free-flowing mind and the compounded mind that analyzes and categorizes based on prior knowledge. The compounded mind refines what it already knows, strengthening established neural pathways. This can feel satisfying and safe. Think serotonin. Fresh mind, on the other hand, forges new synaptic connections—an activity that excites the brain in an entirely different way. Think dopamine. Both aspects are integral to our mind when they harmonize in a workable balance. These fall out of balance when we lock ourselves into a secure redoubt, or jettison ourselves into unprotected space. These are known as 1st and 3rd circles, respectively. The middle way is known as the 2nd circle. This is the space of optimum creativity.

Square One and the Power of Space

In Trungpa Rinpoche’s Dharma Art course, the very first class begins with students sitting in a circle. There is a blank white sheet spread on the floor. This experience, which he called Square One, was designed to immerse students in the energy of clear, open space. The entire premise of Dharma Art—creating authentic expression within one’s environment—relied on the understanding that Square One was completely empty.

Emptiness is often misunderstood. To the materialist, ego-driven mind, emptiness feels like voidness, a loss of reference points. When we are not preoccupied with acquiring, ignoring, or resisting external things, the ego panics, interpreting the lack of engagement as nonexistence. Yet, space—like the vastness surrounding our planet—is filled with energy and potential. In tantric traditions, space is considered the feminine principle, the womb of all creation.

Sitting around the white sheet, the mind naturally throws up objections. It searches for past experiences to contextualize the moment, and when it fails, it fabricates fantasies based on conditioning. Anything to avoid accepting the pure potential of space. This can feel agonizing, especially when we believe we are supposed to create something. But did the universe know what it was creating when it began?

The Sacred Moment of Not Knowing

When faced with uncertainty, the ego scrambles to define, control, or solve what is before it. This is a noble instinct, but it is not the act of creation. Many spiritual traditions hold the moment of not knowing as sacred. The I Ching describes this as the moment just before the sacrifice, when the practitioner silently opens to the divine. This pause—this waiting—creates space for inspiration.

But what is inspiration? What is channeling? What does it mean to create without the conscious mind dictating the process? When we reach our highest potential and then simply open in silence, we are not controlling what comes next; we are making space for it to emerge. The next impulse may arise internally or from the environment. In theatrical improvisation, it might be prompted by a partner’s line. If we already know the line—as in scripted theater—we strive to make our response feel spontaneous. But in true improvisation, we do not know the prompt beforehand, so our response emerges authentically, as if it were a pure first thought.

Improvisation, Acceptance, and Flow

Naturally, even improvisation has guidelines to sustain the creative flow. The most well-known rule is Yes, and…—the principle of accepting whatever is presented and responding intuitively.

Our habitual responses to the world tend to fall into three categories: acceptance, resistance, or avoidance. Improvisation shifts this toward acceptance. The second rule, No Denial, ensures that energy continues moving forward. For instance, if my scene partner says, Good morning, Doctor, I should not reply, I’m not a doctor! That would break the flow. Instead, I might say, Good morning, Mrs. Smith. Your dog is doing very well and can be picked up today. This maintains the reality we are creating while still allowing space for personal agency.

Trungpa Rinpoche’s Dharma Art was a laboratory for discovering pure impulse and response in the creative process. It was not meant for performance. To cultivate a coherent flow, Trungpa employed three guiding principles: Heaven, Earth, and Human. A response could offer a larger perspective (Heaven), set the ground for what is happening now (Earth), or engage another person emotionally (Human).

Just as the universe created itself, humanity may have evolved to perceive, feel, and interact with that unfolding creation. When we gaze at the night sky, we see a seemingly static and reliable expanse. Yet, in reality, it is dynamic and ever-changing. The stars we see may no longer exist as they appear; their light has taken years, even millennia, to reach us. The sky is a snapshot of creation in motion. When we quiet the mind—acknowledging our thoughts but resting in the space between them—we create the silence needed for inspiration to arise.

Creativity as a Way of Being

Of course, not every first thought is brilliant. That’s why the Dharma Art approach values process over performance. What matters is accessing the pure moment of space and noticing what naturally arises—before conditioning encumbers it. This process mirrors the way we engage with structured and unstructured elements in life.

A society functions through rules and norms, yet within that structure, we can live creatively. We don’t need to force ourselves to conform to rigid formulas, but we also don’t have to reject structure altogether. Instead, we can relate to societal frameworks in a way that allows for meaningful interaction while maintaining creative freedom.

In art, we see this dynamic play out in genre conventions. A procedural or romance novel follows a predictable structure (Earth), whereas an experimental novel unfolds in real time (Heaven). The most compelling works balance these elements, engaging readers with familiarity while surprising them with discovery. Similarly, we can author our own lives—grounded in reality yet open to the unknown.

This brings us back to the blank space. Try this experiment: Pause. Let your mind rest. Instead of steering your thoughts toward a desired outcome—especially one shaped by preconceived notions of what meditation or creativity should be—allow yourself to simply be. Notice the first authentic impulse that arises.

If you commit to Yes, and…, you can take the next step toward creating your piece, your day, or your life.

Good Morning, Everyone

We can say this regardless of the time of day because returning to the present is always a fresh start. Each fresh start is a new beginning. Every time we return to nowness, it’s like the first day of spring.

This fresh start can occur in an instant or unfold as a broader reset in our lives. It is a vital component of establishing sanity, balance, and serenity on our path. Meditation master Chögyam Trungpa referred to the grand scope of the present—replete with its possibilities, practicalities, and even our past—as nowness. It is more expansive than “the now” or the pinpoint present moment. It is the openness of life unfolding around us, encompassing who we are, where we’re going, and where we’ve come from.

Returning to nowness can be a reboot for the spirit when we become bogged down by worry and doubt. It synchronizes us so we can move forward authentically—acknowledging our fears and confusion but not being blocked by them. Authentic movement is not a frantic push to escape fear but a calm, steady trajectory toward liberation. In this way, fear itself becomes a stepping stone toward fearlessness. Fearless means less fear—we acknowledge our fears, but we do not let them dictate our path.

Dr. Dean Ornish, a cardiologist and senior yoga practitioner, conducted groundbreaking studies in the 1970s that awakened people to the importance of whole foods and a healthy diet. However, he also emphasized that heart disease wasn’t just a result of poor nutrition—it was also due to our inability to release accumulated tension. Modern life conditions us to focus excessively on the negative, a habit rooted in self-protection but one that prevents us from looking up and moving forward. Negative experiences live within us, creating somatic tension and psychological stagnation. It is vital that we learn to release this tension before it drains our life force. Whether through yoga, meditation, walking, or simply gazing out the window, clearing these systemic clogs allows our natural being to reinvigorate and restore.

The brain craves fresh information to forge new synaptic connections that keep it engaged and alive. When we continuously refine the same thought processes without new input, the mind stagnates, pulling back its capabilities as if to say, Oh, we’re doing this again. Habitual patterns, in this way, can become obstacles to spiritual realization. Rather than flowing freely, we find ourselves trapped in energetic cul-de-sacs. But just as morning light signals a new day and spring brings renewal, we, too, can embrace a fresh start—one that replenishes and rejuvenates our system. This reflection is about feeling our doubt yet finding the courage to let it go and step into a fresh morning.

Periods of rest, sleep, and even hibernation are necessary for recovery. However, when the time comes to lift our gaze, we might choose to embrace the next moment, no matter how challenging, uncertain, or frustrating. Each moment is beautiful because it is the next step on our path. Our mind wants that challenge—it thrives on discovery and the unknown.

On a fundamental level, we can distinguish two aspects of the mind: the expansive mind, which seeks growth and renewal, and the protective mind, which prioritizes safety and retreat. The protective mind is natural and necessary. However, when overemphasized, it limits our experience of reality’s vastness and beauty. Even if we are physically constrained—by illness, circumstance, or resources—our mind retains the capacity for profound movement, openness, and understanding. It is a matter of perspective. While survival is crucial, we must allow ourselves to stop worrying about it sometimes. In meditation, we train ourselves to acknowledge our fears yet look beyond them to the full scope of life.

So, where do we look when we’re done licking our wounds or bracing ourselves for the unknown? We look at everything that is already here. These very things provide sustenance to the spirit and allow the mind to refresh. We do not need to force ourselves into new situations to keep the mind fresh. Instead, we simply return to the present as it is, allowing each moment to be a new beginning. When we meet life with openness in this way, we are free to move forward with authenticity. Authenticity means that when we are aligned with ourselves, we can step into nowness with confidence and awareness.

Opening to the world with confidence builds further confidence. When we step forward naturally, we reassure the fearful parts of ourselves that they are seen and cared for. But they do not need to control the journey. These parts will raise objections now and then, and when those fears are valid, we might pause and examine them. However, more often than not, fear arises from insecurity rather than reality. It is like a frightened child—or, in my case, my Aunt Carmen—sitting in the back seat of our car, terrified of how fast my father was driving. We don’t need to disparage or suppress this fear; we can acknowledge it, even smile at it, as Chögyam Trungpa would say. And then, we keep moving forward—with evenness and surety.

I once trained with a coach who had been a fighter pilot in Afghanistan. His missions were reconnaissance flights, flying low through the mountains—danger below from anti-aircraft weaponry, danger above from shifting air currents. Precision was everything. When asked if he was ever afraid, he said, Of course, I was frightened. It would be absurd not to be. But, he explained, he did not allow fear to speak louder than the mission. Instead, he treated fear like a co-pilot—right there beside him, keeping him sharp and present, but never clouding his judgment or holding him back.

It is important to acknowledge our fear-based mind. But it is essential not to allow fear to dictate our course or obscure our purpose. Notice the voice with love and come back to nowness. With mindfulness training, every time we feel fear, we can return. And every time we return, we reset the system, allowing us to step forward with loving confidence in ourselves, our journey, and our world.

 

When we think of patience, we often imagine holding ourselves still with tight muscles, grinding teeth, tapping toes—waiting, holding, and waiting some more. We are locked in a ball of tension waging a war with circumstances.  We live through  moments of turmoil as we wait in grocery lines, toll booths, for a friends to show up or for the next line to come as we write a post. These untoward circumstances often happen when we’re late for something else, placing us under pressure. What these circumstances have in common is that we have squeezed the space so tightly we don’t have room for mindfulness.

The key is space. And our personal space is dependent on relaxation.

In Buddhist teaching, Patience is taught as one of the six paramitas. The Paramitas Generosity, Patience, Discipline, Exertion, Meditation and Wisdom are activities that transcend our conventional frame into a more expansive or “transcendent” expression of experience. This transcendence is sometimes referred to as “the other shore,” as we move from a self-centered, habitual interpretation to one imbued with greater depth and perspective. From this larger perspective, patience can be viewed as a positive application for the development of wisdom. We are not clamping down or tightening up; rather, we are allowing space between an impulse and our action. This space provides the opportunity for us to become cognizant, intentional, and mindful. Transcendent Patience is a momentary pause for us to find the most appropriate response to whatever situation confronts us. More importantly, that space allows us to connect with our natural serenity and peacefulness of mind. Through consistent, dedicated meditation practice, we can develop the ability to recognize these moments of pause—often just before we bite down or cling to our next reaction.

When an untrained mind erupts into reactivity it becomes blindly led into negative consequences. Reaction impairs the mind’s ability to be aware of its actions. We might believe ourselves quick-witted or nimble-minded when, in truth, we are merely reacting with habitual jokes and defense mechanisms that bypass true awareness of the present moment. Why do we do this? Because the present moment may bring feelings of doubt, insecurity, and discomfort. In avoiding these feelings, we jump to conclusions, laugh off discomfort, and otherwise distract ourselves.

Patience, in its transcendent form, is not merely about waiting for external circumstances to shift. It is about cultivating space within the mind to introduce awareness into our processing. Patience allows us to see our thoughts as they form, granting us the opportunity to respond thoughtfully rather than react impulsively. In Tibetan, this reactive “hook” is referred to as shenpa; Pema Chödrön describes it as the feeling of being hijacked by familiar patterns of reactivity.

The application of patience can occur at any stage of the process, but the most elegant moment is just before the mind “bites down.” This requires mental training—daily, consistent practice of observing our thinking and recognizing when we’re reacting rather than resting in peaceful awareness. Even when meditation feels cluttered with thoughts, the simple act of observing the mind builds the muscle of recognition and acceptance. This awareness helps us notice when we’re hooked, when space collapses into habitual patterns, and when we have the opportunity to pause and choose a new path.

With this skill, we move from reaction to response. Reaction is defensive and reflexive; response is thoughtful, measured, and kind. Patience with the mind means seeing our thoughts as they arise without immediately believing or following them. Over time, this practice opens space in the mind, creating a more effective and adaptive processing system.

This internal patience also manifests in external circumstances. Waiting in line or sitting in traffic becomes less distressing when we recognize how the mind panics when it feels out of control. This panic is not caused by the line or the traffic itself but by our resistance to the present moment. The mind clamps down, shutting off awareness and making us irritable or anxious. By practicing patience, we can acknowledge our discomfort, breathe into it, and soften our mental grip.

The Serenity Prayer from 12-step traditions begins, “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.” This sentiment parallels Buddhist patience. When we accept what is, without mental assault or denial, we create space for creative, intelligent responses to emerge. As in improvisational theater’s “yes, and” principle, patience invites us to accept reality and engage with it skillfully.

Patience also applies on a behavioral level, especially when we are cultivating something new—a relationship, a creative project, or a business. In some spiritual traditions, practitioners “turn it over to God.” In Buddhism, we turn it over to space itself, trusting that space is imbued with the same intelligence and compassion others may attribute to a deity. Rushing a project or relationship may bring temporary gratification but rarely yields sustainable growth. Patience allows the natural rhythms of the process to unfold, supporting more authentic and enduring outcomes.

Ultimately, life becomes a creative endeavor when we choose patience. The choice lies in either clamping down and forcing outcomes or relaxing and opening to the possibilities that space and awareness reveal. As the 12-step tradition wisely advises, “Let go and let God.” In the Buddhist tradition, we might instead say, “Let go and let awareness show the way.”

The world moves, demands, and challenges us. When we respond with patience, we align with that movement instead of resisting it. We give ourselves the gift of presence, spaciousness, and wisdom—the true hallmarks of transcendent patience.

 

   TRANSFORMING AGGRESSION INTO WISDOM

Just he released the book Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism in 1971, Trungpa Rinpoche realized his burgeoning meditation community reach an audience beyond the  familial hippie trappings. This would mean different kinds of peo0ple, with varying degrees of processing, would be enter his community and it would elevate him to the iconic status as one of the key founders Tibetan Buddhism in the West.

Throughout history, iconic figures and spiritual leaders have become reference points for hope and fear, leading to adulation and, sometimes, violent consequences. Contemporaneously, the Manson family and the assassinations of John and Robert Kennedy, and Dr Martin Luther King Jr were on everyone’s minds. Whether driven by personal projections or deeper political motives, such figures faced the double-edged sword of renown.

Trungpa Rinpoche discussed with his senior students the importance of creating safety for not only himself but also the Dharma and for his students. The need for protection grew alongside his rapidly expanding community. In Tibet, monasteries were safeguarded by monks trained in awareness and nonviolent crowd control. Trungpa’s close attendant, John Perks, a British armed forces veteran, played a pivotal role in this initiative. Perks, who passed away on January 31st, was an outrageous and endlessly creative figure whose book The Mahasiddha and His Idiot Servant captures the spirit of the time.

At his inspiration, Trungpa founded a group he referred to as “Kasung,” from the Tibetan meaning “protectors of the word, or command.” These protectors used danger and potential aggression as tools to cultivate awareness—and applied compassion. Traditionally, meditation communities have leaned towards peaceful manifestations. However, with Trungpa’s new community, this nonviolent approach incorporated the realities of danger and aggression to foster greater awareness.  This marked a shift from the ideal, toward engaging with the world as it is.

The motto of the Kasung was “Victory Over War.” Perks designed a system based on his military background, complete with uniforms, drills, and calisthenics. Training included self-defense, defensive driving, and crowd control, but emphasized mindfulness and awareness. In Tibetan monasteries, guards maintained stillness while being acutely aware of their surroundings. This awareness is the ultimate defense against aggression. The best response to aggression is non-aggression and non-violence, aiming to diffuse tensions before harm occurs. Achieving this requires training, self-awareness, and the discipline to transcend personal biases and resentments. Tibetan monastic guards were trained not just to monitor external environments but also to guard against their own reactivity—skills profoundly relevant to staying awake and present in the real world.

These principles trace back to the 9th century when the Indian Mahasiddha Padmasambhava introduced Buddhism to Tibet at the invitation of King Trisong Detsen. Padmasambhava encountered numerous obstacles, as Tibet’s rich mystical traditions were diverse and often aggressive. While some practices were positive, others were rooted in fear and superstition. The Tibetan king sought to unify his people through a central spiritual framework, seeing Buddhism’s ideals of nonviolence and compassion as tools for governance. Inspired by India’s spiritual renaissance, Padmasambhava aimed to refine Tibet’s spiritual landscape.

Skilled at transforming obstacles into assets, Padmasambhava turned the aggressive elements of Tibetan spirituality into protectors of the Dharma. Instead of escalating conflicts, he synthesized various traditions, using negativity, violence, hatred, and fear as signals to awaken and deepen awareness. This approach prevented endless cycles of violence, much like the wars we witness today.

We can apply this in our daily lives. By facing rather than rejecting our negativity, we become more aware of our motivations and develop the discipline to refrain from acting on base impulses. This perspective yields two key outcomes: we stop demonizing the world’s difficulties, and we cultivate personal strength to master challenges and enhance awareness.

As Trungpa Rinpoche addressed larger audiences, strategically placed Kasung provided not only security but also heightened awareness. Trungpa’s self-awareness of his potential shortcomings led him to counterbalance them—for instance, teaching from an uncomfortable chair to stay alert. The Kasung served not just to guard against external threats but also to foster an environment that kept Trungpa attentive and present. Thus, the protectors embodied an outer defense, inner self-awareness, and the overarching principle of protection—all opportunities for wakefulness. This environmental awareness was as integral to the teachings as the words and gestures themselves.

Awareness is our most powerful defense. Ignorance, especially when fueled by aggression, is our greatest threat. When driven by hatred, we lose the ability to perceive the damage we cause. By softening our hearts against our own aggression, we train our minds to stay present. There is no better time to cultivate this presence than the approach of the new year.

The Tibetan calendar is based on solar cycle which feels to me like a much more organic way of calculating our spiritual being. Each month being the cycle of a moon. Many indigenous cultures marked time this way. The Tibetans believe that the end of the lunar new year was preceded by a period of the accumulation of karma so that everything became heightened and increased in its volatility and consequence. Therefore mindfulness – the specific knowing of an object in the present and awareness the present sense of knowing in the environment – becomes more important during this time. Rather than seeing it negatively as a dangerous time, we can understand the danger to be an opportunity to hone the craft of our aware being.

We could become protectors of our own heart and protectors of the heart of our communities.

In honor of the great Lion of Dharma, John Perks.