Category: Teaching

Choosing Peace in Times of War

These days many of us describe our world as crazy, cruel and chaotic. It seems socio political dysfunction is a common experience.  This lack of stability in our outer reality understandably influences our inner health and wellbeing.

When our mental health is attacked, even the pressures we normally face seem might amplify to catastrophic proportions. Our emotional tolerance becomes compromised and we fall prey to any number of adventitious afflictions such as depression, anxiety, compulsive thinking and extreme beliefs. Our kneejerk solutions may be to arm our hearts with corresponding violence or check out in retreat. But these kneejerk reactions are not intentional. They are not mindfulness.  They only add to the confusion.

However, there is a place within experience that is not at war with what is happening. This experience of space allows, what Tara Brach calls, “radical acceptance.” Radical acceptance is not acquiescence. It is not supporting, nor is it ignoring. It is the simple and powerful act of facing what we face. Before we can take the right action to help ourselves or our world we need the emotional balance to see clearly.

This is not a poetic idea. It is not something we manufacture through strength or rigidity. It is something we discover—often accidentally at first—in the middle of chaos. A space within where, despite all the  movement around us, something is not moving. Despite the noise, something is not making noise.

We might talk about basic goodness or Buddha nature—not as something elevated or distant, but as something so immediate we often overlook it. It’s not reactive, it’s an open space that births an inner kindness that is so powerful, yet hard to grasp. When we are punched in the gut, our first reaction is not to relax, be kind to ourselves and open to our natural stillness.  Our kneejerk is to grip and harden, not open.

It is so important that we train the mind away from its tendency for gripping reactivity toward the open space of mindfulness. That may seem crazy, if we believe the craziness around us.  But in the midst of chaos is a space that offers the capacity to be aware. And within that space, knowing each experience as it arises.

This knowing is not disturbed by what it knows.

Thoughts race. Emotions surge. The body tightens and releases. The world presents itself in all its complexity—joy, sorrow, fear, beauty. And yet, the awareness of these things remains open, ungrasping, and fundamentally undamaged. The problem is not the storm.

The problem is that we believe we are the storm.

We identify with the movement—“my thoughts,” “my fear,” “my situation”—and in doing so, we lose access to the space in which all of this is occurring. The eye of the storm is not something we create. It is what remains when we stop trying to follow everything that moves.

So how do we find this eye?

Not by stopping the storm.  This is where the path becomes both simple and confronting. We are so conditioned to improve, adjust, and control our experience that the idea of not doing that feels almost irresponsible. But the practice here is not passivity—it is precision.

We begin by taking a seat.

Literally, in meditation, we sit down. We place attention on something simple—often the breath—not as a solution, but as a reference point. Something stable enough to return to as the mind moves. The instruction is deceptively basic: notice when you’ve wandered and just come back.

But what we are actually doing is far more radical. We are learning to see movement without becoming it. A thought arises—we notice it. An emotion surges—we feel it. A memory, a plan, a judgment—we see it pass through. We don’t need to suppress it. We don’t need to follow it. We simply return.

Again and again.

At some point, something shifts—not because we forced it, but because we stopped interfering. We begin to notice that there is always a gap. A moment of simple presence before the next thought takes hold. A space in which experience is vivid, but not solid.

This is the beginning of discovering the eye.

Off the cushion, the practice deepens. In conversation, in conflict, in the rush of daily life—we notice when we are pulled into the storm. The tightening, the urgency, the need to assert or defend. And then, if we can, we pause. Even briefly. We feel the body. We hear the sounds around us. We recognize the movement of mind as movement, not identity.

So how does this help anything?

This is not about withdrawing from life. It is about finding the balance to face life without losing our seat. When we are no longer trying to control or escape our experience, we begin to meet it more directly. The sharpness of pain, the warmth of connection, the unpredictability of life—it all becomes more vivid, not less.

But there is space around it. This space allows for compassion.

If we are no longer overwhelmed by our own storms, we can begin to sense the storms in others—not as threats, but as shared human experience. The anger, the confusion, the grasping—it is no longer foreign. It is recognizable. And from that recognition, something softens.

This recognition is not disturbed by what it sees because it is resting in basic goodness.

This is what it might mean to “live in peace while witnessing war.” The eye of the storm is not an escape from the world. It is a way of being in the world that does not amplify its chaos. And perhaps most importantly, with mindfulness, it is always available. Not later. Not when things calm down. Not when we finally get our lives together. Right here—in the middle of whatever is happening.

Stop trying to outrun the storm. Take your seat. Don’t follow anything. Until you do, then just come back. Let it settle. Stability allows an opening to clarity. And clarity opens to the possibility of right action.

Right action is the first step to compassion where we thought none was possible.

The Joy of Letting Go

Learning to let go is important to our health and happiness. Letting go is releasing into openness, rather than creating tensions that to shut us down. But letting go is not getting rid of anything. It is not pushing anything away. It is simply releasing our stranglehold on the things to which we’re clinging. Sometimes we cling out of routine habit and sometimes we lunge in an existential panic to prove we’re here. I obsess, therefore I am.

Our near constant gripping and appropriation causes pain, not only for ourselves, but also the objects of our gripping. We keep the things we love strangled and imprisoned within our projections. We don’t see these captures; we see our idea of them. So even when we get what we think we want, it’s not what we have.

We cling to things we want. But we also cling to things we disdain. Whether we want or want to not want, the result is the same. We have forged an attachment with something we’re holding too tightly to see.

Attachments are often the boogeyman in Buddhist thought, but not because what we attach to is necessarily problematic. It’s because attachment creates a stickiness that keeps us from moving through situations with ease. We get stuck, as Pema Chödrön would say.

The primary binary—like/don’t like—reduces life to a two-dimensional experience. But in truth, the things we hold can trap our mind in cycles we never grow beyond.

Letting go is dropping the struggle. It doesn’t mean getting rid of anything. It’s not self-denial, nor a denial of that which we hold. Letting go is simply releasing our relentless effort to keep things in place. When we are able to release our tension, its as if we are able to open into a space of clarity. We love more truly when we allow the things we love to be themselves. We are able to protect ourselves more readily when we see what is actually there.

That sticky quality of mind—our attempt to appropriate what we see and hold it in place—keeps us emotionally tethered. The things we cling to keep us from seeing alternatives. If we have the openness and bravery to experience life as it is, rather than clinging to what we like and pushing away what we don’t, our world becomes three-dimensional.

To live a life of openness, we need to develop the bravery to open. This is more natural than clinging, so when we open, it feels like a release—a return. We can’t create openness; we can only open to it. On the other hand, we do create the blockages that keep openness at bay.

The practice is to notice the impulse to grasp, recognize it, accept it as the habit of the mind, and then release it.

Who are we without the things we cling to? Who would we be without the tethers we create?

Life is leading us down the river of time. There are challenges and dangers along the way, but also a great joy when we let go. Regardless, we are heading toward a waterfall we will not navigate. We are all final girls in this horror show. But along the way, if we are too frightened to open up, we will be trapped without ever appreciating the joy of our journey.

If we let go into the beauty and the tragedy of our life, we may find peace along the way. And when the time comes, perhaps we will choose to be present for our final letting go.

Letting go is not getting rid of anything. It is, in fact, accepting everything—allowing things to be as they are.

We are greedy. We want, and we want, and we want. That’s okay. The question is: can we stop grabbing? Can we stop harming? Can we stop appropriating?

Learning to accept what is here as enough—and experiencing the joy in that.

The Role of Prayer in a Non-Theistic Tradition

Buddhism has largely been divorced from the idea of an overseeing creator—someone to whom we can supplicate, someone managing our experience, someone to yell at us when we’ve gone astray. This is called Theism. Turning an object into a thing that, in turn, becomes a solid reference.

Refuting the existence of God, as we know, is called atheism. Sometimes atheists can be more dogmatic than theists, turning a non-thing into a very solid proposition.

Then there is a story of the Buddha, when asked by Indian scholars why he did not refer to a god. Buddha reportedly answered, “Because that’s not important. This was not a denial of gods. It was a repositioning. By placing the question of a deity into the realm of theology, he freed himself to be a teacher, not a priest. This was his great reformation. And this is what we call non-theism.

As Buddha removed the idea of a spiritual hierarchy he placed responsibility back into the hands of human beings. The gods were not the issue. The issue was how we wake up in this life right now.

But what if I simply want to pray? 

When I am faced with confusion, reaching out to something feels important. When I have failed myself—as I have, repeatedly in my life—it would make sense to look beyond myself for solace.

Before I came to Buddhism, I would fall into treating God like my butler. Someone to do my bidding when difficulty arises. I’d ask for this, ask for that—often with more demand than humility. And when I didn’t get what I wanted, I’d recoil in a huff, turning the name I once called in reverence, into a curse.

It would seem I was invoking a codependent, rather than empowering, relationship.

The point of Buddha’s teaching was not to establish a system of divine dependence, but to guide people toward leading themselves on the path of awakening. Nonetheless, I have secretly envied the certainty of deeply religious people. I am moved when I walk down a busy street and see someone kneeling in prayer, facing Mecca. I am struck by the conviction of those who feel aligned with a power they trust completely.

Non-theism is not a denial of god. It is a refusal to rely on a deity as a solid, external savior. Instead, it suggests that when we call upon something beyond ourselves, we are co-creating an experience between our mind and the wisdom beyond the conceptual limitations that mind. So, praying to the sky, indeed crying to the sky in sadness and frustration, with the hope that we can go beyond ourselves is actually a very practical method.

When I am in states of confusion or despair, praying to Padmasambhava gives me relief. It gives me orientation outside of my habitual patterns. Over time, this has developed into a kind of faith.

But it is a practical faith.

I don’t assume this process would work for everyone. I don’t believe it is better or truer than any other object of prayer. It is personal. A gateway. A way of stepping beyond myself and receiving.

The non-theistic view suggests that we can use the idea of a deity—or prayer itself—as a gateway to access something larger. If someone believes wholeheartedly in a deity and finds strength in that, then that’s great. Buddhism has not rejected these forms. And although in its fundamental form Buddha’s teachings turned away from reliance on a deity as the teachings spread, it adapted and changed. In Tibet, for example, figures like Guru Rinpoche (Padmasambhava) were said to transform local spirits—forces of fear and chaos—into protectors of the Dharma.

Whether taken literally or symbolically, the message is clear: what is frightening, chaotic, and unknown can be transformed into something that supports, even protects, our path.

That is deeply compelling to me.

So yes—I pray to Padmasambhava. Not because I believe in a solid being somewhere granting favors, but because I have faith in the transformation of darkness into awakening.

When I am lost in confusion, doubt, or fear, I remember my teachers. I remember the Buddha. And sometimes I call out—to Padmasambhava, to the sky, to something beyond myself. My work is to find passion in a belief that opens to possibility rather than narrows down on expectation.

Whether I visualize a deity, a teacher, or simply cry to the very sky amounts to the same thing. Rather than limiting my prayer to a fixed, external god I am asking for guidance to step beyond myself.

Buddhism tells us to rely on ourselves, why do I still feel the need to pray?

Because I have run afoul relying solely on myself. So I ask for help. And the simple act of asking opens the gateway to a greater possibility. And rather than limit those possibilities to my own usual thinking I’m simply opening with the question.

Not expecting reward. Not demanding results. But praying to the open sky – and the loving spirit of the universe – removes the burden of having to do anything my way. All I have to do is open and trust that I will understand.

Navigating the Traffic of Life

In my coaching I use the analogy of traffic lights to illustrate how we might move through life with grace.

Some people rush through life as though red lights were a personal challenge. They think they’re outrunning danger by never slowing down — like someone racing home before the consequences catch up. Others never take their foot off the brake, as though they’ve forgotten the point of being in traffic in the first place is to move toward a destination. They inch from red to cautious yellow but never relax into the open, fluid travel that makes for a joyful life.

Neither approach is particularly graceful. Neither is mindful.

If we want to travel through life with fluidity, we need both mindfulness and awareness. Mindfulness pays attention to what we are doing right now. Awareness senses where we’re headed and what lives at the edges of our experience. The cooperative interplay between the specificity of mindfulness and the expansiveness of awareness is exactly what we train for in meditation practice. And it’s transferable to life.

Mindfulness without awareness can become narrow and dutiful. We focus so closely on the task at hand that we lose sight of the larger landscape. Awareness without mindfulness can become ungrounded — expansive but drifting, easily pulled off course.

What we’re cultivating is balance. A cooperative relationship between grounding and spaciousness. I like to think of their union as mindful awareness — attentive to the point we occupy while conscious of the flow surrounding it.

We often talk about developing flow in life. But what about danger?

When something feels off, that’s often a yellow light — not red. Yellow means slow down. Pay attention. For example, if someone we’re dating is harsh toward children or animals, that’s a signal to pause and look more closely. A red light would be something unmistakable — physical abuse, clear harm. Red means stop.

Yellow is different. Yellow is dropping into a lower gear while climbing a steep hill. You’re still moving — just carefully, consciously, with heightened awareness.

The problem is that some of us live as though every light is red. Or we forget to shift back up once the hill has leveled out.

Traveling carefully through perceived danger requires discernment. But when the road opens, we must allow ourselves to move freely again. Green means go. It means trust the conditions. It means flow.

This is especially true in relationships. Sometimes we need to slow down, let go of our personal momentum, and resynchronize with our partner. But we cannot live forever in repair mode. We cannot make a home at the yellow light.

A common pattern I see in clients is that their relationship becomes a series of red lights. All complaint. All caution. All obstruction. So they go elsewhere to find green — work, hobbies, friendships, even fantasy. Inside the relationship, they believe there’s no open road left.

But there is almost always some way forward. The question is whether we can find it together. That may require slowing down first — synchronizing — before gently pressing the gas again.

This is true with our relationship with ourselves. We may find places in our body, heart and mind that we are stuck. Places we just don’t want to go. Shadows in the mind, create blockages in our body, that manifest as limitations in life. Sometimes the red lights in life have their roots from red lights in our mind. We can run the lights, pushing past our doubts, with eyes on a supposed destination. But this is a disregard for our actual experience. The experience we need to learn.

Patience is so important. Finding the gentle perseverance to keep moving forward one step at a time, one day at a time, and stopping to synchronize as we need. But always remembering to allow ourselves to move forward.