Category: Writing

Good and evil.

What cosmic narcissism to be the center of everything in the moral universe.  The classic trope of the good angel on one shoulder and the bad angel on the other with us caught in a struggle between ultimate good and ultimate evil. Many of us continue to live under the weight of these outsized beliefs.

I suppose this makes us feel important.

While the universe contains extreme temperatures and vast distances, there are no definable poles. Each point in the universe is equal to any other. Anything we measure is dependent on position. Good and evil, like all else in our universe, are relative to situation and circumstance. Nonetheless, relational binaries abound in our consciousness. They are ingrained in us as good versus evil, left versus right, wonderful versus horrible. We live squeezed between exaggerations, limited by beliefs with scant logic. I suppose binary extremes offer us a comforting sense of place. But they also imprison us in that place.

The problem arises when we turn these guideposts into solid truths. When we make our point of view solid, we end up judging everything by that imaginary metric. That point – which we come to believe is right – becomes a center by which the rest of the universe must confirm to. But just as cosmology grew from the belief that earth was the center of the solar system to an understanding of the inter-dynamics a complex universe, so our Buddhist path leads us from the limited view of our ego, with its opinions and prejudice, to understanding how we are a part of everything.

Buddha taught that truth lies between extremes. Or you might say everywhere between extremes. Calling it the “middle way,” the Buddha was turning us toward the idea of being present in life and trusting ourselves to do what is needed in the moment. The Twelve Step traditions refer to “doing the next right thing.” According to the Buddha, the next right thing is specific to the moment and its circumstances. Of course, this is predicated on clarifying our view. The role of meditation and the Eightfold Path is to train the mind to rest in the present, allowing clarity to dawn. That clear seeing disabuses our self-centeredness and allows us to see what is best for all.

The middle way is based on what is actually happening. We can point to the middle way each time we recognize an extreme belief. “This is not right,” we might say. But is that true? Are there opposing points of view? Is there nuance? What is actually happening if we strip away judgment? Then the next right step becomes clear. Buddhist thought suggests that our largest view — the view with the most room for ourselves and everyone else — is to be compassionate, open, and helpful to the world. That’s not dogma. It’s not absolute. It is a recommended direction. Then our provisional binary might become: “Is this next step leading me toward that view, or away from it?” This is a more practical binary because it relates to what we are doing in the moment, not to what everyone else should be doing.

In order to do this, we would do best to loosen our grip on needing to be right. The need to be right is a trap. My music, my movies, my politics, my religion, my point of view — these all feel like truths to me, but they are opinions. My opinions. You may feel differently, but sharing our differences openly, without coercion, is a great way to learn and grow. I don’t have to give up my feeling that the Beatles were the best band in order to remain open to understanding how much you love electronic dance music.

Once we let go of exaggerated extremes, loosen our judgments, and release the need to be right, we can begin to see clearly. But where are we heading? As with everything on the Buddhist path, we come back to the present moment. The next right step is one step. Frequently, this is all we need to do in order to reset. We catch ourselves rushing toward a conclusion, stumble, notice, and come back. Here are my feet on the ground. Here is the next step.

But where are we going?

Each step may lead toward or away from our destination. This is our provisional binary. But each step is not the destination, and the destination may not resemble the next step. We are remarkable beings. We can chew gum and walk at the same time. We can know where we are heading while still paying attention to the steps needed to get there. We can hold the larger view and let go of it enough to be here now. There is no contradiction in that.

However, it is important to remember that the steps are actually happening, while the destination is still unfolding. Or not. We make plans, and the universe laughs. So the destination is not holy. As Peter O’Toole says in Lawrence of Arabia: “Nothing is written.”

That means the path is open. And the warrior is brave enough to face it. In Tibet they say “Pawo,” which means brave. Brave enough not to be right, but wise enough to be accurate. The universe is a vast place. We can map out provisional, imaginary points to guide us, but we do not need the limitation of making them solid. We can stay open, keep our eyes ahead, and feel our feet on the ground.

This is walking the warrior’s path: open, available, holding on as needed to steady ourselves, then letting go, taking the next brave step and being present to support the life that calls us.

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.