The Elixir in the Box

Dear Friends,

I have been on a lot of different spiritual paths over these last 50 years. I was baptized Methodist, and raised going to a politically progressive Presbyterian church. I discovered meditation as a teenager, sometimes considered myself an atheist, dabbled in wicca, and became a yogi. I attended Divinity school at Howard University, founded a yoga and mindfulness studio, and was ordained in a Buddhist tradition.

Wandering through each of these traditions, I discovered a lot of differences in the practices and yet all were leading to the same ineffable state known as enlightenment, nirvana, rapture, oneness, or simply contentment. Listening to the Buddhist nun Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo, I heard a useful metaphor for my experience: she said that we are all seeking the same spiritual elixir, but it resides in a multitude of boxes, each decorated with specific rituals and cultural practices.

Each box is both fascinating and familiar to us. We are most comfortable with the boxes we were raised with, but we can also be intrigued by exploring boxes from other cultures. Yoga, Buddhism and the African-American church may have been less familiar boxes, but I was always looking for the same elixir.

As Palmo also mentions, the elixir itself doesn’t appear to be very interesting, especially compared to the box itself. Contentment isn’t very exciting, so we often forget that it’s the real prize. But because we aren’t able to access the elixir any other way, we must go through one of the boxes. The Buddha described this same concept with a different metaphor.  He said that the only way to get from the shore of suffering to the shore of non-suffering is to build a raft and sail across.

What sometimes happens is that we get so caught up in the box’s beauty and ornamentation that we forget what we are really after — the elixir, the contentment, the joy. We can get caught up in meditating, doing yoga, going to services, or studying religious texts and miss the enlightenment in front of us in this moment. Or to use the Buddha’s metaphor: when we reach the shore of non-suffering instead of letting go of the raft, we mistakenly pick it up and carry it with us.

The practices, rituals, and cultural aspects of a spiritual path are the raft or the beautiful box from which we can arrive at the shore of non-suffering and find the contentment that we have been longing for. We need the box to get to the elixir and we need the raft to get to the other shore. And at the same time we need to remember that the box is not the elixir, and the raft is not the shore.

“It is often said that the Buddha’s teaching is only a raft to help you cross the river, a finger pointing to the moon. Don’t mistake the finger for the moon. The raft is not the shore. If we cling to the raft, if we cling to the finger, we miss everything.” — Thich Nhat Hanh (Being Peace)

When I find myself caught up in the activity or ritual of practice, such as practicing yoga just to be able to say I did, or trying to look perfect while sitting in meditation, I remind myself of what I really want — the core of all spiritual paths, the shore of non-suffering. And now and then, when I am able to let go of my attachment to the practice without letting go of the practice itself, I get a taste of that sweet elixir.  Ahhh.

with love, annie

Finding Comfort in Our Own Presence

Dear Friends,

The other evening I had an argument with my husband.  The argument itself wasn’t profound, but the topic raised some sadness in me about my life and forced me to confront change.  At that moment I felt sad about moving on from my role as caregiver to my four, now grown, children.  And I began to cry.

The history of crying in my life is a bit uneven.  As a young child I am pretty sure I cried the typical amount.  Because crying was about as popular as the plague in our household, I created a technique for myself that would prevent me from shedding a single tear in front of my family members.  I would repeat a mantra over and over in my head to keep me from crying.  I can only imagine what my face looked like in those moments — I’m guessing it wasn’t very pretty.  But it was damned effective.  The only time I cried was alone in my room, and mostly under the covers with a pillow over my head.

I wanted confort, but didn’t know where to find it.  When we were given an adorable cockapoo dog, Jocko, he became my crying buddy. Whenever possible, I would cry to Jocko, telling him about all my woes.  He seemed to listen with great care and tenderness.  The perfect comforter!  He would gaze at me with compassionate eyes, listen to every word, and never try to talk me out of my sadness.

As a young adult, I often shared a bedroom with others, so I developed the habit of hiding in the bathroom to cry.  Bathrooms are not the comfiest of rooms, but they were safe and I could run water to cover sobs when needed. At times I had a cat, but most of time he would flee at the first sign of tears.

As soon as I could, I brought dogs back into my life and continued to cry either to the dog, or if s/he wasn’t available, then alone in the bathroom. Being comforted by a dog isn’t exactly the same as being understood by a human, but it was the next best thing.

Last August, our oldest dog passed away.  For a few months we had our daughter’s small Havanese with us (who sadly wasn’t much more of a comfort than a cat), but of late we have been dogless.  So when I needed to cry the other night, I wasn’t sure where to go.  The bathroom I would normally use was too close to where my husband was sleeping. I started crying in my office, but that just didn’t feel right.  Then I remembered that my meditation cushion was quite comfortable and, though the room was cold, there was a space heater nearby.   So I wrapped up in a blanket, went into my meditation space, lit the candles on my altar, and lay down on my meditation cushion to cry.

As I lay there, I was reminded of the many times that I had sat on that cushion. I sat on that cushion when I was concentrated and I sat there when my mind wandered non-stop (which was much more common.)  I sat on that cushion when I was exhausted and dozing off, and I sat on that cushion when I was raging angry with myself or someone else.  And every time I sat I tried my best to stay present for the benefit of myself and all beings.  It wasn’t that I had been mindful all those sitting times — far from it — but I had been trying to be mindful and awake and compassionate.  It was my intention that I remembered and felt at that moment.

Curled up on the cushion crying, I began to feel held by that energy of intention which felt very much like the compassionate care of a dog or another being.  But because it was coming from me, that energy also had the ability to truly understand the sadness that I was feeling.  For one of the first times in my life I truly felt comforted and held in my tears.

To love, in the context of Buddhism, is above all to be there. But being there is not an easy thing. Some training is necessary, some practice. If you are not there, how can you love?  – Thich Nhat Hanh

As a result of this experience, I realized that we all have the ability to comfort ourselves.   When we sit still and really look into our deepest intentions for caring, we can see that we have the desire to care for ourselves and all beings.   Our deepest intentions might not always be obvious, but they are there.  We might have the intention to bring health to our lives, or to work in a vocation that helps others, to teach, or to be an example of mindful living through our own practice.   Marshall Rosenberg calls these intentions “universal needs.”  We all have them.     In Buddhism, this part of ourselves is called our Buddha Nature.  It’s the part that is already awake.  In other traditions it has other names.  Getting familiar with this part of ourselves can be a benefit to ourselves and those around us.  Because when we know this part, we know that even when those around us aren’t able to give us the comfort we need, we can always find it right here within ourselves.

with love, annie

Present Moment, Wonderful Moment.

Dear Friends,

Listening to a dharma talk this morning, I heard a term that I hadn’t heard before, yoniso manasikara.  It’s a Pali phrase from the Buddha’s teachings which usually translates as wise or appropriate attention and refers to what we choose to pay attention to in any moment.

Hearing about appropriate attention reminded me of something I read in Buddha’s Brain.  In that book, author Rick Hanson says that our brain learns mainly from what we attend to.  Hanson goes on to explain that our human brains preferentially pay attention to unpleasant, scary and difficult experiences.  If we don’t put any effort into our attention, we end up with a lot of anxiety and fear.  So what is appropriate to pay attention to?  What will help us reduce our suffering?

In the Buddha’s teachings, there are many references to yoniso manasikara. From my limited study on this, it appears that what he meant by appropriate attention was attending to the impermanence of everything that we encounter.  While that sounds like it would be really depressing, in practice when we pay attention to the impermanence of everything around us, we can find ourselves feeling more alive and grateful for the moments that we do have.  It’s like the teacher Ajahn Chah said about his favorite drinking glass:

“Someone gave me this glass, and I really like this glass. It holds my water admirably and it glistens in the sunlight. One day the wind may blow it off the shelf, or my elbow may knock it from the table. I know this glass is already broken, so I enjoy it incredibly.”

So the Buddha was teaching us how to counteract the human brain’s tendency to always be dwelling in anxiety about the future or ruminating on unhappy memories.  In essence it seems yoniso manasikara means to be always teaching ourselves this truth:  ”This moment is all I have and isn’t it amazing.”  Or, as Thich Nhat Hanh puts it, “Present Moment, Wonderful Moment.”
with love, annie

Like a Tree.

linden tree at plum village

Dear Friends,

Since my dog Gus died this past August, I have become more aware of our two fluffy cats.  One of them, Addie, is quite the princess (her kindest nickname) and doesn’t seem to care if we are nearby, or even whether we exist.

The early morning used to be the one time that she engaged me, loudly, because she knew that I was going to be serving her canned food.  But a few weeks ago I switched to canned vegan cat food (a macrobiotic mix of veggies and whole grains) and so now she generally ignores me 24/7.

One chilly morning this week, I went into my meditation room to practice and I closed the door behind me to keep in the heat.  A few minutes into my sitting, I heard someone pawing the door.  When she got no answer (I was trying to meditate) she upped the banging.  Pretty soon she was meowing, screeching, and finally resorted to swiping her paw back and forth under the door to get my attention.

addie with attitude

Since this was so out of character for her, I got up and let her into the room.  I assumed that she wanted me to get up and get her breakfast or fill the sink with water for her to drink.  I worried that she might disturb my practice by continuing to harass me once I let her in.  But she didn’t.  Instead she curled up quietly behind me, indulged in some badly needed fur cleaning, and just chilled with me.   I was surprised and delighted to have her sitting in the room with me.

That episode reminded me of something that Thich Nhat Hanh said when I was in Plum Village this past June.  He said that sometimes we can be there for someone without doing a thing.  Like when we sit near a tree and we feel that the tree is there for even though it doesn’t say or do anything at all.

When we sit down under a tree, we aren’t expecting the tree to do anything, but yet we still feel comforted just being there in its shade.  It’s the same with all of us.  It can be truly comforting and joyful to be with another being, in silence, with no agenda.

It’s a teaching that I try to remind myself when someone shares their difficulties with me.  I often feel like I have to say something or do something or even be something in order to help them.  But then I remember how comforting a tree can be, and I let myself off the hook.  Very often, being present for the other person (or cat) is enough.

The quieter you become, the more you can hear.  – Ram Dass

Some of you may have lost trees in this last storm.  And even though the tree didn’t make you dinner, didn’t help you move, or give you any good advice, you probably felt a loss.  That tree just stood by, and by just standing by, it provided some comfort.  Heck, the Buddha became enlightened while sitting under a tree is silence.

And when Addie curled up in the room with me, I realized that she was looking for that same kind of tree love and offering it to me as well.  She didn’t want water or petting and she definitely didn’t want her vegan breakfast, she just wanted to sit under my tree.  I know how she feels.   I love to sit near my friends and loved ones (even cats), and quietly relax.  Especially in the darker, wintery months, it sure is nice to curl up together with nothing to do and just be there for each other.  And in some ways, our quiet presence is the most precious gift we can give each other.

with love, annie