The unceasing sound of mantra

A quick survey of the types of practice done in the most popular pilgrimage locations associated with the Indo-Tibetan Buddhist tradition—including Bodhgaya, Sarnath, and the great stupas of Boudhanath and Swayambhunath—would show that one of the most popular contemplative methods used in those locations is mantra recitation. A typical—and very widespread—example would be the hundreds and thousands of Himalayan elders engaged in the accumulation of the OM MANI PADME HUM mantra, fingering their prayer beads (malas) and often accomplishing a few hundred million recitations.

Although some Western (and Western-influenced) practitioners discount mantra recitation as either superstition or merely a convenient technique for keeping the mind busy, this colonial/reductionist interpretation can easily be remedied by looking into the inner significance of the practice. Inviting people to recite millions of these simple verbal formulas (often, though not always kept in their original Sanskrit form), the Into-Tibetan contemplative tradition describes a wide range of potential benefits that can be attained—benefits associated both with the mantra’s effect on the interdependence we exist within and with its ability to affect and transform our heart-mind energy.

The word “mantra” itself famously means “that which protects (tra) the mind (man or manas)”. On the foundational level, this protection simply refers to the mantra’s ability to keep us away from rumination: some types of mantra practice (used as basic level concentration techniques) literally instruct us to channel the mental energy into a never-ending repetition of a sequence of syllables.

Those syllables, in turn, have five levels of significance that all feed into the effectiveness of our practice:

1. Mantra’s interpretive meaning (for example, “Om! Jewel in the Lotus. Hum” for OM MANI PADME HUM), usually describing or inviting different facets of enlightened reality and able to inspire our mind

2. Mantra’s audible vibration, which affects anyone who hears, recites, or chants the syllables

3. Mantra’s ability to shape our breathing patterns, therefore affecting our subtle nervous system, or “subtle body”, and the flow of our inner energies

4. The inspiring energy (or “blessings”) that the mantra receives from the master or Buddha-figure primarily associated with it (for example, Buddha of Compassion in the case of OM MANI PADME HUM)

5. The inspiring energy that comes from numerous generations of practitioners using and realising the same formula, and from the of invisible community of practice that we belong to in this day and age

While all of these facets of mantra’s efficiency are important, they are never perceived in isolation—and neither is the practice mantra recitation itself, which, for the Indo-Tibetan tradition, is often discussed within the much larger domain of Buddhist tantric practice.

Within that context, one would first establish a certain level of mental stability, renunciation, altruistic love, and wisdom seeing the selflessness of all things. All those would then feed into an elaborate practice combining visualisation, mantra, and “wisdom”, or generation of certain mental states associated with profound types of insight.
This, however, does not mean that these advanced practices is where mantra recitation begins. On a popular level, strongly associated with the most common mantras (including OM MANI PADME HUM, or the mantra of Tara, or the mantra of Guru Rinpoche) chanting or repeating mantras is just a wholesome activity that can be done by anyone—anywhere, at any time, usually in conjunction with strong faith in the efficiency of the practice and a certain level of benevolence. It is not uncommon for the energy of the mantra to connect to our inborn qualities of compassion and wisdom, thus helping them flourish. Along those lines, Lama Zopa Rinpoche often quotes the example of his own mother, who, in addition to having developed very strong compassion in her lifetime (partly as a result of her great devotion to the mani mantra), was eventually reborn as a child with very strong and clear past-life memories.

The oral instructions I’ve received from a variety of masters usually combined these two sides: the elaborate profundity of full-form tantric practice, and the elegant simplicity of faith-infused nonstop recitation. “Full-fledged” mantra practice, leading to a realisation of the nature of reality, might take years and decades (if not lifetimes) to master; and yet, the simplest and most accessible mantras are always at our disposal, providing an easy way to soothe our mind, and, potentially, even positively affect the overall fabric of our personal interdependence.

In a way, the transformative power of mantra can be compared to the power of plant-based medicinal substances or of our breath itself—once our gross minds gets intoxicated (and therefore subdued) by the power of sincere recitation, more and more opportunities for expressing profound goodness emerge from within.

It’s our job to then catch those spurts of compassionate energy and use them for the benefit of all beings—exactly as the meaning of the foundational mantras (such as OM MANI PADME HUM) suggests.

To learn more about mantras in Indo-Tibetan Buddhism, you can read the following

What is a Mantra

Recitation of Mantras

The benefits of reciting OM MANI PADME HUM

Or try these guided practices which include mantra recitation

(Also available on Insight Timer)

Approaching Chenrezig with OM MANI PADME HUM

Golden Tara of Auspiciousness

Red Tara of Bodhicitta

Guru Rinpoche Guided Practice

Green Tara Meditation for Wisdom and Compassion

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“When I was about eighteen years old, I was in England and I had just “discovered” Tibetan Buddhism. I’d heard about the mantra, OM MANI PADME HUM. I assumed that we were supposed to say OM MANI PADME HUM all the time. I was working in a library, and I started saying, OM MANI PADME HUM continuously. Of course I couldn’t say it aloud because there were people around. But I started saying it in my heart. Within a very short time, my mind split and there was this quiet, calm, spacious mind with the OM MA NI PAD ME HUM reverberating within it, then there was this peripheral mind with all its thoughts and emotions. The two minds were detached from each other. Therefore I was able to carry on my everyday life more efficiently than before, because I was in the present all the time, yet with this detachment, this space in the mind. Whatever happened on the periphery was indeed peripheral. This gave great poise to my mind and the ability to exercise far more choice over my thoughts and feelings because I was no longer immersed in them. It was a great breakthrough for me.”

Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo, “Reflections On a Mountain Lake: Teachings on Practical Buddhism”

Calling out to Tara

This year has been filled with tragic losses, unspeakable evils, and dramatic escapes. At one point, just a few weeks ago, I found myself walking across a dark plain, moving towards the land border that I was trying to cross on foot in the middle of the night—hoping to do it before any escape would become impossible.

The nature of the situation was fascinating: I was alone (in more ways than one), under bright stars, and my thoughts went to all those who had recently experienced journeys that were much more perilous than mine. I also thought of those who were currently safe in their own homes—enjoying a sense of relative stability, but still subject to the invisible movement that takes us all to the ultimate transition beyond the rim of this life.

Walking in the dark, I was using my little electronic tally counter, pressing the button each time I said a short prayer that has become an integral part of my Buddhist practice in recent years. The prayer—two lines received in a visionary encounter by Dudjom Lingpa, a famous Dzogchen master from the 19th century Tibet—was directed at the female buddha Tara, whose name can literally be translated as “star”: a benevolent presence that guides us beyond the dangers of saṃsāra, both outer and inner:

Noble and exalted Tara, you know me.
Protect me from all fears and suffering, I pray.

Tibetans chose to render Tara’s name by relying on the meaning of the Sanskrit root “tra” – “to save from”; in Tibetan, she therefore became Drolma – The Saviouress, fast in action and stable in her boundless compassion directed towards all sentient beings.

Tara has numerous visual forms, expressing her qualities, and a vast number of associated prayers, mantras, praises, and practice text. The form most commonly invoked by most followers of the Tibetan Buddhist tradition , is that of “Tara of the Acacia Forest”, which came to be known as simply “Green Tara”—a peaceful and yet somewhat fierce female presence, whose right extended leg shows her willingness to get up and help beings as soon as they need assistance.

Green Tara’s color represents the element of air, or wind. Like the mighty Hanuman (Vayuputra, “Son of the Wind”) in the Hindu tradition, Green Tara is strongly associated with the movement of energy, and that movement—whether in some outer form or simply in our patterns of thinking—brings clarity, compassion, and peace. This is what I was thinking about while walking towards potential safety: how a fusion of self-compassion, common sense, and concern for others can take us through many transitions, hopefully bringing us to a “safe place to land”.

The winds that Green Tara represents are not limited to the dynamic events in the outer world, even though she is powerfully connected to those. Like any other meditative deity practice in Tibetan Buddhism, Tara meditations are believed to affect the interdependence that gives rise to our life experiences. As such, they determine where we find ourselves—essentially, where our compulsions take us. As Tara’s wisdom wind supplants the contaminated “karmic winds” that bring suffering, we might find ourselves acting for the benefit of others more and more often—while still gathering the types of support that we need on a personal level.

One of the earliest memories of doing Tara practice I have is reciting some of her root mantra, OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SOHA, before important exams. Over the course of many years, this trivial level gave way to a sense of Tara’s presence in every aspect of my life: not as a benevolent spirit hiding in the corner of my room, but as a symbol of my own buddha nature that expresses itself in multiple ways.

It’s not incorrect to say “There’s no Tara outside of my own mindfulness, loving kindness and wisdom”, since for us, Tara inevitably manifests in conjunction with these qualities, or as them. At the same time, many people find great inspiration in thinking that Tara—who is sometimes described as a trans-historical figure, with her own unique story of awakening—has eventually become an all-pervading field of enlightened energy that is available to everyone who needs help. After all, the simplest way to connect to Tara taught in the Tibetan tradition is simply using the vocative form of her own name—crying out “TARE” as we move through our own dark plains towards our own places of safety.

Some guided Tara materials for your practice:

Green Tara meditation for wisdom and compassion

Morning Meditation: White Tara and Loving Kindness

White Tara Meditation: Inviting the Elements

Red Tara Dispelling War: Yulle Gyalma

White Tara Practice for our Spiritual Mentors

EcoDharma Course: Connecting to the world to nourish and protect

These last few days have been filled with a lot of work, a process of gradual adjustment, and a lot of joy associated with all the support I’ve received from many of you and Dharma friends from all over.

Something I have also been exploring actively, as a source of support, is my contact with the environment, the elements, and the plants and trees around. This is a deliberate exploration that has been crucial for my mental wellbeing over the last 6 months. Although I expected myself to feel worse at times, due to the shifting environments, unclear prospects and being far away from most friends, actively attending to the natural elements has been a huge source of inner nourishment and stability.

This practice—or, better yet, this body of practices—is intimately connected to what is now more and more often referred to as EcoDharma. When asked what this word refers to, I’d say it’s a system of knowledge and practice that arises at the intersection of three questions:

• How can our contemplative practice support us in protecting the Earth, its natural world and its inhabitants?

• How can our environmental activism be a spiritual practice in itself?

and

• How can our contact with nature support and nourish both our mental health and the more profound insights brought about by contemplative inquiry?

I like to further simplify these questions into two points: how can we breathe out, offering something meaningful to the planet and the natural world, and how can we breathe in, enjoying our role as a part of natural systems. Both would be crucial for a meaningful engagement with EcoDharma: its in their balance that we are protected from both complacent nature-gazing that ignores the urgency of climate action and from the burning out that would inevitably happen if we failed to nourish our body and mind properly.

My own interest in this field of knowledge — a discipline that integrates multiple forms of practice and understanding, including that of systems thinking and deep ecology — arose in approximately 2017, when I spent my first few months slowly approaching the element-related practices preserved by the Tibetan spiritual tradition; some of those came from the lineage of Indian Buddhism and some were indigenous to the Tibetan plateau and preserved by the Bön tradition. This exploration kept slowly unfolding as I spent years teaching introductory classes on secular ethics, inevitably creeping into EcoDharma territory: indeed, one can’t imagine one’s ethical system to be comprehensive unless it includes at least some principles related to how we deal with the environment. As public awareness of the urgency of action kept increasing (even though its still infinitely far from an optimal level), so did the amount of EcoDharma elements I would try to incorporate into the humble classes I’d facilitate.

This Fall (starting in less than 2 weeks), for the first time, I am honored to present a course specifically on EcoDharma with the Tibet House US. This will be a joint communal exploration, rather than a transmission of some knowledge that is fixed in format and content.

Indeed, almost any element of any authentic Dharma – whether Buddhist, Hindu, Christian or that of any other tradition including secular humanism – can be used in service of our environmental work, and the process of contemplating that is something I want to initiate for all the participants.

However, beyond that, there are some key teachings of the Buddhist tradition — accessible to anyone, really — that can serve as a powerful source of sustenance in our work to rebalance our mind and become a more harmonious element in planetary interdependence. I very much looking forward to fine-tuning and exploring our practice of those.

EcoDharma work, like all socially transformative endeavours, is necessarily communal (while also personal), and in meeting for 6 sessions to explore some key topics and play around with some key practices, we are forming an intentional (albeit online / invisible) community that would continue to exist indefinitely—a community of people who care and are looking at the arising challenges with both spaciousness and a level of creative zest.

If that seems appealing to you, I am hoping that this course—and any future offerings around this topic—would bring you a sense of meaning and an experience of joy.

(On a side note, a humble invitation: if you know anyone who might be interested in this course/topic, please invite them — the more the merrier

Stepping Forth: Same Work, New Profession [An Open Letter]

Dear friends,

I would like to start by expressing my deepest gratitude to all of you for continuously supporting me on my path and in my humble activity. Whatever sparks of mindfulness I have been able to ignite in the dullness of my ignorant mind, and whatever benefit came about from my translating and teaching, could only arise in interdependence that includes all of you. I can only hope and pray that going forward, the positive aspects of this interdependence will be strengthened and the negative ones removed.

There will, however, be a large change for me in all of it from today onwards. Today, August 17 — on the auspicious anniversary of Buton Richen Drup (the compiler of the Tibetan Buddhist canon) — I have returned my monastic vows after exactly 9 years and 5 months of monastic training. That means that from here onwards, I am continuing my path in the role of a lay practitioner, translator, and instructor.

I can’t say I am telling you this with a “heavy heart”, but neither would it be fair to say it’s all light and bliss. A momentous decision of this caliber is inevitably accompanied by a lot of mixed emotions. Its root usually lies in the attempts to find compatibility between the way one feels inside and the way one looks on the outside.

Why do people return their monastic vows?

Multiple answers exist, since every situation is different. Just in 2022, I’ve seen multiple colleagues take this step, all in their own unique ways.

In general, it happens because we are all trying to determine how we want to be supported by the world around us and what it is exactly that we want to offer back. Some people want to serve in a different capacity; some want to get married; some start taking care of their elderly relatives, or working a regular job, and then see a change in their life perspective. In some traditions—for example, in Thailand—monastic precepts are often taken only for a period of time, either earlier in one’s life or to create the merit for a deceased relative. Of course, some people realise they want to do something completely different with their lives altogether.

Part of my own decision is exploring the topic of how I want to be held in terms of my own hedonic (or outer) wellbeing; another large part is exploring what I can offer to other beings and what would be the form most appropriate for me to do that.

Do people continue doing the same Dharma work after disrobing? Is that permissible?

One’s professional skills do not change due to returning one’s precepts, and neither does one’s level of knowledge. Whether one wants to continue doing the same work depends on one’s decisions and the type of work in question.

For continuing the work of translating and offering basic practice instructions—my specialty—there is no shortage of examples from both recent and more distant past. Some of my own primary teacher and mentors, along with the teachers I deeply respect—Tsoknyi Rinpoche, Jetsun Chime Luding, Dzogchen Ponlop Rinpoche, Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche, Gyatrul Rinpoche, Alan Wallace, Robert Thurman and others—are former monastics. Examples from slightly more distant past would, of course, include such luminaries as Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, Khyentse Chokyi Lodro, Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche and even the great and exceptional Khunu Lama Tenzin Gyaltsen (who, according to his extended biography, was a novice monastic earlier in his life).

The point of doing these types of work—teaching, translating, organising—is not whether one is a monastic; it’s whether one’s work is imbued with growing knowledge and attempts to continue becoming more mindful, even when we come across our human fallibility again and again. Part of that is seeing the dirt; another part is seeing the radiance of our Buddha nature. Trying to reconcile the mud and the lotus adds humility to the mix—one reason why I’ve never seen any real teacher, whether lay or monastic, claim that they have realised the fullness of the Dharma. It’s about incremental change and continuous attempts.

Will you continue doing the same types of work?

Yes: I will continue translating and interpreting in the Tibetan Buddhist context, and offering review classes, when appropriate. I will be involved in the book publishing business. I will continue creating audio and video content that might support people in their practice, whether Buddhist or secular.

I will also continue offering courses in the different modalities I have a connection to, including Cultivating Emotional Balance (CEB), and increasingly pursue the main reason I am now wearing green color—the interdisciplinary field of EcoDharma. That one, of course, lies at the intersection of our contemplative life, natural beauty, and the urgency of protecting the natural world on the basis of truly understanding interdependence.

Over these years, I have offered a very limited number of 1-on-1 sessions for practitioners who want to fine-tune their practice. That part of my work might also emerge more strongly as time permits; however, when I have to choose, I would prefer to work with groups since the number of people I can help at the same time is greater in group classes.

Another thing I’ve had to do as a monk is offer advice on corporate cultural transformation, usually around the topics of genuine wellbeing, mindfulness, or emotional balance. These types of work are also something I’m happy to pursue.

Since not much is changing about my work, I am still, at the moment, essentially a “free artist”: someone offering content, classes, practice sessions, and so on when the interest or the need arises and if/when the invitations come. As such, I am still gratefully accepting cups of tea (which, beyond actual tea, usually translate into food, books, and sometimes work tools).

Will you continue using the same name?

As a writer, translator, and content creator, I decided to maintain the continuity of authorship attribution by continuing to use my current name. That is not something unique to me; many former monastics in the English-speaking world retain their full name or at least parts of it (like my dear Dharma friend Tashi Mannox). Of course, no longer being a monk, I am in no way “Venerable” (not that anything about me personally ever made me venerable anyway)–instead, I’ll be using “Michael” as my first name, bringing the overall combo up to “Michael Lobsang Tenpa”.

Some people might prefer to continue using “Lobsang” or “Tenpa” (there was always difference in what different people found easier to pronounce), whereas some would simply go for “Michael”. I’m happy with any of these options—as such, they would not be deadnaming (which is often a problem when both ordaining and disrobing).

A somewhat comical additional note: what’s a good way to refer to me when talking to others? (Apart from “flop”, of course). If before you said things like “I’m listening to meditations from this Buddhist monk who…”, good alternatives would be saying “from this Buddhist translator”, “from this Buddhist meditation instructor” or even “this Eco-mindfulness instructor”.

A penultimate note, even more comical: despite wearing green shirts and green shorts, I would ask you to not try and set me up with anyone, and to not hit on me, either. For the first few years or decades, I’ll be too busy trying to do pushups.

A serious final note: I understand that this step might be disappointing for some people and absolutely “nothing special” for others. While acknowledging the potential impact, I can only continue hoping that my future work—largely similar in nature, but with a bit more greenery to it—will continue to bring some benefit, in the same way I’ve benefitted by some many who have gone before.

These last 9 years have been incredibly special; out of those, I have cumulatively spent 1 year in retreat and offered service and studied for the remaining 8. There were moments of frustration and moments of great joy, along with moments of intense learning. That learning now continues in greener outfits and with a tiny bit more hair.

Always grateful for the connection with all of you,

Lobsang

For the last talk I gave as a monastic, check out this video:

Four Immeasurables and the Tibetan Buddhist Path

Undoing the knots

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A metaphor I frequently use when talking about the transformative power of the Dharma—and the problems it can gradually lead us away from—is that of knots, whether in our perception, in our emotional habits, or in our very body. The latter is, perhaps, where this image first became a lived reality for me. Noticing the areas of muscle tension in my abdominal area, which is where I experience most of my worry and anxiety, made me consider other potential types of knots I might carry in my system, creating unnecessary suffering for myself.

I wouldn’t say that I choose to have these knots, either physical or mental, as if in an act of (imaginary) free will. It’s never the case that I step back from my lived reality, take an honest look at it, and then say, “Today might be a good day to have some entanglements in my mind and body! Let’s suffer!”

These knots come from conditioning, some of which, according to the Buddhist view, weirdly predates time and has no particular temporal beginning. An example of that would be our primordial belief in an independent self—the belief which lies at the root of all mental anguish. To quote one of my teachers, venerable Robina Courtin, it’s as if we were children drawing the image of a tiger and then becoming scared of it. We tie the knot of believing in a fixed, poor-quality self, and it then suffocates us.

This knot of self-grapsing—part of the basic mechanisms that condition me to suffer—would take a lot of time and effort to undo. Even when we can see the glimpses of reality behind and beyond it, it does not dissolve into complete openness overnight, and, for most of us, even in one lifetime. However, there’s still a promise of freedom, both in the long run and in each moment of connecting with the ultimate reality. I am very fond of a quote from the Secret Essence Tantra (in this case paraphrased by Lama Dechen Yeshe Wangmo):

Nowhere is there anything that can bind you.
Nowhere is there a self that can be bound.
So why insist on tying knots in space?

Other types of knots definitely have a temporal dimension. They are what I would associate with my gradual traumatisation in this life, in which painful events—or, rather, my response to them—keep tying up the threads of my emotional energy, making me more and more reactive and insecure. These knots gradually grow in number, hidden in my body-mind complex, all buzzing with the energy trapped in them. With that, my body, speech, and mind turn into what Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche calls pain body, pain speech, and pain mind: the same “three doors of action”, now filtering my energy so that it becomes something neurotic.

In one way, no difficult situation would just correspond to one knot—each stream of pain is a continuation of something in the past, a ripening of a previous seed, yet another note in the same discordant song. However, from another point of view, each situation, each temporally-located knot is worth attending to—with tender attention and healing methods that would lead us back to a state of greater openness.

Since our body, speech, and mind are indeed doors, internal knotting gets projected outside. When enough privileged people participate in its deluded dance, systems of oppression arise. Those, in turn, further hurt and further traumatise, keep beings away from access to multiple types of resources—and, above all, stealing the foundational right to exist and to feel like we deserve to exist. (In a step towards decentering humans we can notice how much other species are denied that right by the horrifying machine of colonial, capitalist, patriarchal, anthropocentric abuse).

What a joke: our attempts at finding happiness, so deeply misguided by the pull of energy that tries to contract around a sense of “me” (and around my privilege), hurt both ourselves and others. Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo notes:

It’s as if we are all tied up in knots, pulling in all directions trying to untangle ourselves. But because we don’t know how to disentangle ourselves, we just pull blindly at the knots and make them tighter.

What would the process of untying look like? Numerous valid descriptions might exist. A lay Buddhist yogini I deeply revere, Dipa Ma, once said that we remove all the quintessential knots (or fetters) by skilfully applying our awareness in each moment, cultivating the experience of insight. In a somewhat different wording, Tibetan masters of Tara practice (another passion of mine) explain that we undo these knots by reconnecting with the qualities of innermost reality—the reality that, for practitioners, can manifest as Tara in her multiple forms.

The common theme for most of these presentations would be that of reconnecting with interdependence. This is where the process of knotting up (and thus contracting and tightening) gives way to the process of interweaving (or interbraiding). The threads that make up my being and lead to my happiness won’t get ruined by being harmoniously interwoven with the life-threads of others—of course, as long as we try to keep ourselves relatively free of inner harmful knots (essentially, working on not being toxic to each other). In a harmonious form of interbeing, there would be an enhancement of creativity, wisdom, and joy: individual voices merge into a powerful choir.

Furthermore, the more I see how each of my own life-threads can fundamentally be seen as an immaterial ray in luminous emptiness, the less likely I am to be deluded about the nature of our interbraided live: interconnectedness ceases to feel like a prison and becomes the joyful reality to attend to. Greater freedom of perception leads me to a more ethical, non-violent way of life.

I find it fascinating that even in the modern Catholic tradition, so complex and multi-layered, the form of Virgin Mary that seems to be receiving more and more attention is that of Our Lady Untying Knots (highly revered, it seems, by the current Pope). Without going into an elaborate discussion of parallels and differences (and there are certainly many), I can only pray that the knots around our hearts get undone, and that our understanding of interdependence—consciously cultivated through practice and also naturally emerging from within—may support greater levels of freedom and joy for all beings.

And, of course, peace.

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“We have to be able to relax the psychic and spiritual cramp which knots us in the painful, vulnerable, helpless “I” that is all we know as ourselves.”

—Thomas Merton, Conjenctures of a Guilty Bystander

Stepping Forth

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Finding myself in Nepal due to the war—no clarity about the future (my own or anybody’s), no country to currently claim as my own—I am unwillingly contemplating the Medieval Christian concept of peregrinatio, “going forth into the unknown”.

Early pilgrims, traveling on their search for solitude, truth, and mystical glimpses into the great beyond, would leave their homes, sometimes in boats going out into the open sea, with no clear destination in sight. The hope, for many of them, was probably to find new places for contemplative practice. Some of them did: we know that from looking at the ruins on the Isle of Iona and other places originally inhabited by contemplatives.

For many, however, that search was simple a daring step into the unknown, beyond hope and fear: entrusting oneself to the higher force at play, or to the journey itself.

Thinking back to these early Celtic peregrinati going forth in their search for reality beyond “reality”, I am also thinking of my numerous friends from Ukraine, pushed out of the safety of their existence by a meaningless, horrifying war.

Even for those who did not leave their physical abodes, old reality no longer exists: it crushed and crumbled, like the planet of Alderaan touched by the deadly rays of the Death Star. Many had to take perilous journeys to the West (and in some cases, because of the threat of violence, to the East). Finding oneself in a temporary shelter and facing the challenges of being a refugee requires all the courage one can muster, and more. The question of “What am I?” is just as a real as “What would become of me?”

In different ways, that’s a question many of us Eastern Europeans face right, and will probably have to struggle with for decades in the future. A friend of mine described it as a total collapse of one’s identity, even the parts of it seemingly unrelated to the political events: those, too, get touched by the overall existential crisis. One then has to struggle with the perennial questions all over gain, even if some answers were previously available.

Being in Nepal is both a privilege and a blessing for those of the escapees (Ukrainian, Russian, and otherwise) who find themselves here: the bowl of the valley is so filled with anchors for the sacred that prayers for peace and searching for meaning are both easy to perform here.

Multiple monastic and lay communities here are still engaged in prayers for peace and harmony, and so are the individuals of different descent. Standing in front of the sacred images of Hindu and Buddhist origin, universally worshipped by local people, the refugee peregrinati pray: may the evil-doers be stopped. One day, when the conditions finally come together, may the hearts of those evil-doers be transformed; but for now, oh, may they be simply stopped.

I find myself amongst those doing these prayers, just like I did for months before leaving my home and my family. To them, I add my own more personal aspirations: may I always do what’s most beneficial. May I contribute to the healing of the world. May the things that I am good at, if they are of any benefit, be shared with the world without any obstacles.

Time flows in strange ways here in the valley: it is neither still, as the calendar months change and things get done, nor frenetic, like the dynamic flow of time in the West. Every bit of news seems to be a part of the broken record of saṃsāra, something that inevitably occurs again and again. War. Election. Virus. Mass shooting. Someone’s death. Someone’s wedding. Someone’s birth.

Neither aspect of time—its stillness or its movement—is in itself comforting or distressing. Comfort comes from knowing that the sparks of our compassionate wisdom, small as they might currently be, would one day contribute to something truly good—if not in this illusory reality, then in the next one, or in the great beyond that those on their peregrinatio journey were trying to find.

FURTHER LINKS TO EXPLORE:

Song: Sara Bareilles and John Legend – Safe Place to Land (Live)

Short Film: On the Road with Thomas Merton by Jeremy Seifert

An essay on peregrinatio: On the Road with Thomas Merton by Fred Bahnson

Equanimity: Is that even a word?

I wrote this short summary of equanimity practices for the Cultivating Emotional Balance newsletter (that you can subscribe to here). Below are two guided equanimity practices that I posted on YouTube a while ago.

In many ways, equanimity is still a novel concept for many of us, and even a novel word. Meditation teacher Sharon Salzberg recalls a story from her own first retreat in Bodhgaya. Every time the instructor, S.N. Goenka, said “equanimity”, members of the group would turn to each other and say, “Is that even a word?!”

Apparently, it is—a word loaded with meaning, and vitally important if we are to go beyond mere non-judgemental awareness towards an evenness of mind that has room for nuance and moral discernment (never at the expense of kindness, though).

We might define equanimity as a state of mind that is equally free from neurotic desire, aversion, and indifference.

In very simple terms, that means I’m less of a clingy vampire towards whatever brings me pleasure; less of a block of ice towards beings (and things) that leave me indifferent; and, of course, less averse to whatever I instinctively see as unpleasant.

The result? Less reactivity, less contempt, less regrettable emotional episodes. More kindness, more serenity, more patience.

There are many forms to equanimity, all of them important for establishing greater levels of mental clarity and balance. The word itself speaks volumes: many of us are, after all, aspiring for equal serenity, equalkindness, and equal wisdom in all situations, with regards to all beings. When this goal appears to be too lofty, equanimity comes to our aid again: how is this more intimidating than any other task to be accomplished by making one step at a time? As Śāntideva reminds us, there’s nothing that doesn’t become easier with habituation.

Depending on the object this attitude is related to, we can speak of equanimity towards experiences and equanimity towards beings. The latter form—impartial openness of our heart—is part of the four affective states that are an essential part of CEB’s contemplative curriculum. Different strategies for cultivating this state lead us through an analysis of our habits, wherein we establish greater openness (less clinging, less expectations) and a greater sense of kinship with all.

As we do this, we may grow more and more confident that everyone else is in the same boat—and that we can’t force them to conform to our expectations any more than they can with us. What we can do, though, is extend boundless radiant warmth by understanding our interconnectedness. When directed at our own experiences—pleasant, unpleasant and neutral—equanimity is compared to the earth that carries all with equal grace. For me, that means I can bear all that I’m facing—I can stomach my joys and be brave at the face of my problems. Equanimity can carry it all.

This type of evenness, cultivated through a combination of attention-training and insight practices, is the equal stability, equal spaciousness of mind: no habitual response of ours is too be trusted blindly, but all responses are respected as the beautiful play of our mind’s energy. With this equanimity as a basis, discerning awareness helps us make optimal practical decisions: wise and kind enough to perpetually serve as the basis for greater wellbeing, personal and social alike.

Ideas for practicing equanimity

On the cushion (formal practice)

Arguably, the most difficult aspect of equanimity is reducing our clinging to loved ones and the choices they make. When this just doesn’t seem to work and our expectations for our friends and family are as strong as they’ll ever be, try repeatedly entrusting others to something greater than yourself (depending on your personal beliefs): positive interdependence, God, Tara, ancestors, or basic goodness itself. Phrases like “Be blessed” or “Go in peace” can help in this extremely intimate process. Be brave and remember to be gentle with yourself!

Off the cushion (informal practice)

Try switching your view to that of the people around you—take 10 to 15 seconds to see yourself and the situation (including the material environment) through their eyes. While our understanding of what others are going through is usually very limited, what’s important here is learning to see everyone as a subject rather than a mere function.

Guided practice
Equanimity towards beings as taught in the Tibetan tradition

Guided practice
Equanimity: giving beings space