The Story of a River

Thich Nhat Hanh

Born on the top of a mountain, the little spring dances her way down. The stream of
water sings as she travels. She wants to go fast. She is unable to go slowly. Running,
rushing, is the only way, maybe even flying. She wants to arrive. Arrive where? Arrive
at the ocean. She has heard of the deep, blue , beautiful ocean. To become one with
the ocean, that is what she wants.

Coming down to the plains, she grows into a young river. Winding her way through the beautiful meadows,
she has to slow down. " Why can't I run the way I could when I was a creek? I want to reach the deep, blue
ocean. If I continue this slowly, how will I ever arrive there at all?" As a creek, she was not happy with
what she was, she really wanted to grow
into a river.

But, as a river, she does not feel happy either. She cannot bear to slow down.

Then, as she slows down, the young river begins to notice the beautiful clouds reflected in her water. They
are of different colors and shapes floating in the sky, and they seem to be free to go anywhere they please.
Wanting to be like a cloud, she begins to chase after the clouds, one after another. " I am not happy as a
river. I want to be like you, or I shall suffer. Life is really not worth living". So the river begins to play the
game. She chases after clouds. She learns to laugh and cry. But the clouds do not stay in one place for very
long. "They reflect themselves in my water, but then they leave. No cloud
seems to be faithful. Every cloud I know has left me. No cloud has ever brought me satisfaction or
happiness. I hate their betrayal. The excitement of chasing after the clouds is not worth the sufferingand
despair".

One afternoon, a strong wind carried all the clouds away. The sky became desperately empty. There were
no more clouds to chase after. Life became empty for the river. She was so lonely she didn't want to live
anymore. But how could a river die? From something you become nothing? From someone, you become on
one? Is it possible? During the night, the river went back to herself. She could not sleep. She listened to
her own cries, the lapping of her water against the shore. This was the first time she had ever listened to
herself deeply, and in doing so, she discovered something very important:
her water was made of clouds. She had been chasing after clouds and she did not know that the clouds were
her own nature. The river realized that the object of her search was within her. She touched
peace. Suddenly, she could stop. She no longer felt the need to run after something outside herself. She
was already what she wanted to become. The peace she experienced was truly gratifying and brought her a
deep rest, a deep sleep.

When the river woke up the next morning, she discovered something new and wonderful reflected in her
water - the blue sky. "How deep it is, how calm. The sky is immense, stable, welcoming and utterly
free". It seemed impossible to believe that this was the first time the river ever reflected the sky in her
water. But that is true, because in the past, she was
interested only in the clouds, and she never paid attention to the sky. No cloud could ever leave the
sky. She knew that the clouds were there, hidden somewhere in the blue sky. The sky must contain within
itself all the clouds and waters. Clouds seem impermanent, but the sky is always there as the faithful home
of all the clouds.

Touching the sky, the river touched stability. She touched the ultimate. In the past, she had only touched the
coming, going, being, and nonbeing of the clouds. Now she was able to touch the home of all coming,
going, being, and nonbeing. No one could take the sky out of her water anymore. How wonderful it was to
stop and touch! The stopping and touching
brought her true stability and peace. She had arrived home.
That afternoon, the wind ceased to blow. The clouds came back one by one.. The river had become
wise. She was able to welcome each cloud with a smile. The clouds of many colors and shapes seemed to
be the same, but then again they were no longer the same for the river. She did not feel the need to possess
or chase after any particular cloud. She smiled
to each cloud with equanimity and loving kindness. She enjoyed their reflections in her water. But when
they drifted away, the river did not feel deserted.She waved to them, saying "Goodbye. Have a nice
journey." She was no longer bound to any of the clouds. The day was a happy one. That night, when the
river calmly opened up her heart to the sky, she received the most wonderful image ever reflected in her
water - a beautiful full moon, a moon so bright, so refreshing, smiling.

All space seem to be there for the enjoyment of the moon, and she looked utterly free. The river reflected
the moon in her water and enjoyed the same freedom and happiness.

The full moon of the Buddha travels in the sky of utmost emptiness. If the rivers of living beings are calm
the refreshing moon will reflect beautifully in their water.

What a wonderful festive night for everyone - sky, clouds, moon, stars, and water. In the boundless peace,
sky, clouds, moon, stars, and water enjoyed walking in meditation together. They walked with no need to
arrive anywhere, not even the ocean. The could just be happy in the present moment. The river did not need
to arrive at the ocean to become
water. She knew she was water by nature and at the same time a cloud, the moon, the sky, the stars , and
the snow. Why should she run away from herself? Who speaks of a river as not flowing? A river does flow,
yes.

But she does not need to rush.

~ Thich Nhat Hanh, "Teachings on Love"

Sounds True, 1996
The Insight
The Insight that Brings Us to the Other Shore
Thich Nhat Hanh's new
interpretation/translation of the Heart
Sutra
followed by his commentary on why the
new version was needed
Thich Nhat Hanh's New Translation
Avalokiteshvara
while practicing deeply with
the Insight that Brings Us to the Other Shore,
suddenly discovered that
all of the five Skandhas are equally empty,
and with this realisation
he overcame all Ill-being.
“Listen Sariputra,
this Body itself is Emptiness
and Emptiness itself is this Body.
This Body is not other than Emptiness
and Emptiness is not other than this Body.
The same is true of Feelings,
Perceptions, Mental Formations,
and Consciousness.
“Listen Sariputra,
all phenomena bear the mark of Emptiness;
their true nature is the nature of
no Birth no Death,
no Being no Non-being,
no Defilement no Purity,
no Increasing no Decreasing. “That is why in Emptiness,
Body, Feelings, Perceptions,
Mental Formations and Consciousness
are not separate self entities.
The Eighteen Realms of Phenomena
which are the six Sense Organs,
the six Sense Objects,
and the six Consciousnesses
are also not separate self entities.
The Twelve Links of Interdependent Arising
and their Extinction
are also not separate self entities.
Ill-being, the Causes of Ill-being,
A More Traditional Translation- fr
Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva
when practicing deeply
the Prajna Paramita
perceives that
all five skandhas are empty
and is saved from all suffering and dis
Shariputra,
form does not differ from emptiness,
emptiness does not differ from form.
That which is form is emptiness,
that which is emptiness form.
The same is true of feelings,
perceptions, impulses, consciousness.
Shariputra,
all dharmas are marked with emptiness
they do not appear or disappear,
are not tainted or pure,
do not increase or decrease.
Therefore, in emptiness no form, no fe
perceptions, impulses, consciousness.
No eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue, n
no color, no sound, no smell, no taste,
no object of mind;
no realm of eyes
and so forth until no realm of mind con
No ignorance and also no extinction of
and so forth until no old age and death
and also no extinction of them.
No suffering, no origination,
no stopping, no path, no cognition,
also no attainment
With nothing to attain.
The Insight
the End of Ill-being, the Path, The Bodhisattva depends on Prajna Pa
insight and attainment, and the mind is no hindrance;
are also not separate self entities. without any hindrance no fears exist.
Far apart from every perverted view on
Whoever can see this
no longer needs anything to attain. Bodhisattvas who practice
the Insight that Brings Us to the Other Shore
see no more obstacles in their mind,
and because there In the three worlds
are no more obstacles in their mind, all Buddhas depend on Prajna Paramita
they can overcome all fear, and attain Anuttara Samyak Sambodhi
destroy all wrong perceptions
and realize Perfect Nirvana.
Therefore know that Prajna Paramita
“All Buddhas in the past, present and future is the great transcendent mantra,
by practicing is the great bright mantra,
the Insight that Brings Us to the Other Shore is the utmost mantra,
are all capable of attaining is the supreme mantra
Authentic and Perfect Enlightenment. which is able to relieve all suffering
and is true, not false.
“Therefore Sariputra,
it should be known that
the Insight that Brings Us to the Other Shore So proclaim the Prajna Paramita mantr
is a Great Mantra, proclaim the mantra which says:
the most illuminating mantra,
the highest mantra,
a mantra beyond compare, gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi s
the True Wisdom that has the power gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi s
to put an end to all kinds of suffering. gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi s

Therefore let us proclaim

a mantra to praise
the Insight that Brings Us to the Other Shore.

Gate, Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi Svaha!

Gate, Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi Svaha!
Gate, Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi Svaha!”

The reasons for a new translation

Thay’s message of explanation to his students, translated from the Vietnamese. Thay wrote this
text on the 22nd August 2014, after completing his very first translation draft in Vietnamese.

Dear Family,
Thay needs to make this new translation of the Heart Sutra because the patriarch who originally
compiled the Heart Sutra was not sufficiently skilful enough with his use of language. This has
resulted in much misunderstanding for almost 2,000 years.
Thay would like to share with you two stories: the story of a novice monk who paid a visit to a Zen
master, and the story of a Bhikkhu who came with a question to the Eminent Master Tue Trung.

1 In the first story, the Zen master asked the novice monk:
“Tell me about your understanding of the Heart sutra.” The novice monk joined his palms and
The Insight
replied:
“I have understood that the five skandhas are empty. There are no eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body
or mind; there are no forms, sounds, smells, tastes, feelings, or objects of mind; the six
consciousnesses do not exist, the eighteen realms of phenomena do not exist, the twelve links of
dependent arising do not exist, and even wisdom and attainment do not exist.”
“Do you believe what it says?”
“Yes, I truly believe what it says.” “Come closer to me,” the Zen master instructed the novice
monk. When the novice monk drew near, the Zen master immediately used his thumb and index
finger to pinch and twist the novice’s nose.
In great agony, the novice cried out “Teacher! You’re hurting me!” The Zen master looked at the
novice. “Just now you said that the nose doesn’t exist. But if the nose doesn’t exist then what’s
hurting?”

2 The Eminent Master Tue Trung was a lay Zen master who had once served as the mentor for
the young King Tran Nhan Tong, in 13th Century Vietnam. One day, a Bhikkhu paid him a visit to
ask him about the Heart Sutra. “Respected Eminent Master, what does the phrase ‘form is
emptiness, emptiness is form,’ really mean?”
At first the Eminent Master remained silent. And then, after a while, he asked:
“Bhikkhu, do you have a body?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then, why do you say that the body does not exist?” The Eminent Master then continued, “Do
you think that in empty space there is form?”
“No, I do not see that there is form.”
“Then why do you say that emptiness is form?” The Bhikkhu stood up, bowed, and went on his
way. But the Master summoned him back in order to recite to him the following gatha:
Form is emptiness, emptiness is form,
is a skillful means created temporarily by the Buddhas of the three times.
Emptiness is not form, form is not emptiness
Their nature is always pure and illuminating,
neither caught in being nor in non-being.

In this story the Eminent Master Tue Trung seems to contradict the Heart Sutra and challenge the
sacred formula ‘form is emptiness and emptiness is form,’ considered inviolable in the
Prajñāpāramitā literature. Thay believes that the Eminent Master went too far. The Master was not
able to see that the mistake doesn’t rest in the formula, ‘form is emptiness’ rather, it resides in the
unskillfulness of the line, ‘Therefore in emptiness there is no form.’ According to Thay, the way in
which words are used in the Heart Sutra, right from the beginning up to the line: ‘no birth, no
death, not defiled, not immaculate, not increasing, nor decreasing,’ is already perfect. Thay’s only
regret is that the patriarch who recorded the Heart Sutra did not add the four words ‘no being, no
non-being’ immediately after the four words ‘no birth, no death,’ because these four words would
help us transcend the notion of being and non-being, and we would no longer get caught in such
ideas as ‘no eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue…’

The nose of the novice monk is still sore, even today. Do you understand? The problem begins
with the line: ‘Listen Shariputra, because in emptiness, there is no form, feelings, perceptions,
mental formations, and consciousness’ (in Sanskrit:
TasmācŚāriputraśūnyatayāmnarūpamnavedanānasamjñānasamskārānavijñānam). How funny! It
was previously stated that emptiness is form, and form is emptiness, but now you say the
opposite: there is only emptiness, there is no body. This line of the sutra can lead to many
damaging misunderstandings. It removes all phenomena from the category ‘being’ and places
them into the category of ‘non-being’ (no form, feelings, perceptions, mental formations or
consciousness…). Yet the true nature of all phenomena is the nature of no being nor non-being,
no birth and no death. The view of ‘being’ is one extreme view and the view of ‘non-being’ is
another extreme view. It is because of this unskillfulness that the novice monk’s nose is still sore.
The Insight
The famous gatha ascribed to the sixth patriarch Hue Nang (Hui-neng), in which he presented his
insight to the fifth patriarch Hoang Nhan (Hung-jen), also expresses this notion and is also caught
in the same wrong view:
Originally, there is no Bodhi tree
The bright mirror does not exist either
From the non-beginning of time nothing has ever existed
So where can the dust settle? We can say: “A white cloud passes by and hides the mouth of the
cave
Causing so many birds to lose their way home.”

The insight of prajñāpāramitā is the most liberating insight that helps us overcome all pairs of
opposites such as birth and death, being and non-being, defilement and immaculacy, increasing
and decreasing, subject and object, and so on, and helps us to get in touch with the true nature of
no birth/no death, no being/no non-being etc… which is the true nature of all phenomena. This is a
state of coolness, peace, and non-fear that can be experienced in this very life, in your own body
and in your own five skandhas. It is nirvana. Just as the birds enjoy the sky, and the deer enjoy the
meadow, so do the wise enjoy dwelling in nirvana. This is a very beautiful sentence in the Nirvana
Chapter of the Chinese Dharmapada. The insight of prajñāpāramitā is the ultimate truth,
transcending of all conventional truths. It is the highest vision of the Buddha. Whatever paragraph
in the Tripitaka, even in the most impressive of the Prajñāpāramitā collections, if it so contradicts
this, it is still caught in conventional truth.

Unfortunately, in the Heart Sutra we find such a paragraph, and it is quite long. That is why in this
new translation Thay has changed the way of using words in both the original Sanskrit and the
Chinese translation by Huyen Trang (Xuan-Zang). Thay translates as follows: ‘That is why in
emptiness, body, feelings, perceptions, mental formations, and consciousness are not separate
self entities.’ All phenomena are products of dependent arising: that is the main point of the
prajñāpāramitā teaching. ‘Even insight and attainment do not exist as separate self entities.’ This
sentence is as important as the sentence ‘form is emptiness.’ Thay also has added ‘no being, no
non-being’ into the text. No being, no non-being is the deep vision of the Buddha stated in the
Kātyāyana sutra, when he offered a definition on right view. These four words, no being, no non-
being, will help future generations not to suffer from a twisted nose. The Heart Sutra was intended
to help the Sarvāstivādins relinquish the view of no self and no dharma. The deepest teaching of
Prājñāpāramitā is the emptiness of self (ātmaśūnyatā) and the emptiness of dharma
(dharmanairātmya) and not the non-being of self and dharma. The Buddha has taught in the
Kātyāyana sutra that most people in the world are caught either in the view of being and non-
being.

Therefore, the sentence ‘in emptiness there is no form, feelings…’ is obviously still caught in the
view of non-being. That is why this sentence does not correspond to the Ultimate Truth. Emptiness
of self only means the emptiness of self, not the non-being of self, just as a balloon that is empty
inside does not mean that the balloon does not exist. The same is true with the emptiness of
dharma: it only means the emptiness of all phenomena and not the non-existence of phenomena.
It is like a flower that is made only of non-flower elements. The flower is empty of a separate
existence, but that doesn’t mean that the flower is not there. The Heart Sutra made a late
appearance at a time when Tantric Buddhism had begun to flourish. The patriarch who compiled
the Heart Sutra wanted to encourage followers of Tantric Buddhism to practice and recite the
Heart Sutra, so that’s why he presented the Heart Sutra as a kind of mantra. This was also a
skillful means. Thay has used the phrase, ‘The Insight that Brings Us to the Other Shore,’ because
in the mantra there is the expression pāragate which means ‘gone over to the other shore, the
shore of wisdom’. Pārāyana and pāramitā have both been translated as ‘crossing over to the other
shore.’ In the Sutta Nipāta there is a chapter called Pārāyana which has also been translated as
‘crossing over to the other shore.’
The Insight
Dear Family, I hope you enjoy practicing the new version of the Heart Sutra in English. We have
an English translation and Br. Phap Linh is in the process of composing the music for the new
chant. The next edition of the Chanting Book will include this new translation. Yesterday, on the
21st of August, after finishing the translation at around 3a.m., a moon ray penetrated Thay’s
room.

With love and trust,

Your Teacher
Impermanence

Thich Nhat Hahn’s response to a child’s question:

“Why do we have to die one day?”
The following is an excerpt from "The Mindfulness Bell”, #31.

"Imagine there is only birth, no death. One day there will be hardly any place to stand on earth. To die
means to leave the place for our children. And who are our children? Our children are ourselves. Our
children are our new manifestations. The son is the continuation of the father. The father looking at his son
has the feeling that he will not die because his son is there to continue him. Looking like that you see that
you are not dying, you are continuing in your son. And your son is not dying because he is continued in the
grandson and so on. Buddhist meditation helps us to look deeply to see that there is no real dying only
continuation in different forms.

Look at the cloud in the sky. The cloud may be afraid of dying. But there is a time when the cloud has to be
transformed into rain and to fall down. But that is not really dying. That is changing form. The cloud
changes into the rain and the cloud continues in the rain. If you look deeply into the rain you can see the
cloud. There is no real dying. You continue to be in many other forms. The cloud can continue in the form
of snow, in the form of rain, in the form of a river, or in the form of ice. One day the cloud can become ice
cream. If the cloud does not die, how can we have ice cream to eat?. . .

You know that death is very important for birth, for our continuation. In our body there are many cells that
die every minute in order to leave space for new cells to be born. Birth and death take place every minute
in our body. If there is no death it is impossible for us to continue in our body. That is why birth and death
are linked to each other. Birth gives rise to death and death gives rise to birth. If we cry every time one of
our cells dies we will not have enough tears left. If every time one of our cells dies we organize a funeral
then we will spend all our time organizing funerals. That is why we have to see that birth and death take
place every moment in us. That is why the role of death is very important... looking deeply you don't see
birth and death, you see a continuation."

Impermanence
Nothing remains the same for two consecutive moments. Heraclitus said we can never bathe twice in the
same river. Confucius, while looking at a stream, said, "It is always flowing, day and night." The Buddha
implored us not just to talk about impermanence, but to use it as an instrument to help us penetrate deeply
into reality and obtain liberating insight. We may be tempted to say that because
things are impermanent, there is suffering. But the Buddha encouraged us to look again. Without
impermanence, life is not possible. How can we transform our suffering if things are not impermanent? How
can our daughter grow up into a beautiful young lady? How can the situation in the world improve? We
need impermanence for social justice and for hope.

If you suffer, it is not because things are impermanent. It is because you believe things are permanent.
When a flower dies, you don't suffer much, because you understand that flowers are impermanent. But you
cannot accept the impermanence of your beloved one, and you suffer deeply when she passes away.

If you look deeply into impermanence, you will do your best to make her happy right now. Aware of
impermanence, you become positive, loving and wise. Impermanence is good news. Without
impermanence, nothing would be possible. With impermanence, every door
is open for change. Impermanence is an instrument for our liberation
Fear of Silence

Fear of Silence
While we can connect to others more readily than ever before, are we losing our connection to
body and mind? A Zen master thinks so, and offers a nourishing conscious breathing practice as a
remedy.
I have the impression that many of us are afraid of silence. We’re always taking in
something—text, music, radio, television, or thoughts—to occupy the space. If
quiet and space are so important for our happiness, why don’t we make more
room for them in our lives.

One of my longtime students has a partner who is very kind, a good listener, and
not overly talkative; but at home her partner always needs to have the radio or TV
on, and he likes a newspaper in front of him while he sits and eats his breakfast.

I know a woman whose daughter loved to go to sitting meditation at the local Zen
temple and encouraged her to give it a try. The daughter told her, “It’s really easy,
Mom. You don’t have to sit on the floor; there are chairs available. You don’t have
to do anything at all. We just sit quietly.” Very truthfully the woman replied, “I
think I’m afraid to do that.”

Related: Why We Shouldn’t Be Afraid of Suffering

We can feel lonely even when we’re surrounded by many people. We are lonely
together. There is a vacuum inside us. We don’t feel comfortable with that
vacuum, so we try to fill it up or make it go away. Technology supplies us with
many devices that allow us to “stay connected.” These days, we are always
“connected,” but we continue to feel lonely. We check incoming e-mail and social
media sites multiple times a day. We e-mail or post one message after another.
We want to share; we want to receive. We busy ourselves all day long in an effort
to connect.

What are we so afraid of? We may feel an inner void, a sense of isolation, of
sorrow, of restlessness. We may feel desolate and unloved. We may feel that we
lack something important. Some of these feelings are very old and have been with
us always, underneath all our doing and our thinking. Having plenty of stimuli
makes it easy for us to distract ourselves from what we’re feeling. But when there
is silence, all these things present themselves clearly.

Practice: Nourishing

When feeling lonely or anxious, most of us have the habit of looking for
distractions, which often leads to some form of unwholesome consumption—
whether eating a snack in the absence of hunger, mindlessly surfing the Internet,
going on a drive, or reading. Conscious breathing is a good way to nourish body
and mind with mindfulness. After a mindful breath or two, you may have less
desire to fill yourself up or distract yourself. Your body and mind come back
Fear of Silence
together and both are nourished by your mindfulness of breathing. Your breath
will naturally grow more relaxed and help the tension in your body to be released.

Related: Dropping Distraction

Coming back to conscious breathing will give you a nourishing break. It will also
make your mindfulness stronger, so when you want to look into your anxiety or
other emotions you’ll have the calm and concentration to be able to do so.

Guided meditation has been practiced since the time of the Buddha. You can
practice the following exercise when you sit or walk. In sitting meditation, it’s
important for you to be comfortable and for your spine to be straight and relaxed.
You can sit on a cushion with your legs crossed or on a chair with your feet flat on
the floor. With the first in-breath, say the first line of the meditation below
silently to yourself, and with the out-breath say the second line. With the
following in-and out-breaths, you can use just the key words.

Breathing in, I know I’m breathing in.

Breathing out, I know I’m breathing out.
(In. Out.)
Breathing in, my breath grows deep.
Breathing out, my breath grows slow.
(Deep. Slow.)

Breathing in, I’m aware of my body.

Breathing out, I calm my body.
(Aware of body. Calming.)

Breathing in, I smile.

Breathing out, I release.
(Smile. Release.)
Breathing in, I dwell in the present moment.
Breathing out, I enjoy the present moment.
(Present moment. Enjoy.)
♦
From Silence: The Power of Quiet in a World Full of Noise by Thich Nhat Hanh.
Copyright © 2015 by Unified Buddhist Church, Inc. Reprinted with permission
by HarperOne, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers. The book will be released
in January, 2015.

[This story was first published in 2014]

Walk Like a Buddha

Walk Like a Buddha

Arrive in the here and the now.

In the Lotus Sutra, the Buddha is

described as the most respected and loved
creature who walked on two feet. He was
so loved because he knew how to enjoy a
good walk. Walking is an important form
of Buddhist meditation. It can be a very
deep spiritual practice. But when the
Buddha walked, he walked without effort.
He just enjoyed walking. He didn’t have to
strain, because when you walk in
mindfulness, you are in touch with the all
the wonders of life within you and around
you. This is the best way to practice, with
the appearance of nonpractice. You don’t
make any effort, you don’t struggle, you
just enjoy walking, but it’s very deep. “My
practice,” the Buddha said, “is the
nonpractice, the attainment of
nonattainment.”

For many of us, the idea of practice

without effort, of the relaxed pleasure of mindfulness, seems very difficult. That is
because we don’t walk with our feet. Of course, physically our feet are doing the
walking, but because our minds are elsewhere, we are not walking with our full
body and our full consciousness. We see our minds and our bodies as two
separate things. While our bodies are walking one way, our consciousness is
tugging us in a different direction.

For the Buddha, mind and the body are two aspects of the same thing. Walking is
as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. But we often find it difficult or
tedious. We drive a few blocks rather than walk in order to “save time.” When we
understand the interconnectedness of our bodies and our minds, the simple act of
walking like the Buddha can feel supremely easy and pleasurable.

You can take a step and touch the earth in such a way that you establish yourself
in the present moment; you will arrive in the here and the now. You don’t need to
make any effort at all. Your foot touches the earth mindfully, and you arrive
firmly in the here and the now. And suddenly you are free—free from all projects,
all worries, all expectations. You are fully present, fully alive, and you are
touching the earth.
Walk Like a Buddha
When you practice slow walking meditation alone, try this: Breathe in and take
one step, and focus all your attention on the sole of your foot. If you have not
arrived fully, one hundred percent in the here and the now, don’t make the next
step. You have the luxury of doing this. Then when you’re sure that you’ve arrived
one hundred percent in the here and the now, touching reality deeply, then you
smile and you make the next step. When you walk like this, you print your
stability, your solidity, your freedom, your joy on the ground. Your foot is like a
seal. When you put the seal on a piece of paper, the seal makes an impression.
Looking in your footstep, you see the mark of freedom, the mark of solidity, the
mark of happiness, the mark of life. You can make a step like that because there is
a buddha in you—buddhanature, the capacity of being aware of what is going on.
There is a buddha in every one of us, and we should allow the buddha to walk.

Even in the most difficult situation, you can walk like a buddha. Last year I visited
Korea, and there was one moment when my group was surrounded by hundreds
of people. Each of them had a camera, and they were closing in. There was no
path to walk, and everyone was aiming their camera at us. It was a very difficult
situation in which to do walking meditation, so I said, “Dear Buddha, I give up,
you walk for me.” And right away the Buddha came, and he walked, with
complete freedom, and the crowd made room for the Buddha to walk; no effort
was made. If you find yourself in some difficulty, step aside, and allow the
Buddha to take your place. The Buddha is in you. This works in all situations, I
have tried it. It’s like encountering a problem when you’re using the computer.
You can’t get out of the situation. But then your big brother who is very skillful
with computers comes along and says, “Move over a little, I’ll take over.” And as
soon as he sits down, everything is all right. It’s like that. When you find it
difficult, withdraw and allow the Buddha to take your place. You have to have
faith in the Buddha within, and allow the Buddha to walk, and also allow the
people dear to you to walk.

When you walk, who do you walk for? You can walk to get somewhere but you can
also walk as a kind of meditative offering. It’s nice to walk for your parents or for
your grandparents who may not have known the practice of walking in
mindfulness. You ancestors may have spent their whole life without the chance to
make peaceful, happy steps and establish themselves fully in the present moment.

It is possible for you to walk with the feet of your mother. You can say, “Mother,
would you like to walk with me?” And then you walk with her, and your heart will
fill with love. You free yourself and you free her at the same time, because your
mother is in you, in every cell of your body. Your father is also fully present in
every cell of your body. You can say, “Dad, would you like to join me?” Then
suddenly you walk with the feet of your father. It’s a joy. It’s very rewarding. You
don’t have to fight and struggle in order to do it. Just become aware.

After you have been able to walk for your dear ones, you can walk for the people
who have made your life miserable. You can walk for those who have attacked
Walk Like a Buddha
you, who have destroyed your home, your country, and your people. These people
weren’t happy. They didn’t have enough love for themselves and for other people.
They have made your life miserable, and the
life of your family and your people
miserable. And there will be a time when
you’ll be able to walk for them too. Walking
like that, you become a buddha, you become
a bodhisattva filled with love,
understanding, and compassion.

WALKING MEDITATION PRACTICE

The mind can go in a thousand directions.
But on this beautiful path, I walk in peace.
With each step, a gentle wind blows.
With each step, a flower blooms.

During walking meditation we walk slowly,

in a relaxed way, keeping a light smile on
our lips. When we practice this way, we feel
deeply at ease, and our steps are those of the
most secure person on Earth. Walking
meditation is really to enjoy the walking—
walking not in order to arrive, just for
walking, to be in the present moment, and to enjoy each step. Therefore you have
to shake off all worries and anxieties, not thinking of the future, not thinking of
the past, just enjoying the present moment. Anyone can do it. It takes only a little
time, a little mindfulness, and the wish to be happy.

We walk all the time, but usually it is more like running. Our hurried steps print
anxiety and sorrow on the Earth. If we can take one step in peace, we can take
two, three, four, and then five steps for the peace and happiness of humankind.

Our mind darts from one thing to another, like a monkey swinging from branch
to branch without stopping to rest. Thoughts have millions of pathways, and we
are forever pulled along by them into the world of forgetfulness. If we can
transform our walking path into a field for meditation, our feet will take every
step in full awareness, our breathing will be in harmony with our steps, and our
mind will naturally be at ease. Every step we take will reinforce our peace and joy
and cause a stream of calm energy to flow through us. Then we can say, “With
each step, a gentle wind blows.”

While walking, practice conscious breathing by counting steps. Notice each

breath and the number of steps you take as you breathe in and as you breathe out.
If you take three steps during an in-breath, say, silently, “One, two, three,” or “In,
in, in,” one word with each step. As you breathe out, if you take three steps, say,
Walk Like a Buddha
“Out, out, out,” with each step. If you take three steps as you breathe in and four
steps as you breathe out, you say, “In, in, in. Out, out, out, out,” or “One, two,
three. One, two, three, four.”

Don’t try to control your breathing. Allow your lungs as much time and air as they
need, and simply notice how many steps you take as your lungs fill up and how
many you take as they empty, mindful of both your breath and your steps. The
key is mindfulness.

When you walk uphill or downhill, the number of steps per breath will change.
Always follow the needs of your lungs. Do not try to control your breathing or
your walking. Just observe them deeply.

When you begin to practice, your exhalation may be longer than your inhalation.
You might find that you take three steps during your in-breath and four steps on
your out-breath. If this is comfortable for you, enjoy practicing this way. After you
have been doing walking meditation for some time, your in-breath and out-breath
will probably become equal: 3-3, or 2-2, or 4-4.

If you see something along the way that you want to touch with your
mindfulness—the blue sky, the hills, a tree, or a bird—just stop, but while you do,
continue breathing mindfully. You can keep the object of your contemplation
alive by means of mindful breathing. If you don’t breathe consciously, sooner or
later your thinking will settle back in, and the bird or the tree will disappear.
Always stay with your breathing.

After you have been practicing for a few days, try adding one more step to your
exhalation. For example, if your normal breathing is 2-2, without walking any
faster, lengthen your exhalation and practice 2-3 for four or five times. Then go
back to 2-2. In normal breathing, we never expel all the air from our lungs. There
is always some left. By adding another step to your exhalation, you will push out
more of this stale air. Don’t overdo it. Four or five times are enough. More can
make you tired. After breathing this way four or five times, let your breath return
to norma1. Then, five or ten minutes later, you can repeat the process. Remember
to add a step to the exhalation, not the inhalation.

After practicing for a few more days, your lungs might say to you, “If we could do
3-3 instead of 2-3, that would be wonderful.” If the message is clear, try it, but
even then, only do it four or five times. Then go back to 2-2. In five or ten
minutes, begin 2-3, and then do 3-3 again. After several months, your lungs will
be healthier and your blood will circulate better. Your way of breathing will have
been transformed.

When we practice walking meditation, we arrive in each moment. When we enter

the present moment deeply, our regrets and sorrows disappear, and we discover
life with all its wonders. Breathing in, we say to ourselves, “I have arrived.”
Breathing out, we say, “I am home.” When we do this, we overcome dispersion
Walk Like a Buddha
and dwell peacefully in the present moment, which is the only moment for us to
be alive.

You can also practice walking meditation using the lines of a poem. In Zen
Buddhism, poetry and practice always go together.

I have arrived.
I am home
in the here,
in the now.
I am solid.
I am free.
In the ultimate
I dwell.

As you walk, be fully aware of your foot, the ground, and the connection between
them, which is your conscious breathing. People say that walking on water is a
miracle, but to me, walking peacefully on the Earth is the real miracle. The Earth
is a miracle. Each step is a miracle. Taking steps on our beautiful planet can bring
real happiness.
Write Concentration

Write Concentration: Using a Pen and Paper to Meditate

Writing down our thoughts can be a way to practice being present with whatever arises.
“How do I forgive?”

When I wrote this question in my notebook, I was practicing being present. I had
noticed my breath moving in and out of my body, felt the pencil between my
fingers, and heard the coarse scratches of the pencil tip on the page.

And yet, when I read this question a few minutes later, I made a certain kind of
discovery, one that felt both captivating and fresh: I am not who I used to be.

In recent years, I’ve been grappling with a difficult relationship in my life, and
many of the thoughts that had been emerging in my seated meditation practice
were the product of anger, heartbreak, and grief. These thoughts had become so
familiar and repetitive that it seemed like they had solidified into a permanent
understanding of who I was. But seeing the word forgive in the bright, wide-open
space of the page was a stark and unexpected shift in my inner workings. It pulled
me right out of the fixed impressions I had of myself and into a more uncertain
and open mindset.

Perhaps this is the power of writing as a kind of meditation practice: it is a

method by which we can make our thoughts visible. This lets us practice being
present with whatever arises during the experience of writing our thoughts down
and reading them shortly after.

Some may wonder if keeping a notebook or reading your writing is actually a

form of lingering in the past. Almost every time I finish writing and read my
work, I feel surprised by something I wrote down. This is a fleeting but powerful
experience that pulls me into the present moment. When I first read my thought
about forgiveness, I was shocked that it had come from my mind. It ran counter
to what I had been thinking and feeling for years. There it was, though, staring at
me from the center of the page in my own handwriting.

These moments of surprise—low-grade jolts that shake my mind out of familiar

patterns of thinking—loosely remind me of a katsu, or a shout, that some Zen
Buddhist teachers have used to startle practitioners into silence. Upon hearing an
unexpected shout from the teacher, the practitioner’s mind stops for a moment,
and time may even seem to stand still. While I don’t include shouting in my
writing practice, I do allow the sudden or unexpected to arise, as doing so can
bring about a deep immersion in the present moment.

When it comes to practicing writing as meditation, I find that there isn’t one
approach that works for everyone. However, one method that I enjoy is using
writing to notice everything around me.
Write Concentration
On a warm day, I’ll sit on a park bench and start writing about objects that are
large and nearby, like an ancient oak tree near the entrance of the park. As time
passes, I challenge myself to notice more subtle aspects, like the contrast of light
and shadow on the tree’s leaves or a broken acorn wedged in the sidewalk crack.
For me, this is a way to practice being present in the world, and recording my
observations makes me feel responsive and engaged.

This exercise is a different kind of writing than, say, this article, a term paper, or
an email to a colleague. When I record my observations, I prioritize awareness
and presence rather than productivity or accuracy. I write in a fluid and
continuous way; I don’t pause to reflect on an idea or edit a sentence to improve
my grammar. I just keep writing. The exercise, then, calls for honesty and a full
suspension of judgment and criticism.

This stream-of-consciousness writing can function like the practice of noting,

when a meditator labels a thought as a way of letting go of it. By writing an
observation down on the page, I shift its location from my mind to a landscape
that feels removed from myself. Seeing my thoughts on the page reminds me
that I am not my thoughts. I’m not my emotions, either, or my ideas. Instead, I
am a witness to all that moves through me, to my ever-changing nature, and to
the myriad ways that I am connected with the world around me.

During this practice, I also allow myself to shift back and forth between external
awareness and internal awareness, which can lead to unexpected results. The way
tree leaves filter the light might remind me of a park I played in as a child, and I’ll
find myself writing about the squirrels that scampered under the willow trees in
that park. Other connections that emerge may not be as direct: a cluster of clouds
on the horizon might prompt me to write about my boss, or a group of ants
feasting on a piece of strawberry beneath my bench may lead me to write my
older brother’s 1986 Pontiac Firebird.

In her seminal book Writing Down the Bones, writing teacher and author Natalie
Goldberg—whose books explore writing as Zen practice—discussed the benefits of
inviting these leaping thoughts and recording these seemingly strange
connections. “There is no separation between writing, life, the mind,” she writes.
“Your mind is leaping, but it won’t be artificial. It will reflect the nature of first
thoughts, the way we see the world when we are free from prejudice and can see
the underlying principles. We are all connected.”

I have a stack of old, weathered notebooks next to my bookshelf, but I rarely flip
through them. I don’t feel the need to. I wonder if this is a result of my writing
practice itself. I think I’ve become much more interested in letting the present
moment surprise me than allowing the past to pull me away. It still happens,
though, and when it does, I grab my notebook, slip on my shoes, and head to a
park bench or nearby cafe. If those aren’t accessible, I’ll sit at my kitchen table,
open to a new page, and let the vast, ever-shifting amalgam of myself unfold.
Write Concentration
Joy Is a Radical Act

Joy Is a Radical Act

Real happiness can be a powerful force for change, but we have to look inside ourselves to find it.
https://tricycle.org/trikedaily/joy-meditation/

Joy is a radical act. That’s not how people usually think about joy, which is
neither considered radical nor an action.

Joy, as we typically understand it, is passive and reactive; it’s caused by

something else. A new promotion, a “yes” to a marriage proposal, or a sudden
fortune makes us feel joy. Then with time, that joy fades into a dull memory. That
type of conditioned happiness is part of what the Buddha called dukkha, or
suffering.

But there is another type of joy, a much subtler and more sustainable joy that we
can uncover. This joy—which I will refer to here as innate or unconditional joy—
cannot be exhausted because it resides within us at all times, though it is often
hidden. No external stimulus can evoke it, but as we expand our awareness, our
joy is revealed to be increasingly vast and exquisitely infectious. This innate joy is
a radical act, because once we learn to recognize it, we can begin to toss aside the
everyday understanding of happiness at the heart of our culture as well as any
harmful systems that depend on or benefit from our underlying dissatisfaction.

As with many Buddhist notions, the subject of joy can be taken up

philosophically, or it can be understood through direct experience. Here, I will do
both. I’ll begin by discussing how conditioned and unconditioned joy look in the
world, and then I’ll lay out a meditation practice that can allow us to uncover
innate joy over time.

Sure, you may think, joy sounds great, but how, in a society founded upon the
“pursuit of happiness,” is it radical? The term radical typically conjures up the
image of a political extremist or a progressive revolutionary, but what really
makes something radical is the extent to which it challenges conventional
paradigms. In order to make a radical change, we first have to return to the root
of the problem: our fundamental understanding.

In this sense, supporting a political party or lobbying for a cause is not radical.
That doesn’t mean that both sides are the same or that activism can’t be
important, righteous, and noble, but when we fixate on our views and contract
into our limiting beliefs, we are accepting the underlying framework of the
conflict itself. A truly radical act, on the other hand, goes deeper, uprooting the
whole system of how we perceive ourselves in the world in order to start anew.
Innate joy does just that. It changes the game.

Finding unconditional joy is especially subversive in modern Western culture,

where the dominant paradigm equates happiness with conditional joy, which
often means material or social gain. I know that in my youth, the idea that inner
Joy Is a Radical Act
contentment could be cultivated was totally foreign. I looked for happiness the
way the people around me did—in things. Yet, no matter what delicious food I ate
or video games I played, a sense of hollowness and disconnection seemed to
follow me.

This experience is neither rare nor unique to our era. (During the Buddha’s time,
the dharma wasn’t exactly common sense. Otherwise his enlightenment would
have been no big deal.) But as our technology advances and makes the world
smaller, our conditional view of happiness is accelerating toward its ultimate
conclusion: if joy depends on consumption and the things we consume are
limited, then there is a finite amount of joy in the world and we must take from
others in order to have more for ourselves. Some systems try to redistribute this
commodified joy evenly, while others give a disproportionate share of joy to a
select few (who do or don’t deserve it, according to one’s worldview). What makes
innate joy radical is that it denies the basic idea that happiness is a zero-sum
game. Instead of joy being fleeting and dependent, it is revealed to be ever-
present and unconditional. By cultivating innate joy, we can turn scarcity into
abundance and undermine the whole economy of commodified happiness.

It is in this way that joy is also an act. We tend to only consider something to be
an act when it exerts an external force. And while joy can effect change, even
before it does, it is already an act—an internal motion that flips the proverbial
chess board. We place a disproportionate emphasis on figuring out external
solutions to the world’s problems, when it is just as important to consider how we
approach life from within. That said, a joyful person will be almost incapable of
keeping their compassion from overflowing, whether it is through charity or
advocacy or through subtler and smaller kindnesses in everyday interactions
(more on this in the practice portion). Joy is also an act in another sense: we need
to cultivate it. For most, inner joy is developed over time through regular practice.

If the notion of joy as a radical act sounds like an abstraction and idealism, let me
assure you that there are concrete steps that we can take to connect with this
deeper sense of joy. It is not only possible for every one of us—it is our birthright.
I learned a practice for uncovering joy from my teacher Tsoknyi Rinpoche that
remains an important part of my life. It is an exercise of allowing the feelings and
emotions in the body to be, without the pressure to immediately fix an
uncomfortable experience. This is a progressive method, in the sense that rather
than joy being a conditioned product, we uncover it through seeing our feelings
and relating to our inner habits more clearly over time. By connecting to our
inner life with kindness, we slowly begin to heal. Over time, we start to see that
our emotions are not as monstrous as we thought they were, and out of this
experience, innate joy can eventually be uncovered.

Here is a practice for getting in touch with this innate joy:

Joy Is a Radical Act
 Take your seat in a comfortable but attentive position. (You can close your eyes
to go inward, or, to stay more alert, keep them open and instead let your gaze
soften and fall to the floor.)

 Once you are settled in, we’ll begin with a mindfulness of the body meditation.
First turn your attention to your body and start to feel the sensations that arise.
Remain curious as you allow your awareness to shift to whatever feelings come
up, letting go of any previous thought or sensation as you pass into the next
moment. If you find yourself thinking about something, simply return to the
body. You are not trying to control, manipulate, or do anything special with
what is arising within the body. You are simply connecting with what’s arising
and letting it be with awareness.

 Eventually, an uncomfortable sensation or emotion may come up. Try not to

shove it down. Give it space to be, and allow your awareness to simply meet it
in the body as it is. Part of the process is attuning to our world of emotions and
sensations, and part is in offering the kindness of nonjudgment. For some this
may mean working through common fears that arise when meeting an
uncomfortable feeling. For others this may mean backing off of the practice
completely or working with a teacher, if the fear becomes too overwhelming.

 When you become aware of a particular feeling, you don’t need to do anything
special with it. Just watch and allow it to stay or go. You are not trying to get rid
of it, but you aren’t clinging to it, either. (Aversion and desire, of course, are
two sides of the same coin.) The core of the Buddha’s teachings lies in a passion
for discovering how things actually are—how the body, feelings, mind, and the
phenomena that we perceive function and abide. This includes meeting and
becoming aware of experiences that are not necessarily pleasant.

 As you sit with an uncomfortable experience, you may feel like you are moving
further away from joy. But as we come into contact with feelings that are
vulnerable or tender and let them be, we begin to see our suffering without bias
or shame and begin to meet it with compassion and softness. Instead of
banishing our unwanted experiences to the desert of a closed heart, we practice
offering them a gentle space to just be.

 In time, you may begin to experience what Tsoknyi Rinpoche calls “essence
love,” which is the root of our own innate joy. It’s not an excited feeling; it’s
more a sense of contentment, like being happy for no reason. Even though
nothing changes on the outside, a feeling of deep inner contentment can arise
internally over time. This feeling might be familiar because you experienced it
as a child, running around with an inexplicable joy and endless curiosity—being
just as happy to play with a new toy as the box it came in. (It’s important to
keep in mind, however, that with this practice, it can take time before one’s
innate joy is uncovered more fully.)
Joy Is a Radical Act
 The final step is to keep practicing. But once you begin to cultivate this innate
joy, you’ll be eager to develop it further.

As an inevitable consequence of developing innate joy, we realize that this feeling

that resides inside us also resides inside every other sentient being. The
cultivation of unconditional joy is inextricably tied to a capacity that we share
with all other beings—our buddhanature. This nature is unconditioned and
embodies our underlying capacity for freedom and interconnectedness. In other
words, when we see the value in ourselves, it’s easier to see the value in others,
and vice versa. Realizing this, we might find ourselves less willing to view people
within limited categories or to see the world as black and white. Our inner well-
being and joy feeds our compassion and our sense of our interconnectivity, which
in turn feeds our joy, creating in a positive feedback loop.

Related: Practicing with Gratitude and Joy

Here, the practice of cultivating joy moves into the other aspects of our daily life.
Imagine standing on a crowded train, packed in with strangers all pushing past to
get where they need to go. Immediately we may notice a doom falling over us as
we begin dreading the rat race or dwelling on the stresses of the work day. This
mood starts to pervade, and we feel physically squashed. Fortunately, we have
created a habit of turning toward the feelings in the body. Drop into the body with
kindness and feel what’s arising. As we meet our experience, we learn to greet it
with a smile rather than a scowl. We can then feel how we are connected with the
other riders and that we are not alone in our suffering. The contraction turns
outward. Rather than feeling isolated, there is the possibility to feel the
community around us, and that feeling radiates outward as an infectious joy or
through a number of subtle kindnesses—making space for other riders, letting go
of an argument before it happens. Or the feeling can spread through more direct
action, which now will be informed by a compassion that helps us discern
whether that action is skillful or simply a knee-jerk reaction.

It may seem strange to turn inward when there are so many external problems, as
though meditating in the mouth of a crocodile. But that is why joy is a radical act.
In the face of increasing political and social polarization, connecting with and
nurturing our inner joy is not just a matter of self-care but a matter of survival.
We have to return to the root of the problem, which is the mistaken belief that joy
can be hoarded, seized, or commodified when the fact is that real joy is
contagious. If we see that truth inside ourselves, we see it reflected in the world
and everyone who inhabits it. And when that happens, a common enemy is
difficult to find.