Tag Archives: buddhism

Mind Programs and The Dharma Operating System

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When you turn on your computer, do you have specific programs that automatically start along with the operating system?  Both the Windows and Mac Operating Systems let you select programs that will turn on immediately each time you boot up. In daily life, most of us have specific mental programs that automatically start as we get up and move into our day. Its unlikely we made a conscious decision to activate these programs and we may not even be aware of them, but they regularly influence our thoughts, emotions and our perceptions of who we are.

Even during meditation, these programs are often running stealthily in the background, affecting the quality of meditation. At times the programs may induce anxiety and restlessness, making it difficult to concentrate or cultivate presence on the cushion. One of the basic benefits of meditation is the enhanced awareness that allows us to see our hidden programs. Even for experienced meditators, however, the hardest mind programs to see clearly are related to self identity and the need to affirm that identity.

To work with these programs in meditation you first have to recognize they are running. If you regularly feel anxiety or restlessness on the cushion, for example, you may discover familiar themes playing out in your mind as you look more closely. Perhaps you are anxious about how you will perform on an upcoming project, maybe you’re criticizing yourself for not living up to your or someone else’s expectations or worrying about how effectively you’re navigating an important relationship in your life. These programs are related to our perceptions of who we are, yet they are not our  “dharma operating system.“ They are only a limited element of our consciousness, just as our favorite computer programs have no functionality without the operating system. Our mental programs are a byproduct of something larger, our great nature that sustains life and allows life to pass away.

Your identity needn’t be caught in repetitive, often invisible programs. With consistent practice, you can gradually cultivate your awareness to recognize when the programs are running. When you truly realize they aren’t who you are, the programs might still run but not run your life nearly as much.

Your true nature includes the totality of what you experience in this moment, nothing excluded. All of the sounds, sensations, thoughts and feelings; the barking dog and the wind in the trees, the pain in your knees, tightness in your chest, and the joy of realizing all of this  is continually arising and passing away. So let the programs run if they must, but expand the scope of your consciousness so you can see them for what they are:  only a small part of the greater whole of awareness. Soon the programs will lose some of their power over your mind and you’ll discover you can operate quite effectively without them.

 

 

Letting Go of The Ladder

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by Lisa Ernst

On a recent visit to Colorado, I enjoyed a hike with my two teenage nieces to a place outside of Boulder called Mattress Rock. My oldest niece, Mary Katherine, had recently spent the night camping at the top of this rock and she wanted to show us the view. When we arrived, I saw the top was quite high and completely inaccessible through climbing. But a ponderosa pine was fairly close to the rock, and my niece said that’s how she and her friends had climbed up.

Nancy, my younger niece, enthusiastically grabbed a pine branch and began climbing. With some encouragement and guidance from Mary Katherine, she got across to the top of the rock without too much difficulty. Then Mary Katherine suggested I climb the tree. This caught me completely off guard. I looked up and didn’t like what I saw, not to mention the fact that I hadn’t climbed a tree since I was about my nieces’ age. Seeing my hesitation, Mary Katherine said, “Oh, Aunt Lisa, it’s just like climbing a ladder.” Suddenly an image of a ladder popped into my mind and I saw myself climbing with ease. My hesitation gone, I grabbed the tree and began climbing.

My mental association with the ladder had broken me out of my fear of the unfamiliar; I had confidence from my ingrained memories of easily climbing ladders. About halfway up, however, the ladder vanished from my mind and nothing was left but my immediate experience of climbing the tree. It was far more challenging than climbing a ladder and required a good bit of maneuvering. I didn’t look down and kept my mind completely focused on the task at hand. At the top, there was a daunting gap between the tree and the rock. I had to reach across and find a toe hold on the side of the boulder and carefully hold a thin branch while I maneuvered over to the top. A little shaky, but pleased to be done with the climbing, I enjoyed a beautiful view of the Colorado mountains.In Buddhist psychology, we often speak of ingrained patterns and associations that prevent us from fully experiencing our lives in the present moment. The mind is hard wired to filter experience through past associations and to label these experiences according to what it already knows. Pure, present moment experience, without this mental veil is very challenging and goes against our mind’s blueprint. Seeing and undoing these patterns and reaching pure experience are at the heart of mindfulness meditation.

When I was a young child, before my mental associations became fully ingrained, the feeling of walking barefoot on the fresh grass of spring was a blissful delight and the sensation of the ocean washing at my ankles brought a moment of pure magic. As I grew older, the childlike wonder of fresh and pure experience began to fade. Perhaps I could briefly touch it from time to time, but mostly it became a distant memory.

Through my meditation practice I learned that returning to this pure experience requires courage and commitment to see things as they are, without the filter that alters the moment into something other than what it is. In the case of my associating tree climbing with a ladder, it was a positive comparison that gave me the courage to climb. Once that association evaporated, however, I was left with the immediate challenge of climbing the tree. This was essential as the situation demanded that I bring my full attention to the task at hand – safely getting up the tree and onto the rock.

Quite often our past associations are of fearful or unpleasant experiences that cause us to seek refuge from this moment, where we imagine the danger remains. Meditation practice provides an excellent opportunity to see this pattern clearly. For instance, during a phase in my early years of practice I encountered a high degree of financial and career anxiety, at times so strong that I often avoided meditation because I feared the anxiety would overwhelm me. I had an ingrained tendency to try and avoid the anxiety, which felt unsafe. This is a normal human response to anxiety. The true origin of the anxiety had some deep roots and I knew I didn’t want to experience it directly.

Over the course of a few months, I saw that the anxiety wasn’t abating and realized that resuming my daily meditation practice might help prevent the anxiety from ruling my life. So I began sitting again, committing myself to staying as fully present in the discomfort as I could. I also began to see and disassociate from the story lines that accompanied my anxiety. At first, I had a strong impulse to escape just moments after I settled onto the cushion. But as I gently recommitted myself to presence in the face of fear, I slowly found room for the anxiety in my immediate experience. I didn’t need to follow the embedded thoughts and stories to cover it over. Just touching the discomfort lightly at first gave me confidence that nothing bad was going to happen; this began the process of undoing the chain of reactivity that had kept me in stuck in anxiety.

As my confidence increased, I often extended my sitting practice to an hour or more in order to fully experience the discomfort. Usually, about halfway through the session, the anxiety would melt away into the sweetness of the morning birdsong and the sunrise filtering through the window. As my heart opened to the fear, it also opened to the unconditioned beauty of this moment. Out of this intimacy a sense of gratitude and peace would arise. Repeatedly doing this practice revealed that I didn’t need to be afraid of embracing the discomfort, and my mental association of anxiety with danger began to fade.

To this day when anxiety arises I often feel the urge to escape. Mental patterns have power, and it is unrealistic to believe they can be completely eliminated. Although the impulse to turn away remains with me, less time elapses before I remember to meet the anxiety intimately with an open heart. Just as my association with the ladder faded into the immediate reality of climbing the tree, my experience of anxiety, just as it is, dissolves into the spacious, unconditioned nature of this moment.

Taking the Seat of Truth

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Taking the Seat of Truth

by Lisa Ernst

Recently I was invited to lead an opening meditation at a regional 12 Step retreat. Everyone there was eager and interested to spend several minutes in silent meditation. As I scanned the room during the meditation, I saw the faces of nearly everyone there in quiet repose. Afterward, many people sought me out to comment on how helpful those quiet moments were before launching into the activities of the day. This experience led me to reflect on Buddhism and the 12 Step program, although I’m not necessarily comparing all of their compatibilities and differences. There are some good books available on that topic already. What I’ve been reflecting on is how the 12 Step programs are another avenue to paying attention and shedding light on those parts of ourselves we’d rather not see. What’s required at 12 Step meetings is courageous honesty. Which is, of course, what we cultivate in meditation if we’re practicing sincerely.

I starting attending 12 Step meetings several years ago and went regularly for about three years. The most familiar 12 Step program is Alcoholics Anonymous, but many other 12 Step meetings exist to support those struggling with addition and the fallout from addiction. I wasn’t personally attending to address substance abuse problems, though some would kindly argue that my chocolate addiction could bear that kind of scrutiny. But since dark chocolate has now been classified as a health food, happily, I’m not fighting that one anymore. Instead, I began attending the 12 Step program to address interpersonal issues that arose in part from growing up in a family of alcoholics. At a deeper level, I believe many of the challenges I’ve faced in my life are part of the human condition; they are things most of us grapple with, whether we have substance abuse in our families or not. At the root is the very clinging and aversion of the mind that Buddha struggled with in his quest for enlightenment. On a practical level, I found the 12 Step program assisted me in working with the lasting effects of my upbringing in an alcoholic family. This is something meditation practice alone didn’t fully address.

What I have discovered from many years of practice is that meditation alone rarely succeeds in fully opening the gates of the mind and heart, even though it is a powerful way to illuminate much of what’s been hidden within us. Buddhist meditation (on and off the cushion) is my foundational path and it has made a profound difference in my life. Along the way, however, I have utilized several adjunct paths such as psychotherapy, support groups and 12 Step programs to augment and deepen my practice. I have found that any path that encourages me to face and tell the truth about my life, and find the courage to respond in a more constructive and compassionate way, will only serve to enhance my dharma practice.

The first 12 Step meeting I chose to attend was in Franklin, Tennessee, a town about thirty minutes outside of my hometown of Nashville. The meeting’s start time meant I had to drive to Franklin during rush hour traffic. That alone was a good practice in patience for me as I’ve never welcomed long commutes. The nearly interminable waits at countless traffic lights also led me to question why I was giving up another evening during the week when I could be home doing, what? Maybe reading a magazine or watching one of my favorite chefs on the Food Network? Ok, maybe not such a good argument to stay home. I also questioned whether the meetings would be so far removed from Buddhist practice as to feel alien and incompatible. As I mulled these questions, a twinge of anxiety arose and I nearly convinced myself to turn around and go home. But my years of meditation practice allowed me to recognize the voice of anxiety without getting caught in it. So I stayed my course to Franklin and attended the meeting.

When I arrived, I was greeted by many welcoming and friendly faces and I immediately felt at home. During the first meeting I kept quiet and just observed, but I appreciated the honesty and courage of the people in the room. They were clearly committed to telling the truth about their lives and exposing the hidden parts of themselves that led to suffering and even destructive behavior. Everyone who speaks at a 12 Step meeting must share directly from their own experience rather than from a conceptual understanding of their suffering. This direct and honest sharing is nearly always met with empathy and acceptance by the others in the room. There is no room for judgment. This allows an atmosphere of honesty to flourish. Twelve Step groups also cultivate a sense of community and compassionate support, much like a Buddhist sangha. Moments of meditation are often included in 12 Step Meetings, although most of the time is spent in group sharing.

Over the course of several meetings, I found myself responding to the emphasis on personal experience and honesty in a way that helped me with my own struggles. The approach felt quite compatible with my own Buddhist practices. Soon the meetings became a regular part of my week and I even made several new friends. Most evenings just as I took a seat at the meeting, a moment of awakening would occur: my mind would become clear and I would see something within my own heart that had been obscured. Often from these insights I would discover ways to begin undoing old patterns that had kept me locked in suffering. Sounds much like dharma practice, doesn’t it?

The word “dharma” actually has dual meanings. In the Buddhist tradition it has come to signify the Buddha’s teachings, while also pointing to “the truth of this moment.” For me, attending 12 Step meetings created a new avenue to work with difficult emotions and old patterns within the context of my dharma path. Although not a substitute for meditation, the meetings provided another way to experience the truth of this moment.

After attending 12 Step meetings for several years I found that I was less bound by the effects of my upbringing in an alcoholic family. I had become more at ease with others and the old stories of pain and despair that swirled in my mind had diminished to a whisper. I realized the meetings had served their purpose and it was time to move on with gratitude and appreciation.

The Flame of Mindfulness

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Many people are initially drawn to meditation in hopes of finding a more peaceful, less stressful life. Science has proven that consistent meditation practice can reduce stress over time, but there’s a lot more to the practice than cultivating a relaxed mental state. Skillful mindfulness meditation brings us into intimate contact with the thoughts and habitual patterns of craving that are usually hidden from our everyday awareness, the very thoughts at the root of our suffering. This practice opens the door to a gradual release from the patterns that bind us; it is nothing short of the path to liberation.

Through meditation and awareness practices, most of us uncover habitual reactive thoughts of one kind or another, old conditioned patterns that are usually set into motion by specific events.  Something may go wrong on the job, a loved one makes a critical comment, or a sensitive email or phone call isn’t returned.  If one of these events hit a trigger point, we may find ourselves  drowning in a flood of thoughts about our inadequacy, our failure to live up to some kind of standard we have set for ourselves, or what we believe the world “out there” expects from us. Without mindfulness, these self-referencing thoughts can begin to grow and strengthen until we fall into a state of intense anxiety or even depression.

This knotted, painful response occurs when we believe our self-critical thoughts are real. Unexamined, they can become an uncontested life narrative, something barely perceived because the thoughts are so ingrained and habitual, as regular and unnoticed as a steadily beating heart or the oxygen we breathe. Analyzing the conditioned roots of these patterns may help us understand them better, but that alone rarely frees us from their grip.  One of the most effective antidotes is mindful awareness practices, strengthened and honed through daily meditation, which begins to act as flame to paper, at times strong enough to burn away these habitual narratives on contact.

For over a decade in my teens and 20′s I was in a chronic state of clinical depression. Some people, including myself , are prone to depression, and it can become a hole so deep that finding a way out seems impossible. During this time I lived in a well of unrelenting depression, drowning in the murky waters of unexamined grief and loneliness, never able to see them mindfully. Finally after of years of living in depression as a way of life, a crisis brought me to a point of desperation and I began committed meditation practice.

Initially during my meditation I experienced a flood of sadness and grief, staying present in the midst of strong emotion that I had tried to ignore for years. This was a great relief to me as it finally liberated me from my attempts to repress or escape the pain.

Gradually, through this process of mindful, compassionate awareness, my grief was released and my chronic depression lifted.  But awareness of my habitual self criticism wasn’t yet strong;  all too often  a flood of negative thoughts were unleashed with seemingly minimal cause and I’d be tangled for days in a knot of self denigration. Trapped in the illusion that my thoughts were real, I’d find myself teetering at the brink of that old, familiar depression.

As my practice grew stronger, I could often see self-critical thoughts at their very arising, before they threw me into anxiety or emotional upset. At other times I might get sucked in for a while before  waking up.  But at any point along the way, my willingness to make mindful, compassionate contact with the tangle of thought/emotion grew into the very flame that burned the suffering away. This is the mind of awareness and insight that we all share, the mind that sees thoughts for what they are – transient, and eternally passing away.

Lisa Ernst

How Sticky Are You?

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By Lisa Ernst

When I was in my late teens and early 20′s I suffered from agoraphobia, which literally translates into “fear of the marketplace.” This is an apt description; I had arranged my life so that I would have no need to interact with humans in any way, shape or form, except for one thing – I had to go to the grocery store. Encountering grocery store clerks at the check out line was usually very painful for me as I was convinced they were judging me, laughing at me and talking about me after I left. These encounters would linger or “stick” to me for days as I replayed them again and again, ingraining more deeply my own misguided perceptions of how the world saw me.

Obviously I had emotional and psychological issues that I needed to address, but most of us experience some version of this on a regular basis – encounters with others that stick to us long after they’re over. If we’re not mindful of what we’re doing, we end up trading our equanimity for replaying these situations again and again, until they become fixed in our minds as reality. There is an enduringly popular Zen parable that points to this kind of “stickiness”:

Two traveling monks reached a river where they met a beautiful woman. Wary of the current, she asked if they could carry her across. One of the monks hesitated, but the other quickly picked her up onto his shoulders, transported her across the water, and put her down on the other bank. She thanked him and departed.

As the monks continued on their way, the one was brooding and preoccupied. Unable to hold his silence, he spoke out. “Brother, our spiritual training teaches us to avoid any contact with women, but you picked that one up on your shoulders and carried her!”

“Brother,” the second monk replied, “I set her down on the other side, while you are still carrying her.”

Meditation and mindfulness practice offer us a great opportunity to assess how often human encounters “stick” to us after the actual moment of interaction has passed. Through committed practice, we can awaken to the amount of time we invest in rehashing past events while deepening grievances and other emotions at the expense of living in the present moment.

I began reflecting on this one day when I received an upsetting rejection letter from a gallery owner in New York. Two weeks earlier she had emailed me personally, saying she had found my website, was impressed with the quality of my art, and she invited me to submit my portfolio for an upcoming show. I was busy working on a commission at the time but I squeezed in several hours to prepare and send a portfolio. I enjoy visiting New York City so I was excited about the opportunity.

Two weeks later, I received a boilerplate rejection letter without even the gallery owner’s signature, saying “your work is not the right fit for our gallery.” I was insulted at the impersonal nature of this letter considering her initial solicitation, not to mention the time I invested in preparing a nice portfolio for her. It felt like a slap in the face.

Later that day I was running some errands when I realized that I was barely noticing my activities. I was lost in frustration at this woman. She was “sticking” to me and weighing me down as I carried her with me through my day. This moment of waking up, of seeing into my mind pattern, led me to look more closely and inquire into my heart as to what kept me holding on to her. This wasn’t an intellectual question, an attempt to figure it out mentally. The question was aimed at my present moment experience of entanglement. I could clearly see that I had been trapped in my outwardly directed grievance, attached to the idea that she should have responded differently. This insight enabled me to let the attachment go and open fully to my immediate experience, to feel my disappointment, to let it be “just like this.” My mind and heart softened into the present moment. As the knot of disappointment untangled, it was clear that no further thought or response was necessary, so I put her down and continued with my day.

The Lotus Blooms in the Mud

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by Lisa Ernst

The lotus flower is revered in Buddhist lore because of the way it grows and blooms. Lotus plants thrive in muck and mud, yet they produce some of nature’s most glorious flowers. The Buddha taught that the muddy, murky condition of the mind is the very place where our own Buddha nature thrives. We don’t need to eliminate this imperfection to awaken to our true nature.

Recently I became aware of a specific situation in which this teaching manifests clearly in my own life. I live within walking distance of Radnor Lake, a beautiful state park that is pristine and peaceful when it’s not packed with people. Because its so close, I exercise on the trails at Radnor several times a week. Often in the rainy season the hiking is muddy and the crowds are a bit smaller; no doubt many want to avoid stepping in the muck and getting their shoes dirty. This doesn’t prevent me from hiking as I know its part of the experience, but I still find myself trying to avoid the muddiest parts.

Usually I arrive sometime in the afternoon, hoping to beat the after work crowds. I’ll hit the trail at a brisk pace, with little intent of communing with nature, often mentally engaged in whatever is going on for me that day. My mind is often moving as fast as my body. I’ve done this for so many years now that I’ve ingrained a pattern of launching my hikes nearly oblivious to the beautiful sites around me and the joys of nature. Yet, seemingly in spite of this, Radnor Lake is where I have many of my deepest “off cushion” insights.

Some people who are hiking alone at Radnor talk on their cell phones or listen to their iPods, apparently uninterested in enjoying the simple sounds of nature. Others may come here with the express desire to walk mindfully along the trails. This can be a nice practice in and of itself, but it may only offer a brief respite from our often overactive minds. For me, without life’s usual external distractions, the intensity of my thoughts and feelings becomes more apparent to me as I hike. I’m often immersed in the muck, regardless of whether the trails are muddy or dry. Yet this immersion in my human imperfection provides the ideal opportunity for me to access my wisdom.

If we hold on to an idea that only peaceful mindfulness is appropriate at a place like Radnor Lake, we block our chance to truly enter our own great nature. Ideals like this can be used to resist what’s truly present. When I first began to notice how unsettled my mind was during my hikes, I tried various means to fix it. I brought mala beads to Radnor and I tried to practice metta along the trails. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, my intention with these practices was incorrect: I was seeking a way to shut down my discomfort rather than to use the practices as skillful means to open heart and mind. Needless to say, they didn’t work and I abandoned the effort. One benefit of practicing sincerely over time is that we begin to discern more quickly whether we are using a particular practice skillfully or to resist and repress what’s really present.

It takes courage to face ourselves just as we are, to let go of a spiritual ideal and to reside in the midst of our own human imperfections with no distractions. Now when I hike at Radnor, I recognize that the path to clarity and equanimity is right in the midst of my own unsettled mind. When I am willing to pause long enough to genuinely touch the tenderness, the anxiety or fear that often accompanies a mind full of thought, the sounds and sights of nature become vividly alive. This softening and presence of heart may bring a tear or a smile, but the spinning of my mind simply stops in the midst of this moment. At this juncture, each step along the way, whether the trail is dusty and dry or squishy with mud, happens with effortless presence and gratitude. Whatever I was struggling with clears and is no longer a problem to be solved. The lotus indeed blooms in the mud.