Apart from a cry of “Fire!” the shortest human prayer torn from the throat of emergency on a rapidly heating Earth is “Help!” Meanwhile, the everyday common prayer—the only one we ever really need, despite its relative absence from our lips and hearts—is simply “Thank you.” 

For it is amazing to be, to be here at all. 

But moving beyond just the human, the singular, silent cry of life on Earth right now is “Precarious!” This too is closer to a prayer than it may seem; it’s an honest, vulnerable, lucid confession of alarm. This admission of vulnerability is itself a search for the strong nerve of resilience.  

Over the Hill and into the Dark

The times are always uncertain until we cease longing for certainty, and only then do they become truly interesting. The planetary crisis we’re in together is now simply the given—the strange, inarguable gift of what is. The fervent half-prayer of “Precarious!” overhears the realization that any escape is futile. Who now in good faith can dispute planetary heating and its appalling consequences and our drift toward civilizational suicide, ruined lands, biodiversity collapse, record-breaking megafires and megafloods, and new pandemics. And then there’s our shadow pandemic, too: panic, confusion, and conspiratorial rage, shadowed by dread, anxiety, and depression. 

The Industrialized West has metastasized into almost every corner of this living planet with a turbo-charged drive to extract wealth at all cost to life, the hell-bent intent that has now been normalized by democracies and tyrannies alike. The momentum of living by damage has slipped beyond our reckoning and control. Our fractious geopolitical world is now mirrored by massive geophysical changes, as the weather and Earth herself turns angry. 

Meanwhile, social media has as much fractured as formed the basis for a consensual, factually based understanding from which to engage the huge questions. Conspiracy, paranoia, misinformation, organized disinformation, and contempt for evidence undermine a coherent response. First the pandemic and now war stalks the world again. Where’s the center that will hold, the sure place in which to invest trust? 

It’s impossible to avert your eyes, difficult to see how to respond, and impossible not to long to do so. Even listing the ways in which “so much is wrong” begins to feel like a verbal totentanz, as in the old medieval woodcuts depicting the dance of death: heavy-laden words joining hands with the skeletal grim reaper, dancing us over a hill of doom into the dark. 

The planetary dangers that haunt us make our time an exquisite moment, piercing and inescapable. Also baffling to the point of provoking fresh realizations, hence the description of this time as a “gift” brimming with untested possibilities right along with potentially dire consequences. Dare we celebrate the way it stretches us, this strange privilege of being alive right now? Can we embrace the sheer lunacy of our moment, in which the biggest human “ask” in history up to now has chosen us? 

A koan scandalizes all suppositions (literal, rational, empirical, neurotic) that hold up the shaky sky of human knowing and fearing, until the leaves blowing in the street, the wave welling over a rock, the eyelashes of the cow all share the same realm as this mind. The shock of this can stoke new depths of fiery, fiercely protective love for the Earth. With luck, this love is fierce enough to protect our home from the worst impulses in ourselves and turn them to good. 

Darkening This Mind

Luckily there’s another, very different kind of darkness—that of the mind relaxing in a state of active not-knowing. In this fertile darkness, the search for how to respond can grow more surefooted, agile, and in sync with events rather than pitted against them. Not-knowing is like leaning back against the tree that is always there, older than any forest; or as Dogen puts it, taking “the backward step that turns your light inward to illuminate yourself.” Not-knowing introspection and self-inquiry—as in “What is this self?”—moves us into intimacy with who this is and what is happening. 

The ecocrisis of our time raises the question of the true nature of our human presence on the Earth as a koan that rightly exerts an almost overwhelming pressure on our hearts. It cannot be resolved, and the suffering it causes cannot be relieved without breaking through the paradigm that is so relentlessly causing it. Zen koans help us grow skilled in tolerating a precarious state of mind, and not turning away but growing curious instead. That we can’t go forward in the usual way becomes the strangely valuable offer of the moment. Not-knowing, in the spirit of improvisation, accepts all offers! And the Zen koan turns every obstacle into the way. 

Take a despairing reaction like “There is nothing I can do to stop this disaster!” Looking beyond the ideas of “I,” and “stop,” and even the activity of “doing,” can we even dare to look deeply into the crisis and not-know what it is, or that it is so? Perhaps even disaster loses its power of impasse when scrutinized by a trusting form of productive doubt. Can something be done with less doing, using the calm, inside moments that can be created within an emergency when what is happening is met with not-knowing? 

The Zen koan turns every obstacle into the way. 

Or consider the desperate sense of “This is beyond me!” Aha! Yes, it is! Reality is definitely beyond the claim of “me.” Might it be possible to live tragically aware of the immensity of what we face and yet rely on the ground of fundamental joy that dares to meet fear? Not-knowing meets and disables fear and can discern more clearly how a situation is moving and what is needed right in the midst of the unfolding moment. 

The way we have framed reality is plainly out of kilter and out of date. Koan mind breaks the rigid frame and makes an ally out of uncertainty, asking it to be our guide in the darkness. 

Crises Secrete Their Own Healing

Every koan has a bit of the apocalyptic about it, lifting the veil that this dream of a separate self throws over the wholeness of reality. Apocalypse implies destruction of a world, but hiding in that word is the older meaning, that of a necessary revelation, a veil torn away, leaving no choice but to see what is hidden from us in plain sight. 

Similarly, people speak of a healing crisis in the course of an illness, a looked-for climax poised to either tip us toward death or toward the dawn of healing. “Medicine and sickness heal each other”: Yunmen is pointing to the suffering healing into nondual awakening, the dream of separation waking into the reality of no “other.” Precarious emotional states likewise can intensify into a healing crisis in which seemingly indigestible anger, fear, or grief can suddenly tip over and metabolize a general amnesty. That beautiful word forgiveness suggests the germination of ease within precariousness. 

Crises shape and transform us all our lives. The limitations that grow apparent to a crawling infant become the seeming unlikelihood of learning to walk. Impasse is the unavoidable opportunity to see beyond expectations, suppositions, and impossibilities as they crumble before our eyes. Crisis, whether at the vast or intimately personal level, is what reveals that there is no “normal,” despite all strenuous efforts to coax one into being. Not-knowing is relaxing into trusting this. 

⧫

From A Fire Runs through All Things: Zen Koans for Facing the Climate Crisis by Susan Murphy © 2023 by Susan Murphy. Reprinted in arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Inc. Boulder, CO. www.shambhala.com

The post A Koan for These Times
 appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

We’re living in deracinating, doomscrolling times, rife with “polycrisis” and pessimism. The urgent humanitarian crisis in Gaza heads a long list of current reasons to be anxious about the future. Yet despite this, GDP growth is trending up in the US and China, and some are currently bullish on global economic growth. There’s an obvious disconnect between the state of the world and the dominant growth paradigm. There’s a whole discourse on rethinking it and finding new models that measure well-being and sustainability. But this discourse itself could use a new approach. 

Part of the problem is a blind spot in our linear conception of growth that limits our ability to imagine a qualitatively different future and take action to usher it in. We tend to forget that growth sometimes unfolds in surprising, non-linear ways that we don’t see coming, like a butterfly breaking out of a chrysalis. That’s often the way of epoch-making, transformative change. We rarely recognize it until it’s in the rear-view mirror.

While we’re living through it, it’s natural to imagine the future as an extension of present growth trends. Today’s trends are dark. Our economic system depends on endless GDP growth, fed by exponential population and consumption growth, driving conflict, ecological overshoot, and climate and extinction crises. 

Technological growth points to a similarly dystopian place. Global knowledge doubles every year (soon it will double every twelve hours). Each of us processes about five times more information (and counting) than a generation ago. This leads to overload, chronic stress, anxiety, and depression. Worldwide depression rates rose 50% from 1990 through 2017 (and roughly doubled during the pandemic). And then there’s rising AI anxiety.

These are all compelling arguments for stepping off the growth treadmill. Except for techno-optimists and a few fiscal policy experts, it’s clear to most of us that we can’t just do more of the same thing, in hopes of “growing our way out” of such problems. Yet it’s not as if we can solve them by magically shutting growth off, either. To step outside the dilemma, we need a different mental model.

Metamorphosis might be a less blinkered and more hopeful way to think about growth. Almost all animal species undergo it, transforming their morphology to adapt to ecological pressures. Although humans tend to see metamorphosis as the exception and non-transformative growth as the rule, in nature, it’s really the other way around. Most biological growth contains the seeds of sudden, dramatic transformation into something entirely new.

Humans don’t undergo biological metamorphosis, which may explain our limited notion of growth as becoming a larger or more developed version of the same thing, rather than transforming into something else. Yet human metamorphosis is a deep theme–perhaps the deepest–of mythology, psychology, and wisdom traditions.

In nature, metamorphosis isn’t just physiological, it’s also neurological. It literally rewires a metamorphic animal’s brain by respecifying old neurons and adding new ones. The human brain also has this latent capability, which contemplative practice can unlock. 

Neuroscientific research confirms that meditation and other forms of contemplation enhance human neuroplasticity, changing the way neural structures connect and synchronize. At virtually any time of life, contemplative practice can change the brain’s physical structure to enhance cognitive functions like memory and attention, as well as socially active functions like compassion, empathy, relatedness, and resilience.

Keeping this in mind might help us have more hope for the future, because if humans have an innate mental capacity for metamorphosis, human societies and economies, which are based on our mental constructs, could have it too. Positive, transformative changes could be underway right now, even if they aren’t easy to perceive or predict from where we sit.

Metamorphosis is an emergent process which doesn’t just suddenly come out of nowhere. It’s encoded and inchoate in genes and gene expression, part of an ancient and continuous evolutionary dance between changing conditions and strategies for adapting to them. In that sense, it is always preparing and unfolding, covertly, like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Whereas growth is an overt process we can witness and measure, metamorphosis is long in preparation and can be hard to recognize until it bursts forth.

The same could be true of social and environmental change. Indeed, this is how change leaders who are grounded in contemplative practice often talk about our crisis-ridden, panic-inducing times, and how to navigate them.

Joanna Macy wrote in 2009 of “the Great Turning” as “the essential adventure of our time,” where “the ecological and social crises we face…caused by an economic system dependent on accelerating growth” are undergoing a revolutionary transition “to a life-sustaining society.” 

While we can’t know how fast this metamorphosis will unfold, or what losses might accrue before it does, “we can know that it is under way and it is gaining momentum,” Macy writes. “To see this as the larger context of our lives clears our vision and summons our courage [and can] save us from succumbing to either panic or paralysis.”

Systems thinking pioneer Peter Senge said in a recent interview, “Urgency by itself puts you in a mode where you just try harder to do what you have been doing all along. You get into a contracted state where you say, ‘my God, we’ve got to make this work.’ But that’s not very conducive to imagination, or building trust, relationships, or mutuality. It has taken humans a long time to dig ourselves into this hole; we aren’t going to dig [ourselves] out quickly. It’s way too urgent to act just out of urgency. We need to relax. That’s the paradoxical situation we’re in.”

Many on the front lines of social and environmental change concur. When things seem most desperate, we need hope the most, and can least afford panic or paralysis. When the stakes are highest and demand for solutions is most urgent, that’s precisely when we need to check in, slow down, and go deep.

Making the deep changes the world needs will require the grounding, relaxation, creativity, compassion, and resilience that contemplative practice cultivates. Contemplation unlocks the protean, metamorphic capacity of minds to change and become something new. Staying grounded in it in the face of conditions that demand new leaps of adaptation could be what triggers metamorphosis in our civilization.

Our current trajectory may seem headed for a dark end, but not everything points in that direction. Out of the ravages of extractive and exploitive linear systems are emerging circular, regenerative models for agriculture, finance, and civilization. Their uptake is growing. So is an emergent social field of changemakers and contemplative practitioners working to envision and help build a positive future. 

These seeds and seedlings of a better future are germinating and growing unpredictably in the present. They’re a wildcard that may yet hijack our dystopian growth narrative toward metamorphosis, from a self-destructive civilization into a life-sustaining one.

The post Metamorphosis appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

The Smaller Sukhavativyuha Sutra speaks of the “Last Dharma Age,” a time filled with chaos, strife, and a proliferation of natural disasters—a time I couldn’t help but think of as I watched the video clips capturing the burning of Lahaina, Maui. They left me speechless. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for the people, residents, and tourists who were trapped there. 

On August 7th, the news reconfirmed that there would be high winds across the Hawaiian Islands due to Hurricane Dora passing south of the Hawaiian archipelago. Many of us hastily expressed a sigh of relief that although it would be windy, Hawaii would be spared major flooding and other damages caused by heavy rains experienced in recent storms. On the morning of August 8th, however, there was a report of brush fire in the Lahaina area of Maui, and even earlier, another brush fire in a different part of Maui was also reported. By mid-afternoon, the fire that would consume the town of Lahaina would dominate the news. 

The winds from Hurricane Dora fanned a fire that became billowing flames soaring into the sky. The lingering drought did not help. Under normal conditions, the fire probably could have been contained after causing some damage, but with the relentless, whipping winds, it was clear that these were not normal conditions. It was a conflagration. Everyone watched in disbelief as the fire consumed the town, claiming (at the time of this writing) 115 lives. Post-fire photos show Lahaina looking like a devastated war zone. According to current reports, over 2,170 acres were burned, over 2,000 people evacuated to shelters with 1,000 people still unaccounted for, and close to 3,000 structures were damaged or destroyed. 

Among the destroyed structures are three Buddhist Temples: the Lahaina Hongwanji Mission (est. 1904), Lahaina Jodo Mission (est. 1912), and Lahaina Shingon Mission (est. 1902). The clergy, or ministers, of these temples safely evacuated, but temple buildings were not spared the flames. 

However, the definition for “mappo,” or the Last Dharma Age, in A Dictionary of Buddhism, by Damien Keown, made me think. “While this may appear to be cause for despair, many in East Asia actually responded to this analysis not by giving up, but by advocating new and creative doctrines.” Likewise, the people of Hawaii, and even beyond the shores of the Islands, have not given up on Lahaina. Monetary donations, donations of material goods and services, and human resources are pouring into Maui to help those who are still suffering and with the long road to recovery. Aloha and dana are manifest in the words, thoughts, and actions of thousands of people who are lending assistance and support in this dire time of need, including the Buddhists of Hawaii. 

As collection drop-off sites were announced, some temples, like the Aiea Hongwanji Buddhist Temple Affiliate Organizations, began collecting goods to be donated and shipped to Maui. Also, each of the Buddhist denominations affected by the fire, as well as other Buddhist organizations, like the Hawaii Association of International Buddhists (HAIB), empathetically joined other community organizations to establish fund drives, encourage donations, hold memorial services in honor of those who died in the conflagration, and help those who are still suffering. 

As we engage ourselves in compassionate action, it is also endearing to witness the wisdom of the dharma providing guidance, as evidenced in comments by fellow Buddhists. 

Bishop Clark Watanabe of Koyasan Shingon Mission of Hawaii: “For the Koyasan Shingon Mission of Hawaii, the loss of the Lahaina Shingon Mission Hokoji is extremely painful because the Lahaina Shingon Mission was first Shingon temple to be established in Hawaii and outside Japan… When I reflect on buddhadharma, the main teaching is of change. Change is never easy to accept and this change that has happened in Lahaina is extremely difficult and painful to accept…The best practice we can all do is to deeply listen, with wisdom and compassion, to the people of Lahaina and the Island of Maui. By deeply listening, we can, in a small way, alleviate their suffering.” 

Bishop Kosen Ishikawa, President of the Hawaii Buddhist Council and Bishop of the Jodo Mission of Hawaii: “Burnt buildings could be rebuilt. There is even the possibility that you could have better buildings. However, lost lives cannot be revived. As long as we have life, we can always hope for the future.” Referring to the minister who safely evacuated, he said, “The temple building could attract people, but cannot say anything while Sensei can share the dharma and encourage people no matter where he may be. Though it’s sad we lost beautiful Lahaina Jodo Mission buildings, a living temple (the ministers), the spirit of dharma, is not lost…I’d like to support living temples in this face of adversity.” 

Bishop Toshiyuki Umitani of Honpa Hongwanji Mission of Hawaii: “Recovery on Maui could take years…As fellow travelers of the nembutsu, let us stand in solidarity with those who are experiencing suffering and sorrow brought about by this unprecedented encounter. Even though the temple buildings have been damaged, our sincere aspiration of listening to and sharing the nembutsu teaching never disappears…Lahaina Hongwanji has not yet disappeared. It is still standing in our hearts as Namo Amida Butsu…May the wisdom and compassion of Amida Buddha embrace us all. May the sound of the nembutsu bring us peace and comfort, and give us the courage to move forward. Namo Amida Butsu.” 

As for myself, what is Lahaina teaching me? It makes me reflect on the many facets of impermanence. On one hand, some manifestations of impermanence can be challenging, filled with sorrow and sadness, as in the loss of life and destruction of property because of the fires. But, at the same time, the fact that everything can change in an instant reminds us how truly unique and precious life, and every single moment, is. Because nothing lasts forever, Lahaina, with everyone’s help, will recover and rise from this tragedy. The buddhadharma encourages us to value and love each other all the time, but especially when there is hardship and suffering. Let us be guided by the wisdom of enlightenment to understand the changing nature of existence. Nurtured by compassion, we can be a caring presence to each other. 

***

While any donation to any relief organization is encouraged, for those who may wish to extend a helping hand to the Buddhist temples on Maui affected by the fire, some ways to contribute directly to the temples are below. We of Hawaii, and especially of Maui, thank you for your metta and dana. 

Lahaina Jodo Mission 

GoFundMe link  https://gofund.me/df1b0cf2

A donation, check payable to Jodo Mission of Hawaii with a memo “Maui fire relief fund,” can be sent to:

Jodo Mission of Hawaii
1429 Makiki Street
Honolulu, HI 96814

Lahaina Hongwanji Mission

Go online at www.hongwanjihawaii.com by clicking on the “Maui Wildfire Disaster Relief” button under the “Donate” tab.

GoFundMe at the following link: https://gofund.me/ff77a520

For checks and cash donations, check payable to HHMH and in the memo line designate “Maui Wildfire Disaster Relief” to ensure proper credit and mailed to:

Hongpa Hongwanji Mission of Hawaii 
1727 Pali Highway
Honolulu, HI 96813

Lahaina Shingon Mission Hokoji

GoFundMe link https://gofund.me/6317428c

Or checks, payable to Koyasan Shingon Mission of Hawaii with a memo “Lahaina relief” can be sent to: 

Koyasan Shingon Mission of Hawaii 
457 Manono Street
Hilo, HI 96720

For further information, please contact by email hikoybof@gmail.com

In anjali/gassho, Eric Matsumoto 
Namo Amida Butsu (Entrusting in All-Inclusive Wisdom & All-Embracing Compassion) 

The post Buddhist Leaders in Hawaii Offer Guidance After the Maui Wildfires appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

The Buddha woke up sitting at the base of the Bodhi tree, his hand touching the earth as his witness and support. As he began to teach, he instructed his monastics to go find a place “in the wilderness” or “at the foot of a tree” to pursue their practice. The Vassa retreats of Theravada practitioners align with the rainy season, and the poems of the early Buddhist nuns and monks are resplendent in their relationship with and delight in the natural world. Wherever we look in the dharma, it’s clear that the teachings of the Buddha are innately connected to nature as a resource for our own awakening. But how can we bring this connection with the natural world into our practice today, especially when so many of us lack access to wild nature?

For many, our introduction to the path happened indoors at classes or sitting groups held in larger urban centers, divorced from the green spaces we tend to think of as nature. Our daily practice might include the cacophony of car alarms, noisy neighbors, garbage trucks, or ambulances. As the pandemic took root, countless people also discovered the dharma online, connecting to sanghas through their computers or phone screens. These dharma doors are beautiful and life-changing. I have a particular respect today for the online offerings that have become a respite for those who are sick, disabled, or immunocompromised and find themselves all but excluded from many in-person dharma gatherings. These spaces are essential to a vibrant and inclusive dharma. But as the format and locations of our practice evolves, how can we retain the connection to nature that is an essential part of Buddhist practice?

One possible answer lies in the Satipatthana Sutta. In his instructions for establishing mindfulness in this sutta, the Buddha offers a practice of meditation on the elements—earth, water, air, fire—that can be explored and discovered in our own bodies just as they can be known in a forest, ocean, or desert. Establishing a meditation practice where we become intimate with the elements offers us a way to connect to the presence of nature within ourselves, seeing over time that we are nature, not something separate from it. This can offer many benefits, from a deeper sense of embodiment and presence to an understanding of impermanence, interconnectedness, and how vital it is to care for our planet in the midst of climate change.  

An Elements Practice 

An elements practice can be done anywhere—whether you are in a densely populated city or camping in a national forest. To begin, find a comfortable posture sitting, standing, or lying down, where you can remain alert and access a felt sense of your own body. From here, begin to connect to the elements one by one. This can be a creative, imaginative practice and you are encouraged to make it your own.

Earth: Begin by connecting with the earth element. Just like an ancient mountain, the earth element in the body is that which is solid, heavy, hard, stable, structured, or grounded. Our bones, teeth, and nails are all easy places to access the earth element in the body. You may wish to begin by envisioning a tall mountain or a large, sturdy tree. Notice the qualities that it has—its strength, connection to the earth, its solidity. Then turn toward your body. Begin at your feet, and work your way up all the way to the top of your head, scanning for the ways you experience the earth element in your own body. Feel the weight of gravity in your limbs. Notice the structure and form that your bones provide. Run your tongue over your teeth and feel their hardness. The bones in our body are composed of many of the same minerals and elements found in the skull of a buffalo, the shell of a crab, the stone we find walking in the forest. The earth element within us isn’t separate from the earth element outside of us. 

Water: Beginning with the top of your head and working your way down to your feet, start to explore the water element present in the body. Water is fluid and wet, like the moisture in your eyes, the saliva in your mouth, or the liquid in your digestive organs. But it also creates a type of cohesion or wholeness in the body. Our skin, organs, and every cell is made up of a majority of water. Even the marrow of our bones holds water. Notice as you scan the body where you can connect with the water element in obvious and not-so-obvious ways. You might call to mind the fact that all the water in your body today at some point has been inside a cloud, an ocean, a blade of grass, or the belly of an animal. Allow yourself to feel the water element in the body and remember that while this water is with you today, it will continue to travel and move throughout the earth beyond your lifetime. This water that makes up 60 percent of your being is simply a visitor.

Fire: As we continue in the elements meditation, we begin to be able to access more and more subtlety and nuance. Arriving at the fire element, start at your feet and work your way up as you notice temperature—warm or cool—present in the body. The fire element is present in the heat of the sun, and is received by the earth, plants, and animals, including you. Our metabolic processes, our ability to regulate temperature, and the nourishment we take into our body through food is all touched by the fire element. As you scan the body, allow yourself to notice heat and cold. In our climate-controlled lives we don’t experience as much variation in temperature and almost automatically associate temperature changes with a sense of vulnerability or discomfort that needs to be fixed. You might notice, particularly if you are feeling too warm or too cold, that aversion or desire begins to flare up, along with stories, planning, and more. What would it be like to momentarily drop your preferences and simply feel the fluctuation of temperature in the body? This is one of the teachings of the fire element.

Air: As we reach the air element, we find ourselves returning to familiar territory for many meditators. Allowing yourself to scan the body from the top of your head down to your feet, you will notice old friends: air touching the nostrils and moving into the throat, the rise and fall of the chest and belly, the subtle movement of the whole body breathing. The air element is present whenever we meditate with the breath, but it is also present in the rustle of leaves in the wind, the displacement of air as a deer darts across a field, and the sound of birdsong coming from the robin in the yard. As we begin to sense the air element in our bodies, we can tend to the places where the breath is felt, as well as the places where we sense any kind of internal motion or movement. You may find that it is particularly supportive to envision the air element entering your body through each inhalation, and leaving through each exhalation. As you do this, can you tell where the air element outside of you ends and the air element inside of you begins? You may notice that when you pay attention, it is very hard to discern which part of this air belongs to you, and what belongs to the trees and grasses you share it with. 

Closing your practice: As you reach the end of this practice, simply allow yourself some time to rest in what you have experienced, taking in the sensations, insights, or emotions that may have come up. Remembering your own connection to nature, you may also want to dedicate the merits of your practice to the many plants, animals, and beings who need our care and protection. 

The elements practice is simply one entry point into deepening our relationship to nature and dharma. Whether you’re a seasoned hiker or your idea of getting outdoors is a patio table at the local cafe, this practice can be yours. Nature is everywhere, and you are a part of it. As you explore new ways to bring the natural world into your meditation, you may also want to do this with the support of a community, especially if nature-based practice feels new and unfamiliar to you. There are many incredible resources available if you would like to go deeper in your exploration of dharma and nature— from wilderness meditation retreats at places like Vallecitos Mountain Retreat Center and Rocky Mountain EcoDharma, to groups offering both online and in-person practice like Awake in the Wild, One Earth Sangha, and many more.

The post A Practice for Connecting with the Four Elements That Can Be Done Anywhere appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

“I watch the news, but I don’t really ‘see’ it. I hear about a mudslide, or a fire that destroys a town and I shake my head, and the suffering feels too great to bear, so I turn away. It isn’t that I don’t care, so I feel helpless to do anything. Or I did, until the people you will meet in this book helped me see that I am actually connected to all of it, that there are already people doing something about it and I can join them,” says Susan Bauer-Wu, author of the new book, A Future We Can Love. Those people are the Dalai Lama and climate activist Greta Thunberg, whose first meeting, hosted by the Mind & Life Institute, Bauer-Wu introduced to the almost one million people who watched it. They are also Indigenous musician, scholar, and community organizer Lyla June; British writer and environmental activist George Monbiot; meditation teacher Willa Blythe Baker; and so many more experts whose work offers an empowering approach to the climate crisis, instead of one of despair, paralysis, or avoidance. By seeking the wisdom of these activists, scientists, and meditation teachers, Bauer-Wu presents a case for hope, grounded in science, and actionable advice to make change. 

The book is an invitation, Bauer-Wu says, to join the conversation, and with contemplative practices woven throughout, it’s an active read. One of those practices comes from Dekila Chungyalpa, Director of the Loka Initiative at the Center for Healthy Minds at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, who offers a tonglen-inspired meditation to help with eco-anxiety and despair. Confronting the climate crisis shouldn’t require choosing between facts and emotions, but embracing both. “There’s relief,” Bauer-Wu says, “in giving up the charade that everything’s okay and strength to be found in this deeper communion.”

A Meditation for Eco-Anxiety and Climate Despair 

By Dekila Chungyalpa

In this meditation, we will cultivate our interconnectedness with the earth through a variation of tonglen, the Tibetan Buddhist practice of giving and receiving.

Please start by grounding yourself with the earth beneath you. Pay attention to how your feet or any other part of your body that is touching the floor is placed. Notice how you are rooted, through a chair or floor, to the earth and how she literally holds you up—unconditionally, effortlessly, compassionately.

This practice requires that you access the emotions of eco-anxiety or climate distress—grief, anger, vulnerability, sadness, fear—and open yourself up to experiencing them. I ask that you observe how these emotions arise, in what manner and intensity. Pay attention to the shape, color, size, any aspects that give an emotion form. Where does it arise in your body? What are its characteristics? If an emotion overtakes you and washes you away, that is all right. Simply bring yourself back to your purpose of observing, as many times as you need to.

When you have a good hold of the characteristics of your emotions, acknowledge them with respect. Your emotions are a completely valid response to an existential threat to you and your loved ones. It means your inner warning system is working and that is a good thing. So, whatever losses you have witnessed or anticipate, whatever emotions you have suppressed or reacted to, take time to let them all flow out of you and into the earth. Acknowledge and let go.

Notice your incoming breath—the air entering your nostrils, your mouth, filling up your belly. That oxygen that keeps you alive is coming from forests and oceans, from plants and phytoplankton, from all over the world and from outside your window. Rest in the awareness of this physical manifestation of the earth’s compassion for you.

Every aspect of you right now, the air that fills your lungs, the clothes that you wear, the food you ate today, all of that comes from outside of you. This ever-present, life-encompassing, compassionate earth sustains you. You are part of this effortless cycle of give and take. You are participating in an exchange with the elements, with other living beings, with the earth herself. With each inhale, breathe in the earth’s compassion, and with each exhale, breathe out gratitude.

Relax here in this indivisible connection with all that surrounds you; breathe in compassion, and breathe out gratitude.

Now comes the hard part. Visualize a place or being or community you love that is suffering from climate and environmental harm. It could be a river, a species, the community you belong to, or even the earth herself rotating in space.

Resting in and rooted by the compassion and gratitude you hold, I want you to access your intention, your motivation to alleviate the suffering of your beloved. Now, when you inhale, breathe in their suffering; and when you exhale, breathe out your compassion.

This can sometimes bring up fear, or you may be swept away by grief. If that happens, simply go back to grounding yourself in the earth’s support. When you’re ready, come back to inhale the pain and suffering, exhale your compassion and healing.

You can practice this for as long as you feel comfortable and at ease. Do not force yourself; you can always come back to this stage another time.

When you are ready, I would like you to return to the earlier exchange of compassion and gratitude. However, this time you will reverse the direction. Let yourself inhale the

earth’s gratitude for your existence; and when you exhale, offer the compassion and love you have for her. You are inextricably connected with her in every moment and there is no division here.

Wonderful. As you emerge from this practice, please set the intention to try it again the next time climate distress or eco-anxiety arises. You can also compress the practice and simply rest in the give-and-take of compassion and gratitude for short moments throughout your day. The work you do is critically important for safeguarding the earth and all the life she carries. I hope this practice strengthens your inner resilience as you go forward.

♦

From A Future We Can Love: How We Can Reverse the Climate Crisis with the Power of Our Hearts and Minds by Susan Bauer-Wu © 2023 by the Mind & Life Institute. Reprinted in arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Inc. Boulder, CO. www.shambhala.com

The post Your Despair Over the Environment Is Valid. Embrace It. appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

In a commentary on the Heart Sutra, Thich Nhat Hanh compares the purity of a rose in a vase to the squalor of a garbage can:

“In just five or six days, the rose will become part of the garbage… And if we look deeply into the garbage can, we see that in a few months its contents can be transformed into a rose… Roses and garbage inter-are. Without a rose, we cannot have garbage; and without garbage, we cannot have a rose. The rose and the garbage are equally important. The garbage is just as precious as the rose.”

When everything is interconnected and interdependent, the pure and the foul are not so easily separated, and the line between the marvelous and the mundane dissolves.

Over the past couple years, I’ve come to view foraging wild plants as a practice in cultivating this nondualistic view. It’s a reminder that life is full of wonder and awe, value and benefit, beauty and complexity—and yet so much is easy to dismiss and look past.

In The New Wildcrafted Cuisine (2016), Pascal Baudar notes that a life spent foraging has given him “a true sense of balance, harmony, and freedom.” When you’re out there under the forest’s canopy, amid rolling desert hills, along splashing shorelines, “the chatter in your head, the crushing sense of time, seems to just slow down and cares disappear after a short while. You can simply be present in the moment and experience the environment fully and with all your senses: smell, touch, hearing, taste, and sight. It’s an amazing state of awareness.”

While many have found a connection between garden-tending and mindfulness meditation, there’s a difference between tending to the wild garden rather than the cultivated one. As Baudar continues:

As you get to know the plants and understand their world, you realize that you’re truly surrounded by pure, unadulterated life forces and, with time, your relationship with their environment becomes more intimate. You become simply part of the environment as a human being, not trying to dominate plants and place them neatly in rows after rows over endless acres of sorry-looking-land. You understand nature is not trying to dominate or scare you, either. It’s a symbiotic relationship.

This sort of sentiment is commonly shared among foragers and wildcrafters—that stepping outside the tamed space of the cultivated garden gets you in touch with yourself and your surroundings in unique and rewarding ways. Those untamed, wild spaces are also much more democratizing in comparison, since they are typically public and shared places rather than the private properties associated with cash-crop cultivation and rigid garden rows.

While foraging is often characterized by knowledge and outdoor adventure, it can also be just as much about sustainability and revolt.

While foraging is often characterized by knowledge and outdoor adventure, it can also be just as much about sustainability and revolt—about realizing and embracing the close connection with our natural surroundings and rebelling against an industry and perspective that reduces uncultivated plants to ornaments on a nature walk or unwanted intruders in our public spaces and in our yards. 

In particular, urban foraging carries such subversive, rebellious qualities when framed as an affront to our modern, industrialized food system. But the deeper truth is that learning more about our landscapes, and what naturally grows in them, can also help us become more present, connected, and excited about our surroundings, further unlearning those distinctions between the ordinary and the spectacular. In other words, when foraging becomes our mindfulness practice, we can better appreciate the unappreciated—not just among plants we might otherwise disregard or disparage, but in all aspects of our lives.

Wild foods can also be incredibly nutritious and delicious—often more so than their cultivated counterparts—and they inherently have stories attached to their harvest and preparation that can make shopping along an aisle seem rather banal and disconnected in comparison. Most people don’t realize, for example, that the purslane (Portulaca oleracea) growing through the cracks in their sidewalks contains more omega-3 fatty acids than any other leafy green, that the stinging nettles (Urtica dioica) they avoid could otherwise provide them with essential amino acids as a complete protein, or that Mahonia berries (Mahonia aquifolium/repens) make a fantastic jam.

Alan Bergo, the James Beard Award–winning “forager chef,” sums up the lifestyle shift a fascination with wild foods can offer in The Forager Chef’s Book of Flora (2021): “Foraging, in my mind, isn’t just an act—it’s a mindset and a healthy way of life. It’s about the willingness to look beyond the status quo for exciting and unconventional ingredients…and a desire to have a more personal, meaningful, and gratifying relationship with our food.” It’s that relationship, I’ve discovered, that can help open us up to a much more mindful awareness and existence too. “As we see, hear, smell, taste, and feel nature’s details, we become more present, and compassion and love grow within us,” Zachiah Murray writes in Mindfulness in the Garden (2012). While foraging can help us connect more intimately with the environment, the attentive sentiments and sensibilities fostered in the process can spread throughout our everyday lives in general as well.

When I first started learning about the culinary, medicinal, and practical value of wild plants in my area, I made it a point to dedicate a month to a single plant before moving on to the next. My broader knowledge is still elementary as a result, but I know the plants I have spent time on extremely well. And now I see them everywhere. In many ways, this clearly demonstrates a sort of frequency bias. When we get to know something—especially for the first time—we tend to see it a lot more often, as if it’s suddenly appearing more frequently. It’s not, of course (not usually, at least). We just notice it now. And when you know something—when there’s a name attached to it, when you know intimate things about it, when you’re able to confidently engage with it—there’s also a certain sort of respect and protective attention granted to it as a result. As Murray writes, “A greater intimacy with nature is born of our willingness to look deeply.” When we know something, that thing is now particularized rather than blurred in our periphery, and we’re more attentive as a result.

One of the first plants I studied was the common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale). It’s probably among the most abundant plants seen growing in urban areas. It’s also such a versatile perennial, having so many culinary, medicinal, and practical uses. Unfortunately, it’s often labeled a noxious weed and largely neglected and drowned in poison to the detriment of the soil and living things surrounding it. But the yellow flowers and fluffy tufts are some of the most beautiful sights for me every spring. Flowers, in general, of course, effortlessly capture our gaze. Perhaps, it’s because, as Murray claims, “they model pure presence” in that their beauty emerges by simply “being what they are, without vanity or apology.”

“The flower does not mind its impermanent nature and is never moved to complain.”

Stealing our gaze, wildflowers can also beckon us to look more deeply—to see that their cycles of growth and the connections upon which those cycles depend are not much different from our own. “Like the flower,” Murray reminds us, “our bodies are of the nature to grow old, die, and be cast off.” When we stop and admire them, she states, we are also presented with an opportunity to observe beautiful equanimity in a powerful moment amid life’s impermanence. “The flower does not mind its impermanent nature and is never moved to complain.” And it stands as a powerful example for how we might approach our lives as well.

According to Murray, “we can witness all of life in a single petal.” In other words, when we consider various phenomena, such as a wooden table or a cup of tea (a couple of Thich Nhat Hanh’s go-to examples), looking deeply into them reveals all of the nonwooden table and nontea elements that led to and are responsible for their existence—and by extension, the effects they have on other phenomena to which they are also intimately connected. So when we look deeply into a dandelion, we might also see in it all of the nondandelion elements—not just those that directly contribute to its physical existence, like sunlight, rain, and soil, but also the communal reach that the dandelion has with everything growing and living around it, how that reciprocally affects its surroundings, and how that conditions the existence of the lives it touches as well. Looking into a wild plant like a dandelion can remind us of the impact we have on the environment and its myriad inhabitants and cycles. We can see the sun itself, the clouds that produce the rain, and the pH and minerals in the soil. We can also see the sun’s energy and the conditions for it to affect flora on Earth, the hydrologic cycle and the cleanliness of our water, and the engagement of other living things with local soil and chemicals inadvertently or consciously being introduced.

We impact and affect our world in all sorts of ways, and learning how to appreciate the otherwise unappreciated can also help further disclose the nuances of paticca-samuppada (interdependence) throughout our lives. Learning about our wild garden can help enable us to become more mindful and aware of our presence in what surrounds us, how to welcome, understand, and be more attentive to everything we sense and perceive, and foster an ability to learn from what we encounter and observe rather than cut ourselves off through destructive and false dichotomies. Mindful foraging—or simply mindful spectating—can help us see how interconnected everything is in this world. And while the lobed, basal leaves of wild, flowering plants might not always be so pristine, the point is, they’re just as spectacular.

The post Mindful Foraging  appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

This conversation is an excerpt from Tricycle’s second annual Buddhism and Ecology Summit, a weeklong event series focused on transforming anxiety into awakened action.

Sam Mowe: Rebecca, in Not Too Late: Changing the Climate Story from Despair to Possibility you describe the climate crisis as being, in part, also a storytelling crisis. What do you mean by that? And would you also describe the climate crisis as a spiritual crisis?

Rebecca Solnit: I think the spiritual crisis and the storytelling crisis are the same crisis. Capitalism would like us to believe that we’re basically selfish individuals. Private individuals. And that what we most want and need are things money can buy—lots of stuff, plus maybe some sex and some family and lovers in our immediate vicinity. What other views of human nature tell us is, in fact, the things we most yearn for are broader connection, community, meaning, purpose, hope, and awe—these other things that capitalism is very bad at, which is why it would prefer we forget them. 

Then there are stories about how change works, which suggest that change is something that the powerful hand down to us. That’s a problem. Another problem with the story of change we often get is also a kind of capitalist story I call “instant results guaranteed or your money back.” We have a demonstration on Monday and if the powers that be don’t fall to their knees on Tuesday, people too often go away expecting that if nothing happened, then it didn’t work. Whereas change is actually often very indirect. There are ripple effects. The story we’re told about the nature of power is that it exists among the officially powerful politicians and the wealthy. But ordinary people, massed together, can be more powerful than anything else. 

Storytellers have the ability to change the story. With climate itself, there are just so many ways the story can be told differently. We see a lot of defeatist stories: that it’s too late, we have no power, there’s nothing we can do, nobody cares. I saw somebody on social media saying the climate denialists and the defeatists are telling us the same thing: don’t do anything, there’s nothing we can do. But of course, there’s not only so much we can do, but there’s so much already happening right now. The more closely you look, the more exciting it is—the energy transition, the research on new, better materials and energy sources, the growth of the climate movement, and the success of its ideas, which have become part of what the majority of people around the world, believe, support, care about, and think is urgent. 

There are so many ways in which how we tell the story conceals or reveals what’s possible, who we are, what we desire, what constitutes a good and meaningful life, or what the future can hold.

Roshi Joan Halifax: Our stories represent our views. And our views are deeply embedded within our society and also how the economic structures, as Rebecca has pointed out, shape our experience. We’ve been, in a certain way, colonized by late-stage capitalism. And we are in a process of decolonization, if you will, from the stories that have contributed not only to toxifying and mortifying the earth, but also the psyches of people all over the world. From my point of view, the value of practice to look deeply into reality, to see the truth of impermanence, to understand the power of the realization of pratityasamutpada, of co-arising or co-dependent arising, interconnectedness, interdependence, interpenetration. To understand there is no inherent self in the absolute sense, but that we are composed of all of the elements, and in a way, we are inhabiting each other there. Our subjectivity is coextensive with all of life. So being able to have the quality of mind to perceive reality deeply will make it possible for us to actually shift our view of reality—not the distorted view of reality that is promulgated by the economic systems that are in control of so much of our world today. It takes determination. The Buddha said, “my dharma is swimming upstream.” And this is kind of an upstream swim, quite frankly. But you know what swimming upstream does for us? It makes us a heck of a lot stronger if we manage to navigate against the current of the times toward a reality that is sane and compassionate. 

“What are the stories that are constructive and liberating?”

Talking about stories, I think it is important to understand the role of myths in society. We know that myths have had a tremendously important presence in culture for thousands of years. And in a way, we’ve jettisoned the typical myths that would guide our culture toward greater integrity. Myths come out of both the social structure and the psyche. The social structures that we live in are reflected in the psyche and the psyche influence our social structures. And those structures are reflected inside of the stories that are told through time, but also point toward timeless truths. Much of my work is, how do we actually come back to narratives that are generative? What are the stories that are constructive and liberating? 

Rebecca Solnit: One familiar story is that we’re constantly told we live in an age of abundance. And some of us do live in material affluence and comfort. But part of that story is the idea that what the climate crisis requires of us is renunciation. I learned once from a Buddhist leader, or maybe a Catholic person, that renunciation can be great when you’re giving up something terrible. But the idea that we’re now living in abundance and must go to austerity, I think can be turned on its head. Look at the ways that we are austere in meaning, purpose, hope, social connection, justice. We’re impoverished in clean air, clean water, healthy topsoil, in the survival of so many species, and the health of the ocean. We either feel it as a kind of moral injury, or we experience a kind of moral numbing. 

We can look forward to an age of abundance in these qualities we’re currently austere in, but first we have to find the language, imagination, stories, and cultural structures to recognize, name, value, and make them central to who we are. Right now, I feel like we don’t see nearly enough how poor we are in so many ways. We find it so normal to live in a world so poisoned by fossil fuels. Two-hundred-thousand people in Thailand were just hospitalized for particulate matter, air pollution inhalation, and more than eight million people a year die of air particulate matter from fossil fuels primarily, which is more than in any recent war. And yet we normalize this and think everything is fine. And that we have to give stuff up. What if we’re giving up poison? What if we’re giving up loneliness? What if we’re giving up hopelessness? Those are the stories I’m trying to tell and the stories that I think will make us brave enough to make the transitions we need to make.

The post What If We’re Telling the Wrong Stories About the Climate Crisis? appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

As days lengthen and the long winter draws to a close, agricultural villages across western Himalaya start to bustle with activity. Farmers prepare their fields for the upcoming growing season, and blooming apricot flowers splash hues of pink across the barren landscape. April brings the first signs of spring, and with it, the time for saka, or first plow, has arrived.

 The first plow is a particularly special occasion for agricultural villages in India’s northern region of Ladakh, and Buddhist rituals frequently supplement agrarian traditions to bless the land, protect the village, and usher in a fruitful season. Some villages consult local astrologers to determine the date of the first plow, while in other villages, the heads of house congregate to decide. Saka traditions vary from village to village to accommodate distinct needs and environments. This year, I traveled to two Ladakhi villages, Tar and Basgo, to learn about their plowing rituals and the relationships between Buddhist practice and the environment. 

Tucked between narrow mountain gorges, Tar is one of the few remaining Ladakhi villages accessible only by foot. Basgo, on the other hand, is a large village that stretches roughly seven kilometers along the Leh-Manali Highway and extends in both directions from that highway—up the valley and down to the Indus River. Plowing traditions in these villages simultaneously connect them to their distinctive histories and provide a glimpse into the trajectory of Ladakh’s future. 

On the first day of plow in Tar, soft echoes of conversation mix with the words being read from the sacred Buddhist text Byang chub sems kyi bstod pa rin chen sgron ma (Precious Lamp of Praise of the Bodhicitta). Nearby, men affix the wooden yoke and plow to the shoulders of two dzos—a hybrid between a yak and a cow. This year, Urgyan, a high school student from Tar who now studies near Leh, has returned home to assist his mother and paternal grandfather in plowing their fields. Urgyan’s maternal grandfather, Tsering, has also made the journey to Tar to help his daughter. 

With Tar’s dwindling and rapidly aging population, Urgyan and Tsering’s participation is greatly appreciated. Several villagers, as well as an American couple who has lived intermittently in Tar since 2015, join the family in this year’s plow. Long-held systems of interfamilial reciprocity instilled by ancestors have ensured that no family has to tend to their fields single-handedly. For generations, this group of households in Tar has helped one another not only plow each other’s fields but also offered aid in times of need, grief, and celebration. Everyone’s fields will be plowed in turn, but today—the first day—the group plows the fields belonging to Achey Tashi, Urgyan’s mother. 

Before the plow breaks through the soil, Tsering awakens the earth spirits who might have settled in the soil during Tar’s long winter. He informs them of the intrusive plowing activities soon to commence and requests that they vacate the field to avoid injury from the plow. Proceeding without awaking and mollifying these spirits risks failure, or even catastrophe. Inside Achey Tashi’s home, the rest of the group sips warm cups of butter tea and finishes their breakfast.

As breakfast concludes, the men of the household gather materials harvested from the earth—juniper (shukpa), incense, barley flour (phey), water, barley beer (chang), flowers, and butter (yar)—to give as offerings. They recite Buddhist prayers while the eldest begins to read the Buddhist text and the youngest throws a modest handful of barley flour up into the air. Achey Tashi brings everyone a chapati, Ladakhi flatbread, to take to the field. With prayers said, earth spirits awakened, and chapati in hand, it is time to start plowing the fields.

On the edge of the field, one man sits alongside a smoldering incense burner and an offering of barley beer, completing the recitation of the Buddhist text to bless the land and all living beings. The eldest man of the household, Urgyan’s paternal grandfather, walks through the field scattering the barley seeds that will be churned into the soil. Meanwhile, several men polish the dzos’ horns with butter and secure the twelve-part wooden yoke and plow to their shoulders. Once they’re readied, Tsering guides the dzos rhythmically across the field, singing traditional Ladakhi songs praising the dzos’ strength. His grandson, Urgyan, steers the plow through the soil. Following behind them, several villagers break upturned masses of earth and smooth the newly carved grooves. Throughout the day, Achey Tashi keeps everyone well-fed with frequent tea and barley beer breaks. 

In Basgo, saka is more ceremonial than functional and begins high above the fields in the Buddhist temples that tower atop Basgo’s anomalous melting mountain landscape. Inside the temples, extraordinary 16th-century murals fill the walls, and a colossal sculpture of Maitreya (the future Buddha) sits at the apex. Here, surrounded by pictorial Buddhist pantheons and allusions to Basgo’s royal past, a few villagers and a monk gather to begin the saka rituals. 

 In the days leading up to saka, the village onpo (astrologer) determines the auspicious date, and several men circulate through the village to collect barley seeds from each home. These seeds symbolize the inclusion of every home in the first plow. In previous generations, many villagers participated in saka rituals, but today, with younger generations abandoning village life, only a handful of villagers maintain the traditions. 

Once the date has been fixed and barley seeds collected, the men gather in the monastery, where a monk reads from a Buddhist text to bless the seeds, the environment, and all sentient beings dwelling in it. While the monk recites sacred words, the man holding the satchel of barley (pispa) rolls on the floor speechless, playing the character of a mute fool. He remains speechless until they all reach the fields, where he will follow behind the plow and scatter the barley seeds.  

When the monk finishes his prayers, the men go up the valley to the field owned by the monastery. Beside the field, the monk continues to read the Buddhist text. His words stream through the entire ceremony, providing the sonorous backdrop for the saka ritual. Similar to Tar, someone must first awaken the earth spirits and inform them of the imminent plow. Others prepare the animals and bring out the earthen offerings of barley flour, barley beer, incense, and butter to give to the dzos, the land, its inhabitants, and those performing the rituals. Once the earth spirits have roused, offerings have been given, and the dzos readied, the men set forth to pull the plow through the field. Compared with Tar’s full-day endeavor, Basgo’s plow is relatively brief and consists of tilling only one field. After saka, the water channels are opened, and villagers can begin plowing their fields according to their own timelines.

Over the years, due to the relentless pace of modernization and cultural change sweeping across Ladakh, fewer and fewer families actively maintain traditional agricultural practices such as saka. And as each generation’s reliance and knowledge on the land diminishes, so, too, does the memory and significance of these traditions and their accompanying rituals. These plowing traditions and Buddhist rituals don’t just demonstrate the intimate and sustainable relationships forged between Ladakhi communities and their environments. They also demonstrate how Buddhism exists beyond texts and temples, and serve as a thread to connect Ladakhis with their history. 

Reflecting back on this year’s plow, Urgyan told me, “It’s not only about the work. I would say it’s a kind of celebration. Everyone works together as a team but gets sufficient rest, with lots of tea and local beer. Elders crack good jokes and share old stories about how things used to be.” 

As dusk settled in Tar, we looked proudly at the freshly plowed fields and newly tilled earth. Soon, green shoots will break through the soil and remind us of the unstoppable passage of time. 

The post The First Plow appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

In response to the climate crisis and other ecological problems, a new development within socially engaged Buddhism has emerged: ecodharma, also known as ecobuddhism. Despite traditional Buddhist focus on individual practice and awakening, today the ecological implications of the dharma have become difficult to ignore. Buddhist emphasis on interdependence—what Thich Nhat Hanh describes as our “interbeing”—is part of an all-encompassing worldview that does not separate one’s personal well-being, or collective human flourishing, from that of the earth. We find ourselves confronted by an unavoidable question: how do we acknowledge that interconnectedness in how we actually live? 

In accord with this, an increasing number of Buddhist teachers, scholars, and activists are drawing attention to ecological engagement as an important aspect of Buddhist practice today. From March 24 to 28, twenty-one of us gathered at the Barre Center for Buddhist Studies for an eco-retreat sponsored by the BESS Family Foundation to discuss this very issue. 

Most of the participants were members of an eco-advisory team of North American teachers and practitioners that has been meeting online since last summer. This group of fourteen advisors, incorporating a broad range of backgrounds and lineages, is also sponsored by the BESS Family Foundation. The group came together to explore the intersection of climate change and practice, particularly to assess ways to benefit people and the planet as we go through this uncertain time.  We are discussing questions such as: How is the eco-crisis affecting people differently? How can Buddhist meditation and secular mindfulness help people cope with the distress in ways that lead to beneficial actions? What is the difference between grief and despair? Which eco-practices seem most useful, and to whom? What are the challenges of implementing them? 

The highlight for everyone was the opportunity to spend time together in person with other like-minded ecodharma practitioners, strengthening the emerging eco-Buddhist community, and beginning to share resources. Several people noted that “it felt like a homecoming.” As one of the participants said, “We can’t do this alone. The jewel of community is crucial to our work around visioning a better world.” Another emphasized that “only with deep friendships and coalition building can we create strategic ways to scale up a just response to the ongoing climate emergency.”

Along with informal discussions, members of the advisory group offered eco-meditations, ranging from brief tonglen sessions to a three-hour Earth-based practice. This allowed participants to observe how others are approaching this work and sustaining themselves in these challenging times. The discussions highlighted the intersection of the ecological crisis with social justice issues, including racism and other forms of oppression: “how can we support and uplift Indigenous communities and communities of color who are facing the most urgent manifestations of environmental injustice?” We also addressed a variety of other issues, including systems theory, economic implications, and the importance of skillful means (upaya).

The retreat was not designed to produce a specific result, but there were several key takeaways, including:

• Despite its importance, ecodharma still has a small presence in the US and most other Western nations. One major factor is that many people come to dharma centers to ease their suffering and feel better, not to confront the anxiety that most of us feel in response to the ecological crisis. How can ecodharma teaching and practices respond to this reality?
• The intersection of Buddhism with ecodharma and other social justice concerns requires a double engagement: although we continue to work on our own practice and transformation, we realize that our personal well-being is intimately related to the well-being of others. Acting on this insight requires social engagement. How can we skillfully promote this understanding within the Buddhist community and encourage this double practice?
• There may be a generation gap between older Buddhist practitioners and younger Buddhists, who often seem more concerned about the ecological crisis and more determined to do what they can to address it. How do we attract and serve younger people? What can more experienced Buddhists do to make practice centers more welcoming and responsive to their personal and social concerns?
• Buddhism has always emphasized interdependence: the delusion of a self that is separate from others is a source of suffering. Today, the eco-crisis seems to be a larger version of the same duality: our now-global civilization feels separate from the earth, exploiting it without any sense of responsibility to it. How can we address this collective sense of alienation? What practices—traditional and new—can promote the realization of our nonduality with the earth, which is our mother as well as our home? As one participant put it, how can we promote “a future in which everyone knows that we are part of an intelligent, living Earth?” 

Earth-based practices seem to be a key: For example, listening to the earth, to ancestors, and to nonhuman animals. How might such practices be integrated into traditional Buddhist teachings? Several of the participants represent centers and programs already exploring some of these possibilities: Kristin Barker with One Earth Sangha, Susie Harrington’s NatureDharma Teacher Training, Lama Willa Blythe Baker’s Rewilding the Soul, Thanissara’s Peoples Alliance for Earth Action Now (PAEAN), Ayya Santacitta with the Aloka Earth Room, Kritee Kanko and David Loy with the Rocky Mountain Ecodharma Retreat Center. What is working well, and what is not? What can we learn from one another, and how can we make these teachings and practices more widely available?

• It is not enough to realize our nonduality with the earth. We need to act on that realization. As Thich Nhat Hanh emphasized, what is the point of seeing if it doesn’t lead to action? But what types of action are appropriate? Education only? What about challenging and even disrupting institutions? In particular, how can our work begin to redefine community values so that the health of the earth comes first? How can we promote the healing of the earth, along with the healing of our relationship with it? 

Buddhism originated in a very different time and place, so we can’t expect traditional texts and teachings to offer precise answers to what to do. But contemplative practices can help us decide for ourselves where to engage. Examples are reflecting on questions such as: What do I have to offer? What are the best possibilities for me? And (most important) what tugs at my heart? These three contemplations can also be done by groups that are drawn to work collectively.

• We discussed a declaration of alliance or solidarity, which would articulate the beliefs and values that we share. Such a declaration could be an important symbolic gesture to the entire Buddhist community, emphasizing the unique challenge we face today and the importance of responding appropriately. (This discussion is ongoing.)
• How can we continue to work together, and expand the circle to bring in more people and groups? We listed “offers for help and requests for help” among us. One idea is to create a registry of teachers (with their preferred topics) who would be available to offer online or in-person ecodharma talks and workshops (online or in person) to dharma groups that want to begin discussing such issues.
• There are already several interreligious coalitions in the US where members from different traditions work together to address the climate crisis, such as GreenFaith and Interfaith Power & Light. In addition to various ecodharma groups becoming more familiar with one another and cooperating, should we join such coalitions (or create new ones)? Can we make bridges outside the Buddhist community? We may have more impact working together.
• The participants expressed their desire to continue meeting online and in person. Two online meetings of the advisory group are planned for later this year, and a second in-person retreat, again at the Barre Center for Buddhist Studies, is planned for September 2024.

To sum up, what has evolved so far is the beginning of a network of ecodharma teachers, programs, and centers. We hope that others who share these concerns will contact us (either as individual participants or at info@bessfoundation.org) and join us in developing this new and vitally important direction for socially engaged Buddhism. 

The post An Ecodharma Retreat for Buddhist Teachers appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Question: How do you feel when you think about the climate crisis?

“This uncertainty is gripping.” —D, 51 

“The collective inability to prevent further destruction has made me furious and disgusted and finally, resigned.” —T, 71 

“I feel uneasy, it’s daunting, and I’m worried for all young people. I’m worried about how unconcerned we all seem, kind of shut down, with business as usual.” —B, 65

“I feel sad for all those who suffer and angry at all those working against. Great suffering will happen, but ultimately humanity will prevail.” —J, 31

“I can’t think of this. I want a life.”— A, 21

***

We are planet people in an existential crisis because of human-generated climate change. This is causing untold suffering. However, even though most climate scientists agree on this diagnosis, the general public may or may not. A great portion of the population seems to be either in denial or so-called “climate nonchalance,” where we may have knowledge about the dangers of climate change yet shrug our shoulders and are unwilling or unable to engage. 

How can we best respond in the face of so much fear and confusion? Some go prematurely to hospice care for planet Earth. Hospice implies a terminal diagnosis. Those who argue that hospice care is the most appropriate response conclude that attempts to prevent climate collapse are too late. We propose that it is more accurate and helpful to think and talk about palliative care for our planet. Palliative care is about helping those living with serious illness to receive the care they need to experience the best possible quality of life, regardless of outcome. A friend recently said, “When I hear people talking about hospice care for our planet, I fall into a black hole of despair. When I hear the phrase, palliative care for our planet, my heart opens, and I feel more hopeful.” The way we frame this discussion and the language we use affects how we think, feel, and act. 

Hospice care is about providing the best possible care at the end of life. Palliative care does not use prognosis to frame its priorities and approach. Palliative care for our planet means doing everything we can to save what can be saved, while simultaneously acting to improve the quality of life of all human and more-than-human beings. Palliative care for our planet involves a paradigm shift in attitude. As humans, we tend to be preoccupied with outcome. Success is achieving our goals; failure is when we do not. As palliative care providers, we shift our focus to process, to whole person care, to tending with loving care the bodies, minds, hearts, and souls of all sentient beings, to supporting family and building community, to including, in a widening circle of compassion, all those suffering confusion, denial, and fear. 

We are so used to dualistic thinking, which here means either being in denial of climate change or convinced that “it’s already too late.” Palliative care offers a middle path towards healing between living and dying, where we can be with uncertainty, with each other, and with who and what matters most. We hold this space for others by being present, whether they agree with us or not.

We realize that there are many who will disagree with a palliative care approach. Some will see us as alarmist and catastrophizing, while others will dismiss us as climate deniers. The first group comprises those who deny that climate change is a problem, as well as those who accept that it is a problem but do not see it as an existential threat. The second group will say that we have already passed the tipping point of no return. A palliative care perspective, is, once again, somewhere in the middle. While recognizing that the damage is massive and, in many cases, irreversible, we hold that there remains much uncertainty about how things will work out in the future. What is certain is that our planet home is very ill. 

“Palliative care offers a middle path towards healing between living and dying.”

In our work with seriously ill patients, including those at the end of their lives, we have noticed specific patterns of psychological dynamics that appear to significantly affect these individuals’ quality of life. Understanding these hidden undercurrents can help to care more effectively. These dynamics are well described in a body of work from the field of social psychology called terror management theory. 

Terror management theory hypothesizes that in attempting to protect ourselves from the unbearable awareness of our own mortality, we repress our fear of death, burying it deep in the unconscious, while simultaneously identifying with the dominant culture—that is, the institutions, values, tribes, and processes that maintain the status quo. Because the dominant culture is something greater than us that will outlive us as individuals, it functions as a symbolic immortality, affording us some temporary protection from death awareness. At the same time, we pull back from what is different or unfamiliar, and we denigrate, and, if necessary, destroy what is perceived as a threat to the status quo. These reactionary behaviors can lead to societal fragmentation, polarization, and scapegoating.  

We believe that terror management processes are also seen at a societal level. Could collective death anxiety triggering terror management processes be why we see autocratic leaders coming to power around the world who promise to preserve the status quo and punish any who they perceive as a threat to that status quo? Could this be why we see increasing cultural polarization with the loss of any middle ground? Could this be why immigrants and minority groups within a given culture are being persecuted by the cultural majority? Could this be why we treat the natural world as a supply house and a sewer? Could this be why we are seeing a rise in hate crimes and mass shootings? And at an individual level, could this be why we are witnessing a global pandemic of anxiety, depression, and suicide, especially among young people? 

Fear causes us to contract, to curl up in a ball, to pull back into a shell of self-protection. This leads to disconnection from others and our world. We need to recognize that our collective task as a human community is to care for what is existentially threatened and terrified within us. Doing so may free us from the unconsciously driven destructive behaviors that are feeding denial and despair to engage in life-giving ways.

Even when we are not in control, we still have the capacity to choose. As Victor Frankl, author of Man’s Search for Meaning and survivor of Nazi concentration camps, tells us: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” We can make choices now that will affect our grandchildren and their grandchildren and theirs. 

However, we cannot change collective attitudes and values alone. Palliative care is a team approach. Healing begins when we realize our inseparable interconnection and interdependence with all other beings on this planet. This is what His Holiness the Dalai Lama emphasizes in all his teachings. It is what our indigenous teachers have been telling us all along. It is what the mystical strands of all the great spiritual traditions teach us. It is what science, as in ecology and quantum mechanics, shows us. So, how can we proceed? 

The most powerful antidote to overwhelming unconscious fear are practices that give us a sense of deep inner security and allow us to let our guard down and meet others with an open heart. “Heart” is understood here as the energetic heart, the pulsating hub of connectedness with the rest of life. It is a radical act to consciously step onto a spiritual path that brings us into an experience of our interdependence. This frees us from preoccupation with the endless needs of what writer and philosopher Alan Watts calls “our skin-encapsulated egos,” and we naturally feel a sense of deep belonging and concern for the welfare of others. 

We want to highlight three approaches that we and others have found helpful in reducing our fear and realizing our interbeing, enabling us to be present with what is. Firstly, there is Joanna Macy’s, The Work That Reconnects, an approach that makes Buddhist teachings more accessible. The spiral of the work that reconnects begins with gratitude, which grounds us in the heart. Macy points out that gratitude is a revolutionary act, which allows us to step off the treadmill of “not-enoughness” that a consumer culture depends on. The next step involves honoring our pain, which begins by turning towards rather than away from our distress for the world. Macy says, “We are called not to run from the discomfort, or run from the grief, or the feelings of outrage, or even fear. If we can be fearless with our pain it turns, it doesn’t stay static. It only doesn’t change if we refuse to look at it. But when we look at it, when we take it in our hands, when we can just be with it and keep breathing, it turns, it turns to reveal its other face; and the other face of our pain for the world is our love for the world, our absolute, inseparable connectedness to all life.” This insight radically changes our perspective, so that we now see with new eyes, and want nothing more than to go forth, in the final step of the spiral, to act for the greater good. 

A second set of practices are what we call Earth Connection Practices. These are simple practices that help us to remember our kinship with our living planet and all her people, human and more the human, through sensory awareness with the natural world. An example is the simple act of breathing. This process, which is usually automatic and unconscious, is an opportunity to phenomenologically experience our interdependence. By bringing our awareness to the rise and fall of our body’s breathing, we are experiencing our reciprocal relationship with all oxygen-producing beings on this planet, on whom our life, literally, depends. As Native teacher Wolf Wahpepah tells us, “Something glorious happens when we bring our awareness to what already is.”

A third set of practices are three Mindful Awareness Practices. These practices, which derive from Theravada and Mahayana Buddhism, are now widely available as secular teachings in the West. The first of these is mindfulness, what author and teacher Jon Kabat-Zinn calls “moment-by-moment-non-judgmental-awareness.” Mindfulness helps us to focus our attention and allows us to find a place of internal calm. The second practice is awake awareness practice, which allows us to tap into the sense of the effortless, spacious ease that is already right here, even when unrecognized. This can be experienced when our awareness expands beyond our conceptual mind, and this spacious, knowing way of being becomes the perspective we are living from. Pointing-out instructions and other non-dual practices enable such a shift in outlook, allowing us to view our fear and contraction from a wider perspective, and naturally empowering us to be open-hearted and engaged. The third practice is about cultivating feelings of the heart, such as kindness, compassion, generosity, gratitude, and forgiveness, through specifically dedicated meditations. With a lessening of our reactivity and fear, and a greater capacity to love, we are free to contribute to the healing care of our world.

As we engage in heart practices such as these, our fear lessens and we find ourselves relaxing like a child held securely in her mother’s arms, allowing us to look outwards with openness and curiosity at our wounded world. These practices are also a powerful antidote to burnout, compassion fatigue, and moral distress.

So, let us take the middle road of palliative care! Let us leave apocalyptic thinking and planetary hospice behind, as well as our denial and nonchalance. Let us have the courage to see clearly what’s happening to our planet and walk towards it, rather than burying our heads in the sand or trying not to think about it. Let us cherish what is to be cherished, let us grieve what is to be grieved while doing what we can to ease what can be eased. Let us shift from focusing on what we do to focusing on how we do what we do. Let us be present and open-hearted to what is, rather than what we hope for or dread. 

The path to reclaiming our identity as planet people means learning to be with pain and suffering, our own, others, and our world’s. The sea of grief is fathomless. We can only survive the relentless tsunami of suffering if we let it flow through us, our feet rooted in what is not afraid and what does not die. Then the energies of aliveness and creativity are set free. A spoon of salt in a glass of water tastes salty, while it is tasteless in a vast and open mountain lake. Our Mother Earth needs each of us to find our own way of becoming, for her sake and for the sake of all her children, that vast, wild, and generous mountain lake. 

♦

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