I’m going to try to convince you not to be a jerk. I mean, you’re probably already not a jerk. I’m sure you’re usually basically a very nice human. But if you’re anything like me, you’re usually a nice human who flips out sometimes, says things he doesn’t mean, or maybe even says things he does mean and then encounters the rippling layers of consequences of those things down the line. My goal is to persuade you to do less of the jerk-like stuff you might be doing in your everyday life, and more of the prosocial, happy-making stuff you’re probably also already doing.

Please take a minute and think of a real jerk. This could be a stupid terrible jerk from your present life. It could be an awful disgusting jerk from your past. Maybe even a historical jerk or a bigtime political jerk. Whoever this jerk is, just make sure they really embody jerkiness for you.  

Got your jerk? Good. Now, I’d like you to start to catalog this person’s badness. In other words, what makes them such a jerk? Please think of all the qualities that make this individual particularly unbearable. What makes them terrible? What is it about them that makes you want to ring their neck or flee the building?

Let’s look together at that compendium of jerkdom you just assembled. What exactly was on that list of unforgivable attributes this particular jerk personifies? My guess is there are all kinds of things. This person talks behind your back. Or they threw sand in your eyes when you were ten. Or they’re racist. Or just plain damned ignorant. Or a horrible bore who won’t let you get a word in at parties. Or they’ve done something truly terrible to you or someone you love.

A jerk, put simply, is someone who causes harm. They cut you off in traffic or talk on the phone really loud in coffee shops or threaten the democratic norms you’ve always believed were intrinsic to the functioning of a civilized society. That’s why we don’t like jerks. Because they trigger avalanches of chaos everywhere they go.

But here’s the kicker, a time-honored semi-Buddhist insight: all of us have a little jerk living inside us. The part of us that wants what it wants, that doesn’t care about others’ feelings, that’s totally going to snag that parking spot outside the grocery store even though the mom with two kids so obviously got there first. If we want to be happy long term, with flourishing friendships and a more-or-less stable sense of purpose, we’ll need to stay alert to that self-sabotaging part of ourselves, and choose something different.

I lived in a Zen monastery for six years. When I tell people I lived in a Zen monastery in the remote mountains of Colorado—when I show them pictures of the Japanese tea house and the black meditation cushions all in a row—they usually say something like “That must have been so peaceful.”

Yeah, no. It wasn’t. A monastery is a training ground. You’re up at 3:30 in the morning. You’re meditating for hours every day. There’s no personal space. You don’t get days off. All of you are stuck together in your black robes and your weird habits for months at a time. 

Enter Anthony. Anthony owned a bookstore in the Mission in San Francisco. He was a longtime Zen student, in his fifties, with a crew cut, a bag full of government conspiracy theories, and an excessively short fuse.

When Anthony came to the monastery, he had the misfortune of being under my auspices. I was the work leader—a position that entailed me, at twenty-five, telling everyone else what to do. Not that I was particularly dictatorial. But busy, for sure. And a little visionary sometimes. There was stuff to get done and I had a plan and I wanted people to step to the vision.

So I ran my meetings like clockwork. I admit it, there were spreadsheets. There were timelines. There was building frustration on my part, since the actual world was, very often, not conforming to my spreadsheets and my timelines.

It all came to a head on a crystalline February day. Thirty strapping volunteers from a local college were on their way to campus. We were going to do fire mitigation—a pressing concern for the monastery, since our surrounding desert mountains were a tinderbox of brush and low branches, just waiting to go up in flames.

I’d arranged for three professionals to arrive with their chainsaws and for each available member of the monastic community to lead a work group of five college kids. I was in the middle of downloading the vision, psyching up the troops, clarifying the details, when Anthony raised his hand.

“Yes, Anthony,” I said.

“What time is lunch?” he said.

I was flummoxed. Lunch? We were about to move mountains! 

“Who cares?” I said.

Then I went back to explicating the hauling routes and assigning the responsibilities.

After the meeting, I was walking into the kitchen when Anthony came from behind, spun me around by the shoulder, and threw me up against the wall.

Suddenly, everything went very slowly. I noticed that his face was a startling shade of red, almost purple. There was a single bead of sweat on his forehead. And his breath smelled like coffee and milk.

Anthony shook me and slammed me, saying things like “If you ever talk to me that way again, I will cut your throat.” 

Already my mind was tracking back over the last several minutes. Clearly, I had done something that really pissed Anthony off. At first I was a little too dumb to know what it was. I soon realized it was that moment I’d blown off his question about lunch.

Simultaneously, I saw there existed a whole range of options before me, almost like radio stations. Except instead of choosing between NPR and classic rock, my mind started flipping through disparate cultural scripts, little memes that might be appropriate for just such an occasion. I’m from New York, and the New York radio station was enticing me to throw a punch. Thankfully, the Buddhist radio station also clicked on even stronger. I saw how I had come into the meeting all jazzed up, a little manic. I saw how my empathy in the meeting was low. I saw how I had needlessly insulted Anthony, made him feel small. I saw my low empathy and subsequent belittling as the cause of the present death threat.

So I relaxed. “Anthony,” I said. “I messed up. Sorry. Just one of those days.”

He looked confused for a moment. Then I watched his face cycle through its own range of emotions—watched him try to remain angry, then confused again, then sad, then just tired. He dropped my shirt and walked away.

I wish I could say I always have that level of insight. The truth, though, is that spiritual progress is a bumpy road. Not so much an ever-upward line of transcendent growth. More like a series of peaks and valleys. In which you fall flat on your face in the valley. In a swamp. With mosquitoes. And no bug spray. Then dust yourself off and keep working at it.

Kindness Meditation

You can do this meditation in five minutes, if you’d like. I definitely recommend this meditation to anybody who could use a little more kindness in their life. And that’s pretty much all of us.

Let’s start by finding a comfortable posture, either sitting or lying down. Obviously if you’re reading this on a computer or your phone it’ll be hard to close your eyes. So you can keep them open. Or read a few sentences and then close your eyes. Don’t worry too much about whether you’re doing it right. Don’t worry too much about being a great meditator. In fact, just don’t worry too much.

Now let’s bring a warm awareness to your body. Just feel your body. With a sense of friendliness, a sort of grassroots kindness. Feel your hands. Feel your feet.

Bring that warm awareness to the area of your heart. Notice any sensations in the heart area—throbbing, humming, tingling, numb, whatever. Start to notice any emotions that might be here, in the heart. Just kind of take the temperature. Get a sense of things. 

You don’t need to get rid of anything, don’t need to feel differently or better. If you’re numb, you’re numb. No problem. If you’re sad, that’s how it is. Angry? That’s okay, too. Often we’re a whole bunch of things all at once. Which is also not a problem.

Now from this sense of the heart—of just being with your heart—let’s call up an image of a good friend. Someone you like. They’ve got your back. Sure, they tick you off every once in a while. But essentially it’s a good relationship—all in all, you want them to be happy.

Now let’s lean a little into this sense that your friend wants to be happy. Just like you, just like everybody, he or she or they really want to be happy. They want to be safe. They want to be healthy. They’d like some peace. 

And now let’s just begin to wish them well, using some traditional phrases.

May you be safe.

May you be happy.

May you be healthy.

May you be peaceful and at ease.

Just continue thinking about your friend, repeating these phrases silently to yourself. Maybe after some time, you can imagine your friend filling up with happiness. Imagine your friend getting lighter. Imagine your friend getting happier. Imagine them smiling. Filled with joy.

It’s great to start with a friend when you do this at first, somebody who’s pretty easy for you. Once you get the hang of that, though, it can be really helpful to bring this same kindness, this wishing well, to yourself. May I be safe, may I be happy, etc. Then you can extend that general caring out to people you don’t know so well, and even to people you don’t like so much, and then to everyone, everywhere, without exception. 

♦

This article was originally published online in April 2020. Check out Devon and Nico Hase’s newly released paperback version of How Not to Be a Hot Mess: A Survival Guide for Modern Life here. 

Adapted from How Not to Be a Hot Mess: A Survival Guide for Modern Life by Nico Hase and Devon Hase © 2020 by Nico Hase and Devon Hase. Reprinted in arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Inc. Boulder, CO.

The post How Not to Be a Jerk (Plus, a Kindness Meditation) appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

“You’re a total slacker,” she shouted. “No one can ever please you,” he retorted. “Get your act together,” she continued. “You’re so bossy,” he replied.

In the 1960s as a young counselor I led encounter groups. Many of us were looking for practices to help us speak our minds more freely. In some ways, such free expression proved satisfying. Yet I began to notice that once the initial rush of emotional expression subsided, many group participants still raged at others for presumed slights, projected ill will, and other dissatisfactions. Rather than finding the healing they were looking for, some felt hurt and vulnerable. Even though they were learning to express themselves, something seemed off. Since then, I have discovered other approaches to effective and kind communication through adapting the teachings of Buddhism and systems theory.

In the early ’70s, I spent a year in India immersed in the practice of Buddhist meditation. After I returned to California, my approach to counseling no longer sufficiently fit with the insights I had experienced in India. I started to question some of the assumptions and beliefs I had been bringing to my work. For instance, earlier, when I was unhappy, I assumed either that I was doing something wrong or that something outside of me was wrong. Knowledge of the First Noble Truth—the fact of suffering in life—opened my eyes to the inevitability and impersonality of suffering. I came to see that everyone at times will find life unsatisfactory, so feeling unhappy no longer seemed as personal. Eagerly looking for ways to infuse my work with a Buddhist perspective, I examined teachings on conditioning, causality, mindful discernment, and interdependence.

Today, my work as a marriage and family therapist and communication trainer is profoundly informed by Buddhist teachings as well as a contemporary interpretation of teachings on right speech—communication that is respectful, accurate, and non-harming. Cultivating right speech is similar to cultivating helpful mind-states. Both lead to increased harmony and peace. As we develop more awareness of our habits of speech, we step back and become more discerning about which thoughts and feelings to express (lovingkindness, compassion, etc.) and which to simply notice and let go (hatred, stereotyping, etc.). We can become more skillful about what to say and what not to say to promote harmony.

Right speech is challenging for most people. Habitual beliefs and actions often override intentions for kind communication. People who grew up in families that openly expressed contempt and blame often find those same patterns of speech erupting from their mouths when they’re upset. For example, I worked with a couple who tended to speak to each other with contempt when they were upset, using the same disdainful language that their own parents had used with them. (This style of communication, not surprisingly, correlates with shorter marriages.) By contrast, people raised in families with more skillful communication habits usually have more viable options for handling difficult conversations.

Reflecting on my 1960s encounter groups, I now see that many participants came from families in which they didn’t feel able to express themselves; they enjoyed the “let it all hang out” culture in the groups, speaking their minds without considering the consequences. By inviting participants to speak so freely, group leaders were unwittingly encouraging them to reinforce habitual patterns rather than helping them cultivate expression that encourages equanimity.

Gradually, as I apply the teachings of Buddhism to my work, I see how people can learn to communicate in ways that are more consonant with the inner peace they yearn for. Their use of language can invite right speech or strife. Here’s one example: Sybil says to Richard that she thinks he’s not respecting her when he shows up late for their dates. She then checks out his side of the story, practicing mindful discernment by recognizing that she doesn’t really know what Richard’s lateness means. Before, she would have characterized Richard as a “disrespectful person”—accusing him and provoking his defensiveness. Now, without using disrespectful words, she can ask him for more information.

Responding to Sybil’s skillful speech, Richard is able to listen carefully and reply honestly and kindly. Without defensiveness, he explains that he is often late for appointments and has a general problem being on time. Still, he respects and cares about her. Hearing this, Sybil feels less reactive than she had initially. She understands that his lateness isn’t personal, even though it still frustrates her. The two want to work this out, and by maintaining equanimity and hearing each other’s messages, they both feel optimistic about finding a solution.

Many people forget that they and their loved ones are together on Earth for a short time. Remembering the fact of impermanence adds perspective.

Like meditation, skillful listening—being present to each other’s thoughts and feelings without evaluation—helps open up a dialogue even when people have considerable differences. Mindful listening can nurture a safe place for differences to arise and for people to mutually learn what they can and then move on. When a couple like Sybil and Richard argue, and yet listen to each other’s viewpoints, new insights can arise between them, leading to more clarifying conversations. Likewise, skillful talking encourages skillful listening.

Sadly, knowing about right speech is different from being able to implement it. The way we treat others can be deeply ingrained. For instance, when people hear a different point of view, they often automatically agree, disagree, judge, or evaluate. Knowing how to listen and talk skillfully often requires practicing new behaviors that take time to learn. If the listener practices putting her own thoughts and feelings aside and makes a space for just listening, then understanding becomes more likely. I’ve found that as people practice new communication styles, especially mindful listening and non-blaming speech, their sense of who they are and what’s possible can profoundly shift.

Another practice I’ve incorporated into my work is recognizing positive intentions. I’ve noticed that when couples acknowledge their mutual positive intentions, they’re less likely to vent emotions, encounter group–style, without considering the consequences. As psychologist Daniel Goleman points out in Emotional Intelligence, when people are angry, their reasoning diminishes. By keeping emotions at a lower level, even someone who is upset can anticipate the effect her words might have on her partner.

Focusing on the insight of impermanence is another practice that enhances our relationships. Many people forget that they and their loved ones are together on Earth for a short time. Remembering the fact of impermanence adds perspective. Sometimes we lose some of the pleasure of connection when we focus excessively on changing someone else’s behavior to satisfy our own desires. Often, others won’t or can’t change. That’s when the advice of the third Zen patriarch can help:

“Life is easy for those who are not attached to their preferences.”

For example, if I get upset when my brother doesn’t call me as often as I’d like and then badger him to call, he might feel less inclined to do so. When we talk, in that moment, I’m probably thinking that he’s making me feel bad. I’m forgetting that life is short. I don’t know how many conversations we have left. I may not be able to influence him to call me more often. If I want to enjoy him more fully, I’ll cultivate appreciation for whatever we can share together right now.

***

My approach to communication has also been influenced by systems theory, which overlaps Buddhist teachings in the domain of interdependence. Systems theory explores how parts of a system (individuals, spouses, various species) interact to organize the whole system (a family, a couple, an ecosystem). When we communicate, we form a living system. The parts of our system mutually affect each other—a classic dharmic example of interdependence.

Each part of a system is contingent upon all other parts, with things changing in ways we can’t necessarily predict or control, and at the same time, everything in a system is dynamically in balance with everything else. The importance of this interdependence and the ways we constantly affect each other often go unrecognized by members of a relationship system. But when we do reflect on our interdependence, this can lead to changes—like explicitly expressing more frequent and sincere appreciation—that ripple throughout the system, enhancing goodwill and cooperation. On the other hand, some research suggests that when someone is angry and delivers a nasty message—name-calling, putdowns, etc.—this can undo the goodwill that had been generated by approximately twenty previous acts of kindness. Unfortunately, the cleanup work needed to counter a single nasty message as it echoes throughout the system can be daunting.

Both Buddhism and systems theory present causality as more than the view that one event directly causes another. I first realized the slipperiness of causal interpretations when I taught undergraduate family studies courses at the University of Minnesota. When given an assignment to write about their family-of-origin experiences, my students ascribed seemingly opposite “causes” to the same outcome. Some attributed their need for a lot of physical affection from their partners to the fact that their parents were unaffectionate with each other and with their children, while others attributed their need for affection to the fact that their parents were extremely affectionate. Seemingly opposite situations were cited as causing the same outcome. I found the causal reasoning confusing.

Understanding relationships through systems theory counters the tendency to blame. We forget that many causes and conditions contribute to how we feel. Each effect follows many previous effects. It is highly unlikely that I can isolate a single variable, such as what you said last night, and label that as the cause for my reaction today. Yet people still use phrases like “you made me feel insecure,” implying that a single cause—your criticism—created my reaction. The way people respond depends on many factors, from last night’s sleep to this morning’s headlines.

Insights into causality and blame from both Buddhism and systems theory can help people realize that they are not simply victims and that they can look to themselves to improve their mind-states and situations. When people make the assumption that their feelings are controlled by what others say to them, this engenders a sense of powerlessness. In addition, thinking others can control us leads to the belief that others must change in order for us to feel better. If, on the other hand, we understand that many factors influence behavior, blame becomes a less accurate way to describe experience. Using mindful discernment to consider the influence of other causes and conditions can lead to greater awareness, more options for change, and the insight that there may be some actions we ourselves can take to improve the situation.

Finally, the application of systems theory to the practice of communication encourages a dynamic balance between stability and change. If people can’t adequately express their differing perspectives, they sometimes find that their relationship is too static and they might feel bored. This dynamic often arises in families that avoid conflict at all costs; certain viewpoints may seem too dangerous to express, such as acknowledging Dad’s history of alcoholism. Members of such a family may not realize that perspectives that trigger controversy are a natural and potentially helpful part of life. Differences are bound to occur and can stimulate difficult yet invigorating conversations.

On the other hand, if the expression of differences becomes too extreme (as witnessed in encounter groups), chaos may ensue. When people feel overwhelmed and are unable to hear each other’s viewpoints, their differences can escalate, leading to polarization and vulnerability within their system. The key is in the balance—or the “Middle Way”—to mindfully express differences so that they are perceived as workable. Skillfully working with conflict often strengthens a family or other human system. A communication style infused with Buddhist principles and systems theory can encourage compassionate right speech, resulting in enhanced harmony and stability.

 ⧫

From the Fall 2009 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 26, No. 1) © 2009 Mudita Nisker

Related Inquiring Mind articles:

• “Seeing Clearly?“
• “Reunion on the Path of No Speech“
• “Interview with Marshall Rosenberg: The Traveling Peacemaker“

The post What Do You Say?  appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

“My mind fills with anger each time I see his face or hear him speak,” one student reports. “I find myself wishing ill will towards all of them,” another says with a painful voice, ashamed of her own reactions. “I simply cannot practice lovingkindness for these people,” says a third. In the past three years many meditation practitioners have been coping with such emotions as they have struggled to find the Buddhist peace of mind in relation to national events and political leaders they view as being harmful. Similar feelings of outrage, of seething anger or disgust, are frequently reported by students coping with a difficult person at work, a betrayal by a teacher or a friend, the painful breakup of a marriage, or an unjust family situation.

On meditation retreats and in my weekly meditation group I am often asked by students what they should do in circumstances where the hostility and sense of separation has persisted despite hours of lovingkindness practice and repeated attempts at forgiveness. These are well-trained students who understand that their feelings are only causing suffering to themselves and that anger often gets in the way of wise action. Yet their feelings of overwhelm from frustration and rage persist.

It is quite a conundrum. How do you find a way to not succumb to outrage and alienation yet keep your passion and motivation for the hard fight for justice and the social good? Likewise, when your marriage is dissolving, how do you let go of anger, bitterness, and blame while at the same time stand up for what you believe to be right, particularly when there are children involved? One student recently told me she didn’t trust herself to meditate. She found herself seething by the time she got off the cushion because it had so increased her fixation on how poorly she had been treated both by her ex and her former in-laws. A man on retreat—flooded with hopelessness over the recent loss of his family when his wife left him for another man, taking their two children with her—asked if he should just go home. “Maybe I need antidepressants, not meditation,” he ruefully proclaimed.

For the last five years, both in retreat and daily practice situations, I have been offering students reconciliation practices as ways of working with their experiences of hostility and alienation. In many instances, students have reported dramatic reductions in their emotional turmoil. Particularly in difficult marriage and family circumstances, they have found that consistently working with reconciliation meditation has enabled them finally to be able to move forward with their lives.

Reconciliation means “to restore to compatibility or harmony” and “to restore the sacred.” It is also defined as “to make consistent or congruent”—for example, to reconcile your ideals with reality. When you practice reconciliation, you are both reconciling yourself to the truth that in this moment there are painful differences or polarities between you and another, and, rather than allowing your heart to become closed to the other, you are seeking to align the mind/heart to include them just as they are. To include all people and all conditions in your experience is the congruence taught by the dharma. You are acknowledging the truth of interdependence and non-separateness or, as Thich Nhat Hanh says, that we “inter-are.” In his book Old Path, White Clouds he devotes an entire chapter to teaching reconciliation based on the vinaya.

Vipassana meditation is a means of cultivating insight through being mindful of what is arising and passing. Reconciliation practice is the aligning and softening of the heart to be reconciled with this moment just as it is. When you are reconciled, your experience returns to wholeness because nothing is being left out. There is then the possibility of insight to arise.

Reconciliation begins by acknowledging the truth that there are substantial differences. It is not contingent on those differences disappearing, and it certainly does not imply that you will become best friends with everyone. Rather, the intention to be reconciled is the wish to be connected to the sacred oneness of this moment despite any differences and, by acknowledging the truth of that oneness, to find harmony with any situation, even the painful. This does not mean that you have to approve or passively accept unwholesome actions. Nor do you have to forsake passionately advocating for what you believe to be right. It simply means that you do so while treating the other as sacred, as the “thou” so famously stated by Martin Buber. It is the understanding reflected by the Dalai Lama when he refers to the Chinese as “my friends, the enemy.”

Reconciliation is not an end point of practice. It is a beginning place for continuing to free your heart. 

One of my students had been “frozen in anger” for many months, unable to deal with the practicalities of divorce, struggling to forgive her husband even while he continued a pattern of hurtful actions. She finally realized that her stuckness was due to her implicit demand that he change. Through reconciliation practice, she was able to accept him as he was and negotiate a parting that minimized the turmoil for their young child. A second student, to his amazement, actually reconnected with his alienated wife once he reconciled himself to certain difficulties in her personality. Another person was able to let go of the outrage long held toward an abusing father, while one more found that an intolerable supervisor at work could actually be tolerated, if not respected.

In none of these instances did the students report strong feelings of compassion and lovingkindness for the other person. Instead, each student experienced a release of an inner tension that had been blocking their acceptance of the truth of how things were. Once the truth of the moment had been accepted, each of their situations could be worked with in a manner that brought inner peace, and even at times an outright resolution. They were able to be reconciled whether or not their antagonist was participating in the process, and it felt great!

Reconciliation is not an end point of practice. It is a beginning place for continuing to free your heart. Through reconciliation, you gain the momentum towards lovingkindness—an unconditional well-wishing that flows freely from the unencumbered heart, independent of conditions. The Dalai Lama emanates such a feeling. The woman who was finally able to divorce her husband is only now able to experience moments of lovingkindness towards him as another being “who just wishes to be happy,” as the Buddha taught. Likewise, the student with the difficult boss reports that on some occasions when his boss is acting out, there arises the “heart’s quiver” of compassion for such a tormented soul. Reconciliation provides the acknowledgment and alignment that allows for such heart qualities to emerge.

One student reported his success in practicing reconciliation toward political leaders he found detestable. He imagined his views and feelings as constituting one circle of existence and the values and unskillful actions of the politicians to be a separate circle. Through reconciliation he came to realize there was a third, larger circle of existence containing both smaller circles. This understanding allowed him to find some harmony with people he’d previously held in contempt. I sometimes refer to this larger circle as the “ground of reconciliation.” By resting in this place, we can avoid “taking birth” in the small circle of a separate identity.

Reconciliation practice can also be brought into the larger community. One long-term vipassana student in Arizona has formed an organization of fellow lawyers who are committed to the practice of being reconciled. Members of this group recently agreed to represent divorcing spouses in settlement talks, with the understanding that if the parties cannot reconcile their child and material differences out of court, then both lawyers will resign. In Greensboro, North Carolina, community leaders have started a truth and reconciliation commission modeled on the one in South Africa in an effort to reconcile community differences regarding the 1979 slayings by members of the Ku Klux Klan.

It is worth remembering that the Buddha constantly admonished us not to cling to views and taught that hatred never conquers hatred. Even the famous murderer Angulimala was given the opportunity to discover reconciliation through the Buddha’s compassion and lovingkindness.

May you be reconciled with those with whom you have had difficulties in your life. May all beings everywhere be reconciled. May the merit of your reconciliation practice be to the liberation of all beings.

Reconciliation Meditation

May all fathers and daughters be reconciled.
May all mothers and sons be reconciled.
May all mothers and daughters be reconciled.
May all fathers and sons be reconciled.

May all brothers and sisters, sisters and sisters, and brothers and brothers be reconciled.
May all mothers and fathers be reconciled.
May all husbands and wives, lovers and partners be reconciled.

May all friends and enemies be reconciled.
May all teachers and students be reconciled.
May all communities and their members be reconciled.

May all countries and their citizens be reconciled.
May all warring nations be reconciled.
May all races and religions be reconciled.
May all people everywhere be reconciled.
May all people and this Earth be reconciled.

May the merit of this practice be to the liberation of all beings.

⧫

From the Fall 2004 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 21, No. 1) © 2004 Phillip Moffitt

Related Inquiring Mind articles:

• “Coming Home to My Mother”
  
• “Interview with Marshall Rosenberg: The Traveling Peacemaker” 
  
• “Reconciliation, Right & Wrong”
  

The post May All Beings Be Reconciled appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

It was the summer of 1971. I was living at Tassajara Zen Mountain Center—the first Zen monastery in America. Its founder and resident teacher was Shunryu Suzuki, the Zen master who had come from Japan to America to teach meditation to Americans, mostly young. One of those young Americans was Robert, well known among us as a nonstop talker and a fervent proselytizer of brown rice as the perfect spiritual food.

One afternoon I came across Suzuki Roshi and Robert in the courtyard, and Robert was, as usual, talking animatedly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Suzuki Roshi, that brown rice is the perfect Zen food? Isn’t it the perfect balance between yin and yang?” The brown rice diet was trendy in those heady counterculture days, and we served it every day in Tassajara’s meditation hall. Suzuki Roshi was unusually accepting of our counterculture ideas, and rarely criticized us. In those days, brown rice was rarely eaten in Japan. White rice was the norm. For all I knew, Suzuki Roshi was eating brown rice for the first time at Tassajara.

“Don’t you think brown rice helps us attain enlightenment?” Robert was saying.

Suzuki Roshi listened to Robert talk on for some time without saying anything. Finally, when Robert paused for breath, Suzuki Roshi said quietly, “Food is very important.”

Food is very important. That comment seemed to take Robert aback. He stopped talking and just stood there, a quizzical expression on his face. Without saying anything further, Suzuki Roshi turned and walked away.

This approach has three aspects: common ground, respect, and changing levels.

I have never forgotten this story. Even though it seemed to be just casual talk, something about it struck me as important, even profound. I think now that Suzuki’s response was a classic demonstration of a Buddhist approach to disagreement, one with many applications in today’s world. This approach has three aspects: common ground, respect, and changing levels.

Common ground. Suzuki Roshi didn’t respond to Robert with countervailing facts. He didn’t say “Actually, we don’t eat brown rice in Japanese Zen monasteries,” though that was true. Instead, he simply stated something that both of them could agree on, though he didn’t make that explicit. He didn’t say “Well, I think we would both agree that food is very important.” That would have made an assumption about what Robert agreed to, and would have put Suzuki Roshi in the superior position of knowing that. Instead, Suzuki established common ground without saying that it was common ground, in a way that created an open space between them.

Respect. Even though Robert’s foodie ideas were not well informed, Suzuki’s response showed respect. He treated Robert as someone entitled to his opinion and in that sense as an equal. Yes, they both did believe that food was very important, and in spite of a significant difference in age and knowledge (Suzuki was in his sixties and had spent his whole life as a Buddhist monk) he gave Robert equal footing.

Changing level. When Suzuki Roshi said, “Food is very important,” what he really meant was that food is a core spiritual value and teaching in Buddhism through which we can experience interconnection with all beings, as well as gratitude. Our meals in the meditation hall were formal rituals, and before each meal we chanted our appreciation of the food. One part of the chant went “Seventy-two labors brought us this rice. We should know how it comes to us.” Eating was an opportunity to directly experience the Buddhist teaching of interconnection. It didn’t matter what kind of food it was. Ancient Buddhist monks were mendicants, and were expected to accept and consume anything that was put into their begging bowl. When Suzuki said “food is very important” without making it explicit, he moved the conversation to a deeper level.

Common ground, respect, and changing levels: these three elements can be applied to a variety of disagreements, such as arguments in a relationship, communicating with teenagers, and politics.

In a relationship, an argument about a matter important to both parties—such as money— can often devolve into misunderstanding and rancor. “Facts” can be weaponized to win the argument, and the deeper connection of the relationship can be obscured. I can remember times in the past when I fell into “mansplaining” financial matters to my wife without realizing I was doing so. Instead, “Money is really important” is a statement that could establish common ground. “Look, I just want to say I love you” could be an effective change of level.

Parents and teenagers often have difficulty communicating. A social worker I knew who worked with teenagers told me that while teenagers want their parents around, they don’t necessarily want them to say anything. Before Suzuki Roshi said anything, he just listened to Robert. Just listening itself establishes a kind of common ground. It is a way of tacitly acknowledging “I am here” and “you are here.” That shows respect.

Politics are so fraught these days that often it is hard to know what to do or say. Sometimes the most basic facts are in dispute. “I appreciate hearing your views” or “People these days say what they think” are two possible responses, but they might not work. As in encounters with teenagers, sometimes just listening without saying anything is the best recourse.

Suzuki’s response to Robert was not really a strategy or a technique. It was just an outcome of who he was: a person deeply committed to the Buddhist principle of ahimsa, or “non-harming,” in his actions and behavior. He aspired to walk the walk, so to speak, and in doing so inspired all of us to do the same.

♦

This piece appeared in a different form on Good Men Project.

The post Food Is Very Important appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Being present in our relationships and connecting with compassion and care was already a challenge before social distancing. Now, in the pressure cooker that is sheltering-in-place, it’s even harder. 

Despite the easing of restrictions in some places, we will likely be under the pall of COVID-19 for the foreseeable future. Wanting to better understand how to communicate with those around me (both the people I’m sheltering with, and the faces I see on Zoom), I reached out to Oren Jay Sofer, a meditation teacher who combines the tools of mindfulness with the practices of Nonviolent Communication, a system of communication strategies meant to attune our capacity for cooperation. Sofer’s book, Say What You Mean, is an excellent primer on how one can engage with others with intention and clarity. 

Over a series of email exchanges, Sofer assured me that mindful communication can help enrich our relationships—even in the midst of a global pandemic.

Let’s start with our roommates, housemates, and families. How can we maintain civility, autonomy, and compassion in the inevitable friction of quarantine?  “Civility” isn’t a perfunctory social behavior; it’s not about being polite. It’s about connecting with the depth of our values and allowing those to animate our words, choices and relationships. The place that our these values arise from can be a powerful guide for our speech and action. One way to find out what our values are is by asking ourselves, What is in our hearts that recognizes the possibility of harmony?

For Buddhists, figuring out what we value in our relationships with others may involve exploring what it means to live in an interdependent world. There is a Buddhist text called the Sedaka Sutta, or The Bamboo Acrobat, in which the Buddha presents the analogy of the exquisite balance required by two acrobats to perform a complex act. Each performer must be firmly rooted in their own center of gravity, while simultaneously staying attuned to the subtle adjustments of their partner. In the same way, healthy relationships strike a delicate balance between autonomy and compassion through sensitivity, awareness, and on-going investigation. If we err on the side of autonomy, we can become cold, indifferent, or self-centered. Yet if we put all of our focus on others out of fear, habit, duty, or self-deprecation, we neglect our own needs, build resentment, and burn out. 

Do you have any recommendations for handling a heated disagreement with someone you’re living with? First and foremost, try not to take it personally. We’re all under so much stress right now, which means much of the time we may not be at our best. The more we can bear this in mind—to give others the benefit of the doubt, and be forgiving when we fall short of our aspirations—the easier it will be to navigate disagreements.

Another essential factor in doing our best is to take care of our own heart and mind. When we’re feeling stressed or under-resourced, it’s that much harder to have a meaningful, productive conversation. Be willing to set limits when you know you’re not in the right frame of mind for a difficult conversation. Tell the other person that you care for them, that what they want matters to you, and that you don’t have the bandwidth to discuss it right now. Then, propose another time for the conversation that would be better.

Once you’re in the conversation, try to slow down and pause. When we take a breath and slow down a little, we have more access to our good intentions, and can make better choices in the conversation. Even a moment or two interrupts habitual speech patterns and may help to break the cycle of blame and disconnection. Next, experiment with more active listening. Periodically say back what you’ve heard and check if it’s accurate. Even if you’re confident that you understand, it may still be helpful to offer a reflection in a heated moment in order to give the other person the experience of feeling heard. This can help to build trust, and slows the pace of a conversation down so there’s more space to reflect.

Finally, when it’s your turn to share, speak from the heart with as much honesty and as much care as possible. The two are not mutually exclusive. Do the work you need to do to get underneath any stories of blame or judgment to what really matters to you. Then share that with as much love as you can muster.

How can we find balance between our increasingly digital lives and our need for closeness? Research suggests our devices, rather than connecting us, lead to feelings of isolation and disconnection. Now we are relying on them more than ever to maintain relationships, both professional and personal. So much of this comes down to two things: presence and intention. It’s so easy to get lost in a screen—my body disappears, the people around me disappear. I can even lose my sense of time. Yet I’ve found that meditation can help us steer clear of falling headfirst into this kind of disembodiment by teaching us how to bring mindfulness, or presence, to the moment. The more in touch we are with the body, the greater capacity we have to experience joy and connection. This allows us to notice more subtle internal signals about our energy levels, such as a need for movement or a break from the screen. While sitting and looking at a screen, can we remain aware that we are sitting?

The other key factor here is intention. To give someone or something our full attention we have to want to be here. I can spend half an hour on a video chat with my parents (both of whom are in their 70s, with multiple high-risk factors for COVID-19), and feel mildly distracted the entire time. Or, I can take a few moments before the call to the calm myself, and consciously choose to be as fully present as possible. Then, even if the conversation is mundane, the time spent can be nourishing because my own heart and mind are imbued with presence, appreciation, and care. 

How would you recommend speaking with someone you know who is sick with or recovering from COVID-19? Take the time you need before speaking with them to clear your head and open your heart. The less stressed and distracted you are, the more you will be able to engage and respond intuitively from your heart. 

Ask them how they’re doing and then listen. Do your best to show empathy for what they are going through, authentically expressing your understanding. Then try to sense what might be useful. They may be more interested in catching up, talking about something else meaningful, or just chatting. The more open you are going into the conversation, the more flexibility you will have to meet them right where they are.

Many coming out of quarantine are fearful of the virus, others are grieving loved ones. How do you recommend speaking with people in these situations? It all comes back to allowing ourselves to be human with each other. It’s OK to feel afraid; it’s natural to grieve. The more we can honor the power and truth of these emotions in one another—rather than shunning or avoiding them, trying to fix them or make them go away—the more we can feel like we are truly in this together. 

For those that live alone, or those that crave a deeper connection but cannot get it right now, where can they turn to satisfy this need? If you have fewer people to turn to—maybe they’ve passed away, you’ve been estranged, or separated for good reasons—there are other ways to find connection. Any act of service or generosity, however small, can strengthen our sense of belonging. I’ve found that when I contribute time, energy, skills, or resources, I begin to recognize my own value and experience myself as embedded within a community. 

We also can turn inward to discover the connection we long for. The practice of lovingkindness, or metta meditation, reveals the depth of love in our hearts and the vast potential for connection we have as human begins. In fact, Insight Meditation teacher Sharon Salzberg (who popularized lovingkindness meditation in the West) often translates the word metta as “connection.” 

Mindful communication takes two premises as its starting point: 1) that speech and relationship are a powerful vehicle for spiritual transformation; and 2) that effective communication is a learned skill. This sets up an inner orientation to conversation that’s conducive to learning—one of humility, interest, empathy, and patience. When we approach our conversations and relationships as a world of learning, we gain a world of benefit—both internally and relationally. Our practice is no longer limited by the amount of free time we have to sit on a cushion. Every interaction becomes an opportunity to strengthen wholesome qualities of mind and heart. 

♦

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I’m going to try to convince you not to be a jerk. I mean, you’re probably already not a jerk. I’m sure you’re usually basically a very nice human. But if you’re anything like me, you’re usually a nice human who flips out sometimes, says things he doesn’t mean, or maybe even says things he does mean and then encounters the rippling layers of consequences of those things down the line. My goal is to persuade you to do less of the jerk-like stuff you might be doing in your everyday life, and more of the prosocial, happy-making stuff you’re probably also already doing.

Please take a minute and think of a real jerk. This could be a stupid terrible jerk from your present life. It could be an awful disgusting jerk from your past. Maybe even a historical jerk or a bigtime political jerk. Whoever this jerk is, just make sure they really embody jerkiness for you.  

Got your jerk? Good. Now, I’d like you to start to catalog this person’s badness. In other words, what makes them such a jerk? Please think of all the qualities that make this individual particularly unbearable. What makes them terrible? What is it about them that makes you want to ring their neck or flee the building?

Let’s look together at that compendium of jerkdom you just assembled. What exactly was on that list of unforgivable attributes this particular jerk personifies? My guess is there are all kinds of things. This person talks behind your back. Or they threw sand in your eyes when you were ten. Or they’re racist. Or just plain damned ignorant. Or a horrible bore who won’t let you get a word in at parties. Or they’ve done something truly terrible to you or someone you love.

A jerk, put simply, is someone who causes harm. They cut you off in traffic or talk on the phone really loud in coffee shops or threaten the democratic norms you’ve always believed were intrinsic to the functioning of a civilized society. That’s why we don’t like jerks. Because they trigger avalanches of chaos everywhere they go.

But here’s the kicker, a time-honored semi-Buddhist insight: all of us have a little jerk living inside us. The part of us that wants what it wants, that doesn’t care about others’ feelings, that’s totally going to snag that parking spot outside the grocery store even though the mom with two kids so obviously got there first. If we want to be happy long term, with flourishing friendships and a more-or-less stable sense of purpose, we’ll need to stay alert to that self-sabotaging part of ourselves, and choose something different.

I lived in a Zen monastery for six years. When I tell people I lived in a Zen monastery in the remote mountains of Colorado—when I show them pictures of the Japanese tea house and the black meditation cushions all in a row—they usually say something like “That must have been so peaceful.”

Yeah, no. It wasn’t. A monastery is a training ground. You’re up at 3:30 in the morning. You’re meditating for hours every day. There’s no personal space. You don’t get days off. All of you are stuck together in your black robes and your weird habits for months at a time. 

Enter Anthony. Anthony owned a bookstore in the Mission in San Francisco. He was a longtime Zen student, in his fifties, with a crew cut, a bag full of government conspiracy theories, and an excessively short fuse.

When Anthony came to the monastery, he had the misfortune of being under my auspices. I was the work leader—a position that entailed me, at twenty-five, telling everyone else what to do. Not that I was particularly dictatorial. But busy, for sure. And a little visionary sometimes. There was stuff to get done and I had a plan and I wanted people to step to the vision.

So I ran my meetings like clockwork. I admit it, there were spreadsheets. There were timelines. There was building frustration on my part, since the actual world was, very often, not conforming to my spreadsheets and my timelines.

It all came to a head on a crystalline February day. Thirty strapping volunteers from a local college were on their way to campus. We were going to do fire mitigation—a pressing concern for the monastery, since our surrounding desert mountains were a tinderbox of brush and low branches, just waiting to go up in flames.

I’d arranged for three professionals to arrive with their chainsaws and for each available member of the monastic community to lead a work group of five college kids. I was in the middle of downloading the vision, psyching up the troops, clarifying the details, when Anthony raised his hand.

“Yes, Anthony,” I said.

“What time is lunch?” he said.

I was flummoxed. Lunch? We were about to move mountains! 

“Who cares?” I said.

Then I went back to explicating the hauling routes and assigning the responsibilities.

After the meeting, I was walking into the kitchen when Anthony came from behind, spun me around by the shoulder, and threw me up against the wall.

Suddenly, everything went very slowly. I noticed that his face was a startling shade of red, almost purple. There was a single bead of sweat on his forehead. And his breath smelled like coffee and milk.

Anthony shook me and slammed me, saying things like “If you ever talk to me that way again, I will cut your throat.” 

Already my mind was tracking back over the last several minutes. Clearly, I had done something that really pissed Anthony off. At first I was a little too dumb to know what it was. I soon realized it was that moment I’d blown off his question about lunch.

Simultaneously, I saw there existed a whole range of options before me, almost like radio stations. Except instead of choosing between NPR and classic rock, my mind started flipping through disparate cultural scripts, little memes that might be appropriate for just such an occasion. I’m from New York, and the New York radio station was enticing me to throw a punch. Thankfully, the Buddhist radio station also clicked on even stronger. I saw how I had come into the meeting all jazzed up, a little manic. I saw how my empathy in the meeting was low. I saw how I had needlessly insulted Anthony, made him feel small. I saw my low empathy and subsequent belittling as the cause of the present death threat.

So I relaxed. “Anthony,” I said. “I messed up. Sorry. Just one of those days.”

He looked confused for a moment. Then I watched his face cycle through its own range of emotions—watched him try to remain angry, then confused again, then sad, then just tired. He dropped my shirt and walked away.

I wish I could say I always have that level of insight. The truth, though, is that spiritual progress is a bumpy road. Not so much an ever-upward line of transcendent growth. More like a series of peaks and valleys. In which you fall flat on your face in the valley. In a swamp. With mosquitoes. And no bug spray. Then dust yourself off and keep working at it.

Kindness Meditation

You can do this meditation in five minutes, if you’d like. I definitely recommend this meditation to anybody who could use a little more kindness in their life. And that’s pretty much all of us.

Let’s start by finding a comfortable posture, either sitting or lying down. Obviously if you’re reading this on a computer or your phone it’ll be hard to close your eyes. So you can keep them open. Or read a few sentences and then close your eyes. Don’t worry too much about whether you’re doing it right. Don’t worry too much about being a great meditator. In fact, just don’t worry too much.

Now let’s bring a warm awareness to your body. Just feel your body. With a sense of friendliness, a sort of grassroots kindness. Feel your hands. Feel your feet.

Bring that warm awareness to the area of your heart. Notice any sensations in the heart area—throbbing, humming, tingling, numb, whatever. Start to notice any emotions that might be here, in the heart. Just kind of take the temperature. Get a sense of things. 

You don’t need to get rid of anything, don’t need to feel differently or better. If you’re numb, you’re numb. No problem. If you’re sad, that’s how it is. Angry? That’s okay, too. Often we’re a whole bunch of things all at once. Which is also not a problem.

Now from this sense of the heart—of just being with your heart—let’s call up an image of a good friend. Someone you like. They’ve got your back. Sure, they tick you off every once in a while. But essentially it’s a good relationship—all in all, you want them to be happy.

Now let’s lean a little into this sense that your friend wants to be happy. Just like you, just like everybody, he or she or they really want to be happy. They want to be safe. They want to be healthy. They’d like some peace. 

And now let’s just begin to wish them well, using some traditional phrases.

May you be safe.

May you be happy.

May you be healthy.

May you be peaceful and at ease.

Just continue thinking about your friend, repeating these phrases silently to yourself. Maybe after some time, you can imagine your friend filling up with happiness. Imagine your friend getting lighter. Imagine your friend getting happier. Imagine them smiling. Filled with joy.

It’s great to start with a friend when you do this at first, somebody who’s pretty easy for you. Once you get the hang of that, though, it can be really helpful to bring this same kindness, this wishing well, to yourself. May I be safe, may I be happy, etc. Then you can extend that general caring out to people you don’t know so well, and even to people you don’t like so much, and then to everyone, everywhere, without exception. 

♦

Adapted from How Not to Be a Hot Mess: A Survival Guide for Modern Life by Craig Hase and Devon Hase © 2020 by Craig Hase and Devon Hase. Reprinted in arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Inc. Boulder, CO.

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Explore the Buddha’s ancient guidelines for right speech with tools to translate those teachings into the fast-paced conversations of a modern world. In this series, Insight meditation teacher and nonviolent communication trainer Oren Jay Sofer shares three foundations of mindful communication to bring your deeper values and intentions into every interaction. Learn to create the conditions for understanding, use basic building blocks of good conversation, and identify and skillfully express your needs.

Read more in Oren Jay Sofer and Sharon Salzberg’s interview here: A Field Guide to Right Speech

Oren Jay Sofer is a member of the Spirit Rock Teacher’s Council. He leads retreats and workshops on mindful communication at meditation centers and educational settings around the country and is the author of Say What You Mean: A Mindful Approach to Nonviolent Communication.

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A Signal for Communication

Whenever I feel disappointed [in another’s actions], if I don’t address the feeling, it always comes back to harm the relationship. In other words, a feeling of disappointment is like a warning light, telling me that if I don’t do something about it, the relationship could fail. . . . Our feelings of disappointment stem from having expectations of another person that go unfulfilled. Such expectations are often unspoken, and yet we wish that people would somehow figure them out based on nonverbal clues and fulfill them for us. When they’re not met, we become frustrated and want to shout, “Do I have to spell it out every time? Why can’t you figure out what I want by looking at me and my circumstances?” But of course it is difficult to know exactly what someone else expects if they haven’t told us. Without the power of telepathy, how can we know what someone else is expecting? If we do not express our feelings of disappointment, they will start to build up and transform into more difficult emotions, such as anger, hurt, or even betrayal, and we may come to hold a grudge. So it is best to share your disappointment, rather than leaving it to build up inside you. And when you express it, you should be careful not to do so in a way that is aggressive or critical of the other person, or when the other person is angry. Instead, wait until both of you are calm and composed, and talk about only how you feel right then, not what was done or said many years ago. It can feel awkward at first, but after a bit of practice you will be able to stop repressing these feelings, and speak calmly without damaging your relationship.

_{From Love for Imperfect Things by Haemin Sunim, to be published by Penguin Books, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2016 by Haemin Sunim. English translation copyright © 2018 by Deborah Smith and Haemin Sunim. Haemin Sunim is a widely known Zen Buddhist teacher and writer based in Seoul, South Korea. Follow his teachings and events on Twitter @haeminsunim.}

Gratitude Is Our Greatest Gift

There are two aspects to gratitude: appreciation of something and thankfulness directed to its source or cause. As we habitually reflect on all the things we can be grateful for, the two merge and become a facet of our character. . . . This practice is all the more important because we live in a culture that does not encourage us to be grateful. In fact, we are encouraged not to be grateful: consumerism involves dissatisfaction, because if people are happy with what they’ve got, then they are less concerned about getting more. But (to say it again) why is more and more always better if it can never be enough?

_{From Ecodharma: Buddhist Teachings for the Ecological Crisis, by David R. Loy © 2019. Reprinted with permission of Wisdom Publications. David Loy is a professor, writer, and teacher in the Sanbo Kyodan tradition of Japanese Zen.}

Inner Strength, Outward Action

Compassion acts like preventative medicine for many of our afflictions. The greater our compassion, the more peace we will experience. My personal experience is that meditating on the suffering of sentient beings and generating compassion for them helps me to develop inner strength. When inner strength and self-confidence increase, fear and doubt diminish. That makes us naturally more open to others. Others then reciprocate by being friendly, and this nourishes better communication and more positive interactions with them. To the contrary, if we are full of partiality, fear, hatred, and doubt, the door to our heart is closed, and everyone we encounter appears suspicious to us. The sad thing is that we then believe that others are just as suspicious of us as we are of them. That creates distance between us, and this spiral fosters loneliness and frustration. All of us, but especially the younger generation, have the responsibility to make sure that the world is a peaceful place for everyone. This can become reality if we all make an effort to cultivate compassion.

_{From Samsara, Nirvana, and Buddha Nature, by the Dalai Lama and Thubten Chodron © 2019. Reprinted with permission of Wisdom Publications. His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama, the spiritual head of the Tibetan people, is a Nobel Laureate and the author of over 100 books. Thubten Chodron, a nun in the Tibetan tradition since 1977, is the founder and abbess of Sravasti Abbey in Washington.}

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Mastering our minds begins with mastering our mouths. We spend the first 10 years of our lives learning “elementary right speech”: how to interact politely, respectfully, and inoffensively; when to speak, when not to speak. Then we spend another decade learning to express more complex feelings and ideas to others. We might call this intermediate right speech, although what we study even on these two preliminary levels is bottomless. Even something as simple as when to speak and when not to speak can’t be determined by a formula; it is a skill refined over a lifetime.

If you want to stop suffering, the Buddha taught, there is an eightfold path of practice to that end: right view, right motivation, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration. While the word right: carries connotations of orthodox correctness, it is a misleading translation of the Pali word samma, which means perfected, completed, or consummated. The eight limbs of the path are not eight steps to be taken consecutively, but are to be worked on simultaneously. Like the eight branches to one trunk or eight tributaries flowing into one river, each is essential to the elimination of suffering. Of these limbs, none seem plainer than “right speech” or samma-vaca, yet samma-vaca is a powerful practice, and one that we can do anywhere, anytime, and with anyone.

Related: The Mindfulness of the Buddha 

“And what is samma-vaca?” asks the Buddha in The Discourse on Mindfulness Meditation. “Refraining from lying, divisive speech, harsh speech, and meaningless speech.”

The process of learning to improve ourselves through language can be thought of as advanced right speech. In this practice, we become more consciously skilled with our words, aware of the effects they can have on ourselves and others, and alert to the ways that our thoughts and statements can grow into habits. We avoid speech that makes us “impure”—confused, muddy, self-evading, and unable to separate truth from untruth.

Impurity, according to the Buddha, can come about in four ways. The first is telling falsehoods, by which we deliberately relax our commitment to truth and eventually even become so tied to subtly evolved fictions that we can no longer notice when we might be fooling ourselves. The second is saying things that are certain to cause strife, contention, and bad feeling, thus destroying social harmony by creating a miasma of mistrust and at the same time turning ourselves into someone who delights in dragging other people down. The third way is uttering words designed to hurt and upset, which sows internal strife in those around us and undermines their capacity for contentment. And the fourth destructive way may be the hardest for a modern person to understand: filling precious silence with babble that matters to no one, just to hear our own voices or to cover over a silence in which anxiety might arise. (Accustomed as we are to the sounds of entertainment and commentary, silence can disturb us; we find it awkward.) The effect of these together is unproductive emotional entanglement and mental confusion.

In contrast, when we learn to be more disciplined and scrupulous with our words, we find ourselves becoming better people. In The Discourse on Mindfulness Meditation, the Buddha says: “And how is one made pure in four ways by verbal action? There is the case where a certain person, abandoning false speech, abstains from false speech.”

This is the rare person who can always be counted on to be truthful and honest; who never speaks in such a way as to cause discord and is both good at and enjoys making friendships; someone whom people routinely seek out because of her sincerity, kindness, good nature, and encouragement; and one who is always to the point and worth listening to. This is an image of a wonderful, lovable human being—the kind of person we would want for a friend, and also the one that we aspire to become.

Related: Why We Must Practice the Art of Good Conversation 

The beauty of such a path is that it can be practiced. At the beginning of each day, we can articulate to ourselves an intention to work on the four aspects of samma-vaca with the particular people and situations we come across. Before we go to sleep, we can reflect on our conversations, evaluate in detail whether we succeeded or not, and then decide what we need to do to improve. It is the conscious application of our reflective intelligence that makes this a practice and not just the spontaneous play of natural gifts. Did I tell the truth? Was I right to tell my friend X what my other friend Y had said about him? Did I hurt W’s feelings and make it harder for him to speak with me? Did I just waste an hour chatting about politics on Facebook?

Underlying all of these queries is the larger question about motivation: why did I speak, and what in me needed to say this? In thinking about these things and trying to cultivate lucidity regarding our own actions, we gradually become smarter about ourselves, more sensitive to other people, and more nuanced in our actions. When we do, we are able to, as the Buddha says: “speak words worth treasuring, seasonable, reasonable, circumscribed, connected with the goal.”

Speaking well depends on listening well, and learning how to listen may be one of the hardest things for a human being to accomplish. Impatience, arrogance, desire, and fear can make us poor listeners. We are impatient, eager to say our own thing because we have some other task to check off. We can be arrogant, assuming we are qualified to judge others or that we already “know” both what the other person will say and what it is worth. We want to hear ourselves corroborated, and this desire prevents us from truly listening or causes us to be fearful because there are things we know we don’t want to hear. When we are silent, is it because we are listening or because we are waiting to speak? When we speak, are we responding to the person in front of us or merely reacting or deflecting? If we are habitually not responsive to people and situations, we cannot be sincere practitioners of samma-vaca. It will be obvious that our silences are also included in this, because all silence expresses something, and some silences are more eloquent than words. To the extent that many silences are in fact preparations for speech, words exist in a continuum from intuition, to thought, to utterance—which means that the thoughtful practitioner of samma-vaca must attend to what precedes speaking as much as to speaking itself.

Thus the art of speaking well includes the complementary art of listening well. Both of these arts cannot be taught as a technique or strategy to master. For example, we can know everything there is to know about different methods of beginning an argument, but how do we know when to start and how to choose the words that will move this particular person? We can have a large enough vocabulary and wide experience of life to understand the words that are spoken to us, but how do we intuit the real intentions behind the words—such as whether the speaker is friendly or unfriendly toward us—let alone understand why the intentions are what they are? If we have no insight into these deeper matters, we are unlikely to address this interlocutor effectively in speech.

But how do we learn such things? There is no shortcut; we learn from paying attention to every interaction and reflecting afterwards on what went right or wrong. We learn from mistakes, and also from letting others point out our mistakes: when we said things poorly, when we misunderstood, when we completely misjudged another person, when we failed to sustain a harmonious relationship. Mistakes and failures make up the rich seedbed of self-reflection and improvement. Because of this, samma-vaca is a practice that will tend to make a person more grounded, generous, humble, attentive, observant, present—and at the same time, more reflective, imaginative, far-sighted, and open to other people and possibilities. It is a richly rewarding practice for a thoughtful person and a salutary discipline for a less thoughtful person, because it encompasses so many other virtues. Indeed, samma-vaca is a mindfulness practice that gives instant feedback, because it occurs in the moment, with other people.

Every human being can do this practice; each of us is capable of trying to listen well, speak well, and self-reflect. Even when we find ourselves perplexed in certain situations and unable to see clearly, we can always consult our friends, who can be helpful in getting us to see what we did wrong and how we could do better. In the Pali Discourses, the Buddha’s gift is twofold: a vision and a practice. He always gives us something we can do—indeed, that we can start doing now, wherever we are, by ourselves. There is no need to wait for anything or anyone.

[This story was first published in 2017.]

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One day in the grocery store, I noticed long lines at the automated checkout stations while three cashier lanes nearby were empty. I took my groceries to a cashier, a man in his twenties, and asked him why he thought this was happening. Looking over at the line, where several people were checking their phones as they waited, he said, “Most of those people are young. Apparently, people in my generation just don’t much like to talk face-to-face.” And I thought, What if we all forget how to have a conversation?

Now, don’t get me wrong. Technology is important; it keeps us all connected in a way. But while we are more connected now to the whole world than we ever have been before, we are less connected to people in our everyday life. We’re having fewer conversations.

Why is this a problem? We all need someone to talk to. It’s easy to become isolated. A conversation is based on physical presence, which is rooted in feeling. All our senses are involved. By talking to someone in person, we gain access to specific senses: appreciation, compassion, and love. These are the feelings that connect human beings to reality, which stimulates our intuition and awareness. If we become conditioned to the computer, then we become one-dimensional. We are less deep as individuals and more shallow, predictable, anxiety-ridden, and irritable. By not having conversations, we’re forgetting how to feel.

These days, some of us avoid conversation altogether because it requires too much attention. We’re accustomed to being distracted, and we forget how to focus, so we have trouble listening. We may not have time; we’re so busy with school or our responsibilities at work or at home. We may see conversation as a superfluous social gesture. And some of us don’t know how to talk to people because we’ve never been taught.

At the same time, we’ve become more individualistic and opinionated. Because we want something stable that makes sense in the world, we hold on to themes and ideas that are grounding and meaningful. This fixation creates factionalism and polarity. Identifying strongly with our thoughts and emotions, we mistake them for a solid “me,” and then defend that apparition against the world. Social media and the news thrive on these elements. Our digital devices give us a false sense of power, creating a high-tech ego that wants to put its fingers in everything. Yet by having fewer face-to-face conversations, we are simultaneously disempowering the very source that can validate our identity: our relationship with other people.

In addition to being individualistic, our modern society is essentially a society of the anonymous. In earlier times—before the explosion in population over the last 100 years—not having conversations would have been impossible. Not being polite or ac­knowledging others would have immediate conse­quences, because we would all know one another. Now it is possible to lead a big part of our lives not knowing anyone or ignoring everyone. We care more about ourselves and less about others, and our ability to be civil is breaking down.

Civility is based on putting another person at ease. An opinionated, self-centered, and distracted mind cannot imagine putting another first. As a result, long­ established norms of civility, such as respect and toler­ance for others’ views, appreciation of the truth, and embarrassment about shameful behavior, are in free fall. It seems that fewer people say “thank you” or “please” or even hold doors open for others. At the same time, more people are using cell phones in restaurants, and swearing in public is common. There is less consider­ation for others. It’s all about “me.” What used to be unacceptable behavior, such as shouting and talking over one another on television or propagating false­hoods, has become commonplace, “normalized” as the standard of social decency erodes.

Losing civility in our daily life, we further lose touch with our capacity to feel. We become genuinely confused about the fabric of reality and social norms, destroying peace within ourselves and others. And be­fore we know it, we’re participating in the creation of a world where there’s more paranoia and less security for the mind and heart.

This is what is happening in the world today. We are at a dangerous crossroads, because when we lose feel­ing, our exchanges with others lose value. As we gain speed, our relationships become more superficial. As we become more isolated and opinionated, our respect for others decreases. We can’t hear them anymore. When this happens, we lose both civility and intimacy. By this, I don’t mean romantic love, but kindness, the ability to be open and honest with another, to be vul­nerable, to be heard.

Life is then defined by the feeling of emotional and social separation—“us” versus “them.” We don’t really want to interact with others, or we want to interact only with those who agree with us. Maintaining this sepa­ration in order to keep out others takes extreme vigi­lance. This causes stress. It creates fear. We are fighting the natural flow of life.

Great artists use painting, sculpting, or music as their medium for bringing imagination into the world. Likewise, by opening up a conversation with another person, our inspiration has a channel to express it­self. It is an art because it transmits feeling. Art brings beauty and meaning into our lives. Beauty is a sense of totality, or wholeness.

It has been said that a dark age is characterized by mass amnesia, in which our consciousness thickens and we forget our art. Then, after a while, we even for­get what has been lost. Because language is one of the most subtle and sophisticated aspects of humanity, we must practice the art of good conversation. Simply put, if we don’t use it, we will lose it, devolving into more primal states of being.

From a meditative point of view, the art of conver­sation is an engagement in mindfulness and, therefore, being present. Mindfulness is the act of noticing. It is not engaging in like or dislike; it is paying attention to being alive.

♦

Excerpted from The Lost Art of Good Conversation: A Mindful Way to Connect with Others and Enrich Everyday Life by Sakyong Mipham © 2017. Published by Harmony Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC.

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