In Ritoma, a village on the Tibetan plateau, a community navigates an ever-changing world as climate change challenges their nomadic ways of life. While some traditions fade, new ones are embraced—including basketball. With the help of a coach from the United States, the sport breathes new life into the community, offering an inspiring outlet in the midst of great transition.

This film will be available to stream until 11:59 p.m. ET on Friday, February 3. 

Images courtesy Ruby Yang

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Every Buddhist tradition that I’ve studied talks about lineage. Every teacher will talk about their teacher and their teacher’s teacher and their teacher’s teacher’s teacher, going all the way back to the Buddha. We talk about lineage to honor the people that came before us and to have gratitude for them. But lineage also connects us to all these other beings and reminds us that we’re not alone. There are a lot of others who have gone before us, they will in the future, and they are right now.

That was very inspiring to me when I first started studying Buddhism. Then I realized that we all have a lineage, even if we’re not Buddhist. Our lineage is all the people that have supported us, all the animals that have supported us, and the earth that has supported us. You can even go back to before you were born. There were very likely people who helped your mother while she was pregnant: medical providers, family, and friends. People probably opened doors for her. This lineage continued when we were kids. People taught us how to walk and to read. And even if our families weren’t so great, there were teachers and strangers and friends.

When you start to review that lineage, you can realize that it continues today. A lot of beings are supporting us, and we’re supporting a lot of beings. Our lineage can remind us that we aren’t going through this alone. We can ask for help, and people will come out and help us.

[This happened to me] soon after my mom died. My mom and I had a terrible relationship, and when she died, I thought I would be relieved, or at least I wouldn’t be so affected. But her death was very, very affecting. For about six months to a year afterward, I was really, really struggling. My mind was very unsteady, and I really didn’t know what to do at times.

A Tibetan teacher once told me, “When you’re in trouble, you can just call on the buddhas because that’s their job. They’ll come. They’ll help you.” It seemed so silly, and I didn’t really believe that sort of thing. But, one day, I was feeling so hopeless, and I thought, “Alright, buddhas, if you’re here, I really need some help.” I was on my way to an appointment with a therapist. When I walked out of the subway, I encountered a street vendor who said to me, “Hey, are you OK? Can I give you a cup of tea?” And he did. Then someone else smiled at me, and then I got a text from my oldest friend saying, “I’m thinking of you. Are you OK?” And then, of course, I got to my therapist’s office.

I still continue to believe that that’s what’s meant by the buddhas, at least today. That’s how they’re manifesting. They’re from each other, from us. They’re all here right now. And we can ask for that help and really tap into it.

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When in my heart/mind the thought arises to say the nembutsu [recitation of Amida Buddha’s name], entrusting myself to the inconceivable aspiration of Amida which is helping me and making me live renewed, then I have definitely received the benefit of being grasped, never to be abandoned.

—Shinran Shonin, quoted in Tannisho (“Record of Divergences”)

At a gathering of the Buddhist Council of the Midwest, I heard a Sri Lankan monk give a talk titled “Put On Your Own Mask First Before Helping Others.” He said he was explaining the metta (“loving-kindness”) meditation to people visiting his temple in the suburbs. He told them that you begin with directing lovingkindness to yourself, then to others around you, and so on in ever-widening circles. But a woman in the group said, “It’s easy to send thoughts of lovingkindness to others, but it’s hard to think of giving lovingkindness to myself.” So the monk told her, “It’s like when you fly on an airplane, the flight attendants demonstrate how to put on the oxygen mask that comes down if there’s a drop in pressure. They always say, ‘Put on your own mask first before helping others.’ So like the oxygen mask, you have to give yourself lovingkindness first or you really can’t give it to others.”

It’s not on you to give yourself lovingkindness as if it were something you could call up with a click of a button.

To me that woman was expressing how a lot of us feel—all our lives hearing the chorus of internal voices telling us we’re not good enough while simultaneously making us feel it is our personal obligation to care for our family members and others who need help. But I’ve found that in listening to the teachings of Pure Land Buddhism, you realize that it doesn’t matter how undeserving you feel because of not meeting society’s standards. You—along with each and every other person—are included in the Buddha’s enlightenment. The spiritual awakening of the historical Buddha Shakyamuni and all the buddhas before and after him is valid only if it includes all beings.

It’s not on you to give yourself lovingkindness as if it were something you could call up with a click of a button. The problem with the oxygen mask analogy is that it assumes we are the able-bodied, mentally competent adult who easily grabs their dangling mask and then goes about assisting children with their masks. The Pure Land teachings point out that we are more like the child, unable to reach the mask or understand what it is for. In the turbulence of our lives, we are gasping for air until the moment when someone puts that oxygen mask on us. For many of us, that moment is when we encounter the teachings of Buddhism, miraculously brought to us through eons of causes and conditions by the good friend or friends (kalyanamitra) who guide us to what we were unable to find on our own.

To awaken to the awareness of being helped is to enter the path of humility and gratitude. The responsibility to give lovingkindness to ourselves and others has been shifted from our individual self to a whole collection of beings helping each other. This “whole collection of beings” is symbolized by Amida, the representative of all our ancestors, teachers, and friends, whose deepest wish is for our spiritual liberation. This liberation is seen when we come out of our cubbyholes of self-concern and participate in the community of mutual assistance, the concrete expression of the wisdom of oneness. The nembutsu, to use the words of bell hooks, is calling us to abandon the narcissistic project of “self-improvement” and awaken to “the practice of love within the context of community.”

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Two wool coats, one windbreaker, two backpacks, one messenger bag, one stove-top coffee maker, a dozen party hats, one bluetooth speaker, one cordless power drill (with zero batteries), two black curtains, eight lightbulbs. These were the things we gave away. One antique china cabinet, two upholstered chairs, two nightstands, and one handmade wooden trunk. These were the gifts we received. I had only recently heard the name Buy Nothing, but now it was constantly coming out of my mouth. Just married, my wife and I were still receiving gifts as our roommate was moving out, and we found ourselves with a lot of stuff we no longer had any use for (or possibly never did have) as well as an empty and unfurnished room. The gift economy created through The Buy Nothing Project was the seems-too-good-to-be-true-but-it’s-actually-true solution. The Buy Nothing groups aren’t for bartering or reselling—such activities will get one kicked out of their local group. Rather, they are hyperlocal gift economies, where everything is freely given. It does not matter how much one gives or receives or what the dollar value of an item is. Wealth is moved not by an invisible hand but by a kind of karmic alchemy.

The project began in 2013 when Liesl Clark and Rebecca Rockefeller formed a group on Bainbridge Island, Washington, as a challenge to themselves and their community to “buy less and share more.” Today, the organization counts 13,000 volunteers, millions of members, and groups in 44 countries. The cofounders have also written a book, The Buy Nothing, Get Everything Plan: Discover the Joy of Spending Less, Sharing More, and Living Generously (2020). For Liesl Clark, there is also a spiritual dimension to Buy Nothing. As a filmmaker who has documented Buddhist life and the restoration of religious art and recently unearthed temples in Nepal, she drew inspiration from many of the Buddhist ideas she encountered and took to heart. I spoke with cofounder Liesl Clark about her interest in Buddhism, her travels in the Himalayas, and the continued growth of the global organization.

—Matthew Abrahams

After joining my local Buy Nothing group, I started to notice a lot of parallels between the project’s mission and Buddhist teachings, like those on nonattachment and the renunciant traditions. I had a suspicion that maybe there was something Buddhist about the Buy Nothing project, and I was thrilled to hear that you’re a Tricycle reader. Could you tell me about your Buddhist background? My first exposure to Buddhism was through Sherpa culture. I was a filmmaker in my twenties documenting the first all-Sherpa expedition on Mount Everest in 1991. My now-husband, Pete Athans, who’s a climber and a student of Buddhism, was leading the expedition and providing support to the team. In this region of Nepal, spirituality was everywhere—I was living, breathing, and enacting it as I traveled through the villages, circumambulating the chortens [reliquary shrines] and stupas. Also there were real living deities—lamas [teachers] and tulkus [reincarnated masters]—who were so open and happy. Living on some of the highest peaks in the Himalayas, I learned about my connection to the world and how to understand impermanence, because in the Everest region a lot of things are impermanent, including people’s lives. It was a very hands-on introduction, and there weren’t a lot of books involved. Then it was lovely to continue learning about Buddhism from Pete and the Sherpa lamas, who have become dear friends, as well as through my exposure to Buddhist cultures while making other films.

In your book, you write that Buy Nothing had over 1 million community members, but since it was published in April 2020, that number has jumped to over 8 million. What caused that recent growth? A lot of that is because of the pandemic. The longer it continues, the more people feel the need to create a social safety net and to have these hyperlocal gift economies. What has struck a chord with people is not only sharing their goods and services but also connecting with their neighbors. For most people, that sense of community begins as a bonus but then becomes the main benefit.

We were isolated even before the pandemic—storing our stuff in our homes and not sharing it, at least not in the joyful way that a gift economy enables you to.

The community, or sangha, along with the Buddha and the dharma, is one of Buddhism’s three jewels. Did this Buddhist emphasis on community inspire or influence your thinking when Buy Nothing was starting out? Absolutely. One of the key teachings for me was when my husband, our two children, and I arrived in the Nepalese village of Samdzong, near the Tibetan border, and brought with us five duffel bags filled with clothing and some toys to give to the families there. We were separating everything into piles for each household and trying to figure out what they needed—for example, we set aside baby clothes for families who had newborns—when the head of the community, the mukhia, walked over, looking at me like I was from outer space, and said, “No, you should divide it up evenly.” Even when I tried to remove baby clothes from a pile going to just one 68-year-old woman to make room for more adult clothes, she stopped me. What I didn’t understand at the time was that it was important for the survival of the village for even homes without young children to have baby clothes so that they would be able to give them as gifts to the other homes. These gifts weren’t for us to distribute. The gifts were for the villagers to use to create a collective commons. Now the 68-year-old woman had baby clothes to share so that she could become a part of their family and their lives, and the family was able to be the recipient of the clothes and make a new connection with the woman. That interconnection is so important. It helps them create a stronger and more egalitarian community.

That experience showed me why giving and receiving are equally important. It was also a teaching about how unhealthy attachments can cause so much suffering, and how important it is to accept impermanence. Often when people first join a Buy Nothing group, they’ll offer something up, but when they see how much everybody loves it, they start to want it back. You can see these things happening in our minds. But then there are moments when people start to ask themselves “Can I just let go? Can I just accept that I am going to be able to fall into the arms of my community—that if I ever need something like that again, I’ll just be able to ask, and they’ll take care of me?” That has been a dynamic that plays out over and over again. Once people can let go of stuff, they discover that they can rely on their communities, just as we saw in so many villages in Nepal where the land and the livestock and so many other things are part of the collective commons. In the United States, this idea has been harder for people to accept, but through participation in these gift economies and constantly seeing the offering of the gift and the acceptance of the gift, people learn through repetition that the community will take care of them; they’re learning about the power of human connection and the value of group reliance rather than self-reliance.

“Everybody loves to be generous. But it’s just as important to accept gifts with humility.”

That story makes me think of the Pali word for monk, bhikkhu, which literally translates as “beggar.” What do you think of the idea that it can be noble to be a beggar and the related Buddhist notion that giving, especially to a monastic, is not just a charitable act but an ennobling act, a practice in and of itself? I love the idea that it is noble to be a beggar. We’ve found that for most people it is easy to give. Everybody loves to be generous. But it’s just as important to accept gifts with humility, and people have a much harder time asking for something. It makes them feel vulnerable or as though they’re showing their weakness if they say something like “My kid is really into basketball and would like new sneakers, and I can’t afford them” or “I thought I’d see if anybody has shoes before I go to the store.” It is so hard for someone to show that they have a need, but to the community it doesn’t really matter whether it’s a need or a want. Nobody’s going “Why did you ask for that?” What usually happens is this gleeful moment when somebody says, “My 10-year-old just outgrew that exact size of shoes, and I was just going to throw them out.” There’s joy for the giving person, and by asking you enable that person to give to you. It’s positive for everyone. So it is noble to ask, because if you don’t ask, you’re not giving people an opportunity to connect.

You’ve written that in a consumerist culture, people overidentify with their possessions to create a sense of meaning that shared stories used to provide. What role do stories play in the Buy Nothing project? In that first year, people said that the posts in the Buy Nothing group were the best reading of the summer. You can just log on and read all these quirky stories about people’s stuff, why they’re getting rid of things, and why they might need something. Very early on we saw that the stories around the objects were much more meaningful than the objects themselves. People have given away cars. There was a house given away. But when everything has equal value—when people are thinking that way—then it’s much more about the stories than the actual object. The things take on a life of their own as one person passes an object and its story to someone else, and then it takes on a new meaning for the recipient who becomes the steward of that item and story. It’s all tied to what it means to be human.

One of the steps in your book is about looking at one’s own desires. You write that the things that drive us to consume are sometimes aspects of ourselves that are difficult to face. Is there a Buddhist practice that informed that idea? I wish I could say yes. But the main Buddhist idea that has helped me with the project is about Mahakala, a wrathful protector deity in Tibetan Buddhism. Our groups are on Facebook, and the time I spend on Facebook has been really difficult. Even though the actual gift economies can be full-on kumbaya, we’re still using the master’s tools to run these mindful communities. Now we are finally able to custom-build our own platform, but for the past eight years and still now as we continue to roll out our new app, my main practice has been to deflect some of the very hurtful things that people can do to each other on Facebook. So while my meditation is one of constantly giving and being available, it also has to involve being protective. And it’s OK to be—well, I’m not necessarily a wrathful person—but to know that you can rely on that deity to protect you and your family in the face of this maelstrom of social media.

Our new app will hopefully offer an alternative to Facebook, and that’s also why we wrote a book, so people could participate outside of social media. Ultimately, our goal is to get off social media and to have this behavior ingrained in our everyday lives, so that we’re thinking in terms of sharing wherever we go.

The post Why You Should Buy Nothing appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

On September 15, Buddhist monastic Sister Clear Grace Dayananda set out across the United States in the Great Aspiration, a Chevy van she converted into a portable meditation hall. This mobile monastery is the centerpiece of a project she calls the Traveling Nunk, which aims to make dharma teachings accessible to marginalized communities. Through chanting in public parks, collaborating with local faith groups, and giving out meals to those in need, she aspires to use her practice to move toward suffering and act with compassion and equanimity.

In a recent episode of Life As It Is, Tricycle editor-in-chief James Shaheen and Sharon Salzberg sat down with Sister Clear Grace to talk about her travels through the American South, the practice of meeting people where they are, and how we can learn to love those with whom we disagree. Read some excerpts from their conversation below, and listen to the full episode, “On the Road to Awakening with the Traveling Nunk.”

On moving toward suffering

This project, the Great Aspiration, has the power to take our dharma practice off of the cushion. How do we meet people where they are, and what have we been practicing for? What has the dharma taught us, and how do we engage with that? The Buddha’s teachings are full just as they are, and we don’t have to change them to fit our life or the suffering that we’re seeing. They can give us the energy and power to go into the suffering, so when we are faced with it, we’re ready for it. We’ve been training for these times. We’ve practiced well. A lot of us come to the dharma for self-reflection or inward practices of emptiness and the brahma-viharas. But at some point, these meditation practices should catapult us into the suffering in the world around us because we now have a higher capacity to hold all things without being carried away by our views. We are dharma responders, and we have to move toward suffering while bringing the presence and wholeness our practice gives us.

On building the Great Aspiration

The pilgrimage launched on September 15, 2021. I worked on converting and rebuilding the Great Aspiration (a 2003 Chevy van) for about three months with the help of a friend, who is a carpenter. I did a lot of research, watched a lot of videos on YouTube, and made a lot of mistakes—there were often sparks flying. Even though it’s a small space, I still had to build a home. We worked hard on it from early morning until the end of the evening, and it was really an act of compassion. There was this energy that came from the dharma. I was beyond my mental capacity, beyond my knowledge, and there were times where things would come together even when I felt like I didn’t know what I was doing. I had to look back and realize this was not me—this was just the power of the dharma. This is the fruit of practice. 

On equanimity as loving beyond disagreement

For me, the practice of equanimity involves mindful alertness and being able to see the dharma, as well as our own desires and tendencies. We have to know where we are, and we have to be honest with ourselves. We have to know what we can enter into. We have to know our capacity. But we have to also be willing to do the work, to be able to come to the fullness of our practice so that we can see its fruits and so that we can transcend our own biases and discriminations. With the power of the dharma, we can hold our views while also honoring the love and connection with those we disagree with. Being able to cultivate that moment of connection has been one of the biggest lessons on this journey. 

When clinging attachments arise inside of me, I know that I’m picking up a view, and the love can no longer be as it needs to be. But when I can see all of its parts, when I can know that it’s there and come to the fullness of understanding it, then there’s compassion on all sides, and there are no more sides. Then I’m able to come to that place in my wholeness, in my seeing all of the dharma, and meet that individual where they are. In that connection, we can begin to love our way through disagreement. This is an active leaning in, a destructing or a dismantling, so that we can be there and be present. Sometimes this is just my own internal work: How can I remove the defilements within me so that I can come to the fullness and love and expand my heart in the presence of views or disagreements without feeding the separation?

On the brahma-viharas in action

We’ve been through a lot as a nation, and I think we’re all looking for that outbreath in each other. I partner with a lot of churches doing service work, and I’m meeting a lot of the spirit of Christ here on the streets, definitely in the South. It’s empowering. It’s inspiring. I met this one bodhisattva in Knoxville, Marty, who opened up an empty parking lot with a chain link fence and offers showers and food and places for people to charge their phone every Sunday. She welcomed everybody. She knew everybody’s name and helped people come back into their bodies in crises, whether due to mental health or substance use. In her work, she is just present in all of her fullness. One woman was repeating, “I need a cigarette. I need a cigarette.” In the spirit of Christ, Marty was just being there, not offering the cigarette but also not saying, “No, it’s not good for you” or sharing her own views. Instead, she said, “Let’s eat a banana. You really need to eat something,” and gave her a banana. Then she got her some water and stayed there with her, encouraging her. To me, this was an example of the brahma-viharas in action for those who are suffering or for those who are in need in front of us. It takes great work as a practitioner to be able to be there fully and to be present without our views and our judgments. In that moment, community is community. It’s just human beings taking care of each other in all ways.

♦

Listen to the full podcast episode here: 

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Before the pandemic, a typical storytime at the Brooklyn Public Library’s Greenpoint branch might have 40 attendees: babies, toddlers, and caregivers gathered for songs and stories read aloud. But when children’s librarian Tenzin Kalsang started an online Tibetan-English storytime during the height of the pandemic, up to 20,000 people were tuning in. Kalsang, who was born in Tibet, volunteered to lead a bilingual program in Tibetan and English when the library moved storytime online in the spring of 2020, even though it would be a completely new experience for her. Through her personal network on Facebook and word of mouth, her bilingual sessions became a viral success, reaching families and students as far as Germany, India, and Australia. 

As the library opens back up for in-person visits, Kalsang’s online storytime is on indefinite hiatus. Preparing for regular programming with COVID-19 safety protocols requires significant time and effort. While she hopes to return to her bilingual storytime one day, in the meantime, she’s busy fostering community in other ways. Tricycle recently spoke with Kalsang to learn more about her storytime and what’s on the horizon. 

What led you to become a librarian? I was born in Tibet. We didn’t have a public library in Tibet when I was born, so the concept was new to me. But I studied Buddhism, and Buddhism has a lot of texts that are really important and precious, and accessing them is really hard. My initial goal with going to library school was to digitize or somehow make them more accessible to the public. Preservation and accessibility were my initial goals. But deep down, I’ve always loved kids. Then I got to learn more about the public library programs in the United States, and found them so wonderful.

Why did you start a bilingual Tibetan-English storytime for kids during the pandemic? I’m a Tibetan and I live in Queens, and I know there are a lot of Tibetans and Tibetan-speaking immigrants or Americans from the Himalayan region like Nepal, Bhutan, and many parts of the Northeast part of India… who, because of their social-economic status, can’t afford to come to the library and sit with their kids for storytime with us. They want to bring their kids, but they can not. So nothing existed like this—the Tibetan-English bilingual storytime.

Then the pandemic hit and we did all our programs online, and we were brainstorming how to serve a greater population with this technology. A lot of people sent requests, so we tried to respond to the needs of the community. Then for me, I was like, I know the language, there aren’t books in Tibetan for kids, but maybe I can try translating. I knew people were there, but without many resources. So I did my first one in April 2020.

How did families watch? Most of them were on Facebook. Some were on Zoom. We shared the storytimes live and then kept them up for 48 hours. I tried to do the Tibetan storytime as much as I could, at least a few times a month, but a lot of people were asking me to keep it up. So we kept my videos and the multilingual videos up for a longer time. But now, since it’s been over a year, we can’t keep them up because of copyright issues. Recently I talked about choosing Facebook. I knew most of the people, Tibetans and immigrants, had a Facebook account. It was easy and the best way to reach people. I thought, if we went online, it had to be accessible. If you had to register, they may not do it. 

I read that your storytime went viral. What was the response like from the community? How many people were watching? I had no clue how to do this when I started. I would do storytime for 30 minutes, then sing songs, then more books. I don’t have physical, translated Tibetan books. I was just trying to translate right away. Say it’s Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See. I read the first line in English, and then I would say it in Tibetan. I’m not an expert and there’s no reference for these at all. But no matter how challenging it was, the comments kept me going. Parents were so happy. Kids were happy. It wasn’t just from the New York City area. People were watching all over the globe. I had school teachers contacting me from Australia and Germany… They recorded my version of the story and shared it with their students. And also in Indian and Nepal. Monks were using my storytime to learn English! We received so many comments and so much appreciation. Our Facebook page was full, and I tried to reply as much as I could. First we were recording how many people watched it within 48 hours. The average was 20,000 people. Then we started tracking down the live views, which was usually around 1,000. 

How did you choose the books? I tried to do one book in a series, like Llama Llama Red Pajama or Pete the Cat, so if they liked the character, they would want to read more. I also read books about emotions and feelings, like kindness. Kindness is such a big part of our culture, but do kids really talk about it? They might know it as a big concept, but not in day-to-day life. There’s another book called Where’s Buddha that we have in the library that the kids really like. We say in Buddhism that Buddha is everywhere. Buddha is up, low, inside. . . . But everything was kind of new to me. I had to learn the songs, then I was the one translating and needed to make sure the tunes were correct. 

What’s a typical day like for you now? I’m currently at the Greenpoint branch, which is my temporary branch. I thought if I was in Queens that I could make programs for [the Tibetan community there]. But I was chosen here. And I’m not just working for Tibetans. I did a Japanese crane project for a COVID Remembrance Month. 

As a Tibetan refugee, having lived in different situations, I have seen a lot. My first branch was in New Lots in East New York, and when I was there I went to shelters and correction centers. One program I do now for seniors is “Coffee and Conversation,” which just warms them up and puts a smile on their face. The library isn’t just about the books and storytime. It’s about being a community center. It’s a warm place where people can come. It’s really deep down to my heart.

What’s next? A lot of my teachers and friends reached out to me after my storytime, and I’m working with a volunteer-based group in India trying to write kid-friendly books in Tibetan—to keep all the records of the nursery rhymes that I sang, and maybe try to publish it as a book. 

[For the online storytime], I just read regular books. Even though I wanted to, because that was the target audience, I didn’t read Tibetan or Buddhist books because there isn’t much. I wanted to show them, this is what they look like, this is your culture, but there’s nothing like that. So hopefully I can write something. It’s wishful! 

The things in the books are important, but the most important thing is community, interconnectedness. If you’re not healthy and coming together, what’s the point of a book? Even the Buddha himself said it’s all about actions, so community is the most important. For me, I was brought up by the Tibetan community, so even though I’m not working directly with the Tibetan community right now, this is my community right now, and as a whole we are one big family—New York and the whole world. Community gives us a sense of wholeness. 

The post Meet the Brooklyn Librarian Whose Tibetan-English Storytime Went Viral appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

For the past decade, yoga teacher Dianne Scott has focused on working with seniors, offering instruction that takes into account both the limitations of older bodies and their capacity for renewal. She spoke to Tricycle about the importance of meeting all students where each one is in the moment and about yoga’s potential to transform, empower, and unify.

As a dancer, Scott has performed professionally with Forces of Nature Dance Theatre, Kairaba West African Dance Company, and Ballet Bagata. For 31 years, she was a special education teacher at New York City public schools. She has been practicing yoga since 1995.

When did you first start practicing yoga? It’s a long beginning, I’ll tell you that much. I was a dancer. On my 42nd birthday, I wanted to do something celebratory other than a party. I had noticed a yoga studio in my neighborhood, and so instead of going to the Bubble Lounge with a friend who has the same birthday, I decided to take a yoga class. I didn’t know anything about yoga. My only reference was the Beatles going to India and meeting the Maharishi.

I liked it, in no small part because I was anonymous, which is quite different from dancing in an ensemble. My instructor was a very popular teacher with a vigorous yoga style. His class was not, in fact, the class to take if you were just starting out. One day—because yoga instructors tend to be transient—there was a young woman teaching us instead, and her approach was wonderfully gentle. I thought, Oh my goodness, is this yoga too? And I started to investigate different traditions.

Was this in New York City? Mostly. I would take trainings at Integral Yoga and the Open Center [in New York City], and at Kripalu [in Stockbridge, Massachusetts]—places that emphasize yoga’s spiritual component. At the time I was teaching kids with special needs in New York City public schools. I took a teacher training course called Yoga for the Special Child that was offered at Integral Yoga and started to incorporate yoga into my curriculum. I found that it helped the kids process things that were bothering them. Instead of immediately reacting to something, they would think about how it felt in their bodies and then respond, and the responses were more self-regulated and what we might think of as socially appropriate.

We did yoga every Friday, with some mindfulness exercises. And I realized that my kids were becoming more radiant. I said to myself, We are sending these radiant children home, and their parents are probably wondering what on earth is going on. But I had the support of the school, and after a while I had the parents’ support as well. Sometimes the principal or the teachers would participate—chairs and tables pushed back, mats laid out, and everyone breathing together.

That became my focus: developing my own yoga practice while taking trainings that would help me better help my kids.

How did you come to concentrate on working with older people? I retired at 57, with 31 years in the school system. Finally I had the free time to take all the classes I could never take before. But I was surprised there weren’t more people my age in these classes. I decided to start offering yoga to older students.

I had a friend whose mother wasn’t well. She had cancer. And my friend said, “I would love it if you would do yoga with my mom.” I met the mom and started driving out to Queens every Friday to work with her. She was in a book club, and pretty soon the book club ladies were doing yoga too.

I began to get more referrals, and I started senior yoga classes at studios in Boerum Hill, Clinton Hill, and Bedford–Stuyvesant in Brooklyn. Eventually I had little pockets of people around the city to whom I was giving classes or one-on-one lessons. And it was not unusual for students to go out for coffee together after class or to meet up for lunch every few weeks. After a while it becomes all about community.

Building community does seem to be a big part of your practice. I can only think that it comes from having immigrant parents. My parents came here from Trinidad and Tobago in the late 1940s. For them, as for many immigrants, community was vitally important. Growing up, I learned the importance of connecting with others, which for my parents was through music, dancing, and food.

Later, as part of the dance community, and then as a teacher, I’d initiate gatherings instinctively. I just love to see people together.

You also teach classes through the city’s teachers’ union, the United Federation of Teachers (UFT). Is that correct? I do. I was hired by the UFT—the same union I belonged to—to fill in for a teacher who was leaving. That was five years ago.

“People are more open than they think they are, if you can make them feel comfortable.”

Are your students largely retirees? Yes. They are also doing drama, taking writing classes, singing in choruses, and learning salsa. I thought, I’ve finally found my people. Every week I teach between 70 and 80 students over three days. I started with gentle yoga because I didn’t want to frighten anyone. Then I added a little meditation.

How do you approach that with people for whom elements of yogic practice like meditation or chanting might be unfamiliar and strange? When I was teaching children, I learned I had to build trust, because if they didn’t trust me, they weren’t going to listen to anything I said. I needed to cultivate a relationship with them, not just as a teacher but as someone who cared about them.

People are more open than they think they are, if you can make them feel comfortable. I was privately teaching a woman and asked her to think of a sound or a word that resonated with her to use as a mantra. I told her it could be OM, it could be AH. Or, I said, it could be a word from the Bible—Amen or Peace. And I could see a lightbulb go on in her mind.

What do you think you bring to the table when working with seniors? In part, my training as a dancer in body awareness. I can see when people are uncomfortable—sometimes even before they become aware of their discomfort.

But also, I have my three decades of teaching children with special needs and my ability to help others feel empowered.

I want everybody to be seen, heard, and most importantly, supported. Someone might start off in a chair, and I’ll say to them, Why don’t you try getting on a mat? There’s a room full of people here who will help you get back up.

The post Give & Take with Dianne Scott appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

At a family Zoom gathering over the holidays, my brother’s former wife, a nurse, began talking about her work at an overcrowded hospital. COVID-19 patients occupied all the beds—in the rooms, along the corridors, and even in converted storage rooms and gift shops. Heart attacks, gunshot wounds—these were treated in tents outside. She spoke in the matter-of-fact tone of a medical professional—that is, until her voice broke. Family chatter stopped, and in the following moments we were left, each in our separate box, with that mix of outrage, dismay, and grief that these days seem to always hover nearby.

The careless disregard for the health of others on the part of far too many has been staggering throughout the pandemic. In a recent segment on NPR’s All Things Considered, journalist Frank Morris reported that doctors and health officials advocating for commonsense hygiene are being driven from parts of rural America—death threats are not uncommon—leaving local hospitals understaffed with some closing altogether. One Midwestern official, Morris said, laments that “towns . . . are choosing what he calls ‘toxic individualism’ over the common good.”

In the 1980s, as we’re reminded in the Netflix series The Crown, Margaret Thatcher famously stated that “there’s no such thing as society. There are individual men and women and there are families.” Across the Atlantic, this sentiment was a virtual hallmark of what came to be called the Reagan Revolution. Government social programs and regulations on industry were cast not as contributions to the common good but as the very source of our problems, undermining individual initiative and liberties. While it is true that the characteristically high value placed by Western democracies on individual freedom is a great strength, its one-sided promotion, with consequent hostility and suspicion of our collective life and obligations, has over recent decades led us to the disastrous state of affairs confronting us now.

For years up until his death in 2013, Tricycle was fortunate to have as a contributor and mentor the eminent sociologist Robert Bellah. Although his main area was the sociology of religion, early in his career he was drawn to enter “the American conversation” as a sharp critic of the very toxic individualism that we see on such alarming display right now. In an interview with Tricycle (Fall 2004), he put these two areas of concern side by side:

Zen Buddhism began in Japan at a time when strong social structures hemmed in individuals on every side. . . . Buddhism was a way to step outside these constricting structures. Becoming a monk was called shukke, literally, “leaving the family.” We live in an almost completely opposite kind of society, where all institutions are weak and the family is in shambles. You don’t need Buddhism to “leave the family.” To emphasize primarily the individualistic side of Buddhism . . . in America is only to contribute to our pathology, not ameliorate it.

Bellah advocated for “intermediate structures”—religious communities, as an example—to mend the torn social fabric of a society whose institutions have been in decline while we engage in an unpromising “experiment to see if a society can survive in which there are only individuals seeking their own interests.”

Meaningful acts of the individual—our practice included—can take place only in the context and with the support of a strong community. In “The Best Possible Life,” scholar Seth Segall argues that any religion—and more specifically, Buddhism—must find ways to respond to the living concerns in its host society. In our case, that would include creating and sustaining vital communities. That our efforts to do so have often included struggle should come as no surprise. While we yearn for such communities, we are inexpert in how exactly to shape and support them. If 2020 has taught us anything, though, it has shown the urgency of this task. It has also shown that it is a challenge we Buddhists share with all our neighbors of good faith.

The post Finding Community appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

The word sangha means to “bring together” into a group and is the general word for “community” in both Pali and Sanskrit. It can refer to a flock of crows or a herd of deer, but in Buddhist literature it is primarily used to refer to the Buddhist community.

Most often sangha refers to the formal community of monks and nuns, and as such it is often capitalized in English usage. This is especially the case when it is listed as part of the “triple gem”: the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha (the Awakened One, his Teaching, and his Community).

Traditionally one joins the Sangha by a formal act of renouncing all possessions and worldly relationships, and then “goes forth” into the homeless life of a monk or nun. This is when one shaves the head, puts on the robes of a mendicant, and lives only on freely offered food. In the early days this was normally a lifetime commitment, but today ordination can be temporary. Sangha members in ancient India gathered together as a community twice a month, on the days of the full and new moon, at which point they would recite the memorized discourses together. They would also admit openly to any transgressions of the monastic rules (227 for the monks, 331 for the nuns).

The early Buddhist community was actually composed of four parts, with the addition of a community of lay followers (literally, those who hear the teachings) divided into male and female adherents. The Buddha is often depicted as teaching the “fourfold assembly,” surrounded by monks, nuns, and male and female lay followers. One would formally join the lay community by chanting “I go for refuge to the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha” three times.

More recently the word sangha has been extended even wider in the West to include almost anyone with an interest in Buddhist thought and practice. Local temples and retreat centers refer to their participants as sangha members, and people look to join meditation communities or affinity groups that self-identify as sanghas.

Finally, the word can be extended to encompass all sentient beings—and even all inhabitants of a unified ecosystem—as members of a single sangha. This inspiring vision brings with it a heightened sense of connection, a greater appreciation of mutual interdependence, and a shared responsibility for all beings to respect and care for one another.

The post What’s in a Word? Sangha appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

At age 18, I was on a Greyhound bus on my way to Naropa University (at the time it was called the Naropa Institute) in Colorado. I was sitting silently, looking out at the unfamiliar landscape (I was definitely not in New York anymore, Toto), when my fellow passenger, an elderly, sun-tanned woman with lots of turquoise jewelry and a welcoming smile, asked, “Where are you going?”

“Naropa Institute,” I said.

“Are you a Buddhist?”

“Yes.”

I told her that while there were a few teachers that I followed, I wasn’t tied to any particular community. At that time I considered John Daido Loori, Jack Kornfield, and Sharon Salzberg to be my teachers, but I had no fixed address––I didn’t belong to any sangha.

“Oh,” she said. “So you’re a lone wolf.”

I nodded smugly, delighted she had cottoned on so fast to something I felt was intrinsic to my identity. I had considered myself emotionally independent since I was a toddler, and proud of it. A lone wolf—yes, I nodded. I liked her description.

She continued, “You know what’s interesting about lone wolves? They’re sick. Wolves are pack animals, so if you see a wolf by itself, there’s actually something wrong with it.”

My smile vanished.

***

It wasn’t until that moment I realized that being on my own might not be a good thing. I’m not the only one—the “lone wolf phenomenon” seems to be endemic to our society today. In a recent study, incoming college freshmen were asked what their greatest fear was about entering college, and for many, the answer was interacting with others. For these students, isolation is the preferred state of being in (or out) of the world around them.

We cannot practice in isolation. When asked, “How do we engage others in our meditation practice?” the Buddha responded, “The whole of spiritual life is having good spiritual friends.” Since the time of the historical Buddha, monastics and followers of the way have gathered each year for a three-month intensive practice together. In the Zen tradition this is called ango. As I write this, we are in ango along with our sangha here in New York, joined online by folks from across the country as well as from Europe, Australia, South America, and Asia. Each morning via email we receive a teaching and a reflection for the day, and also use an online forum to explore our reflections and livestream dharma talks. This is how we practice together.

Dogen, the founder of Soto Zen School, studied with many different teachers in Japan, but he still had not found anyone to answer his question: “If we are already perfect and complete, and lacking nothing, why practice?” In search of a new teacher, he made the arduous sea journey from Japan to China. There he met [Chinese Zen master] Rujing, with whom he studied and also received dharma transmission.

On his return to Japan, Dogen began to offer the Buddhist teachings written in Japanese, which was quite radical for the time. Buddhist teachings were more commonly transmitted in Chinese, readable only by the educated elite—but Dogen wanted the teachings to be made available to any literate person who wanted to study them. Eventually, Soto Zen became known as “farmer Zen,” or Zen for the ordinary people.

How often do we say to ourselves “I’m not going to do that,” “I don’t know how,” or “It’s too difficult”? We can find a million reasons not to practice and not connect to the world and to not to seek out our community. Dogen said, “Once you grasp your own heart of zazen, you’re like a dragon gaining the water. Like a tiger taking to the mountains.”

That’s what we’re doing in meditation practice: like the thunder of dragons taking to the water or a streak of tigers taking to the mountains, we’re choosing to dive head first into our lives. What does that kind of radical participation look like in ordinary life?

There is an expression in Zen: itchi-go itchi-e. One Moment, one chance. I’m reminded of itchi-go itchi-e throughout my day, when meeting friends, saying good morning to a stranger, or reading the news. It reminds me to take note of my life, to notice where I am, what I’m doing, and who I am with. Dogen also wrote, “For you must know that just there in this moment of zazen, exactly the right dharma is manifesting itself.” Whatever is happening right now is exactly what we need to be receptive to. What’s arising for you moment-by-moment, in this moment, is exactly our practice.

This is the way to move from the lone wolf to a thunder of dragons taking to the water—by embracing one’s life totally and completely, and not holding back.

Instructions for Zen Meditation

How can you find peace in the midst of your busy life? One way is through Zen meditation, or zazen. Zen meditation is often referred to as “practice” because we never get good at it. The work is basically to stop, look, and listen. When you get scared, uncomfortable, or restless going about your day, just soften and return to the practice. Zen practice is about how to be free.

One of the best parts about meditation is that you don’t need anything but yourself to do it. You can meditate on the subway, in your office, or on an airplane—anywhere! But if you have time to meditate daily at home or at a temple or church, try to find an uncluttered spot where you can sit without disturbances, and where it’s not too hot and not too cold.

Zen people traditionally sit on what’s called a zabuton (a square mat) and a zafu (a round cushion placed on top of the mat), but you can also create a makeshift Zen meditation area with a home cushion placed on top of a bed, yoga mat, or large pillow. You’ll want to wear loose clothing so that you can cross your legs, resting your knees on the zabuton. (This is also so your legs don’t fall asleep!) If this position is painful for you, you can sit in a chair instead.

Sit upright so that your back lengthens along your spine, trying not to lean in any one direction. Place your right hand palm up in the middle of your legs and your left hand palm up on your right palm, so that the backs of your wrists are resting on the tops of your thighs.

The tips of your thumbs should be lightly touching each other.

Keep your mouth closed, placing your tongue against the roof of your mouth just behind your teeth. (This helps with all the swallowing that’s about to happen!)

Keep your eyes slightly open, gazing down at a forty-five- degree angle, without focusing on anything in particular. (If you close your eyes, chances are you’ll be half asleep in a few minutes or less.)

If you’re a beginner, you can try meditating for just five minutes at first. You might find that even five minutes is a challenge! Set a timer on your cell phone or a clock so you don’t need to check the time. Then settle into your cushion and breathe quietly through your nose, without concentrating on any one thing. Keep returning to the softness of the breath two inches below your belly button.

Thoughts will inevitably arise—lots of thoughts. That’s OK. Don’t chase after them or try to run away from them. Just let them pass by like clouds in the sky or bubbles in a stream. If you’re new to meditation, you can also try counting your breaths—one count as you inhale and one as you exhale. Count to ten and start over at one. If you lose count before getting to ten, no problem. Start over at one.

Try this practice daily for thirty years and then evaluate!

The post No Longer Alone appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.