Summertime is a time of ease and indulgence. Are you in the mood for lemonade and iced tea? Just combine them and call it an Arnold Palmer! Are you in the mood for a totally centering mindfulness session and lounging under a palm tree? Just combine them and call it a Mind Palmer! In fact, there are countless ways to make your casual endeavors count toward your spiritual aspirations, because in the age of social media, appearing mindful is half the battle (the other half is “likes”). 

As the Zen master Dogen said, “You should also know that basically we lack nothing of the highest enlightenment. We are fully furnished with it at all times.” In other words, all it takes is a little creative reframing to help us recognize that we’re already wicked wise. The following five mindfulness hacks will help ensure that your practice isn’t a buzzkill nor does it need to prevent you from getting your buzz on:

1. Aim Low

They say that if you shoot for the moon and miss, you’ll still reach the stars. But if you shoot for the stars and miss, you’ll still probably reach the misty cushion of fluffy white clouds. So do yourself a favor this summer and aim lower. Pare down. Henry David Thoreau implored us all to “simplify, simplify, simplify.” Even that sounds kinda complicated. How about just, “Simplify, simplify”? Or even better, “K.I.S.S..” (Keep It Simple, Stupid). This streamlined approach will allow you to trim the fat in your routine and focus on what is truly important. If what you are doing doesn’t feel essential, don’t hesitate to stop mid-sentence, regardless of what your editor thinks, because time is—

2. Engage in Intentional Chilling

What is the point of a mindfulness experience? This isn’t a koan or a rhetorical question. The answer isn’t that the point is that there is no point, or some other paradoxical quagmire worthy of winter. Remember, this is summer. Mindfulness is about restoration, relaxation, balance, and a dope tan. 

Thus, I highly recommend engaging in hydrophilic immersion therapy with intermittent bouts of solar cleansing. The best spot for hydrophilic immersion therapy is at a temperature-controlled body of water, like, say, your local pool. Solar bathing is optimal in a reclined position in which the body (and mind) can be slightly angled towards the sun, like say, a poolside lounge chair. So pack up a book, sunscreen, a towel, and an Arnold Palmer, and commence chilling! 

Recommended dosage varies but thirty minutes of immersion therapy followed by an hour of solar bathing should be a good start. Repeat if necessary.

3. Try a “Section Darkness” Retreat

Not everyone has the time to commit to a full Appalachian Trail through-hike. Many people end up “completing” the AT over time by tackling it bit by bit in a process known as “section hiking.”

Darkness retreats seem to be all the rage these days, but not everyone has the time (or willingness) to spend a week in a cave during the very season when one could be solar bathing on the daily. But every night the sun goes down. So in a way, every night one is engaging in a darkness retreat! Buy some blackout shades and see how late you can extend your retreat each morning. It’s not sleeping in. It’s a section darkness retreat!

4. The Chopstick Challenge

You know the scene in the 1984 classic The Karate Kid in which Mr. Miyagi attempts to catch a fly with chopsticks? “Man who catch fly with chopstick accomplish anything,” he notes, sagely. It seems like a really immersive and mindful exercise. It also seems really hard. 

Instead, I challenge you to try using chopsticks to eat ice cream. As with catching a fly, you will find yourself using the wrong tool for the job. But, through repeated, engaged effort, you may find that the wrong tool becomes the right tool for engaging body and mind in a delicious pursuit. And remember, people who manage to eat ice cream with chopsticks can accomplish anything, including sweet, sweet fulfillment.

5. Forest Bathe at Home

Research suggests that spending time in nature can be restorative. Hence the popularity of forest bathing, a practice that involves walking through a tree-laden area in order to connect more deeply with one’s surroundings. Of course, that means actually going to nature. And typically in nature one also ends up connecting more deeply with bugs and poison ivy and mud and all the other inconveniences that caused humans to build homes in the first place.

Instead, why not bring nature into the climate-controlled comfort of your home? All you need to do is get a plant or two, preferably something that won’t require too much water or care, because you’ll be pretty busy with all these mindfulness hacks. A plastic plant should suffice. When the mood strikes, go ahead and “bathe” near the plants. Walk around them. Take a nap next to them. If the plants happen to be near your TV, you might as well multitask and catch up on a show while you’re at it.  All in a summer day’s work lounge.

The post Five Summertime Mindfulness Hacks appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Boggle, the internet giant, today announced the latest advance in its joint partnership with the World Trade Forum to harness the miracle of AI to eliminate human error by eliminating human jobs. At a conference attended by thousands of tech entrepreneurs, Anna Norma Sego, Boggle’s VP for AI development, unveiled RoboGuru, a robot that allows users to design their own Buddhist teachers, thus putting an end to the scandals and inefficiencies that have plagued the business of teaching dharma for millennia. 

“Who wants to listen to dharma you don’t want to listen to?” Sego asked. “And who wants to put up with personality quirks and moral failings in teachers that you yourself haven’t okayed in advance? RoboGuru puts you in the driver’s seat to specify what dharma you’ll hear, how you’ll hear it, and what sort of teacher you want to interact with. Our slogan throughout the design process has been, ‘Your dharma, your way.’”

A brief video then demonstrated some of the features of the new robot, which will come in three main models, RoboRoshi, RoboLama, and Robo Vipassana Awakening Coach, or RoboVac for short. Utilizing the latest advances in Chat Godlike Predatory Tech (ChatGPT), each model will draw on the thousands of dharma talks available online to deliver dharma to the user’s specifications. Although ChatGPT already allows for countless ways of mashing up dharma themes from different Buddhist and non-Buddhist schools, RoboGuru will make the beginning user’s task easier by offering such pre-designed eclecticism settings as DzogZen, ChristZen, VipasZenna, and VipassaRumi. Topic profiles will include filters that can block such unpopular topics as precepts, karma, rebirth, and nirvana. Users will also be able to set the difficulty level for how demanding their personal path to enlightenment will be.

As for teacher profiles, users will be able to specify RoboGuru’s genders, if any, and to choose among a long menu of settings that will determine, among other things, whether the robot will make inappropriate sexual advances, only appropriate sexual advances, or, for spiritual minors, no sexual advances at all. Boggle has also engaged a long roster of sports and entertainment celebrities to contribute to RoboGuru’s extensive voice menu. Featured options will include Snoop Dzoggchen, Jhanafer Anniston, Denzel Washingtantra, Ajahn Travolta, Ellen DanaGeneris, Mel Gibzen, and Kermetta the Frog.

RoboGuru will come with a two-tiered pricing option: an ad-free Premium version, aimed at advanced Mahayana students, and a dana-based Freeloader version for Hinayana students, which will include mandatory dana-appeals with each dharma talk, along with ads tailored to the user’s favorite mental poison—greed, aversion, or delusion. 

After the video, Sego accepted questions from the audience. When asked about the greatest challenges Boggle engineers faced in designing RoboGuru, she responded, “Getting some variety in the talks for RoboVac. I mean, how many ways can you say, ‘Just learn to accept everything’ without getting boring? We came to understand why Vipassana teachers are always combining their teachings with other topics, like raisin-savoring and current social issues, just to keep interest up. The RoboRoshi talks, on the other hand, were a breeze. We simply removed all requirements for reason and accountability, and realistic Zen talks just poured out of the program. As for RoboLama, our algorithms will have to remain a proprietary secret, in keeping with tradition.”

When asked if Boggle and the WTF expected any legal action from GI (Genuine Intelligence) dharma teachers over the way ChatGPT will be harvesting their online talks for corporate profit, Sego stated, “Don’t worry, we’ve already consulted with our lawyers on that point. Our position is that the dharma was originally offered free of charge, so any actual dharma in the talks of GI teachers is already in the public domain. And if they want to lay claim to dharma original with them, we’ll argue that their teaching on no self leaves them no legal leg to stand on.”

A brief commotion occurred when a reporter representing the Union of Socialist Buddhists asked Sego why Boggle and the WTF were eliminating harmless jobs when a real dharma project would be to design AI bankers, politicians, and corporate executives programmed to work for the actual good of the world. However, a small phalanx of Boggle RoboGuards efficiently escorted the offending reporter from the premises, and order was swiftly restored.

As a final note, Sego stated that although RoboGuru represents an important step forward in eliminating the element of human error in the quest for enlightenment, Boggle has set its sights on eradicating that element entirely, which is why they are already working on the companion to RoboGuru: RoboYogi, the AI meditation student who will do all the work of gaining enlightenment for you.

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Archaeologists in India’s Bihar State this week unearthed what they believe to be a Buddhist sutra from the 1st century CE, which depicts the Buddha telecommuting to deliver a sermon to his followers. In the scripture, the Buddha’s attendant Ananda recounts a time when his teacher was traveling in a distant land but still wished to address the sangha. While much of the text has been damaged, researchers say that it appears to describe the Buddha miraculously projecting his image and voice onto a screen at a monastic hall, where disciples had gathered to hear his message.

Unfortunately, as the following excerpt demonstrates, the Buddha encountered some technical difficulties:

Thus have I (mostly) heard,
[…]
A monk asked the Buddha, “Lord, you have taught us to value both solitude and community. How are we to understand this?”
And the Buddha responded: “When one’s [inaudible] is [inaudible] or [inaudible], then it is paramount that [inaudible].”
At which point the Blessed One’s image on the screen did freeze, and the student asked, “Lord Buddha, are you still there?”
And the Buddha replied, “and so that is what—what’s that? Can you hear me now?”
And the monk said that he could.
The Blessed One then announced that he was moving to another room to see if there was better reception.
Seated once more, he continued: “The true nature of reality is—”
Alas, mid-word, the Buddha’s message did abruptly cease, and the screen went blank. The monks hurried to investigate the cause, puzzling over whether or not the issue was on their side, until, suddenly, they were startled by a chirp-like ring.
The Buddha’s image then reappeared.
“How does it look now?” the Blessed One asked.
And although the Buddha’s lips did not sync with the sound of his voice, the monk said, “It’s astounding, lord.”
The Blessed One said, “All things are subject (all things) to arising (are subject to) and passing (arising and) away—do you hear (away) that echo? (Do you hear that echo?)”
The monk answered, “Yes, lord.”
And the Blessed One said, “Oh, great, now [inaudible] frozen (frozen)!”
The monk waved his hand to see if the Buddha could see him.
The Blessed One’s image did then disappear, before once again returning with greater clarity than before. The Buddha asked, “How about now?”
The monk answered, “Perfect, lord. I can see and hear you clearly now.”
[…]

The text cuts off at this point. Researchers continue to use fragments of the remaining text to reconstruct the rest of the sutra. But progress has been slow as they, too, have had to communicate via video conferencing, during which they keep talking over each other, simultaneously saying, “Sorry, you go,” and observing a brief silence, before all speaking at the same time again.

The post Newly Found Scripture Reveals Buddha Gave Remote Sermon, Struggled with A/V Issues appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

With 16 Democratic candidates competing in the 2020 presidential primary and more expected to announce, His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama shocked political observers on Monday when he revealed that he has set up a committee to explore the possibility of joining the race.

“People say that the Dalai Lama, he cannot be president,” the Tibetan Buddhist spiritual leader said on MSNBC’s “Morning Joe,” “but if you stop and reflect more deeply—with a clear, discerning mind—then you will see that US politics is all very unusual, and so, yes, a Dalai Lama president is not that much weirder.”

Rejecting the “dualism” of the two party system, the Dalai Lama said he would run as an “interdependent” candidate on a platform of “ending all suffering.”

Sources close to Sen. Bernie Sanders said that he was disappointed to lose the mantle of oldest candidate to the 83-year-old Dalai Lama but said he hopes to find common ground with his Medicare for All Sentient Beings plan.

President Donald Trump responded to the announcement on Twitter. “An ‘extremely credible source’ has called my office and told me that the very Low Energy Dalai Lama was really born in Tibet and is INEDIBLE for preserdent,” he wrote.

Update: Sources told Tricycle that Maitreya, the future incarnation of the Buddha on Earth, is also weighing the possibility of moving up his birth to qualify for the 2056 election.

The post 2020 Election Even More Crowded as Dalai Lama Announces Exploratory Committee appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

When you’re feeling stuck in your life, sometimes what you need to do is stop, be quiet, and reflect on how everyone else is the problem. That’s why I do meditation retreats, and, while I’m far too humble to admit this to most people, I’m actually pretty good at them. This is your first retreat, right? I can tell because you’re wearing raggedy sweatpants instead of a hemp sarong, like me. Well, these retreats aren’t cheap, so stick with me and I’ll show you how to get the most out of this weekend.

First, have a seat. No, not there. That’s my seat. The golden tassels are a dead giveaway. Yours is over there, by the donation kiosk. Good instincts, though. You gotta want it! Go ahead and set an intention. For example, I like to look at the teacher’s seat and think: One day you will be beneath me. The cushion, that is, not the teacher. OK, let’s talk technique:

When your mind wanders to your breath, gently bring it back to the question of whether or not now is finally a good time to buy Bitcoin. Meditation is about speeding up your mind so that you can cycle through all the bad thoughts really quickly in order to find the good ones. They’re in there! Just keep looking! There’s gold—or better yet, Bitcoin—in your head, you’re just not mining hard enough.

Related: NewsLeek: Fifth Noble Truth Discovered 

You might notice that you keep returning to the same thought over and over again. That’s great. In general, this practice is about you and no one else, so feel free to keep focusing on emotional problems: yes, you are broken, but it’s probably your parents’ fault. I like to think about the last words I said to my ex and endlessly tweak those parting lines while imagining her reaction. Meditation is a great way to perfect insults and insert them into past arguments.

Aside from scratching old emotional scars until they bleed, you should spend hours on the cushion practicing your satori smile. How will you know you’re getting your money’s worth if you aren’t making the other retreatants jealous of your peace and equanimity? Get your Gautama grin on! Your eyes should be dreamy yet penetrating, like you’re high but the drug could either be weed or an amphetamine. This is not a happy smile. No teeth. Equanimity is about looking calm while someone else is having a hard time. There’s nothing more humiliating after a long day on the cushion than unpretzeling your legs, looking up, and seeing the lamest meditator in the hall—you know, that guy who runs around barefoot and then washes his feet in the sink where we brush our teeth—flashing you a better Buddha face.

If you’re having trouble, it helps to repeatedly steal glances at the most attractive person at the retreat (there’s always one—no, it’s not you) and then picture them naked. Interestingly, this method also works when applied to the least attractive person at the retreat. Some people might call this “creepy,” but I call it tantra. You can read more about this in my self-published book How Can It Be Sarong When It Feels So Right?

When not grinning at everyone, it’s good to maintain an attitude of cynical distance from your peers, the practice leaders, and meditation itself. This will endear you to the teacher, with whom you should occasionally break noble silence so you can call her “the Big Karuna!” Generally speaking, teachers love it when you focus on them and their shortcomings instead of your own practice. These are always the students they single out for promotions in their dharma talks. This moment is inevitable, and you need to prepare for it. Picture it: the teacher removes her glasses, dabs her tears, mouths Thank you as she steps off her elevated and embroidered and obviously-way-more-comfortable-than-yours cushion and motions for you to Please, take my seat, I’ve simply been keeping it warm for you.

Of course, the one time I actually picked up on the teacher’s signals and assumed my rightful place in her seat, she responded with something less than lovingkindness. That’s why I grew this beard and changed my name to Sri Roshi Baba Ganoush. Anyway, I learned enough in the two hours before the cops came and pried the teacher’s cushion from my fingers to hang my own mindfulness shingle. Uh oh, looks like one of the staffers recognizes me. I knew I should have cut off my man-bun, but some attachments run too deep.

Look, I’ve got to go. But, hey, if this retreat doesn’t work for you, swing by my private studio; it’s called FullMind, Inc. I’m a lot pricier than these guys, and if you’re wondering why, well, that’s your first koan, and it’s on the house. No? OK, fine. But you should know, next time I’m meditating, I’m going to think of the perfect insult for you.

The post Dharma Hacks from a Dharma Hack appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Did the Buddha ever laugh? Some would say no, contrary to the popular “laughing Buddha” statues one can find in Chinese restaurants (which are not actually the Buddha, but the 10th-century Ch’an monk Budai, a Santa Claus-like folk hero). The Buddha of the Pali canon and the Mahayana sutras is known for his brilliant dialogues with interlocutors, deconstructive logic, commanding serene presence, and magical powers.

But jokes? Not so much.

Yet according to Ajaan Thanissaro Bhikkhu, known to his students as Ajaan Geoff, the Pali canon holds many examples of the Buddha using humor in his teaching. It’s just that the humor—often highly contextual, based on wordplay, and also more often dry and subtle than laugh-out-loud funny—is easily missed by translators and readers. One of my favorite examples is the time a Brahmin—a Vedic priest, most of whom regarded the early Buddhists as heretical outcasts—came by to challenge the Buddha and insult him. The Buddha quietly asked him, “If someone offers you a gift, and you refuse to accept it, does that make the gift yours or the one who offered it?”

“It belongs to the one who offered it,” replied the Brahmin.

“In the same way,” replied the Buddha, “the words with which you have insulted me are all yours.”

When I found out that Ajaan Geoff, who is abbot of a meditation monastery in Southern California where I lived for three years, had written a book about the Buddha’s humor called The Buddha Smiles (available for free from the monastery, as are all of his books), I was fascinated. I had noticed the Buddha’s humor in the Pali Canon myself but had never seen any serious treatment of it in print. Ajaan Geoff is known for his encyclopedic knowledge of the Pali discourses and the Vinaya [monastic code], and is widely regarded as a leading scholarly exponent of Theravada Buddhism in English. He is also a meditation master who has been deeply immersed in the Thai Forest tradition for four decades. I was eager to read, and hear, what he had to say. He kindly agreed to be interviewed about the book.

How did you become interested in writing a book on the Buddha’s sense of humor? A student of mine who likes to attend the Sakyadhita [International Association of Buddhist Women] conferences noticed that the presentations tended to be pretty grim and humorless. So she asked me for some examples of the Buddha’s humor that she could use in a presentation herself. As I was gathering the material, I realized that there was enough to fill a book—and that the book would be useful, because one, the humor in the Pali canon is underappreciated, and two, there are a lot of good dhamma [Skt. dharma] lessons to learn from the way the Buddha and the compilers of the canon used humor in their teaching.

Is there something you would say is particularly characteristic of the Buddha’s use of humor? It can be pretty dry. A good example is the comment he made about one of his monks who had gotten drunk. The monk, Saketa, had done battle with a fire-breathing serpent, and word got out to people at large. They wanted to do something special for him, as a way of making merit, and so they asked some other monks, “Is there something nice that monks don’t usually get on their alms round?” Well, it so happened that they asked the wrong monks. The monks said, “Hard liquor.”

So the people prepared glasses of hard liquor for Saketa on the next day’s alms round. After drinking liquor at house after house, he passed out at the city gate. The Buddha came along with a group of monks, and he had them carry Saketa back to the monastery. They laid him on the ground, and he tossed and turned until he had his feet pointed at the Buddha. [Pointing one’s feet at a teacher is considered a sign of disrespect.] The Buddha commented, “Wasn’t Saketa respectful to us in the past?”

“Yes,” the monks said.

“Is he respectful now?”

“No.”

“And didn’t he do battle with the fire-breathing serpent in the past?”

“Yes.”

“Could he do battle with even a salamander now?”

“No.”

You say in the book that humor in the canon can be broadly separated into two kinds. The first aims at provoking dispassion by making fun of things that should be disregarded or taken less seriously, and the second aims at cultivating what you call “joy in the dhamma.” Can you give an example of each? In the first category, there’s the humorous way that the canon treats things like sensuality, psychic powers, encounters with devas [gods], and palace life. It’s meant to develop a sense of detachment toward things that people all too often dream about and fall for.

One of my favorite examples is the story of the monk who gains a vision of some devas and so asks them, in effect, “Do you know where the physical universe ends?” They say they don’t know, but that there’s a higher level of devas. Maybe they know. So the monk gets a vision of the higher level of devas and asks them the same question. They don’t know, but they send him to the next level up. This process repeats, as he gets sent up, up, up, the deva bureaucracy until he finally comes face-to-face with the Great Brahma. He asks the question, and the Great Brahma responds, “I am the Great Brahma, All-knowing, All-seeing, the father of all that has been and will be.”

Now, if this had been the Book of Job, the conversation would have ended there. But the monk isn’t cowed. He says, “I didn’t ask you if you were the Great Brahma, and so on, I asked you if you know where the physical universe ends.”

The Great Brahma repeats that he’s the Great Brahma, and so on, and the monk persists with his question three times. Finally, the Great Brahma takes him by the arm, pulls him aside, and says, “Look. I don’t know. But my retinue thinks I know everything, and I don’t want to disappoint them. You go back and ask the Buddha.”

In the category of joy in the dhamma, there are stories and analogies that make you happy you’re practicing. An example is of the analogy of the elephant alone in the forest compared to a monk doing jhana [meditative absorptions]. The elephant, tired of his herd, has gone off on his own and is enjoying his seclusion. When he feels an itch, he takes a branch with his trunk and scratches himself. “Gratified,” the canon says, “he allays his itch.” In the same way, a monk—tired of the hustle and bustle of life in a monastery—goes off into the forest and enjoys his solitude. As he enters jhana, the text says, “Gratified, he allays his itch.” It’s the sort of comment that makes you smile—and makes you want to do jhana.

You practiced for years with Ajaan Fuang Jotiko (1915-1986) and then Ajaan Suwat Suvaco(1919-2002), both meditation masters in the lineage of the great Buddhist reformer Ajaan Mun Bhuridatta (1870-1949), who helped start the contemporary Thai Forest Tradition. Did you find either of your teachers used humor in their teachings? Both Ajaan Fuang and Ajaan Suwat had good senses of humor. In fact, that was one of the things that first attracted me to them. Their primary way of using it was to create a sense of distance and dispassion around your defilements, like the Buddha’s first use of humor.

For instance, Ajaan Fuang had his own version of a Jataka tale [stories of the Buddha’s past lives] that I liked. He used it once to make the point that when you go into a new situation, it’s wise to keep your mouth shut and try to read the situation first before trying to show off how smart you are.

Related: Ha Ha Zen

The story goes that there was a turtle living near a pond, where swans regularly stopped for water. They would tell him about all the wonderful things they saw while flying around, and the turtle became upset that he would never get to see those things. So the swans came up with a plan: They would find a stick and hold either end of it in their mouths, while the turtle would grab onto the middle of the stick with its mouth. That way they could carry it up into the sky.

So they did. As they flew around, the turtle got to see many amazing things it had never seen in its life. But then they passed over a group of children who saw them and started calling out: “Look! Swans carrying a turtle! Swans carrying a turtle!” The turtle felt embarrassed, but then thought of a smart retort: “No. The turtle’s carrying the swans!” But when it opened its mouth to say this, it fell to its death.

I’ve found that if a student can’t laugh at him or herself, that student’s practice is going to crash. —Thanissaro Bhikkhu

You yourself are known for your sense of humor. I remember hearing your frequent laughter around Metta Forest Monastery when I lived there. How do you use humor in your practice and teaching? One of the best ways to overcome a defilement is to be able to laugh at it. To be able to laugh at your own foibles gives you some distance from them. So I try to promote a sense of humor around issues, so that people can extract themselves from the boxes into which they put themselves.

Sometimes this involves getting them to laugh at other people’s foibles, so that they can reflect on their own and avoid making the same mistakes. But I try to make it as good-natured as possible so that it doesn’t get mean. I’ve found that if a student can’t laugh at him or herself, that student’s practice is going to crash.

Do you have anything else you’d like to add? Three things stand out in the way the canon uses humor. One is that much of the humor is found in the origin stories for the disciplinary rules in the Vinaya. Humor in these stories helps you step back and say, “Yes, I can see why that type of behavior is out of line.” And that creates distance between yourself and your own desire to break the rules. Also, if the people who established the rules were grim and humorless, the rules would feel oppressive and be harder to follow.

The second thing that jumps out of the canon is that the Buddha could often be very sharp and biting in his humor. He didn’t belong to the school of thought that views upsetting remarks as necessarily harmful. When he saw that someone’s defilements were ridiculous, he had no qualms about holding them up for ridicule. A prime example is a comment he made about brahmans, who were very proud of their racial purity. As he pointed out, dogs—considered to be among the lowest animals in ancient India—were more racially pure than the brahmans. In his words, “Some male brahmans copulate with female non-brahmans, but male dogs don’t copulate with female non-dogs.” This probably hurt the feelings of some of the brahmans who heard it, but it didn’t harm them. In fact, it might have brought them to their senses and led to their long-term welfare and happiness. So sharp humor, if it’s used well, has its place.

The third thing that’s striking is that the canon’s use of humor goes against the societal norms of its day. Humor, in the literature of the time, was usually used to enhance the appeal of erotic poems and plays. But the canon uses humor to subvert that connection, making erotic poetry look silly.

One example is the story of the nun Subha. A man accosts her as she’s going through a forest, inviting her to disrobe and enjoy sensual pleasures. His lines are among the most extravagantly poetic in the canon, but she’s not interested. She’s reached the stage in her practice where she’s gone beyond sensual desire. So she asks him, “What do you find attractive in this disgusting human body?”

“Your eyes,” he says. “I can’t stop thinking of your eyes, O nymph of the languid regard.”

So she plucks out one of her eyes and says, in essence, “You want it? Here, take it.” That scares him off.

This kind of humor goes totally against the conventions of the time and serves as a reminder that Buddhism didn’t just follow the customs of India in those days. It was, and has always been, countercultural.

The post (En)lighten Up! Uncovering the Buddha’s Wit appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Begin by watching the breath. Observe its rhythm, its quality. Maybe it is shallow and strained. Notice smells, like air-conditioning tinged with exhaust, or the unmistakable whiff of Cheetos and strawberry BubbleYum wafting up from the back seat of the car. Breathe in it. Recognize any emotions that come up, such as doubt, regret, or fear. After a few moments, open your eyes. You will still be in traffic, staring at the tall sign of the amusement park a half-mile away.

Early in the trip, discover abundant moments to practice stillness: idling in traffic at the front gate, and again in the parking lot. There’s also all the time you spend waiting in line for tickets, waiting in line for the restroom, waiting back at the ticket counter, and then back at the restroom, and later on the bench outside the restroom, where you wait for your spouse, who is somewhere near the back of the line.

After an hour or so, notice the Ferris wheel. Skip toward it. Climb into the car and sit there like an excited little kid. Wait until the Ferris wheel starts moving to remember that you don’t enjoy Ferris wheels. Listen to your stomach start to bubble and fuss. Take a moment to contemplate samsara. Remember how you always think it will be fun to ride the Ferris wheel, and then every time it starts moving, you feel overtaken by nausea and dread. Also take note of your habitual decision to ride the Ferris wheel after rapidly consuming a funnel cake and orange soda.

Notice any emotions that come up. On second thought, don’t think about things coming up. Focus on the horizon and stay with the breath.

Stumble off the Ferris wheel. Your kid will pull you toward the log flume. Pretend to be astonished—not horrified—as you watch as two people sitting in a plastic toy log plunge down a steep hill and coast into the water with a giant splash. Casually walk up to the person controlling the ride, who looks about 15 years old. Ask him a thoughtful, articulate question about the maximum speed of the log. Hangonjustasec as he finishes his text.

“I dunno,” he will say as he guides an empty log toward you and your son. “I guess it’s like, fast, man.” Watch this response delight your kid, who pulls you into the log. Reach for the seat belt and discover there are no restraints. As the flume slowly pulls away from the steady, unwavering shore, observe how your rapidly rising fear of death drowns out the squeals of excitement coming from your kid. When he turns around and asks you if you’re okay, tell him the truth, which is no, then yes, then no again. Now is a perfect time to embrace uncertainty.

Observe your breath as you and your kid ascend a gigantic hill. Listen to your labored exhale. Notice your fear of death start to transform into a simple and slightly hopeful inevitability; there are, after all, endless rebirth possibilities. Perhaps you’ll return as a cactus, or an eagle, or a table lamp—something that could never set foot in a park like this.

Right before the drop, your kid will casually raise both arms in the air, turn around, and tell you to let go. Let go? Debate whether your kid is very stupid or very wise.

You will plunge. You will scream. You will survive.

You will be tired. Your clothes will be wet. Remember that all things are impermanent: the emotions consuming you, your energy, your voice, your money. Seek refuge. Tell your spouse that you’re just going to nap in the car for a few minutes. Or a few hours. Take the keys. Turn around and walk toward what you think is the exit. Discover the janitor’s quarters. Turn the other way. Ask a person wearing a chipmunk costume where the exit is. The chipmunk will squeak three times and point to the direction you just came from. Meander down a narrow, bush-lined path that opens to the infinite expanse of the main parking lot.

Walk quickly to the section where you parked, DB154. Or was it UM240? Turn in circles. Spot a car that looks like yours. “The car!” you cry aloud, both shocked and proud that it only took you 20 minutes to find it. Point your clicker toward said car and try to unlock it. Wait in the vast silence of the parking lot. Walk up to the car, peer inside and notice the spotless interior, devoid of Cheetos crumbs and BubbleYum wrappers. Walk in the other direction. Spot your car. The car! Point, click, wait. Silence. Turn around. Walk away. The car! Point, click, wait. Silence.

Discover the car by recognizing the exhausted pile of humans sitting next to it. “We’ve been waiting for 45 minutes,” your spouse will say. This is not a complaint, but rather a statement of wonder and bewilderment. “Where have you been?” the kids will ask. Do not respond. Climb into the car. Your family will fall asleep within seconds.

Realize that your kid’s question was a koan. Where have you been? Realize that you will have at least an hour of sitting in standstill traffic on the way out of the park to try and enlighten yourself with an answer.

[This post was originally published on August 14, 2016]

The post How to Fully Embrace Suffering at the Amusement Park appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Comedians worth their salt know that neuroses, awkwardness, and dissatisfaction are often the best places to plumb for material. The Buddha knew it, too, although he wasn’t doing slapstick—Buddhism’s first noble truth is an acknowledgement of life’s inevitable suffering, from the most trifling irritation to the greatest tragedy.

Cue Christopher Kelley, a Buddhist Studies professor at Brooklyn College and the New School who explores the parallels between dark comedy and basic Buddhist tenets in talks across the country. Like Buddhism, Kelley thinks, comedy of the truth-telling sort can help us confront moments and experiences that can be painfully awkward, deeply unsettling, or outright depressing.

Thinkolio, a think tank that connects professors with the general public, is partnering with the Strand Bookstore in New York City to host an upcoming talk with Kelley, “Buddhist Realism and Dark Comedy: It’s Funny Because It’s True,” at 7 p.m. on May 5. Below, Kelley discusses the merits of dark comedy as an effective vehicle for facing what pains us the most.

What does dark comedy have in common with Buddhist philosophy?
Buddhism and dark comedy both seek to expose unsettling truths about the human condition, which we normally choose to deny—namely, old age, sickness, and death. In Buddhacarita (“Life of Buddha”), an epic poem written by the Indian monk Ashvaghosha in the 2nd-century CE, it is Prince Siddhartha’s encounters with old age, sickness, and death that lead him to seek out a solution to the problem of suffering. These encounters eventually transform him into an awakened Buddha. Like the Buddha, the comic can be a powerful medium for communicating the disquieting, shunned truths in life. In comedy—as any good comedian knows—making jokes about the human condition usually gets a big laugh. It’s funny because it’s true.

From day-to-day anxiety to existential dread, how can comic relief be an effective antidote for dealing with our messy afflictions?
The Buddha diagnosed the root cause of human suffering (dukkha) as our own compulsive tendency to cling to unreal ideas about ourselves and the world we inhabit. I think dark comedy offers a kind of disruptive therapy for our anxieties about life by using humor to reveal the profound incongruence between the way we think the world should be and the way the world actually is. A lot of research has been dedicated to understanding why we laugh. One such theory says that we laugh at incongruence itself. We find humor in these moments, be they as simple and absurd as a throng of clowns spilling out of a tiny car or, as I would argue, the disconnect between our idealizations and the way things really are.

Dark comics like Louis C. K. explore this juncture in their stand-up acts when they make jokes about the certainty of death. In a show he performed at the Beacon Theater in 2011, Louis told the audience that it was a statistical fact that one of them would most certainly die within the next year. Everyone laughed at his “joke” because nobody really believes that they’ll be the statistical fatality. We laugh at dark jokes because the reality of things doesn’t quite square with our own perceptions about ourselves and the world. Intellectually, I know that I’ll die some day, but I don’t really believe that I’ll be that statistic. Except I very well could be!

Who are some contemporary comedians we should look out for that “get” Buddhism best?
I’ve already mentioned Louis C.K., and would also add Tig Notaro and the late Andy Kaufman to the bill. Notaro, for example, made headlines in 2012 when she was diagnosed with breast cancer and used the comedy stage to process her own fears and anxieties. She certainly made an impression on Louis C. K., who was in the crowd one night, recalling later that “Tig took us to a scary place and made us laugh there. Not by distracting us from the terror but by looking right at it . . . She proved that everything is funny. And has to be. She could only do this by giving us her own death as an example.”

Though I don’t believe these comics are necessarily doing anything consciously “Buddhist,” what they do well is share a comedic style that finds humor in what we’d rather not confront, challenging our tendency to shy away from that which—as they say in show business—“kills.”

Learn more about Kelley’s May 5 talk here.

The post What Buddhism and Dark Comedy Have in Common appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Even though I have a nice house, a wonderful wife, several jobs, and a decent car, I’ve always felt like a homeless Buddhist.

I mean “homeless” in a metaphorical sense. It’s less about abandoning the world and more that I’ve never found my place in any of Buddhism’s mainstream approaches. I’ve tried numerous established groups and haven’t ever fit in.

I was with Shambhala for over five years, but that was more out of convenience than comfort. It had far too many multi-colored deities having vigorous sex and waving weapons around while on fire. I’m also a long-time lurker on the fringes of a local Zen group. They’re lovely people, and I like Zen, but I can’t fully get into its groove. It can feel too cold and austere.

But when I discovered Noah Levine’s book Dharma Punx shortly after it was published in 2003, it changed my outlook and practice forever. It was like a suitcase bomb dropped under my meditation cushion. Up to that point, almost every dharma teacher I’d come across was either a well-aged white guy or an Asian dude swathed in a fancy brocade bathrobe. Their messages were all unfailingly polite, earnest, and rank with the stink of bohemian peace and love.

Now here was this young guy Noah—with his shaved head and extensive tattooing—who looked like me. He loved the same aggressive music I did, and played it in his car at an unreasonable and possibly illicit volume. His book detailed how he rejected the cloying hippie approach that has shaped American Buddhism since it was imported here. And yet, he was a Buddhist teacher himself, authorized through a deeply respected and traditional Asian lineage. He cursed in his dharma talks, ignored chanting and goofy outfits, and spoke directly to my twisted little rebel’s heart.

Noah was hardcore, yet he was obviously soft, too. He believed metta [lovingkindness] meditation and compassion were integral to the path. His book taught me that I didn’t have lose my edge and become a vacant-eyed flower child to be calm, happy, and kind.

There was only one problem: I was still a reluctant Shambhala member, and Noah practiced in the Theravada tradition. It was like he was a Shark and I was a Jet. I eventually snuck out of Shambhala like a drifter leaving a small town in the middle of the night. I didn’t announce that I was done; I didn’t send out any “It’s not you, it’s me” notes. I went to the center less and less until I just faded away.

Then, I was on my own. Single and ready to mingle. Trouble was, Noah lived and taught in Los Angeles and I was in Kentucky. I couldn’t afford to travel to California once a year to study with my spiritual hero. Between plane tickets, accommodations, and taking time off work, it was impossible. I emailed Noah several times about it, and he suggested I quit whining and get to it on my own.

I found basic samatha/vipassana [concentration/Insight meditation] instructions online and read a variety of books on Theravada Buddhism. Despite being a shitty group member, I still sort of wanted some other people around to be Buddhist with. Was I doing this right? Was I even on the right track? How long till I could read minds?

When I found meditation instructor Shinzen Young’s teachings, they seemed right on. His methods encompassed Vipassana, Zen, and Vajrayana but were streamlined and maxed out for efficiency. Young was almost as well-versed in science as he was meditation, and was committed to joining the two into a modern secular super system of awakening. I loved it. Plus, students could work with teachers over Skype, which was handy given my geographical location.

I’d been doing just that for about six weeks when I learned Noah was coming to Against the Stream in Nashville to lead a half-day retreat. Against the Stream is the Buddhist meditation society that Noah founded in L.A., which now had several other branches. Nashville was the only one anywhere near me, about a four-hour drive away.

I instantly decided I had to go. I considered Noah to be my main teacher, and after years of email contact I would finally have my chance to meet him face-to-face.

After paying the modest retreat fee online, I was immediately flooded with buyer’s remorse. I’d admired Noah for years. What if he was a huge disappointment? I didn’t have any warped or unrealistic expectations about his heavenly perfection, but what if, as a human being, he was just a piece of shit? Millions of people have been crushed after meeting their idols and realizing that they’re reprehensible scumbags.

I started worrying that Noah’s whole punk attitude and appearance might be contrived. He seemed to put a lot of effort into looking a certain way and being definitely this and not that. What if it was all an act? Worse, what if he just wasn’t genuine? Plenty of dissembling gurus don’t live in accordance with their own teachings. They abuse their students, steal their cash, act like entitled pigs, and live like pimped-out spiritual royalty.

“Dear little baby Buddha,” I thought, “please don’t let him be like that.”

But pulling into ATS on the morning of the retreat, I was way more excited than worried. My concerns were dwarfed by the sudden enthusiasm that came from knowing Noah was right there in the building. I tried to play it cool for the friend who’d come with me but she wasn’t buying it. I was clawing at the door handle before the car had stopped.

I managed to walk up to the door like an adult instead of a toddler rushing to meet Santa Claus. Stepping into ATS Nashville was unlike any other experience I’ve ever had at a dharma group. Usually I’m greeted with a fairly quiet space filled with fairly quiet people in a fairly specific age bracket. If they’re milling around pre-meditation, they’re doing it politely, conversing softly and arranging their designer shawls.

ATS was jammed with people of all ages talking loudly, laughing, and jostling around like they were at a concert. About half the crowd was tattooed, and not just the young rabble-rousers, either. The ink was spread out evenly from the 20-somethings all the way up to the 70-somethings. Practitioners wore flannel, football jerseys, band T-shirts, and Dharma Punx hoodies. Some people were barefoot in the shrine room, while others wore their shoes. I was told to do whatever I pleased in that regard. It felt like that was probably the motto for just about everything there.

I was greeted by a lot of friendly folks. It was obvious this was a pretty tight-knit community; we stood out as newcomers but were cheerfully welcomed. I met Andrew, the ATS facilitator, who showed us around, helped us find seats, and generally made us feel all warm and snuggly.

In 10 minutes, I felt more comfortable there than any other place I’d been to meditate. The place was rough around the edges and filled with a weird assortment of meditation cushions, folding chairs, and couches that may have been stolen from a crack house. The crowd was deeply diverse, obviously freaky, and didn’t come across so much “spiritual” as just plain real. I loved it. I knew I’d found my home.

Noah was chatting with some people a couple rows in front of us. I watched him like a stalker, waiting for my moment. He moved around the room, saying hello and hanging out. Finally, he ended up in front of me.

“Hi, I’m Noah.”

I stood up and introduced myself like a regular person and not a lunatic. He squinted, thinking for a moment.

“Have we met?” he asked.

My stomach quivered a little. “We’ve emailed.”

He smiled. “Oh, yeah. I remember now.”

My stomach did a somersault. He remembered me.

What’s more, he remembered exactly what we’d last talked about. “Did you ever start a meditation group?”

“I did. We’ve been meeting for several months now.”

And so on. You know how conversations work. What was different about this conversation was that I could tell immediately that Noah Levine was the real deal. He was bona fide turned up to 11. There was an undeniable peace and saccharine-free kindness humming around him. He was calmly focused and present; he was fully there. I understood in a visceral, nonintellectual way that he represented exactly what he taught.

I’d read about students meeting their teacher for the first time and feeling an instantaneous connection, the inexplicable but overwhelming certainty that “this is the one.” Those stories always seemed suspicious to me, like the expectation of mystical communion forced a confirmation bias. Now, somewhat abashedly, I had to concede those dubious stories may be true, because it had just happened to me. I fucking knew.

After leaving me thunderstruck with hackneyed guru devotion, Noah settled onto a cushion at the front of the room to teach. He did it the same way he’d spoken to people individually: casually, affectionately, wisely, with plenty of humor and no affectation. After he talked for a bit, we all meditated for 30 minutes. Noah talked a little more, answered some questions, and we sat again. The atmosphere remained relaxed and spontaneous, without any stiff-necked formalities.

Eventually, we were turned loose outside for walking meditation. ATS is right next to a major road in Nashville, and I’m sure the Southerners driving by enjoyed seeing us damn Buddhist weirdos moseying around the parking lot.

I snuck back inside early to use the restroom. I passed Noah on the way, and he caught my eye and smiled. It was a sweet and serene little reminder that I was exactly where I needed to be.

As I was washing my hands, a woman came in. She politely waited until I walked out before going into the stall. That’s cool, I thought. A unisex bathroom. As I walked away I saw another bathroom 10 feet away labeled “Men.” When I turned around, the one I’d just left was clearly marked “Women.” Oh. This mindfulness shit was really paying off.

In the afternoon, I sank into my familiar post-lunch retreat fog. It was brutal trying to stay awake during the meditations. When the Q&A came around again, I raised my hand. Noah called on me by my name, which sent my inner spiritual fanboy into a giddy squealing fit.

“What are some techniques for staying awake and alert during meditation? Asking for a friend.” The room tittered, which reinforced the notion that I was with my people. Noah laughed, too, and then doled out some methods to combat my aggressive somnolence.

The retreat was over way too early, and it was time for us to drive back to Lexington. I couldn’t believe it. I’d finally found a place that felt exactly like home, and I had to leave just hours after discovering it.

A few people lined up to thank Noah and say goodbye. He talked to them each for a few minutes and hugged every one of them. They guy ahead of me gave his cell phone to a pal and got a picture with Noah.

That’s an option? Fuuuuuuuck, yes. I fumbled my cell phone out and looked for a partner. My friend was out of reach, so I grabbed a random guy. “Hey, man. Do you mind taking a picture of me and Noah in a second?” Even though I sounded like a little boy meeting his favorite wrestler, that guy didn’t bat an eye.

Noah and I had a wonderful conversation. His presence washed over me and made me feel like I was the only other person in the room. It filled me with a new dedication to wake up and serve others. In that moment, I’d lost most of the sneering cynicism that usually dominates me. I felt peacefully authentic, like a more genuine me was tentatively emerging.

When Noah and I hugged, it was like I was saying goodbye to a best friend I’d just met. That’s how he makes you feel: up close and very personal. It wasn’t sad, though. Whatever bizarre thing he’d done to me that jarred loose my protective bitterness had replaced it with raw vulnerability and a strange new strength. Temporarily, at least.

In one half-day retreat, capped off by a big, manly, massively tattooed embrace, Noah wiped away more of my calcified self-defenses and sarcastic weaponry than I had accomplished in two years of serious Vipassana practice. My breathing was easier. My head was lighter. My path was clearer.

My friend and I got in the car and drove away from the first Buddhist home I’ve ever had. I was fine. Just knowing it existed was enough. And I would be back.

“I was talking to one of the chicks there before we left,” my friend said. “When you were busy swooning in Noah’s arms.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. She said she walked into the women’s restroom just before lunch and there was a guy in there.”

“What’d he look like?”

“Shaved head. Earrings. Lots of tattoos.”

“Man, that could’ve been anyone.”

Read more from Brent R. Oliver

The post Learning to Soften with a “Hardcore” Buddhist Teacher appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Many people in the West seem to believe that practicing Buddhism simply makes one “nice” with a side of serenity. We’re usually seen as the syrupy sweet, semi-stoned sounding motherfuckers unaffected by the negative emotions that so trouble the benighted masses. We experience no feelings but kitteny-soft ones and exude a constant vanilla-scented air of peace and bliss. Anything else just ain’t Buddhism.

But I’m a Buddhist, and I’m often accused of being a loud-mouthed asshole . . . mostly because I am.

I wasn’t always like this. I was actually a bashful little kid, the sort who would walk nervously up to a new person and say “Hi, I’m Brent, do you want to be friends?” That’s about as smooth as approaching a girl at a bar and shouting: “Hey, I have a penis! Do you have somewhere I can keep it?”

When I was about 13, I decided I was done being myself—wretchedly shy, awkward, and withdrawn. I was done suffering the taunts and shoves of my more aggressive and confident classmates, scuttling around the school with my eyes down hoping not to be noticed.

To that end, I became funny in public. I’d actually always been pretty funny, but only with my similarly maladroit friends. It was hard at first, but I rapidly gained confidence when I realized I was quicker with my wit than most folks. I became a class clown; I was always ready with an inappropriate comment during a lecture or film. When people made fun of me, I made fun of them back, and I was better at it. And I soon understood that I didn’t have to wait for someone to attack me—if I attacked first, they’d go on the defensive, and I could keep them there. In an effort to protect myself, I went from class clown to class prick.

This has caused a few problems in my life generally—and my practice specifically. Although Buddhism has chilled me out and toned down some of my more prickish tendencies, I still find that I take refuge more often in humor than in the Three Jewels of the Buddha, dharma, and sangha. I’ve been using levity to hide my insecurities and weaknesses for so long that I’m finding it hard to stop. Comedy has been my impenetrable exoskeleton for almost 30 years. But now it’s a marrow-deep habit, and I’m starting to think I may need an extraction to get it out. Something more than just a shot, anyway. This isn’t as simple as getting rid of the clap.

My irony and nihilistic snark undermine most of my honest reactions before they can even fully form. My authenticity gets twisted because my inveterate, bone-breaking sarcasm always shoves its way to the forefront. Over my many years of haphazard practice, I’ve had some breakthrough insights, and I’ve acquired a few scattered pieces of wisdom. And yet I constantly find myself being disingenuous with other people out of knee-jerk, smart-ass self-defense. Even as my practice tries to open me up, I’m still shielding myself against the chances of being exposed as that scared little boy. There’s not really much of that kid still in me besides some general anxiety and twitchiness. But by cutting down on myself and others I can pretty much guarantee that no one will get to the bottom of me, least of all me.

With my nearest and dearest, I’m pretty open and honest. But there are still nervous tics. I’ll occasionally be glib when I should be attentive, or vulgar when I should be considerate. It’s crushing when someone close to me walks away uncomfortably puzzled by our conversation knowing that I could (and should) have prevented it. But instead, I had done the usual: lapsed back into self-serving sarcasm while part of my consciousness just sat there, mouth open, watching it happen against its will.

One of the finest results of meditation is the increased gap between stimulus and response. That gap before I react gives me time to notice my habitual patterns and sometimes even decide whether to stay a slave to them or break loose (when this happens, the feeling is liberating—like getting naked in public).

But this humor thing, it’s sunk deep in me, and it’s barbed. It’s taken years of practice simply to notice that it’s entwined with my rage and my fear. I’ve been host to this nasty, deceitful, internal threesome for almost three decades, and I’m only now poking my head into that fetid room and trying to pry the tangle of sweaty limbs apart.

For me, Buddhism is all about authenticity and unity. The wisdom and insight cultivated from meditation allow us to see things as they are and act in the most skillful way. All situations, no matter how similar, are fluid and require their own genuine responses. It’s not always wrong to kill. It’s not always right to be honest. There is no concrete morality or script that we must rigidly adhere to no matter what—this destroys authenticity.

As for unity, I don’t mean it in the way pie-eyed hippies do. I’m not talking about some shirtless drum-circler muttering, We’re all one, man, while he’s waiting for the mushrooms to kick in. I’m referring to the illusion of subject and object, the false dichotomy of “me” and “other” that forces isolation into our lives and assassinates our compassion and empathy. Unity brings us all together because there isn’t actually anything separating us in the first place.

My attack-dog humor is absolutely crippling to both authenticity and unity. I’ve got it on a shorter leash than ever before, but it’s still a vicious beast fiercely protecting its yard. And it may be rabid.

It’s terrifying to imagine letting go of my cynical and aggressive comedy and presenting myself totally exposed to this cruel, frightening world. But until I do that, I won’t ever learn what it means to be authentic, and I’ll certainly never be liberated. I’ll just keep grinding along, madly clutching my security blankets, and insisting that I’m keeping it real by using comedy to point out the unseen and jar the status quo.

And I do use it for those things. But because I’m gripping it so tightly, I’ve lost the ability to put it down when it’s not helpful. I’ve just contrived another way around actual reality.

What’s the point of Buddhist practice if my own actions continue to obscure what’s in front of me? Why spend all these hours meditating and trying to cultivate kindness and compassion if I’m going to allow this rusty armor to immobilize me? I certainly don’t like confronting the painful and toxic parts of myself but that’s the whole goddamn reason I do this. I started meditating in order to understand and curtail my own suffering. If I stop at understanding and do nothing to curtail, I may as well quit.

Buddhism has given me all the tools necessary for transformation, and the one I need right now is not a pair of tweezers but a giant fucking chainsaw. I’ve been too scared to pick it up because I’ve never used something so big and powerful. But now it’s time to shred, to sever, to split and cleave and sunder. It’s time to fill that big bastard with gas, run it hot, and press it to the ossified plates and scales that are paralyzing my progress. The armor has to go, and hopefully it’s not going to take some skin with it.

I don’t believe in rebirth in the traditional sense where consciousness or karma or whatever is transferred to a new life. But moment-to-moment rebirth is not only possible, it’s inevitable. I have to stop resisting and evolve toward awakening, even—especially—if that means chewing through my cherished protection. Put your foot on this thing while I yank the cord and fire it up. Then stand back. It’s gonna be a mess.

The post I Take Refuge in the Humor appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.