Maybe this topic has been discussed, debated, and deconstructed more than any other in Buddhism – who knows? But I feel compelled to add my own thoughts.

The Hindu idea of reincarnation and the Buddhist idea of rebirth are different. What’s more, the various Buddhist schools seem to disagree on what it’s all about, which adds to the confusion.

Reincarnation, as I understand it, is the transmigration of a soul (Sanskrit: atman) from one lifetime to another as it inhabits a different body each time. Over and over and over – the same “person” ends up in a different body and life circumstance according to deeds performed in the prior lifetime. An analogy is where a person passes through an infinitely long series of dressing rooms, changing from one costume to another. Same person, different costume.

Rebirth, as I understand it (from the Theravada position, anyway), is that at the moment of death one’s actions (i.e., thoughts) propel a particular kind of consciousness forward in a continuum of cause and effect called samsara, and a new being comes into existence. This consciousness is not one’s soul – there is none, according to the doctrine of anatta (Sanskrit: anatman): no-self, not-self, no-soul. So there is this perennial question: If there is no soul, then what goes from one life to the next?

This is a good point to suggest a mind-game. I present here a scenario, but only to stimulate your own imagination. As you may see, the possibilities are endless.

You are in a hospital room. You’ve had surgery to correct a progressive illness. But something went wrong, and you and your family have been informed you have only a day or two to live. Your family has gathered around – spouse, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. Your mind is flooded with thoughts and conflicted emotions. One of your older grandchildren comes to the bedside with a fat photo album. And there is your life before you. The birthdays, graduations, weddings, and dozens of other joyful events.

There is the picture of your first child at age three, playing in the backyard with the puppy. And your heart breaks again as you remember the day a year later when the dog returned but the child did not. The grief, the sorrow, the blame and self-recrimination, and arguments about who left the gate open.

Your wedding pictures show the two of you so obviously happy and in love, and now you can feel in your brittle bones that longing, that craving you had for one another. Especially the craving that seemed you couldn’t satisfy. Farther and farther back you turn the pages, viewing scenes from your own childhood. Your parents’ wedding picture. Isn’t it striking how much you look like them? You wonder about your father and why he left when you were seven. You wonder how your life would be different had he not slammed out of the house that night, leaving your mother crying in despair on the kitchen floor.

Your grandparents, too, are pictured in the album. You don’t remember much about them, but you know their lives were difficult. Again you are struck by how much you resemble them. And, as you look around the room, you see how much your children and grandchildren resemble them too.

It feels as though you can run your fingers over that coiled thread of DNA that links them with you and with your parents and grandparents and great grandparents – back and back. You see how that thread will go on and on into the future – without you. You understand how the specific actions of your forebears helped bring you to this very place. And you understand with frightening clarity how your own actions contributed to the lives of these people you love.

As you scan the faces around you can feel the quiet suffering. You know the lives of  your children are marked by one trial or another – divorce, debt, illness, trouble with the law, and of course your own imminent death. You wish there is something you can do to ease their pain. But you feel helpless.

And now something comes to mind and you realize you are not helpless. There is much you can do and there is plenty of time to do it. You open your heart to everyone gathered around you and tell them through quiet example that the secret to living well is knowing how to die well, without clinging, without remorse. And that’s just what you do.

Do I believe in rebirth? Do I believe in an afterlife? Does it matter? Try this statement on for size and see how it feels: “I don’t believe in DNA.” Of course you don’t have to believe in DNA for an aspect of your life to go on and on with infinite moments of joy and suffering. Belief in rebirth is not required either. That’s one of the interesting things about Buddhism. You don’t have to believe anything. There is no Creed and no judge to condemn you for not believing.

But there is the law of cause and effect, the law of kamma. Good actions bring good results, bad actions bring bad results. It’s inescapable. With a true understanding of the law of kamma and skillful action you can have a positive effect on the future – even if your not around to see it.

But “there” is a bit misleading. Nibbana is not a place nor is it a thing to be acquired. The Buddha himself describes it this way:

There is an island, an island which you cannot go beyond. It is a place of nothingness, a place of non-possession and of non-attachment. It is the total end of death and decay, and this is why I call it Nibbana.

The Buddha lived and died in India during a specific time of history. India is more than a physical location, though. It is a culture as well that incorporates thousands of years of Hindu mythology and cosmology that influenced how the people of the day viewed their physical and spiritual worlds.

Nibbana, during the time of the Buddha, was a term that had less to do with a spiritual goal than to explain a common occurrence. It was a matter of fact in those days that fire was bound to its fuel. One of the constituents of wood, for example, was heat. As a piece of wood burned, the two – fire and fuel – were bound together in an agitated state. When the fire went out, both were liberated from the struggle. The extinguishing of fire, which allowed for cooling, was nibbana.

Relative to Buddhism, the fuel that is in a constant state of burning agitation are the five aggregates that make up a human being: the body, feelings, perception, mental formations, and consciousness. The intention of Buddhist practice is to extinguish the bonfire of the aggregates, thus liberating the individual from all the interent pain and suffering.

Another example of the Buddha’s use of analogy regards his teachings on Three Fires. The causes of all suffering are fires of greed, hatred, and delusion (clinging, aversion, and ignorance, or a number of other synonyms). Suffering is ended and liberation realized when the Three Fires are extinguished through the practice and perfection of generosity, kindness, and wisdom.

One of the Ten Fetters that binds a person to samsara – the ongoing cycle suffering – is adherence to rites and rituals as a means to spiritual achievement. As explained in The Island, the ancient Vedic texts dictated that the brahmin householder keep three ritualistic fires burning day and night. The brahmin’s maintenance of the three fires was one of those rites and rituals that prevented spiritual growth. “Put out the the three fires,” the iconoclastic Buddha said. “By keeping them burning, you bind yourselves to infinite lifetimes of suffering.”

To the modern, liberal-minded person the imperative to keep three fires burning to ensure salvation may seem quaint and easily put aside. But the ever-present suffering of life is not so easily dismissed. Snuffing the fires of greed, hatred, and delusion is no easy task.

Next week Ajahn Thanissaro, abbot of Metta Forest Monastery in Southern California, will be teaching at Friends of the Dhamma. His topic will be on the importance of developing a strong practice in concentration. Ajahn will base his discussion on parts of the Pali Canon which he has compiled in his book, A Meditator’s Tools: A Study Guide on the Ten Recollections.

In preparation, Sakula, PFOD’s spiritual director, read some passages from Ajahn Thanissaro’s book. She then gathered all five available copies and said to the 20 or so people in the room, “Who would like one?”

My mental response to the question went something like this: I want the book. I know I have the PDF on my computer, but I’d rather read it in book form. I want the book, but there are only five copies, and someone else is certainly more deserving than me. I want the book, but I don’t need it. Let it go. I let it go.

Meanwhile, Sakula was busy passing books around to those with a hand up. Apparently, there were several others who must have had similar thoughts to mine because only four people raised a hand.

“One left,” Sakula said. “Who wants it?”

After what seemed a very long time, I realized it was my duty (okay, I want the book) to take it. She slid it across the carpet in my direction.

“Now,” she said. “Just sit back and close your eyes. “Those of you with the book, how does it feel? Those of you without a book, how does it feel? If you have a book, can you just be happy with that without feeling that you got something that someone else didn’t? If you don’t have one, can you be happy that someone else got a copy without having any feelings of resentment or loss?”

Of course we’re all sitting in a room filled with people of goodwill. And, this is obviously an experiment. Don’t we all want to feel good about our participation, regardless of our response? Under such conditions, it’s difficult to harbor any feelings of resentment on the one hand or guilt on the other.

But Sakula wasn’t finished. “Those of you who didn’t get a book, raise your hand if you really wanted one. Those of you with a book, find someone to give it to.”

Meg, to my left, raised her hand. Without hesitating I passed my copy to her. Easy come, easy go.

Isn’t this the way life is all the time? Sometimes you get things, sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Sometimes someone else gets what you want. And sometimes you get what someone else wants. Regardless of the situation, we’re conditioned to have the same subjective responses: I feel great when I gain something, bad when I lose something. If I get something you want (and I know you and like you) I may feel a bit guilty (but, hey, that’s life). If you get something I want, I’m bound to have feelings of resentment or envy.

This exercise clearly demonstrated to me that the conditioned responses are not the only ones available. I can find contentment and even happiness in the acts of giving, receiving, and letting go. As easy as it sounds, it’s not always that easy. The conditioned responses are deep indeed.

But, as one of our group so aptly put it last night, not objecting to the way things are is the basis of equanimity. With equanimity, conditioned responses don’t have a chance.

Incidentally, there is one more episode in the story of gained and lost book. Meg was the happy recipient of two books, one of which she passed back to me.

At my son’s wedding last week, which I wrote about in my previous post, I experienced a degree of restlessness and remorse. Patrick’s mother was there along with her parents and husband. Also there was my second wife, Patrick’s first step-mother.

Maybe you don’t believe in rebirth, but I am in my fourth lifetime – all within the same span of my 58 years. My first life included my childhood and everything through the end of my 21st year. Marriage propelled me into second lifetime. I expected it to last forever. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, right? Through good times and bad, sickness and health, richer or poorer (emphasis on poorer). Well, among other things, I suffered the disillusionment of happily-ever-after. That marriage’s ending was like a long, slow terminal illness with lots of pain and suffering for everyone involved – including our four boys.

Soon, I was reborn into another realm and another marriage. Through the lens of the Buddha’s teachings I can reflect on the origins of suffering and how the three fires of greed, hatred, and delusion slowly burn in the background of what appears on the surface to be a “good thing.” Once again a good thing ended very badly. The end of this life was different from that of the previous one, though. When the time came, I was prepared and eager to depart that world. I leaped into my fourth lifetime – which now begins its seventh year.

Although the details of my past lives have gone without description, I will say that the results of my bad karma are inescapable. It’s difficult to be in the same room with people I’ve caused so much harm to. At the wedding I was in my own territory, so to speak, but just the same there were moments of restlessness (get me outa here!) and subtle but genuine feelings of remorse for my actions.

The actions of my past are mine to keep – they are the only things I really own. The results are mine to bear as well. My intention in this lifetime – with full awareness of its impermanence – is to make good use of what I’ve learned and develop the skills to extinguish the three fires. I am certain my future rests in my actions now. I have a fairly good idea of what to do. And what not to do.

In a comment to my previous post, my friend James embedded a link to this Newsweek article about the so-called health care debate. Author Sharon Begley states:

As politicians and strategists (at least the successful ones) have finally learned, appeals to emotion leave appeals to logic in the dust. And no emotion moves people more powerfully than fear.

The body of the article lays out how the general and field officers of the opposition to President Obama’s health care reform are using psychological weapons to fan the flames of what the Buddha referred to as the three fires of greed, hatred, and delusion. The article gives several examples of what many of us already know: There is a lot of dirty fighting in this ideological battle, and it is very one-sided.

The politicians and strategists in question, of course, are equally deluded as they are equally filled with greed and hatred – just as all of us are to one degree or another. But there is something fundamentally wrong with a system where people in leadership roles in the United States can intentionally mislead people down a path to deeper delusion, increasing greed, and deeper hatred.

Not very good leadership, if you ask me. Effective, maybe, but not good. But the purpose is winning. And, for some, the only way to win is to fight dirty. History is filled with examples of dirty-fighting leaders. But mangling history – for example, equating Obama with Hitler – is just another weapon handed to the deluded protester just as rifle is handed to the hapless infantryman. Both go off to the front lines to do the dirty work of the rich and powerful.

Ajahns Pasanno, Amaro and Jayasaro at Abhayagiri Monastery

My visit to Abhayagiri Monastery last week – and the 13-hour drive to and from – is in the past. So too is the feeling that overcame me shortly after arriving early Friday evening. The Buddha speaks of three kinds of feeling: pleasant, unpleasant and neither pleasant nor unpleasant. What I experienced during the initial hours of my stay was inwardly unpleasant.

I and my two traveling companions arrived a few minutes after 5:00. We briefly greeted several others from Portland already there, then pitched our tents in a field – the guest lodgings were full. Then we joined the monks in the shrine room for tea. That’s when the mental nagging began.

There are five hindrances to one’s practice: desire, ill will, restlessness and remorse, sloth and torpor, and doubt. Yes, that’s seven, but two of them are paired. No matter. The hindrance weighing on me was doubt.

Tea time at the monastery is an opportunity for open discussion with the monks. It’s a casual affair, but there are certain formalities that the serious practitioner will follow. I had a strong sense of uncertainty about what to do. But it was more than that. I didn’t trust that I could just be with what was happening without concern about what was to happen next or what I was supposed to do.

When interacting with monastics, reverence and respect are the most important qualities to cultivate. Protocols – which can be learned over time through instruction and careful observation – are of less importance. But this mind of mine had begun to question everything about this visit. All the bowing and deference seemed so pointless. Why was I here? Why are these monks here? What do they get out of it? What’s the point of any of this? Later that night, exhausted after having been up since 3:15, I fell asleep with these questions going through my mind in the form of a doubtful mush.

The next morning I awoke at 6:00 – late by monastic standards. At 6:30 we were assigned light duties, followed by a breakfast of oatmeal at 7:00. Then we gathered in the shrine room where, after chanting and meditation, we were assigned various duties for the morning work session. Much of what needed to be done involved clearing brush and trail maintenance. I volunteered to mend some tools, something I’m suited to do. Besides, it kept me away from any exposure to the ubiquitous poison oak.

Before sending us off to work, Ajahn Pasanno advised us not to get caught up in our chores or in what others were doing. “Just watch your mind,” he said. This is standard Buddhist stuff, and I’ve heard it and done it for years. But this morning, at this very moment, it made more sense than ever before. Of course, this is why I was here. This is why the monks are here.

Monastic life is one of discipline. So too, is any spiritual life. But it’s not discipline for the sake of it. The discipline creates the conditions for training the mind. To train the mind is to watch it carefully and bring it back in before it romps away into the poison oak of ill will, desire, remorse, sluggishness and doubt. Only then can one cultivate the more wholesome qualities of kindness, joy, equanimity and tranquility.

That’s the point.

“You could go to Las Vegas!” When I made a face of displeasure, he said. “What, you don’t like Las Vegas? Why not?”

“It doesn’t interest me.”

“Why not?”

“It just doesn’t.”

“OK, Seaside, then.”

“That doesn’t interest me either.”

“Why not?”

“I’m content right where I am. I don’t need to go on vacation.” (Yes, I do like to get away now and then, but travel just for the sake of it doesn’t interest me. I’ve done a bit of it over the years. I’ve lived in a lot of places, seen a lot of things, and experienced several cultures other than my own. But I have absolutely no desire for sightseeing or gambling or living the high life. I’m satisfied with my life just as it is.)

A natural salesman, he tried to break down all my obstacles. “OK, so you’re content. What about your kids? You could send all your kids on a vacation. ‘Hey, kids. You’re going to Hawaii for a week!’”

I just shook my head.

He shook his head too, incredulous I could pass up such a great deal. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

As I watched them, knowing that one day they too may take full ordination, I knew also they would miss out on many, many, many of the of experiences we worldly people enjoy. They would not have wives. They would not have children or grandchildren or loving pets. They would not have fulfilling occupations, new cars, or well-appointed homes. They would not take delight in music, theater, or dance. In other words, they would have none of the things that bring happiness.

Lucky them.

From a Buddhist view, all those things mentioned above and more – the things that most people consider the sources of happiness – always lead to suffering. That’s because all these things come to an end. They wear out, get lost, die. And when these inevitable things happen, sadness and sorrow and many other afflictive emotions are the result.

On Saturday morning Robin discovered on her dog – a miniature Australian shepherd named Metta – a weeping mass on his shoulder. Most likely, we thought, it was an infection caused by a bee sting or bite from from our other dog, Mollie. The two of them play rough at times. Robin figured some antibiotics would take care of it. This being the Memorial Day holiday weekend, our regular veterinarian’s office was closed. So off they went to the animal hospital.

It’s not so simple as antibiotics. Whereas it could be a puncture wound, a scratch, or something so simple as a single grass seed that worked its way under the skin, the surgeon found abnormal tissue. We’ll have to wait and see. If the infection doesn’t heal on its own, we’ll have a biopsy done on the tissue sample the surgeon took while he was at it. All day Saturday the mood was somber here at home. Robin’s dog may have cancer. Already she’d spent nearly $1,000 of very scarce money. What next?

Seven years ago a furry puppy brought happiness to a family. But what is happiness? The Buddha teaches that happiness cannot be found in people, places, or things. It can be found only in the absence of anything and everything that brings suffering, regardless of form.

As a householder I have the inevitable and necessary attachments that go with the occupation. And I am happy in the conventional sense because I do have much to be grateful for. Yet I can see – so easily see – how a renunciant’s life is a happy one because of what one doesn’t have, not the other way around.

It all depends on your point of view.

Ajahn Geoff

These past few days Ajahn Geoff (Thanissaro Bhikkhu), Abbot of Metta Forest Monastery in Southern California, has been a guest of Portland Friends of the Dhamma. Ajahn offered several dharma talks and opportunities for meditation, some of which I was fortunate enough to attend.

On Friday evening he announced he would talk about investments. The uncharacteristic and unexpected topic certainly roused some laughter. But he didn’t talk about financial investments, which are subject to loss. Rather, he spoke of investing in the Seven Treasures, which can’t be stolen and will never depreciate in value.

The Seven Treasures are:

• Conviction
• Virtue
• A sense of shame (as to guard against ignoble actions)
• Compunction (concern about the harm potential actions would produce)
• Study of the Dhamma
• Generosity
• Discernment

On Saturday, a day-long retreat, Ajahn spoke on the Paradox of Becoming, the title of his recent book*. “Becoming” is an ongoing process which is influenced by desire.

In the book, he uses the scriptural metaphor of a field of seeds, where the field is the range of possibilities produced by one’s past and present kamma (karma), where consciousness is the seed, and where desire is the moisture that nourishes the seed.

As I understand it, we are driven by desire at every turn. Our desires are not just for material things but we have very strong desires to “become.” For example, wanting to become satisfied, happy, sad, irritated, depressed, angry, full, rested, needed, loved helpful, and so on (really, have you ever enjoyed being angry or depressed?).

With practice one can notice these desires as they arise. Understanding desire as the moisture to water the seed of consciousness in a field of possibilities, one can make a choice of which seeds to nourish and which to ignore. One can see the harm in nourishing anger (becoming an angry person) and the benefit in nourishing forgiveness (becoming a forgiving person), for example.

Desire shapes our actions, which shape what we become moment to moment. Our desires shape the world in which we live. We can change our world by changing our desires.

*For those of you unfamiliar with his work, Ajahn Geoff is a Buddhist scholar, prolific writer and one of the preeminent contemporary translators of the Pali Canon. Much of his writing can be found on Access to Insight.

When we think of greed it conjures images of taking more and more and more than our share (i.e., what we deserve). There is more to greed and greediness than scooping money into a pile and diving into it. According to the Buddha, any kind of wanting is considered as greed. There is no line of demarkation that identifies one level of wanting as okay and harmless and another level as greed and destructive. It’s all the same. Wanting is wanting. And wanting leads to dissatisfaction. Sometimes dissatisfaction leads to hatred and destruction.

We are supposed to want things, though. It’s considered abnormal to be contented with what we have and easily satisfied with what we are given. We are supposed to strive, to acquire, to succeed. We are supposed to fulfill our desires. Being good consumers (i.e., greedy) makes us good citizens because we contribute to flow of money. It keeps things humming. And when things are humming nicely we are happy. Sort of, for a while, in a deluded sort of way.

Not being ambitious also is considered abnormal. Ambition – wanting to be something – is a form of greed and a cause of suffering. In keeping up with the election (and observing my feelings about it) I’ve noticed just how much unhappiness surrounds the campaigns because of the ambitions of the candidates. Both candidates are driven to win. They are doing their best to conquer the other. Regardless of who wins, there will much anger and despair throughout the country because we are so much identified with our party and attached to winning. To be sure, some of us won’t get what we want. Although it may seem as though the suffering will be limited to the side that doesn’t win, it certainly will extend to both sides and touch every one of us.

The challenge is to recognize truth of suffering for what it is. If wanting and attachment are involved in any way, suffering will follow.

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