Creating wealth isn’t the point. It could be any kind of achievement, but here’s the point. Every morning Mr. Trump gets out of bed and does something. Everything he does begins with a thought but seemingly what he does ends up with more money in his bulging pockets. What does he think? What does he do? What does he say? To whom does he say it?

Now if I were a wealthy person like Donald Trump these questions would not be coming to mind now or ever. Rather, long ago certain thoughts would have arisen in my mind to say such-and-such to that person, make this phone call, go to this bank, and so on.

I’ve been told that the secret too success – one of them anyway – is to have a burning desire for what you want. Which brings me to another character who plays in my mind, one with infamous and ignoble history. Sirhan Sirhan is the assassin of Robert Kennedy. I think of him not because of what he did, but what he didn’t do. Many years ago, during his trial, I read or heard that as a child he had a dream of becoming a famous jockey – it was his burning desire. He didn’t become a famous jockey because he didn’t think the right thoughts, do the right things, speak to the right people who would have made that dream possible. His thoughts and actions took him in a much different direction, and the view from his window – if he has one at all – is  much different from that of Donald Trump.

Some people seemingly just know the right things to do to get what they want. Others haven’t the vaguest idea of what to do next. We see these people everywhere around us. Some are homeless. Some are our next door neighbors. They drive past us on the highway or maneuver their shopping carts around us in the grocery store.

The human mind, it seems, has infinite capabilities. And individual human mind, it seems, does not. Fortunately, I do not have a mind like Mr. Sirhan’s. I don’t have a mind like Mr. Trump’s, either. I’ll add a “fortunately” to that declaration too, but I can’t say exactly why. (I could come up with some Buddhist-y thing, but it would be saccharine at best.)

Over at thinkBuddha, Will has some interesting posts about free will from a philosophical point of view. He asks, “What if my actions arise not out of some kind of personal freedom, but merely out of various interacting conditions at play in the world as a whole?” It’s a good question.

Everything that arises, including thoughts, does so out of an infinitely regressive series of causes and conditions. How many of these causes and conditions do we have any real control over? Not many, but some. From a Buddhist point of view, the Trumps and Sirhans of the world are not much different from one another in that they are ordinary worldly beings swayed by the same winds of passion and aversion and delusion as the rest of us. In that sense, they share a common prison.

The eightfold path, as I see it, offers instruction on how to get control of an otherwise unwieldy mind to create the conditions to achieve not material wealth, but spiritual wealth. Daring to push the money metaphor further, spiritual wealth is the only currency that can buy true freedom and happiness. What to think? What to do?

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.

Understanding the law of cause and effect is central to – critical to – Buddhist practice. In the external world it’s easy to see how this may play out. If I smile at you when we meet, then I am much more likely to get a positive response from you than if I scowl. One could come up with thousands of examples. The point here is that I have a choice in my actions. That is, if I choose my actions wisely, I can influence what happens next. This is not speculation or something I take on faith. I have direct experience with this phenomenon in my own life. Therefore, I know it to be true.

Still, despite what I know to be true, I sometimes work myself into certain unwholesome mind states. Most often it’s because of something someone has said to me or something I have said to myself in the form of a thought. Either way, the result is a bad mood. Sometimes the mood builds gradually, other times it’s instant. Sometimes I can stop it before it gets too far. Other times the mental state gets to the point of no return as the negative, self-critical thoughts churn over and over, reinforcing themselves. Until the mood lifts I’m not very good company.

Through Ajahn Jayasaro’s words I got a clear understanding of the purpose behind practicing the Brahma Viharas – the four sublime mind states of loving kindness, compassion, appreciative joy, and equanimity. These create the mental conditions for spiritual transformation. All that is necessary is training the mind to overcome decades of unskillful practices. This takes place through the combined and ongoing practices of acting forthrightly in the external world of society and the inner world of the mind.

A platter of lamb kidneys, courtesy Wikicommons

My grandfather on my father’s side died not long before I was born. He had seven children – five sons and two daughters, not counting the baby who died. My grandfather died of kidney failure. He had a progressive and incurable genetic disorder called polycystic kidney disease. With this disease, the kidneys are slowly overtaken by fluid-filled cysts. The kidneys get larger and larger and less and less functional. Without at least one functional kidney – or an artificial means to perform the organs’ duties (dialysis) – the body cannot get rid of excess fluid and wastes. The body becomes more and more polluted, and, over time, it will die.

Genetics is a field of study I comprehend only slightly, certainly not enough to explain how this disease is transmitted from one generation to another. Yet I do know that if one parent has it there is a 50 percent chance that each offspring will have it, generation through generation.

Polycystic kidneys, courtesy Wikicommons

In this regard, I am a lucky man. My father did not inherit the gene for polycystic kidneys. One of my uncles and both of my aunts, however, did. And so did several of their children, my cousins. The uncle and aunts have had kidney transplants – but not after years of increasing suffering through various aspects of the disease. Several cousins also have had transplants. One of them had a kidney that had grown to the size of a newborn baby and weighed ten pounds.

Kidneys are paired organs, each about the size of a clenched fist. They are located in posterior portion of the abdominal cavity approximately in the area of and protected by the lower two ribs. The functional unit of the kidney is the nephron. Each kidney contains up to a million nephrons. Blood is filtered through the nephrons. Everything in the blood except the red and white blood cells is removed. Then – through the magic of chemistry, osmosis, and semi-permeable membranes – the nephron returns to the blood all the chemicals and water the body needs. What’s left behind is urine.

Not everyone is born with two kidneys. Sometimes, they are joined into what is called a horseshoe kidney. If one had a horseshoe kidney, one wouldn’t know it without some sort of definitive exam – ultrasound or MRI, for example. Or surgery.

One normal kidney is sufficient to do the job, which is good for those who are fortunate enough to find a donor for transplant.

For background on this series, please read the Introduction to the 32-Parts Project.

Tualatin River, September 22, 1999

On Friday I sold my canoe. The last time we had it in the water was the summer of, maybe, 2005. Since then it’s been in the backyard, covered with a decaying plastic tarp. It needed some minor repairs to make it usable and a lot of work to bring it back to its original luster.

Each spring I’d think, This year I’m going to fix it up and take it out on the water, but it never happened. I had neither the room nor the inclination. It was a beautiful boat, and I enjoyed the looks I’d get while driving down the road with it lashed to the top of my car. And I really enjoyed it when people would ask where I got it and I was able to say I built it myself.

It took me a year and a half to build (not straight through, there were weeks when I didn’t touch it). I finished it in the early fall of 1999. I took the picture on September 22, the first time it touched water. Up until that moment, I had my doubts it would float.

I built it for two reasons. I had another canoe, also one that I’d built, but it was much heavier. It took two people to get it on and off the car. A solitary person, I liked, at the time, going out alone. This was before I’d met Robin, whose company I’m glad to have anytime. During that lifetime, when I built my canoe, I often desired solitude.

My other reason for building it was much more complex. A couple of years prior, I found myself spiritually adrift. The faith I was raised with had slowly eroded until, finally, there was nothing of it left for me. I was desperate for spiritual direction. At about the same time, a 10-year stint as an author of how-to books had come to a close. I nurtured the idea of writing a book about some aspect of my spiritual dilemma, but I couldn’t figure out where to go with it.

Back then, I carried around the concept of “spiritual journey.” I was on a journey of discovery, finding myself and all that. It’s the journey that matters, not the destination was the mantra of the day. Looking back, it seems so, well, silly. It’s been years since I’ve considered the journey metaphor viable. The destination is important.

Back then, though, I had this idea that a canoe – not the boat itself, but the building of it – could be a vehicle for a book, a spiritual book of my journey.

It never happened. Perhaps it wasn’t the journey after all that mattered. But I do feel that having sold my boat, I have arrived at a new beginning. I didn’t realize it until yesterday, the day after I watched it leaving on the top of someone else’s car.

Olallie Lake, Summer 2002

Although I never wrote the book (read the essay), I did use it often in its early life. I took it out alone many times, usually to the many lakes on Sauvie Island. My daughter Kathryn and I would take it on our once-annual camping trips together. It was she who took the picture of my boat and me on the shore of Olallie Lake. And Robin and I had some very pleasant paddles together.

Not all canoes are alike. Some are made for whitewater, others for flat water (small lakes and slow-moving streams). Mine was a flat-water canoe. Whitewater canoeing is exhilarating, sure, but I prefer the placid nature of still water. Besides, I’m not much of a risk taker – at least with my physical being.

Except for the arrangements of the two seats, my canoe was the same end to end. If there were two people in the boat, we’d paddle it one direction. When by myself, I’d paddle it in the other direction (placing my weight closer to the center). Either end could be the front, depending on the circumstances. I loved the symmetry of it all.

And this is why I had no trouble letting the boat go. Not only had it had served it’s purpose (solitude when I needed it), I had reached the end of one journey to find myself at the beginning of another.

In Buddhism there is the metaphor of the raft. The Buddha compares his teachings, the Dhamma, to a raft used to take one to the far shore (of liberation). Once there, he says, one doesn’t carry the raft on one’s back. Rather, one leaves it behind as it is of no more use.

On Friday, I am traveling with several others to Abhayagiri Monastery for the annual Upasika Renewal weekend. An upasika/upasaka (feminine/masculine versions) is a Buddhist lay person who joins with monastics in Dhamma practice. This will be my first visit to Abhyagiri as an upasaka or otherwise. I’ve been practicing Buddhism for more than a dozen years, but now it seems I’m bringing it to another level.

It’s fitting to have put aside the canoe – once a symbol of my spirituality – at this time in my life. It’s not that it went without a sense of loss. Robin and Kathryn both have pleasant memories of paddling with me (and I with them, to be sure). Today, as I was writing this, Kathryn burst into my room. “You sold the canoe!?” She had been away for the past couple of days and, because I hadn’t told her of my plans, it came as a surprise. She sniffed and took her complaint to Robin, who agreed that it was a bit of a shock. “I didn’t even get to say good-bye,” Robin had said when she came home Friday after the fact.

I regret having caused them to suffer the loss, but it was time for me to put it down. I have no regrets about that.

Ajahn Amaro

The Buddha, I’m told, gave some 84,000 talks during his 45 years of teaching. Also, I’m told, he had an uncanny ability to tailor his words to fit the minds and experiences of his listeners. One of the Buddha’s disciples, Ajahn Amaro, the co-abbot of Abhayagiri Buddhist Monastery, also seems to have this ability. This was true at least for me, who heard him speak this weekend at the meditation center Robin and I frequent.

In my previous post, I asked the question: What is Happiness? I described the sadness in our household that surrounded the discovery of a large abscess on the shoulder of Robin’s dog, Metta. Although he is healing, post surgery, we still don’t know whether or not he has cancer. Getting an answer to that question, which at this moment isn’t necessary, will require an outlay of an additional $150.

The question of happiness in the preceding post centers around our attachment to the people and things we love – in this case, a pet. Bluntly, without having the pets that bring so much happiness, one would not suffer the unhappiness of losing a pet. The temporary happiness we may perceive is not real happiness, but the beginnings of suffering. True happiness comes only when we’ve abandoned all that brings unhappiness.

On Friday, Ajahn Amaro looked around the crowded and sweltering room and said he would set the theme for the evening on the Piyajatika Sutta. The English title is “Born from Those Who Are Dear.”

In the story, a householder’s son has died. The man goes to the the Buddha. The story does not say why the man seeks out the Buddha, but the Enlightened One notices right away that the man is one “not in control of his own mind. Your faculties are deranged.”

The householder tells the Buddha, “How could my faculties not be deranged? Since he has died I have no more desire to work or to eat. I keep going to the charnel ground and crying: ‘My only son, where are you? My only son, where are you?’”

The Buddha responds heartily: “So it is, householder, so it is! Sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief and despair are born from those who are dear, arise from those who are dear.”

The man is irritated. “Venerable sir, who would ever think that sorrow, lamentation pain, grief and despair are born from those who are dear, arise from those who are dear? Venerable sir,” he argues, “happiness and joy are born from those who are dear, arise from those who are dear.” Displeased, he left the Buddha to find others who would agree with him that happiness – not suffering – comes from those who are dear.

The king and queen, having heard of the the man’s encounter with the Buddha, also are drawn into the story. The king agrees with the householder, the queen with her teacher, the Buddha. To make sure she understands the Buddha’s words correctly, she sends a brahmin to the Buddha to confirm that – indeed – pain, grief, lamentation, and despair are born from those who are dear to us.

To the brahmin the Buddha lays out many examples of how this is so. When the information is relayed to the queen, she convinces the king, who has to agree that if any of his own loved ones would die, he would suffer in many ways.

On Saturday afternoon, Robin told Ajahn about her dog, the prospect he may have cancer, and the decision she will have to make were that the case. “What can you say about this?” she asked.

Ajahn’s answer was not what one may expect. He made no judgments. He offered no guidance about what is “right” or what is “wrong.” He offered no advice on what course of action we could or should take. Instead, he said to be attuned to what is happening within each moment. Leave spaciousness for the answers to come, without interjecting concepts of “I, me, or mine.” See what happens then reassess. He explained that so often people hope that some authority will solve our problems by telling us what to do. Not so, he said. He pointed to his heart, saying, “The real authority is here.”

His answer, much longer than I’ve related here, was reassuring to me. Reassuring because of the affirmation that I can trust my own judgment about what is right and what is wrong. Of course, I knew that already.

Maybe.

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.

Meditation, introspection, meditative absorption, and concentration are activities central to Buddhist practice. They have everything to do with developing a tranquil mind and gaining insight into reality. The reality the Buddha speaks of is the impermanence of everything that comes into existence, the unsatisfactoriness of anything impermanent, and that no “self” can be found in anything at all.

Navels gazing inward

Meditation involves fixing one’s attention on an object such as the breath, an image, or even the navel. It can also involve maintaining awareness of the arising and passing away of sounds or sensations felt throughout the body. This is easier said than done, because the mind is such an unruly thing as it bounces from one thought to the next. Always in search of anything but the here and now, the mind serves up a constant stream of distractions. One of those distractions is a preoccupation with the body – either one’s own, or another’s. Being self-absorbed with one’s own body certainly fits with navel-gazing. Being absorbed in thoughts of another’s body is just plain lust. As pleasurable these thoughts may be, they definitely are a hindrance to insight and tranquility.

Controlling the flow of thoughts that hinder meditation is part of the meditative process. One of the methods the Buddha offers to help control lust and other body-oriented distractions is called Contemplation of the 32 Parts of the Body. When the body is seen as a composite of not-so-pretty parts it becomes easier to relax the grip of delusion and return to the task at hand: maintaining a stable and focused mind where tranquility and insight can be nurtured. The meditator brings attention to each one of the 32 parts so as to notice its inherent repulsiveness as it stands alone and out of context. The bouncy red hair of a woman isn’t so attractive when a strand or two are found in a casserole or on a pillow where it ought not be. When seen this way, the body – any body – becomes less desirable and less of a distraction.

The 32 parts of the body*

1. Hair of the head
2. Hair of the body
3. Nails
4. Teeth
5. Skin
6. Flesh (muscles)
7. Sinews (tendons)
8. Bones
9. Bone marrow
10. Kidneys
11. Heart
12. Liver
13. Membranes (e.g. pleura, diaphragm)
14. Spleen
15. Lungs
16. Large intestine
17. Small intestine
18. Gorge (contents of the stomach)
19. Dung
20. Bile
21. Phlegm
22. Pus (lymph)
23. Blood
24. Sweat
25. Fat
26. Tears
27. Skin-oil
28. Spittle
29. Mucous (snot)
30. Fluid of the joints
31. Urine
32. Brain

Turning my attention now to the purpose at hand, my goal is to use all 32 parts of the body, not only as individual objects of meditation, but as prompts for writing. I intend to work my way down the list, using each part as the subject of an essay. The idea came to me last summer, inspired by this post on the The Buddha Diaries where Peter offers up – in essay form – a full-frontal self-portrait. I considered taking my own shot at it, but I couldn’t imagine how I could individualize it enough to appear as anything other than a cheap knock-off of an original. Hence, the 32-Parts Project. I have no idea how it will evolve, how long it will take, or if I finish at all, but it begins today with this intention.

*Some references in the texts list only 31 parts, leaving out the brain.

For more information on the Contemplation of the 32 Parts, follow these links:

http://www.arrowriver.ca/dhamma/body.html
http://www.accesstoinsight.org/tipitaka/mn/mn.010.than.html
http://www.accesstoinsight.org/lib/authors/khantipalo/wheel271.html

Imagine someone saying, “I’m not a Christian. I just follow the teachings of Jesus Christ.” Doesn’t that by definition make one a Christian? OK, maybe that’s not a good example, because, first, one has to be baptized to be a Christian. Second, not all Christians follow the teachings of Jesus, so that doesn’t seem to be a prerequisite.

Unlike Christianity, one doesn’t become a Buddhist through the performance of any rite or ritual. One becomes a Buddhist by taking refuge in the Buddha (the teacher), the Dharma (the teachings), and the Sangha (the community of monks and nuns who practice the teachings) – collectively known as the the Three Jewels or Triple Gem. But what does taking refuge mean? 

Historically, common people sought the protection of those who had the capacity to protect them. It was a matter of physical survival. Also, in matters of spiritual survival, people would take refuge in spiritual leaders. Very simple, really. Taking refuge, then as now, is a matter of putting one’s faith in a protector. In this case, the Three Jewels. 

The Buddha teaches the end of suffering. One needs faith that practicing what the Buddha teaches will lead to that end. The only effect of a lack of faith (which implies a lack of skillful practice) is more suffering. It’s not punishment, but a logical consequence.

The teachings of the Buddha are divided into eight categories that instruct on living skillfully, so skillfully that when all these skills are sharpened to perfection, ultimate happiness is realized. In other words, the effect of skillful living is happiness, the effect of unskilful living is unhappiness. The eight categories are known as the Eightfold Path of Right View, Right Thought, Right Speech, Right Action, Right Livelihood, Right Effort, Right Mindfulness, and Right Concentration.

Following the Eightfold Path to the best of one’s ability is practicing the Dharma. Practicing the Dharma is applying the teachings of the Buddha to one’s life. This seems to me a good description of Buddhist. Why not just say so? If that’s what I do – skillfully or not – that’s what I am.

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.