FINDING RESILIENCE IN OUR EVERYDAY LIFE

Bowie’s song Changes was something of a clarion call to meeting our next moment. Not the idea we have of a dismal or tremendous future, but simply whatever happens. Can we meet whatever eventuality we meet with humble strength and, maybe a smile.  We’re meeting what is. And what is is rarely what we want it to be. Facing the strain – or facing the strange and meeting life as it is, requires us to stand tall and accept what comes next.   

Acceptance is neither acquiescence not surrender. It is the ground we stand upon for meeting life. From that ground we can relax our inner struggle and face the strain with poise and humor. Life is relentless. It doesn’t ask our permission to change, to rupture, to ache. Every one of us—if we’re honest—carries wounds we didn’t anticipate. We grow up believing strength means powering through, but eventually, life teaches us that armor is heavy. It cuts off our circulation. It separates us from others.

Resilience is often misunderstood as toughness, as stoicism, as the ability to take a punch and keep standing. But in Dharma practice, we learn that true resilience is not a hardening—it is a softening. It’s the capacity to remain present with our life as it is, without shutting down. It’s the willingness to feel, to care, to remain available in the midst of adversity.

We all have nervous systems designed to keep us safe. The fight-flight-freeze response is wired into us for survival. But in modern life, especially in emotional and interpersonal terrain, this wiring can misfire. We interpret everyday stress as threat. Our amygdala hijacks the clarity of our awareness. And suddenly, we are reacting to the world as if we are under attack.

So the question arises: can we stay connected without getting swallowed? Can we care deeply without falling apart?

Well, to quote a great statesman, “yes we can,” But, this acute severing of triggers from reactions takes practice and patience.  A classic mindfulness tool is to pause and name what is happening. “This is fear.” “This is grief.” “This is activation.” When we do this, we begin to disentangle from the reactivity and step into the space of awareness. The energy is still there, but we’re no longer riding the rollercoaster blindfolded.

Resilience without armor also requires community. Our neurosis breeds in isolation. But recovery happens with connection. Many of our most painful reactions come from a belief that we are alone. Meditation practice—and compassionate presence with others—reminds us that we’re not. We don’t need to have the answers. We don’t even need to be calm. But we do need to, as Pema Chodron teaches, learn to stay. Stay with ourselves. Stay with one another. Stay with the moment.

The urgency that the triggering elicits makes us feel we need to ACT NOW. But, in fact as a rule there is always more time than we realize. Its okay to pump the breaks. Its okay to pause. Its okay to feel what we are feeling. 

Another tool: mindfulness of body. When we’re triggered, the body tightens. The jaw clenches. The breath goes shallow. By simply bringing awareness to the physical response, we open up the possibility of choice. Try it: notice your shoulders. Feel your feet. Take a longer exhale. This is not a trick to bypass reality; it’s a way to anchor within it. Freeing ourselves from the constraints of the armor of body tension means we are creating the somatic space for the mind to find the space for a creative response. A creative response is not an habitual reaction, but is based in mindfulness of our body and our feelings. A mindful pause gives us the space to actually feel what we are feeling.  

Here’s the paradox—when we stop resisting what we feel, when we stop trying to be strong in the old way, a different kind of strength appears. A strength that doesn’t need to posture or defend. A strength that doesn’t retreat into numbness. It is open. It is rooted. And it can be quite tender.

When we practice resilience without armor, we begin to trust life again—not because it’s safe, but because we realize we can meet it. We don’t have to disappear when things get hard. We don’t have to put on the mask of invulnerability. Instead, we show up. With our hearts exposed, yes. With our breath shaking, sometimes. But we stay. We respond. We listen. We cry when it’s time to cry, and we laugh when we can.

Finally there is the tool of humble constancy, or as Dylan said, “keep on keeping on”. We don’t need to change everything. In fact, we may not need to change anything. We can lay aside the narcissistic belief that it is on us. We can breathe out and humbly take our place in our community. All we have to do is show up. And what a relief that is! We don’t have to do anything more than cheer up and keep face the strain with courage, humor and dignity. This is a kind of humble bravery doesn’t get much press. It’s not dramatic. It’s quiet, slow, and deeply human.

And from this ground of openness, we discover a new kind of power. The power to be moved by life—not manipulated. The power to care without collapsing. The power to be resilient not because we’re armored, but because we are utterly, and fully, here.

And the Key to the Kingdom

Let’s begin with something radical: what if we’re not fundamentally broken? What if, beneath the static, striving, and self-doubt, we’re already good—innately, luminously, primordially good?

This morning, as I was writing, my mind drifted into discursive worry and began rifling through all the ways I was failing—at the moment, in my life, and forever. A litany of self-doubt. My posture slumped, forehead heavy, like Rodin’s Thinker caught in a constipated loop of rumination. Thinking, judging, trying to fix something that might not be broken.

Then I caught it. The absurdity of acting out this scripted defeat. I literally sat up and something shifted. Not just in posture, but in perspective. I felt a flicker of clarity, confidence, and strength. I connected with my basic goodness. And this, as I have learned, is the birth of the warrior within. I relaxed into basic confidence. Nothing was amazing. It was just as it was. But I was here to face it—and play along.

April 4th was the anniversary of Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche’s passing. His life was a meteor of wakefulness—abrupt, provocative, alarming, but always and completely authentic. He encouraged our humanity and taught that warriorship begins not with a sword or a fight, but with gentleness and bravery. The ground is basic goodness. It is not a moral judgment, not about being a “good person.” It is the inherent brilliance of our being. Not something we can buy, but something we can recognize as having always been there. We are basically good—and we don’t have to do anything but stay present for our world.

It’s easy to forget this. Especially in a culture obsessed with self-improvement, complaint, and performance. But if we can take a moment, feel our feet on the earth, lift our gaze beyond the horizon of habitual thought, and simply be—without pretense, artifice, or struggle—we reconnect to ourselves, our moment, and to the greater energy all around us. Trungpa called this the “rising sun view”: a world suffused with goodness and possibility. He contrasted it with the “setting sun” view of cynicism, doubt, and complaint. The setting sun leads to darkness and stagnation. The rising sun view—based on recognition of our own and the world’s fundamental goodness—opens us to the Kingdom of Shambhala.

This is the Shambhala vision. The kingdom—or rather the quality—of an awakened society begins with the individual who can stand up in the present moment and say: I’m already good. I’m already enough. I’m here.

So what happens when we contact that basic goodness? In a sense, something is born: the inner warrior. Not a fighter, not a hero, but a human being willing to stay present when everything in them wants to bolt. A person who greets discomfort as a teacher, not a mistake.

My own journey began just after Trungpa’s passing. I moved into a handmade shack at Rocky Mountain Dharma Center. The place was rustic, even wild. It had been settled decades earlier by a ragtag crew of hippies, artists, exiles, and mystics known as the Pygmies, who built shambolic houses and cabins. Their first shrine was a tablecloth thrown over a console TV. Over time, more students came, and slowly—through Trungpa’s legacy—they transformed into clearer and more uplifted versions of themselves. They built proper buildings, bought better clothes and began to carry themselves with confidence. Trungpa didn’t ask his students to become spiritual clichés. He asked them to become human.

The act of simply being oneself—without pretense, apology, or aggression—was called in Tibetan Wangpo, which translates to “authentic presence.” Trungpa Rinpoche called this being a warrior. His teachings offered a new path—not one of transcendence, but of vast vision grounded in the kindness, clarity, and strength to live freely in our world. As Trungpa said, “It’s not about escaping the world, but falling in love with it.”

Warriorship is not a solo act. The path doesn’t end in some personal enlightenment trophy room. It culminates in an enlightened society—a world woven not by ideology, but by kindness, honesty, and presence. That enlightened society has its inspiration in mythic traditions such as Camelot, Atlantis, Shangri-la and the Kingdom of Shambhala. The image of an enlightened society is important to the spiritual and inspirational development of cultures. Trungpa took inspiration from Shambhala which was a society where people were in touch with their basic goodness and lifted up to their highest potential, like flowers to the sun.

In the Shambhala teachings, this begins with the simple things: how you speak to the barista, how you care for your space, how you show up for your own life. Small acts of elegance. Dignity. Care. Approaching all situations with a joyful mind, as the slogan says. Even traffic. Even grief. Even your own neurotic mind. Awakening the warrior means touching in to our basic goodness and seeing the basic goodness of our world.  This is not to imply that the world is devoid of cruelty and injustice. It just means there is more than that. And the world needs us. It is worth working for.

We don’t have to be without fear. We just have to be willing to come back again and again—to our seat, our breath, our inherent dignity. The Tibetans call the awakened warrior Pawo—not someone who fights, but someone who has transcended the paralysis of fear and discovered bravery in their very bones.

The warrior masters themselves each time they return to the present—to their seat, to their posture, to the moment as it is. You can be frightened, nervous, angry, horny, or depressed—as long as you sit with good posture and an open heart, accepting who and how you are. That’s how fear becomes fearlessness. That’s how we open our hearts to ourselves and our world. That is the warrior’s vow of bravery.

Whether you view Shambhala as a mythical kingdom, a metaphor, or a method—it always points to the same truth: within chaos, dignity is possible. Within confusion, wisdom is present. The awakened world begins not in a fairytale, but in the very seat you’re sitting in now.

So today, whether your posture is slumped or strong, whether your mind is buzzing or clear—pause. Feel your feet. Lift your gaze. And give birth to the warrior in your heart which is the key to the kingdom.

This aspiration is dedicated to the lineage, to Trungpa Rinpoche, and to every human being who’s ever stood up against their own despair and said, “I’m still here.”

Welcome to the Kingdom.