Category: Writing

Remember those finger traps? The woven fabric tube that tightens when we pull? The harder we try, the stronger its hold. Similarly, Tibetan yogis liken traveling the path to liberation to a snake moving through a tube—it cannot turn around. Zookeepers use restraining tubes to contain snakes. Unlike some of us, the snake immediately calms down. It may not be happy. But it knows not to waste its energy.

Our spiritual path can be seen as the journey to developing wisdom. This doesn’t mean moving anywhere per se’,  but beyond our own obscurations. In time we see ourselves and our world more clearly. “Clear seeing” or Lakthong in Tibetan is seeing beyond our parochial ego orientation to, as Lenny Bruce said, “what is.”  Obscurations blind or conceal our understanding of what we see. The preponderance of obscurations to our clear seeing are blockages in our bodies, shadows in our minds, and and blind spots in our lives. These blockages that slow or confuse progress on the path, as frustrating as they may be, are best met with patience and care. The only way through the constriction is to relax, release the struggle and perhaps begin to understand our imprisonment.

Once we enter the spiritual path, like the snake in a restraining tube, we can never turn back. This is because we can’t unsee what we’ve seen. We cannot unknow ourselves.

Fear, doubt, and worry keep us in protective bubbles. We habitually employ intellect to rationalize our imprisonment. This is not wisdom based on clear seeing, it is the re-iteration of logics that support our suffering. We assert how dangerous the world is, defining ourselves in fixed terms: These people are that way. I am this way. This self-definition may comfort us, but it also confines us. The idea of “me” is a refuge, of sorts. But it comes with limitations and constraints. Connecting with the clarity beyond “me” is unsettling because we can’t control the experience. Yet this is how we grow. Simply trying a new flavor of ice cream expands the brain’s experience. The brain thrives on growth and novelty while reiterating what it already knows reinforces its limitations.

Turning outward is both threatening and necessary. We must be brave enough to err, to feel embarrassed, to have our sense of self challenged—because this is how we learn experientially. The brain loves experiential learning more than the reiterative process of accumulating knowledge.  Moving beyond our protective negativity bias, we can open to new experiences that allow the brain to build new neural pathways. But this movement isn’t always outward; it is also inward. When we feel stuck, unable to work, or trapped in patterns, we can investigate what is happening in the present. By becoming aware of these patterns, we begin to loosen their grip. Moving toward wisdom means shedding constraints that keep us from clear-seeing. It’s like peeling an onion—there is no ultimate center, but the process itself is spiritual discovery. There is no destination as much as a settling in to understanding.

When fear or doubt overwhelms us, we can love ourselves—not through distraction, but by turning inward and asking: What is going on? Conceptual knowledge often obstructs deeper experiential learning. True learning happens in the depths of experience. Even when difficult, pushing against our constraints helps us grow. Our first steps into a new paradigm may not be met with triumphant music. The first steps of a chick out of the egg are tentative, fragile, nervous. As Sakya Pandita noted, the shaft of an arrow runs true into the future—brave and heroic—while the arrowhead sits in complete panic: Oh no, oh no!

When we recognize a constraint and stop struggling, instead relaxing into it, we begin to see it. We feel the fear holding us in place. In doing so, we transform constraints from obstructions into transparent aspects of our experience. What if our struggles lost their oppressive weight and instead became part of our wisdom? I lock myself in my room and refuse to move. But when I turn inward and begin mapping the experience, I loosen its hold. It is said that negative actions create negative consequences, reinforcing themselves. The same is true of positive actions. We become obligated to these loops, whether good or bad.

In the highest view of Tibetan Buddhism, samsara and nirvana—heaven and hell—are inseparable. Any karma that perpetuates itself, even good karma, keeps us from seeing reality as it truly is. The point is to sit still and see our actions with clarity. It is said that when we fully see our activity, there is no karmic consequence. This radical statement suggests a great power in awareness. Even when our actions harm ourselves or others, simply seeing them fully is the first step toward liberation.

We move through the tube of fearful constriction not by ignoring it or lashing out , as struggle only gets us more imprisoned. But, there is a way out. Which is the way in. Instead of acting out and becoming more enmeshed, we can look inward and begin to learn who we are. Looking in is the way out. By looking into our suffering gently and persistently we come to realize that obscurations are the path. There is nowhere to go but here. There is nothing to see but our own experience. Instead of trying to get to some theoretical place, maybe we’d do well to rest in who we are, and learn what is here right now. Letting go doesn’t mean pushing away. It means letting go of our grip. Struggling is holding. Accept what is happening and relax into the tube.

There is a story of a man the Tibetans called Pema Jungne’ which means lotus born. The legend states he was born fully awakened atop a lotus flower. The image is instructional as a lotus grows from the slime and much of the lake and blooms into a grand, open awakening. In this way, the story of Padmasambhava (in Sanskrit) illustrates that the awakened gene in all life, can quicken and arise fully formed. And while the path to awakening is long and requires full acceptance and understanding of our imprisonment, awakening happens instantaneously because it has always been there. Like a lotus opening to the sun. This is not a destination. It is the ripening of our potential here and now. No matter how we try, we will never become enlightened some day. We can only become enlightened now.

It takes great humility to accept ourselves and great patience to learn to be here with ourselves. Whether it’s sitting atop the lotus, or sitting in the muck of our stuck turning in to our experience leads us out, not because we are going anywhere. But because the nature of life is change. The work of meditation practice is to surrender to now.  The universe is in movement. By being here now we can surrender to that.

During a talk to his students, Chogyam Trungpa said something I found chilling.   “It’s happening right now “. The effect stopped the room cold.

And that seemed to be the point.

 

 

I lay in bed this morning, unable to get motivated, pondering the deep existential question why bother? And when I get like this the only answer to why bother is … eh, fuck it.

In meditation training, we learn that every experience is worthy of investigation. Yet this sense of “why bother” is one I reject outright. Its insidious banality suggests “keep moving,  there’s nothing to see here.”  So I lay there, scratching about the corners of my brain, scrolling through the internet, seeking distraction, or maybe even a little self-reinforcing negativity. One positive about our world these days is there’s no lack of material to support a depressive state. Despite my worst intentions, I stumbled upon a You Tube short of Jim Carrey’s. I assumed it would be a laugh. Instead, I caught him talking about depression. He quoted his teacher Jeff Foster’s notion that “depressed” could translate to “deep rest”. Carrey said depression was the body’s way of telling the brain “Fuck you, I don’t want to be this avatar you’ve created anymore.” My ideas about myself are so much to live up to.

Then I began to see my morning malaise as a strike, of sorts. A part of me had grown tired of being ignored and unseen.  My social self—what Martha Beck calls the “pretend self”—is built around teaching, coaching, being available to others. I love this work, I feel at home in it. And yet, this is only a part of myself. It’s clear there are parts I’m not comfortable seeing or sharing. When this happens, maybe the mask I’ve created has become too heavy for the rest of me to wear.

Sometimes depression is angry and volatile. This angry depression is sexy enough to keep me interested. But these wet blanket moments when the world is dull and uninspiring are truly maddening- or would be if I cared enough to get mad. Perhaps this dull depression is designed to keep me from looking beneath the surface, from uncovering what may be really happening. Maybe before I could decide what’s really happening beneath, before I analyze anything further, I could apply Ockham’s Razor and reduce it down to what is actually happening right here. Right now, I’m stuck.

Stuck.

In my meditation training they would call this resistance. And they would say that resistance is the path. When I first heard this, it seemed to absolve me of my natural reluctance, it made me feel like it was OK and part of the process. However, many years later, I’m becoming impatient with these delays in the progress of my life and it feels galling. But that’s not looking from where I am, it’s looking from the point of view of the avatar, my imaginary-supposed-wanna-being. Being stuck in my resistance is what is happening now, all that is happening now. I’ve experienced this often in my life, so maybe it’s time I decided to look at it. Instead of thinking “dammit, not you again” I might invite the experience in, let it have a seat and get to know it. When we meet our resistance, we are touching the path itself.

Resistance is where the rubber meets the road or, as the Tibetans say, “when rock hits bone.”  This initially may shock us into numbness. All we feel is that erie Lackawanna, like a 2 year old’s mantra of “NO NO NO!”  But maybe I can just look at this. Maybe it’s not a grand existential crisis, not a dramatic psychological wound, maybe it’s—just I don’t want to.  Instead of assuming I should be different, I could explore what it actually feels like to be here not wanting to be here. Resistance is not an obstacle to the path; resistance is the path. It’s the moment we are forced to sit down, to feel the discomfort fully, and to learn from it. The more uncomfortable it is, the more there is to see. Instead of searching for complex explanations, maybe the truth is simple: my body and mind are saying, Pause. Feel this. I sometimes look out my window at people working, doing jobs I have no interest in, and yet I feel guilty. They’re working hard, supporting their families, and I’m lying here chewing on my own thoughts. But maybe this is my work—to investigate my own experience, to make sense of it, to translate it. Maybe these periods of shutdown are moments of resynchronization.

I think a lot of depression hides behind this deep exhaustion that makes even the smallest movement seem impossible. I thrive on offering myself to others, in being present for them, but there’s a disconnect when it comes to directing that same care toward myself. It’s not that I’m incapable of engagement—I’m deeply engaged when it comes to others. But when I turn inward, that engagement becomes resistance, inertia, even paralysis. It makes sense that this might be an invitation, a signal to pause and investigate: Where am I not living truthfully? When I’m with others, my next steps are clear—I listen, I hold space, I respond. But alone, lying in bed in the morning, wondering why I should bother, I feel lost. Depression, I suspect, creates a loop where each time it returns, it feels like it has always been there. And since I spend so much time in this inert state, maybe it’s time to stop resisting it, to really experience it instead. Not to judge it, not to push it away, but to let it unfold and see what’s there. We often want change without fully acknowledging what is. But how can we move forward if we don’t first accept where we are?

Depression, when experienced as deep rest, may be a forced resynchronization, a way to reset the system. The Japanese philosophy of Kaizen suggests that when we’re stuck, it’s not because we’re failing but because we haven’t yet learned how to succeed. It teaches that small, incremental steps can help us move forward. If my room is a mess, my desk is piled high, and my taxes loom over me, tackling it all at once feels impossible. But if I decide that today, I will write this, meditate for a few minutes, and make a good cup of tea, those are small, doable actions. I don’t need to force myself into massive leaps—I need to align with what is possible right now. It’s strange how we expect ourselves to emerge from depression with force, to suddenly regain clarity and momentum. But what if the way forward is softer, more patient? What if, instead of pushing myself to break through, I let myself dissolve into the experience fully? Depression doesn’t mean I am broken. It means something inside me is asking to be heard, asking to rest, asking to be real. And maybe the more I resist that, the more it holds on.

Maybe the real work isn’t about changing myself to fit a mold. Maybe it’s about becoming synchronized with who I actually am. Not who I think I should be, not who I wish I were, but this person, in this moment, as I am right now. And maybe that’s all we need right now. Then we can ask the big questions. Where am I not living truthfully?  Are there things I want to feel, but can’t?  Am I frightened?

Maybe today I can forget where I’m going and discover who I am beneath the heavy mask. The method here is holding space and asking questions, just as I would do for clients or friends. Discovering implies learning something new. We are not obligated to do anything with the information, except listen. Sometimes our inner voices want the wrong things. Sometimes they may be yelling from the rooftops. But, all they really want is their voice.

Sometimes they just need to be heard.

 

First Thought, Best Thought

Commiting to Yes (And…)

First Thought, Best Thought was the title of a book of poetry by Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche and a phrase he used to describe engaging fresh mind in any creative endeavor. Last week, we discussed the idea of a fresh start—how returning to the breath brings us into the present, allowing our next step to be free of past attachments. In this sense, first thought is the moment the mind comes to a creative inflection point, that is stepping forward with confidence and clarity.

However, first thought is not the first thought we notice. By the time we become aware of our thinking, we are generally enmeshed in a point of view shaped by past experience. This natural function of the mind contextualizes the present based on what we’ve learned, which, while useful, can lend itself to reiteration, blocking true creative exploration.

There are two aspects of mind we can consider: the fresh, free-flowing mind and the compounded mind that analyzes and categorizes based on prior knowledge. The compounded mind refines what it already knows, strengthening established neural pathways. This can feel satisfying and safe. Think serotonin. Fresh mind, on the other hand, forges new synaptic connections—an activity that excites the brain in an entirely different way. Think dopamine. Both aspects are integral to our mind when they harmonize in a workable balance. These fall out of balance when we lock ourselves into a secure redoubt, or jettison ourselves into unprotected space. These are known as 1st and 3rd circles, respectively. The middle way is known as the 2nd circle. This is the space of optimum creativity.

Square One and the Power of Space

In Trungpa Rinpoche’s Dharma Art course, the very first class begins with students sitting in a circle. There is a blank white sheet spread on the floor. This experience, which he called Square One, was designed to immerse students in the energy of clear, open space. The entire premise of Dharma Art—creating authentic expression within one’s environment—relied on the understanding that Square One was completely empty.

Emptiness is often misunderstood. To the materialist, ego-driven mind, emptiness feels like voidness, a loss of reference points. When we are not preoccupied with acquiring, ignoring, or resisting external things, the ego panics, interpreting the lack of engagement as nonexistence. Yet, space—like the vastness surrounding our planet—is filled with energy and potential. In tantric traditions, space is considered the feminine principle, the womb of all creation.

Sitting around the white sheet, the mind naturally throws up objections. It searches for past experiences to contextualize the moment, and when it fails, it fabricates fantasies based on conditioning. Anything to avoid accepting the pure potential of space. This can feel agonizing, especially when we believe we are supposed to create something. But did the universe know what it was creating when it began?

The Sacred Moment of Not Knowing

When faced with uncertainty, the ego scrambles to define, control, or solve what is before it. This is a noble instinct, but it is not the act of creation. Many spiritual traditions hold the moment of not knowing as sacred. The I Ching describes this as the moment just before the sacrifice, when the practitioner silently opens to the divine. This pause—this waiting—creates space for inspiration.

But what is inspiration? What is channeling? What does it mean to create without the conscious mind dictating the process? When we reach our highest potential and then simply open in silence, we are not controlling what comes next; we are making space for it to emerge. The next impulse may arise internally or from the environment. In theatrical improvisation, it might be prompted by a partner’s line. If we already know the line—as in scripted theater—we strive to make our response feel spontaneous. But in true improvisation, we do not know the prompt beforehand, so our response emerges authentically, as if it were a pure first thought.

Improvisation, Acceptance, and Flow

Naturally, even improvisation has guidelines to sustain the creative flow. The most well-known rule is Yes, and…—the principle of accepting whatever is presented and responding intuitively.

Our habitual responses to the world tend to fall into three categories: acceptance, resistance, or avoidance. Improvisation shifts this toward acceptance. The second rule, No Denial, ensures that energy continues moving forward. For instance, if my scene partner says, Good morning, Doctor, I should not reply, I’m not a doctor! That would break the flow. Instead, I might say, Good morning, Mrs. Smith. Your dog is doing very well and can be picked up today. This maintains the reality we are creating while still allowing space for personal agency.

Trungpa Rinpoche’s Dharma Art was a laboratory for discovering pure impulse and response in the creative process. It was not meant for performance. To cultivate a coherent flow, Trungpa employed three guiding principles: Heaven, Earth, and Human. A response could offer a larger perspective (Heaven), set the ground for what is happening now (Earth), or engage another person emotionally (Human).

Just as the universe created itself, humanity may have evolved to perceive, feel, and interact with that unfolding creation. When we gaze at the night sky, we see a seemingly static and reliable expanse. Yet, in reality, it is dynamic and ever-changing. The stars we see may no longer exist as they appear; their light has taken years, even millennia, to reach us. The sky is a snapshot of creation in motion. When we quiet the mind—acknowledging our thoughts but resting in the space between them—we create the silence needed for inspiration to arise.

Creativity as a Way of Being

Of course, not every first thought is brilliant. That’s why the Dharma Art approach values process over performance. What matters is accessing the pure moment of space and noticing what naturally arises—before conditioning encumbers it. This process mirrors the way we engage with structured and unstructured elements in life.

A society functions through rules and norms, yet within that structure, we can live creatively. We don’t need to force ourselves to conform to rigid formulas, but we also don’t have to reject structure altogether. Instead, we can relate to societal frameworks in a way that allows for meaningful interaction while maintaining creative freedom.

In art, we see this dynamic play out in genre conventions. A procedural or romance novel follows a predictable structure (Earth), whereas an experimental novel unfolds in real time (Heaven). The most compelling works balance these elements, engaging readers with familiarity while surprising them with discovery. Similarly, we can author our own lives—grounded in reality yet open to the unknown.

This brings us back to the blank space. Try this experiment: Pause. Let your mind rest. Instead of steering your thoughts toward a desired outcome—especially one shaped by preconceived notions of what meditation or creativity should be—allow yourself to simply be. Notice the first authentic impulse that arises.

If you commit to Yes, and…, you can take the next step toward creating your piece, your day, or your life.

Good Morning, Everyone

We can say this regardless of the time of day because returning to the present is always a fresh start. Each fresh start is a new beginning. Every time we return to nowness, it’s like the first day of spring.

This fresh start can occur in an instant or unfold as a broader reset in our lives. It is a vital component of establishing sanity, balance, and serenity on our path. Meditation master Chögyam Trungpa referred to the grand scope of the present—replete with its possibilities, practicalities, and even our past—as nowness. It is more expansive than “the now” or the pinpoint present moment. It is the openness of life unfolding around us, encompassing who we are, where we’re going, and where we’ve come from.

Returning to nowness can be a reboot for the spirit when we become bogged down by worry and doubt. It synchronizes us so we can move forward authentically—acknowledging our fears and confusion but not being blocked by them. Authentic movement is not a frantic push to escape fear but a calm, steady trajectory toward liberation. In this way, fear itself becomes a stepping stone toward fearlessness. Fearless means less fear—we acknowledge our fears, but we do not let them dictate our path.

Dr. Dean Ornish, a cardiologist and senior yoga practitioner, conducted groundbreaking studies in the 1970s that awakened people to the importance of whole foods and a healthy diet. However, he also emphasized that heart disease wasn’t just a result of poor nutrition—it was also due to our inability to release accumulated tension. Modern life conditions us to focus excessively on the negative, a habit rooted in self-protection but one that prevents us from looking up and moving forward. Negative experiences live within us, creating somatic tension and psychological stagnation. It is vital that we learn to release this tension before it drains our life force. Whether through yoga, meditation, walking, or simply gazing out the window, clearing these systemic clogs allows our natural being to reinvigorate and restore.

The brain craves fresh information to forge new synaptic connections that keep it engaged and alive. When we continuously refine the same thought processes without new input, the mind stagnates, pulling back its capabilities as if to say, Oh, we’re doing this again. Habitual patterns, in this way, can become obstacles to spiritual realization. Rather than flowing freely, we find ourselves trapped in energetic cul-de-sacs. But just as morning light signals a new day and spring brings renewal, we, too, can embrace a fresh start—one that replenishes and rejuvenates our system. This reflection is about feeling our doubt yet finding the courage to let it go and step into a fresh morning.

Periods of rest, sleep, and even hibernation are necessary for recovery. However, when the time comes to lift our gaze, we might choose to embrace the next moment, no matter how challenging, uncertain, or frustrating. Each moment is beautiful because it is the next step on our path. Our mind wants that challenge—it thrives on discovery and the unknown.

On a fundamental level, we can distinguish two aspects of the mind: the expansive mind, which seeks growth and renewal, and the protective mind, which prioritizes safety and retreat. The protective mind is natural and necessary. However, when overemphasized, it limits our experience of reality’s vastness and beauty. Even if we are physically constrained—by illness, circumstance, or resources—our mind retains the capacity for profound movement, openness, and understanding. It is a matter of perspective. While survival is crucial, we must allow ourselves to stop worrying about it sometimes. In meditation, we train ourselves to acknowledge our fears yet look beyond them to the full scope of life.

So, where do we look when we’re done licking our wounds or bracing ourselves for the unknown? We look at everything that is already here. These very things provide sustenance to the spirit and allow the mind to refresh. We do not need to force ourselves into new situations to keep the mind fresh. Instead, we simply return to the present as it is, allowing each moment to be a new beginning. When we meet life with openness in this way, we are free to move forward with authenticity. Authenticity means that when we are aligned with ourselves, we can step into nowness with confidence and awareness.

Opening to the world with confidence builds further confidence. When we step forward naturally, we reassure the fearful parts of ourselves that they are seen and cared for. But they do not need to control the journey. These parts will raise objections now and then, and when those fears are valid, we might pause and examine them. However, more often than not, fear arises from insecurity rather than reality. It is like a frightened child—or, in my case, my Aunt Carmen—sitting in the back seat of our car, terrified of how fast my father was driving. We don’t need to disparage or suppress this fear; we can acknowledge it, even smile at it, as Chögyam Trungpa would say. And then, we keep moving forward—with evenness and surety.

I once trained with a coach who had been a fighter pilot in Afghanistan. His missions were reconnaissance flights, flying low through the mountains—danger below from anti-aircraft weaponry, danger above from shifting air currents. Precision was everything. When asked if he was ever afraid, he said, Of course, I was frightened. It would be absurd not to be. But, he explained, he did not allow fear to speak louder than the mission. Instead, he treated fear like a co-pilot—right there beside him, keeping him sharp and present, but never clouding his judgment or holding him back.

It is important to acknowledge our fear-based mind. But it is essential not to allow fear to dictate our course or obscure our purpose. Notice the voice with love and come back to nowness. With mindfulness training, every time we feel fear, we can return. And every time we return, we reset the system, allowing us to step forward with loving confidence in ourselves, our journey, and our world.

 

When we think of patience, we often imagine holding ourselves still with tight muscles, grinding teeth, tapping toes—waiting, holding, and waiting some more. We are locked in a ball of tension waging a war with circumstances.  We live through  moments of turmoil as we wait in grocery lines, toll booths, for a friends to show up or for the next line to come as we write a post. These untoward circumstances often happen when we’re late for something else, placing us under pressure. What these circumstances have in common is that we have squeezed the space so tightly we don’t have room for mindfulness.

The key is space. And our personal space is dependent on relaxation.

In Buddhist teaching, Patience is taught as one of the six paramitas. The Paramitas Generosity, Patience, Discipline, Exertion, Meditation and Wisdom are activities that transcend our conventional frame into a more expansive or “transcendent” expression of experience. This transcendence is sometimes referred to as “the other shore,” as we move from a self-centered, habitual interpretation to one imbued with greater depth and perspective. From this larger perspective, patience can be viewed as a positive application for the development of wisdom. We are not clamping down or tightening up; rather, we are allowing space between an impulse and our action. This space provides the opportunity for us to become cognizant, intentional, and mindful. Transcendent Patience is a momentary pause for us to find the most appropriate response to whatever situation confronts us. More importantly, that space allows us to connect with our natural serenity and peacefulness of mind. Through consistent, dedicated meditation practice, we can develop the ability to recognize these moments of pause—often just before we bite down or cling to our next reaction.

When an untrained mind erupts into reactivity it becomes blindly led into negative consequences. Reaction impairs the mind’s ability to be aware of its actions. We might believe ourselves quick-witted or nimble-minded when, in truth, we are merely reacting with habitual jokes and defense mechanisms that bypass true awareness of the present moment. Why do we do this? Because the present moment may bring feelings of doubt, insecurity, and discomfort. In avoiding these feelings, we jump to conclusions, laugh off discomfort, and otherwise distract ourselves.

Patience, in its transcendent form, is not merely about waiting for external circumstances to shift. It is about cultivating space within the mind to introduce awareness into our processing. Patience allows us to see our thoughts as they form, granting us the opportunity to respond thoughtfully rather than react impulsively. In Tibetan, this reactive “hook” is referred to as shenpa; Pema Chödrön describes it as the feeling of being hijacked by familiar patterns of reactivity.

The application of patience can occur at any stage of the process, but the most elegant moment is just before the mind “bites down.” This requires mental training—daily, consistent practice of observing our thinking and recognizing when we’re reacting rather than resting in peaceful awareness. Even when meditation feels cluttered with thoughts, the simple act of observing the mind builds the muscle of recognition and acceptance. This awareness helps us notice when we’re hooked, when space collapses into habitual patterns, and when we have the opportunity to pause and choose a new path.

With this skill, we move from reaction to response. Reaction is defensive and reflexive; response is thoughtful, measured, and kind. Patience with the mind means seeing our thoughts as they arise without immediately believing or following them. Over time, this practice opens space in the mind, creating a more effective and adaptive processing system.

This internal patience also manifests in external circumstances. Waiting in line or sitting in traffic becomes less distressing when we recognize how the mind panics when it feels out of control. This panic is not caused by the line or the traffic itself but by our resistance to the present moment. The mind clamps down, shutting off awareness and making us irritable or anxious. By practicing patience, we can acknowledge our discomfort, breathe into it, and soften our mental grip.

The Serenity Prayer from 12-step traditions begins, “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.” This sentiment parallels Buddhist patience. When we accept what is, without mental assault or denial, we create space for creative, intelligent responses to emerge. As in improvisational theater’s “yes, and” principle, patience invites us to accept reality and engage with it skillfully.

Patience also applies on a behavioral level, especially when we are cultivating something new—a relationship, a creative project, or a business. In some spiritual traditions, practitioners “turn it over to God.” In Buddhism, we turn it over to space itself, trusting that space is imbued with the same intelligence and compassion others may attribute to a deity. Rushing a project or relationship may bring temporary gratification but rarely yields sustainable growth. Patience allows the natural rhythms of the process to unfold, supporting more authentic and enduring outcomes.

Ultimately, life becomes a creative endeavor when we choose patience. The choice lies in either clamping down and forcing outcomes or relaxing and opening to the possibilities that space and awareness reveal. As the 12-step tradition wisely advises, “Let go and let God.” In the Buddhist tradition, we might instead say, “Let go and let awareness show the way.”

The world moves, demands, and challenges us. When we respond with patience, we align with that movement instead of resisting it. We give ourselves the gift of presence, spaciousness, and wisdom—the true hallmarks of transcendent patience.

 

   TRANSFORMING AGGRESSION INTO WISDOM

Just he released the book Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism in 1971, Trungpa Rinpoche realized his burgeoning meditation community reach an audience beyond the  familial hippie trappings. This would mean different kinds of peo0ple, with varying degrees of processing, would be enter his community and it would elevate him to the iconic status as one of the key founders Tibetan Buddhism in the West.

Throughout history, iconic figures and spiritual leaders have become reference points for hope and fear, leading to adulation and, sometimes, violent consequences. Contemporaneously, the Manson family and the assassinations of John and Robert Kennedy, and Dr Martin Luther King Jr were on everyone’s minds. Whether driven by personal projections or deeper political motives, such figures faced the double-edged sword of renown.

Trungpa Rinpoche discussed with his senior students the importance of creating safety for not only himself but also the Dharma and for his students. The need for protection grew alongside his rapidly expanding community. In Tibet, monasteries were safeguarded by monks trained in awareness and nonviolent crowd control. Trungpa’s close attendant, John Perks, a British armed forces veteran, played a pivotal role in this initiative. Perks, who passed away on January 31st, was an outrageous and endlessly creative figure whose book The Mahasiddha and His Idiot Servant captures the spirit of the time.

At his inspiration, Trungpa founded a group he referred to as “Kasung,” from the Tibetan meaning “protectors of the word, or command.” These protectors used danger and potential aggression as tools to cultivate awareness—and applied compassion. Traditionally, meditation communities have leaned towards peaceful manifestations. However, with Trungpa’s new community, this nonviolent approach incorporated the realities of danger and aggression to foster greater awareness.  This marked a shift from the ideal, toward engaging with the world as it is.

The motto of the Kasung was “Victory Over War.” Perks designed a system based on his military background, complete with uniforms, drills, and calisthenics. Training included self-defense, defensive driving, and crowd control, but emphasized mindfulness and awareness. In Tibetan monasteries, guards maintained stillness while being acutely aware of their surroundings. This awareness is the ultimate defense against aggression. The best response to aggression is non-aggression and non-violence, aiming to diffuse tensions before harm occurs. Achieving this requires training, self-awareness, and the discipline to transcend personal biases and resentments. Tibetan monastic guards were trained not just to monitor external environments but also to guard against their own reactivity—skills profoundly relevant to staying awake and present in the real world.

These principles trace back to the 9th century when the Indian Mahasiddha Padmasambhava introduced Buddhism to Tibet at the invitation of King Trisong Detsen. Padmasambhava encountered numerous obstacles, as Tibet’s rich mystical traditions were diverse and often aggressive. While some practices were positive, others were rooted in fear and superstition. The Tibetan king sought to unify his people through a central spiritual framework, seeing Buddhism’s ideals of nonviolence and compassion as tools for governance. Inspired by India’s spiritual renaissance, Padmasambhava aimed to refine Tibet’s spiritual landscape.

Skilled at transforming obstacles into assets, Padmasambhava turned the aggressive elements of Tibetan spirituality into protectors of the Dharma. Instead of escalating conflicts, he synthesized various traditions, using negativity, violence, hatred, and fear as signals to awaken and deepen awareness. This approach prevented endless cycles of violence, much like the wars we witness today.

We can apply this in our daily lives. By facing rather than rejecting our negativity, we become more aware of our motivations and develop the discipline to refrain from acting on base impulses. This perspective yields two key outcomes: we stop demonizing the world’s difficulties, and we cultivate personal strength to master challenges and enhance awareness.

As Trungpa Rinpoche addressed larger audiences, strategically placed Kasung provided not only security but also heightened awareness. Trungpa’s self-awareness of his potential shortcomings led him to counterbalance them—for instance, teaching from an uncomfortable chair to stay alert. The Kasung served not just to guard against external threats but also to foster an environment that kept Trungpa attentive and present. Thus, the protectors embodied an outer defense, inner self-awareness, and the overarching principle of protection—all opportunities for wakefulness. This environmental awareness was as integral to the teachings as the words and gestures themselves.

Awareness is our most powerful defense. Ignorance, especially when fueled by aggression, is our greatest threat. When driven by hatred, we lose the ability to perceive the damage we cause. By softening our hearts against our own aggression, we train our minds to stay present. There is no better time to cultivate this presence than the approach of the new year.

The Tibetan calendar is based on solar cycle which feels to me like a much more organic way of calculating our spiritual being. Each month being the cycle of a moon. Many indigenous cultures marked time this way. The Tibetans believe that the end of the lunar new year was preceded by a period of the accumulation of karma so that everything became heightened and increased in its volatility and consequence. Therefore mindfulness – the specific knowing of an object in the present and awareness the present sense of knowing in the environment – becomes more important during this time. Rather than seeing it negatively as a dangerous time, we can understand the danger to be an opportunity to hone the craft of our aware being.

We could become protectors of our own heart and protectors of the heart of our communities.

In honor of the great Lion of Dharma, John Perks.