All beings feel a need for refuge or sanctuary at various moments in our life. Some of us look for protection in material belongings, career prestige, or financial investments, or we might look for escape in alcohol, food, or even over-exercising. An authentic spiritual path offers a different kind of safe haven. Instead of the temporary relief of an aspirin or a place to hide from yourself, spiritual refuge offers a path toward feeling one’s own basic goodness.

Instead of unrealistic goals that almost make failure a given, this is just about feeling good more often.

But first, like Little Bit, we have to start by feeling our mental and emotional discomfort: fear, frustration, anger, hatred, jealousy, pride, or any kind of negative emotion. When we’re doing this, our own body is a perfect vehicle in which to take refuge.

When we humans feel an emotional storm brewing, the adrenaline rush of powerful feelings often renders us unable to control our body, speech, or mind. Holding our breath and quivering, we might find ourselves meeting heat with anger, anger with angry words.  Or we keep our afflictive emotions inside where they fester. Grief in our chest, anger in our jaw, fear in our knees, all eventually reveal themselves via pain in our joints or reduced movement capacity.

Instead of trying to deny these feelings, taking refuge in the body means that we begin to make friends with our body. We listen to our body and treat it the way we would treat someone we care about. Instead of pushing it too hard or being afraid to move it at all, we can walk the middle path of intuiting what is appropriate for our body, which means what is appropriate for us.

Get More Friendly

We have so many goals for our bodies: lose weight, get sculpted, be more healthy, more attractive, keep that youthful glow! Like a dysfunctional romantic relationship where we expect our partner to meet our every need, we don’t relate to our body as our friend, but as the agent for achieving all of our hopes and fears.

To begin thinking of our body as the place where we feel good helps to shift our goal from wanting to jump higher and run faster to feeling better and living a more engaged, vibrant life. Do this in small bites I call “exercise snacks.” Get up and move around for 10 minutes here and there. Circumambulate the house or office, do three sun salutations, walk your dog, turn on music and play.

Instead of unrealistic goals that almost make failure a given, this is just about feeling good more often. This is how you can slowly redefine your relationship with your body, from something outside of yourself that needs to be different, to a refuge that is always there to provide you an experience of integration and well-being.

Get Curious

We can take a lesson from the physical practice of yoga. The Sanskrit word for “pose” is asana, which translates as “to sit with what comes up.” Whether you are sitting, walking, or jumping rope, notice what is coming up: joy, resistance, old memories, insights. Include it all. When your mind strays, re-anchor it via the feelings of your body, your emotions, or your breathing.

We can learn to trust the refuge of our own body.

These sensations occur only in the present, so the body works as a perfect home base for the wandering mind. Notice not just what your body is feeling, but how you feel about what you are feeling. You will discover that while your body has been changing all the time, your ideas about your body, and what it can or cannot do, have become frozen. That’s an interesting insight too.

Maintaining continuous awareness in this way is called “mindfulness of body”—an effective practice for learning to be bigger than we think we are, for expanding our comfort zone, and for lightening up a little bit through the recognition of impermanence.

Practice: Grounding Touch

Grounding touch is a simple micro-practice for taking refuge in your body when you feel stressed and need a time out. It’s a method for connecting to your emotional state through your body, using the warmth of your hands and the calmness of your breath to ground and stabilize your nervous system. You can do this anywhere—sitting on a park bench, walking from the elevator to your desk, in the stairwell at work, and even in the bathroom.

Stand or sit upright with your feet firmly planted. Place one hand on your chest and one at the base of your spine. Inhale through your nose for four counts, exhale through your nose for four counts, and repeat. Feel the movement of your breath beneath your hands. Let your mind ride on the breath, like a raft on the ocean. You can also place hands on heart, belly, forehead, or thighs.

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Trauma can be individual, collective, or social. It may occur in personal experiences, such as the death of a loved one, divorce, or childhood abuse. It may also happen to entire communities, as with racism or natural disasters. The pandemic was a massive global trauma that affected everyone without choice, and we are still processing its effects.

Trauma can also be intergenerational, passed down through families and communities. Historical traumas such as genocide and racism can lead to epigenetic changes that affect how our genes are expressed, increasing susceptibility to certain diseases. Oppression, as bell hooks described, is the absence of choice. Understanding this connection between trauma and oppression helps us see why trauma-informed practices are essential, not only for individuals, but also for communities.

There are many different kinds of trauma: There are what we might call small “t” traumas and large “T” traumas, and both leave their mark. Neuroscience shows us that traumatic events can leave imprints in the body, altering brain function and disrupting the nervous system. These imprints can affect how we move through the world long after the event itself has passed. This is an important point to remember when considering the impact of trauma in our daily lives and in our bodies.

Traditional meditation often emphasizes stillness, closed eyes, and breath awareness. For some, these instructions may feel safe. For those carrying trauma, they can be destabilizing. Closing the eyes may trigger hypervigilance or fear. Focusing too closely on the breath can increase anxiety rather than bring calm. If the body has been a site of pain or danger, it may not feel safe to be fully present with it.

Sitting in meditation without attuning to the lingering effects of trauma can lead to dysregulation. Many people worry that they shouldn’t move or open their eyes while meditating, even when discomfort arises. They may feel compelled to push through anxiety, believing that being still is essential. But from a trauma-informed perspective, this approach can be counterproductive. We often think of trauma as an experience that happened in the past, but it’s something that may also overwhelm our ability to cope in the present moment.

Trauma can lead to two main types of dysregulation. Hyperarousal feels like agitation, restlessness, or the urge to flee, while hypoarousal brings numbness, collapse, or disconnection. Both are natural responses to overwhelming experiences. When we practice mindfulness without considering trauma, we may unintentionally trigger these states. Someone might become anxious when asked to close their eyes, sit perfectly still, or focus on breathing. This can lead to harm rather than healing. 

From a trauma-informed perspective, mindfulness begins with choice. Since trauma can be defined as an experience we didn’t choose, the simple act of choosing—how we sit, breathe, or engage—can offer deep benefit. Trauma-informed practice invites people to explore their experience with options rather than rigid rules.

I learned the following four practices while training in mindful eating–conscious living with Jan Chozen Bays and Char Wilkins. Feel free to experiment with any or all of them, in whatever order you wish. If a practice doesn’t feel right, stop at any time. How you engage with the practices is your choice.

Practice One: Inscaping

If we’re feeling emotionally charged or dysregulated, it’s very common to be disassociated from the body or maybe stuck in our heads. “Inscaping” means coming back to the body.

Begin by finding a comfortable posture—upright but not rigid, alert but relaxed. Feel your feet touching the floor or cushion beneath you. Notice that physical sensation. I invite you to also note where your hands are. You can put your hands on your lap, or you can put one palm on top of the other. 

Sometimes closing our eyes can be frightening if we have a history of trauma. So, gently close your eyes if that feels comfortable, or just keep them softly open, directing your gaze twelve inches or so in front of you. 

Breathe according to the rhythm of your own body. Next, bring awareness to what you hear. Maybe it’s the sound of a bird or the whir of a fan. Simply notice. 

When you’re ready, on your next inhale, I invite you to draw awareness to something you smell—it might be a drink, a flower, or simply the absence of smell, which is perfectly okay too. 

On your next inhale, draw awareness to something you taste: the trace of toothpaste, something you drank, or just the natural state of the mouth.

On the next inhale, draw awareness to something you see. If you have your eyes closed, maybe you notice some color or shapes. Just notice what you notice.

Finally, on your next inhale, notice any physical sensation of touch, such as your feet on the floor, or your palms on your lap. From here, take a few more breaths and, when you’re ready, finish off the practice with a stretch or whatever you need to readjust your body.

Acknowledge what you noticed in the practice, and reflect upon how your awareness of individual senses is different from how you ordinarily pay attention; consider if paying attention in this way to sensation is something that may be useful.

I often introduce this practice as part of a series of trauma-informed mindfulness practices because trauma can lead us to want to escape from the body, our environment, or even our present moment experience. Focusing on the senses can be a wonderful opportunity to ground us back into our bodies and allow us to be present.

Inscaping is a way of orienting and anchoring ourselves in the present. By anchoring awareness in the senses, we expand our window of tolerance, our ability to be with difficult experiences. This practice reminds us that we are here, now, and that we have choices about how we engage with our experience. For example, I began the practice by inviting you to open or close your eyes, whichever feels better.

Choosing between eyes open and eyes closed might seem like a small decision to make, but research suggests that even small acts of agency can strengthen our capacity to make empowered choices for ourselves over time. Each intentional choice that we make supports our healing from trauma, cultivates resilience, and awakens the inner wisdom of our bodies.

Practice Two: Compassionate Touch

Since trauma is something that happened to us without our consent, and its effects continue to live in the body, it’s essential for us to be able to learn how to relate to the body in a safe, caring, and generous way. Compassionate touch meditation allows us to tune in to the wisdom of our own bodies, while finding safety and appreciation in them as well.

I invite you to sit comfortably or lie down—whichever position allows you to feel relaxed and alert. Find a posture where your spine is not too rigid, but also not slumped over. Close your eyes or keep a soft gaze. Take several deep, full breaths in and out.

I invite you to draw your attention to your hands. Maybe you rotate your hands so your palms are up, perhaps resting in your lap. Notice the sensation of whatever your hands are touching. Next, imagine that your hands are beginning to fill up with kindness, caring, and warmth.

When you’re ready, lift one hand and place it on the opposite arm as a kind of gentle, caring touch. Notice this sensation, your reaction, and the thoughts that may be passing through your mind.

Next, take your other hand and place it on the opposite arm as though you’re giving yourself a hug. Without judgment notice what this feels like and what’s going on in your mind.

Next, rub your hands together to create warmth, and then gently cup them over your eyes. Allow your eyes to rest in this caring gesture. Maybe you notice the heat or what it’s like to allow your eyes to rest.

After that, move your hands to your thighs, allowing them to rest. Invite tenderness toward any feelings that may arise. Then place your hands on your abdomen, noticing the natural movement of your abdomen as you breathe. Continue to feel the kindness from your hands.

Finally, place one or both hands over your heart, being aware of the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe. Feel the caring quality of your heart, allow it to come through your hands, and allow all thoughts to come and go, coming back to a sense of tenderness and care. 

In the last moments of this practice, your hands may rest where they are, or if there is another part of your body that could use a tender, caring touch, feel free to move your hands there, allowing yourself to rest in warmth and kindness.

Reflect on what you noticed during this practice. How is it different from how you usually pay attention to your body? Could this form of attention be useful for you—or not? The “or not” is important. Not every practice works for everyone every time. If this practice felt dysregulating, it may not be right for you today, and that’s okay. Trauma-informed mindfulness always includes the option to stop, adjust, or return later.

Compassionate touch can shift the nervous system from fight-or-flight to rest-and-digest. Physical sensation becomes a calming focus. In meditation, emphasis is often placed on maintaining a particular posture, but from a trauma-informed perspective, we’re not working toward forcing ourselves through discomfort. Rather, we’re learning how to rest and relax, and that may involve moving the body. 

For many of us who experience microaggressions or other forms of oppression, our bodies might be on heightened alert all the time. The compassionate touch meditation can be powerful because the physical sensation of touch actually releases a sense of relaxation. We can’t control the external world or our experience of microaggressions or explicit oppression, but a trauma-informed mindfulness practice can teach us how to rest in between those states, and that is something that is going to have not only an emotional benefit, but also a physiological benefit as we learn to downregulate the nervous system.

Practice Three: Connecting Emotions to Physical Sensations

The practice of connecting emotions to physical sensations in the body is meant to help increase interoceptive awareness—our ability to sense internal states. Trauma can disconnect us from the body, making it hard to recognize and interpret the sensations we’re experiencing; many studies have shown that there can be a certain numbness or disorientation toward our own bodies due to trauma.

Our bodies have a wisdom that is different but not separate from our minds. Linking emotions to physical sensations can help us understand when we’re connecting and when we’re disconnecting from our bodies. Every emotion has a chemical reaction in the body, and it’s helpful to bring nonjudgmental attention to this, so we can take better care of ourselves. This is a practice that can help us cultivate more body awareness and also an awareness of the connection between emotions and physical sensations in the body.

Once again, take a position on your chair or your cushion that feels comfortable and allows you to feel both alert and relaxed with your spine upright, but not too rigid. You’re welcome to close your eyes if that feels good, or softly gaze at the floor twelve inches or so in front of you. Breathe according to the rhythm of your own body.

I invite you to bring to mind a mild moment of anger—the “five-pound anger,” not the five-hundred-pound anger. Maybe you were standing in line or on hold on the phone for too long. Maybe you were cut off in traffic, or arguing with somebody. Visualize, see, maybe even hear that memory clearly, as if it were happening now. Notice where you feel anger in your body. Some people feel heat in the chest, tightening in the jaw, or constriction in the throat. Release that image and feeling, and draw awareness back to your breath.

Next, I invite you to recall a sad moment. Maybe you lost something valuable to you or there’s a particular world event causing you sadness. Maybe a friend is ill or an animal is hurt. Notice where you feel sadness physically. Perhaps you experience heaviness in the chest, slumped shoulders, tingling in the face, or a downward pull. Then let that situation go and draw attention back to your breath.

For the last part of this exercise, I invite you to bring to mind a situation in which you felt joy. Maybe it was watching a child play. Maybe you were with your pet, or in a beautiful place in nature, or looking into the eyes of a beloved. Bring yourself into that moment, visualizing and feeling that moment of joy. Where in your body do you feel joy? You might notice physical sensations of lightness, openness, buzzing energy, or expansion.

Finish by returning to the breath and, if they’re closed, gently opening your eyes. Reflect on what you observed. What did you notice and how is this different from how you ordinarily pay attention to your body? How might paying attention to your body in this way be useful? (Or would it? Not every practice is going to feel beneficial, in which case you don’t have to do it.)

I’ve found this practice beneficial because sometimes in everyday life it’s easier to identify a physical sensation before being conscious of the emotion behind it. If I’m noticing tightness in my chest, I might not even be aware I’m having an emotional response or being triggered. Recognizing what’s happening in my body physically can be an incredible support. Physical responses are important data points because they can show us things about our emotional life when our minds can’t quite rationally figure out what’s going on.

Oftentimes our minds might want to bypass what’s happening in our bodies, but this practice encourages us to cultivate awareness of the felt sensation of the body and to learn to trust what’s going on with it. Sometimes the body knows what the mind cannot yet name.

Practice Four: 5-7-8 Breathing

The fourth and final practice, called 5-7-8 breathing, is portable—something we can do anywhere, anytime, especially when we are feeling agitated. It does not require closing the eyes or special preparation. This practice is beneficial because it takes us out of our habitual reactivity or habit loops in unpleasant situations.

It’s also a practice that can help turn on our parasympathetic nervous system, which allows us to relax and rest if we’re feeling emotionally charged or elevated, or outside our window of tolerance. Furthermore, 5-7-8 breathing can be helpful in moments of intense craving for something, whether it’s a mental attachment to something you feel you must have or something you don’t really want to have but can’t seem to let go of.

To begin, breathe in for a count of five while silently counting to yourself (maybe you even visualize each number). Then, hold that breath for a count of seven, again focusing on each number. The last part of this is a slow, steady, and even exhale for a count of eight. You’ll notice that the exhale is longer than the inhale, and that’s because the exhalation is what kicks in the parasympathetic nervous system.

Feel free to do a few rounds of this. But please remember that you’re not counting seconds, that is, you’re not trying to breathe in for five seconds, hold for seven seconds, and exhale for eight seconds. Sometimes if we do that, we can run out of breath, which doesn’t feel good. So, count and breathe at a pace that feels natural to you. 

Mindfulness is often suggested as a way to heal and address our anxiety, but if we’re not careful, we can actually retraumatize ourselves with the practice. A trauma-informed lens is one that recognizes that trauma does exist and that it exists both from an individual experience and a collective experience.

Trauma can make the body feel like an unsafe place. Through trauma-informed mindfulness, we gradually reclaim it. Grounding through the senses is a wonderful way to anchor ourselves back in our body without necessarily focusing on the breath. Every decision—to open or close the eyes, to move or be still, to focus on touch instead of breath—is an act of healing. Choice-making expands our window of tolerance and strengthens our capacity to be with difficult experiences.

We cannot control the external world or prevent all harm. Yet we can rest between challenges. We can return to the body not as a site of fear, but as a place of safety, compassion, and liberation.

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From cradle to grave, each individual contributes to the world’s narrative, acting out their unique part in the drama of life, until the curtain falls and the stage clears. At death, they leave empty-handed, taking nothing except karmic energy—wholesome or unwholesome—cultivated during their lifetime and then channeled into the next cycle of rebirth. Born without a penny, one also departs without a penny, raising the question: What is the purpose of our earthly visit?

Exploring the meaning of life involves delving into religion, philosophy, cosmology, and ethics. Life’s purpose can vary among individuals, but a common thread emerges: humanity’s pursuit of happiness. 

The Elusive Nature of Happiness

Happiness, an abstract concept, differs across cultures. In societies that value material comfort, many believe happiness stems from wealth, reputation, or power. Yet, achieving these does not guarantee lasting fulfillment. The poor, aspiring to financial security, may perceive the rich as perpetually happy. However, why then do so many billionaires feel unfulfilled?

Warren Buffett, a legendary investor and one of the globe’s wealthiest individuals, maintains a modest lifestyle relative to his fortune. He resides in a simple home in Omaha, Nebraska, which he purchased in the 1950s, and is known for his frugal habits and unassuming demeanor. Buffett often says his personal contentment is not derived from his wealth, but instead, it emanates from his love for his work and the relationships he cherishes with friends and family. His perspective challenges the common assumption that happiness is directly tied to wealth, highlighting that even immense financial success does not guarantee personal fulfillment.

Transitioning from a contemporary billionaire to a historical literary figure, the story of Leo Tolstoy offers a similar insight. The Russian author of War and Peace, Tolstoy enjoyed widespread fame and considerable wealth. Yet, as he disclosed in My Confession, he felt profoundly empty and miserable despite his success. In his final years, Tolstoy’s disillusionment grew so intense that he fled his home. His deteriorating health and increasing despondency ultimately led to his lonely death at a small rural railway station. Clearly, possessing wealth, reputation, or power does not inherently lead to happiness, and chasing them can have karmic repercussions. 

The situation is much the same for sensory stimulation. Some people believe that beauty for the eyes, pleasant sounds for the ears, and delightful tastes for the tongue will bring them happiness, but the pursuit of such pleasures can in fact be dangerously counterproductive, leading to distress rather than joy. These pursuits, focused on self-gratification, can further foster greed, anger, and delusion. Even if sensory pleasures provide satisfaction, the happiness is fleeting and superficial, often resulting in more trouble than it’s worth. The cycle of desire and frustration can leave one wondering why they ever pursued such temporal joys in the first place. 

From a worldly perspective, the desire to satisfy the senses is natural, and there is no harm if done in moderation. However, understanding that happiness does not arise from merely indulging the senses is crucial. Considering sensual pleasure as the ultimate life goal is misguided.

Cultivating the Mind: A Path to Lasting Happiness

People have diverse needs and hopes at various times and under different circumstances. Once these needs and hopes are met, they generally feel happy. For example, a little money can satisfy the urgent needs of someone who is penniless. For someone who is sick, a quick recovery is a blessing. And for a loving mother, seeing a rebellious son finally transform into a responsible and hardworking individual brings tremendous joy. However, this type of happiness is temporary. Once experienced, it soon dissipates. 

With a never-ending flow of needs and hopes, can someone be truly and forever satisfied? How, according to Buddhism, might one remain happy every day? The answer lies in maintaining a calm and pure mind. The question then arises: How can you keep your mind calm and pure? 

When adversity strikes and you feel angry or distressed, your mind is signaling that it is overwhelmed by greed, anger, or delusion. You may have lost your composure. You may have become disturbed, agitated, or depressed. In these moments, you might resort to lying, cursing, angry tirades, or even physical violence. Without self-reflection and the ability to exercise self-control, you risk further straying into confusion and obsessive compulsion. However, those who manage to maintain a calm and pure mind through mental stabilization and introspection, such as samatha and vipassana, remain impervious to extreme feelings of love or hate regardless of the circumstances. Consequently, they tend to lead lives filled with serenity, contentment, and peace.

Finding a Serene Abode Within

Generally, human beings strive for a happy life, and as we discussed above, cultivating the mind is essential to achieving happiness. Buddhism describes the world we currently inhabit as “saha,” a Sanskrit word meaning tolerable. This implies that while happiness exists in this world, it’s fleeting and transient, whereas pain and dissatisfaction are omnipresent and difficult to avoid. This is not a gloomy portrayal; it simply reflects the reality of human existence. Given these circumstances, the pursuit of mental and spiritual balance becomes essential. 

Balancing joy and suffering involves establishing self-awareness through meditation, cultivating compassion and loving-kindness, understanding the nature of impermanence, and engaging in meritorious actions and speech. Additionally, it’s critical to practice detachment from possessions and relationships—not to become indifferent, but to find an equilibrium where happiness does not depend on external factors. Mastering these practices enables us to navigate the vagaries of life with resilience and wisdom.

True happiness begins with thinking holistically about the truths of our existence and the universe. The buddhadharma illuminates a path that not only can help us navigate the external world but also leads us toward an internal sanctuary, a serene abode within the mind.

In light of the Buddha’s teachings, we might ask, what is it like to truly cultivate a peaceful abode for the mind that doesn’t attach to transient worldly concerns? The following verse, attributed to Zen master Wumen Huikai (1183–1260) explains this beautifully:

In spring, the bloom of myriad flowers, 
Autumn’s moon lights the quiet hours. 
Summer breezes soothe our sleep. 
Winter cloaks in snow so deep, 
With not a single worry to confine, 
The universe itself is wholly divine. 

“Not a single worry” is akin to “no attachment.” If we are free of worries, we enjoy the beauty of any season, and happiness is an everyday gift. 

The Zen adage “Every day is a good day” emerges as a profound reminder, encouraging us to recognize each day’s inherent value and beauty. True contentment lies not in material pursuits, but in appreciating each moment of our existence. We can recognize the opportunity within each day to engage in meaningful work for ourselves, our families, and our communities.

Enduring happiness stems from our internal journey toward self-awareness and mind cultivation. I encourage you to reflect on how these teachings can be applied in your own life as you traverse the complexities of modern existence and uncover a serene abode within.

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Hakuin told Ohashi that enlightenment “was possible in any circumstance.” He gave her the koan, “Who is it that does this work?”

One night, as part of her process of exploring the koan, Ohashi decided to confront one of her greatest fears. Though she was terrified of thunder and lightning, she deliberately chose to sit on a veranda during a storm. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck the ground near her. She fell unconscious, and when she awakened, she saw the world in an entirely new way. Hakuin recognized her experience as a Zen awakening.

To what did she awaken? 

Good question—one that can only truly be answered by diving into one’s own life. This koan invites us to sit on the veranda of our own lives and deeply inquire into the question, “Who am I?”

Ohashi had a list of answers she could recite: daughter of a samurai, sex worker, calligrapher, poet, koan student. Was that all? What was her essence that she shared with all human beings?

In her commentary on this koan in The Hidden Lamp, Judith Randall describes Ohashi’s practice as “fiercely determined.” This wording moves me deeply. I think of others like the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu whose lives exemplify this path of fierce determination. A beautiful film about them, Mission: Joy—Finding Happiness in Troubled Times, shows how determined they were to live a vow of nonviolence. Film clips show how the Dalai Lama had to flee Tibet and watch his people’s homeland be systematically overtaken. Yet in spite of all the difficulties, he speaks strongly against retaliating with violence and continues to search for solutions. Desmond Tutu, at the risk of his own life, led the movement against apartheid in South Africa and earned the love of many and the hatred of others. He was a powerful force in establishing the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, initiating one of the most profound acts of collective healing ever undertaken. In the most desperate of circumstances, both these spiritual leaders cultivated and nurtured a fierce determination to foster peace.

This is not lip service. It is hard work and requires the deepest kind of dedication possible. It is fierce determination in action. I understand “fierce” in this context to mean the depth of commitment necessary to maintain and live in a way that fosters peace and kindness. The Archbishop and the Dalai Lama each took vows to cultivate compassion in their respective spiritual traditions. To take those vows is one thing; to truly live them is another.

Ohashi’s taking her seat on the veranda was an act of fierce determination. When she sat down with this attitude, she did not know what she would find. This is a key aspect of koan study in the Zen tradition: letting go of what you hope you will find and allowing not knowing to be your ground zero.

I too have taken vows when receiving the Zen precepts, first as a lay practitioner, later as an ordained priest. The precepts are an elaboration of skillful means for living a mindful and compassionate life, and in receiving the precepts, we vow to enact them in our full body/mind/heart. Yet there are times when I cannot live the precepts as I would want to. My anger, sense of hurt, or whatever else raises its head and propels me into behavior that is not how I would like to be, not how I have vowed to be. In other words, I screw up.

After forty-five years of practice, I have come to understand that the intention to live these vows is the most important element. It takes fierce determination to avow again and again that I will do my very best to apply these principles as living teachings. Sometimes I fail miserably, but the commitment keeps me on track and encourages me to try again. And again. And again.

Ohashi’s fierce determination enabled her to realize her essence, which had nothing to do with living in a brothel. She could just as well have been living in a palace. She was able to transform her view of herself so that she saw beyond appearances. She was the buddha of the brothel. She may have been living in servitude, but she was free, not in body, but in mind.

I am not in any way saying it’s okay to be forced to live this way. Yet how often are we caught in a situation we can’t change? Sometimes we have no choice but to live with what is. Then comes the question: How can we live with this and not be a prisoner of it? It could be an incurable illness, our house exploding from a gas leak, or the forests around us burning out of control.

Ohashi did make the choice. Her father did not sell her. Her mother did not sell her. She chose to sell herself to the brothel. I repeat: I’m not saying that it’s okay that women, and sometimes men, have had to—and still do—sell themselves. At the same time, to ignore the fact that she made the decision is to steal away central themes of this koan. What is resilience? What does it mean to take responsibility for our actions?

Statistics about resilience are one thing. Personal stories have a more piercing effect. Here are two that have helped me believe in the power of fierce determination, which could also be expressed as unwavering resolve. 

My friend Esperanza and I both gave birth in 1977, when we were twenty-eight years old. Esperanza, who had suffered from diabetes since she was child, was warned by doctors of the dangers of pregnancy and giving birth. The highest risk, caused by the stress that pregnancy would put on her body, was losing her eyesight—something that can happen to severe diabetics. 

Esperanza went ahead with the pregnancy. The most feared thing happened. Shortly before giving birth, she lost her eyesight in one eye. Shortly after the birth, she could no longer see with her other eye. She was completely blind.

One day Esperanza received a visit from someone from the department of social services. Ostensibly, the social worker was there to see how the local government could assist her, especially given that her husband had to work long hours and often weekends to meet the medical bills and to provide for their living expenses. Following that first appointment, Esperanza became terrified that social services would take her baby into care because they didn’t believe a blind woman could be fully responsible for her own child.

A second appointment was set up for a few weeks later. Esperanza was resolved to fight for her child by providing evidence she could take care of her every need. Her plan was to prove that in the apartment, she could guarantee a safe home. She was determined to show that she was the master of all the circumstances and that she could do everything a seeing parent could do: change diapers, prepare food, wash her baby every day, feed and clothe her, cuddle and nurture her, and prevent her from hurting herself, whether it be falling down the stairs or playing with electrical outlets.

To do this, Esperanza knew she had to be completely familiar with the layout of the apartment, building a topographical map in her mind’s eye. And because her baby soon would be crawling, she knew she had to learn the apartment at ground level. Every day she spent at least an hour crawling on her knees over every inch of the apartment´s surface. She built a tactile sense of the apartment; by touch and sound she knew at every moment where her daughter was and where she could move safely.

I was awestruck as I watched her crawl through the apartment. It was not cute or picturesque. This was a woman fighting to keep her child by showing her ability to protect and care for her. When the social worker returned, she was relieved to see that Esperanza had developed mastery and confidence in the weeks that had passed. In fact, she had never intended to remove the baby, but she was happy to see everything would be okay. For everyone.

Now as I write about it, I feel the tears gather behind my eyes, even after so many years. I continue to this day to admire how Esperanza embodied the meaning of her name: hope. Fierce hope!

While reading the Spring/Summer 2003 edition of Wind Bell, San Francisco Zen Center’s newsletter, I discovered a story by Zen teacher Paul Haller that deepened my understanding of fierce determination. He wrote:

For many years there was someone who would come to City Center [San Francisco’s Zen Center’s urban temple] to sell us tins of candy. They were very sweet caramels, coated in chocolate, and they looked like little turtles, so we called him the Turtle Man. The Turtle Man was blind, so we’d buy two boxes instead of one. We’d put the tins of candy out on the desk in the front office, and even though we all thought they were too sweet, they were quickly eaten.

This ritual continued for many years. The Turtle Man, with his white cane, tapped his way up the stairs, tapped on the door until it was opened, came in and charmed us into buying the candy, and then left…

One day while I was out on the street, I heard a voice cry out, “Help! Help! Help!” It was the Turtle Man. He was standing on the corner of Page Street and Laguna. He needed to cross the street and his way of accomplishing that was to stand on the curb and cry “Help!” Just crying “Help!” until someone came along and escorted him across the street…

What an amazing, courageous life. Walking along until confronted with an insurmountable barrier, then to stop and just cry out, “Help!” Not knowing who you’re calling to, if anyone. Just waiting until somebody turns up and helps you cross that barrier. Then walking on, knowing that pretty soon you’re going to meet another barrier and then again you’re going to have to stop and cry out, “Help! Help! Help!” Entrusting your life to the innate generosity of existence that helps all beings to cross barriers and keep moving forward in their lives.

For me, the blind man’s cry expressed his fierce determination to cross the street—and all the roads of life. Yet, I find entrusting my own life to the “innate generosity of existence,” as Turtle Man is said to have done, is not so easy. I’ve had to face crossing streets as if I were blind many times. Existence was not especially generous to me as I was growing up. By the time I was twenty, I was deeply involved in the major illnesses of both my parents. When I was sixteen, my father suffered a brain aneurysm that left him with very little short-term memory. The day that aneurysm came, I lost the father I had known; the person who remained was a senile old man. He was no longer my parent in the traditional sense of someone who could take care of me, but rather our roles were switched: I had to change his diapers and make sure he didn’t get lost when he wandered off.

I learned to love him as a gentle bodhisattva who gave me the opportunity to serve him and to receive his deep gratitude and love. “You’re such a good person,” he would say. Even when he would repeatedly ask me, “When are we going out?” and I would lose my patience, he continued to say how good I was. Like Turtle Man, my father relied on the generosity of the universe, which in the beginning took the form of a very confused teenager who did not want to have to grow up so fast and often felt resentful and angry. Yet as time went on, my father´s deep kindness and gentleness wore me down, and I began to feel the quiet joy of being able to serve.

In the spring of 1970, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. We were in the throes of preparing for my wedding. I was just twenty years old, yearning to find stability in married life. For her own reasons, which she never explained to me, my mother didn’t tell me or anyone else that she was ill.

Two months after my wedding, she called and asked me to pick her up and take her downtown. I arrived and found her waiting with a small suitcase. As she got into the car, she handed me a piece of paper with an address on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. 

“Mom?” I began. 

“Don’t ask questions. Just drive!” she said sharply.

We arrived in front of Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. With her hand on the door handle, my mother said to me matter-of-factly, “I’m having a radical mastectomy tomorrow. Take care of your dad.” She got out, took her bag, and walked toward the entrance. I watched her in shock. Without looking back, she entered the hospital before I could say anything. Whatever I could have said, she didn’t want to hear. I went home to take care of my father.

My mother lived for six years in remission before her cancer resurfaced, and she died two years later. I came to understand that her not telling me about her diagnosis expressed her fierce determination to spare me any pain until the last moment possible. I, on the other hand, wanted to fight death every step of the way. I urged her to seek out other doctors, other treatments, even fly to Japan because I heard about some treatment that might be helpful. She would listen quietly and then say every time, “No. I am doing what I can, and we have to accept what is to come.” In the months leading up to her death, she taught me that fierceness could also be expressed in a soft, determined way. It was her gift to me.

I have various ways of sitting on the veranda to face my own fear. And sometimes I can and sometimes I can’t. I just have to think of a recent conflict with a colleague when I couldn’t transform my anger and instead let it out on her—not loudly but in a sharp, hard way. From an outward perspective, I was probably justified in my response. But that’s not really the issue. The fierce determination would have been to express what I wished, though not in a way that made her feel attacked. Instead, I closed down and she closed down, and then any real communication was not possible.

So, fierce determination is not so much about toughness as it is about the commitment to do one’s very best to move forward in a way that savors and honors life. It’s about developing a steadiness of mind, heart, and body that allows one to truly stand firm, even if it is much easier to give in to other, more destructive emotions and behaviors. With fierce determination, when we stumble and fall, we get up, assess the damage, and recommit to finding the best way forward. 

Thunder and lightning are always going to appear. How will you show up?

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Wise intention is the cornerstone of wise effort, that is, effort that is wholesome and positive. The instructions for wise effort call for us to continually evaluate our actions and choose those that lead to less suffering and eschew those that lead to more suffering. This is easily determined by checking if the action is being fueled by wholesome or unwholesome intentions. So clarity about our intentions needs to be present to inform wise effort. There are ways to practice wise intention for ourselves, our loved ones, and all beings.

1. Wise Intention for All Beings

I taught at Spirit Rock Insight Meditation Center on September 12, 2001, the day after the destruction of the World Trade Center. People talked about their connections to people who had been in the buildings. Others spoke about when they’d heard the news and how they’d felt at that moment. The atmosphere was calm and sober, and I suggested that we recite these Buddhist precepts, which express our intentions as practitioners:

I undertake the precept to abstain from harming living beings.
I undertake the precept to abstain from taking that which is not freely given.
I undertake the precept to speak without being abusive or exploitive.
I undertake the precept to abstain from sexuality that is exploitive or abusive.
I undertake the precept to refrain from intoxicating my mind into heedless behavior.

The experience of affirming together our dedication to wise and kind behavior was like a soothing balm to our frightened minds. It seemed to restore some faith and confidence in the future to be surrounded by people who trust the Buddha’s teaching that “Hatred is never ended by hatred. By non-hatred is hatred ended. This is the eternal law.”

2. Wise Intention for Loved Ones

My friends Dwayne and Sara expressed their wedding vows this way—their own version of the Buddhist precepts:

Because I love you, I promise never to harm you.
Because I love you, I promise to never take anything you don’t want to give me.
Because I love you, I’ll speak only truthfully and kindly to you.
Because I love you, I’ll treat your body with love.
Because I love you, I will keep my mind free from confusion so that I act only out of wisdom.

Dwayne and Sara are now into the second decade of their marriage, and they continue to say these vows to each other every morning. Reaffirming their intentions for how they will be together primes their minds to catch a thoughtless word or action in advance of it manifesting. They are very happy.

3. Wise Intention for Self

In a sermon the Buddha preached for his son, Rahula, he called for considering before, during, and after every action whether it was potentially abusive or exploitive or genuinely rooted in kind intent. Sufficient clarity of mind—through wise mindfulness and concentration—is required to discern negative intent, and sufficient wise effort is required to exercise self-restraint. Through wise understanding we deeply intuit the legacy of losses that we share with other livings beings, and through wise intention we find an ever-growing resolve to respond to all life with compassion.

Here is a set of personal intentions based on traditional Buddhist precepts. Some people I know have them taped to their bathroom mirror and say them aloud each morning:

On behalf of myself and all beings,
I intend to refrain from consciously hurting anyone.
I intend to refrain from overtly or covertly taking what is not mine.
I intend to be sure that my speech is kind as well as true.
I intend to refrain from addictive behaviors that confuse my mind and lead to heedlessness.

My own experience is that saying specific vows evokes an awareness of ways in which I may have broken them. I leave time between each vow for my mind to do a moral inventory. I find that in the context of a relaxed mind, these discoveries feel like gentle reprimands, and I make a list of amends I want to make.

Recite your intentions every morning and they will guide your day. You and everyone you encounter will benefit.

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The breath is a powerful reminder of your anxiety-reducing connection with others, says Kamilah Majied.

Though we tremble before uncertain futures / may we meet illness, death and adversity with strength / may we dance in the face of our fears.

—Gloria E. Anzaldúa, in this bridge we call home

The second anniversary of the pandemic is a good time to reflect on the wisdom gleaned from this challenging experience. Notice the insights you’ve gained about how to be with yourself when you can’t be with others. We have been learning how to manage the anxious loneliness that often occurs and accrues as we limit our physical contact with people.

We often associate loneliness with sadness, but loneliness also has an anxious quality. The yearning to be social, to see smiles, hold hands, and hug one another can grip us in a field of angst. A breath practice can help us hold, release, and transform that anxiety.

As we grieve our deceased loved ones, our separations from living beloveds, and the absence of festivities that celebrate our connections, we may also experience anticipatory grief. We might worry about ourselves and loved ones getting sick in the future. We may worry that this pandemic will never end and find ourselves premourning future Covid-related losses. Grief and anticipatory grief can generate as much anxiety as they do sorrow. We can use the breath to release and learn from all aspects of grief.

The wonder of breathing is even more clear to us now. The threat and possibility of this, our shared air, reveals the threat and possibility of interdependence itself. Our exhalation is someone’s inhalation, and someone’s out-breath is our in-breath. Our breath is a reminder that we are connected no matter how lonely we feel.

May this breath practice help you transmute the anxiety of separation and loss. Repeat these words as you focus on your breath.

Breathing in, I notice that I miss you.
Breathing out, I embrace you with an intention for all beings to be well.

Breathing in, I notice worry that I will not endure.
Breathing out, I notice that I am enduring.

Breathing in, I grieve for my losses.
Breathing out, I thank impermanence for connecting me to all of life.

Conquer Anxiety with Kindness

Sylvia Boorstein on the loving-kindness meditation she uses to care for herself, calm down, and carry on.

Everyone is anxious these days, with good cause. The world is imperiled. Workers are quitting jobs at a higher than usual rate and wondering, “Is this what I am supposed to be doing with my life?” Colleagues are reporting that they feel “Zoomed out” by the end of the day, and all the psychotherapists I know are reporting waitlists for people wanting to talk to them. Even before the pandemic, when last I was teaching in-person retreats, I was noticing that many people had listed SSRIs (anxiety and depression drugs) on their registration sheets.

And, of course, people already prone to anxiety are worrying more. I’m one of those people. Worrying—“fretting” as it is called in classical Buddhist texts—is my principal reaction to stress. When that happens, I note to myself, “Worrying is arising,” and, “This is excess energy in the mind, and it will pass,” and that’s helpful. Or I try to ease the mind’s tension by reminding myself,

“This is my mind’s particular habit of catastrophizing. Let’s wait and see what happens.”

Another technique is thinking, “This is just a story. If I take a break and breathe deeply for a few minutes, I’ll remember I’ve done this dance a million times and it is always exhausting.” Lately, I’ve been saying to myself, “Sweetheart, you’re hurting yourself again with these stories.” This last is the closest response to compassion, and so I think it is progress, because more and more my approach to the dharma is evolving toward kindness.

An instruction about anxiety I often see these days, on T-shirts and coffee cups, recalls a British response to World War II:

“Keep Calm and Carry On.” That would be the Buddhist response, indeed the best human response, to these times. I would just add: “Keep Calm and Carry On, and Be Kind.”

A Loving-Kindness Meditation for Times of Anxiety

Take time during the day to stop for a few minutes. Breathe. (My smartwatch tells me, “Stop and breathe” several times a day.) While you are stopping and breathing, take that time to think of the people you love and wish that they are well, wherever they are. Look around at all the people in your view. Each one of them has a mind full of people they know and love and the hopes they hold for them, just like you. So much of our anxiety is about ourselves, and when your mind refocuses itself from “me and my troubles” to “everyone else and their troubles,” it feels better. It feels connected, alive, and supported by that connection.

Listen to Your Body

If you tune in to your body’s warning messages, says Jill Satterfield, you can catch your fears before they take over.

The body is continually speaking to us in the form of sensations. We actually sense an idea or an emotion physically before it’s thought, yet we’re generally too involved elsewhere to notice. But if we pay close attention to it, the body is the best ally in our ability to understand the mind in the wordless language of sensations.

Most of us aren’t taught to consciously reside in our bodies, so befriending and listening to our bodies can be foreign at first. If we want to include the mind and body in our meditation practice, it can be helpful to acknowledge the nama and rupa elements of what the Buddha taught.

Typically translated as mind-body, nama-rupa can also be understood as mentality and materiality. The body is the material form of consciousness, and with intention, time, and direct experience we can be open to the intelligent signals it sends us.

Through a more conscious body, it’s possible to locate our center within life’s storms.

Anxiety is a tangle of emotions and thoughts usually configured around something uncomfortable that hasn’t yet happened. The fear that mounts isn’t soothed easily, because the story the thoughts weave is believable and easily hooks us. The repetitive nature of becoming hooked deepens the conditioning and primes it to rerun.

Sensing the beginning of potential entanglement in our body is the precise moment we can prevent anxiety from taking over. When we combine this with the cognitive ability to track a reaction back to its initial stimulus, we become aware of how the feeling started and what resulted. This combination of sensing and making sense can be the key to liberating the neuronal and somatic patterns that bind us.

Manage Anxiety Mindfully

Melvin Escobar on how the four foundations of mindfulness ease the suffering of anxiety.

The Satipatthana Sutra is said to be the Buddha’s original mindfulness manual. In this sutra, the Buddha breaks the practice down into four contemplations that are known as the four foundations of mindfulness. Let’s look at how we can use these four practices to help us mindfully approach, versus avoid, the dukkha of anxiety.

1. Contemplation of Body

To help understand anxiety, notice the physical phenomena you experience via your senses. Pay attention to the sensations in your body. Are you able to connect to your breath? If not, that’s okay. Find another neutral body part to anchor your attention to.

Notice how your body is holding tension. Practice consciously relaxing these tensions, noting what happens to the anxiety.

2. Contemplation of Feeling

Observing the quality of anxiety via feeling tones is another helpful tool. Start by classifying the feeling tones associated with anxiety as pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral. Usually anxiety feels unpleasant—it bombards us with future-focused, what-if thoughts. But anxiety can also manifest as a pleasant feeling when we’re working under pressure, using anxious energy to get things done. Do you ever notice the neutral feeling tone of nonanxiety? By identifying different feeling tones, you become aware of what’s activating your anxiety.

3. Contemplation of Mind

The mind is how we make sense of what our senses tell us about the world and ourselves. Practicing mindfulness helps us notice how thoughts are complicit in creating anxiety. The stories the anxious mind makes up create feedback loops, amplifying the anxiety.

Notice how thoughts add more fuel to the fire of anxiety. Cultivating spaciousness around these aspects of mind can interrupt even the most deep-seated patterns that overwhelm us and lead to overidentification with anxiety.

4. Contemplation of the Dhammas

Here the word dhammas refers to five categories of mental phenomena that bring together many of the things the Buddha taught. These are: the five hindrances, the five aggregates, the six sense spheres, the seven factors of enlightenment, and the four noble truths.

Anxiety is listed specifically as one of the five hindrances (it’s usually translated as “restlessness and worry”). Understanding how mental phenomena like anxiety are reproduced helps liberate us from the dukkha they engender, including anxiety.

We can use these four foundations to make our experiences of anxiety part of our practice, developing trust in the benefits of approaching rather than avoiding it.

3 Steps to Self-Compassion

Psychologist Chris Germer’s three-step practice to soothe your anxiety with kindness.

This three-step practice taps into the three components of self-compassion: mindfulness, our common humanity, and self-kindness. You can do it whenever you feel anxiety in your daily life.

1. Start by Practicing Mindfulness

Begin by validating your feelings of anxiety. Say in a warm and understanding way, “I’m experiencing anxiety. I’m feeling anxiety,” as you might speak with a dear friend.

Then notice where in your body you feel anxiety the most. Do you feel tightness in your throat, a pounding heart, butterflies in your stomach, or dizziness in your head?

See if you can make a little room for that sensation, allowing it to be there, if only for a few moments.

2. Contemplate our Common Humanity

It may feel like you’re the only person experiencing anxiety, but rest assured that millions of people feel just as you do in this very moment.

Recognize that many others, if they were in the same situation as you, would feel just like you do.

Say to yourself, “Anxiety is part of the human condition. I am not alone.”

3. Give Yourself Kindness

Now see if you can give yourself kindness, simply because you’re feeling anxiety, not to make anxiety go away. Here are four ways to do that.

Soft Gaze: First, allow a living being to come to mind who has a lot of love in their eyes, such as a child, a pet, a loved one, or a friend. Visualize their eyes and allow yourself to bathe in their gaze for as long as you like.

Soothing Touch: Place one of your hands on the part of your body where you feel anxiety the most, feeling the sense of touch and warmth of your hand. If you like, imagine kindness flowing through your fingers into that part of your body, or gently stroke that part of your body as an expression of sympathy and kindness.

Gentle Words: Reflect for a moment on words you would like to hear most at a time like this. For example, “I love you,” ‘‘I’m here for you,” “You can do this.” What words would inspire you to say, “Thank you, I needed to hear that”? Then whisper those words into your own ear, as a silent blessing, over and over.

Take some time to practice self-kindness—through soft gaze, soothing touch, and gentle words—however it feels just right for you.

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The Buddha himself discovered this. As a prince, he had everything — a palace, wealth, comfort — but he was still dissatisfied. He asked, Everything is going well. Why am I still not satisfied? Where does all this suffering come from? Later, after years of study and austere practice, he sat under the Bodhi tree and remembered a childhood moment under a rose apple tree. As a boy, simply resting in presence, he had felt a natural ease: nothing to get rid of, nothing to create, just awareness as it is. That memory opened the door to enlightenment.

In the Vajrayana tradition, we say that our true nature is already pure and complete. But when we forget this, emotions like anger, jealousy, and pride cloud the mind. The good news is that these emotions themselves can lead us back to our true nature. In fact, there are three main ways to work with emotions: removing, transforming, and transcending.

Removing: Creating the Right Conditions

The first way is very practical: we learn to avoid or reduce the conditions that stir up strong emotions. In early Buddhist teachings, this is called the removing or abandoning style.

Imagine you’re meditating and keep falling asleep. One simple method is to stand up, walk around, or open a window. Doing this will “remove” the sleepiness. Another version of this approach is to remove the conditions that trigger a reaction. If you’re distracted by your smartphone at bedtime, put it in another room. Here again, you’ve removed distraction, the unwholesome state of mind. These adjustments are not yet deep wisdom — they are like changing the outer conditions so the mind can settle.

Sometimes people think this is not “real meditation,” but it is very important. The Buddha himself taught many precepts to help us avoid harmful environments and behaviors. When emotions are strong, it can be wise to step back, breathe, and change the situation.

Practice: The Removing Method

• Next time you feel overwhelmed by sleepiness, anger, or craving, don’t force yourself to “fix” it with meditation.
• Instead, change one condition: move your body, adjust your posture, take a short walk, or shift your focus.
• Notice how small changes can reduce the power of an emotion.

The removing style is like taking the thorns out of your shoes before walking. You don’t have to carry the pain unnecessarily.

Transforming: Turning Poison into Medicine

The second way is subtler and more powerful. In Vajrayana, we say, “Poison becomes medicine.” Instead of pushing emotions away, we bring them onto the path.

For example, take ignorance. When the mind feels foggy, confused, or dull, it can be frustrating. But ignorance also has a good quality — it is non-judgmental. When you rest with that quality, it becomes openness, the wisdom of vast space.

Or take anger. Anger can be painful and destructive, but within anger there is also energy, clarity, and vividness. If you work with it skillfully, anger transforms into mirror-like wisdom.

One of my favorite practices here is tonglen — taking and sending. When you feel anger, imagine breathing in the anger of all beings, dissolving it into your own. Then breathe out love, compassion, and joy to all beings. At first, this may sound frightening — “Rinpoche, I don’t want more anger!” — but what happens is the opposite. The anger itself becomes the source of compassion. The poison becomes medicine.

Practice: Transforming with Tonglen

• Sit quietly and bring to mind a difficult emotion, like anger or fear.
• Breathe in, imagining that you take in the same suffering from all beings. Let it dissolve in your heart.
• Breathe out, sending love, compassion, and peace to yourself and everyone.
• Continue for a few minutes, letting the emotion soften into care.

When we do this, emotions stop being enemies. They become teachers. They remind us of our shared humanity and open the door to compassion.

Transcending: Seeing the True Nature

The most profound method is to look directly into the emotion itself and recognize its nature. This is called transcending style. Knowing the nature of reality as it is.

Normally, when anger or craving arises, we believe it is solid: I am angry. I am jealous. But if we look closely, what do we find? Anger is not one thing. It is made of many parts: a sensation in the chest, an image of the person who hurt us, some inner words, and a belief that, for instance, “I was wronged.” Put together, these parts feel like something solid, but when you look more closely, you see that it’s not solid at all. It’s just like shaving foam. It looks solid, but when you touch it, it dissolves!

This is what the Buddha called emptiness. Emptiness is not nothingness. It points to the fact that things are not as real and solid as they often seem. The best solution to be totally free from suffering is recognizing emptiness. Just like in a dream, things appear vivid but are not truly real. You might dream of eating pizza: you see it, smell it, taste it, and even burn your tongue if it’s too hot. Yet when you wake up, where is the pizza? It was vivid but empty. It was not as solid and real as it seemed in the dream.

In the same way, when you look into an emotion, you see that it has no fixed essence. It appears, and yet it is empty. And within that emptiness is wisdom. 

Practice: Looking into Anger

• Bring to mind a recent moment of anger. Let it arise gently.
• Ask yourself: Where is the anger? In my chest, my head, my mind?
• Then ask: What is anger made of? Sensations? Images? Words? Beliefs?
• Notice how the pieces shift and dissolve. The solid anger cannot be found.
• Rest in the spacious awareness that remains — clear, open, and free.

This is transcending: not following the emotion, not fighting it, but seeing its true nature. When we recognize this, emotion liberates itself, and what remains is the wisdom of that emotion. 

From Kleshas to Wisdom

In Vajrayana, we speak of the five kleshas: ignorance, anger, pride, desire, and jealousy. These are usually seen as poisons, the roots of suffering. But each klesha also contains a seed of wisdom. Ignorance, when seen clearly, reveals the spacious wisdom of openness. Anger transforms into mirror-like wisdom. Pride becomes the wisdom of equality. Desire turns into discriminating wisdom, able to see the unique qualities of each being and thing. And jealousy ripens as all-accomplishing wisdom, the fearless energy to benefit others. With the methods of removing, transforming, and transcending, every emotion — no matter how painful — can become the doorway to its corresponding wisdom.

The Three Together

So which method is best — removing, transforming, or transcending? The answer is all of them.

When emotions are overwhelming, start with removing. Create safe, supportive conditions. Once you are more stable, use transforming: turn the emotion into compassion and wisdom. And when the mind is ready, look directly into the emotion’s essence and see its emptiness.

In my own practice, I use all three methods, sometimes in a single meditation session. For example, if I feel sleepy, I may open the window (removing). If restlessness comes, I may do tonglen (transforming). And when clarity returns, I may look directly into the emotion (transcending).

Emotions as Gateways

When I was young, I suffered terrible panic attacks. I never believed I had buddha nature. But by working with my panic using these three styles, I came to see that emotions are not the problem. The problem is believing they are solid and permanent.

Now, when I teach around the world, I tell people: Every time you blink your eyes, every breath you take, you are looking for happiness and freedom from suffering. That very longing is the sign of your buddha nature calling you home.

So don’t be discouraged by emotions. Anger, fear, jealousy, pride — each is a gateway. With skill, we can remove what is unhelpful, transform poison into medicine, and transcend by recognizing the luminous emptiness of mind.

As the Buddha said after his awakening: “Profound, peaceful, luminous, uncontrived.” That nature is already within you. And emotions, when worked with skillfully, can reveal it.

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Outwardly the two men were opposites. While Rosenberg was a convivial hermit, solid and earthbound, with a low center of gravity, Kabat-Zinn, twelve years younger, was outgoing and effusive, lean and kinetic. While Rosenberg became a vagabond for many years, Kabat-Zinn chose the Buddhist “householder” route — marrying, having children, holding a regular job. “Our paths took very different directions, but beneath all appearances, they’re exactly the same,” Kabat-Zinn said. “We were always looking for ways to live our lives committed to embodied wakefulness and wisdom.” He sometimes referred to Rosenberg as his “windshield” because Rosenberg was often the first to make contact and check out Asian teachers passing through the spiritual bazaar of Cambridge, giving Kabat-Zinn the green light only if the itinerant masters were up to snuff. Unlike today, when a book search on Amazon for “Buddhism” turns up tens of thousands of results, dharma literature back then was scarce; the two friends spent hours scouring underground bookstores specializing in esoterica of all sorts. Among other things, Rosenberg came across a series of thin pamphlets called The Wheel, published in Sri Lanka, written by practicing monastics, and chock-full of what felt like dharma gold. 

Fittingly, Rosenberg and Kabat-Zinn were in adjacent rooms at a meditation retreat in 1979 when Kabat-Zinn hatched the revolutionary idea of MBSR. “Who else could I talk about it with but Larry?” 

For a time in the early 1970s, they led classes together on Tuesday nights at various churches around Harvard Square — Rosenberg teaching meditation, and Kabat-Zinn, yoga. (During one, while Rosenberg and his students were deep in meditation, a thief sneaked in and stole wallets and purses that the yogis had casually piled on a stage.) After teaching, the dharma bros went out to dinner and talked for hours. “It was like we were in love. Two minds, two hearts, delighting in inquiry, sharing, humor — a lot of humor,” Kabat-Zinn recalled. “Most people, understandably, come to the dharma because they are hurting, often badly. They are seeking relief. They want healing. They want transformation. Larry and I came to the dharma mostly out of wonder, out of love, out of a sense of exploration and inquiry into the nature of reality beyond the conventional explorations within the academy. We were deep into the koans, Who am I? and What am I?” 

I asked Kabat-Zinn how the two maintained such an intense friendship for so long: “I listened to him. He listened to me. It’s very easy to talk, but to be heard — that is a whole different story. When you feel met and heard, and you’re talking about only the most important thing in the universe — your love for dharma and what you’re going to do with your life, which is the only thing we ever really talked about — you only need one friend like that. You’re way ahead of the curve to have even one friend with whom you can connect around a common love of practice and have a conversation like that every week.” To this day, on the less frequent occasions when they can meet in person, they rarely reminisce, preferring to have lunch, drink matcha tea, and share the increasingly precious moments together that they have left. 

From The World Exists to Set Us Free © 2025 by Larry Rosenberg with Madeline Drexler. Reprinted in arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Inc. Boulder, CO. www.shambhala.com.

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Spiritual practice is not just sitting and meditating. Practice is looking, thinking, touching, drinking, eating, and talking. Every act, every breath, and every step can be practice and can help us to become more ourselves.

The quality of our practice depends on its energy of mindfulness and concentration. I define mindfulness as the practice of being fully present and alive, body and mind united. Mindfulness is the energy that helps us to know what is going on in the present moment. I drink water and I know that I am drinking the water. Drinking the water is what is happening.

Mindfulness brings concentration. When we drink water mindfully, we concentrate on drinking. If we are concentrated, life is deep, and we have more joy and stability. We can drive mindfully, we can cut carrots mindfully, we can shower mindfully. When we do things this way, concentration grows. When concentration grows, we gain insight into our lives.

Oneness of body and mind is the fruit of practice that you can get right away—you don’t have to wait.

When I join my palms to greet a child, or to greet an adult, I don’t do it simply to be polite. I do it because this is my practice. I am a living being who is bowing to a child or to a friend. Joining my palms, I make a flower. It’s beautiful in appearance and it’s beautiful on the inside. In joining my two palms, I realize the oneness of body and mind. My left hand is like my body, my right hand is like my mind. They come together, and in an instant I arrive at the state of oneness of body and mind. When mind and body come together, they produce our true presence. We become fully alive. Oneness of body and mind is the fruit of practice that you can get right away—you don’t have to wait.

The principle of the practice is simple: to bring our minds back to our bodies, to produce our true presence, and to become fully alive. Everything is happening under the light of mindfulness. In the Jewish and Christian traditions, we say, “We’re doing everything in the presence of God.” That’s another way of expressing the same reality. When Jews have a shabbos dinner, they lay the table, pour the milk, and cook the food aware of the presence of the divine.

In Buddhism, God is mindfulness and concentration. Every single thing that takes place is exposed to the light of mindfulness and concentration, and that energy of mindfulness and concentration is the essence of the Buddha. Mindfulness and concentration always bring insight, and insight is the factor that liberates us from suffering, because we are able to see the true nature of reality.

All rituals are nothing if they are empty of the energy of mindfulness and concentration. We could call these energies the Holy Spirit. When a priest celebrates the Eucharist, breaking the bread and pouring the wine, it’s not the gesture and the words that create the miracle of the Eucharist. It’s the priest’s capacity to be alive, to be present at that moment, that can wake up the whole congregation. The priest can break the bread in such a way that everyone becomes aware that this piece of bread contains life. That requires strong practice on the part of the priest. If he’s not alive, if he’s not present, if he doesn’t have the power of mindfulness and concentration, he won’t be able to create life in the congregation, and in the church. That is why empty rituals don’t mean anything. For all of us—priest, monk, and layperson—our practice is to generate the energy of concentration and mindfulness.

When we do something deeply and authentically, it becomes a real ritual. When we pick up a glass of water and drink it, if we’re truly concentrated in the act of drinking, it is a ritual. When we walk with all our being, investing one hundred percent of ourselves into making a step, mindfulness and concentration become a reality. That step generates the energy of mindfulness and concentration that makes life possible, deep, and real. If we make a second step like that, we maintain that concentration. Walking like that, it looks like we are performing a rite. But in fact we’re not performing; we’re just living deeply every moment of our lives.

Even a daily habit like eating breakfast, when done as a practice, can be powerful. It generates the energy of mindfulness and concentration that makes life authentic. When we prepare breakfast, it can also be a practice. We can be really alive, fully present, and very happy during breakfast-making. We can see making breakfast as mundane work or as a privilege—it just depends on our way of looking. The cold water is available. The hot water is available. The soap is available. The kettle is available. The fire is available. The food is available. Everything is there to make our happiness a possibility. If we are caught in our worries and anger, or in the past or the future, then, although we’re making breakfast, we’re not there. We’re not alive.

You can clean the toilet in the spirit of mindfulness, investing all of yourself into the cleaning, making it into a joyful practice.

If you are cutting carrots, you should invest one hundred percent of yourself into the business of carrot-cutting. Nothing else. While cutting the carrot, please don’t try to think of the Buddha or anything else. Just cut the carrot in the best way possible, becoming one with the carrot, becoming one with the cutting. Live deeply that moment of carrot-cutting. It is as important as the practice of sitting meditation. It is as important as giving or hearing a dharma talk. When you cut the carrot with all of your being, that is mindfulness. If you can cultivate concentration, and if you can get the insight you need to liberate yourself from suffering, that is because you know how to cut your carrots.

You can clean the toilet in the spirit of mindfulness, investing all of yourself into the cleaning, making it into a joyful practice. Do one thing at a time. Do it deeply. There are many wonders of life that are available in the here and the now. Without mindfulness, you may be angry that you have to clean the toilet or feel resentful, and neglect and ignore the wonders around you.

Many of us don’t allow ourselves to be relaxed. Why do we always try to run and run, even while having our breakfast, while having our lunch, while walking, while sitting? There’s something pushing and pulling us all the time. We make ourselves busy in the hopes of having happiness in the future. In the sutra “Knowing the Better Way to Live Alone,” the Buddha said clearly, “Don’t get caught in the past, because the past is gone. Don’t get upset about the future, because the future is not yet here. There is only one moment for you to be alive, and that is the present moment. Go back to the present moment and live this moment deeply, and you’ll be free.”

How do we liberate ourselves in order to really be in the here and the now? Buddhist meditation offers the practice of stopping. Stopping is very important, because we’ve been running all our lives, and also in our previous lives. Our ancestors, our grandfather, our grandmother were running, and now they continue to run in us. If we don’t practice, our children will carry us in them and continue to run in the future.

A practitioner has the right to suffer, but a practitioner does not have the right not to practice. People who are not practitioners allow their pain, sorrow, and anguish to overwhelm them, and to push them to say and do things they don’t want to do and say. We who consider ourselves to be practitioners have the right to suffer like everyone else. It’s OK to suffer; it’s OK to be angry. We can learn to stop and stay with our suffering, attend to it with all of our tenderness and kindness, and take good care of our suffering.

Let’s try not to run away. We run because we’re too afraid. But if we can be present with our suffering, the energy of mindfulness is strong enough to embrace and recognize that pain and that sorrow. We suffer because we lack insight into our nature and into the nature of reality. The energy of mindfulness contains the energy of concentration, and concentration always contains the capacity of seeing deeply and bringing insight.

To see deeply, we have to first learn the art of stopping. The Buddha is often portrayed as sitting on a lotus flower, very fresh, very stable. If we’re capable of sitting in the here and the now, anywhere we sit becomes a lotus flower—whether that is at the base of a tree, on the grass, or on a stone bench. When we’re really sitting, we’re free from all worries, from all regrets, from all anger. Many of us sit on the meditation cushion, but it’s like sitting on thorns because we don’t know how to enjoy the lotus flower.

You can start by just appreciating your eyes. Breathing in, you are aware of your eyes; breathing out, you smile to your eyes. When you embrace your eyes with your mindfulness, you recognize that you have eyes, still in good condition. It is a wonderful thing to still have eyes in good condition. You need only to open them to enter the paradise of colors and forms. Those who have lost our eyesight know what it feels like to live in the dark and wonder at the capacity to see things.

When we cook, when we clean, when we walk, each movement can be made with mindfulness, concentration, and insight. With each step we take, we can touch the earth and become one with it. Our fear and loneliness dissipate.

We can just sit on the grass and open our eyes. The beautiful sunrise, the full moon, the orange, all these things reveal themselves to us when we are truly present. The blue sky is for us. The white clouds are for us, as are the trees, the children, the grass, and the loving faces of our dear ones. Everything is available to us because we still have eyes in good condition. Most of us don’t appreciate our eyes because we are not mindful. We may think that everything in us is wrong, but that’s not true. There are millions of things in us that are right.

When we cook, when we clean, when we walk, each movement can be made with mindfulness, concentration, and insight. With each step we take, we can touch the earth and become one with it. Our fear and loneliness dissipate. There is no other way. With every breath, we can generate mindfulness, concentration, and insight. Insight is our liberation. Insight liberates us from our fear, our ignorance, our loneliness and despair. It is this insight that helps us to penetrate deeply into the nature of no-birth and no-death, and the interconnected nature of all things. This is the cream of Buddhist practice—and we can do it by means of the very simple practices of breathing in and breathing out, being mindful of each step, and looking deeply.

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In each crisis I felt the world sharpen around me, as if my skin had eyes. Had the sun always shattered the leaves of these suburban oaks and maples into gold shards? Had autumn air always entered my nostrils with such cool friction?

As a Zen student, I’d known such moments briefly on the meditation cushion. Hours or days into a retreat, sudden clarity might pierce the zendo. Breathing in, breathing out, light, air, and sangha would come into perfect focus: ten, twenty, fifty breaths. Then all would fade, my monkey-mind frenzying again, throwing shadow puppets onto the white wall.

My father was my first meditation teacher.

The clarity of brushing up against my father’s mortality, though similar in quality, endured for days at a stretch. Within it lay terror—bare and bright—and rank, amorphous grief. I have arrived, I am home, I comforted myself, walking mindfully with the gatha taught by Thich Nhat Hanh to refugee monks in the midst of the Vietnam War. Fervently, I tried to remember the Pali metta prayer, said to have been taught by the Buddha to monks afraid to meditate in a tiger-rich grove.

My father was my first meditation teacher. Cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the brown corduroy sofa in our first American home, we’d close our eyes and chant the Hindu mantra Om Namo Shiva.

Later, when I began studying Zen, he said, “Ah, dhyaan!” In Hinduism, dhyaan is a lower stage of mind-concentration that precedes the higher forms of meditative worship; it’s the source word for what became, on Japanese tongues, Zen.

Buddhism began when a privileged young Hindu sought answers to the questions triggered in him by shocking sights: an old man, ill man, dead man, wise man. Because of the Buddha’s great quest, I too had practices to turn to when my father became those four sights. Toward the end, pain swelled his body and joy made him weep, side effects of both the opiates and the proximity of death. To wish him good health and a life of ease became absurd, so I switched to compassion and equanimity, as I’d once heard a teacher advise:

May your suffering ease.

All beings are owners of their own karma.

My father too was praying, in the words of the Isha Upanishad:

Let this body be reduced to ashes.

Let me see the gold-leafed face of truth.

What arose in me at last was gratitude, not as a practice but as a fruit of practice. Gratitude for the years we’d had together and the karma that allowed us to be together at the end. Gratitude for the medications and comforts afforded us by the great privilege of our place (a palace, by the standards of much of human history). And gratitude for these powerful practices, great lineages of teachers, our robust and diverse sanghas persisting through the flames of war and roars of beasts: a triple jewel which never tires of offering us refuge.

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