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Water, if you don't stir it, becomes clear, says a Tibetan
proverb. Similarly, the mind, if you don't stir it, finds peace, says Sogyal Rinpoche,
the renowned Buddhist teacher The
auditorium at the Hungarian Cultural Centre in Delhi, India, is packed
to capacity by a select audience—comprising mostly seekers from the
Western hemisphere, with a fair sprinkling of Indians—assembled on
an evening to receive what is described on the invitation as a "teaching"
from the renowned Tibetan Buddhist master, Sogyal Rinpoche.
On the facing wall, behind the podium from which the master is to speak,
is a set of five paintings depicting the Buddha in meditation: imparting
an ambience of serenity, solemnity and tranquillity to the occasion. These
paintings are by Elizabeth Brunner, Hungary-born artist who adopted this
country as her home during World War II. Now ninety, she is also present
to receive the wisdom.
As the expectant crowd waits, suddenly, Rinpoche, dressed in a
traditional beige gown, enters and hurriedly takes his place on the podium.
Sogyal Rinpoche is the author of The Tibetan Book of Living and
Dying, an extraordinary work of spiritual significance, and chief
of the Rigpa, an international organisation devoted to imparting Buddhist
teachings. He travels extensively across the world, having begun teaching
in the West in 1974, addressing audiences and holding spiritual retreats.
He begins by inviting questions from members of the audience. Someone
asks: "Can the mind be controlled at all?" "We will see," says Rinpoche.
After a pause, he adds: "That is kind of an Indian answer. (Laughter)
But actually we will see. We'll try to see the question and how you develop
yourself. But the answer is possible." Another asks: "What is the mind?"
"Something that knows," replies Rinpoche. "But unfortunately we
misuse it for grasping. Its goal is to let go of grasping, and realise
its pure nature."
The Buddha's teaching, he says, is both vast—comprising 108 Tibetan
volumes—and of the essence. It is described as zav gyacheva—vast
and profound. "Vast is the approach of the pundit and the learned." The
lamas and monks sometimes devote 13 years to studying it. "Profound is
the path of the yogi." Yet the teaching can be summed up in three lines:
Commit not a single unwholesome action. Cultivate a wealth of virtue.
And tame this mind of ours.
He lists the Ten Unwholesome
Actions. They are of body (stealing, killing and sexual misbehaviour), speech
(lying, harsh words, slander and gossip) and mind (malice, avarice and wrong view).
"Who decides what is unwholesome?" someone wants to know. "Your mind," he responds,
amidst laughter, adding: "They are considered unwholesome because they are the
cause of suffering, dukka, of oneself and others." To abandon the unwholesome
acts, and adopt the wholesome ones is, then, dhamma.
It is motivation
that provides the key. "In a sense, it doesn't really matter what you do, if your
motivation is correct," he says, with perspicacity. At the root of all human phenomena
is the mind. "Seek not to cut the root of phenomena, but to cut the root of the
mind." He explains: "If you have to cross a field covered with thorns, and you
try to cover the field with leather, you won't succeed. It is far simpler to cover
your feet with leather."
Rinpoche, born and brought up in Tibet, was taught by some of the
great masters and lamas of the Buddhist tradition, in particular, the
late Jamyang Khyentse. With the Chinese occupation, he took exile. In
1971, he went to Cambridge University to study comparative religion. Since
he began teaching, he has become increasingly popular among seekers in
Europe, the USA, Australia and Asia.
His work, The
Tibetan Book of Living and Dying is a modern spiritual classic, focusing
on the reality of death which becomes a celebration and search for the very ground
of life. With simplicity and insight, it blends personal experience, ancient wisdom
and recent findings on death and dying, to inspire a "quiet revolution in the
whole way we look at life and the whole way we look at death."
An excerpt:
"Perhaps the deepest reason why we are afraid of death is because we do not know
who we are. We believe in a personal, unique, and separate identity; but if we
dare to examine it, we find that this identity depends entirely on an endless
collection of things to prop it up: our name, our 'biography', our partners, family,
home, job, friends, credit cards... It is on their fragile and transient support
that we rely for our security. So when they are all taken away, will we have any
idea of who we really are?
"Without
our familiar props, we are faced with just ourselves, a person who we
do not know, an unnerving stranger with whom we have been living all the
time but we never really wanted to meet. Isn't that why we have tried
to fill every moment of time with noise and activity, however boring or
trivial, to ensure that we are never left in silence with this stranger
on our own?"
"Samsara is the mind
projected outwardly, lost in its projection. Nirvana is the mind turned inwardly,
recognising its true nature."
Water, if you don't stir it, becomes clear, says a Tibetan proverb.
Similarly, the mind, if you don't stir it, finds peace. "The trouble is,
we stir it," Rinpoche says, amidst a ripple of laughter. If you leave
the mind in its true, natural state, it'll find peace or bliss. Settling
the mind is called kshamta; removing the dirt is called vipassana,
or meditation. Allow the mind to settle, then in that quiet you can experience
goodness, which is our true nature.
Adding a footnote, he says, "In
the West, people are over-educated, they know too much. I would call it 'being
too clever for one's own good'." The audience is obviously amused. "I
think that's where ignorance would be bliss."
Many psychologists admit
that the gist of psychology is this: the basic cause of all mental troubles is
too much thinking. Only thinking creates hope, fear, anxiety and suffering. "A
little thought becomes a worry, you build up all kinds of imaginary scenarios,
are unable to get to sleep until 2 a.m.—and accomplish nothing!" he says.
It's best to begin simply. "Be spacious," they say in Tibet. The Indian
way, he adds by way of an aside, is 'be happy-go-lucky'. We're so used to thinking,
sometimes if people don't think for a minute, they worry there's something wrong
with them! A French philosopher said that the root cause of man's unhappiness
is that he cannot sit quietly in a room by himself.
So at first, just
let your mind quietly, spaciously be. "Sometimes, instructions are given just
to make you think less and in the end, there's nothing left to say," he says,
with irony. "Sometimes, the instruction given has to be emotionally satisfying,
and, removing the clutter, you begin to see the wisdom of that. Sometimes, you
have to go to monasteries to quieten the mind and its grasping nature."
When in the presence of the masters and the teaching, the mind is quiet, but when
one is alone, the mind is back to its clamorous and neurotic activity. So we need
practices, like watching the breath. In meditation, 25 per cent attention is on
the breath, 25 per cent on staying alert and wakeful, and 50 per cent on spaciousness.
Sometimes, one becomes fixated, which defeats the purpose.
As the mind
settles, gradually all fragmented aspects of the mind become whole, all inner
conflict ceases, the ego and grasping dissolve, hope and fear dissolve, and the
mind settles in mind. In that space, you discover your true nature and peace.
Sometimes, the problem is not with other people, but with ourselves. So be in
touch with yourself, find yourself, it's very nourishing.
If you practise,
it brings a healthy self-esteem. And not only the barriers within, barriers from
outside also fall away. The sense of separateness falls away.
One listener
asks: "I've also at times had glimpses of a spiritual nature, and then I'm comfortable
with myself. But soon my everyday self comes back, and again I'm uncomfortable
with myself. Why?"
The reply: "Because the battery has worn out, and
it has to be recharged—preferably before it wears out. (Laughter) The glimpses
are too weak or too small, and the pressure of everyday reality is too strong.
It's like an elastic—you stretch it, it goes back. But if you persist, someday
it will pop."
Sometimes (he says) we have to go through suffering, attachment, to realize
that it's all completely worthless. Suppose you are bewitched, fall in
love with somebody, lose your dignity and go through all that. Then one
day you meet the same person and say to yourself: "Why did I fall in love
with this person?"
With a ready smile, which lights up his face, and a puckish sense of humour,
Rinpoche says: "I'm really impressed by you all—especially
by those of you who did not speak." There is laughter, and he adds: "I'm
just teasing, sometimes we have to tease each other."
Let me spell it out
(he continues). First, just be spacious. (Teaching is important, it eliminates
ignorance). Then create the environment of the mind—incense, music, lighting,
if possible, proximity to nature. Then you practise, it's not really meditation,
but creating the right environment for it. Preferably, keep a book of wisdom with
you.
Sometimes, dying is difficult if you're attached to life. Often, we associate
dying with losing, which can create pain. But the truth of life is that
we cannot hold on to anything. Not what is held, and even the holder is
changing all the time. "You cannot wash your hands in the same river twice,"
goes a Tibetan saying. Sometimes letting go is kind, enjoyable;
it brings a different kind of appreciation, not of attachment but of letting
go.
Sometimes, in the
presence of your masters or during practice, you become aware of the mind beyond
your mind, and in that moment you feel, "even if I die now in this state, I'll
be happy". And in that state there is a letting go. But the problem is, it doesn't
last. So keep having these little glimpses. And in that practice there is a letting
go, like losing the cloud but gaining the sky.
DEATH,
MY TEACHER
Rigpa
house is a large, two-storied building in the west Delhi colony
of Inderpuri. The sitting room on the first floor, opening onto
a spacious veranda, is tastefully, though somewhat conservatively,
furnished, with a row of thankas—traditional Buddhist paintings—adorning
the walls. Sogyal Rinpoche, 54, arrives with a beaming smile,
an arm outstretched in greeting and amidst profuse apologies for
keeping us waiting. He's accompanied by Mauro De March, the youthful-looking
Italian director of Rigpa in New Delhi. Excerpts from an interview:
The Tibetan Book of Living and Dyingtalks
about the importance of learning about death while still alive.
Can we go into this?
"Learn to die and thou shall learn how to live. There shall
none learn how to live that has not learnt to die." These words
from The Tibetan Book of the Dead often come to mind when
one seeks to understand death and its relationship to life. Among
the Christian monks, there is a saying, memento mori—remember
dying. Then you might apprehend life. So the extraordinary thing
is that death is like a mirror in which the true meaning of life
is reflected. Sometimes I tell people, "If you're worried about
dying, don't worry, we'll all die successfully! (Laughs) Then what
are you afraid of?" We are afraid to face ourselves. Coming to terms
with death is coming to face the truth of ourselves. So death really
is a moment of truth. The moment of death is, as many religions
describe it, the moment of judgement—a time of reckoning. Death
that way is the summation, totality of life.
What comes to your mind when you die are two things: how you've
lived, and the state of your mind. One reason why people are afraid
of death is because they're afraid of how they've lived. It's connected
with karma. When you start remembering death, you know, it inspires
people to live a good life. Research has shown that people also
die as they have lived. The Dalai Lama says if you want to die a
peaceful death, you have to live a peaceful life. So death really
brings life into focus. Death, now, is no longer seen in a morbid
sense, but is the greatest teacher. We're sure we're all going to
die one day, but we're not sure how or when. So we think it's not
going to happen to us. I always say: "If you breathe out, and you
can't breathe in, that's death"—death could happen any moment.
That's how fragile, how precious this life is. Realizing this, I
must sort out my priorities. Death reminds us that everything is
impermanent, transitory, it makes us realise that it is futile to
grasp. And in the letting go there is compassion. Sometimes, we
think letting go is losing; it's not so. Letting go is actually
having, in life itself. For example, relationships, especially today,
where the more you grasp, the more you don't have. It's when you
are open, respectful to the other person, that your relationship
also grows. The whole idea is that you begin to appreciate the transitory,
the impermanent, and then actually appreciate life better. It's
the grasping that blocks all possibilities. So death teaches us
to sort out our priorities, and its lesson of impermanence teaches
us the futility of grasping.
Today, there is a tendency to consider everything, including
values, as relative. Can there be anything absolute, sacred in such
a world?
There is this sacredness, but we fail to recognise or see
it. We have lost the sacred outlook, and tend to reduce everything to a relative
state. Actually, the relative and absolute are always together. It's a bit like
the two wings of a bird. Because there is no absolute without the relative. What
is the absolute? The ultimate truth, which pervades everything. That may be spoken
of in different ways. For example, in Hinduism and other religions, the divine
presence or divine intervention, in Buddhism, interdependence and so on, or the
ultimate truth of the shunyata. Yet it actually manifests in the world of form,
and the relative appearance. And sometimes when you really see the sacred, then
you can actually appreciate the relative in a very profound, much more intense
way. When you simply see the relative on its own, even that's relative. (Laughs).
You said that "a thing (in the realm of phenomena) exists and
does not exist at the same time." So, can we speak of the nature
of illusion?
Look at this cup, it's quite solid. You drop it, break it into tiny particles,
even that you break down, where is the cup? It's non-existent. As modern physics
has shown, there's no such thing as even atoms. So, in a sense, of course it does
appear, does exist, it really seems real for us, but its ultimate nature is non-existence.
Yet, we cannot say it doesn't exist. But then you might say, how can something
exist and not exist at the same time? Actually, the beauty is that it's true,
that's non-dual. Like it exists, but its nature is empty. Form is empty, but the
emptiness is form. It's like a movie, when you're watching it, you can be completely
entrapped in it and it's kind of real. But when it's over, it's just an illusion!
So it doesn't mean that it doesn't really exist—the moments seem to manifest,
but when you look at it ultimately, it's non-existent or isn't real.
You said: "The mind is the cause of samsara, of happiness
and suffering." Can you explain the concept of samsara?
Basically, it means the cyclical nature (of birth and death, illusion)—you
go round in circles—and it's because of ignorance, because
we do not recognize our true nature. Our fundamental nature is buddha
(awakened) but that's been obscured. Ignorance brings negative emotions,
instigated by them we act negatively, creating suffering. We want
happiness but we do everything that brings suffering. We don't want
suffering but we do not avoid the unwholesome actions that are the
cause of suffering. We want happiness but we do not do what causes
happiness, which are the wholesome actions. So, the aim and actions
are not together. And because of delusion we are in this kind of
a repetitive cycle—we've lost our true nature.
The field of consciousness, or samsara,
also includes things outside—people, relationships, the realm
of matter and technology—which actually makes samsara
seem quite complex. Can an individual still be free of
samsara?
It is complex. One of the qualities of samsara is its complexity
and complicated nature. But it's possible for an individual to be
free. That's why some people become monks and nuns—the word
is lotang, which means, to cut; detachment. They enter into
a different environment, they live by the spiritual principles and
not the world or its intricacy. That doesn't mean they are out of
this world or not in touch; they are not fools. But they are free.
They choose to live like that. For example, myself, I have lived
life very much—but then as I become older, I find that it releases
me in some way. See the pointlessness of it, realize that the world
is only form, and what you really seek is some peace, some happiness.
But we make this world so intricate, so complex. That's why so many
people in the West become attracted to our teaching. They're looking
for simplicity, the natural, wholesome and holistic. As in healing
and so on—realizing the downswing of modern civilization. The
East, you know, is going in for development; the West having experienced
it, realizes that it does not bring happiness, after all.
Living in this world without renouncing it, is it possible to
be free?
It is possible, but difficult.
You said that meditation can take place at two levels: conceptual
and non-conceptual. Of these, the latter is true meditation, vipassana
or mahavipassana. Can you explain?
When you say conceptual, it involves mental processes, for example, focusing on
an object, or watching the breath, and allowing your mind to just settle. Once
you've been able to establish that one-pointedness, then you're entering into
the dimension of the openness, where it goes... beyond the mind, beyond comprehension.
So the conceptual clears the way for the non-conceptual?
Sometimes concepts are used skilfully in order to go beyond concept.
Mind is used as a vehicle to go beyond the mind. You know, the great
masters because they've experienced the direct, the experiential,
they've seen the secret know-how, through their upadesha,
they give you a certain way to cut through the context. And in Zen,
they have certain rather astounding statements (koans), like "Let's
hear the sound of one hand clap."
You said that in an advanced state of meditation, the sense of
separateness falls away. How?
I think that happens even at the initial stages, but in moments.
Actually when you reach a higher level then you become in union,
in yoga—like in Hinduism, one with God. Put simply, when you
really practise meditation, suddenly the ego, the grasping is dissolved—the
sense of holding onto yourself merges with the greater universe,
you also feel one with others, and feel open. Sometimes, when you're
selfish, you think of yourself only, just locked up in yourself,
and when you're open you suddenly begin to realize others and their
point of view, that they want happiness just as you do. It is appreciation
and cherishing of the other, replacing the self-cherishing, and
the holding onto the self dissolves—temporarily!
What is the concept of shunyata?
I don't think we can even call it a concept. It's not a concept;
we can call it a Buddhist view. I think shunyata is
when you really break down everything—there is nothing that
exists independently. Impermanence shows how everything is interdependent.
And that shows you the nature of emptiness. But the emptiness does
not mean that it's nothing! (Laughs) In fact, because of emptiness,
everything can exist. I mean, without the space, nothing could exist.
So emptiness is the great openness within which everything is made
manifest. It's difficult to understand emptiness conceptually, it
needs to be experienced and then realised. When you really realise,
there's a sense of dissolution of self and a merging with and an
understanding of the great openness, and compassion.
So shunyata may also be called "fullness"
or "openness".
We can call it openness, definitely.
Because emptiness implies that something is taken away.
That's right. Emptiness is a more nihilistic concept! That's why I don't
like it. It's as much fullness as it is emptiness. (Laughs) It's not empty in
the sense of nothing is existing, rather that it's free.
According to Buddhist philosophy, what is the final goal of life?
Enlightenment or the eradication of ignorance, which is not knowing
or recognizing one's true nature. You eliminate that, which is also
the removal of negative emotions, which result in all one's negative
karma. You therefore uproot the cause of suffering, thereby attaining
sangye, the Tibetan word for awakened, the Buddha—open,
awakened from ignorance and free from negative emotions, purified.
You're open to all knowledge, knowledge of self. Basically it means
that you're free of suffering, and the cause of suffering, and you
have the ultimate happiness, which is enlightenment. That's what
the goal is. All of us actually want to become enlightened, even
if we don't know that, because we think that enlightenment is only
for holy men and women. But actually, deep down, we all want to
be happy; and no happiness that we have in this world is lasting,
it's only temporary. The only way to bring about ultimate happiness
is the eradication of ignorance, negative emotions and negative
karma. Once you remove the cause of suffering, you're awakened;
once you remove the clouds, the sky is clear and the sun shines.
Because the sky, the sun is always there, like our Buddha nature,
and that nature, our wisdom nature and compassionate nature can
shine forth.
The
auditorium at the Hungarian Cultural Centre in Delhi, India, is packed
to capacity by a select audience—comprising mostly seekers from the
Western hemisphere, with a fair sprinkling of Indians—assembled on
an evening to receive what is described on the invitation as a "teaching"
from the renowned Tibetan Buddhist master, Sogyal Rinpoche.
"Without
our familiar props, we are faced with just ourselves, a person who we
do not know, an unnerving stranger with whom we have been living all the
time but we never really wanted to meet. Isn't that why we have tried
to fill every moment of time with noise and activity, however boring or
trivial, to ensure that we are never left in silence with this stranger
on our own?" 
Rigpa
house is a large, two-storied building in the west Delhi colony
of Inderpuri. The sitting room on the first floor, opening onto
a spacious veranda, is tastefully, though somewhat conservatively,
furnished, with a row of thankas—traditional Buddhist paintings—adorning
the walls. Sogyal Rinpoche, 54, arrives with a beaming smile,
an arm outstretched in greeting and amidst profuse apologies for
keeping us waiting. He's accompanied by Mauro De March, the youthful-looking
Italian director of Rigpa in New Delhi. Excerpts from an interview:
