Tag: philosophy

War, Peace, and Zen

Jeff

I gave this talk at our Full Moon Zen sit tonight. A recording follows the text.

Earlier this week Nick asked that Fran or I speak about war, peace, and Zen. I volunteered.

My first instinct for most talks is to reach for a koan or another teaching that speaks to a theme and then to build on it.

Quickly I realized this topic is so woven into the causes and conditions of my life, my past and my present, that I had to take a different approach. This talk will be more autobiographical than some, but hopefully I’ll manage to speak to Nick’s topic to his satisfaction and yours.

I don’t exactly come from a multi-generational military family but I did grow up aware of my dad’s service in the Air Force. He was stationed in the Middle East between the Korean and Vietnam Wars before I was born.

I also was aware of an uncle’s service in the Marines. He was a top sergeant during WWII, a decorated soldier who saw a lot of combat. He was wounded in a battle in the Pacific as he ran into fire to save members of his troop who’d ben shot. He was at Pearl Harbor when it was bombed. He met my aunt, my dad’s sister, in a military hospital where she was a nurse. He was a lovely, gentle, humble man. He worked as an electrician after the war. He was into shortwave radio and model trains, hobbies that fascinated me and all my cousins. I couldn’t articulate it as a child, but somehow this juxtaposition of his bravery and competence as a soldier and his gentleness made a deep and lasting impression on me. 

He had a nervous breakdown later in life. The things he experienced in combat finally overwhelmed him. He never talked about it with his kids and many nephews and nieces, but one of his grandkids eventually got him to agree to an interview for a school project. He spoke openly about his experiences for the first time. This grandson went on to become a Top Gun pilot, and eventually a Top Gun commander. The real Tom Cruise. He was the, or one of the, senior officers leading air operations in the Gulf War. 

As a young kid, our classes and schoolyard play sometimes were interrupted by “civil defense drills.” Others here likely remember that. Whenever we heard the deafening sound of an air raid siren we took cover under our desks, as if they could protect us from a Russian atomic bomb blast and its radioactive fallout. 

Neighbors had an encyclopedia set. I used to sit in their living room for hours reading about military history. I was fascinated by the uniforms, flags, and insignia. By the sense of honor and virtue that seemed to permeate it all. By the notion that people would risk and give their lives for a cause. Something they believed in. Something that seemed to be operating at levels even deeper than belief.

I went to high school in a small, hardscrabble town deep and high in the Colorado Rockies. One year the Army chose our town and the surrounding mountains as the location for its war game. I somehow was recruited to be one side’s secret civilian collaborator. I recruited a small group of friends to the cause. We snuck out of our houses after midnight as the game began and went deep in the mountains to meet paratroopers dropping from the sky. We helped coordinate covert actions for our side for the next two weeks. The game ended when we captured the other side’s commander at Pizza Hut, one of the few chain restaurants in town. I was there. I played some minor role in that operation I can’t recall.

Going to college wasn’t a given. Most of the 100 or so students in my class didn’t. A good friend resolved to attend West Point and I resolved to attend Annapolis (the Naval Academy) to become a Seal commander. We were both accepted and sent to the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs for our matriculation physicals. I failed the color vision test, so my acceptance was withdrawn. There were prior hints I was colorblind, but we didn’t really know until that moment. I was crushed.

I didn’t know what to do. My Catholic parents (who didn’t go to college themselves) told me to “go to the Jesuits,” so I enrolled in the nearest Jesuit school, which is in Denver. There my perspective began to shift. Reagan reinstated the draft. Compelled service bothered me at the time. (It still does, but I now see how voluntary service gives socially and economically privileged young people a pass.) I wrote “conscientious objector” all over my draft registration card. I explored pacifism in some of my classes. I began to study the art and science of dialogue.

Years later I spent considerable time in Berlin before the Wall fell. I moved there for a couple of years after it fell.

I studied and began practicing law before moving to Berlin. In truth, those couple of years in Berlin were my way of coping, or not coping, with my inability to reconcile what I’ll call the hard and soft sides of myself. At the time, law (like the part of me that had wanted to be a Navy Seal) was the hard side. The soft side had begun to express itself through contemplative spirituality—the Christian mystical tradition and Zen. Thich Nhat Hahn’s book Being Peace made a big impression on me during this time. It was my first acquaintance with the connection between contemplative spirituality and notions of peace.  I began reading others who speak to this connection. Thomas Merton. Krishnamurti.

Tortured by my inability to reconcile hard and soft at that stage of life, I left law practice for Harvard Divinity School, where I planned to study the intersection between Christian mysticism and Zen.

But I had a crisis soon after I arrived. The hard side of myself missed the realm of practice; of change-making activity in the world. Around then the New York Times published an article about the massacre in Srebrenica at the end of the war in the former Yugoslavia. A picture of a Muslim woman who hung herself to avoid being slaughtered moved me to tears. I resolved then and there to understand how religion, and our beliefs and values more generally, get tangled up in conflict and how to untangle them. 

I pivoted hard to studying negotiation and conflict resolution. I was fortunate to find mentors like Herb Kelman, a social psychologist who became the first and most longstanding backchannel mediator among Israelis and Palestinians, and Roger Fisher, an international law professor who is one of the founders of the negotiation field and who also became a mediator in armed conflicts. They helped pioneer the field of negotiation and conflict resolution because of their own painful experiences of war. Herb escaped the Holocaust as a child. Roger was a naval aviator in WWII who lost many friends in that war.

Today, as many of you know, I teach in this area and am involved in that sort of work myself. 

What does all this have to do with war and peace and Zen? There’s war and peace and Zen in my personal story, but how does that all hang together and respond to Nick’s request?

Honor. Virtue. Belonging. These are deep-rooted human sentiments. 

Buddha, Dharma, Sangha

Buddha: Oneness can become an ideal

Dharma: Individuals

Sangha: Individuals in community bound by an ideal

We can relate to each of these things—an ideal of oneness, ourselves, and others—narrowly, rigidly, and jingoistically. Sometimes Buddhists have. Think of the many Zen Buddhists in Japan during WWII who were warmongers. Think of some Buddhists in Burma today.

Or we can relate to them broadly, loosely, and inclusive of strangers and outsiders.

That’s better, but let’s not kid ourselves. We can’t deny our twin nature. However tolerant, accepting, and pacific one may be, we are hard-and-soft. We are open-and-closed. We favor those for whom we feel an affinity. Likely we always will. Perhaps that’s natural and good, to a point. A point we too often cross.

Perhaps the best we can aim for, perhaps good enough, is captured in the lovely lines of the hymn Finlandia:

This is my song, O God of all the nations

A song of peace, for lands afar and mine

This is my home, the country where my heart is

Here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine

But other hearts in other lands are beating

With hopes and dreams as true and high as mine

My country’s skies are bluer than the ocean

And sunlight beams on cloverleaf and pine

But other lands have sunlight, too, and clover

And skies are everywhere as blue as mine

O hear my song, thou God of all the nations

A song of peace for their land and for mine

Nanquan Kills the Cat: Reflections on Zen’s Attitude Toward Ambivalence

Jeff

I gave this talk on November 25, 2025, at our Full Moon Zen Sunrise Sit. A recording follows the text.

This is case 14 in The Gateless Gate, Nanquan Kills the Cat. Eric, cover your ears. For those of you who haven’t heard this koan, be forewarned. There’s one gruesome bit, particularly if you’re a cat lover like Eric.

Nan-ch’üan found monks of the eastern and western halls arguing about a cat. He held up the cat and said, “Everyone! If you can say something, I will spare this cat. If you can’t say anything, I will cut off its head.” No one could say a word, so Nan-ch’üan cut the cat into two.

That evening, Chao-chou returned from the outside and Nan-ch’üan told him what happened. Chao-chou removed a sandal from his foot, put it on his head and walked out.

Nan-ch’üan said, “If you had been there, the cat would have been spared.”

You’ll be glad to know most subsequent Zen teachers through time maintain that Nanquan just mimicked killing the cat. I guess we’ll never know.

What were the monks of the eastern and western halls arguing about? Something speculative was dividing them, no doubt. Does the cat have Buddha nature or not?

But I want to talk about our internal divisions. About ambivalence. Sometimes we have quarreling eastern and western halls within ourselves. Two impulses or perspectives, each of which seems to have worth, which tug at us, and we experience them as incompatible. Our heart and mind is divided. 

From a Zen perspective, it’s the reification, the concretization of this dividedness—our captivation by it, our captivity to it—that kills the cat, not Nanquan’s blade. Nonquan’s cut is an expression of oneness in response to divideness. His blade mends rather than separates.

We find a range of perspectives on ambivalence across cultural, religious, and philosophical traditions. Ambivalence about ambivalence, it seems.

Our English word ambivalence is a mashup of Latin words meaning “both” and “value.” It was invented by a psychologist who treated schizophrenia to describe one characteristic of that condition. But psychology has since cataloged pros and cons of what we might call garden variety ambivalence. In our youth, it can help us maintain emotional distance from a caregiver who isn’t trustworthy or discover our agency and develop independence if and as we become ambivalent about (no longer fused with) a trustworthy caregiver. But it also can cause decision paralysis and inhibit action, keeping us stuck.

Christianity’s perspective on ambivalence isn’t so spacious and balanced. It generally takes a dim view of ambivalence. The Gospel of Matthew (6:24) tells us, “No one can serve two masters.” Elsewhere (James 1:8) we read that “a double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.” There’s certainly truth in that. Each of us probably knows someone captive to ambivalence who is unstable in all their ways. Maybe you’ve been there yourself. 

In philosophy and literature we get a range of perspectives, but mainly a lot of sympathy for this common human experience and recognition that it often produces tragedy or pathos. Think of Hamlet’s question: “To be or not to be.” His character is ambivalent about so much, including existence itself.

The Zen perspective is something different altogether. From a Zen perspective, there’s no fundamental division, ever.  People, cats, objects, perspectives, feelings—each of the 10,000 dharmas—is distinct, but there’s no sense in which anything is separate. There is a fundamental oneness to everything, always, including any of us when our heart and mind feels divided. There’s no place to go when we try to hide, metaphorically anyway.  We can’t hide from ourselves; from any part of us. The problem is our mental habit of separating, which generates the constructs that divide and paralyze us. We disintegrate, decompose, not realizing the wholeness we are right now, however we are.

Many of our dilemmas and debates won’t be resolved by more thinking and arguing. Zen prizes activity. Doing. Living into and through obscurity toward daylight. We are form. Emptiness manifest. Doing is form. Doing transforms.

If loving someone or something half-heartedly is all you can manage now, love half-heartedly with all your heart. Will you resist the impulse to say or do something kind, and can you truly be one with kindness, in that moment, as you say or do it, not objectifying that kindness as it comes forth, but opening to it, letting it work on you even as you are the vehicle, the embodied expression of kindness? Something good might be returned to you, and your heart might begin to mend if you are willing to receive it. Or, if you know in your heart of hearts that your heart must break, let it break.

When you are stuck, be fully stuck. Don’t force quick fixes to your stuckness. You probably won’t think your way out of it. Each of us is in a call and response relationship with the other 9,999 Things in this vast robe of liberation—the Universe. We’re the Universe calling to itself. Watch and listen for how the Universe is bidding you to respond. As Carl Jung said, using the language of theism, “Bidden or not bidden, God is present.” Trust your instincts. Respond. Be responsive. Be a part (not be apart). Take part. Participate.

Putting one’s sandal on one’s head was a sign of mourning in ancient China. Chao-chou wasn’t morning the cat. He was mourning his fellow monks’ loss of life. Zen practice came so they could have life, and have it more fully. They didn’t get it. 

If you can say a word, I’ll spare the cat.

I’ve said my word. I look forward to yours.

Being a Buddha: Living by Vow

Jeff

I gave this talk on November 13, 2025, at our Full Moon Zen sesshin at Providence Zen Center. We had a Jukai ceremony the previous night, during which eight of our sangha members received Zen’s sixteen Bodhisattva Precepts. A recording follows the text.

It is wonderful to be here with you. I’m so happy. This feels like something of a reunion. I think we’ve all, if I’m not mistaken, come from out of state. Even Cheryl, who used to live a stone’s throw away. Some of us just traversed one state to get here, but others traversed several, and some even got on the plane. I’m just so happy that we’ve all made an effort to be here together in this beautiful place. I’m always awestruck sitting here and looking out of the windows, whatever the weather’s doing. It’s beautiful. I’m tempted to say we can’t make it any better with our words. But words are it, too.

Our theme for this sesshin is being a Buddha, and I want to explore the practice of living by vow as being Buddha. In our Jukai ceremony last night we said the precepts are not rigid commandments to be blindly followed but instead are a bridge—a bridge between the Buddha nature, the truth at the heart of our existence as we sense it wants to express itself, on the one hand, and the manifestation of its expression in our daily lives, on the other hand. 

I know from conversations with each of you, including a couple conversations last night, that some of us grew up in a Christian tradition with the notion of sin. And, if you did, maybe your tradition’s notion of sin; and its ethical principles, like the Ten Commandments designed to discourage sin; and the way people talked about and related to those things, did feel like rigid commandments. Maybe.

But what does this word sin mean, really? It has linguistic roots and it also has a theological gloss or interpretation. 

What are the linguistic roots? In both Old English and in precursor languages to German, it’s straightforward. Sin is moral wrongdoing, which was understood in terms of deviation from divine law. It meant deviation from God’s law in this early European context in which the notion of sin began to take shape. The word also conveyed a sense of “being” or “true existence,” suggesting that sin is deviation from truth or being itself. So, linguistically, etymologically, sin also suggests deviation from that which is true; deviating from being or existence itself—or, in Zen terms, we might say not being Buddha, not being oneself, not being one’s highest self.

When the Christian Bible was translated from Greek into Old English, the Greek word that was translated as sin is an archery term that means “missing the mark.” I kind of like that because I used to practice Kyudo, which is Zen archery. The archery reference is lovely, I think. Linguistically, and in theistic terms, sin is deviating from godliness or from ultimate truth. It’s missing the mark. 

In our non-theistic Zen idiom, we could think of God as oneness or the Absolute, which all relative things like you and me manifest and express. Missing the mark is thinking speaking or acting in some way that denies or obscures this reality of oneness. 

When we speak about the Three Treasures, Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha—which are the first three of our sixteen precepts—we sometimes translate Buddha as oneness. To be Buddha—which we can’t help but be, but which is a reality that we’re not always awake to, and which we can awaken to—means to know and to feel this oneness as ourselves, as others, and to live it. It’s to know that we’re distinct, but in no sense separate.

I said earlier that, in the Christian tradition, there’s a linguistic root to the notion of sin, but there’s also theologizing about it. Sin is sometimes theologized about in terms of separation; separation from what is ultimately true and real. And here we find a tight connection to Zen. If I had to pick just one word to sum up the Zen Way, it might well be non-separation. Or, to state it positively: oneness, wholeness, integration. Thich Nhat Hanh’s word for this was interbeing. 

Bernie Glassman, our Dharma great grandfather, in his book about the precepts, really summed it all up by saying that the precepts and all the teachings are about realizing that all is Buddha. Oneness. It’s no surprise that Nancy Mujo Baker titles her book on the precepts, which is the main text for our precepts study group, “Opening to Oneness.”

I’m a big fan of a contemporary philosopher whose name is Terry Warner. He taught at BYU. His “secular” philosophical work is deeply informed by his Christian faith. In one of his big philosophical themes, which lies at the intersection of philosophy and psychology, is self-deception. He says we almost always know when we are about to miss the mark, to separate. He says we very often have a flash of clear insight before we transgress or miss the mark, and that we betray the reality of oneness when we act in a way that’s contrary to that higher standard, to hitting the mark. We separate from our Buddha nature. We separate from others. We separate from truth itself or reality in that moment. 

Warner is very influenced by Martin Buber, the Jewish philosopher and mystic, who distinguished between what he called I-Thou and I-You modes of relating. I-Thou seeing the divinity, or we might call Buddha Nature, in others and in all things. When we’re in an I-You mode, we’re objectifying and instrumentalizing others; making ourselves separate from them. And you know what? We’re also objectifying ourselves when we do this, which is to say separating from our own true nature.

With all that as background, I thought we might just walk through each of the ten Grave Precepts, briefly, one by one, and look at how they encourage us to aim towards wholeness or interbeing; not to separate. Really, all 16 precepts are about non-separation. Each of the three treasure—Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha—is a different way of saying that all is Buddha. They are different angles on the reality of oneness, and we have a context, a community, in which we discover it and make it real. The Three Pure Precepts—ceasing from evil, doing good, and helping others—begin to make that reality of oneness more concrete. They help us think about it more concretely. And the ten Grave Precepts guide us on how to make the reality of Oneness concretely manifest in our daily lives.

Recognizing that I am not separate from all that is, I vow to take up the way of non-killing.

There you have it. In classic Zen fashion, we get right to the heart of the matter. Have you ever wished that someone or something would just go away? Even die. That is the pretense of separateness in the extreme. That is the most forceful desire to separate imaginable. Dogen’s version of this first precept on non-killing, which I just read, appropriately opens with the statement, “Recognizing that I am not separate from all that is . . .”.

Being satisfied with what I have, I vow to take up the way of not stealing.

Me, my, mine. My need, my thing. Being unsatisfied with what I have is separation. Appreciating what I have, working to satisfy my reasonable wants and my true needs such that others’ reasonable wants and true needs are respected and satisfied alongside mine: This is appreciating what I have; non-stealing. Getting what I want and need in a way that doesn’t separate myself from others, or me from the recognition of what’s sufficient, is to take up the way of non-stealing.

Honoring mutuality and respect and commitment, I vow to take up the way of not misusing sex.

Sex, needless to say, is a domain in which we see people instrumentalizing others, objectifying others, and so objectifying myself. What a shame; such a squandered opportunity to hold and conduct ourselves in a way that honors Oneness. Such wonderful potential to express beautifully the reality of Oneness. Such a shame when sex is not approached that way.

Listening and speaking from the heart, I vow to take up the way of not speaking falsely.

To speak falsely—saying things we know not to be true or even being reckless about the truth—is to separate from truth. Speaking carelessly is to separate from the truth and to separate ourselves from others. I love the way this Dogen’s version of this precept opens with “Listening and speaking from the heart.” When we’re doing that, we’re being present, present to others in this speech act, in this speech communion. It’s another way to express non-separation. Another word for this is presence. When we truly are present to ourselves and others, we’re not separate. We’re manifesting the reality of Oneness. 

Cultivating a mind that sees clearly, I vow to take up the way of not intoxicating mind and body.

Intoxicants of all varieties—anything we might overvalue, including work, TV, and Instagram, not just drugs and alcohol—can be a way of separating from our own lives and from others. Not being present, truly present. I drink wine. I enjoy it. And, with a nod towards Terry Warner’s idea of self-deception, it’s my practice to pay attention to that first impulse to have a glass of wine. What’s it about? Sometimes when it arises, I recognize it as a desire to separate from something that’s been difficult; that I don’t like about the day or about my experience presently. That doesn’t mean I don’t have the glass of wine necessarily, but I’ll do my best to shift into another mode around it if I do. At other times that glass of wine is so much about enjoying the company of others; communing; non-separation. Lovely.

Unconditionally accepting what each moment has to offer, I vow to take up the way of not finding fault in or with others.

“Unconditionally accepting what each moment has to offer”: right there, presence, non-separation. I don’t think too much more needs to be said about this one. This is just so common, isn’t it? Speaking for myself alone, I can and often tend towards separating myself from others in this way. Blame. Being blind to my own contributions to some difficulty.

Meeting others on equal ground, I vow to take up the way of not elevating myself at the expense of others.

In some ways, this is my favorite precept. It’s the hardest one in so many ways. It’s as if we needed a precept just to say, “It’s all about non-separation.” Elevating myself at the expense of others is the very move of the separation we’re talking about.

Using all the ingredients of my life, I vow to take up the way of not sparing the Dharma assets.

We can steal, take things from others, and we can also hoard what we have: our time, our capabilities, our talents, our resources. We can refuse to participate fully in the circle of life; in making the circle of life a virtuous circle. The circular economy, so to speak. By withholding our love. Withholding our truth; what we know to be true; not speaking up about our reasonable needs. When we’re doing that, we’re often actually elevating ourselves above others. We’re denying others the opportunity to meet us and to meet our needs, which they might want to do. Even if they don’t want to do it, they might need to learn to do it for there  to be a virtuous cycle.

Transforming suffering into wisdom, I vow to take up the way of not harboring ill will.

Anger. Anger is all about separation. In the version of the Four Vows we chant, we use the word hatred. In other translations, you’ll see that word as anger. I think hatred really makes a point. It’s about aversion. Aversion is about wanting to separate from something. It’s a helpful, adaptive impulse on some level. There are things we don’t perpetually want to abide; that we want to work skillfully, and perhaps collaboratively, to change. Yet that impulse can be taken too far when it manifests as outwardly expressed anger, even hatred. That can lead to missing the mark on other precepts we’ve looked at. Anger-driven killing is the most extreme example of that.

Honoring my life as an instrument of the Great Way, I vow to take up the way of not defaming the Three Treasures.

Well, this is just another way of saying everything we’ve said so far. We’re pointing back to Oneness. Non-separation. Separation is a fraud. Indulging in it is a pretense. It’s a story. It’s impossible. The precepts remind us of this truth and help guide us towards living in truth, living this truth.

So, we can see the precepts as a little instruction manual for how to be a Buddha. If we’re living our vows and living them from the right mindset and heartset, we are likely to be showing up as Buddha, not separating from our Buddha nature. We tend to think of other practices, like zazen and koans, as the centerpiece of our practice. Thy really are not the centerpiece of our practice. They’re all just ways to help us learn to show up as Buddha; to hit the mark. They are supportive of the heart of our practice, which truly is the precepts. 

Realizing, manifesting, living by them. This is being Buddha.

Nothing Worth Begrudging II

Jeff

I gave this talk on July 9, 2025, at Full Moon Zen’s Sunrise Sit. A recording follows the text.

Today I planned to talk a bit about householder Zen—this old-new turn of the Dharma Wheel we are developing through our practice. I’m not going to do that. The readings Rick offered at our morning sit yesterday and our discussion following were so rich and deep. I want to stick with the themes we took up yesterday.

Immediately after our sit I recalled a line in Bodhidharma’s Outline of Practice that I want to use to clarify and amplify something I said in our discussion yesterday. Bodhidharma is the first of the six so-called Zen Ancestors. He’s the Indian sage who, legend has it, brought the Dharma to China, where the Zen tradition developed. This reading that’s attributed to him is very resonant with Thich Nhat Hanh’s poem “Call Me by my True Names,” which Rick read yesterday. I’ll read the whole thing, which is rather long, and then I’ll lift out just one phrase and say a few words about it.

This is Boddhidharma’s Outline of Practice, as translated by Red Pine:

Many roads lead to the Path, but basically there are only two: reason and practice. To enter by reason means to realize the essence through instruction and to believe that all living things share the same true nature, which isn’t apparent because it’s shrouded by sensation and delusion. Those who turn from delusion back to reality, who meditate on walls, the absence of self and other, the oneness of mortal and sage, and who remain unmoved even by scriptures are in complete and unspoken agreement with reason. Without moving, without effort, they enter, we say, by reason.

To enter by practice refers to four all-inclusive practices: suffering injustice, adapting to conditions, seeking nothing, and practicing the Dharma.

First, suffering injustice. When those who search for the Path encounter adversity, they should think to themselves, “In countless ages gone by, I’ve turned from the essential to the trivial and wandered through all manner of existence, often angry without cause and guilty of numberless transgressions. Now, though I do no wrong, I’m punished by my past. Neither gods nor men can foresee when an evil deed will bear its fruit. I accept it with an open heart and without complaint of injustice. The sutras say, ” When you meet with adversity don’t be upset, because it makes sense.” With such understanding you’re in harmony with reason. And by suffering injustice you enter the Path.

Second, adapting to conditions. As mortals, we’re ruled by conditions, not by ourselves. All the suffering and joy we experience depend on conditions. If we should be blessed by some great reward, such as fame or fortune, it’s the fruit of a seed planted by us in the past. When conditions change, it ends. Why delight in its existence? But while success and failure depend on conditions, the mind neither waxes nor wanes. Those who remain unmoved by the wind of joy silently follow the Path.

Third, seeking nothing. People of this world are deluded. They’re always longing for something — always, in a word, seeking. But the wise wake up. They choose reason over custom. They fix their minds on the sublime and let their bodies change with the seasons. All phenomena are empty. They contain nothing worth desiring. Calamity forever alternates with Prosperity. To dwell in the three realms is to dwell in a burning house. To have a body is to suffer. Does anyone with a body know peace? Those who understand this detach themselves from all that exists and stop imagining or seeking anything. The sutras say, “To seek is to suffer. To seek nothing is bliss.” When you seek nothing, you’re on the Path.

Fourth, practicing the Dharma. The Dharma is the truth that all natures are pure. By this truth, all appearances are empty. Defilement and attachment, subject and object don’t exist. The sutras say, “The Dharma includes no being because it’s free from the impurity of being, and the Dharma includes no self because it’s free from the impurity of self.” Those wise enough to believe and understand these truths are bound to practice according to the Dharma. And since that which is real includes nothing worth begrudging, they give their body, life, and property in charity, without regret, without the vanity of giver, gift, or recipient, and without bias or attachment. And to eliminate impurity they teach others, but without becoming attached to form. Thus, through their own practice they’re able to help others and glorify the Way of Enlightenment. And as with charity, they also practice the other virtues. But while practicing the six virtues to eliminate delusion, they practice nothing at all. This is what’s meant by practicing the Dharma.

In a moment I’ll invite you to highlight anything in this reading that particularly spoke to you, but phrase I want to elevate is this: “that which is real includes nothing worth begrudging.” For me, this phrase seems to convey an essential point of Thich Nhat Hanh’s poem.

Yesterday in our dialogue I observed how Thay’s poem seems to be calling us to see and embrace and resolve seeming polarities: generosity and greed; peace and violence; beauty and terror.

Today I just want to revise or qualify the word “resolve.” If it’s even fair to present these features of reality in a dualistic way, as polarities, I’m not sure we’re called to resolve them exactly, or that we even could. We’ve been endowed both with love and with anger; gentleness and strength; separateness and togetherness. We need both. We are both.

I think the goal isn’t so much to resolve seeming polarities, but to harmonize them. To reduce the amplitude of our swings between them. To see and integrate the whole reality. Nothing worth begrudging. To stop oscillating among extremes. To moderate. To find and to walk the middle way.