Mindfulness: The Key to Personal and Social Transformation
By Leo D. Lefebure
Executive Leadership Conference:
Leading with Courage and Confidence in Turbulent Times
FHI 360 Conference Center, Washington, DC
May 11, 2016
Abstract: When we try to force experience in certain ways, we risk distorting our perceptions,
ignoring important factors, and creating needless problems. The practice of mindfulness calls us
to attend to the full reality of the present moment without judgment, allowing all factors of our
experience to emerge in an atmosphere of wisdom and compassion. The transformed awareness
can lead to both personal and social healing and growth.
Turbulent Times
Times of turbulence put into question all our usual assumptions. As long as we look outside for a
point of safety and security, we are apt to be disappointed. As long as we look to someone else to
reassure us and give us courage and confidence, we will always be vulnerable to disillusionment
and despair. How can we possibly find courage and confidence when many things seem up in the
air? In such times, the ancient practice of mindfulness calls us to find courage and confidence
within ourselves by attending to the full reality of the present moment without preference or
judgment, allowing all factors of our experience to emerge into our awareness. The resulting
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wakefulness can lead to fresh insights, profound personal and social healing, as well as unexpected
growth.
However, the notion that we should sit quietly and attend to our breathing when we have
so many important things to do may seem counterintuitive. Especially when times are turbulent,
I can tell myself that I am a very busy and important person, there are very pressing challenges,
decisions have to be made, and I certainly don’t have time to do nothing. And when I do want to
relax, I want to feel good. I don’t have time to sit what can be an uncomfortable position and be
bored.
The Challenge of Self-Knowledge
The first step on the path of mindfulness is to realize our need for greater awareness.
Paradoxically, times of turbulence offer the benefit of putting in doubt our usual selfunderstanding. When we think things are going smoothly, it is easy to take our current selfunderstanding for granted. Particularly if we have been successful, we can be tempted to think we
know who we are and what we are doing. Our many accomplishments testify to this. When things
become turbulent, our first reaction is often to repeat what worked in the past; but in a rapidly
changing world, this may not always be appropriate or helpful. As long as my fundamental
assumptions remain unchallenged, I will operate within a familiar horizon. But do I really know
who I am? Once I face this question with honesty, real learning can begin.
We all have electronic devices offering us fresh information about persons and events all
around the globe at every moment of the day and night. One danger is to identity genuine selfknowledge with keeping up with the flood of incoming data. Our lives can fly by as a series of
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rapid responses to ever-changing stimuli, a constant stream of likes and dislikes. We may not have
the time or interest to question our underlying assumptions, and we act out of previous models.
Sitting quietly and observing our breath can seem to be a total waste of time.
The first step in developing the practice of mindfulness is to recognize that the often
frenetic activity of our lives can mask a number of problems. While technology is in many ways
a great advantage, it can be an infinite source of distractions in a world where we risk “clicking
ourselves to death.”1 The digital world can push us in multiple directions. On the one hand, the
news and social media make us aware of genuinely distressing situations in our world that can lead
us to be resentful, angry, depressed, or ashamed, ending in a feeling of helplessness. Moving in
the opposite direction, social media can offer to dull the pain through a type of “opium of the
masses,” offering pleasant distractions.2 Both in creating distress and relieving it, the digital media
are ever-present, shaping lives from the time people are young. Researchers have found that bright,
interactive young people can turn into “zombies within three months of getting a smart phone or
an iPad.”3 When we do make decision, we often do so in a hurry, without considering carefully
the full picture and the implications of our decisions. This is where the practice of mindfulness
can be an asset.
Our past successes can lull us into believing we know who we are and what we are doing.
However, since ancient times teachers of wisdom in different locales have advised us to question
our self-understanding and to challenge the claim that we are already wise. The biblical Book of
Proverbs warns us, “Do you see persons wise in their own eyes? There is more hope for fools than
1
Dominic Pettman, Infinite Distraction (Cambridge, UK/Malden, MA: Polity Press, 2016), ix, 4.
Ibid., x.
3
Ibid., xiv, citing Robert Pogue Harrison, “The Children of Silicon Valley.”
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for them” (26:12). In ancient Greece the oracle of Apollo at Delphi challenged all who approached
the oracle with the maxim, GNOTHI SAUTON (“Know Yourself”). The advice challenges us to
do something different from what people normally do. When the oracle pronounced Socrates to
be the wisest of mortals, he came to learn that true wisdom meant recognizing that he was not wise
and accepting the limits of his knowledge. This realization gave him a great advantage over others
who thought they were wise but were not. In both the Bible and ancient Greek philosophy, people
find wisdom by letting go of illusions. Only when assume we do not really know who we are, can
we truly begin to learn.
In ancient India the Buddha taught a similar lesson: we don’t really know who we are, and
much unnecessary suffering comes from our mistaken notion of who we are. We identify ourselves
and the things around us as permanent, substantial realities. We ask the persons and things around
us to give us safety, pleasure and security; but they are impermanent and cannot do this for very
long. When they inevitably fail us, we become angry and resentful. We identify with a frightened,
anxious ego that is always needy, always craving what it does not have. We think this is who we
really are.
Many diverse religious traditions, including Buddhism, Hinduism, and Christianity, warn
us of the danger of primordial or fundamental ignorance. In the deepest sense this is not simply a
lack of knowledge of certain facts; it is not a problem that can be solved by going online and doing
a search. Primordial ignorance involves a systemic warping of our most fundamental assumptions
about ourselves, our relationships, and our world. When we are entrapped by ignorance, we
identify with our anxious, frightened ego; we crave certain outcomes and think that these are
necessary for our well-being. This process can intensify when times are turbulent.
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When we feel insecure inside, we may imitate the desires of other persons and seek not
only to grab what they have but also to displace them altogether. No outward success will still our
restlessness, for we crave a definitive conquest which remains forever elusive. When our demands
and cravings do not find satisfaction in the way we expect, we become frustrated and angry and
can move all too quickly into conflicts with others and ourselves.
Fundamental ignorance is most insidious because it is hides itself; it convinces us that we
do know who we are and that we have nothing important to learn. The great danger of success is
that precisely when we have been successful in our earlier undertakings, then fundamental
ignorance can remain all the more deeply hidden. This is the plot of the great tragedies from
ancient Greece to Shakespeare to the present. While it is relatively easy to recognize the denial of
problems in the failings of other people, it is extremely difficult to acknowledge ignorance in
ourselves. The practice of mindfulness is one of the most effective tools for waking up and
becoming aware of usually remains hidden.
Our personal perspectives are shaped by the horizons of our social groups, and these often
are warped by biases that remain unchallenged as long as they are unnoticed. We have a particular
horizon, which allows us to see certain realities but which prevents us from seeing others. In itself,
the limitation of our awareness is not necessarily a problem, but often there are particular biases
and prejudices that shape our awareness in negative directions without us being fully aware.
Awareness of some experiences can make us uncomfortable, frightened or angry. Often it appears
to be easier to block some items from consciousness, to turn a blind eye to certain things. Instead
of acknowledging difficulties, we can seek escape in the flight from insight.
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To make matters worse, in times of turbulence we frequently seek a scapegoat, a culprit
whom we can blame as responsible for our discomfort. From ancient times to the present, humans
have shaped unhealthy communities by targeting certain individuals or groups as scapegoats who
are allegedly responsible for their troubles. Genuine scapegoating is not apparent to those in its
grip, for they are convinced that those targeted truly are responsible for their woes. Scapegoating
evades our own responsibility and marshals hostile energies against a perceived foe. To a large
degree, our individual and social lives proceed without awareness of the pervasiveness of this
process.
The Buddhist tradition teaches us that ignorance is a poison that leads to two other
poisons—craving and anger. As long as we are operating within a horizon shaped by fundamental
ignorance, we can exert great efforts only to encounter more and more frustration. When we
operate in a state of ignorance, we are usually reactive. In our ignorance we seek to protect
ourselves from being uncomfortable. We seek to block out or push away what is not pleasant. We
grasp at what pleases us. And if an experience is neutral, we are tempted to label it “boring” and
seek to move on to something more interesting. I recall a Theravada Buddhist meditation teacher
asking us, “Do you want to be my puppet? If I say something nice about you, you like that and
feel good inside. If I say something nasty to you, you feel angry and feel bad inside. Do you want
to be my puppet?” Both craving and anger can take over our mode of operation in ways that can
be very difficult to resist, and they can lead us to actions that are profoundly harmful. In times of
turbulence, the three poisons render courage and confidence virtually impossible.
Buddhists in Asia point to the practice of trapping monkeys by carving out a gourd with a
narrow opening, placing a sweet inside, and tying it securely to a tree. A monkey can smell the
sweet inside and can reach into the gourd. However, the opening is too narrow for the monkey to
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remove its hand while grasping the sweet. In principle the monkey is free to release the sweet and
scurry away, but in practice the monkey will sit there grasping the sweet until the hunter comes
and throws a net over it. We think the monkey is not very astute, but the behavior of the monkey
is an image for ourselves. When we grasp at things we cannot fully possess and refuse to let go,
we set ourselves up for unnecessary suffering. If we release our grip, we can walk away.
The Practice of Mindfulness
While fundamental ignorance is extremely powerful, the good news is that fortunately it is never
total. It damages us, but it never fully captures our identity, and so we always have more to learn.
Mindfulness practice offers an antidote by living fully in the present moment without judging,
grasping, or rejecting. Mindfulness does not prefer one outcome to another but rather consists of
boundless openness to the present moment, whatever its character. By attending to the experience
of the present moment without judgment, the practice of mindfulness can make us aware of our
biases and prejudices and open us to fresh perspectives on ourselves, our relationships, and our
world.
The practice of mindfulness calls us to acknowledge, acknowledge, acknowledge.
Mindfulness is not a direct attempt to change our experience; but practice of mindfulness can be
life-transforming and profoundly healing. At the center is the releasing of the effort to control the
outcome. We change most deeply when we are not trying to control the process of change. So
often we try to force our experience along certain lines, hoping that we will get what we want or
avoid what we fear. Mindfulness calls to surrender the effort to control, to attend to what is right
here right now. This is one of the most powerful ways to become aware of and free from our
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biases and prejudices. It is one of the paradoxes of the practice that benefits will come if we do
not try to grasp them.
Personal Experience
It takes time and patience to cultivate the practice of mindfulness. This practice is one of the great
gifts in my life, but my first efforts at becoming mindful were not particularly enlightening. I sat
my first Zen retreat at Zen Mountain Monastery in the Catskill Mountains of New York State with
the late American Zen Master John Daido Loori. Since this was my first time sitting a Zen retreat,
my mind was constantly jumping around and I found it very difficult to sit still. My one leg
repeatedly fell asleep. Whenever the assistant came around with the stick to strike me, I would
bow, requesting a blow. It was a way to get blood flowing. I did not experience the clear seeing
that the Japanese Buddhist tradition calls kensho. One of the most important teachings of the
Buddhist tradition on this practice is the importance of right effort and equanimity. It is important
not to judge our practice of mindfulness. Even when we think nothing is happening, there may be
important growth going on that will become manifest only later on.
Some months later that same year, I traveled to Thailand, where I entered the Buddhist
monastery of Wat Rempoeng near Chiang Mai. I knew little of Theravada Buddhist monastic life
but was eager to learn. I hoped for some good conversations with my hosts. My hosts, however,
assumed that I was there to practice mindfulness. The first morning I went through the ceremony
for entering meditation, and my teacher instructed me to meditate for 8 hours a day. I thought to
myself, “That’s not so bad,” and went off to my hut to begin. I was taught to alternate sitting
meditation with walking meditation. I sat as still as I could with my legs crossed, though I never
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achieved a full lotus position; I walked slowly and deliberately as I was taught. In the late
afternoon I thought it was time to take a break, and so I went outside. I heard the sounds of the
male monastics chanting the Buddhist scriptures on one side of the monastery; from the other side
I heard the sounds of the female monastics. I delighted in looking at the statue of the Buddha and
enjoying the garden atmosphere.
The next morning my instructor began our interview by commenting, “You’re not
meditating 24 hours a day!” I thought to myself, “You said to meditate only 8 hours a day,” but I
did not say that. Instead I simply acknowledged that he was correct. He then instructed me to
meditate 24 hours a day—every waking moment. He told me not to walk around looking at statues
or flowers. From that point on, each hour felt much longer, and the days seemed interminable.
The evenings were a special challenge because the salamanders would cover the walls. When I
would approach one of the walls in walking meditation, the salamanders would scurry all over and
it was difficult not to pay attention to them. I kept bringing my mind back to the present moment.
When my knees would hurt or my leg would fall asleep, I would note how difficult this exercise
was, reminding myself all the time that it was pointless. Mindfulness meditation does not seek a
benefit; it seeks to be present in each moment. I left the monastery without ever achieving the
state of stillness that Buddhists call samadhi. But I did gain an awareness of how Thai Buddhist
monks introduce their students to meditation practice. I also had a sense that there was something
very important to be learned from sitting in mindfulness meditation, but I did not know what it
was.
Later I sat a week-long retreat that combined traditional Buddhist insight and mindfulness
meditation with the Catholic Carmelite spirituality of St. John of the Cross, a great sixteenthcentury Spanish mystic. This retreat marked the major turning point in my practice of mindfulness.
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For the first three days my mind flitted about from one topic to another, re-living the past or
worrying about the future. Buddhists sometimes compare the mind to a tree filled with monkeys.
When we sit still, at first the monkeys jump around and chatter incessantly. But if we continue
sitting quietly, the monkeys eventually get tired and go to sleep. Then our mind becomes quiet on
a deeper level. For me on this retreat, it took 3 days for the monkeys to get tired and fall asleep.
At that point the character of the retreat began to change. I was sitting with my eyes closed,
and my mind began to spontaneously visualize. For about a 24-hour period, I repeatedly saw
images of anger and felt waves of anger pass through me. I would see heads in front of me, and
then arms would appear chopping them off with a medieval halberd. Following the instructions, I
noted what was happening without judging, neither pushing away nor grasping. Each wave would
subside for a time, and then another would begin. Without me willing anything, this stage came
to an end on its own. Then there was a period of sexual energies passing though me. I followed
the same instructions, not judging, not pushing away, not grasping, and this phase too lasted for a
time and then came to an end. When I spoke to my meditation teacher about these experiences,
she simply commented that the practice was working. “You’re dealing with the major issues.”
Next came a wave of grief. I felt like I was enveloped in a dense, dense fog mourning for all the
losses of my life. This experience was also very intense for a time and then passed. The key to
the practice in these situations is to acknowledge the feeling state without identifying with it,
clinging to it or pushing it away. Even if an emotional distress has been present for decades, it too
is ultimately impermanent. If properly observed, it will shift.
Later I was in my room doing walking meditation, and suddenly out of nowhere came an
experience of overwhelming peace. I felt a deep reassurance that everything in my life would be
okay because the Holy Spirit would handle it. It was not that I was thinking of pleasant
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experiences; it was just the opposite: all kinds of difficult, challenging future experiences raced
through my mind, enveloped by the calm confidence that everything was okay. My mind
spontaneously interpreted this peace as a gift of the Holy Spirit. Later when I talked to a Buddhist
teacher about it, he had different categories, but he fully recognized the experience.
A couple years later I sat a retreat with the noted meditation teacher Joseph Goldstein. A
number of his teachings made a deep impression on me. He recounted his experience of going to
Burma to sit with a famed meditation master, only to find that his room was right next to a
construction zone where there was constant work. He had hoped to find a quiet, peaceful place
where he could get into deep meditation; instead he had repeated intrusions of sound. When he
complained to his teacher, the master asked him, “But did you note it?” Joseph Goldstein got
angry, thinking, “Of course, I noted it. How could I not note it!!!” But the teacher persisted in his
question.
Finally, Joseph realized what the master was saying.
Whatever appears in our
consciousness is part of our practice. The annoying noise of the construction workers was his
practice at the moment it was occurring. Another of Joseph’s teachings has lingered with me.
Regarding the constant worries and anxieties that our minds can create, Joseph quoted Mark
Twain: “Most of the worst things in my life never took place!”
From the meditation with Joseph Goldstein I drove to Gethsemani Abbey, Kentucky for
the Gethsemani Encounter with Catholic and Buddhist monastics from around the world, including
His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, and Maha Ghosananda, the Patriarch of Cambodian Buddhism, two
of the most distinguished and respected Buddhist leaders in the world. The Dalai Lama and Maha
Ghosananda represented communities in Tibet and Kampuchea that had endured unspeakable
suffering in recent years, but they had responded not by imitating the aggressors but with
mindfulness, equanimity, and compassion. During the week we sat in silent meditation together,
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we attended each other’s religious ceremonies, we discussed various aspects of monastic life and
meditation, and we pondered how to respond to violence. It was one of the most moving
experiences of dialogue of my life. Both the Christian and the Buddhist monastic traditions agreed
that meditation can help free us from being reactive in situations of great suffering and can open
up resources of compassion and healing.
I also had the opportunity to sit a retreat with the noted Vietnamese leader Thich Nhat
Hanh. He taught us brief sayings to guide our practice of mindfulness. “Breathing in I calm
myself; breathing out I smile.” “Breathing in I see myself as a lake; breathing out I am still.”
“Breathing in I see myself as a mountain; breathing out I am firm.” “Breathing in I see myself as
air; breathing out I am free.” What is most impressive to me about the Dalai Lama, Maha
Ghosananda, and Thich Nhat Hanh is their ability to be present even in moments of tremendous
suffering. After the end of the war in Vietnam, Thai pirates were doing violence to the Vietnamese
boat people who were fleeing their homeland. Thich Nhat Hanh was trying to persuade the
governments in the area to send their navies to protect the refugees, but they were unwilling to do
so. One night Thich Nhat Hanh was ordered to leave one country; he went into a moment of
despair. It seemed that all his efforts were completely futile. He came back to mindfulness
practice, realizing that if he could not find peace in that moment, no peace that he would every
have would be secure because it would always be dependent on outward circumstances.
Thich Nhat Hanh has led American veterans of the war in Vietnam in mindfulness
meditation. Many of these persons suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder for many years.
Thich Nhat Hanh invited them to have a cup of tea, advising them to observe every movement and
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every sensation very carefully. Careful attention to what is happening right here right now can
bring healing.4
Developing the Practice of Mindfulness
I suggested earlier that when we are not mindful, we are usually reactive, caught up in unhealthy
patterns of rivalry, envy, and jealousy leading to anger and protracted conflict. Leaders who
operate within this pattern can often multiply unnecessary suffering for themselves and others.
The meditation traditions of the world trust that deep within us, beyond our conscious control,
there is a source of wisdom which is the ultimate source of courage and confidence. On this deep
level of our True Mind, we already know who we are, but this is far different from the ego-self’s
anxious worrying. Our True Mind may be covered over by afflictive emotions, but like the blue
sky behind the clouds, it is there all the time and can appear when we open our awareness most
deeply.
The practice of mindfulness is simplicity itself, but it is extremely challenging. We are to
note every aspect of our present experience, whether physical, emotional, mental, or spiritual.
When pleasant experiences arise, we note them without losing ourselves in them. If desire arises,
we are to not the desire. According to Buddhist psychology, desires follow a pattern. They emerge
in our awareness and for a time they may increase in power, becoming extremely persuasive. If
we quietly note the desires without acting on them, in time they will lose their force. The process
will repeat itself many times, but the practice of mindfulness can bring us to a situation of freedom
4
Thich Nhat Hanh, Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life, ed. Arnold Kotler (New York:
Bantam Books, 1991), 103.
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where we are no longer compelled to act on our desires. We are free to act in accordance with our
deepest values.
The practice is similar with regard to afflictive emotions like anger, resentment, sadness.
The practice of mindfulness notes the experience without identifying with it. Instead of thinking,
“I am angry,” we can note, “Anger is happening.” Anger is a flow of energy. We do not have to
do anything with it. Over time the anger will change. If we note the anger without acting on it,
we will be free to decide how to act in accord with our values. Paradoxically, in developing
mindfulness we become more aware of our interdependence with others and also more self-reliant,
more able to act from our deepest values without worrying about others’ opinions of us.
Virtues of Mindfulness
The Buddhists tradition links the practice of mindfulness to the values of loving-kindness (metta),
compassion (karuna), equanimity (upekkha), and appreciative joy (mudita), which are the brahmaviharas, the dwelling-places of the Buddha or heavenly abodes. These are the fruits of mindfulness
practice, and they are crucial for effective leadership. If we meditate mindfully, we note the
interconnections among all realities. Wisdom involves seeing the interdependence of all reality.
As Thich Nhat Hanh notes, we cannot be; we can only “inter-be”. If we are wise, then we
experience loving-kindness toward all beings and we are compassionate. This is not a separate act
of the will. Wisdom and compassion are like the two wings of a bird, which cannot fly on only
one wing. If we think we are wise but we do not have compassion for all sentient beings, then we
are not truly wise. It may seem impossible to wish loving-friendliness and compassion to those
we perceive as enemies. The Buddhist tradition challenges us to see them as beings who, like
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ourselves, are suffering and who are seeking happiness. If our negative emotions are powerful,
we may not be able to will loving-kindness toward some persons, but we can patiently will to will.
Our practice may or may not benefit the others, but it will definitely benefit us and help us to be
less reactive.
In a world that often demands instant gratification and speedy results, the practice of
equanimity brings the patience of remaining firm in the practice whether it feels pleasant or
unpleasant or boring. To overcome deep-seated afflictive emotions and habits, mindfulness
practice requires great energy over a prolonged period of time. Equanimity returns to the practice
again and again and again regardless of perceived emotional benefits. In mindfulness practice we
are not to judge whether a particular sitting has been a success or not. One period may be calm
and peaceful; another may be filled with emotional tumult. It may be that more important work
took place during the tumultuous session than during the peaceful one. We need to pass through
periods of boredom precisely to overcome the tyranny of the ego that demands to be entertained.
It is not for us to judge. Over time the benefits will manifest themselves, but not in immediate
ways that we can predict or control.
Equanimity is most important when the practice seems totally impossible. The noted
Theravada Buddhist meditation teacher Bhante Gunaratana cautions that at times we will
experience unpleasant sensations and advises us not to run away from them but rather: “Look at
them mindfully. When you’ve done that enough times, they lose their hold on you. You see them
for what they are: just impulses, arising and passing away, just part of the passing show. Your life
smoothes out beautifully as a consequence.”5 He also warns us that we will have to face the
5
Bhante Henepola Gunaratana, Mindfulness in Plain English (Somerville, MA: Wisdom Publications, 2015), 79.
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strangeness of our identity: “Somewhere in this process, you will come face to face with the sudden
and shocking realization that you are completely crazy. Your mind is a shrieking, gibbering
madhouse on wheels barreling pell-mell down the hill, utterly out of control and helpless.”6 This
may seem like terrible news. Who would want to acknowledge this? But Gunaratana continues:
“No problem. You are not crazier than you were yesterday. It has always been this way, and you
just never noticed. You are also no crazier than everybody else around you. The only real
difference is that you have confronted the situation and they have not.”7 Equanimity calls us back
to the practice again and again, challenging us to let go of our timetables and expectations and our
outcomes assessments.
The final Brahma-vihara of appreciative or empathetic joy addresses the challenge of
living in a world of often bitter rivalries. Much of our world is structured by fierce competition.
While properly structured competition can bring some benefits, it also brings the great danger of
jealousy and envy. We can construct our identity through oppositional bonding; we know who we
are because we are opposed to those other people. We view others through the lens of whether
they are allies or threats. Appreciative joy calls us to rejoice in the well-being and success of all
beings, even our most bitter rivals. Once again it is not necessary to be able to will appreciative
joy for a rival, but one can will to will. Even to someone we cannot stand, someone we would
prefer to see fail, we can send forth the good wish: “May your success be unending. May your
success be unending. May your success be unending.” This wish may or may not benefit the other
person, but it will certainly be a healing step for ourselves. This practice can help us reframe
6
7
Ibid., 69.
Ibid., 69-70.
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situations so that we our rivals as confronting the same challenges as ourselves, and we may be
able to envision new ways of relating to them.
These values are not unique to Buddhists. The practice of mindfulness and the Brahmaviharas resonate deeply with the Christian tradition’s deepest virtues. In the early church Evagrius
Ponticus taught Christians to pray by emptying their minds of all thoughts and desires. He
predicted that an emotional upheaval may well ensue, but he promised that meditators would come
to a state of peace and tranquility that cannot be obtained in any other way. The Hesychast tradition
of Byzantine Orthodox Christianity sought hesuchia (“rest,” quiet” in Greek) by following the
breath and trusting in the power of the Holy Spirit. While this is not by any means the same as
Theravada Buddhist meditation practice, there are clear similarities. These areas of shared or
overlapping spiritual wisdom provide a space for Christians to encounter Buddhist meditation and
appropriate it into their Christian faith and practice.
Like Buddhists, Christians value patience and kindness, virtues that challenge the
relentless, ruthless competition of much of life today. In his recent reflection on the challenges of
family life, The Joy of Love, Pope Francis comments on the Apostle Paul’s famous hymn to love
(agape), in his first letter to the early Christian community in Corinth where religious leaders were
caught in bitter rivalry, boasting about their religious experiences. In opposition to leaders
boasting about their superior gifts, Paul wrote to this divided, squabbling audience about the way
that surpasses all others: “Love is patient; love is kind” (1 Cor 13:4). Pope Francis points out that
the Greek word translated as “patient” is makrothymei. He explains: “This does not simply have
to do with ‘enduring all things. . . . It refers, then, to the quality of one who does not act on impulse
and avoids giving offense. . . . Being patient does not mean letting ourselves be constantly
mistreated, tolerating physical aggression or allowing other people to use us. . . . Patience takes
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root when I recognize that other people also have a right to live in this world, just as they are. . . .
Love always has an aspect of deep compassion that leads to accepting the other person as part of
this world, even when he or she acts differently than I would like.”8 Patience is an antidote to
reactivity. Our reactive self operates on the basis of perceived threats and cravings and is often
defensive. Through patience we can allow the initial reaction to pass and act from a deeper sense
of ourselves and our relationships.
Pope Francis continues: “The next word that Paul uses is chresteuetai [‘kind’]. The word
is used only here in the entire Bible. It is derived from chrestos: a good person, one who shows
his goodness by his deeds. Paul wants to make it clear that ‘patience’ is not a completely passive
attitude, but one accompanied by activity, by a dynamic and creative interaction with others.” For
both the Buddhist and Christian traditions, patience and acts of kindness go hand in hand.
The Apostle Paul describes love as not zeloi (“jealous”), and Pope Francis comments: “this
means that love has no room for discomfiture at another person’s good fortune (cf. Acts 7:9; 17:5).
Envy is a form of sadness provoked by another’s prosperity. . . . Whereas love makes us rise above
ourselves, envy closes us in on ourselves. True love values the other person’s achievements. It
does not see him or her as a threat. It frees us from the sour taste of envy” (#95). This practice is
very close to what Buddhists call appreciative joy, which includes hoping for the lasting success
and happiness even of those we are tempted to view as rivals and those toward whom we feel
jealous. In Buddhist or Christian practice we do not have to feel the sentiment of appreciative joy,
but we can express the aspiration that we will to be able to rejoice in the well-being of our enemies.
8
Pope Francis, Amoris Laetitia (The Joy of Love), ## 90, 91, 92, 93,
http://w2.vatican.va/content/francesco/en/apost_exhortations/documents/papa-francesco_esortazioneap_20160319_amoris-laetitia.html, viewed April 15, 2016.
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Pope Francis notes that Saint Paul goes on to denounce perpereuetai (“vainglory”), “the
need to be haughty, pedantic and somewhat pushy. Those who love not only refrain from speaking
too much about themselves, but are focused on others; they do not need to be the centre of attention.
The word that comes next—physioutai—is similar, indicating that love is not arrogant. Literally,
it means that we do not become ‘puffed up’ before others. It also points to something more subtle:
an obsession with showing off and a loss of a sense of reality” (# 97). This is similar to the
Buddhist tradition’s warning against the danger of egoism flowing from a false sense of the self.
The Wisdom of Uselessness
In leading organizations today there is much attention to outcomes assessment. One of the dangers
facing successful, high-achieving practitioners of mindfulness is that we think we know what the
proper outcome of the practice ought to be. The problem is that as long as the anxious, craving
ego-self is making the assessments, our efforts are likely to cause more unnecessary suffering.
One obstacle to the practice of mindfulness is the insistence that every activity we engage in be
useful. But in striving relentless always to do something useful, we miss out on important aspects
of life. There is a type of self-forgetfulness in the practice of mindfulness that lets go of our usual
results-oriented mindset.
In ancient China Daoists and Buddhists shared a delight in the
paradoxical importance of what seems useless.
The American Catholic Trappist monk Thomas Merton pondered both Buddhist and Daoist
wisdom and delighted especially in the wisdom of Chuang Tzu (Zhuangzi). Merton summed up
the teaching of Chuang Tzu: “My opinion is that you never find happiness until you stop looking
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for it. My greatest happiness consists precisely in doing nothing whatever that is calculated to
obtain happiness: and this, in the minds of most people, is the worst possible course.”9
Merton rendered the wisdom of Chuang Tzu on the Daoist virtue of wu-wei, which is often
translated as “non-action,” but which is beyond the split between acting and not acting; it is
effortless action moving with the flow of the universe. Effortless action, wu-wei, avoids the danger
of forcing our experience in a particular direction, but this calls for an openness to what is
surprising.
The non-action of the wise man is not inaction.
It is not studied. It is not shaken by anything.
The sage is quiet because he is not moved,
Not because he wills to be quiet.10
Ch’an or Zen Buddhism
The ultimate source of courage and confidence lies within us. The person we are looking for is
our true identity which we already are. This sets up one of the most important paradoxes in the
practice of meditation. How can we search for what we already are? The Ch’an Buddhist tradition
in China, which became known as Zen Buddhism in Japan, has long played with this paradox. As
long as we force our experience, we move away from who we are; when we open ourselves to the
present, we find ourselves. One of the greatest Chinese Ch’an masters, Lin Chi (known as Rinzai
in Japanese), wrote about our authentic identity as the true human of no rank or qualities: if we
9
Thomas Merton, The Way of Chuang Tzu (New York: New Directions, 1969), 101.
Ibid., 80.
10
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search desperately for our true identity, it hides, but when we cease searching and acknowledge
the present moment, it is right here. Lin-chi warned his students against dashing around looking
for something:
Right now, all this dashing and searching you’re doing—do you know what it is you’re
looking for? It is vibrantly alive, yet has no root or stem. You can’t gather it up, you can’t
scatter it to the winds. The more you search for it the farther away it gets. But don’t search
for it and it’s right before your eyes, its miraculous sound always in your ears.11
Lin-chi elaborated: “You can’t seem to stop your mind from racing around everywhere
seeking something. That’s why the patriarch said, ‘Hopeless fellows—using their heads to look
for their heads!’ You must right now turn your light around and shine it on yourselves, not go
seeking somewhere else. Then you will understand that in body and mind you are no different
from the patriarchs and buddhas, and that there is nothing to do.”12
Another of the most influential teachers of mindfulness was the great Japanese Zen
Buddhist leader Dogen in the thirteenth century. As a young man he practiced Buddhist meditation
in Japan and came to a certain level of practice, but he asked a fundamental question. Many leaders
in the tradition of Mahayana Buddhism teach us that we are endowed with our true nature, our
Dharma-nature from birth. In a sense, we already have all the resources that we need; we already
are our true identity. If this is so, Dogen asked, why did the Buddhas of all ages who were already
in possession of enlightenment, find it necessary to seek enlightenment through spiritual practice?
In other words, if our true mind is already enlightened, why do we need to do the monastic practice
of meditation? When he did not find a satisfactory answer from his teachers in Japan, he went to
China.
11
Lin-chi, The Zen Teachings of Master Lin-chi: A Translation of the Lin-chi Lu, trans. Burton Watson (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1999), section 19, p. 58.
12
Ibid., section 21, p. 68.
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One of his first experiences in China was an encounter with an elderly monk with many
years of experience and much wisdom. The monk had traveled over eighty miles to find just the
right mushroom for a soup he was preparing. Then he was going to return to his monastery, but
Dogen asked him why such a senior monk was involved in so lowly a task. Dogen thought a junior
monk should do the cooking, but the monk laughed at him, explained that this was his dharma, his
duty, and commented, “You, a good man from a foreign country, perhaps do not understand what
the practice of the Way is, nor what words and letters are.”13
Later Dogen came to awakening and returned to Japan to found the Soto school of Zen
Buddhism there. He came to see that even though we all have the Dharma-nature or the Buddhanature from the very beginning, the practice of meditation is essential to realize it, both in the sense
of becoming conscious of it and in the sense of making it real and effective in our lives. To think
we possess our true nature without practice would be to make it an abstraction divorced form life.
For Dogen, our true nature is not manifested unless we practice. In one sense he believed that as
soon as we begin meditation practice, we are already enlightened; but to fully realize this we need
to persevere in the practice. Dogen warned that a goal-centered approach to life risks devaluing
the present moment for the sake of some imagined future experience. We can live our lives always
reaching for some future that never arrives. Instead, Dogen challenged his followers to live fully
in the present moment, realizing that each moment is an end in itself, a realization of non-duality.
The path to this he called shikantaza, “just-sitting.” He expressed the path of mindfulness:
To study the Way is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the
self is to be enlightened by all things of the universe. To be enlightened by all things of
the universe is to cast off the body and mind of the self as well as those of others. Even
13
Hee-Jin Kim, Dogen Kigen: Mystical Realist (revised ed.; Tuscon, AZ: University of Arizona Press, 1987), 25.
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the traces of enlightenment are wiped out, and life with traceless enlightenment goes on
forever and ever.14
One of the classic dilemmas in mindfulness practice is how to handle the self-centered ego.
The ego is infinitely resourceful and can turn anything, including spiritual practice, to its
advantage. As long as I want to become a Buddha, I am still concerned about my “I,” my grasping
ego. If I grasp at becoming a Buddha, I objectify the practice as one more item to be conquered
and put on my résumé. The more I pursue enlightenment in this vein, the further I move away
from it. The traditional Buddhist response is not to worry about the ego directly but to focus on
the practice. Can I attend to my breath for the next minute? So the object of study is the BuddhaWay.
“To study the Way is to study the self.” But the practice of mindfulness will indeed bring
new awareness of my self. Much of this is likely to be uncomfortable. One of my meditation
teachers warned us that the practice of mindfulness is about self-knowledge, and cautioned,
“Remember that you already know all the things you like about yourself.” In mindfulness we
become conscious of material we had tried to push out of our awareness. But mindfulness practice
is not self-obsession.
“To study the self is to forget the self.” In time we train our attention on the present moment
to the degree that we can forget our self. Then life becomes interesting. Dogen describes this as
the complete casting off of body and mind. On one retreat I had an experience that corresponded
very closely to this description. I felt like my consciousness opened up and the entire universe
was flowing through me. The boundaries of my body and my awareness were fluid.
14
Ibid., 120.
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However, as soon as I become aware of such an experience, I face the danger of
objectifying it and making it into a trophy I can show to others. If I remain with the practice,
Dogen tells us that not even a trace of enlightenment remains. Buddhists use the image of walking
along a sandy beach and not leaving a trace. If we are free from craving and anger, free from
anxious concern over our self-image, we can walk without leaving a trace. In one sense the
experience leaves no trace, but it affects everything: This “traceless enlightenment goes on forever
and ever.” Dogen went on to become one of the greatest teachers of Buddhist meditation practice.
Through just-sitting, one realizes the enlightenment that one already is.
Christian Meditation
In many ways the tradition of mindfulness may sound strange to people shaped in the Western
religious and philosophical traditions. However, there are analogues in the Christian tradition that
note the great value of simply resting in God while not trying to force anything. Peter of Celles in
the Middle Ages described the “Sabbath” of contemplation: the soul rests in God and God works
in the soul. The practitioner needs to practice discipline, but always needs to rest in God and allow
God to work in the soul. Peter tells us: “God works in us while we rest in him. Beyond all grasping
is this work of the Creator, itself creative, this rest. For such work exceeds all rest, in its tranquility.
This rest, in its effect shines forth as more productive than any work. Therefore let this action or
rest of our contemplation be fashioned so as to reproduce, even though only in faint or sketchy
lines, one model.15
15
Peter of Celles, Liber de Passibus, Patrologia Latina 202: 962; cited by Thomas Merton, Contemplative Pragyer
(New York: Image Books, 1996), 59.
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Conclusion
Mindfulness is pointless. To be sure, it is easy to treat mindfulness as a useful instrument. But as
long as we are striving to be mindful for the sake of some other goal, in order to be more efficient
at work or more grounded in relationships, we are moving away from the present moment,
devaluing what is right here right now. Mindfulness is living fully in the present moment without
judging, grasping, or rejecting. Mindfulness does not prefer one outcome to another but rather
consists of boundless openness to the present moment, whatever its character. To use mindfulness
as a stepping stone to some other experience is not to be mindful.
For me, the practice of mindfulness is a great gift. Like others, I can be tempted to view
mindfulness instrumentally, thinking of the benefits that it brings. But deep down, I know this is
misleading. To be mindful is to be mindful is to be mindful. Mindfulness is not about going
somewhere else; it is not about finding a certain emotional state; it is not about addressing a certain
problem. Mindfulness can indeed bring many benefits, but above all mindfulness calls us to let
go of the sense that we really need to be somewhere else. Much suffering comes from the sense
that we need to be different from who we are. Mindfulness attends to the present moment and
finds it to be wonderful.
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