Going Beyond Techniques
By Tsoknyi Rinpoche, taken from Huffpost, refer to the link
below for more interesting articles by Tsoknyi Rinpoche
As I’ve traveled around the United States recently, I’ve been so
moved by the interest people have shown in finding ways to connect
with essence love. This is very exciting because for many years in
the West and in many parts of Asia, I’ve seen a tendency to reduce
the Buddhist path (as well as other spiritual paths) to the
mechanics of methods. This tendency arises from a kind of narrow
commercial perspective — common to many cultures throughout history
— that sees the fruits of spiritual practice as commodities that
can be acquired by practicing the right techniques.
Developing a broader, less-specifically self-centered
perspective is in many ways the focus of the paramitas, the
positive qualities or dimensions of character that we’ve been
exploring over the past few weeks. The fifth of these known in
Sanskrit as dhyana, or sometimes as samadhi, and in Tibetan as
samten, is often translated as “meditation,” and it’s easy to
understand it in terms of developing or cultivating some sort of
technique. There are certainly a lot of techniques available within
the Buddhist tradition.
Both the Sanskrit and the Tibetan terms, however, can be
translated as “concentration,” which is not so much a technique as
an approach to living that we can cultivate when we’re formally
meditating or — perhaps more importantly — while going about our
lives: riding a bus, for example, or cooking a meal, washing
dishes, writing an email (or a blog post), having a conversation.
Essentially, concentration involves allowing our minds and hearts
to rest very simply, alertly, and openly. It means allowing
everything into our awareness, without focusing too narrowly or
strenuously, and without being distracted by our judgments, our
opinions, or the challenges that life continuously offers.
I saw an example of this calm, steady openness in my father,
Tulku Urgyen Rinpoche, about a year or so before he passed away. At
that time, even as his body was failing, he had begun a new program
to renovate the shrine room at the monastery where he lived. My
father had asked to me to help, and one day I noticed a problem in
the construction. I went upstairs to inform my father about the
problem and ask his advice. He was, of course, in his small room
where he both slept and gave teachings. The entrance was not closed
off by a door but rather by a heavy curtain. I pulled back the
curtain a little bit and saw that he was meditating. Not wishing to
disturb him, I let the curtain fall back and waited for a few
minutes.
I must’ve done so four or five times, and after about half an
hour I started to get a little bit cold standing in the hallway and
began thinking, a bit selfishly, that it wasn’t my monastery, and
it wasn’t my problem; really, he should be the one to figure out a
solution.
At the same time, I was interested to see how he would respond.
Would he break from his meditative state and pay attention to
“practical” concerns or, as I’d heard of great masters, was his
concentration so open and free that without leaving that state he
could respond accurately and precisely to any situation around
him?
I went in, and addressed him formally. He looked at me calmly,
without any change in expression, no sign of dealing with what
might be considered an intrusion. I told him about the problem,
asked for his advice, and he gave me some instructions. And as I
backed out of the room he simply continued sitting calmly. There
was no sign that he’d broken his concentration or that he had to
reconnect with his practice. There was no in and out. He was the
same, whether meditating or giving advice about a construction
issue. He was so clear and open, but there was no sense of holding
on to that clarity and openness; it was just part of his being,
effortless and continuous.
This was a great lesson for me. Addressing my father and
listening to his instructions, I realized that concentration is not
an effort of focusing on something but an abiding in a spacious,
“centerless center” from which to function.
To develop this kind of concentration requires a good deal of
kindness toward ourselves, toward others, and ultimately toward all
the shifting circumstances of daily life. We can begin by expanding
our attention to the thoughts and feelings that accompany just
about everything we do, simply acknowledging feelings as feelings
and thoughts as thought — a part of experience, but not necessarily
my whole experience. Gradually, we can begin to work with them,
breathe with them, and welcome them into our “home.” As we do this,
our hearts expand, our minds clear, we become steady and
relaxed.
We can expand this welcoming attentiveness to other people,
allowing them to be part of a larger, more spacious experience. In
so doing we may begin to notice things — gestures, facial
expressions, certain tones of voice — that offer new and more
profound ways of understanding who they are. As we see and hear the
people and the world around us more clearly, we will quite
naturally and spontaneously feel our hearts expanding. At the same
time, we’ll experience an increased ability to remain steady and
clear no matter what happens. We will be able to see everything
that is happening without having to focus on any particular
thing.
And in the process, a childlike wonder begins to open up, an
innocent perspective that is one way of experiencing essence love
begins to awaken. Can you describe others? That is one challenge
for the week.
Here’s another: When you encounter a situation that requires
concentration, can you approach it as an opportunity to welcome
distractions? Can you allow your mind to become spacious enough to
see a bigger picture? Can you allow your heart to become a
“home?”
(Source:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/Tsoknyi-rinpoche/meditation-_b_1585423.html)