Time well spent

Sometimes I hear people rue that there’s only one unclonable version of them—for example, a friend from college who had to choose between a late night Harry Potter movie premiere and a cram sesh for a huge exam the next day, agonized between the immense and opposite forces of wanting to indulge a bone-deep childhood nostalgia versus the obligation to, ugh, like, study.

She was so bitter that she couldn’t do both. That there couldn’t be more hours in the day.

But I find this finite quality of life invigorating.

Imagine if we all lived forever. No achievement would ever be interesting. “Oh, you won an Olympic gold medal for swimming? I’m sure I’ll get there too… someday, when I finally decide to get in the water.”

Nope. We live, we get old if we’re lucky, then we die. That’s why I’m so fascinated by the decisions made around how we spend our precious and fleeting time.

In this lifetime we can only pick a few things—maybe even one thing—at which to really practice.

One thing to which we devote most of our time, energy, and mental space. One thing that serves as the north star for each of life’s major and minor and subconscious decisions. One single thing that we each believe will bring us the most happiness and/or the least amount of pain. 

For me, it’s awakening. For others, it’s achievement. Or prestige. Or leisure. Beauty. Alcohol. Charity. Family. The list goes on.

The amazing thing is, we all get to choose for ourselves.

That’s why I find it so special to meet others who sincerely practice the Dhamma, whether they call it that or not. I don’t care if someone meditates, or wears ochre robes, or knows how to recite the Four Noble Truths—I just love it when they practice those Noble Truths: knowing suffering, its cause, its cessation, and the way out of suffering. Because this path is so devastatingly hard sometimes. It seems like I spend as much time walking it as I do limping along, or crawling on all fours, or lying flat on my face with tears pooling slowly around my cheeks. 

Of course, the devastation is always followed by a proportionate sense of lightness and joy, so the nadirs of Dhamma practice are more than worth the pain to me. But—especially before entering this practice, and even during its first few years—it can be so much harder to hold the white-hot coals of suffering than to try and fling them far, far away. Those attempts at dodging discomfort never worked for me, but I understand perfectly why anyone would prefer to try.

I don’t ask anyone to walk this path with me. 

Actually, I think it’d be unfair—and unwise—to expect this of others.

But that just makes it all the more precious when I meet fellow travelers, who work to awaken too.

“The days and nights pass relentlessly. Right now, what are you doing?”
—Gotama Buddha, Anguttara Nikaya 10.48, as said by Luang Por Chah

My best teacher

A few months ago I studied the biography of Luang Por Chah, who I think of as a grandfather of Western Buddhism. The book describes many ways in which he trained his disciples, including his incredible kindness, his high standards, and his use of psychic powers.

But one of the best gems I discovered from that reading was Luang Por’s use of toramon—a method of intentionally stirring up monks’ suffering so that they can overcome it.

My favorite example from the biography describes how, during a strenuous work period on a harsh winter’s day, a kettle of hot drinks might be brought out from the kitchen and intentionally placed in full view of the laboring monks. If they worried about the cocoa getting cold before they were excused for their break, they would immediately start to suffer. But if they let go of their craving and thought, “If there’s a drink, there’s a drink; if there’s no drink, that’s all right too,” then the suffering would cease in that very moment.

The book offered many more colorful examples of how Luang Por Chah administered this technique to the benefit of his lucky disciples. It also noted that this method was actually kind of a mindfuck, and could only work on the rare occasions where a masterful teacher possessed the full trust of his students.

But in my experience, I’ve found that toramon masters are not rare at all.

Life itself is a toramon master.

When I’m asked to make the hundredth revision to a boring work assignment. When I’m cornered by a stranger in a rambling conversation. When I’ve parked the car in rush hour traffic.

“Ah,” I think to myself, “The kettle is out again.”

Whenever I think of toramon—whenever I practice this way—my suffering ceases. 

And my patience grows. 

In that very moment.

“Let the teaching be your island and your refuge, with no other refuge.”
—Gotama Buddha, Samyutta Nikaya 22.43