Dear Dharma friends,
Perhaps you, too, have been feeling raw lately. That’s where I’ve been— all my touchy-feely wires exposed to the harsh world. It’s a desolate feeling that seems concrete and real.
I am lucky enough to live on the edge of a big forest called the Wissahickon. I don’t get in there as much as I would like to, especially since our old pup has retired to another home, but I did get myself into the forest one recent day when I was in this state of Eternal Desolation.
It was almost sunset. I had about twenty minutes before the kids got home. I found a rock shaped like a bench at an outcropping of the forest. I sat there, cross-legged, hands on my belly so I could begin to breathe. Almost as soon as my eyes closed I heard a tremendous crashing. I try not to let anything pull me out of meditation (including “Mama! Mama!” and banging on my office door) but I did open my eyes this time. I jumped up. An adolescent kid and his mountain bike were smushed almost against me. They had crashed into the back of the stone bench. It was a real tangle.
I helped pull kid and bike apart. In that way that young people can have, he jumped on the bike and was gone before I had really gathered myself.
I sat back down. I looked out at the ridge. Something had changed. I noticed the raggedy clouds streaking across the pale blue sky like jets had just drawn them out. I saw the tiny pointy leaves of these tall trees doing a flutter-flutter dance as the wind hit them. I saw the specific golden light of sunset in fall lancing across the forest, and how quickly the yellows turned into a rich orange-pink hue. Everything seemed vibrant and alive and I was a part of it, me and that boy and my boys returning soon. As I turned towards home every crunch of the leaves felt beautiful to me.
I think we’ve all had these experiences. When I spoke of this moment at Heart Sangha a friend called it a glimmer. It happened to her too, in the Wiss. We had a quick moment together as we said “ahhh” for life on the edge of a forest.
We were in gratitude. Genuine gratitude. It was a good place to be.
I wasn’t teaching that Sunday for the first time in five weeks, which meant I could tune in to watch my teacher Anam Thubten give his dharma talk. The temple cancelled his in-person appearance. Rinpoche appeared on Zoom hoarse and making jokes about his cold. Almost as soon as I saw him, I started crying. I realized how much I’d missed him. I could feel the warmth of his compassion. Here he was, teaching while sick. He knew that we were struggling. He gave a talk on refuge— and I needed the reminder. My heart broke open. I felt grateful to him and grateful to the dharma, which has been my place of refuge since I was a child. It has been the only stable place to put life’s vicissitudes. The only place that doesn’t move.
Once I’d cracked the edge of despair and invited gratitude, more flowed in. They started small. My toddler’s chubs behind his knees. The way each boy smells at the top of his head. How the brothers hold hands when they walk on the sidewalk. The way they sit on my stomach to play, “row row row the boat.” Cutting open a perfectly ripe avocado— as a longtime Californian, that is huge!
The bigger gratitudes came too. The absolute privilege of smoke-free air, which was a reason we moved from Berkeley to Philadelphia.
As I packed my bags to go back to Thailand, gratitude went to the infrastructure of justice in America. Perhaps this sounds unbelievable and sentimental, but let’s widen the lens. In my other citizenship we often don’t get to vote, and the vote gets pretty routinely thrown out. So compared to that reality, yes: it is a wonder to be voting in a functioning democracy. Democracy is a messy, spectacular thing that is practiced so rarely when you look at all the countries in the world.
Gratitudes rained down. I started reading Pema Chodron’s How We Live Is How We Die. The book opened with a scene where “Ani Pema” sat down with a Tibetan teacher she respected, to ask him questions about the Bardo teachings. Of course it was Anam Thubten. My teacher was suddenly everywhere.
Somehow, my desolate reality was transforming. In dire times— and I was reading the news, and I was taking it in— I also felt I was walking in beauty. Both were true. There was so much to be genuinely grateful for, to fill the heart and focus me, at least, on the preciousness of the present and this fleeting human life.
Sometimes at Heart Sangha people ask if I’ll teach lojong, the mind training aphorisms. I can aspire to it. But gratitude, though less sexy, is a mind training. To find the wellspring of your gratitude, you slow down. You breathe.
Maybe you need a kid to almost knock you down. It worked for me!
If you’re interested in trying gratitude mind training, here is what I would do: Set an alarm for 3 or 4 times/day. In a monastery we’d ring a special bell and it would be so perfect and satisfying, but we will make do with the iPhone. Modernity comes for us all. Whenever that special tone goes off, stop what you’re doing. Stand up, close your eyes, and take three slow, deep breaths. You could even hum as you breathe in and out.
Open your eyes. Look around. What is one thing you’re grateful for? Make a mental note, and then continue your day.
If you are open to jotting down your gratitudes, they can be 3-4 bullet points/day. When you look back on the journal you will have a Book of Delights, per Ross Gay. That would be a beautiful record of a year.
My sense is that gratitude is an accessible refuge in this time. Gratitude and equanimity. To witness the world and to be present for its beauty. Gratitude can shift our habitual relationships so that we can receive life’s gifts. They are actually abundant, if we could take them in. This is a helpful habit to pick up: how to receive life’s gifts.
I’m getting questions about how to know what right action looks like. My feeling is that it’s important to slow down and look at the field of intention. That is where right action begins— with intention. Intention is the start of what we manifest. Gratitude is a healthy field of intention.
Let me know what you think, and how your gratitude practice goes.
I am grateful to be in dialogue and relationship with you. We are weaving something beautiful together. Let’s keep going.
With a deep bow,
Sunisa
ps. Sorry there is no audio to this post. I wrote this on the plane, where I notice that Turkish Airlines has the most bonkers yogurt. What are they doing with cows in Turkey??
For a long time, my daughter and I would list at least three gratitudes at the end of each day, before she went to sleep. This started in Primary 6, when she was stressed out like crazy preparing for the PSLE (a standardised test to determine where you go for secondary school), but it’s fallen off a bit lately. She just finished Sec 3, and much of next year will be preparing for O-Levels, so I think it’s a good idea we pick up this practice again.