Perhaps the most widely recognized Buddhist phrase is the first noble truth, the Buddha’s initial assertion that “life is suffering.” This claim has prompted a great deal of critical questioning, even rejection of Buddhism, on the grounds that its negative assessment of human life fails to emphasize human happiness and the joy of life. But this response is based on a misunderstanding, a misreading of the way suffering is positioned in Buddhist thinking. The mistake is understandable, though, given the stark form that this pronouncement takes: “Life is suffering.” Without working through the meanings of the Sanskrit suffering – the reasonable tack taken in introductory books on Buddhism – let us simply rephrase the first noble truth in order to get on with the point behind this first meaning of the perfection of tolerance. Suffering in human life is unavoidable; life always entails periods of suffering. All human beings, no matter how privileged their circumstances, will encounter hardship – we will all get sick, we will all injure ourselves, we will all encounter disappointment, we will all face obstacles, we will all feel the pain of depression, and at some point, we will all confront our own death.
Although every one of us knows that, we nevertheless hide from its truth; we wish otherwise, hope otherwise, and invariably become disillusioned when we encounter pain in spite of our best efforts at avoidance. The Buddhist first noble truth is a frank, startling call to awaken from this avoidance and to face the truth of suffering directly and wisely. As the Buddhist teachings unfold around the first truth, we recognize that, far from a passive rejection of happiness in preference for despair, the teachings demonstrate enormous insight into the human situation by outlining paths of action for overcoming the destructive impact of human suffering. Buddhist teachings begin with a stark warning: Life does entail suffering and, unless you face that fact thoughtfully and courageously, your own habits of response to it may deepen the impact or negative effects of suffering, pushing you toward diminished forms of life.
Buddhists have recognized that all of us begin the cultivation of morality from within whatever quality of self-understanding we happen to have. That means, of course, that our initial motives for moral action will be predominantly self-centered. But as moral practice matures and the accompanying mental transformation progresses, practitioners gradually recognize how the perfection of morality is grounded in compassion and sincere concern for others.
All practices of giving take place in view of an ideal, a mental model of admirable beings who demonstrate what a life of generosity would be like. Buddhists call this mental model the “thought of enlightenment” (bodhicitta). In the most general sense, this is an initial idea, hope, or sense that superior forms of human life are possible and that “I” can gradually transform myself toward these freer forms of life. As soon as this ideal is firmly in mind to the point that it begins to influence and change what one desires, then the discipline is already under way. To begin the process, one works toward habituating oneself in the performance of certain actions, both mental and physical. Images of the goal – generosity at the most mature level imaginable – serve to provide reasons to act and motivation to undergo the discipline of practice.
Buddhists claim (1) that everything is change, and this flux is without beginning or end, (2) that all things arise and pass away dependent on the force of energy surging forth from other things, which themselves were similarly generated, ad infinitum, and (3) that therefore there is “no-self” or essential unchanging core to anything, since all things are temporary formations of energies that are simply passing through their current states.
No traditional metaphysical system, whether religious or philosophical, comes as close to prefiguring modern physics as the Buddhist one. Contemporary physics works out of an understanding of energy as the generator of all things. Energy is thought to take a broad range of forms – from nuclear energy, gravitational energy, electrical energy, heat energy, chemical energy, kinetic energy, elastic energy, radiant energy, to mass energy. We are told, by no less a source than Albert Einstein, that matter is energy – that the two are essentially interchangeable. The various theories of creation in contemporary physics all point to the energy required to give rise to the universe. The leading theory – the Big Bang – sees the cosmos resulting from a primordial explosion of energy that is still expanding into increasing complexity. Nevertheless, we are told, the amount of energy in the universe is constant. It never changes, even though the forms it takes are constantly changing. The energy of an exploding star is the same as that of a boulder tumbling down a mountain, which is the same as that stored in a carrot, released in the spin of Einstein’s mind or the play of a small child.
The most difficult challenge associated with the perfection of tolerance is tolerating the truth of uncertainty that derives from human finitude. Having learned to accept the uncertainty of life and its very real risks, we are now asked to tolerate the uncertainty of all the wisdom we have acquired. Mahayana Buddhist texts unflinchingly proclaim that the highest realization, the truth that is most difficult to encounter, is that all the teachings of Buddhism and all the other “truths” you have acquired are “empty.” Recall that “emptiness” was the term used to coordinate the realizations of “impermanence,” “dependent origination,” and “no-self.” To say that all things without exception are “empty” is to say that all things change over time because what they are is dependent on other equally impermanent things. Change and dependence imply that there is “no-self” to anything in the sense of a permanent identity that is what it is, independent of other things. Being “empty” and having “no-self” are thus the same realization.
But what, then, does it mean to say that in addition to everything else to which it applies, “emptiness” is applicable to itself; “emptiness” is itself “empty”? Insight deriving from long-term reflection on this one thought in Buddhist history is extensive. One outcome of this meditation is the realization that no doctrine is final, permanent, and beyond doubt. “Emptiness” was in many ways a teaching about how to live well in view of the prospects of human finitude. Through reflection on this teaching, Buddhists contemplated the uncertainty of human thinking and sought ways not around this insight but through it to greater and greater realization. They sought to learn through experience how to live well in the absence of certain knowledge, yet without being rendered immobile by the fear of being wrong or getting stuck in sheer hesitation.
[The] ultimately communal orientation in the pursuit of morality links the perfection of morality directly to the bodhisattva’s vow, the vow to pursue awakening on behalf of all beings. The point of moral action is not just one’s own purity or enlightenment but also the perfection of human society as a whole and its movement toward enlightenment. Indeed, one’s own enlightenment is linked to that of others; the pursuit of one is the pursuit of the other. To seek the enlightenment of others is to enlighten yourself, and seeking your own enlightenment will help bring about the enlightenment of others. Nevertheless, because enlightenment is defined in terms of certain qualities of selflessness and because our uncultivated inclinations are already shaped toward self-seeking, Mahayana Buddhist texts orient most moral practice in the direction of compassionate concern for others rather than concern for one’s own enlightenment.
If, engulfed in our own world of concerns, we do not even notice when someone near us needs help, we will not be able to practice generosity. Similarly, if we maintain a distant posture toward others that, in effect, prevents them from appealing to us for help, we will rarely find ourselves in a position to give. The first skill that is vital to an effective practice of generosity is receptivity, a sensitive openness to others that enables both our noting their need and our receptivity to their requests. Our physical and psychological presence sets this stage and communicates clearly the kind of relation to others that we maintain.
The traditional Mahayana image of perfection in the capacity for receptivity is the bodhisattva Avalokiteśvara (Guanyin), whose multiple arms are always extended in the gesture of generous outreach. The bodhisattva of compassion welcomes and invites all pleas for help. Other familiar forms of presence, other gestures, restrict the field of asking and giving; they are more or less closed rather than open to others. Arms folded tightly around ourselves communicate that we are self-contained, not open outwardly; arms raised in gestures of anger say even more about our relations to others. The extent to which we are sensitively open to others and the way in which we communicate that openness determine to a great extent what level of generosity we will be able to manifest. In sensitivity we open our minds to the very possibility that someone may need our assistance, and welcome their gestures toward us. Skillful generosity is attentive to these two basic conditions.
At earlier stages of “self” cultivation, where one hopes to achieve something for oneself, the merit and progress accrued in virtuous acts is very important as motivation. But by the time the sutras work up to the perfection of wisdom, all talk of merit and individual accomplishment disappears in the texts. Wisdom entails overcoming the isolation of the self, not just for the self but on behalf of a larger collective reality beyond the self. It imagines stages of self-cultivation where self-concern is no longer the focal point of the activity, where doing what is right, doing the good on behalf of all members of a community are the images of perfection. At this stage, there is very little point in calling it “self-“cultivation because all attention is now focused on a set of concerns that go far beyond the individual.
This evolution beyond the “self” is symbolized in the sutras in the practice of dedicating one’s own merit to another (parinamāna). Meditating on the act of giving one’s positive merit to someone else begins the process of learning how to take the lives of others as seriously as we are able to take our own. Thus one sutra says: “That the bodhisattva wishes to make that ease of nonattachment, that ease of freedom, that ease of the Blessed Rest [enlightenment] common to all beings, and therefore dedicates his store of merit to the supreme enlightenment of all beings, that should be seen as his magnanimous resolution.” Achieving that ability, however, one no longer dwells on merit at all, and the symbolic, preparatory gestures of meditative giving can be set aside in preference for actual giving – work on behalf of the enlightenment of everyone, oneself and others. At this level, wisdom and compassion are functionally synonymous.
The imagination as a meditative discipline is inherently creative, a discipline of change rather than conservation. Its goal is always transformation, breaking through the weaknesses of previous orders and pushing toward something extraordinary and new. In this sense, products of the imagination are often counterintuitive. They run against the grain of our previous ways of understanding ourselves and the world. Our measure of them is the degree to which they open up new dimensions of reality to our mind. But sometimes this “opening” takes time to see or to feel. This is especially true of the most imaginative acts. Imaginative acts are most transformative when they are directed not toward a product that has been conceived in advance – where we already know clearly what we want. Instead, the imaginative acts that are most useful lead us to see and desire something that we could not have conceived or desired before that moment in time.
Although emotions can indeed blind our judgment and confuse our minds, they can also motivate our striving and stimulate energy in the pursuit of enlightenment.
In order to play this constructive role, emotions need to be shaped and cultivated; they need to be educated. Educated emotions are fundamental to depth of character, and self-conscious development is the primary means to prevent their distortion and excess. Emotional maturity of the kind we would imagine in a contemporary “thought of enlightenment” would be far less vulnerable to the extremes of destructive outbreak.
Although no human being is invulnerable, those who have given mindful attention to the development of their emotional responses will be better positioned to manage the storms of difficult situations. As we all know from our own internal experience, choosing well and acting well have many root conditions, but one of them is feeling well. When we have feelings of compassion, compassionate choices and actions are much more likely to arise than they would be otherwise. Feelings of peace tend to generate peaceful acts. Having an emotional life that is well balanced and suited to an earnest effort to live in accord with a “thought of enlightenment” is crucial.
