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.

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The perfection of tolerance is the meditative discipline of working with everything that assaults us, discomforts us, and forces suffering on us. Holding the mind steady, we learn to examine the pain, seeking to locate dimensions of our character that are not so severely affected by the apparent crisis and from which we can respond with resolve. Contemplating these, we begin to open a spiritual power not otherwise accessible. Patiently sitting still with our suffering entails neither wallowing in it nor celebrating it, but instead promises a freedom from its tyranny. Patience of this sort is far more than passive endurance. It is the energy to pass through suffering without allowing it to get us wholly in its grasp.

When we understand all things, especially ourselves, as constituted through relations to others, the larger issue of identity begins to take on a new look, and along with it, the kinds of moral questions that will be posed. Seen from an ideal of the bodhisattva image, those who are hungry will be fed not because it is the bodhisattva’s duty to feed them or that they have a right to be fed, but rather because of a sense of common belonging and shared identity so fundamental that a compassionate response becomes “natural.” Whenever we think of moral life as a duty imposed upon us by the moral law, we hold the motivation for moral action outside of ourselves and continue to alienate ourselves from deeper sources of motivation.

[O]ver and over, the sutras recommend that “when the Bodhisattva is faced with a beggar, he should produce a thought thus: he who gives, he to whom he gives, what he gives,” in all of these “the own-being cannot be apprehended.” The Bodhisattvas’ “own-being” “cannot be apprehended” because they have no “own-being.” Their being – what they are – depends to a great extent on other beings, and they change over time. Nothing is self-established; nothing stands on its own. All of us who fail to understand this will, as donors, tend to be more self-concerned in giving than concerned about the other. Understanding ourselves and others as isolated entities, each on our own, in the act of giving we will likely be as much or more self-promoting as truly generous.

The gift may still be a good thing. The beggar will, for example, still get the food he so desperately needs. But he will not get the sense of human dignity and equality that he may need to recover his standing in the world, nor a glimpse of the open-hearted human love and concern that we all need to live well. Moreover, the one who gives will not get these either, and the deep sense of well-being that might have come in the act of giving is stifled, replaced tragically by more isolation, pride, and arrogance, and hence more future suffering for both the giver and others.

Unless we as donors can see clearly and unflinchingly that who we are as donors – secure in wealth and health – is completely dependent on numerous turns of good fortune, on the care and help of others, and on opportunities not available to everyone, our acts of giving will be less than fully generous. These acts will therefore not have the liberating effects that they might otherwise have had. When we are able to see that the homeless person’s parents did not do for him what ours did for us, that his teachers did not do for him what ours did for us, then we begin to understand the contingency of our fortune, and, looking more deeply, the thorough interdependency of all reality.

From points of departure in ordinary mentality where most of us reside, it was widely thought in Mahayana Buddhism that an initial faith is required to begin this practice of wisdom. As the Large Sutra on Perfect Wisdom defines it “Faith here means the believing in perfect wisdom, the trusting confidence, the resoluteness, the deliberation, the weighing up, the testing.” Without some faith that these practices are worthwhile, that exerting oneself in them would be a healthy engagement of time and effort, no one would or should take them up. But the sutras imagine, sensibly, that in the process of engaging in these practices, on the basis of that initial faith, what at first requires faith because it seems so foreign and unnatural later becomes a second nature, internalized on the basis of experience. At some point the practitioner “knows” something, feels something strongly, based on what has already taken place. The more deeply ingrained the practices of perfection become, the less discipline is required and the more one is able to perform a wise act spontaneously out of a profound sense of what is right under the circumstances.

Although our tendency has been to regard imaginative mental capacities as secondary or less important in the overall operation of our minds, on close examination this turns out not to be true. When we are uncertain how to understand or explain something before us, we imagine how it might be, form plausible hypotheses, and then seek to confirm or falsify them. When faced with a problem, we imagine possible solutions and test them for their potential efficacy. When we need to know what to believe, we imagine plausible accounts of the issue and what might count as evidence in their favor or against them. Imagination functions in an astonishing range of human activities, from basic problem solving through the creative acts of art, music, and literature, to our own efforts to imagine ideals that are worthy of guiding our personal lives – the “thought of enlightenment.” By cultivating this central, meditative capacity, we open up dimensions of our lives we were previously unable to access. Those who do this skillfully position themselves in a more experimental relation to life, a posture less susceptible to dogmatic closure and open to a wider set of possibilities.

Courage was considered an essential component of the quest for self-transformation. As the bodhisattva develops the perfection of energy, he is said to find that “he is not afraid. He is impregnated with the strength that he has gained and that enables him to persist in his endeavors and to think: ‘It is not the case that I shall not be fully enlightened.’ “

For some traditional Buddhists there is no such thing as misfortune. All fortune – good, bad, and indifferent – is justifiably earned, they claim. We deserve whatever we get in life. Grounded in the view of cosmic justice inherent in the Buddhist teachings of karma and rebirth, this idea is not always easy to practice. But for those who are adept at practicing it, it does have powerful ramifications. Whoever accepts these teachings to the extent of being able to live in accord with them has no reason to resent what has happened. When misfortune befalls such people, their understanding of karma and rebirth ameliorates its sting. Whatever has happened to them – no matter how terrible or how wonderful – it was their own actions in life that have produced this new state of affairs. Adopting this view, you would have every reason to tolerate everything that happens to you and no reason to resent or bemoan the consequences that your own actions have earned.

In their effort to establish a more comprehensive understanding of Buddhist morality, Mahayana sources frequently classify morality into three increasingly significant categories. First is morality as restraint, which aligns with most concerns of early Buddhist moral precepts. Steadfast in renunciation of ordinary worldly desires, the bodhisattva observes the precepts with great care and exactitude and does this with no thought of reward. Second is morality as the cultivation of virtue. More comprehensive than following the Buddhist precepts, the second level of moral practice is grounded in meditation and its concern for mindfulness. Attentive to all of the ways in which enlightenment can be cultivated, the bodhisattva undertakes these regimes of training in order to prepare for the final stage. Third is morality as altruism. This dimension of morality shows the bodhisattva’s overarching concern for the welfare and enlightenment of others. Moral action at this stage, therefore, entails loving service to others, which includes everything from teaching to care for the poor and the sick. In the final analysis, moral action is not individual but collective, and the bodhisattva engages in morality for the betterment and enlightenment of all.

The first of [the] two kinds of generosity is “worldly giving.” Worldly giving encompasses a wide range of generous acts, from a grudging, stingy gift given for essentially selfish motives all the way to magnanimous gifts of enormous generosity. In fact, one may give everything away, including one’s life, and still be within the domain of worldly giving. So what constitutes its worldliness? The answer is: the conception that structures the act itself. Worldly generosity occurs when, having given, the bodhisattva thinks: “I give, that one receives, this is the gift.” Even if the bodhisattva also goes so far as to think: “I renounce all that I have without any niggardliness; I act as the Buddha commands. I practice the perfection of giving. I, having made this gift into the common property of all beings, dedicate it to supreme enlightenment, and that without basing myself on anything. By means of this gift and its fruit, may all beings in this very life be at their ease, and may they without any further clinging enter final Nirvana.”

Even that is still worldly giving, due to the character of the understanding out of which it arises. According to the Large Sutra, the problem with this way of being generous is: “The notion of self, the notion of others, the notion of a gift. To give a gift tied by these three ties, that is called worldly giving.” By contrast, the sutra describes the perfection of an act of generosity by way of a “threefold purity”: “Here a Bodhisattva gives a gift, and he does not apprehend a self, a recipient, or a gift; also no reward of his giving. He surrenders that gift to all beings, but does not apprehend those beings, or himself either. And, although he dedicates that gift to supreme enlightenment, he does not apprehend any enlightenment. This is called the supermundane perfection of giving.”