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Guided Meditation: Kindness

Good day. Welcome back. This is the last of the series.

I'd like to begin with a reflection I read recently. It was adapted from the physicist Lawrence Krauss^[1]. He said, "Every atom in our bodies came from a star that exploded. The atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. The carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron—all the things needed for life—were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars. And the only way for them to get into our bodies was for those stars to be kind enough to explode. The stars died so that we could be here today."

So all this effort we humans make to become somebody, to perfect ourselves, to defend ourselves, and yet here we are: temporary arrangements of ancient stardust, just breathing together for a brief moment.

Today, rather than trying to improve ourselves, perhaps we can practice including every part of ourselves in our meditation. Nothing left out. Allowing all of our stardust to be included.

Let's begin the meditation.

Settling into a posture that allows dignity, alertness, and ease. Allowing the eyes to close. Arriving here fully. Putting aside any cares or concerns, any ideas for later. Being centered in the body, here, now.

Allowing the attention now to meander throughout the body in your own way. Relaxing any tensions that can be relaxed. Letting go of any holding or bracing. Relaxing or softening any habitual tensions—maybe the face, the shoulders, the belly. Keeping a soft belly. The back, the arms, and legs. Connecting intimately with the body.

And from within the body, you might become aware of your breathing. A simple inhaling, exhaling. Just knowing you're breathing in, knowing you're breathing out. You might take a few long, slow, deep breaths. With each inhale, connecting more intimately with the moment. With each exhale, relaxing a little more deeply, letting go, settling in, allowing the earth to support you.

And when you're ready, allowing your breath to return to its normal rhythms. Staying close to the body, to the breath. Staying very simple.

This body is part of the world around it. The same oxygen moving through forests and oceans moves through us now. The warmth of stars lives quietly in this body. Just present enough. Nothing else is needed.

You might notice sensations appearing, sounds, thoughts, feelings. All these are objects of the mind, appearing and disappearing, moving in and out of awareness. There's no need to sort experience into good and bad, wanted, unwanted. Just allowing it to be just as it is. Welcoming whatever shows up in our awareness.

Letting this meditation be wide enough to include all of ourselves. Any foibles, any imperfections, they all belong in our kind attention. If restlessness is here, that too belongs. If sadness is here, joy, confusion, tenderness, doubt—it all belongs. None of it is outside the practice.

Staying connected with this breathing body. Breathing in. Breathing out.

If any unwanted sensation or thought appears, see if it's possible to allow it to be known. Perhaps silently offering: This too can be held in kindness. Allowing everything to simply be received in loving awareness.

Dharmette: Being Somebody & Nobody (5 of 5): Love without Selfing

This week we've been exploring the art of being somebody and nobody. We've been looking at selfing—the mind's constant activity of creating "me," "mine," "my story," "my meditation." We explored comparing mind, the healthy self, the useful and unneeded extra self, and responsibility without burden.

Today I'd like to explore the role of love in relation to these teachings.

Many years ago, one morning I was feeling deeply unhappy. I don't remember why anymore, but as was a habit at that time, regardless of how I felt, I still went to the gym. I was dragging myself through the morning. The equipment I liked to use was upstairs, and as I was walking up the stairs, a young man was walking down. I'd never seen him before. I didn't know him. But as we passed each other, he gave me this huge, warm, radiant smile. It was so genuine, so open, so unexpectedly kind, that even through the haze of contraction and self-concern I was so wrapped up in, something in me responded immediately, and my whole mood lifted.

It only lasted a moment. He kept walking, I kept walking, but that moment stayed with me. It became a reference point to me for the power of even a brief moment of human kindness, whether it's kindness that comes from me or from someone else.

One of the really beautiful things we begin to discover on this path is that whenever something softens, love expands. Because love is very natural, it just expresses itself differently in different situations.

For instance, if the checker at the market smiles warmly at us, friendliness naturally rises. We smile back. We call it in Pali, mettā^[2], or loving-kindness. It's very simple friendliness of the heart. The goodwill of the heart.

If someone's hurting, our heart responds with compassion, what we call karuṇā^[3]. We wouldn't cheerfully say to them, "Oh, isn't it a beautiful day," while ignoring their pain. Instead, we acknowledge it. We let them know we care.

If someone we care about succeeds, we may genuinely delight in their happiness, what we call in Pali muditā^[4], or appreciative joy. Taking joy in someone else's good fortune.

And at other times, if the mind's quiet—perhaps we're walking in nature or meditating—sometimes love doesn't have an object at all. It just simply radiates like the warmth of the sun: spacious, openhearted, what we call upekkhā^[5] or equanimity.

The heart knows how to do this naturally. But the habits of self can arise at any point, tightening around "I," "me," and "mine."

For example, we may feel genuine happiness that our child is doing well in school—a simple joy in their joy. But then the self quietly appears and says, "My child is doing well," and suddenly the experience changes. In the 1980s and 90s, there were bumper stickers everywhere saying, "My child is an honor student." And of course, as people will do, they started making parody bumper stickers in response. One of them said, "My child sold drugs to your honor student." It was terrible, but also pretty funny, because it exposes something very human: that the self wants ownership. It wants credit, it wants identity. It wants to turn simple love into self-enhancement, into conceit.

And sometimes what we call love becomes mixed with fear: fear of loss, of rejection, of not being enough. We cling tightly to someone because we're afraid. We want reassurance, possession, certainty. We've even romanticized it in old romances: "I can't live without you." Or love becomes transactional, conditional: "I'll love you if you love me. I'll pay attention to you if you pay attention to me."

A sincere practice can help us untangle a wholesome, uncomplicated love from the fear and selfing that we might wrap around it. And we can easily feel how different those energies are. The lightness of an open heart of love, and the contractedness we feel with "I can't live without you." One simply delights in another's happiness; the other immediately organizes reality around "me" and "mine."

Now, the teachings don't negate personal love. It doesn't mean we stop loving our spouse, child, dog, or friends. Those forms of love are beautiful. But practice begins to reveal that beneath personal love is something larger. A love not dependent on special circumstances, special people. A love that doesn't ask, "Who deserves this? What do I get back? Is this my person?" Love that's more like the sun. It doesn't shine selectively. It radiates because radiating is its nature.

There's a short poem that Hafiz^[6] wrote that I love:

"Even after all this time, the sun never says to the earth, 'You owe me.' Look what happens with a love like that. It lights the whole sky."

Over the years of Dharma practice, as we gradually lessen our clinging, this unconditional love becomes more available. But we can also consciously strengthen the helpful habits of mind, strengthen the healthy self. And kindness itself is an expression of love.

Kindness is never very far away. Unconditional love at times might feel so far away, but kindness is right there. Often we can suddenly notice a harsh inner voice criticizing ourselves. And instead of trying to manufacture some grand spiritual love, we simply remember a little kindness—just a basic friendliness towards ourselves. Every time we remember to be kind, even briefly—like that moment in the staircase with me and that young man—every time we briefly remember kindness, the contraction of self eases a little bit.

The same is true if ill will or judgment towards others arises. We don't need to manufacture some extraordinary state. Sometimes just an intention to not support our anger might be enough. Or, if available, a simple intention of goodwill. We cultivate the loving heart with simple acts of patience, listening carefully to someone, speaking gently. These are ordinary expressions of love.

And these wonderful small habits loosen our clinging. The self never stops clinging through hostility towards itself. We can't shame ourselves into freedom. Clinging softens through understanding, through kindness, through non-clinging. We can lovingly allow the clinging to unwind on its own.

And when self unwinds^[7], it becomes less "someone loving someone," and just more simply love happening, caring happening, connection happening. Sometimes it becomes very obvious in ordinary moments. Maybe you're helping someone carry some groceries, or sitting quietly with a sick friend, or watching a child sleep, or looking out at the ocean at sunset. In those moments, maybe the usual self-concern gets quiet. There isn't so much, "What about me?" There's just simple, unhurried presence. Just easy intimacy with life as it is.

And those moments matter. Practice helps us recognize that these moments are not accidents. They reveal something about the natural capacity of the heart when it's less entangled in selfing, and it makes us more deeply human, more intimate with life.

The healthy self still functions quite well, perhaps even better as clinging lessens. We still pay our taxes, feed the dog, call our friends, care for our families. But there's just less contraction around identity, less ownership, less burden. We stop carrying ourselves quite so heavily.

And maybe this is part of the art of being somebody and nobody: to be a functional, caring human being, while holding the self lightly enough that love can move freely through us.

I'd like to end with a quote from the Irish poet and philosopher John O'Donohue^[8]:

"When love flows in the tiniest of details, the mundane becomes holy. Suddenly everything matters because everything can evoke the sacred."

I'm going to read it one more time.

"When love flows in the tiniest of details, the mundane becomes holy. Suddenly everything matters because everything can evoke the sacred."

Well, thank you all. Thank you for sharing this wonderful week together. May you have a wonderful day, evening, and may the Dharma continue to grow in you. Thank you.

Just appreciating all your comments, including remembering lightning bugs. I'll be logging off now. Thank you.