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Introduction

A good morning before we get started. I'd love it if somebody would just post whether my sound's okay. I always like to get some feedback for that. Wait, sound is good it says. [Laughter] [unintelligible].

Great to see Valerie's here. People I haven't seen for a while. Wonderful to see you here. Alaska, from Scotland, Washington. Neighbors around here in the San Francisco Bay Area. Indiana, San Diego. Welcome, someone's new from Italy. Welcome.

Now, good morning. And we're going to be continuing this topic of the art of being nobody and somebody.

I'm going to start with a short poem. It was inspired by a poem by David Whyte^[1]. Outside our window where we have breakfast every morning, my husband who does ceramics created this beautiful head, supposed to be like maybe a planter, and it's hanging right outside our window. The birds love making nests there, and that was a bit of a surprise. So, I've been watching the birds, and the little fledglings come out, and start their lives, and spring's here. So, I'll start with this poem about spring:

Already, the new birds have arrived in their small and perfect bodies and are singing among the trees. And already, the bright heads of the spring flowers are appearing in the garden. And if you happen to still be sleeping, still imprisoned by a hundred thoughts, then simply open your eyes and notice this day. This day that did not need you to improve yourself in order for it to begin.

This day that did not need you to improve yourself in order to begin.

Guided Meditation: Simplicity

So, let's begin this sitting.

Taking an alert and relaxed posture and gently closing your eyes. Settling into this meditation posture. Allowing yourself to be centered in this body. Feeling the cushion beneath you, the chair, the floor. Just being here.

And now allowing the attention to meander throughout the body. Traveling throughout the body at just an easy pace. Noticing the differences between tense and relaxed. And any obvious tensions, you can relax. If they don't relax, just soften around them. They're not a problem. Just allow the attention to see the body, feel the body as it is right now. Maybe relaxing the face, shoulders, the belly. Any way you're holding yourself that's not needed.

Connecting intimately with the body. And from within the body, you might become aware of your breathing. The simplicity of the moment. Just this inhale. This exhale. Knowing you're breathing in. Knowing you're breathing out. You might take a few long, slow, deep breaths. And with each exhale, relaxing a little more deeply into the moment. Letting go. Settling in.

Allowing your breath to return to normal. Think simple. Nothing else is needed now. Just here in this body. Breathing in and breathing out. You might imagine yourself like a tree with deep roots, the branches reaching into the blue open sky. Allowing everything that arises. The winds of thoughts, emotions, sensations. Allowing them to pass through unimpeded. Coming and going. Breathing in and out.

You can become aware of any sense of space, of stillness, of calm in the midst of the movements of the breath, in the midst of any movements of the mind. It might be a sense of well-being, of ease in the stillness. Like the clear open sky, undisturbed by any clouds that drift by.

And just resting in the moment, recognizing whatever appears and whatever goes away, allowing it to be however it is, seeing it clearly, not adding anything to the experience. No need to complicate it with ideas or stories. Being equanimous with whatever arises. No need to be for or against it. Just this is a simple sensation, a thought, a feeling. Allowing it to be there. And allowing it to leave in its own time.

If thoughts arise, allowing them to be in the background. They're not a problem. No need to push them away. No need to add to them or build worlds with them. Just simple thinking in the background. Just knowing what's here, what's obvious. Keeping it simple. No need to chase anything. There's nothing to figure out. Just resting. The moment of awareness.

If the attention has drifted, you can notice it and kindly escort it back to the breath or body. Welcome it home.

Dharmette: Being Somebody & Nobody (2 of 5): Comparing Mind

So, welcome back. We've been exploring this week the activity of selfing, the mind's habit of creating a sense of me, mine, and who I am. And one of the most common ways this happens is through comparing, what we call comparing mind. And the mind compares almost automatically. We look at somebody, "Oh, you're more organized than me. She's more confident. He's more spiritual. I'm behind. I'm ahead. I'm wiser. I'm failing. I'm not enough. At least I'm not as bad as so-and-so."

But we don't only compare ourselves to other people, we compare ourselves to ideals, to who we think we should be. Or sometimes to the past, especially as we get older. "I used to be stronger. My memory used to be better. I had such a beautiful retreat experience last time. Why can't I get back there?" The mind compares this moment to another moment, and it suffers because this one doesn't measure up.

Ajahn Sumedho^[2] used to speak—he's this wonderful monk who used to be the abbot of the monastery in England. He used to speak about what he called the inner tyrant. He said there's nobody in the world who had ever been as critical or tyrannical towards himself as his own mind. No matter what he did, it wasn't enough. Even if people praised the Dharma talk, his inner tyrant would immediately say, "I shouldn't have said that. I missed the point. I should have done better."

Many of us know some version of this voice. The voice that compares us not only to other people but to an imagined ideal. Maybe it's the perfect meditator. The perfectly loving person who never, ever loses their temper. Never gets irritated or annoyed. The person who never gets reactive or confused or tired. And because no real human being can live up to an imagined ideal, the comparing mind can easily become a source of chronic contraction.

And what's particularly beautiful about Ajahn Sumedho's reflection^[3] is that he never said he defeated the voice, or got rid of it. He said he stopped believing it. So, these thoughts might arise, but he just stopped giving them a lot of value. He just saw it as a pattern, a habit pattern of the mind, a conditioned habit, not the truth. We often say in this practice, "Don't believe everything you think." And when we do that, the practice begins to shift from the idea of "how do we create a perfect self?" to "how do I stop organizing my life around compulsive self-judgment?"

Now, comparing itself is not a problem. Comparing just to help—you know, is that taller or shorter?—it helps us learn. A musician learns by listening to another musician. They don't have to add, "Oh, I'll never be that good." A cook learns by tasting someone else's food. Discernment notices these differences. The Buddha himself was extraordinarily discerning. But he distinguished what leads to suffering and what leads to freedom. What brings contraction in the heart and what brings ease.

So, the issue is not the comparing itself. The issue is what we add afterwards. For instance, wise discernment says, "That person is more experienced than I am." Comparing mind might add, "Therefore I'm inadequate." Or wisdom might say, "I understand this more clearly." And the comparing mind might say, "So I'm superior." Discernment notices the comparing mind contracts around the noticing. Discernment just notices. You can feel it in the body: a tightening, maybe leaning forward, or if we're feeling inferior, a collapse, a pressure.

For some people comparing becomes competitiveness. "I need to win. I need to prove myself. I need to be the best." And that can happen spiritually. "Who's more mindful? Who's more awakened? Who has fewer desires? Who's less attached?"

There's a story I like about a young Theravada^[4] monk. Theravada monks are renunciates. They give up nearly all personal possessions. They just live with a few robes and an alms bowl for their food, a big metal bowl. And this monk said that when he ordained, part of him imagined that comparing mind would naturally disappear. But instead, he found himself spending an extraordinary amount of time polishing his bowl every day. And why? Because he wanted his bowl to be the shiniest. Even after giving up almost everything, the mind still found a way to create identity. "This is my bowl. My bowl is better. I'm the monk with a beautiful bowl." It's funny, and he found it funny years later as he recognized part of himself. But it's also quite profound.

The comparing mind doesn't simply disappear because our circumstances become simpler. It can attach itself to almost anything. Possessions, spirituality, humility, simplicity, even renunciation itself. The selfing mind is incredibly adaptive. "If I can't be the richest, I'll become the most spiritual. If I can't be the most successful, I'll be the most humble." It's very sneaky and very tricky the way we create a self.

In Buddhism, we describe three forms of conceit. The word for conceit is māna^[5]. It actually means to measure. Usually, when we hear the word conceit, we think only of arrogance. But the Buddha included three forms of conceit: I'm better than, I'm worse than, and even I'm equal to. All three—superiority, inferiority, being equal—still revolve around "me," around our concept of self.

And what's interesting in the teachings, there are ten fetters^[6] that you let go of in the process of awakening. They sort of release themselves in order. The first five do it early and the last five do it later. Conceit is near the end of the list. It disappears only near the later stages in awakening. It's such a deep habit of mind. This "me." This whole sense of "me."

At first when we practice, we begin to really pay attention to this aspect of our psyches. Comparing is obvious: we're trying to prove ourselves. We try to feel superior or feel inferior. Later it becomes subtler. For instance, we might be comparing today's meditation to yesterday's. "I was so much more peaceful yesterday." As I said before, comparing this retreat to another retreat. This moment to an idealized moment.

Even humility can become an identity. There's an old Jewish story about this that I like. During Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, the chief rabbi of the synagogue was standing outside looking up at the heavens. He was beating his chest, tears streaming down his face. He was crying, "I'm nothing, Lord. I'm nothing." And the cantor, who sings for the assembly, was so deeply moved, he dropped to his knees behind him crying, "I'm nothing, too. I'm absolutely nothing." A janitor sweeping nearby was so touched by their devotion that he set down his broom, fell to his knees and cried, "I'm nothing. I'm nothing." The rabbi leaned over to the cantor, elbowed him gently, and whispered, "Look who thinks he's nothing."

I love this story because it captures how incredibly sneaky selfing can be. Even humility can become a comparison, a way of creating a self. Even the idea of being "nobody" can turn into another identity. The ego is remarkably creative.

We don't only create a self through comparison with people, but we also do so through opinions. "This restaurant is the best. I discovered it." "This meditation is the best one." "My political views are the right ones." The Buddha wasn't asking us to stop having opinions, but he pointed at how quickly these views, these opinions become identity. How quickly "I prefer this" turns into "this is me," and it becomes something we need to defend, we need to prove. So, the suffering doesn't come from the fact itself, it comes from the self that gets constructed around the experience.

So, maybe the question is, can discernment happen without tightening, without the tightening of identity? Can we appreciate someone's gifts without diminishing ourselves? Can we recognize our own strengths without elevating ourselves above others? That's a very different way of being. Then comparison becomes informative rather than imprisoning us.

And a beautiful thing that we begin to notice is that the comparing mind begins to soften when we become deeply embodied. When the attention settles into direct experience of our senses—of hearing, breathing, feeling, walking. There are times when the whole project of measuring ourselves just relaxes. Then it's simply life happening. There's no need to be somebody. No need to establish rank or defend an identity. Just this. And there's tremendous relief in that. Not because the self is destroyed, but because it no longer needs to be constantly manufactured.

As you practice this week, you might notice when does comparing arise? What does it feel like in the body? Can you distinguish simple discernment from selfing? The lightness of discernment, the openness of discernment, and the selfing that causes the world to shrink into "me" and "mine." And with mindfulness and kindness, this comparing mind gradually becomes less convincing. Not trying to become somebody. Not trying to become nobody. But by discovering there's nothing extra needed in this moment. Just this.

So, thank you. Tomorrow I'll continue exploring the theme. May all of you have a wonderful, peaceful day, setting aside any tightening of the self as it shows up.

Closing

Okay, all your comments... a lot of them made me laugh. And I'll log off now. Thank you.