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Simplifying Practice to Two Types

Welcome, welcome, welcome, everybody. It is such a great thing to be able to practice together, so thank you for coming and being here.

I recently finished teaching a loving-kindness retreat, and it was quite something. It was very tender, as you might imagine. A number of people at the end commented that they don't usually do loving-kindness. I thought they would do this retreat to maybe get their practice going, and at the end of the retreat, they were wondering, "Wow, why didn't I do this earlier? Why didn't I do this earlier in my practice?" Even though they had been doing all these wisdom, insight, and mindfulness practices, they noticed that having a container of warmth makes a real difference. Somebody described it as having this golden sheen to all the practices.

I was reflecting a little bit about this idea of what practice is, and how we think about it. So tonight I'd like to talk a little bit about one way—not the only way—we can think about practice in a simplified, generalized way.

To be sure, I am moving towards simplification in this talk. There are ways in which we could really get into the weeds and make it complicated (if that's the opposite of simple), and sometimes I like to do this. But sometimes it's helpful just to be reminded that there is a big forest here, not just the trees.

Why is it helpful to sometimes think about simplifying practice? We might find ourselves feeling a little bit stuck, experiencing a dryness, or feeling unsure where this is going. We might not feel inspired, doing it because we feel like we ought to, or because it is just what we have been doing. If we feel a little bit of stuckness or dryness, that is perfectly fine; that is just a part of the season of practice. But looking at it in this simplified way can help us see things a little bit differently and provide support for our practice.

What do I mean by this word "practice"? I am defining Buddhist practice as a general something that supports the movement towards greater understanding of ourselves, of others, or of how the world works, or doesn't work, as the case may be. It is a general movement towards greater ease, peace, or happiness, or a greater diminishment of suffering—letting suffering go. It is this movement towards understanding, ease, and less suffering in some kind of broad brush.

In this simplified way, we think about two types of practices. One is cultivation practices, in which we are creating—maybe not creating as much as building, developing, or supporting something to become a little more steady, reliable, or stronger. Then, on the other side, we have letting-go practices: shedding, releasing, renouncing, letting go. On one side, we are building up, making stronger, or making bigger. On the other side, we are letting go, shedding. This is a different type of movement, and to be sure, we need both types of practices: cultivation and letting go.

One way we might understand it is in Shunryu Suzuki Roshi's^[1] very famous saying. I don't know how many times I've heard this; perhaps you have as well. The quote is, "Each of you is perfect the way you are, and you could use a little improvement." We might think of it as a paradox, but one way we might understand it is that "each of you is perfect the way that you are" is an invitation to let go of anything that makes you think otherwise, and "you could use some improvement" is an invitation to cultivate those qualities, mind states, and experiences that can really be a support. There is an inter-relationship and dependence on both types of practices, but it is not uncommon for people to have a preference for one type or the other.

Sometimes this preference has to do with an aversion towards one type or the other. For example, the whole idea of cultivating, building, and developing might feel exhausting. Someone might think, "I'm already exhausted from my life. The last thing I want to hear about is something additional that needs to be done. It's the last thing I want; no thank you, I just want to sit quietly." Or people might find it a little bit offensive even to imagine that something needs to be different. "I'm perfect the way that I am, and the rest of the world needs to start behaving itself. How dare you suggest that I need to cultivate something." Those people tend to prefer this idea of letting go, and they might use language like "letting be."

On the other hand, there is also a sense of, "I don't want to do letting-go practices because I'm just barely hanging on. It takes everything I have just to hang on, and you're suggesting I let go? That's exactly what I don't want to do." Or there might be this idea that everything seems so slippery. They feel like, "I can't even hold on to anything, what do you mean let go? Everything is sliding away; there's nothing that I can hold on to."

Different people in different seasons or times of their practice might have a preference, find one in which they have a little bit more ease or comfort, or find one that just naturally arises. We recognize that both are needed, and there may be times when we are moving more in one direction than another. I am making this distinction between cultivation and letting go, but let's be honest, it is maybe entirely artificial to make this distinction, because in some ways they are the same.

An obvious example is the practice of generosity. We think of it as a cultivation practice, but generosity itself is a letting go. We are cultivating and letting go at the same time. That is an obvious example of when these two qualities are indistinguishable. There's another way in which we could even say this about mindfulness practice: we cultivate mindfulness by being here in the present moment and with the experience. But at the same time, in order to do that, we are letting go of all the ways in which we intentionally distract ourselves. Separating this idea of cultivation and letting go is sometimes useful, and sometimes it isn't.

To say a little bit more about what cultivation practices mean, there are many parallels between cultivating the mind, cultivating the heart, and cultivating a garden. One thing, of course, is that we don't just think about seeds being planted and watered; we actually do it. It is not only about believing, thinking, or wishing; it is an activity. Cultivation practices are very much like planting seeds. We plant them and give them what they need without explicitly making them grow. Seeds have the potential to grow inside them. We are not giving them that potential; it is already there. We are just creating the conditions in which that potential can be actualized. In the case of plants: sun, soil, nutrients, and water. In the case of our practice: attention, intention, and a willingness to allow things to unfold in the way that they are going to unfold, instead of insisting that they be a particular way. So there is this recognition that we are just taking care of the conditions, rather than explicitly making them grow.

I think all of us recognize that, depending on what we value, we will cultivate different things. No matter what we do, we are cultivating something, aligning with this idea of neuroplasticity. If we have a habit of getting filled with outrage when we hear, see, or read the news, the more time we spend in outrage, the easier it becomes to become outraged. I am not saying that these emotions or ideas aren't appropriate, but whatever the mind frequently ponders upon, that becomes its inclination. This applies not only to the mind, but also to the heart and the emotions.

Of course, the Buddha encouraged us to cultivate those things that are going to be helpful, that will lead us towards happiness, greater understanding, and less suffering. Chances are you don't need me to tell you that the Buddha encouraged us to cultivate ethical actions—to behave in the world in a way in which we do not cause harm, neither to ourselves nor to others. Sometimes that's not so easy. It requires us to see if there might be some creative way in which we can work with something so that harm isn't being caused. It also requires us to be sensitive to some of the subtle ways in which harm gets caused with our words and our language.

Before I leave this idea of not causing harm, I will add that we must become sensitive to the ways the inner critic sometimes rises up and causes harm. The way we sometimes talk to ourselves, the language we use, or how we berate ourselves turns out not to be helpful, and can be quite harmful.

The Buddha encouraged us to cultivate a steady mind so that we can see more clearly—so that we can see what's happening and see the consequences of our actions, just allowing the mind and the body to settle. These days it seems so often that there are prompts to get a little bit agitated. I am using this word "agitated" broadly, but it seems like we have created a world in which we are often poked, notified, or triggered. The media, of course, wants to promote this way of outrage, too. So we want to cultivate a steady mind in the face of this recognition that there are industries out there created specifically to keep us agitated. It is their business model. These aren't bad individuals; it is just a recognition that what they are promoting—sensationalizing and notifying incessantly—isn't necessarily for our long-term welfare and happiness.

The Buddha also encouraged us to cultivate a warm heart. A steady mind and a warm heart, cultivated through the Brahma-vihāras^[2]—loving-kindness practice. The beautiful part about this is not only cultivating a sense of warm-heartedness, but also moving towards the boundlessness of this warm-heartedness. It is not just for those we know, care about, feel the most comfortable with, or are most familiar with, but cultivating this boundlessness for all beings everywhere. This does take cultivation; it is not something that humans naturally do. With loving-kindness and all the Brahma-vihāras—compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity—we practice unconditionality. Is there a way that we can express this without having any sense of whether people deserve it or not? Taking that out of the equation, we just say, "No, this is what this heart does. This heart loves, this heart cares, this heart has warmth," independent of the specifics or particulars of individuals.

Then, of course, the Buddha has all these lists: the Seven Factors of Awakening^[3], the Ten Pāramīs^[4]. It seems like there is no end to the things that we can be developing and cultivating. But we can get out of balance if we overemphasize this cultivating part. I know this has happened to me in my practice. Unknowingly, I felt like Buddhist practice supported a self-improvement project that I wasn't even quite aware of. I thought, "I've got to cultivate this, and this, and this," with all these handy lists that I could never quite check off. We can easily fall into that kind of mind state or understanding of practice. To be sure, there are plenty of sutta passages and teachings about the importance of effort and diligence, but we might take that on and think, "I'm never going to be finished. This is a huge project, I have to keep on working."

Let's be frank, we are a pragmatic and goal-oriented culture. We like to put effort into our jobs, our relationships, our vacations. Recently I learned the expression "relationship goals." There are all these things we're supposed to achieve in all areas of our lives. That is great; there is nothing wrong with having a vision of what's possible and a direction we want to go. But outside of Buddhist practice, outside of the meditation circle, there can be a sense of, "Well, just try harder." If you haven't reached all these goals or accomplished all these things you might have expectations about, people say, "Try harder, just try harder." Ouch! That is exhausting. It seems like there is no end. So there is all this cultivation, and that is a part of practice, but we can get out of balance. We might think that we just have to try harder, strive, and strain. But then we end up tight, and everything has this flavor of feeling inadequate, not enough, and needing more.

Instead, we might think, "I need more effort, I need to put more energy in, I have to try harder," without considering that maybe there is a different type of effort, a different type of activity. That is letting go, releasing, as opposed to acquiring and building. If we call letting go something like "relinquishment" or "giving up," that sounds a bit uncomfortable. It can sound like renunciation or surrender, which can sound like deprivation. That is not the direction people want to go; they don't want to feel deprived. Of course, that's not the direction we're going. We are not going towards any sort of personal diminishment or anything that suggests weakness—that we have to let go because we aren't able to hold on.

No, it is something different. It is more like shedding. Just in the way that snakes shed their skin when they grow, animals shed fur during different seasons, and birds molt feathers. It's just a natural thing to be letting go. Sure, we can see that maybe animals are scratching a little bit when their fur is shedding, and birds are preening a lot when they're molting, so there can be a little bit of uncomfortableness. But there is still this recognition that this is the natural direction we are going.

I like the story in the Vinaya^[5] about Ānanda^[6], the Buddha's attendant. After the Buddha died, the senior members of the Buddhist followers—all the fully awakened ones—got together to recite the teachings, to say, "Okay, what did the Buddha say? We have to preserve these and pass them on to different generations." Ānanda, of course, was the one who had memorized them all because he was the attendant of the Buddha. But he wasn't fully awakened, and this council was only for awakened people. What was he going to do?

The evening before this grand meeting, he was huffing and puffing, striving and straining to get awakened. All of us have tried to huff and puff and strive and strain too, I think. This is just part of the way we tend to approach practice. So he meditated strenuously, and nothing happened. He gave up, went to bed, and sat down on his bed. As the story goes, he lifted his feet to get into bed, and before his head hit the pillow, there was a big release, and he became awakened. It happened when he relaxed and gave up the idea that things had to be a particular way. He had been straining and striving, and finally said, "Okay, I just can't do it," and let go. And he became awakened.

I hear about this a lot on retreats, and I've had this experience myself. Sometimes during a retreat, you do sitting and walking, sitting and walking, for days and days. People can get really tight trying so hard, and sometimes retreats are really hard. When the bell finally rings at the end of a sit, it's like, "Oh my gosh, okay, I made it." Then they go to stand up, and just in that moment of relaxing while standing up, a new understanding happens. This recognition of letting go is just a natural thing that happens. Sometimes it happens during transitions. We're not making it happen; an unguarded moment simply allows the mind and the heart to open.

We let go all the time in daily life. We change plans. The weather is now raining; we're not going to have a picnic. Throughout our lives, our preferences change. I used to hate ketchup when I was a kid; ketchup is fine now. I'm sure all of us have things that we didn't used to like, and different priorities in our older life that we didn't have when we were young. Letting go is just a natural thing, and learning to let go is a skill for a happy, healthy life.

As part of Buddhist practice, letting go applies not only to what makes us tight, but also to the compulsion to want to grab on in the first place. When we notice we have grabbed on, we can open our fist, but the movement of wanting to grab on itself gets let go, softened, and diminished as we practice. We let go of this sense of an enduring self that is at the center of everything and needs to be bolstered, protected, and highlighted. We let it soften. Sometimes there is this sense of self, but other times we are busy with other things, and there isn't a sense of self. It arises, gets constituted, and then it goes and does something else. So, letting go of the sense of an enduring self. Letting go of ideas of permanence, or anything being permanent. And letting go of the idea that when things are uncomfortable, somehow it's a terrible mistake, there's got to be an error somewhere, and someone is to blame. Suffering is part of life, and unfortunately, there is only one way to really learn that, which is to have suffering.

What if we reworded this idea of letting go? I'm not exactly sure where I heard this first—it might have been from Gil^[7]—but instead of letting go, there is this idea of giving "up," as in towards the ceiling. The origin of this idea of giving up is putting something up on the altar. Making an offering in this way is an act of generosity. We might think of it as a sacred act, a movement of the heart. Then it feels like it is in the service of what's wholesome and virtuous, supporting beneficial states of mind. It is in the service of creating spiritual wealth, this inner treasure inside all of us. This letting go, this giving up, is one way in which we help create the conditions for the seeds we've planted with the cultivating practices to sprout and blossom.

We can let go into something beneficial, supportive, and wholesome. With deepening meditation practice, we have a greater range of what is wholesome, beautiful, and meaningful. As we discover, explore, and become more familiar with these inner states, we start to recognize that a little bit of letting go allows us to tune into that particular state, to be sensitive to it. Letting go or giving up just becomes more and more something that the mind, the body, and the heart naturally want to do.

One thing I want to add about letting go: I have been describing letting go into beneficial states, but chances are, if you have a practice, you know that sometimes we can describe letting go as purification cycles. There is a sense of things getting disgorged. Maybe it is something we have been holding onto for a really long time that isn't helpful, or maybe we don't even know what it is, but there is a clearing out of something uncomfortable. Sometimes practice is painful, and stuff comes up and is discharged, expressed with tears or even nausea. To be sure, this letting-go part can be uncomfortable, and we don't always get to choose or dictate exactly how or when it happens.

Sometimes it is helpful to look at our practice in this simplified way: cultivation and letting go. If we feel like we could use some support, we can ask ourselves, "Is there something that wants to be let go? Is there something that can be cultivated?" We don't even have to know precisely the answer, but the activity of asking the question and having that curiosity might be a way for something new to unfold and guide us.

I offer this as a potential support for your practice and your life, this way of cultivating and letting go. Thank you.

Q&A

Questioner: I hope this question doesn't seem too wonky or cerebral. Early in the talk, you mentioned neuroplasticity. This is something I've been wondering about for a long time. I associate neuroplasticity mainly with having a stroke, where part of your brain isn't functioning, but over time and with effort, the neurons in your brain effect a workaround. You regain movement or cerebral ability that you had lost because the brain has this rerouting potential.

I think you were referring to a different kind, or maybe it's the same thing—that's my question. If we have bad habits or have been conditioned in certain ways, and our mind gets into a really harmful groove. Then we bump into a Buddhist group, read a book, or see someone doing something kind on the street, and realize there's a different way. You can't just change right away; it takes effort, effort, effort. But eventually, it can wear new grooves. Would a neuroscientist think that is neuroplasticity also?

Diana Clark: That's my understanding. We can think of neuroplasticity as any time we learn something new; there are new neuronal connections that weren't there before. Any time you really learn something new, that would be an example of neuroplasticity. But I have to say this is not an area of my expertise. I appreciate what you're saying, and I like that you're using the word "grooves." That is how I think about it, too. What we do repeatedly just becomes easier and easier to do. I don't know exactly how this works down at the level of the neurons, but somebody does. I'm sure our friends at Mr. and Mrs. Google know this type of thing.

Questioner: If the answer to my question is yes, then everything we're doing here is neuroplasticity, and our neuroplasticity makes it possible. I also just want to thank you for your talk. I probably missed half of it because you said something that reminded me of my situation, and my thoughts were going off. Then I came back to your talk. So thank you.

Diana Clark: You're welcome. Thank you all.