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Introduction

A really warm welcome for anybody who's just joining, or perhaps if you're listening to this as a separate offering on AudioDharma, a warm welcome.

Equanimity and the New Year

Tonight I'd like to share that I was reading the Theragatha^[1]. Sometimes we talk about the Therigatha^[2], that is, the verses of the first Buddhist nuns, which are kind of like their awakening verses. There's a collection from the monks as well, the Theragatha. The first verse in that collection has a nice feeling to it, and I thought I would share this and talk a little bit about it.

The monk's name is Subhuti^[3]. These verses are attributed to their awakening experience. This verse has just one stanza, but it has two parts, and it goes like this:

My little hut is roofed and pleasant, Sheltered from the wind. So rain, sky, as you please. My mind is serene and freed; I practice wholeheartedly. So rain, sky, as you please.

I like this idea of a cozy little place. My little hut is roofed and pleasant, sheltered from the wind. In this location, there's no sense that things have to be different than how they are. The wind can do as it pleases; in the sky, it can be cloudy, it can be sunny, it can be rainy. Remember that this is in ancient India. The sun is just something to be taken care of, just as much as the rain might be.

The first part is about having this sense of coziness by being in the little hut. Then the second part: My mind is serene and freed, I practice wholeheartedly. So rain, sky, as you please.

Maybe it's a simile or a metaphor, kind of like the hut, or maybe it's literal. Part of the fun of these verses is that there are a number of different ways we can interpret them. But the second part of the verse is about the internal experience of being serene and freed, and practicing wholeheartedly. If you're already freed, practice looks a little bit different. I didn't look up the Pali^[4]—maybe I should have—to see what word is being translated as "practice." But what struck my attention was this word: wholeheartedly.

There are no barriers, nothing in the way. With a mind that is serene, has calmness and collectedness, and is freed, it has flexibility and malleability. It's not brittle. Maybe we can interpret "freed" also as not having any defilements, not having great hatred or delusion.

In the second part, there is a sense of confidence and steadiness that comes from practice, and maybe even a sense of spaciousness. Even though it's a little hut, there's a feeling like it doesn't matter if it rains, or if it's sunny, or if it's cloudy. Having that flexibility brings a sense of spaciousness.

Cultivating Equanimity

These descriptors of the experience—having steadiness, ease, confidence, and spaciousness—we might call that equanimity. There are a number of different ways we can define equanimity, but one is a steadiness of the mind and heart in the face of all conditions and experiences. It is a kind of unshakeability with a sense of inner balance. Equanimity also has a quality of seeing the bigger picture. It is not getting caught up so much in exactly what's happening right now, but putting things in context, having a wider view, and not being swept away by what is happening in this particular moment.

I imagine that we've all been changed by the course of events from this past year. I'm speaking on December 28th, so in a few days it will be the turning of the year into 2021. So many things happened this year, and many of us have been changed by it. Maybe we've learned the value of practice—practicing wholeheartedly in whatever way makes sense for us. We've learned the value of community, missing people when we can't be with them, and appreciating people that we are connecting with in ways we didn't imagine.

I know someone who hadn't really spoken with their siblings for decades. Not because there was any adversity, but they just hadn't really filled in with their life. But with 2020, one thing led to another, and now all four siblings speak every week. Another extended family does this as well. So one way we've been changed is by appreciating community.

I imagine many of you are listening to Gil at 7:00 a.m. and experiencing that delightful community that arises on YouTube, and even here on Monday nights. Seeing the chat is heartwarming, and it's meaningful to know that we're not practicing alone, even though there may not be anyone else in the room with us while we're meditating.

Maybe another way we've been changed is gaining some clarity about our strengths and our capacities. Maybe we've discovered that we can meditate when it's metaphorically raining or metaphorically sunny. We can have this sense of being in a cozy hut, having a refuge—a place of safety, even if that's only sometimes. To be sure, not everybody has this, and not everybody has experienced that, but I also don't want to dismiss people who have discovered greater capacities, skills, or strengths that they didn't know they had.

Many of us have been tested. We've had to do things we didn't think we wanted to do. Perhaps we've seen things we didn't want to see about ourselves and our society—the terrible injustices, the way our government works, the pandemic, the way our bodies work, and the mystery of so much of it.

Being stretched by all of this, being tested in some ways, has increased our capacity to be with what's uncomfortable and difficult. We used to talk about, "Well, we can't wait till things get back to normal." I don't think anybody is thinking that things will be normal the way they were before. Perhaps we've been stretched in such a way that we won't go back to the way we were, and we are able to have a little bit more equanimity, even if we weren't purposefully cultivating it.

We discovered that things we thought weren't so important became important, or things that we were taking for granted—community, friends, family, coworkers, celebrations. Maybe we have a greater appreciation for what's possible with the internet. Maybe we have a greater appreciation for spending time outside, going for walks, and spending more time with our furry families—the dogs and cats we share our homes with.

So we can talk about equanimity, and maybe we've inadvertently cultivated a bigger perspective. But I heard a Vipassana teacher say that a Tibetan teacher had said that equanimity is being equally near all things. That is, not to push away or pull close our experiences. We try not to have aversion for the things we don't like, those things that are uncomfortable or unpleasant, and not to hold tight to the things that are enjoyable and pleasant. Not clinging to them or craving them, but being equally near all things.

We might discover that when we are able not to push things away or pull them closer, there can be a certain steadiness or spaciousness in the mind. What would it mean to practice with this? What would it mean to embody this and show up in the world this way? We can do this without putting any pressure on the self, the sense that the self needs to be more of this or less of that. We can practice with a sense of not pushing and not pulling, without aversion, craving, or clinging, and not putting pressure on things to be different, but instead just being present and noticing what happens when we practice in this way.

Supports for Equanimity

Some supports that might help us practice this way include cultivating a sense of well-being, happiness, comfort, or ease. I talked about that in the guided meditation—tuning into any pleasant sensations, or maybe a better way to say it is to breathe in a way that's comfortable. We've all tried chasing pleasant sensations and we know it doesn't work so well. Sometimes we get them, sometimes we don't, but they're always fleeting. Is there a way we can just have a sense of well-being from ordinary, everyday experiences?

Another support for equanimity is the heart practices we might do: loving-kindness practice, compassion practice, sympathetic joy. All of these bring a warmth, a spaciousness, and an ease. Just simple kindness brings a sense of goodness inside, and these can be a tremendous support for equanimity.

We all know that when we have a feeling of well-being or contentment, it's much easier to hold and meet difficulties, as well as not slide into giddiness or grabbing when pleasant things are happening. So one of the supports for practicing in a way where we can be equally near all things is to support open-heartedness. I'll play on this word "heart" and say we should practice wholeheartedly. Bring our whole selves to the practice as best we can, without the pressure that we have to show up in a particular way, or that things have to be a particular way. Instead, be like Subhuti in that verse: "Okay, sky. Okay, sun. Okay, clouds. Whatever you might offer."

Something else that might support equanimity is to notice what squashes, constricts, or diminishes any equanimity we might have. I'll mention just one thing here: being overly concerned with the self. Having to build up the self, protect the self, aggrandize the self, flatter the self, or hide parts of the self. This over-concern turns into selfishness and a real constriction of our view and our heart. It is the opposite of equanimity; it feels off-balance and squished, as opposed to open and spacious. Too much concern with the self can really hamper equanimity.

A Bonfire in the Heart

I started this talk with the first verse in the Theragatha, and I'd like to share another little poem written maybe a week ago by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer^[5]. She is a wonderful poet who publishes a poem every single day, and I just delight in her poetry. Reading this poem, I felt it had a similar feeling, but in modern times using modern language. It's called Bonfire in the Heart:

I throw in any receipts I’ve been keeping, the ones that record who did what and when. I throw in all the letters I wrote in my head but didn’t send. I throw in tickets I didn’t buy to places I didn’t visit. I throw in all those expectations I had for myself and the world last year and countless lists of things I thought I should do. I love watching them ignite, turn into embers, to ash. I love the space they leave behind where anything can happen.

So often at the end of the year, we have this tradition of New Year's resolutions—all these things that we should do better. It's often born out of a sense of inadequacy or self-loathing. But instead, what is it like to throw them into the bonfire in the heart? Not to throw them away with ill will or aversiveness, but to fuel this bonfire with expectations, receipts about who did what and when (otherwise known as grudges or disappointments), tickets we didn't buy to places we didn't visit (more disappointments), and letters we wrote in our heads but didn't send (feeling regret, or maybe letters written when angry).

She ends this with, "the space they leave behind where anything can happen." We can see this in our meditation practice as well. When we let go, when we allow warm-heartedness to ignite our aversions and our cravings, we allow the push and the pull to soften and diminish the reactivity to our external and internal experiences.

When we allow those to soften and die down, our perceptions begin to change. The way we see and experience things begins to change. As the reactivity softens, the compelling quality of things that are difficult or overly pleasant—the feeling of "I need more" or "I've got to get away from this"—starts to dwindle.

This turns into a helpful spiral. If we can soften our reactivity, the compelling quality softens. If it's less compelling, it's easier to be equanimous and not so reactive. We can find a spiral of more calm, more collectedness, ease, and well-being. Then we find that in the absence of this push and pull, there is a warmth, a love, and a connection that fills the space.

There are many different ways we can calm reactivity. I mentioned a few: allowing a sense of well-being, contentment, or ease; noticing what diminishes our equanimity; and of course, meditation and concentration practice. Whatever way we can have the push and pull, aversion, and clinging quiet down, we can notice how things become a little bit less compelling.

We might think it's just because our equanimity is becoming stronger, but the objects themselves are also becoming less "loud." They're not yelling for our attention as much, and then it's easier to be equanimous. As this spiral goes down and the compelling nature lessens, there's more room for love, connection, and warmth. It is just naturally there. We don't have to create it or look for it; it's just what arises, which supports the experience even more.

I'm not talking about equanimity so it becomes one more thing that you should do. Soften any ideas of, "Well, I want that, I'll grab that," or "I'm nowhere near that." Instead, is there a way we can just recognize how much our capacity has grown this past year, maybe unwillingly, and appreciate it? Maybe start there. Notice when equanimity arises, and notice how, as our relationship to the object shifts, the way we perceive the object shifts also. Allow that to be a support, and then touch into the warmth, the sense of connection, the love.

If we have access to this, we can show up in the world in a different way, not just for our own lives, but for those we have contact with—whether via Zoom or directly, or even the way we show up as a driver on the streets and highways. So with a heart full of appreciation, warmth, and care, I'm smiling, wishing everyone a safe, happy 2021. Please take good care of yourself and others. Thank you.