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Equanimity

So I'd like to start tonight with a quote from Bhikkhu Bodhi^[1]. Some of you may know Bhikkhu Bodhi; he's one of the key figures in this tradition. I think he's from the Bronx or Brooklyn, he has a little bit of an accent, and Bhikkhu Bodhi is his ordination name. He was ordained maybe thirty, forty, or fifty years ago, and he lived for decades in Sri Lanka as a practitioner and a monk. He's conservative, and he's also the primary translator of the texts that we have today. He is quite a remarkable person, really. I have so much respect for him; his translations, as well as his writings, are fantastic.

But, you know, he's a monk. As part of the rules for monastics in this tradition, they don't drive. If they want to go somewhere, somebody else has to drive them. They also don't handle money. They have all these restrictions on their lifestyle to keep their lifestyle really simple. It also ensures they have a relationship with non-monastics. The monastics aren't sequestered off doing their own thing; they rely on a relationship with others to go to the doctor or anything like that.

So Bhikkhu Bodhi—somebody who probably hasn't driven in forty or fifty years—says, "The mind is like a drunken driver."

I just get a kick out of this idea of somebody who doesn't drive using this analogy. But he's pointing to this: sometimes drunken drivers want to go down the middle of the lane, like we all do, but when you have this drunkenness, you find yourself swerving. You go a little to this side—nearly missing a car, hopefully—and then you go off the edge of the road, and then this way and that way.

He's pointing to how the mind works. We kind of wish that we would go the direction we want to go, staying in the middle, not getting pulled one direction or the other. But often we have this craving, getting pulled towards something over here, or maybe we have some aversion and want to get rid of something over there. So we're going this way and that, anything but going down the center of the lane.

Sometimes this craving, or this longing for something in the past, doesn't even exist. Or maybe we have this craving for something in the future that doesn't exist either. The only thing that really exists is this moment. So the mind is kind of careening back and forth, being pushed around, even though there's this wish to be going down the middle.

Equanimity is this quality that lets the mind go down the middle of the lane, not careening or leaning from one side to the next. One Pali word for equanimity is tatramajjhattatā^[2]. I like saying that word. I don't expect anybody to know how to spell it or even repeat it, but if we were to translate it into English literally, it means "standing in the middle."

So this idea of equanimity is being able to stand in the middle. It's pointing to this stability, steadiness, sense of balance, or unshakability. We're just staying here, going this direction, not getting pushed around. This strong sense of inner balance might come from what we might call a ballast—a heavy thing that's preventing the mind from getting off course. That is one Pali word that gets translated as equanimity.

But there's a second word that also gets translated as equanimity in English, and this word is upekkhā^[3]. This word is more about seeing clearly or seeing the bigger picture. With equanimity, not only is there a standing in the middle, but there's a steadiness or balance that comes from having a view, perhaps in the same way you might be on a hill. You can see things that you can't quite see when you're in the midst of it. From the hillside, maybe you can see things in the distance that are about to arrive. If you were down there, you wouldn't be able to see them yet, but if you're on the hill and you see them, then you're not surprised when they arise. When it's coming in the distance, it's like, "Oh yeah, of course, this is here."

So equanimity is being able to see the bigger picture, but it also has this quality of even-minded acceptance of ourselves, of others, and of whatever is arising. It's not getting pushed around by craving or aversion. Another way of saying that is a certain amount of acceptance: "Yes, this is how it is right now. I'm not going to demand or insist that it be otherwise." This is how it is. But it's not a resignation, like, "Oh okay, I'll just wait until this ends, until something better arises." Instead, it's an acceptance that grows out of respect—a respect for ourselves, respect for others, and a respect for all the conditions that come together to make whatever is happening right now happen.

Things don't just happen magically, of course not. There are reasons. Even though we don't know all the reasons, there is this recognition that there are reasons for why things are happening. Right now, you're hearing my voice. There are so many reasons for this. One is that I have a microphone. That required somebody to invent microphones. It required IMC to decide that they wanted microphones and to purchase them. It required Svet over here to push the right buttons to make sure that the voice is going out. It required me to have the idea that I wanted to speak, and that I had breath in my lungs that I could put through vocal cords. We could go on and on and on.

Equanimity is part of this respect. This acknowledgment that so many things come together to make everything happen means we don't have to take it so personally. It doesn't mean that we're a good person or a bad person, or that it's always going to be this way, or any of the stories that we like to make up. Human beings do this, of course, but the recognition that it's just the coming together of all these different conditions supports this equanimity.

Part of the reason why I'm talking about equanimity tonight is because I'm continuing this series on the Seven Factors of Awakening^[4]. These factors of awakening are qualities of the mind and the heart that create the conditions in which awakening can occur. We can think about awakening in so many different ways. One way is just an increase in freedom, peace, and well-being. We can also think about it the way the Buddha taught, where there are certain attainments of awakening. There is a radical letting go that allows a permanent shift in one's perspective. With this letting go, there is much more equanimity available.

Equanimity is the seventh factor of the Seven Factors of Awakening, so it's the last one. I'll quickly list the other six: there's mindfulness, and then there are the energizing factors of investigation, energy, and joy. Then there are the calming factors of tranquility, concentration, and equanimity. I'll continue in other talks about how these seven all work together, how they're sequential, and how they balance each other, but today I'd like to continue a little bit more with equanimity.

For some of us, when we hear this word "equanimity"—it certainly was not part of my vocabulary before I found these Buddhist teachings—it doesn't sound very attractive. It sounds like, "Okay, whatever that is, it kind of sounds boring, dry, and dull." It might not sound attractive because equanimity can feel like a type of disconnection, a way in which we're not present for what's happening in our lives in the moment. Maybe it feels like a type of coldness or indifference. Maybe it feels like a kind of grayness or aloofness. We might have some of these ideas about equanimity.

But it's not that. Equanimity has a quality of vitality, openness, spaciousness, and warmth. It's not having to be removed from life, our connections with other people, or what's being experienced, but being able to have some steadiness and stability no matter what's happening. It's this radical idea that so many things can happen in our external conditions—the news, what others are telling us or not telling us—or maybe in our inner conditions—maybe we don't feel well, maybe we have a disease or an illness. What a beautiful idea that we don't have to be careening off course or into some territory that we know isn't good or supportive for us when these conditions change.

Having said all this, part of practicing with equanimity is that sometimes we slide into indifference. Sometimes we want to disconnect because it feels uncomfortable or painful, and so it tips over into indifference. I love this so much about the Buddhist teachings: this is how we learn. We notice, "Oh yeah, this is indifference. I feel kind of closed down. I don't have a sense of vitality. I don't have a sense of contentment; instead, I feel sad or tight."

Part of the way we discover what equanimity is, how it's available for us, and how it can show up, is learning what it isn't. It's natural that humans fall into indifference on occasion—maybe a lot, maybe only occasionally. But can we recognize that there's an alternative? To stay connected, but still have this stability and uprightness.

There's another reason why equanimity might sound unattractive. It's not uncommon to have this belief—maybe in the back of the mind, not in the front—that in order to have some juiciness in our lives, something that feels invigorating, we have to have a certain amount of drama or angst. We feel we need big, huge problems that have to get solved. So much of the human experience is about solving this problem and solving that problem. So this idea of having some contentment, uprightness, ballast, and steadiness might feel a little frightening. Who would I be if I weren't the person that had all these problems that had to be solved? Who would I be if I didn't have these emotional outbursts or difficulties? Would I just be gray, dull, and boring? Would nobody like me? Would I just sit in the corner very quietly?

It sounds a little silly to say these things, and these thoughts certainly aren't in the front of our minds, but there might be a little bit in the back of our minds that says, "Well, this is what it means to be human. To be alive is to be filled with energy"—maybe energy born from anger, or this wish to fix things, or just wanting things to be otherwise.

So equanimity might sound a little bit frightening, or there is this fear that it might be dull. But there is an openness and a spaciousness. If you have this stability, then you don't have to protect yourself. Things that arise can just go right on through. We feel them, we acknowledge them, we know them, but we aren't being pushed by them.

I'm talking about this experience of equanimity like it's one singular thing, but in fact, it's really a spectrum. I like this idea of spectrums instead of a binary on/off switch where either you have it or you don't. Most often we feel like, "I don't have it." But on this spectrum, we go from having very little stability, where the slightest thing sends us off kilter, to having a lot of stability. This practice is just moving in one direction towards greater and greater stability, without insisting that anything less than perfection is somehow not enough.

It's not an on/off switch; it's a spectrum. We might say that if equanimity is over here, maybe emotionality is on the other end of the spectrum. But a part of being human is having emotions, of course it is. It would be awful if this teaching was about how you can never have emotions again, or thinking that we should have a staid demeanor all the time.

We can ask ourselves: Do we know both ends of this spectrum? Do we know what it's like to have emotions and to sometimes be overwrought or gleeful? And do we also know what it's like to be really steady, and to have this fullness, richness, and vitality that's available with a rich emotional life as well as with steadiness?

Do we know how to move back and forth? We don't want to just be in equanimity if somebody in our family is really injured, hurt, or emotionally distraught. We don't just want to be standing there in stable equanimity. We want to connect with them, we want to have compassion, and maybe it breaks our heart to see their heart breaking. Can we practice in such a way that we are in contact with our emotions, not pretending that they're not there, and having respect for them, but also recognizing that there's something else available: equanimity. In this life, there's emotionality and equanimity. Can we get to know both ends of this spectrum? Can we move from one end to the other when it's appropriate, when that's what life is asking of us at that moment?

I appreciate this very much because it's not asking us to be different than we are. It's just asking us to stretch or expand our capacity, or our idea of what it means to be a human, a Buddhist practitioner, or somebody who does mindfulness practice.

The function of equanimity is that it just makes life easier to navigate. Maybe this goes without saying, but if we recognize these two ends of the spectrum and can move from one to the other, then we can respond to what's needed at any particular time. Not only that, we don't have to hide from difficulties. Having equanimity gives us the confidence that whatever is going to arise, we can be with it, we can handle it.

It allows us to not be blown around by the Eight Worldly Winds^[5]. Maybe some of you are familiar with this; I'll unpack this at a later time in another talk, but tonight I'll just mention them. Something else I appreciate about the Buddhist teachings is that the Buddha says there is nobody who is immune from these Eight Worldly Winds. Nobody. Praise and blame: sometimes we get praise, sometimes we get blame. Fame and disrepute: sometimes we have a good reputation, and sometimes something bad gets said about us, whether it's true or not. Pleasure and pain: of course, we all have this. And then the last one, gain and loss: our life cannot just be gain, gain, gain without any loss.

Just having this recognition that all eight of these winds will blow in our lives is helpful. We don't get to have just the positive ones and completely avoid the negative ones, no matter how much we might wish that were so. Equanimity allows us to have some steadiness when these different winds of our lives start blowing.

One of the functions of equanimity is as a support for letting go. It's so much easier to let go of whatever it is we're holding on to if we have a sense of, "It's okay. I'm not off balance; I'm not out of kilter." Then we can let go. What comes to my mind is kind of like water skiing. When you're off balance, you're holding on so tightly. Sometimes it's just best to let go and go into the water instead of being pulled in a way that's unhelpful. There's this expression of getting rope burn when you're holding on so tightly, and it just hurts because things change and we're still holding on. Equanimity allows us to let go and avoid that rope burn.

Of course, awakening, liberation, and ease come with letting go. I think we all know that clinging eventually leads to suffering. If not immediately, eventually it always leads to suffering and difficulties. Equanimity helps us to let go and supports our non-clinging.

So how do we practice equanimity, and what are some supports for it to arise? I'll just mention a little bit now, and in the talk that I'll give next week, I'll say more about it. But one thing I wanted to say is that with equanimity, we start where we are. We can't start anywhere else, right? We start where we are.

We begin by bringing equanimity to little things in life. We don't have to do anything radical. During retreats, the meals are often served buffet-style, and there's a line. Maybe equanimity is saying, "Oh my goodness, this is my favorite! Maybe there are cookies!" and then deciding, "Well, maybe I'll just wait and make sure that everybody else gets one. If there are still some left, I'll come back and get one." Maybe equanimity is something very simple like letting the car in front of you get into your lane.

Start with really small things. If we think of difficulties on a scale of one to ten, start with things that are a one or a two. Just practice letting go and finding some steadiness: "Okay, I don't have to go towards this or push away from that. I can practice some equanimity and steadiness here."

Don't underestimate how powerful this can be. Even though I'm saying start with a one or a two, there's a part of us that often thinks, "No, no, I really want equanimity, so I'm going to start with a nine!" But usually, it works best if we start where it's easy. Start where it's easy and just get used to it. We realize how much confidence it gives us. It's a good feeling to not always be going after something or pushing it away, but instead to have this steadiness.

To talk about this idea of starting where it's easy with equanimity, I would like to read a poem. The poem is by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer^[6], and it's called "Driving with My Son the Night Before His Driver’s Test."

We turn off the music, practice left turns onto the highway. Park on the bias, park on the street. We get gas, drive backwards, use the median, change lanes, use the blinker, slow down, full stop.

There's a rule for everything, and a comfort in knowing the rules. And you can practice everywhere. Notes are DMV guidelines, so have at it.

Imagine if we all practiced everywhere. If we all signaled before every turn of heart, turn of mind, turn of plans.

Imagine if we all agreed, no matter where we're going and no matter where we've been, that we are all travelers on the same side, knowing we're on this road together.

Imagine if we agreed to stop in an orderly way. No drama, no shaming, no blame, so that someone else might take their turn to go.

Imagine getting along with others no matter what they believe. Could it be as simple as keeping it steady? Looking over your shoulder, making eye contact at a crossing, giving each other some space.

Imagine if we agreed to stop in an orderly way. No drama, no shaming, no blame, so that someone else might take their turn to go.

Imagine getting along with others no matter what they believe. Could it be as simple as keeping it steady? Looking over your shoulder, making eye contact at a crossing, giving each other some space.

That was a poem by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, "Driving with My Son the Night Before His Driver’s Test." I appreciate her pointing to driving as representing so many things, but especially this idea of keeping it steady, keeping it in the middle of the lane, as Bhikkhu Bodhi says in the beginning.

I'd like to stop there and open it up if there are any questions or comments.

Q&A

Question: When you say the spectrum of emotionality and equanimity, is there not a way that you can have some strong emotion, but as long as you don't allow it to take over...? Does that make sense?

Answer: Yes, that's exactly what I'm pointing to. Sometimes in our lives, emotion does take over and we just collapse into our emotions. But there can be a way in which there are tears and we acknowledge, "Okay, this is what sadness feels like." There is a lot of sadness, but there is a certain not getting lost in it while still really feeling it. Of course, humans grieve. We experience losses when dear ones die. Naturally, there are going to be tears. Does anybody else have a comment or a question?

Question: My question is, how do we keep equanimity from becoming an easy way to absolve ourselves of responsibility for broader social responsibilities? I can see it becoming a problem close to home, in our families when something is happening, but I could also see it easily becoming a way for people just to say, "Oh well, from 60,000 feet, it's just impermanence, and things will change."

Answer: Equanimity is not indifference. It's easy to feel like it is, but instead, equanimity allows us to feel the pain of social injustice and to really feel it while still being in contact with our greatest wisdom. It allows us to ask, "How can I make a difference? What can I do next?" in a way that comes from a place of wisdom and care, not from a place of fear or out-of-control anger. Is that helpful?

I certainly used to have this idea that equanimity was about indifference, too. Before, the only thing I knew was that you were either disconnected and aloof, or you were collapsed into the emotion. I didn't realize there was a third alternative: to be feeling and knowing what's happening, to feel that pain and sadness, and yet still be present, steady, and available.

Question: Could you please say a little more about how the Eight Worldly Winds are part of equanimity?

Answer: The way equanimity is defined is that it is the steadiness, the ballast, and the stability when these eight winds blow. It's about not being pushed around by these eight things. Part of equanimity is seeing the bigger picture. Well, part of the bigger picture is recognizing that, of course, there is gain and loss. Even though we only want gain, loss is unavoidable. And, of course, we only want pleasure; we don't want pain. But pain is unavoidable. Fame and disrepute—these might be clunky translations—but having a good reputation or a bad reputation... there's always going to be somebody who's displeased with us. It's impossible to avoid that.

So part of equanimity is seeing the bigger picture: negative things are going to happen, and we practice not being pushed around when they do. The same goes for when positive things happen. When we have a good reputation, or we get our fifteen minutes of fame, we shouldn't think, "Okay, I finally made it! Now I don't have to take care of anything else in my life." It's about not getting out of balance for that, either.

Question: What is the relationship between tranquility and equanimity?

Answer: That is such a good question. I would say tranquility is more of a bodily experience. It is definitely a settledness. But equanimity has a flavor of wisdom, like seeing the bigger picture. Whereas tranquility is non-agitation^[7], stability, and settledness. They are related—they're in the same family—but equanimity has this quality of wisdom. It involves seeing the bigger picture and having an understanding of conditionality, whereas tranquility is more just about the settledness itself. This is a good question, and I'll talk more in a subsequent talk about the relationship between all these Awakening Factors.

Comment: Thank you for your talk, Diana. It triggered a number of things in me. I won't say them all, but one of them was a movie I recently watched about Mr. Rogers called A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.

Answer: Oh, I haven't seen it!

Comment: There's one scene in which he comes into a family's home, and the father of the family is dying of cancer. Nobody is really talking about it. He said something like, "Death is part of life, and it's part of being human. Anything that's part of being human can be talked about, and anything that can be talked about can be managed." That's what came up when you were talking about facing anything.

Answer: I love Mr. Rogers! Thank you. Won't You Be My Neighbor? Yes, I love this. Thank you, Jim, for sharing that. I'll have to see the movie; I meant to see it when it came out years ago, but I didn't. That just makes me smile, thinking about Mr. Rogers.

So maybe with that as an ending, thank you for your kind attention and thank you for your practice. May you have some equanimity in the upcoming days. Thank you.