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Guided Meditation: Opening and Welcoming

So a warm hello, and welcome.

This idea of welcoming applies to our meditation practice as well, in that when we sit and meditate we're also welcoming meditation. We're welcoming something to arise, or to settle, or unfold, or to let go. We're welcoming the process. And what this implies, the idea of welcoming, is the idea that we are responsible to open the door. We're responsible for welcoming, and then if what is standing in front of the door—what's standing there, what wants to come in, wants to arise and occur—is wholesome and beneficial, then we welcome it. We allow it to arise. If it's not wholesome, if it's not beneficial, then we say, "No thank you, no need to get involved, no need to pick it up, no need to make room for it," but to allow something to happen.

So the meditation has this wonderful dynamic between what we offer in terms of ourselves and what we do, and what we welcome, what we allow to arise, to occur, to unfold. What the balance is between these two is variable, but that's part of the art of meditation, is finding the right balance. Sometimes clearly we have to engage purposefully, intentionally, and apply ourselves, maybe to the breathing, or apply ourselves to letting go of thoughts or something, because to not do so maybe means to just continue drifting off in thought, or drifting off into ways of thinking and being which are not useful.

But if we're only the one who does, and is applying ourselves, and thinks we're responsible, that it's up to us to make more effort, then there's no space and room for the welcome—to allow something to appear, to arise, to come. So this play of welcoming and allowing the welcome is what we do. We prepare ourselves so that we're there to receive or to allow.

And so this can play itself out with our breathing. In a sense, one half of the breathing cycle can be clearing the decks, or opening up, or opening the door, so the other half of the cycle of breathing can be allowing that part to just unfold. Maybe it's different for different people which they prefer. I prefer that the clearing the decks, the emptying out, is on the exhale—the releasing. And then the inhale, there's the allowing the inhale to happen, there's allowing for meditation to unfold, it's getting out of the way and then seeing what wants to come. This kind of cycle of letting go and allowing, letting go and receiving.

Welcome and letting go, and then welcoming. It could be the other way; some people might prefer the other way, to welcome what happens as we let go, and to clear things away, open up, open the doors as we inhale. And this can be done gently, mildly, just a very light touch riding on the inhale and exhale. In the way I was talking about it, to let go of thoughts, let go, release, relax on the exhale, and to welcome on the inhale. Then as meditation deepens, it gets stiller and quieter and more settled. Then each of these movements of opening and then welcoming becomes softer and stiller and quieter until neither is happening. We're just there with experience. Maybe a little bit closer to welcoming, but even welcoming at some point is no longer needed.

So assuming a meditation posture. In taking a good meditation posture, you can also think of it as a posture in which you're ready to welcome. You don't want to welcome a guest by slouching, or receding, or making yourself small. You have more of a welcome if you are a little bit upright, or big, or fully present. So a posture of full presence, a posture that's there to welcome our experience.

And gently closing the eyes.

And welcome a deep inhale, and release a long exhale. Like you're welcoming the air to come into your lungs, you're welcoming the whole body to expand. And then you're releasing it all, setting it free, so you're ready to welcome again.

Then letting go, and letting your breath return to normal. Relax different parts of your body, holdings in your muscles perhaps, so that your whole body becomes more receptive and ready to welcome, to allow. In some ways, tension in the muscles is a kind of resistance, holding back or closing down. The simple ways in which we can relax at the beginning of meditation are ways to make ourselves more receptive, more sensitive.

And then to settle into the body's experience of breathing.

Perhaps with a light touch, a gentle letting go, releasing as you exhale. Maybe ever so slightly there's a fuller release at the end of the exhale. And then welcoming the inhale. A wide welcome, it is not just welcoming the inhale, but is opening ourselves to allow it all to be here, without involvement, without getting caught in it, where there's space for all things.

When you get involved in thinking, there's very little receptivity there to our inner direct experience. The welcome is gone. When you notice you've drifted off in thought, return to the welcome, the receptivity of your experience here in your body. A quiet receptivity. A silent welcome.

Welcoming as you inhale, letting go as you exhale.

And then as we come to the end of the sitting, to step forward into the world with clarity, with presence, with a certainty of really being here. And then with that clarity and certainty, being welcoming for others. Allowing people to be how they are, and to listen, and notice, and see, and respect people for how they are, as long as they're not hurting us. Can we give them the gift of being respected? Meaning to see them again, to take a second look, and really be present so that we welcome others into this empty space of goodness, of heartfeltness, of openness, where they can be more fully themselves and be known for who they are.

And just as we know ourselves, the dharma begins to move through us, we begin to grow and mature and unfold. So when we help other people to be known, to give the experience to others that they are really known, something is welcomed, something shifts, something relaxes, something can open in others. May it be that what we learn in meditation practice can be useful when we meet others and relate to other people, and even when we read about them in the news.

May that which is a profound knowing in receptivity and openness be how we meet others in our dedication to live a life that supports the welfare and happiness of all beings. May we contribute to the happiness, the safety, the peace, and the freedom of others.

May all beings be happy.

Dharmette: Sutta Stories - Fruit of Spiritual Practice

Today I'll continue to recount some of the stories that occur in the suttas, the ancient discourses, texts that contain the teachings of the Buddha. One of the reasons for these stories is that the stories often contextualize the teachings, or the stories highlight what's important about the teachings and illustrate them in some way.

Today's story comes from the second discourse in the anthology called the Long Discourses of the Buddha. It's called long because these discourses, these texts, are relatively long compared to many others in other anthologies. The second one is generally called in English something like "The Fruits of the Renunciant Life," or "The Fruits of the Reclusive Life." It's the Samaññaphala Sutta^[1]. Phala means fruit. Samañña means someone who's a recluse, or a contemplative, or renunciant. Maybe it's a little bit like in the old days in English we would talk about someone who's "a religious." A religious person generally meant someone who had dedicated themselves to the religious life. So this is someone in ancient India who dedicated themselves to a lifestyle of full-time dedication to the religious life for the times.

This particular discourse, I think of it as being like an opera. It's grand, and some of it is this huge pathos, a display that involves an operatic kind of suffering that is a context for the teachings. I'll describe the scene: it begins with the greatest king of India at the time of the Buddha, a king by the name of Ajatasattu^[2]. It was a beautiful full moon night with a clear sky, and the king was on the high terrace of his palace, looking out across the scene above the treetops, the full moon, and the beautiful light and clarity. He's there with his ministers and he's exclaiming how beautiful, how wonderful the night is. The full moon, it's wonderful to see.

And then he asks his ministers, "Who can I go visit? What spiritual teacher can I go visit?" Spiritual teachers often gathered on the full moon with their disciples, so it was a time to remember the spiritual life perhaps. He said, "Who could I go visit who might bring peace to my distressed heart?" The reason the king's heart is distressed (which we get a sense of, and that comes up at the end of this discourse, we understand why) is that he became king by killing his own father. This was troubling him, and so he wanted to go find someone who could settle or calm his troubled heart.

Six ministers each suggested that he go see a particular religious teacher of the time. To each of them the king said, "No, no. I visited them before and what the person said didn't help." But a seventh minister didn't say anything, just was silent. The king at some point turned to that seventh minister, Jivaka^[3] (I think he was the king's minister, but maybe the king's doctor), and said, "Jivaka, you're not saying anything. Do you have a suggestion of who I might visit?"

Jivaka says, "Well, in fact, there is a religious teacher who's in town nearby in the woods, who has a really good report. He is said to be not only a wonderful teacher for other people but a wonderful teacher for the gods." The word for god in ancient India also meant king, so it meant he was so wonderful he is good for the gods, but also so wonderful he's good for the kings.

The king, on hearing this wonderful report about the Buddha (I guess he had never seen the Buddha), said, "Let's go." So they assemble a grand pageant. He assembled 500 elephants. Maybe it's a little bit like the Bradley tanks of the modern world, these ancient war elephants. 500 of them were assembled for this going into the woods to see the Buddha. On each of these 500 was the king and his 500 wives. This sets up a contrast between the largeness, the power, the wealth of this great king, and his great involvement with sensual pleasures (which later you can see is one of his primary occupations).

They march into the forest to go see the Buddha in the full moon night. As they get into the dark forest, the king gets really frightened and his hair stands up on end. He says to Jivaka, "Jivaka, are you taking us into the forest so my enemies can ambush me? Is this a trick?"

Jivaka reassures him, "No, no, no, it's not a trick."

"But it's so quiet here, and you told me there were 1,250 monks with the Buddha, and I don't hear a peep from any of them."

"Ah, that's because these Buddhist monks are really well-behaved and quiet. They're sitting listening to the Buddha."

So Ajatasattu gets off his elephant and covers the final distance to where the Buddha is sitting by foot. He says, "Jivaka, Jivaka, where is the Buddha? I don't see him anywhere." This suggests that Jivaka is in the assembly with the other monks, but he doesn't recognize the Buddha. Jivaka says, "The Buddha is up against that central pillar facing all the monks."

The king goes up to the Buddha and offers his greetings. The Buddha picks up something and says, "Are you thinking of the people you love?"

The king says, "Yes, I'm thinking about my young son. I wish he could be as calm and settled as these monks. 1,250 monks are sitting here so peacefully and quietly listening to you. I wish my son could be this calm and quiet."

That's all he says about his son, but the audience who's watching this opera or listening to the story know. They know that the king killed his own father to become king. Because this story was told for centuries after the Buddha died, the audience knows that Ajatasattu's son later then killed Ajatasattu to become king, so this patricide continued. There's this pathos that's kind of in the air around the sutta.

Then Ajatasattu asks the Buddha, "What is the fruit of the renunciant life? What's the benefit of becoming a monastic and practicing the religious life?"

The Buddha says, "Have you asked anyone else that?"

He says, "Yes, I asked the six other spiritual teachers, but I wasn't satisfied with their answers."

The Buddha says, "Well, tell me."

"One of them's teaching was there is no such thing as evil or badness or demerit, and you can just do whatever you want and you won't do any evil. Someone else said that people don't really exist, they're empty. If you chop someone's head off, you're not killing anyone because people don't exist. Someone else said that the amount of suffering and pain that you have is allocated when you're first born, and you just have to play it all out. It's all predetermined, and so nothing you can do makes any difference. Someone else said that they simply didn't know if there was any benefit or fruit of the practice and had no answer to give."

He went on with these teachings. You can feel, as these teachings are recounted, that for someone who killed their own father, none of them really settled the heart, none of them really touched him or worked for him. So he came to the Buddha and he asked the Buddha the same question.

The Buddha answered indirectly by asking a question of the king (the Buddha often did that rather than answering directly). He said, "Dear king, if you have a slave..." So here is the most powerful person in the world at the time talking about a slave. "...And your slave decides that there's another way of living and wants to do good in the world, wants to acquire merit, and not just do this grunt work for the king on and on for their whole life. So the slave goes off to become a monastic, ordains, becomes a renunciant, and lives a holy life. What would you do? Would you insist on the slave coming back and being a slave?"

The king said, "No, no. If they were really living a renunciant's life and a good life, then I would honor that person, and I would bring them gifts and food and robes and support them."

The Buddha said, "Well, is this one of the fruits of the holy life, of the renunciant life?"

The king said, "Oh yes, this would be one of the fruits if you live that life, freed from slavery."

Then the king said, "Well, tell me something more."

The Buddha said, "Well, if someone was one of your workers, like a minister or something, and they left your employment to become a monastic, what would you do then?"

"Oh, I would honor them and give them gifts and support them and protect them."

"This too is a fruit of the renunciant life."

And then Ajatasattu said, "Well, tell me, is there any other fruits of the holy life?"

So the third time the king asks, the Buddha then gives some of his own teachings (and there's an ancient tradition that you don't really teach someone until they ask three times). The Buddha says, "Well, as a person hears the teachings from the Buddha or some person like that, and becomes a monastic renunciant, and then they engage in the spiritual life..."

As they engage in the spiritual life, the Buddha describes the gradual path of practice: the practice of morality, the cultivation of concentration, all the way to awakening. There are all these steps that are described, and many of the steps result in happiness and bliss and gladness and joy. Once we get into the world of practice, of living an ethical life, there's a bliss of blamelessness. There's contentment as we practice meditation, and as the hindrances abate, there's gladness that we're no longer enslaved by these powerful mind states. As we enter into the jhānas^[4], there's all this deep joy and happiness and tranquility of the jhānas that comes along. So the Buddha is describing this wonderful gradual path where there's all this benefit, this fruit and joy and happiness and well-being that comes along, all the way up to awakening.

When the king hears all this, he says, "Wow! Yes, this is the fruit of the homeless life. I'm so inspired. From now on I go for refuge to the Buddha. Let the Buddha be my teacher."

The Buddha nods in assent. Then Ajatasattu is so inspired, he says something like, "Well, I have a lot to do, the king has a lot of work to do, and a lot of sensual pleasures to attend to, so I have to go back to my job."

The king says, "Do as you wish."

Then the king goes off. The Buddha is left, and he tells his monks and nuns that were there, "If the king had not killed his father, in hearing this discourse he would have attained the first stage of awakening. His dharma eye would have opened. But with this heavy harm that he caused, the fruit of that, the consequence of that, is that..." He didn't say this literally, but this is kind of my interpretation of it: "...the consequence of that is that his heart is closed to the liberative effect of these teachings."

So that's a fruit of causing harm in this world: that your heart is much more closed. Is it permanently closed or not? We don't know. My teacher in Burma gave lots of stories to me of people he'd known (not that they killed their parents, but soldiers who had killed people) and the struggles they had to open up their hearts, but they always succeeded to do it through the teachings and to be changed.

So this contrast between the king and the consequence of his actions, and the choice of a monastic and the consequence of their actions, their practice, and what arises, what's welcomed, what's received—the fruit that comes from the spiritual life—is the theme of this operatic sutta.

That's the story for today, and we'll continue tomorrow. Thank you.