Joy, Happiness, Equanimity

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The following talk was given by Diana Clark at Insight Meditation Center in Redwood City, CA on May 31, 2022. Please visit the website www.audiodharma.org for more information.

Joy, Happiness, Equanimity

Welcome. Welcome again, it's nice to see you all here. Tonight, I'd like to start with a brief little story that's in the Visuddhimagga^[1]. This text is a little bit later than the Pali Canon^[2]. I'm embellishing this story, so this isn't verbatim, but it goes like this:

Imagine that you're in the desert, you don't have any water, you have some distance to travel, and your situation is pretty precarious. As you're traveling, you come over a little rise. In the distance, you see what looks like it might be palm trees, but you're not sure—it might be a mirage. You head in that direction and you notice, "Okay, it seems pretty steady. Those palm trees are still there."

As you start walking, you start encountering people. They have wet hair and are carrying bundles of wet clothes. This gives you some encouragement: "Okay, this is an oasis that's just right over there." You get really excited, having been in the desert, knowing there's an oasis. You keep on walking, you arrive, and it's beautiful. There's a big lake of cool water. You feel so happy, thinking, "Oh, it's here! Plenty of water, nice and cool, and there's shade under the trees." You drink the water, jump in the lake, get cleaned up, and get refreshed. You get out feeling really contented and happy. Then you lie down in the shade of a tree and have a rest. Even if you're not asleep—maybe you're just resting against the tree—a certain amount of contentment arises. There is a certain feeling of "okay," not a lot of troubles, just happy to be there.

Crossing this desert without water might sometimes feel like our practice, or our life. It can feel burdensome and difficult, where we're not feeling nourished and feel like we don't have enough. There is this sense that we have to go somewhere, we have to go across this sandy desert. It's not so easy to walk on sand. Sometimes there's relentless heat, and maybe you're even feeling a little bit lost, not sure where you're going. Then there's this idea of glimpsing an oasis, glimpsing that there might be something here that can be a support, something nourishing where we can find some respite from the heat and thirst.

Maybe early in our practice, we recognize that mindfulness is a place that can provide some benefit or nourishment. But in the beginning, we often just have a glimpse of it and don't necessarily trust it. Yet, we have enough of a glimpse that we're willing to keep going. Seeing others coming with wet hair or bundles of wet clothes is kind of like being inspired by coming to a meditation center. We meditate with others and see, "Oh, there are others who practice this way. They seem happy, relaxed, or satisfied. They have wet hair!" At that moment, when you're in the desert, feeling hot and thirsty, wet hair is what you're looking for. We see clues that are a bit more than just the little glimpses we might have had with mindfulness. There's a certain delight, an arising of, "Maybe this is for me, too."

When we arrive at the oasis, we realize there is plenty of water. There is this feeling of happiness: "Okay, I can stay here for a while, drink some of this water, and feel supported and nourished by it." We dive into the water, feel refreshed, and something inside of us starts to settle. We recognize, "Oh, okay, there is something here that can be helpful for me." We experience a certain amount of contentment. Often, we think this contentment arises because we got what we wanted—we wanted water. But I'd like to encourage us to interpret this another way. Contentment arises because we no longer have this strong desire for water. It is the ending of the desire—the wish for something different than what we are having—that allows us some contentment, rather than just getting what we want.

So often in our lives, we do actually get what we want. But have you noticed how the satisfaction from that doesn't last very long? We do get to sleep in sometimes, we do have good meals, sometimes the weather is beautiful. We do get these things that we want, but it never seems quite enough. So true contentment is not just because we got what we wanted, but because the desire has abated. The desire has rested, and there is more than one way to let desire quiet and soften. I'm going to talk a little bit more about this, but first, I want to say something more about this story.

After drinking and diving in the water, imagine leaning against one of these palm trees and taking a rest. Maybe we're not sleeping, but just viewing and seeing what else is happening at the oasis. There is a recognition that nothing else needs to be done right now. We got here, we have some water, presumably there's some food too (or maybe we brought it with us), so there's no sense of urgency for things to be different. There is no pushing or pulling—no pushing to shove our experiences away, or pulling to try to keep our experiences with us. We are just relaxed under the tree.

From this place of relaxing under the tree, we can see things differently than when we were feeling lost in the desert. In the story, we literally see things differently: we see the water and the palm trees. But we all have this experience too: when we're hungry, tired, didn't sleep well, or got bad news, we see things in a particular, contracted way. When we are a little bit grumpy because we haven't eaten or rested, we tend to look at the negative side. But when we feel a certain amount of contentment, our view can be a little more open. Not only that, there can be a little bit more steadiness, a feeling that things are okay. Sure, the kids are really loud when they're playing in the water over there, but it's okay. Whereas, if we were in a bad mood, we might get really irritated about those same kids.

We could say that Buddhist practice is about just this: being able to see things differently. It is about creating the conditions to see the bigger picture and having a certain amount of steadiness. We practice so we don't feel like we're being buffeted or pushed around by our experiences, but instead have a relaxed, open perspective. We want to see what is arising and what is really happening, as opposed to being caught and consumed by difficulties. We want to no longer be enchanted by, or lost in, stories about how things are, or how we wish they were, but to actually see how they are.

In this story, a certain amount of joy and happiness supports the arising of contentment, which in turn supports the ability to see clearly. Joy and happiness are an integral part of practice, but they're not the point of practice. We need them for our life, and they are also a support for practice because they help create the conditions for relaxation and openness. They allow us to see a bigger perspective. Our spiritual path isn't only about having great experiences. Our meditation practice isn't only about having [Applause] wonderful meditative experiences. We all know that these experiences cannot be sources of lasting happiness. They can bring pleasure and temporary happiness, but they are not sources of lasting happiness. In contrast, being able to see things clearly can be a source of lasting happiness. We find this when we start to see how things really are and put down the stories and the mental busyness that prevent us from seeing.

Seeing the bigger picture with a certain amount of steadiness is what we call equanimity. The Pali word is Upekkhā^[3]. Etymologically, we could say that Upekkhā means "to look upon." One reason why I like this understanding is to highlight that it's different from looking away. Sometimes people think equanimity is a certain amount of indifference, detachment, or coolness. I would say no, that's more about looking away. Equanimity is born out of this joy, happiness, and contentment. That is not the only way to get to equanimity, but it is one way. It is about looking upon—seeing the big picture, not just what we're concerned with at that moment. It's being able to see what other people are doing, what's happening with them, and seeing that while the children playing are really loud, it's also comfortable underneath the tree. Maybe I feel a little bit hot, but I'm not thirsty. We don't get stuck on the things that are unpleasant, or stuck on the things that are pleasant. We are able to see the whole range: perfectly neutral things happening, unpleasant things happening, and pleasant things happening. While I talked about contentment as leaning against a tree, maybe equanimity is more like being at the top of a hill. You can see further and wider. Maybe that's a better way to imagine this idea of Upekkhā.

So, Upekkhā has this awareness of whatever is happening. It's connected to seeing what's happening, but it also has this inner balance and steadiness, a connection to a foundation. We can think of it like a sailboat. I'm not a sailor (I know Jim is a sailor here), but my understanding of a keel is a blade underneath the boat that prevents it from tipping over when the winds push on it. Equanimity, in some ways, is like having this keel. It allows us to experience the winds—the winds are still there—but we're not going to tip over. It helps keep the boat upright. It is this steadiness of mind and heart, while still remaining connected to whatever is happening in all of our inner and outer experiences. It applies not only to what we see out there, but also to what we see in here. When we notice some impatience, with equanimity, we can just say, "Okay, it's just impatience." We don't have to add a story like, "I'm a bad person. I've been practicing all these years, I shouldn't be impatient."

Equanimity makes our lives easier. Not being pushed around so much by our experiences naturally does. Whether our experiences include the news cycle, difficulties with finances or partners, or our inner life—feelings of confusion, despair, or troubling thoughts—equanimity allows us to not stumble or be pushed around. Recently, I had to take some medication for a little while that I knew was going to make me feel a little bit "off." I use that vague word because that's what it felt like. Somehow, just having the knowledge that, "Okay, I don't feel so great, but it's just because I'm taking this medication," allowed me to accept that this is just how it is right now.

Sometimes, just being able to see the bigger picture—seeing that there are conditions and reasons for what's arising—can help us find this steadiness of equanimity. Equanimity helps us to see a broader perspective, and seeing broadly helps us to understand conditionality. There are no guarantees, but we can see, "Of course I feel this way. I didn't sleep well last night," or "I'm taking this medication." Equanimity also helps us to see more deeply into our experience with steadiness of heart and mind. Equanimity can be like a tripod that stabilizes a telescope or a microscope, allowing us to see deeply into something we wouldn't be able to see with our regular busyness or ordinary ways of interacting with our environment.

What do we see when we see things more deeply? We see that they are changing. There are so many different ways we can talk about change across different time scales. Things that have the nature to arise have the nature to pass away. Things that have the nature to be born have the nature to die. But also, when the mind is really quiet and settled, we can start to see a flickering in our experiences. Things aren't as steady and solid as we might imagine them to be. Equanimity helps us to see this changing quality of our experiences. Unlike the sense of something being stuck, impenetrable, and lacking flexibility, we can see, "Oh, this isn't as solid as I thought it was." When sitting, that uncomfortable experience in the knee might not just be a solid block of pain. With equanimity, we have the patience and capacity to be with the experience a little bit longer and see its flickering quality.

We also can see that our experiences are not inherently satisfying. To be sure, there are pleasant experiences and unpleasant experiences, but we still haven't quite found that one experience that will be a source of lasting happiness. By seeing more deeply, we recognize that even the things we were pretty sure would make our life better or make us happy aren't truly satisfying. We might be chasing after things, thinking, "This is going to be the thing that makes me happy." However, with some steadiness, we can see that it doesn't make sense to hold onto the promise of a particular experience or object because it's not as steady as we thought it was. Naturally, our relationship to those objects or experiences shifts. We don't have to make it happen; we simply stop holding on so tightly. When we're not holding on so tightly, there is more ease, freedom, and spaciousness.

As we explore our experiences with a mind and heart that have some equanimity, we begin to understand them more fully. We start to see that every time there is a liking of something, it implies a disliking of something else. It is impossible to have one without the other. We start to see that chasing after our preferences really just highlights everything that isn't our preference. Instead, we can cultivate a more open, relaxed view and avoid spending our time and energy trying to exclusively surround ourselves with our preferences.

Not chasing after our preferences, seeing that things aren't quite as satisfying, and seeing that things change, creates the conditions for letting go. This spaciousness alone allows the mind to become even more unagitated. Liberation and freedom are unagitated states. Cultivating and recognizing equanimity is a way in which the goal and the means become similar. If freedom is unagitated, and equanimity is a type of unagitation, we can see how equanimity supports the kind of letting go that leads to liberation. It is an experience in the same family as liberation itself.

Sometimes, as a concept, equanimity might seem unappealing. Some people say they don't really want equanimity because it sounds boring or flat. Instead, they might want the juiciness, the gusto, and the joy. They want the excitement of experience or a passionate involvement with life. Hearing the word "equanimity" might feel like a sort of disconnection or not caring. To be sure, indifference sometimes masquerades as equanimity. There will be times in our practice when we slide into indifference—when we disconnect from our experience, feel a bit shut down, and feel a little cold and removed. That's natural, it happens, but that is not equanimity. That is indifference.

In some ways, it's important for us to have that experience of indifference arise so we can recognize, "Oh, this is what it feels like to be disconnected." This is what it feels like when there might be less agitation, but there is also a sense of disconnection and not caring. Indifference arises when a little bit of aversion is present, so sometimes we might even call it aversion. We might mistakenly believe that this is what equanimity is. Instead, true equanimity has a sense of aliveness, vitality, and connection, characterized by openness, spaciousness, and warmth.

Another reason equanimity might not sound interesting is that we might hold an underlying belief questioning what our life would be like without drama. We might rely on the drama of getting rid of difficulties, the drama of defending our sense of self, or the drama of bolstering our self-image to look good to everybody. I'm using the word "drama," and sometimes it is dramatic, but it can also be very subtle. We might be unsure of what would remain if we didn't have this busyness—the busyness of trying to get rid of a difficulty, solve a problem, or bolster the self. This hesitation might make equanimity sound uninteresting.

However, what we all really want is a stable sense of well-being that cannot be shaken by circumstances. This well-being arises when we have some equanimity. In some ways, a mind with equanimity is like a mountain: it remains there even through tornadoes, hurricanes, or other storms.

We certainly want to be happy. But we are always searching for happiness because the things we think will make us happy turn out not to. This leads to a relentless, sometimes subtle, search. Can you imagine what it might be like to have a truly radical contentment? To feel that everything is okay, to think, "I don't have to go fix that. It's not perfect, but I don't have to fix it. I don't have to hold on to this. It's enjoyable, but I'll be okay if it goes." I think this is what human beings are really looking for: a place to rest, a place to feel safe. For that resting place to exist, it cannot be susceptible to whatever is happening in the world or in our inner life.

I love these few lines from the awakening poem of Subhuti^[4]. Subhuti was a monk at the time of the Buddha, and it was a tradition to capture poems when people had awakening experiences. The way he describes his experience reminds me of equanimity. A part of his awakening verses goes like this:

"My little hut is roofed and pleasant,
Sheltered from the wind.
So, rain, sky, as you please."

There is something very sweet about this. He has a roof, a refuge, and shelter from the wind. Many of us have heard about the Eight Worldly Winds^[5]—the forces that push us around: praise and blame, fame and disrepute, gain and loss, and pleasure and pain. Of course, we only want one half of those dyads, but every life gets both halves. We get all eight; nobody is immune. But Subhuti talks about his hut that's roofed and pleasant, sheltered from the wind. He says, "So, rain, sky, as you please." He is not trying to force things to be a particular way. Maybe it will be sunny, maybe it will be rainy—it's okay. He has the confidence to meet whatever might arise.

I started with a story about being in the desert, experiencing the joy of seeing the oasis, and the happiness of drinking from it. That's one way we can cultivate equanimity: to keep practicing when we encounter joy and happiness. Joy and happiness do arise in our lives, even if they aren't giant moments. Maybe the weather is going to be great, or the newspaper arrived on time in the morning. For those of us who still read physical newspapers, this is a joy. I was recently visiting my mom, and she still gets the paper delivered. I have to say, I just love going out in the morning to get the paper at her house.

When we encounter joy and happiness, we often stop practicing. We might stop being mindful, feeling like we don't need to practice anymore. We might feel like we've arrived, gotten what we wanted, and achieved the purpose of practice, so we stop. But the encouragement here is: can we stay mindful? Can we still be with the experience, fully embracing it without abandoning ourselves? We don't have to forget our practice; we can maintain it in a relaxed, easy, and gentle way. There is a natural progression from joy, which has a more energetic feeling, to happiness, which is a subtler, contented feeling, and then to equanimity. It doesn't always happen, but it is one pathway in. So, I encourage you to continue practicing when you are experiencing joy and happiness.

Another way is to actively cultivate an inner reservoir of well-being, a resource we can draw upon no matter what the circumstances are. Spend time noticing when there is any sense of well-being. Notice the feeling you get when you are generous to others, or when you let those close to you know how much you care about them. When doing loving-kindness practice, notice how the heart opens. Tune into these experiences when they arise, whether that is frequently or infrequently. Tuning in helps the heart and mind remember that there is a capacity for well-being.

When we remember this capacity, there is less fear around loss. We develop a part of us that understands where deep happiness truly comes from: it arises from letting go, from opening, and from relaxing. Sometimes it seems to arise from an external experience that brings pleasure, but pleasure is not the same as happiness. It would behoove us to explore how they are related yet distinct; not all happiness comes from pleasure. The more we dip into this sense of internal well-being, the less likely we are to be thrown off balance by the Eight Worldly Winds: praise and blame, gain and loss, pleasure and pain, and fame and disrepute.

There are a number of ways to work with equanimity. One more way is to practice with wisdom. We remind ourselves that things do change. The nature of things is not inherently satisfying, partly because of this constant change. By borrowing wisdom from our past experiences, we can relax, soften, and open up. We can metaphorically sit on the hill and take in a larger vista. Imagine you don't know how to swim and you fall in the water. Naturally, you might thrash around in a panic, feeling like you desperately need to get out. But if you have a life jacket on, you can paddle around and find your way without the overwhelming fear of drowning. Cultivating well-being and borrowing wisdom serve as life jackets that help us maintain equanimity, no matter whether the water is cold, hot, or just right.

Joy, happiness, and well-being help create the conditions for equanimity to arise. Equanimity is sometimes called a higher happiness because it provides steadiness in the face of whatever is happening. In turn, equanimity creates the conditions for letting go, which is considered the highest happiness. We don't need the oppressive idea that we must be happy all the time, or that we must find joy in every single thing. In this talk, I simply wanted to connect the ideas of happiness, equanimity, and liberation.

Happiness is an integral part of our path. We can cultivate it and allow ourselves to be nourished by it. If we stick with our practice, that happiness can mature into contentment, which supports equanimity. Equanimity then supports letting go, which leads to greater and greater freedom—and freedom, of course, is happiness. We travel in this beautiful circle.

With that, I'd like to wish you all a wonderful Memorial Day. I didn't necessarily connect this talk to Memorial Day, but it occurred to me today. Wishing you all a wonderful evening. Thank you.