The Buddhist Path to Simplicity: Spiritual Practice in Everyday Life. Christina Feldman

us how easily we become dissatisfied, bored, and disinterested with what we gain, we continue to invest our happiness and well-being in this projected promise.

      Pursuing our obsessions, we forget that this acute sense of deprivation is not rooted in the world but in our own minds. Simplicity is not concerned with resignation or passivity, nor with surrendering vision and direction in our lives. It is about surrendering our obsessions and addictions, and all the anxiety and unhappiness they generate. Over and over we learn to ask ourselves, “What is truly lacking in this moment?”

      In my early years of meditation practice I had a great longing for stillness, believing that my progress depended on finding the perfectly quiet mind. I found myself pursuing the perfectly quiet world, believing it to be a precondition for the quiet mind. First I had a room in a tiny village, but soon became dissatisfied. The sound of an occasional truck or a market peddler disturbed whatever quiet I managed to find. So I moved further up the mountain to a small house, convinced that it would be perfect. Before long I was irritated by the sounds of passing herdsmen and the occasional barking of a dog, so once more I moved further up the mountain to an isolated hut, far removed from any human contact. I covered the windows with blankets so even the sun wouldn’t distract me and I breathed a sigh of relief—perfect quiet. In that part of India lived tribes of large, silver-haired monkeys and they discovered the delight of my tin roof. One day, finding myself outside shouting and pouring abuse upon the monkeys, it finally occurred to me that perfect calm was perhaps more a state of mind than a state of environment.

      Fixated upon getting, possessing, and arriving at the “perfect moment,” we overlook the fact that the perfect moment comes to depend upon the fulfillment of our goals, desires, and fantasies. We believe we will be happy when we have ordered the world to suit our wants, expectations, and ambitions. Strangely, this perfect moment and promise of fulfillment never arrives; it is ceaselessly pushed over into the future as yet another need or desire arises within us. One of the richest men in America, after finally reaching his goal of possessing three billion dollars, remarked to a friend, “You know, I really don’t feel all that secure. Maybe if I had four billion.” Peace and simplicity are not so complicated; they are born of being, not of having. Each time we become lost in our obsessions and cravings we deprive ourselves of the simplicity, contentment, and freedom that is to be found in a single moment embraced with attention and the willingness to be touched by its richness. An ancient Sufi saying tells us, “Within your own house swells the treasure of joy, so why do you go begging from door to door?”

      Renunciation is Compassion

      One of my first teachers once told me, “Letting go is an act of compassion for yourself.” We drive ourselves into deep states of sorrow and anxiety in our quest for gratification and happiness. Driven by what the Buddha described as the two deepest fears of a human being: the fear of having nothing and the fear of being no-one, we try to grasp the ungraspable, preserve the changing, secure the unpredictable, and guarantee the unknowable. It is an act of great kindness to learn how to let go in this life, to be with what is, to harmonize ourselves with life’s inevitable changes, and open up to the mystery of the unknown. When we no longer live in fear of losing what we have, we can begin to learn how to love and appreciate what is already with us. We learn to reclaim our inner authority, to discover happiness within ourselves and within each moment. In a path of renunciation, all that we are truly letting go of is a world of unease and discontent. Coco Chanel once remarked, “How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something but to be someone.”

      In his first discourse, the Buddha stated that craving is the cause of sorrow and pain. The craving to gain what we do not have, the craving to get rid of what we do not want, and the craving for experience and identity, are all manifestations of an energy that leads us to depart from the truth of what is in each moment. The Buddha went on to say that the cause of sorrow lies in our own hearts and minds; the cause of happiness lies in our own hearts and minds. Our immediate response may be to say that this is too simplistic. There appear to be so many things that cause us sorrow—the job we dislike, the relatives we struggle with, the aches in our body; the list is endless. As we look more deeply we should ask: do any of these hold the power to cause us to be lost in sorrow, pain, or confusion? Or is it the movements of our minds that dismiss, judge, reject, and avoid, which cause the greatest pain and sorrow?

      We can go through life with the mantra, “This shouldn’t be happening. I want something else to happen. This should be different than it is.” Pursuing what we want and do not have, trying to get rid of what we have and don’t want, losing interest in what previously fascinated us, are all the tentacles of a single energy of craving. It is a powerful energy that leads us to flee from the moment and ourselves. As our appetites become jaded, we find ourselves needing ever more intense excitement and experience. The Buddha compared this energy of craving to a forest fire which consumes the very ground that sustains it. Our energy, time, well-being, and peace are consumed in the fires of craving. Renunciation, learning to let go gently and clearly in our lives, extinguishes the fire; it is the antidote to craving.

      In the last century an affluent tourist went to visit a Polish rabbi, renowned for the depth of his learning and compassion. Arriving at the impoverished village where the rabbi made his home, he was astonished to discover the rabbi living in a simple room with only a few books and the most basic furniture. “Rabbi, where is all your furniture, your library, your diplomas?” he asked. “Where are yours?” answered the rabbi. “Mine? But I am only a visitor here.” “So am I,” replied the rabbi.

      In the early 70s I traveled to India in search of a spiritual path and found myself in a Tibetan refugee village. I found a community of people who had lost so much: their country, their homes, their possessions, and their families. What was so stunning was the absence of despair, rage, hatred, and desire for vengeance. Their openhearted welcome and generosity, the smiles upon their faces, the devotion that permeated the camp, were a testimony to the reality that they had not lost their heart.

      There is a sacred hunger rooted in our hearts—a yearning for freedom, happiness, connectedness, and peace. It is a hunger that prevents us from surrendering to despair and disconnection, that inspires us to continue searching for a way of feeling truly intimate in this world, at one with life, free from conflict and sorrow. In our confusion, this sacred hunger becomes distorted and diverted; it turns into craving and the pursuit of projected promise invested in experience and things outside ourselves.

      Renunciation is not a dismissal of the world. It does not involve surrendering the joy found in all the precious and delightful impressions and experiences that will visit us in this life. Through withdrawing the projected promise invested in sensation, impression, and experience, we learn to find a sense of balance that embraces the pleasant, unpleasant, and neutral experience. Believing that happiness and fulfillment lie outside of ourselves we project onto the 10 thousand objects and experiences in this life the power for them to devastate, enrage, gratify, or elate us. We then become a prisoner of those 10 thousand things. Withdrawing this projected promise, we can deeply appreciate the pleasant, remain steady in the midst of the unpleasant, and be fully sensitive to the neutral impressions and experiences life brings. We discover that the root of happiness lies not in what we are experiencing but how we are experiencing it. It is the withdrawal of the projected promise and the surrender of the fear of deprivation which enables a relationship to life that is rooted in sensitivity, compassion, and intimacy. Craving propels us outwardly, away from ourselves and from this moment, into an endless quest for certainty and identity. By exploring the energy of craving and loosening its hold, we are returned to ourselves, able to acknowledge the sacred hunger within us for intimacy and awakening. At ease within ourselves, we discover a profound refuge and happiness rooted in our own capacities for awareness and balance.

      The Enlightened and the Unenlightened

      The Buddha spoke about the distinction between an enlightened and an unenlightened person. Both the enlightened and the unenlightened experience feelings, sensations, sounds, sights, and events that can be pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral. When an unenlightened person encounters the unpleasant experience they grieve, lament, and become distraught and distracted. Two levels of sorrow are experienced;