Buddhism Article Words

The Fundamental Ambiguity of Being Human – Pema Chodron

The Fundamental Ambiguity of Being Human – Pema Chodron

As human beings we share a tendency to scramble for certainty whenever we realize that everything around us is in flux.

In difficult times the stress of trying to find solid ground—something predictable to stand on—seems to intensify.

What a predicament!

And it leaves us with some provocative questions: How can we live wholeheartedly in the face of impermanence, knowing that one day we’re going to die?

This refers, I think, to an essential choice that confronts us all: whether to cling to the false security of our fixed ideas and tribal views, even though they bring us only momentary satisfaction, or to overcome our fear and make the leap to living an authentic life.

That phrase, “the moral ambiguity of human existence,” resonated strongly with me because it’s what I’ve been exploring for years: How can we relax and have a genuine, passionate relationship with the fundamental uncertainty, the groundlessness of being human?

This anxiety or queasiness in the face of impermanence isn’t something that afflicts just a few of us; it’s an all-pervasive state that human beings share.

This anxiety or queasiness in the face of impermanence isn’t something that afflicts just a few of us; it’s an all-pervasive state that human beings share.

Buddhist master Shantideva wrote in The Way of the Bodhisattva: __All that I possess and use _Is like the fleeting vision of a dream.

_It fades into the realms of memory; _And fading, will be seen no more.

There are probably very few people who, at any given time, are consumed with the idea “I’m going to die,” but there is plenty of evidence that this thought, this fear, haunts us constantly.

Then it changes, and we’re hit with physical pain or mental anguish.

I imagine it would even be possible to chart how pleasure and pain alternate in our lives, hour by hour, day after day, year in and year out, first one and then the other predominating.

As individuals we, too, have plenty of fundamentalist tendencies.

Kongtrül calls shenpa the barometer of ego clinging, a gauge of our self-involvement and self-importance.

Shenpa has a visceral quality associated with grasping or, conversely, pushing away.

Shenpa has a visceral quality associated with grasping or, conversely, pushing away.

But there is something more fruitful we can do when that edgy feeling arises.

You become receptive to the painful sensation without dwelling on the story your mind has concocted: It’s bad; I shouldn’t feel this way; maybe it will never go away.

You become receptive to the painful sensation without dwelling on the story your mind has concocted: It’s bad; I shouldn’t feel this way; maybe it will never go away.

Whether it’s a feeling of I like or I don’t like, or an emotional state like loneliness, depression, or anxiety, you open yourself fully to the sensation, free of interpretation.

When it lasts any longer, which it usually does, it’s because we’ve chosen to rekindle it.

And when we get a whiff of one coming—an incipient asthma attack, a symptom of chronic fatigue, a twinge of anxiety—we panic.

And when we get a whiff of one coming—an incipient asthma attack, a symptom of chronic fatigue, a twinge of anxiety—we panic.

And when we get a whiff of one coming—an incipient asthma attack, a symptom of chronic fatigue, a twinge of anxiety—we panic.

We refuse to feel fundamental ambiguity when it comes in this form, so we do the thing that will be most detrimental to us: we rev up our thoughts about it.

We may experience this uneasiness as anything from slight edginess to sheer terror.

We may experience this uneasiness as anything from slight edginess to sheer terror.

Anxiety makes us feel vulnerable, which we generally don’t like.

Vulnerability comes in many guises.

Pema Chödrön is an ordained nun and a teacher in the Shambhala Buddhist lineage.

This article was adapted from her forthcoming book, Living Beautifully with Uncertainty and Change

This innovative model of conscious care provides a spectrum of collaborative volunteer programmes, residential care, and training which aim at cultivating wisdom and compassion through service.

A long-time Buddhist practitioner, Frank uses his knowledge of both Buddhism and Western psychotherapy in his work of de-mystifying the care-giving process.

This afternoon we are going to explore our intention in service, and I think it's helpful to start with the basic, but true premise that real service does not happen unless both people are being served.

Some of the individuals I work with blossom, and the way in which they die will be a great gift; they make reconciliations with their long-lost families, and they find the kindness and acceptance they have been looking for their whole lives.

Chasing such rewards brings exhaustion and ultimately leads to manipulation because we're so busy trying to create the conditions that lead to a reward.

We understand that in nurturing others we are always caring for ourselves, and this understanding fundamentally shifts the way we provide care.

If we are paying attention as we walk into the room of someone dying, we immediately understand, in a visceral way, just how precarious this life is.

'I'm a father', 'I'm a mother', 'I'm a hospice worker', 'I'm a sexual deviant'-whatever our notion about our identity, it will go.

But the wonderful thing is that now, in the hospice, we are thrown together in the most intimate of circumstances.

Prior to any action of the body, thought, or speech, there is a moment of intention that we need to be aware of because clarity about our intention gives us choice about how we can proceed.

I sometimes call this 'helper's disease', and it is a much more rampant epidemic than AIDS or cancer.

I asked the nurse, 'Why do you want to prescribe this medication?"

Helping is based on inequality, it's not a relationship between equals.

When we help, we may inadvertently take away more than we give, diminishing the person's sense of self-worth and self-esteem.

When we help, we may inadvertently take away more than we give, diminishing the person's sense of self-worth and self-esteem.

When we help, we may inadvertently take away more than we give, diminishing the person's sense of self-worth and self-esteem.

Helping incurs debt: when you help someone, they owe you.

Lost in some reactive mind state, busy trying to protect our selfimage, we cut ourselves off and isolate ourselves from that which would really serve and inform our work.

We moved incessantly from the toilet to the bathtub and back to the toilet again.

I was cajoling, I was manipulative, I was paternalistic.

I was cajoling, I was manipulative, I was paternalistic.

From his garbled mind he said, "You're trying too hard."

It was the most exquisite meeting of our whole relationship.

If we are going to be of service we have to pay attention to what's immediately in front of us, act with minimal intervention, and bring to the experience the same attention and equanimity that we cultivate on our meditation cushion.

If we are going to be of service we have to pay attention to what's immediately in front of us, act with minimal intervention, and bring to the experience the same attention and equanimity that we cultivate on our meditation cushion.

If we are going to be of service we have to pay attention to what's immediately in front of us, act with minimal intervention, and bring to the experience the same attention and equanimity that we cultivate on our meditation cushion.

Anyway, Tom fumbled through it all and got the patient back into bed.

As we inquire into the heart of service, we see a pattern: common to all habits that hinder us in our work is a sense of separateness; and common to all those moments and actions that truly seem to serve is the experience of unity.

He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest - a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness.

Our work, I think, is to get out of the way of our own innate wisdom and compassion-that simple human kindness-and allow our inborn ability to see what another needs, to serve the dying and the living.

Buddha is sometimes referred to as Sakyamuni or 'the sage of the Sakyas'.

Although strictly speaking the title can only be used of someone after he has attained enlightenment, I will use it here to refer to the Buddha in the earlier part of his life as well.

The conventional dates for the Buddha's life are 566-486 BC, although more recent research indicates that some time around 410 BC would be a more likely date for his death (chronology at this period is only accurate to within ten years).

The conventional dates for the Buddha's life are 566-486 BC, although more recent research indicates that some time around 410 BC would be a more likely date for his death (chronology at this period is only accurate to within ten years).

The conventional dates for the Buddha's life are 566-486 BC, although more recent research indicates that some time around 410 BC would be a more likely date for his death (chronology at this period is only accurate to within ten years).

Buddha and his kin belonged to the second of the four Indian castes -- the aristocratic warrior caste known as the khattiyas (Sanskrit: kṣatriyas), although there is no other evidence that the caste system was current among the Sakya people.

Buddha and his kin belonged to the second of the four Indian castes -- the aristocratic warrior caste known as the khattiyas (Sanskrit: kṣatriyas), although there is no other evidence that the caste system was current among the Sakya people.

Buddha and his kin belonged to the second of the four Indian castes -- the aristocratic warrior caste known as the khattiyas (Sanskrit: kṣatriyas), although there is no other evidence that the caste system was current among the Sakya people.

You make your way up the face of a rock by anchoring parts of your body into these spaces; you push into them, pull against them, and balance on them.

What really captivates me about climbing—and what I want to talk about here—is the experience of being suspended on a rock and not seeing any possibilities for moving up or down.

It is exhilarating, scary, and completely vibrant.

It is exhilarating, scary, and completely vibrant.

If we have the wherewithal to relax, we find our way.

After a while, muscle strain stirs our sensibilities: “I can’t stay like this forever!”

The state of not-knowing is a riveting place to be.

Aside from this, what could a path do for us other than encourage our usual attempt to create a semblance of security, but with a spiritual face?