Ruling Your World

What about Me?

We already have what we need— the opportunity to weave the tapestry of happiness every day with the needle and thread of our own mind.

As a child I was struck by the story of the prince and the pauper. The Tibetan version of this story has it that the prince and the pauper are the same person. Through a se­ries of mishaps, the prince grows up as a.pauper, only later to discover that he is a child of the royal family and the future ruler of his kingdom. He was always a prince; he was never a pauper; the only thing that changed was his view. We are in a similar situation. We are all of royal birth.

In the legend of Shambhala, there is a family of beings called the Rigdens, who have never strayed from basic good­ness, a pure radiance that has never been stained by igno­rance, anger, jealousy, or pride. The Rigdens are not some celestial entities; they represent the ultimate ruler within us. All Tibetan paintings of the kingdom of Shambhala show the Rigdens conquering the negativity of the dark age. They are often depicted sitting on thrones of diamonds, indicating unshakable possession of the awareness of basic goodness, our primordial nature, which is also known as the Great Eastern Sun.

The Rigden king manifests wrathfuliy, but his armor is always gold, an expression of compassion. His sword repre­sents the incisive wisdom that sees basic goodness. There are pennants on his helmet, which symbolize the courage it takes to bring windhorse— long life, good health, success, and happiness— to others. After the victory of the Rigdens, the story goes, the age of enlightenment arises. The Great Eastern Sun appears on the horizon.

Whether we take this story as literal or metaphorical, the meaning is the same. We all have the potential to be enlight­ened rulers. The Buddha is an example of a human being who developed this potential. By sitting still and working with his mind, he uncovered essential truths and developed techniques to help the rest of us discover our ability to rule. Since I'm a Buddhist, he is my role model, but obviously ba­sic goodness is not confined to any one tradition. It is the essence of everyone and everything.

We all belong to the family of the Rigdens. Basic good­ness, the shimmering brilliance of our being, is as clear as a mountain lake. But we're not certain about our own good­ness. We begin to stray from it as soon as we wake up in the morning, because our mind is unstable and bewildered. Our thoughts drag us around by a ring in our nose, as if we were cows in the Indian market. This is how we lose control of our lives. We don't understand that the origin of happiness is right here in our mind. We might experience happiness at times, but we're not sure how we got it, how to get it again, or how long it's going to last when it comes. We live life in an anxious, haphazard state, always looking for happiness to arrive.

When we are confused about the source of happiness, we start to blame the world for our dissatisfaction, expecting it to make us happy. Then we act in ways that bring more con­fusion and chaos into our life. When our mind is busy and discursive, thinking uncontrollably, we are engaging in a bad habit. We are stirring up the mud of jealousy, anger, and pride. Then the mind has no choice but to become familiar with the language of negativity and develop it further.

When desire or anger takes our mind and says, You're coming with me, we become paupers. The pauper wakes up each morning with the thought What about me? Will I get what I want today? This meditation resonates through our day like a heartbeat. We think, Will this food make me happy? Will this movie make me happy? Will this person make me happy? Will this new sweater make me happy? What about me? becomes the motivating force of our ac­tivity.

Occasionally when I meet with meditation students, their questions show that they are approaching even spiritual practice as a way to make themselves happy. Is my yoga, my tai chi, my meditation making me feel better? They are sim­ply using a new guise to perpetuate the old habit of putting themselves first.

This self-infatuated approach is like using unclean fuel. When our motivation is to make me happy, the engines of our life run rough. Our self-obsession makes us stressed and ill. The magnet of What about me? draws away windhorse— our ability to bring about success— and our mind becomes very small. We lose touch with earth— our potential to give our life meaning— so there's no place for true happiness to land.

In Tibet, trying to achieve happiness without under­standing the cause of happiness is called lotok, backward. It's like looking through the wrong end of the binoculars— hap­piness doesnt get bigger and closer, it gets smaller and farther away. What makes the mind of me so small is confused emotion, in Sanskrit, klesha— anger, desire, ignorance, and pride. These are obscurations that block our view of basic goodness. They are all very familiar and friendly to us. For many of us, they are simply the tools by which we engage in life. We may think that they're the only tools we have— that pushing hard and clinging tight is the secret to success. This confusion doesn't always show up as a temper tantrum. It also manifests as insidious discursiveness— going over things again and again in our mind, or jumping from one thought to another with What about me? playing in the background.

Being fooled into trying to make things work out for me is called samsara. This is a Sanskrit word that describes an endless dark age in which we are completely distracted by the agitation that comes from trying to make me happy. Our mind is constantly volleying between irritation and desire, jealousy and pride. We are unhappy with who we are, and we are trying to destroy our own suffering, which reflects our basic discontent. As we indulge in this negativity, our mind becomes thick with contamination. This contamination manifests as stress— lack of peace. It is fueled by fear— fear of not knowing what will happen to me. With the ambition to get what we want and to avoid what we don't, our mind becomes very speedy. We act in ways that hurt others and ourselves. Bewilderment rules our days and nights. We keep imagining that a love affair, a new job, a thinner body, or a vacation is going to lead to happiness. When we get what we want, we feel good, and we become attached. Then the situ­ation changes, and we feel angry. Or somebody else's rela­tionship, job, or body looks better than ours, and we feel jealous.

When we re fooled by the world of appearances, we aren't seeing beyond the surface. Our changing mind keeps us trapped in suffering, the nitpicky details. We lose our desire for deepening and begin to consider the smallest, most irrel­evant things important. We'd rather hear a piece of gossip about a celebrity we'll never meet than contemplate the truth. We are more interested in listening to a new song on the radio than in hearing instruction about how to bring meaning to our life. If somebody tries to give us advice, we lash out. Slowing down and relating to life through a discipline like meditation seems like a frivolous luxury.

With this small-mindedness, we have little inspiration to improve our situation in a lasting way, because we don't trust what we cant see— like wisdom and compassion. We have no relationship with the unchanging ground of basic good­ness. We want to keep our options open. We think that free­dom to keep changing our mind will bring happiness. In fact, the mind that is always changing can only lead to pain. When we re on the me plan, what others say about us has great power. A friend tells us we look good— our mind soars. A colleague tells us were not pulling our weight at work— our mind sinks. We are like children, one minute laughing and the next minute crying. In reality, praise and criticism are like echoes— they have no substance, no duration. But when we chase our projections like a dog going after a stick, even words have the power to destabilize our mind. We think about what somebody said, over and over. We let it ruin our day.

When we're fooled by the view of me, our attitude to­ward wealth is that its all out there— and we want some. Were like monkeys grabbing at shiny objects. We accumu­late so many things that we have no room to appreciate them. Our wanting creates the habit of perpetual hunger and mindless activity. We look at people with the attitude of tak­ing, not of giving. We'll help someone who's becoming powerful and wealthy— somebody who's on the way up. If somebody's slipping, we start to pull away. We don't think twice about fighting with our family or community. We be­lieve that the only way to improve our situation is to keep trying to get a little more for ourselves. We're confused, be­cause we don't understand that we already have what we need— the opportunity to weave the tapestry of happiness every day with the needle and thread of our own mind.

Sometimes we think that power will make us happy. We can't rule our mind, so we try to saddle others with the heavy yoke of our aggression. Far from accomplishing the benefit of others, we can't bear it when something nice happens to them. The word for jealousy in Tibetan means crowded shoulders. There's room for only one head on our shoulders. We can handle only one person getting things, and that's us. We take some kind of odd thrill in getting mad when the train is late or the power goes out. We're so engrossed in me that we forget that others are also suffering. Our superficial approach extends even to virtue. We may be kind to people in public, but behind their backs, we say snide things. We're generous when we think we'll get something in return. We may be patient about getting what we want, but when life presents us with something that we don't want, like illness, we have no patience. We exert ourselves at work, but when we're alone, we think we can do whatever we like— nobody is watching.

In fact, it is ourselves who should be most concerned about how we act, because we are most affected by our ac­tions. Once when the golfer Bobby Jones was playing in a big tournament, he inadvertently moved his ball a few inches in the rough. He penalized himself, based on what had hap­pened. When someone pointed out to him that no one else had seen the ball move, he said, I saw it move, and that's all that matters. When I was going into one of my first medita­tion retreats, I asked my father, Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, for some advice. He said, How you act when you're alone affects the rest of your life. Even in solitude, the ruler engages in virtue.

Virtue is practical, not moralistic. It consists of cultivat­ing thoughts, words, and actions that will help move us out of the me plan. As we change our habits— what we do and don't do— we are changing from the outside in. At the same time, what's on the inside begins to come out. We have more space in our mind, and our view gets bigger. We begin to see our inherent richness, the brilliance that's been hiding be­hind the clouds of stress and anxiety. The nature of our mind is pure, like the sky. Like space, it has a quality of accommo­dation. Like water, it is clear, with no obstructions or opin­ions. This is basic goodness, the indestructible nature of our being.

The mind of the pauper is small because it is rooted in attachment— a death grip on life. Fixating on how we want the world to be and trying to make it stay goes against the natural grain. That tightness and the sense of claustrophobia it creates is me. Our negativity gives us something to hold on to. We think that if we hold on tight enough, we can ma­nipulate the world to make me happy. We've tried being an­gry and desirous hundreds of times. Has anger ever brought genuine happiness? Has desire ever resulted in long-lasting satisfaction?

Who is it that we are protecting with our anger? Who are we trying to get more for with jealousy and desire? The rea­son that we can't make me happy is that there is really no one behind that door, Me is just an idea, a concept, a myth. Essentially, it is attachment to a mirage. We're clinging to a fabrication and generating negative emotions in an attempt to protect it.

The king and queen know that happiness doesn't come from out there; it comes from in here. Getting off the me plan is the cause of happiness, and learning to see how me works is where it starts. It begins with the practice of medi­tation—just ten minutes or so every day. By stabilizing the mind we learn to connect with space beyond me— heaven. Heaven is the natural spaciousness of our mind before we make it small with self-protection. Once our mind becomes more peaceful, we begin to see how me is just thoughts, feel­ings, and emotions made solid.

In meditation practice, we learn to acknowledge and rec­ognize our thoughts without acting on them. We're no longer quite so fooled by appearances. Our mind becomes more flexible, because we begin to see our own projections. We begin to figure out the currency of life: it is all a display of the mind. No longer do we run after the stick of every out­side appearance, like a dog. Rather, like a lion, we begin to look at who is throwing the stick— our mind.

Then we hear, contemplate, and meditate on how the mind works and how the world works. This is how we develop certainty in basic goodness. We realize that we are always hearing, contemplating, and meditating, but on a chaotic flurry of thoughts and emotions. Hearing that our friends are splitting up, we contemplate who did what to whom, developing certainty in blame. Hearing that some­body made a lot of money, we develop certainty in jealousy. Our hearing, contemplating, and meditating are haphazard, and the conclusions that we draw often lead us down the road of negativity.

This shortsighted attitude stifles our inherent energy. That natural energy is compassion— in Tibetan, nyingje, no­ble heart. In Tibetan paintings, buddhas are often depicted sitting on lotuses, which represent our innate yearning for the happiness of others. This self-arising flower is the core of our being. We need to create space in our mind in order to nurture it. The obsession with me suffocates it; the flower can't blossom. When we consider others, we allow the flower to bloom. Thinking of others makes our mind bigger, be­cause it brings us joy.

Caring for others is the basis of worldly success. This is the secret that we don't learn in school. If somebody tells us, we don't believe it. We think it must be some kind of joke. How could thinking about others possibly bring me success? Because it seems too simple, we hesitate. In an atternpt to outsmart the system, we stick with the me plan.

Windhorse takes us beyond the me plan. As we release that small-mindedness, a natural magnetic energy arises. There is something charismatic about us. It's not just that we look good from the outside; we are radiating from the inside out. We exude success and enthusiasm. Like basic goodness itself, our field of power is pure and uncluttered. We are no longer using hope and fear to manipulate the environment one way or another. Our mind is not burdened by trying to maintain the concept and polarity of me, Because we have aligned ourselves with basic goodness, the environment be­gins to reflect our open quality. We effortlessly, as if by magic, attract what we need. With certainty in the energy of basic goodness, we are no longer paupers.

Most of us are a mixture of the prince and the pauper. We don't yet know how to rule our world. We're living in a haze— sometimes helping others, sometimes helping our­selves; sometimes happy, sometimes sad. Without the ability to rule our thoughts, we are seduced or abducted by every whim that walks through the door. Only when we have a plan for bringing meaning to our life will we make true progress. The Shambhala path offers practical strategies for developing compassion, confidence, and courage, with our life in the world as the vehicle. The rare and precious teach­ing that the Buddha offered King Dawa Sangpo recognizes that we are engaged in the world. We have families and jobs and busy schedules. We can use all of it to nurture wisdom and compassion, developing certainty in basic goodness. Fol­lowing this path is how we join the family of the Rigden king and queen.

Windhorse

When we have windhorse, we are able to accom­plish what we want without many obstacles.

For many years I had the privilege of studying in India with His Holiness Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, who was like my grandfather. Khyentse Rinpoche was a great Tibetan meditation master, a teacher of teachers and kings— among them, His Holiness the Dalai Lama and the king of Bhutan. He was an incredibly soft-spoken person who radiated power in a gentle way. Each day he would sit on a couch or a bed with his students gathered around. He was old and big and fat, and he liked to wrap his favorite blankets around his waist. His presence was warm and genuine. His stuff always looked better than everybody else's. His prayer beads, his old Tibetan wooden cup— even his blanket— shone with goodness. In his presence, the value of the most ordinary item increased— not simply because he owned it but because it attracted others. His energy infected his envi­ronment. In his presence there was a sense of natural wealth and success that had nothing to do with money.

That is the power of lungta, windhorse. Lung is wind and ta means horse. You see the image of windhorse printed on the prayer flags that flutter in the breeze all over Tibet. It is the ability to bring about long life, good health, success, and happiness. When we have windhorse, we are able to accom­plish what we want without many obstacles. On its back, windhorse carries a wish-fulfilling jewel. This jewel is the wisdom and compassion that it takes to act not on behalf of ourselves but for all beings. This is where real confidence and competence come from. Once we possess this jewel, our life becomes blessed. Whatever we want happens without diffi­culty. Just as if we were to jump on the back of a horse and ride across the open country, there is nothing in our way. With windhorse, we are like warriors racing over the vast plains of Tibet, our victory banners fluttering in the wind.

I meet many people in my travels, and I can tell just by how they look or speak that fear and stress are reducing their life-force energy. They are hampered by drip— a Tibetan word that describes contamination of ourselves and the en­vironment— the depletion that comes from living on the me plan. Drip is the opposite of windhorse. Windhorse thrives on discernment and intelligence. Drip thrives on lack of it. Windhorse is the element that emerges when we en­gage in virtue. Drip is the element that exudes when we engage in aggression and fixation. We think we have to push to get to where we want to go. Windhorse comes from paying attention to how we conduct our lives. Drip comes from feeling that it doesnt make a difference. Windhorse attracts drala— the blessing energy that arises when we overcome our own aggression. Drip attracts obstacles. Windhorse is clean fuel. Drip is a layer of goo, like soot from a coal fire. It feels dark and heavy, like having tar in our lungs from smoking. Windhorse uplifts us. Drip thickens our mind. By cultivat­ing negativity, we are neglecting our potential to discover ba­sic goodness, and the pollutant in our system gains the strength to overpower our wisdom and compassion. There is no drala. Life becomes dark and difficult.

I remember asking my father about the first time that he ever saw a car. He was a teenager living in eastern Tibet, quite a remote area. He said that he could smell the car for days before he saw it. He didn't know what the smell was. It just got stronger and stronger, and finally the car arrived. He said that for days after it left, he could still smell it. That's what drip is like.

Dripdrips on us. We experience it as a film that covers everything. This film is a reflection of negative psychological leftovers in our environment, the exhaust and pollution of the me plan. When our mind is habitually agitated and dis­cursive, drip becomes a veil of normality. As if our eyes are not fully open, we expect things to be a little dark and dirty all the time. In being fooled by the veil, we become imprecise. We believe that it doesn't matter what we say, think, do, or eat; so we ignore our mental and physical environment. Act­ing on self-interest seems natural, and we engage in activities that reduce our life-force energy. We eat food that weakens our system. We speak words that diminish our integrity. We constantly seek entertainment. We wear clothes that make us feel lazy. Living our life in a nonchalant way, we miss so many opportunities. Things just don't work out; our energy is perennially low. We forget about wisdom and compassion. We forget that every moment of our life is important. If we're not exerting ourselves toward virtue, then most likely we'll be swayed into nonvirtue, and What about me? will just become stronger.

Drip takes on its own life as obstacles. Accomplishing what we want becomes more difficult. We miss the bus; we get a parking ticket; we become ill. The most serious obsta­cle is the idea of me, which keeps us from seeing our own basic goodness. Out of that doubt comes ignorance, and out of ignorance come negative emotions, which produce more harmful acts, which make the dark age darker, Buddhists consider physical illnesses to be the results of previous nega­tive actions; from that point of view, the disease of me is the root of all disease. It's the one that keeps samsara going.

Because our mind is weak, we get mad at these obstacles, which feed off our negative emotions. Becoming aggravated increases the power of the obstacle, like throwing gasoline on a fire. Obstacles have no loyalty. The negative energy that anger attracts goes beyond the person who is angry. Like an accident on the highway, one persons obstacle slows everybody down. Its polluting effect lingers for a long time. When everyone is tied up in knots of self-interest, drip rules, and there's no way to foster harmony. We're always in conflict with the environment. This is how drip drains our windhorse and weakens our life force. It blocks our view of basic goodness.

The environment is a support or a deterrent for whatever we want to do. Everything in our environment— food, cloth­ing, places, the hours we keep, the compassion or jealousy of others— affects us. Certain physical environments can have a negative effect on us. Drip can enter through all of our senses. Some foods taste good, but after eating them we feel tired, not nourished. Some music soothes or relaxes us; other music leaves us feeling disturbed. Some people energize us; others exhaust us. There are certain places we shouldn't go in our mind. Angry, grasping, or greedy thoughts darken our view and deplete our energy.

Just as we should avoid environments that encourage drip, we should gravitate toward environments that attract drala, Drala means above the enemy, The enemy is whatever weakens windhorse, Drala gathers in people, spaces, and sit­uations that reflect gentleness, discipline, harmony, and ap­preciation; speed, chaos, and carelessness repel it. As the link between our own vastness and the vastness of the universe, drala is the blessing energy of reality— magic. When we have the courage to cultivate wisdom and compassion, drala con­nects the power of our being with the power of things as they are, because we are rising above the enemy of negativity.

Drip and drala may sound like superstition. If we take the word superstition to mean conceptual then yes, drala and drip are concepts, but so is everything else— you, me, and the world of appearances. The great teachers of the past have said that the polluting energy of drip and the blessing energy of drala exist, both in our own mind and in our environment, and that they influence us. Drip contaminates us and makes life difficult. It is the junk that clogs the wheels of the ma­chinery of life. Inviting drala into our life is how we clean it. Windhorse is a sign that the machine is working well.

We all have basic goodness— the energy of windhorse— just waiting to be discovered. We are and always have been complete and perfect beings in a complete and perfect world. If were feeling depressed, basic goodness doesn't diminish. Its profundity is beyond mood or manipulation. We some­times hear it knocking on the door of anger or obsession, saying, You don't have to do this. We can feel it, and we can sometimes experience it, but somehow we lose confidence in it. Then we project solidity onto ourselves and the world, di­viding it into us and them.

This ignorance keeps us in the darkness of samsara, which stems from our being fooled at the most fundamental level: we are projecting solidity onto a fluid situation. Instead of seeing the transparency of anger, depression, or hesitation, we identify with confused emotion, which thickens our mind with drip. We fool ourselves into thinking that we have to get something to fix our life or destroy somebody to make it okay, and then we engage in further nonvirtue. We can't see that the battle is happening only in our mind. The teachings of rulership instruct us how to leave this cycle of suffering behind.

The king and queen know that drip comes about through lack of awareness and payu— discernment. We are not careful of our environment, and we make decisions hap­hazardly, without vision. Instead of opening the veil of drip to see our basic goodness, we decide to follow our desire to make me happy. We decide to cling to thoughts rather than let them go, and then we decide to turn them into actions that harm ourselves and others. Without really understand­ing what we're doing, we decide to be angry instead of pa­tient, to be lazy instead of exerting ourselves, to get rather than to give. We decide to seek entertainment instead of en­gaging in our lives. This backward approach creates stress and imbalance, so obstacles arise, and we can't achieve our wishes, which are always rooted in a deep longing to connect with basic goodness, even though we've forgotten it. No mat­ter how thick the drip, something in us knows that basic goodness is there. That is wisdom trying to peek through.

In Tibet, people go to deeply accomplished masters to help them turn the tide of negativity into something positive. Ultimately, these experienced meditators can't wipe our drip away, but they can help us learn to stabilize our mind and teach us how to make the right decisions so that we can over­come it ourselves. They can give us teachings that help us pu­rify drip, raise windhorse, and attract drala.

Since I was very young, I have studied the art of rulership. Some of these teachings came directly from my father, a descendant of the legendary warrior-king Gesar of Ling, Others came from texts that were carried on horseback and on human back, across rivers and through forests, in order to guarantee their survival, Tibetans are very practical people. They have passed these teachings down because they work. They are rooted in the images of four mythical creatures that represent the kind of confidence that we need in our daily lives to uncover the wish-fulfilling jewel of wisdom and compassion. Cultivating the contentment of the tiger, the de­light of the lion, the clear-seeing equanimity of the garuda, and the playful wisdom of the dragon is how we harness windhorse, creating spiritual and worldly success.

In the old days, people would travel great distances to re­ceive teachings such as these. These days, however, the world is in a perilous state, and some of us don't even understand the importance of working with our own mind and environ­ment. I hope that by broadcasting this ancient wisdom, I can inspire many people to cultivate confidence in basic good­ness, love toward others, and the courage to bring their vision down to earth. In bringing about our own happiness by blending these teachings into our lives, we can also change the course of our future.

The Ten Percent Advantage

The most practical way to ensure forward movement on the path of rulership is to train for a short time each day in changing our attitude—just ten percent.

One of my teachers once said to me, What is the difference between the Buddha and ourselves? The Buddha has complete confidence in basic goodness. He knows from direct experience that basic goodness is here, whether we have confidence in it or not. We are all awake, loving, brilliantly wise beings. We have the wisdom and com­passion of a universal monarch lying within us like dormant seeds waiting for the sun. We think that were 180 degrees from enlightenment, but we re only a few degrees off.

I've always found this bit of wisdom and encouragement heartening, because there are days when the qualities of a buddha might as well be in a different galaxy. In fact, our wis­dom and compassion are always available. What it takes to see this is not a trip to the Far East or a radical change in lifestyle but a subtle shift in our attitude. Learning to rule is a matter of developing confidence in basic goodness.

To develop this confidence, we must become skillful in gathering virtue every day. Most of us wake up in the morn­ing after not having had quite enough sleep. Feeling a little groggy, we stumble into the bathroom or the kitchen, and then we continue to stumble through our day without much forethought. We're habituated to a self-centered view— one that's coming from always feeling slightly pissed off, de­pressed, or anxious. Expecting to flip What about me? overnight toward becoming contented, joyful, accommodat­ing, and wise may seem as realistic as last nights dream.

If you want to get your body in shape, you don't expect a radical difference after one week of training. Nor do you start by spending five hours a day in the gym. With a little bit of walking, running, lifting, and stretching, you feel more re­freshed and inspired by the day— and before you know it, you're stronger, you've got more energy, and you're getting better sleep.

Similarly, the most practical way to ensure forward move­ment on the path of rulership is to train for a short time each day in changing our attitude—just ten percent. Overdoing it could derail the whole process, like running too far too fast, or lifting more weight than we can bear. That's why in the be­ginning I encourage people to meditate in ten-minute peri­ods, without the goal of seeing immediate results. The sensi­ble approach is to tell ourselves, I can still be irritated ninety percent of the time. But with ten percent of my mind and heart, I'll try putting others first.

When I wake up in the morning, first I stabilize my mind by placing it on the breath. When a thought arises, I ac­knowledge it and return my focus to the breath. Then I ori­ent my mind in the direction of how I can be helpful, how I can learn more that day, or how I can raise my windhorse. I foster compassion and rouse prajna— a Sanskrit word that means best knowledge— about how I'm going to live my day. By stabilizing my mind on the breath, I'm putting my feet on the ground, like the tiger. By contemplating meaning­ful thoughts, I'm uplifting my mind with discipline, like the lion. I'm setting my attitude. Life is always trying to dis­mount us from the saddle of basic goodness. I know that if my mind is in the right place at the beginning, I am going to have the upper hand in ruling my day.

Developing confidence in basic goodness is a twenty-four-hour-a-day practice. In our short formal practice— ten minutes or so every morning— we use the essential neutral­ity of our mind to let positive forces permeate our being. We are resting in our inherent peace, honing our skills to be a better person, and gathering the strength to live the rest of our day well. We are gaining more insight, removing veil upon veil of hesitation, ignorance, and doubt.

Then we step into our life and apply our contemplation to our daily activities by engaging in virtue. Connecting with heaven each day we are able to bring virtue into the earth of our daily world by using relative prajna— knowing how things work and thinking accurately Having enlarged our mind in meditation, we continue to cultivate thoughts and actions that take us in a positive direction— away from the me plan and toward peace, compassion, and wisdom. When the events of the day destabilize our mind, we use mindful­ness and awareness to bring it back to our breath or to the topic of our morning contemplation.

As I live my day, I always try to have a contemplation go­ing— whether I'm talking to people, riding in a car, giving teachings, or eating. This can be as simple as bringing my mind back to the thought May others be happy at every op­portunity. Or I might focus on selflessness or how to help someone who is ill. That power of intention helps me turn confusion on its ear and enjoy my life. When self-absorption arises, I use the precision of my morning meditation to turn the energy inside out. I find that the more I do this, the less worried I feel. Each day is an opportunity to sharpen and deepen the conclusions I've drawn in my morning practice.

People occasionally come to me wanting to abandon their worldly lives in order to pursue meditation full-time. They wonder if this is the spiritual thing to do. I tell them that what makes our life spiritual or worldly is not our vocation but our view. If we want a life with meaning, we need to have a plan for connecting causes and conditions so that what we do in the world now will have a positive effect on the future. This attitude leads to lungta, windhorse— the ability to ride the inherent strength and vitality of our awareness. We be­gin to use our lives to manifest in a strong way as opposed to an aggressive way reviving our love and kindness and ex­pressing it with wisdom.

We're often confused about our purpose in the world, be­cause we mistakenly associate worldly activity with negative emotion. We think that being successful means accomplish­ing what we want with ambition and greed. Being trapped by negative emotions and perpetuating them is not worldly suc­cess— it is worldly ignorance. People often say Ignorance is bliss. Actually ignorance is pain. Knowledge is bliss. Devel­oping certainty in the view of basic goodness and respecting the law of karma— causes and conditions— are how to cause happiness.

Karma moves in two directions. If we act virtuously the seed we plant will result in happiness. If we act nonvirtuously suffering results. The words virtue and nonvirtue may sound moralistic, but karma is not based on any kind of judgment. Its just how reality works. If we're at the cosmic bank and we give the teller self-obsession and anger, what we get in exchange is based on the currency of pain. If we give the teller generosity or patience, what we get in return is based on the currency of happiness. The happiness we get in exchange for virtue could happen on the spot, or it could be delayed until sometime in the future.

One Tibetan word for worldly means fearless. This is dif­ferent from the fearlessness of the ruler, which starts with the open-mindedness and precision developed through medita­tion. It describes a world where we have no fear of our con­fusion. We indulge our anger and greed as means to solve our problems, without fear of the repercussions. We think that we can get mad and there won't be any consequences. We're counting on karma not working, or at least disappearing un­til we re finished yelling at somebody.

If this state of karmic denial were a place, we'd all own time-shares there. But it isn't a place, its a view— What about me? We are fearless in putting ourselves first. We fear­lessly get mad, we fearlessly get jealous, we fearlessly feel proud. What about me? is the attitude of paupers and fools. Its like not being afraid of bacteria. Either we don't know about infection or we think we re immune to it, so we don't wash our hands or clean our wounds. We are fearless because we're ignorant. We're ignoring how karma works.

The only way to loosen the grasp of karma is to engage in virtue. We don't have to isolate ourselves from the world to do this; according to the tradition of Shambhala, being in the world can be the basis of spiritual success. It all depends on our attitude. Most of the time we are engaged in either virtue or nonvirtue. We are attracting the blessing energy of drala and strengthening windhorse— the ability to bring about success— because we're rising above aggression. Or we re ac­cumulating drip and inviting obstacles because we're sinking into the me plan.

Playing the game of ten percent means slowing down, stepping back, and asking, What is my view? Am I fearless with wisdom, ready to help others? Or am I fearless with ig­norance, ready to indulge in negativity? Drawing upon the reservoir of experience we had in our morning contempla­tion will help us remember that we already decided earlier in the day to use compassion. We're not going to change our mind now and solidify a bad mood into anger. By returning to the theme of our contemplation instead of reacting to the ups and downs of life, we are building cloud banks of virtue. Every day we gain a little more insight into the power of the mind— how it creates confusion and how thinking accu­rately and acting virtuously keep us grounded in our own wisdom.

That ten-minute period of sitting is important. We can stabilize our mind and then contemplate suffering, imperma­nence, or selflessness. We can contemplate how to lead a good life, or how we can do something meaningful today. We can contemplate what others might need. Perhaps we simply try to kindle a small ember of compassion in our heart and take that into ten percent of our day. Although this warmth might be dwarfed by the raging inferno of the What about me? contemplation next door, later in the day, compassion seems to come more naturally, and to make more sense.

We can contemplate laughing at ourselves and try to keep ten percent of our mind open to that for the day, watching the other ninety percent taking everything so seriously. That ninety percent is made up of civil servants who don't want to rock the boat of habit. They re on the government payroll. They just want to sit in their offices and stamp the forms that come through with ME, ME, ME. That ten percent looks at the ninety percent with a smile and says, You put so much hard work into staying on the me plan, trying to keep everything together— ambition, fame, wealth. How ridicu­lous! You're going to have to do it all over again tomorrow, and for what? Most of your effort just fortifies worry, frustra­tion, and fear.

That ten percent is the glitter in our mind just off in the corner that says, Lets try leading life in a slightly different way today. It's the break in the clouds that the sun shines through. With that ten percent of an attitude change, we're beginning to buck the system. That is the genuine ruler— not the one who is stamping ME on everything out of fear of doing anything different. The ten percent who changes our day is the one who thinks every moment of life is special. The ninety percent is the irritated, speedy little me who says, I'm busy. Leave me alone. There's nothing new under the sun. The ten percent is saying, We are the sun.

How much of our day do we spend holding negative thoughts in our mind? These moods are temporary, but they feel so deep-rooted that we think they are ourselves. In med­itating on negative emotions, me is the habit that we are ingraining. In becoming so familiar with the habit of me, we begin to mistake it for the nature of our mind. It does seem to be our basic state, and as a meditation, it seems almost ef­fortless. Our whole life can pass in this fashion. However, the result of placing our mind on these negative emotions and keeping it there is not pleasant. We forget to breathe. By the end of the day, we may feel anxious, depressed, and ex­hausted. Its even hard to sleep, because we have been ingraining disturbing, negative thoughts and images all day.

The ruler takes advantage of the neutrality of the mind. We decide to decrease the percentage of time spent in nega­tive emotion, and increase the amount of time spent in thoughts and ideas that lead somewhere. If we place our mind on thoughts that are based on compassion and wis­dom, that's what the mind will become familiar with, and like any habit, it will increase. We can pour a glass of What about you? in our mind instead of a glass of W hat about me? By bringing a bigger mind into our daily activity, we are changing our attitude.

Playing the game of ten percent is all about our attitude. Our attitude is like the flag bearer in a military charge. Everybody follows the flag, because that's where the fight is. When our attitude goes through the mud, that's where all our thoughts will go. When our attitude goes to the top of the mountain, all our thoughts will follow. Changing our at­titude is the way to effect change in our life. Just as when we want to give up sugar or caffeine, introducing the change gradually has a snowball effect.

Runners talk about establishing a base— a consistent regimen for building endurance and strength. Once you have a base, even if you stop running, it is easy to pick it up again, because the body has become familiar with running. It knows how to run. In beginning to run, I noticed this myself. Once I built a base, I had confidence. I could look around, see where I was going, and enjoy my surroundings. Before I built a base, I was struggling, I had no space in which to ap­preciate the day. Similarly, in placing our mind on the breath, we build a base of stability that leads to peace. In contem­plating truths about existence, we build a base of knowledge that leads to wisdom. The more we cultivate stability and knowledge, the more clearly we see, and the more confident we feel. Because we have a strong base, we feel like engaging in virtue. We enjoy being generous and patient.

Making a ten percent shift in our attitude every day has monumental consequences. As we venture onto the path of the tiger, lion, garuda, and dragon, practicing each of their virtues becomes a wedge in a crack in the rock of self­-absorption. Every time we rest in contentment, every time we help others, every time we see through our attachment, every time we relax into our own wisdom, we are pouring water on that wooden peg. Eventually it is able to crack the conceptu­ality and fear that keep us trapped in the claustrophobia of me. Our basic goodness is revealed, and we live our life with meaning.

How to Make a Decision

Venturing onto the path of the tiger, we place our paws carefully. We respect karma; we know that every decision we make has repercussions.

The king or queen conquer not with aggression or self-interest but with payu— discernment. Payu is the most important tool in life, because being alive involves making one decision after another, knowing what to do and when. If we have not developed a standard for making decisions, we make poor choices based on living life backward— engaging in negative emotions and feeling frustrated that they don't bring satisfaction. How can we break out of the me plan if we don't apply discernment? No matter how modern the time, the com­bination of klesha— negativity— and karma will continue to produce suffering, whether we think about it or not. No tech­nology can alter the mechanics of klesha and karma. In deciding to live according to the principle of causes and conditions, we realize that we don't have the luxury of being cavalier. We can't engage in negative activity, expecting it to turn out well. On the path of the tiger, we begin to look at our lives with an eye to what to cultivate and what to discard.

I've received many instructions from my teachers about how to be a ruler. The simplest and most helpful is Upon aris­ing, have a positive and open attitude, Before we even get out of bed, we can decide to rest in an open-minded, inquisitive space. After focusing our mind on the breath, we can take out the mir­ror of payu and say, What decisions do I have to make today? How will I use them to move forward on the path of virtue? This is how we bring discernment into our daily activity.

In the Shambhala teachings, discernment is associated with the tiger. The tiger is completely alert, whatever it is do­ing, It respects its surroundings. It doesn't rush into things. It knows when it must hunt on the plains and when it must go to a cool place and rest. The tiger doesn't run around in circles looking for something to eat. First it sits quietly and surveys the landscape to see what is there; then it pounces with exertion.

The mind of the tiger is humble, free from arrogance. It looks before it leaps, and whatever it is doing, it is completely engaged. This quality of meekness connects it with the earth. Here in the West, we associate meekness with weakness. The Tibetan word for meek also means content. The tiger's con­tentment comes from knowing that everything it needs is con­tained in the present moment.

Our mind is always being distracted by thoughts of what already happened and ideas about what could happen, but the only thing that is really happening is what is happening now. In breathing meditation, we cultivate mindfulness and awareness of the present moment by focusing our mind on the breath. We are learning to be where we are by synchronizing body and mind. When we sit correctly, the body can relax and be less of a nuisance to the mind. At the same time, connecting with the minds natural stability and space invigorates the body, like breathing fresh air. That vitality and confidence is windhorse, which is literally rooted in the wind, our breath. The wind element runs throughout our body, and the mind is carried on this wind. Placing our mind on the breath, noticing when thoughts steal our focus, and coming back to the breath is like finding a really nice place to live; we're satisfied, so we don't go out looking for more. We know we have enough.

Having learned to sit, now we learn to walk. Like the tiger, we connect with the earth mindfully, with awareness of what we are doing. We respect karma; we know that every deci­sion we make has repercussions for the future. We slow down and look at the lay of the land before deciding what to say and not to say, what to do and not to do. For example, if our child is misbehaving, we factor in all the possibilities before we react— What are my choices? Then we self-reflect— What is my attitude? This allows us to determine the virtuous course— What shall I cultivate? What shall I discard?—before we speak or act. This is not paranoia; it is care and awareness. Knowing where we are, moving slowly, and determining our action carefully, we are stabilizing our strategy for bringing meaning to our life.

What derails payu is lack of direction. We're still caught up in the changing mind of me; we're not convinced that virtue leads to happiness. Without a strong motivation to use dis­cernment, we buy into our habit of running around in circles of meaningless thought. We forget about the space that lies be­neath that agitation. We get caught up in worry irritation, or laziness, and making decisions becomes a matter of trial and error based on mood, so we end up making the same bad choices over and over again. Our wind is wild; we re too dis­tracted to connect the heaven of our mind with the earth of our activity.

According to many wisdom traditions, these are symptoms of a dark age. Dark means that we are nearing the end of a brighter time, as when the sun is setting at the end of the day. The light is waning, and the dregs of negativity are extinguishing our wisdom. Like a bar at closing time, its dark and dingy, and we are intoxicated with self-infatuation. We forget how to conduct ourselves. In a last-ditch effort to get what we want, we give in to anger and jealousy, aggression and desire.

Over a thousand years ago, Padmasambhava, the great teacher who brought Buddhism from India to Tibet, predicted that this particular dark age would be distinguished by our in­creasing cleverness. Our discursive minds would run rampant. We would create myriad ways to keep ourselves entertained, becoming experts in how to spend free time. We would use our intellect not for betterment but for hanging out in one form of distraction or another, constandy on holiday. Padmasambhava predicted that as we became more shrewd and clever, com­passion would seem increasingly futile, and we would lose the knowledge of how to bring meaning to our lives. Our windhorse would weaken. At the same time, the number of weapons, diseases, and starving people would grow. Our nega­tive emotions would increase as our motivation to lead a mean­ingful life— a life of virtue— waned. Our physical appearance would deteriorate as we processed this negativity.

It is startling to see the eerie accuracy of these predictions. Over the last hundred years, our increasing cleverness has re­sulted in technologies that have improved our lives in many ways. At the same time, it has increased our capacity to distract our minds. We are trapped in a belief that acquiring things will make us happy. Fear threatens to color everything we do. Fear produces cowardice; compassion seems less realistic, and anger seems more practical. When we allow discursiveness and neg­ative emotions to run unchecked, we weaken windhorse and produce our own dark age.

In this particular dark age, our distraction often manifests as speed. Speed kills the space in which we could appreciate what we re doing. That frantic quality creates its own power and momentum, which begin to rule us. Because we can't rest in the present moment, we can't be satisfied; we conduct our life aggressively. We employ jealousy, competition, fixation, and irritation to chase after appointments, phone calls, and meet­ings— whatever it takes to get us where we think we need to go. When our day runs rough, it's because these negative emotions are creating me bumps in the road. Like speed bumps, they are telling us to slow down and use payu. But without the meekness of the tiger, we're not able to hear them.

Mastering our life begins with the ability to see how we block the way to our own contentment. In our sitting practice, we're trying to penetrate our speedy exterior by reducing our activities and stabilizing our ability to be present. Then we carry that practice into our day, continually reflecting on what to cultivate and what to discard in order to strengthen windhorse. We realize that wanting to be anywhere but where we are, doing anything but what we're doing, is an unnecessary move that throws us off balance. Using payu is how we bring our balance back. With the discernment of the tiger, we learn to slow down, look at where we are, and appreciate our situation.

The Buddha says, Lets get things straight. The beings in other realms number the grains of sand in all the deserts and oceans. Human beings number the grains of sand on a finger­nail. Animals have minds, but if you tell them that they are go­ing to die tomorrow, they have no way of comprehending it. You're in a good place for developing knowledge. When we contemplate our life, we see that he seems to be right. Being hu­man is a precious situation, and we shouldn't waste time in use­less activities. This conclusion motivates us to look at what to cultivate and what to discard. We can decide to let go of unnec­essary activity instead of wanting more. We can decide to be focused instead of distracted. We can decide to exert ourselves toward appreciating our life and using it to cultivate virtue, instead of being aggressive about filling it up. Aggression and ambition have only produced speed, and now we re always in a panic.

Watching champion runners and golfers on television, I see this principle at work. They often seem to be moving in slow motion, yet they are running faster than others or hitting the ball farther, with more precision, because they have eliminated unnecessary moves, I noticed this same quality in the presence of my teacher Khyentse Rinpoche. It often seemed as if noth­ing much was happening— he was sitting on a bed and we were gathered at his feet. Yet at the end of the day he would have composed poems, written essays, and taught us dharma— the truth of how things are. His accomplishment was effort­less and graceful, because it was fueled by discernment and exertion,

Payu is the first step in taking charge of our life. It is like a mirror that shows us what to accept and what to reject. What to accept is whatever liberates us from the me plan, and what to reject is what keeps us bound to it. Often when we arise in the morning, we are totally confused about this. From the mo­ment we wake up, we put ourselves first. We can go through the whole day feeling like the world is out to get us, Payu looks at this attitude and asks, Who decided to make me feel this way? Our mind is the king and queen, so we are always follow­ing our own command. At any moment, we can slow down, look around, and remember that we're in a precious situation called the human realm. Our capacity to self-reflect gives us the power to take control of our mind.

We'd often rather put our mind on the treadmill of discur­siveness and entertainment than relax. Then we wonder,Why is nothing turning out the way I want? Tiger mind creates a little gap in which we can look at our choices. We could get mad or not get mad. We could manipulate or not manipulate. We could become desirous and fixate. We could get jealous or not. It's up to us. Wisdom and compassion begin with cultivat­ing discernment— not just reacting to what happens.

Using payu throughout the day is not about being our own police; its about using our life to encourage virtue. On the path of rulership, there's no one standing over us, telling us we'll go to hell if we don't do the right thing. By meditating and con­templating, we learn to see firsthand that when we relate to our life in a shortsighted way, running on the fumes of hope and fear that arise from self-absorption, we send ourselves straight to the land of anxiety, suffering, and misfortune.

Deep inside, most of us know what we should or shouldn't be doing. Continuously fighting with spouses or co-workers is a signal that everyone is engaging in nonvirtue. With payu, we see that we can be small-minded and jump into the fray, or we can be preemptive, enlisting a bigger mind— even if that means walking away. We have the power to determine what we will and will not do. If we have eaten too much, gone on a shop­ping spree, gotten into an argument, we can reflect upon whether it is virtue or nonvirtue. We can ask, What is the result of my action? Do I feel imprisoned or liberated? Am I content? Do I have regret?

At the end of the day, before we go to sleep, we can open our mind again, take out the mirror of payu, and ask, How did I handle myself today? This moment of self-reflection shows us where we encouraged virtue and where we went against the grain. Life was telling us one thing— accept, let go, be kind— and sometimes we couldn't be that big. We yelled at somebody, we tried to manipulate, we were so fixated that we couldn't be generous. With payu, we assess what happened and use the past to determine what we want to do in the future. We be­come students of cause and effect.

With payu, we are using decision making as a way to stabi­lize our mind and strengthen our windhorse. We become more efficient about how we spend our time. We cut out unneces­sary moves. We are no longer living life on a commission basis, because we have a compass that is pointing us in the direction of a meaningful life. We begin to see that making decisions with others in mind— even returning a phone call when we don't feel like it— is how we get out of the me plan.

Having made a decision with payu, the tiger sticks with it; it doesn't look back. Changing our decision sets up a bad habit. It reinforces decision making as an expression of bewilderment and ignorance, instead of as a path toward wisdom and free­dom. Lack of certainty then thickens our consciousness, drip sets in, and making decisions becomes even harder.

Generally, whatever we do— whether it is good or bad— will only increase if we keep doing it. That is the nature of the mind. Repeating habits only strengthens them. The tiger relies on this truth. Payu encourages us to repeat good habits and conduct in order to make those patterns stronger. With payu, we will be able to change bad habits for the better. Without payu, those bad habits will never change. Little mind becomes smaller with bad habits. Big mind becomes bigger with good ones.

Understanding Karma

With appreciation, discernment, and exertion— the tools of the tiger— not only can we rule our life now but we can also rule our future.

The tiger is discerning because it understands the law of karma. Karma is a Sanskrit word that means action. It describes the continuity of occurrences that weaves the fabric of life. It is not a linear dynamic in which one thing happens and therefore another thing happens. Many causes and conditions come together for one thing to occur. That one thing then joins the next set of causes and conditions that coalesce for something else to occur. In any one moment, there is both cause and effect. Every cause is an effect, and each effect is also a cause.

Karma is a worldly truth that anyone can see— the process of things coming together and having a particular repercussion. For example, the moon shines on a lake, caus­ing a reflection. Or sunlight hits a magnifying glass, creating fire. We see someone else eating ice cream, and suddenly we want ice cream, too. Events occur, and as a result, a third event takes place. The moons reflection doesn't exist inde­pendently but, like magic, arises from a gathering of causes and conditions.

Like gravity, karma is so basic that we often don't even notice it. But karma is happening everywhere. Whatever we see is a meeting of interdependent causes and conditions— not a snapshot but a moving picture. If we walk down the street, we are dependent on the ground being there, on having good health, on having a mind that can make our body move, and on having the time to walk and a place to walk to. Those are all dependently related. In Buddhism we talk about karma in terms of how it lays the ground for us to move from lifetime to lifetime. Even if we don't believe in lifetimes, we can look at karma as how we move from past to present to future.

Karma sometimes manifests very directly. We eat a meal and we feel full. We turn the key and the car starts. A more subtle interconnectedness has to do with our thoughts, ac­tions, and words. One word too many, and our friend blows his lid. Two little words, and we've married somebody. We never know at exactly what moment one action or word is going to trigger another, but everything we do sets something else in motion. This is why the tiger places its paws carefully.

Whether or not we think about the law of karma— whether or not we even know it exists— it is always in effect. It governs every corner of our being. Karma cannot be deceived. It keeps unfolding. It is painfully democratic. Whether we are rulers or subjects, drivers or pedestrians, teachers or students makes no difference. We cannot opt out of it. There is no time out in life. Whatever we do lays a seed in our deepest con­sciousness, and one day that seed will grow. Every thought that occurs, especially if we water it with intention, plants a seed. The karmic seed we plant might rest in the depth of our mindstream for ten billion lifetimes waiting for the necessary conditions to occur, but once they do, it will ripen. If I'm feel­ing really upset, thinking, I am going to do something about this, I am planting the seed of a rebirth into the realm of irri­tation. As long as I water that seed, I am creating an environ­ment in which it is harder for seeds of love to grow. By the same token, if I water seeds of love, anger will have fewer op­portunities to ripen.

Our seed ripens not for another person but only for our­selves. We make karma whether or not someone else knows what we did. It may not make the front page, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. Whatever we are doing right now, the result will definitely appear. The tiger looks at the actions of body, speech, and mind, and asks, What is my intention? Which seeds am I nurturing?

Buddhist teachings about karma often use the example of how a seed becomes a fruit. The seed is the main cause. Seven stages describe how the plant develops on the outer level: the seed, the sprout, the leaf or sapling, the trunk, the branch, the flower, and then the fruit. What is the cause of the sprout? It is the seed. What is the cause of the trunk? It is the sapling. How does it grow? It utilizes water, soil, and sunlight. These are the causes and conditions that bring the fruit into being. This is very basic. Everybody knows how a garden grows. But once we begin to talk about the mind, it quickly gets complicated.

When we are caught in the force and speed of previous actions running through our life, we re-create the root igno­rance from which confusion arises: our basic goodness is ob­scured by the illusion of duality. The moment we have split the world into self and other, we are caught in the wind of samsara, the cycle of suffering. We are like a magician who casts a spell and begins to believe in it, then can't find his way out. Without even thinking about how things really are, we walk around with a sense of permanence. Conditions all around us change, but we stubbornly maintain our sense that me is real and solid.

The ignorance that believes itself to be me has im­pulses— virtuous, nonvirtuous, and neutral— that lead to actions. These confused actions condition our conscious­ness in the next moment and, according to the teachings of Buddhism, in the next lifetime. Me is made of forms, feel­ings, perceptions, impulses, and consciousness. These are the elements that we congeal into an imaginary self. Our senses make contact with the world around us, and we crave pleasant experiences, avoid unpleasant ones, and ignore the rest. This craving leads to appropriating— fixation on these experiences— and we have given birth to karmic results for the next moment— or lifetime— which in turn age and die.

Even though understanding karma begins by trying to understand ignorance, these links of dependent arising are all happening all the time. Thinking of them as a linear se­quence doesn't work. That is why we say that they are dependently related. Ignorance is not necessarily first, even though it is always present. In order for ignorance to happen, lots of other causes have already occurred.

Physics and Buddhism come close together at this point. They both say that the world is not stagnant, even perceptu­ally. Buddhism teaches that consciousness, as well as forms and phenomena, is arising over and over again, 360 times in the snap of a finger. Physics tells us that even though the world looks solid, its actually an arrangement of constantly moving atomic and subatomic particles. The world is an in­terplay of movement. Contact with phenomena is the point at which we isolate and freeze that movement. Our sense perceptions cant deal with the chaos. It is so bewildering that consciousness freeze-frames our experience and says, That's an apple. That's a piece of chocolate cake. This hap­pens very early in our development. Klesha arises when we say, I want that piece of cake, and I'll do anything to get it.

If we take the Buddha's word for it, we've been creating actions based on this confusion for many lifetimes. Therefore we have no idea what seeds we are watering. When actions are imprinted in our deepest consciousness, they do not go away on their own. Their potency will continue, unless we do something about it. Our whole life is riddled with causes and conditions that are producing all kinds of results. Karmic events may seem illogical, but that's because we don't under­stand all the causes and conditions. In Tibet we say, Only a buddha can explain the reason for every color in a peacocks feathers. Only someone who has fully developed his or her wisdom can truly understand all the causes and conditions and the interdependence that is taking place.

We may not be able to do much about previous actions, but we have the opportunity to change the course of future karma by what we do in the present. That is why on the path of the tiger we use discernment to cultivate virtue and dis­card nonvirtue. We are not simply trying to be good, we are basing our activity on our observation of how things actually work. If we're using nonvirtue as fuel for living, we're going to feel all the bumps on the road. We become our own enemy, because the karma of a nonvirtuous act is that more negativ­ity comes along. If we don't take care of our body, we get sick. If we aren't careful in our speech, we harm ourselves and oth­ers. Engaging in gossip means that people will gossip about us. If we lie, the result will be that others deceive us. The re­sult of getting angry is that people will be more hostile to­ward us in the future; we'll only experience more irritation. The result of greed is that we'll just want more. Pride in our view makes it hard to hear the truth. The result of all non­-virtuous action is that we become more defensive, more en­trenched in me. We are trading the wish-fulfilling jewel for a rock. Eventually that rock weighs windhorse down. After a while we feel that there's nothing to live for. That funky feel­ing is drip. It means that drala has deserted us.

We may think we've acquired some happiness by engag­ing in negativity. Perhaps we think that our ambition has brought us a beautiful house, a nice car, a loving family, and all the money we want. But according to the law of karma, that happiness came from previous virtuous actions. Bud­dhists say that it could have come from something we did in a previous lifetime. Even if we don't believe in past lives, if we think nonvirtue produces happiness, all we have to do is look at those people who have seemingly achieved some happiness by indulging in negativity. If they are living in fear, if their lives are ruled by self-obsession, or if they cannot stop them­selves from wanting more, it's clear that their success has not created true satisfaction and stability.

Understanding karma and cultivating virtue in order to bring about happiness is a very pragmatic approach. Karma itself is made from the mind. When we practice meditation, we stabilize the mind and try to reduce confusion. When the mind is agitated, it is more susceptible to self-absorption. But in meditating, we are not just learning to recognize ma­jor emotional upheavals; we are getting down to recognizing a very subtle level of fixation. We begin to see how when we regard ourselves as solid and permanent, we regard every­thing else as solid and permanent; that is what ignorance is. We begin to have glimpses of our primordial nature, which is open and free from duality— good and bad, virtue and nonvirtue.

With the right view, when negativity arises we can see it exactly for what it is, empty. My teachers used to ask me to try to find my emotions. Where is the anger? What color is it? What shape? When I practiced this contemplation, I dis­covered that I couldn't find my emotions, even though I could feel them. One would disappear, and another would arise. If we can truly see the nature of emotions as empty and not act on cravings, we can go beyond the obscuration of drip. That means not that we become robots but that we be­gin to see our mind and the world of appearances as vivid and fluid. Developing the view of basic goodness eventually has the power to free us from karma.

To affect the karma of our life at this very moment, we can choose to act with virtue. Knowing that the future de­pends on what we do right now, we can be discerning in our activity. As Padmasambhava once said, My mind is vast like the sky, and my actions are subtle like sesame seeds. On the path of the tiger, our senses are open and we engage in life with appreciation and care about the decisions we make— not from fear of karma but out of respect for it. This view is the throne from which we begin to rule.

How can we liberate ourselves from karma? By ruling our mind. Whether in the privacy of our home or in public, we should feel good about why we are developing virtue. Tread­ing the path of virtue is how we can finally take control of our life. However, first we have to understand that we are caught in karma's current. We've lost power over our mind. Me is blocking our view of basic goodness, and we keep acting from that ignorance. This is a result of previous confused action. We are currently creating negative karma, which adds to our confusion. That confusion will bear fruit in the future. Many elements of what might happen in the future are already in place, but with the tigers mind, we can change the course of future karma. Discernment about what we are doing— payu— and knowledge about how things work— prajna— are vital, because tomorrow's chapter has not yet been written.

Whether a dandelion seed or a rock lands on our head, gravity neither laughs nor cries. In the same way, it doesn't matter to karma whether we're moving backward or forward. Whether we act virtuously or not, karma doesnt care. Knowing how karma works, we don't need to become more depressed or claustrophobic; nevertheless, we should realize that unless we rule our mind, there is no escape from confu­sion. When we wake up in the morning, we can ask our­selves, Do I want to take control of my mind, or do I want to mindlessly create further scenarios that sow the seeds of fear? If we infuse past karma with virtuous karma now, we can change the course of our life so that we re moving for­ward. By knowing how our mind works, we can gather virtue and use karma to create peace and happiness, which eventu­ally lead to freedom. With appreciation, discernment, and exertion— the tools of the tiger— not only can we rule our life now but we can also rule our future.

The Utility of Regret

Regret shows us that we're not using the tiger in our life.

When we don't have a clear strategy for living our life, making choices is bittersweet and stressful. We fear that if we miss an opportunity, later we'll have re­gret. This anxiety comes from experience. Sometimes we wake up in the middle of the night and talk to ourselves, so full of regret. If regret is very intense, we become angry. We're angry at ourselves for being stupid, for being a fool. Some­body took advantage of us. We thought we were getting a deal, so we bought a computer and then a better one came out. Why couldn't we have waited a few weeks?

Regret is a sign that we have acted without discernment. It causes mental hiccups that make us wince and cringe: Why did I do that? I shouldn't have said that I shouldn't have bought that. I should have turned off the television. I shouldn't have eaten so much. I should have stayed in school. I should've said I loved you. I should've said I'm sorry. A helpful antidote to discursive hiccups like these is appreciating how valuable our time is, and not wasting it on feeling regretful. We do not want to make regret a theme of our life.

I have been with many people as they neared death. This is always a powerful time. Their words may reflect confusion, fear, anger, denial, or acceptance. One of the most powerful statements someone in this state can make is that he or she has no regrets. By contrast, we can feel the worst kind of re­gret at the end of our life. It's a haunting and frightening space, knowing that we had 365 days in every single year to change our attitude. We realize we have had thousands upon thousands of days on which we missed our opportunity to live life with discernment and appreciation.

My predecessor Mipham the Great was one of the most revered lamas in Tibet. He wrote thirty-two seminal works that changed how Buddhism was taught and practiced there. His writings now bring joy to people everywhere, inspiring them to find true meaning in their lives by helping others. He spent much of his life in meditation retreats, and he re­mains famous for writing on a broad spectrum of topics, from metaphysics to tantra. He was a true Renaissance man— he even drew pictures describing how to make air­ planes and cars. H e wrote major medical and astrology texts, and he also wrote extensively on Gesar of Ling, the leg­endary Tibetan king. Mipham was the teacher of kings, princes, and all the high lamas of his time. When he was dy­ing, he said that, now that his work was done, he was going to go to Shambhala, where he would manifest as a compas­sionate ruler to help overcome the dark age of the setting sun. Because he had led a life dedicated to others, he was free from regret.

It is said that if our intention is to help others— even if we are unable to follow it through— we will never have any regret. Regret is a result of trying to make me happy. It shows us that we re not using the tiger in our life. Payu went on holiday. Discernment took a break. Our mind checked out. Bewilderment came back onstage. We didn't pay atten­tion to what the world was telling us. We made a faulty de­cision based on anger, jealousy, desire, or pride— signs that we are looking out for me If anger is the cause and we want happiness as the result, it's not going to work, because every result has to have a relationship to the cause.

By contemplating the preciousness of human life, the law of karma, the suffering of samsara, the truth of imperma­nence, and the compassion and wisdom that are true free­dom, we learn to think accurately. We usually don't pay attention to these truths until our expectations about life are interrupted by aches in our body or lines on our face, an ac­cident, or the illness or death of somebody close to us. Then we experience a moment of panic that temporarily cuts through drip, our web of habitual assumptions. We don't want to dwell in that open space, so our next move is usually to find a way back to the false security of me. We don't think, Life is precious. I'd better start helping others. We just go back to pursuing pleasure or not rocking the boat. Thinking we have all the time in the world, we waste it. Our decisions are based on inaccurate information rooted in hope. We are lazy and unfocused, which corrupts our behavior and eventually leads to regret.

It's never too late to change our mind, but when we find ourselves on our deathbed, its too late to change our life. Re­flecting back, we wish we had taken notice and done some­thing more meaningful. When I meet with people who are dying, this is the overriding message I hear. Some are afraid of dying and others are not, but most people wish they had noticed earlier how precious life was; most people wish they had used it better. Most people wish they had been kinder to others, loved others more. Nobody says, If only I had been jealous and angry more often.

Contemplation is the most powerful tool we have for changing our behavior. By choosing to direct our thoughts toward seeing clearly how things really are, we convince our­selves to try another way of living. Contemplating the truth is a practice of imagining we are lying on our deathbed every morning and thinking earnestly about how we can live our life in sync with reality.

At the end of every day, we can again imagine that we are that dying person. Can we look back on only one day and say that we have no regrets? We can just think about what we did that day, and what's occurring in our life. Then we can watch little thoughts of regret float to the top of our mind like flotsam from a sunken ship: I wish I had— or had not— done such-and-such, Regret is retroactive attachment. It's thinking that something or someone else was more worthy of doing or wanting. Regretting our relationship with some­one implies a lack of love and appreciation.

Often when we have regret, it is difficult to reflect on what led to it, because it's too painful. We barge ahead, and a few weeks later we find ourselves feeling regretful about the same thing. Nothing has changed. If we are to change our be­havior and move our life forward, we need to take heed of re­gret. We need to acknowledge it and articulate our intension to do better. Contemplating regret doesn't require being moralistic or getting into heavy penance. Without chastising ourselves, we just look at regret as clearly as we can. We use the intelligence of regret as a barometer that shows us how we're leading our life.

When something doesn't feel right, we can contemplate it. What was our attitude when it happened? That attitude is now causing us pain in the form of regret, and it might have hurt another person, too. Would it help to clarify, to apolo­gize? How would we like to do things differently? The point is to learn as much as possible from the feeling of regret.

In this spirit, we make a conscious decision to come back to the path of the tiger and lead our life with appreciation and discernment. We are making a promise to ourselves. In Tibet, people seal this aspiration with a physical act. They make a lamp from butter and place it on a shrine before an image of the Buddha or the picture of another teacher. They might offer some incense. In Tibet, butter and incense are valuable commodities. People don't waste them. Making such offerings demonstrates a serious intent to change direc­tion. The lamp signifies coming out of the darkness of the me plan. Its light represents an aspiration to exit the tunnel of self-preservation and illuminate our life with wisdom. The incense symbolizes the sweet smell of a life lived for the ben­efit of others.

We too should stop, acknowledge our regret, and take the next step toward ruling our world. We could mark the mo­ment with a ritual as simple or as involved as we wish, resolv­ing to improve our conduct and become more mature. Then we can rise in the morning intending to make it a regret-free day by exerting ourselves in discernment and putting others first.

People say, I want to help others, but I have to get my life together first. I'm saying that you need to eat well, sleep well, and have a roof over your head, but don't go much further than that before extending yourself to others. It doesn't work. If we want any level of happiness, we must put others' concerns before ourselves. We may think it's a choice, but in reality, it's choiceless. Decision by decision, putting others first is how we begin to conquer agitation and raise wind-horse, the ability to bring about success and happiness. Oth­erwise, throughout our day we are planting seeds of regret that will blossom in pain, discomfort, and anxiety.

When we are certain that the way to accomplish our own wishes is to help others, we have no regrets. We are not look­ing at our possessions regretting that we bought them. We are not looking at our partner regretting that we married her. We are not looking at our job regretting that we started it. What is life free from regret? It is the confidence of the tiger— contentment. It comes from leading our life with ap­preciation of our good fortune, and extending that sense of peace and well-being to others.

The Virtue of Exertion

Exerting ourselves toward virtue creates stability in our lives— happiness that we can depend on.

People often ask me why I seem so happy. They think that I must have some kind of secret. I do— exer­tion. Not that I'm a perfect example of this virtue, but it's easy for me to see that the joy I feel doesn't come from lying around doing nothing, or having no responsibilities. It has to do with deciding what I want to do and engaging in it whole­heartedly.

When I began running, my students often assumed I had a yogic secret that I apply to my training. In fact, I am simply using the same principles in my running that I apply in med­itation. Even though running is a physical activity, it mostly has to do with exerting the mind. One of my main strategies is to engage my mind completely. I want to run, so I get up early in the day to do it, before beginning my schedule. It isn't that difficult, because I have decided to exert myself. When I'm running, I practice placing my mind on my stride, my posture, or my breath, acknowledging thoughts as they arise and bringing my mind back to what I'm doing.

Exertion is necessary to accomplish anything— spiritual or worldly. When people visit me at Namdroling monastery in India, they come expecting some kind of utopia where everybody meditates all the time. They are always surprised to see how busy the monastery is. From very early in the morning until late at night, the monks are chanting, meditat­ing, studying, cooking food, and washing dishes.

Often people in the monastic college debate the merits of prajna— best knowledge— versus exertion. Although it is best to have both, everybody always decides that exertion is more important, because with exertion, we can do anything. Nothing is out of reach. Without exertion, having payu— discernment— and prajna is like having a boat with no pad­dles. Knowing what to do is not enough; we have to do it. In Tibet we say, The peak of a mountain is not too high and the bottom of the ocean is not too deep as long as you have exertion. Without discernment, however, we can waste our time endlessly and make things even worse by exerting our­selves in the wrong direction. After all, we could be quite engaged in exerting ourselves in negativity. We could be exerting ourselves full speed ahead in making a weapon to hurt someone. We could be exerting ourselves in contem­plating how to get revenge. The exertion of the king and queen is thoroughly engaged in moving forward on the path of virtue, which leads to joy.

Exerting ourselves toward virtue means exerting our­selves toward getting off the me plan and getting into think­ing of the welfare of others. We start by exerting ourselves toward finding peace in our own mind. This begins to hap­pen in breathing meditation. In contemplation, we cultivate awareness that allows us to see clearly how things are in a rel­ative way. Wb begin to see our actions and the results of our actions. We see clearly what our negative karmic actions can produce. We decide not to clean the floor, and somebody trips and falls. We forget to bring the patio cushions inside, and they get wet in the rain.

We can then exert ourselves in extending peace and in­sight into our daily life— not always wanting more than we have, not being seduced by anger and pride, taking a vacation from our speed, and making room for others. That means ex­erting ourselves in patience when we feel angry, and in gen­erosity when we're feeling attached. This can be as simple as watching angry thoughts arise and fall without giving voice to them. We can let our grudge wear itself out rather than perpetuate the negativity by acting on it.

Most of us are not interested in exerting ourselves toward virtue, because we are still not inspired by it. Inspiration may not come in one fell swoop. It helps to look for examples. Our friend the single mother, who is patient with her chil­dren even after a long day's work, can be an inspiration. Our grandfather, who adapts to changing circumstances with re lentless cheerfulness, might be a good example. The former CEO who makes headlines by simplifying his life and devot ing himself to teaching underprivileged children can inspire us. I do not know of a single teacher of high wisdom and compassion who does not exude exertion. They have over­come self-centeredness, rendering it rubble with exertion.

On the path of the tiger, exertion is the moment that fol­lows payu— discernment. Having decided to take the direc­tion of virtue, we move forward with joy. This joy comes from the contentment of knowing what we are exerting our­selves for. Anything is difficult when we're not sure we want to be doing it. Having made a decision, we follow it with one-pointed attention. Paradoxically, this may mean slowing down to engage holly in our activity. With the stealth of the tiger, we give ourselves time to focus and allow our senses to absorb what we are doing. This moment makes the differ­ence between just seeing a flower and appreciating it.

We can make almost any hill flat with exertion, because we're excited to run up it. By contrast, without exertion, even walking down a flat road is difficult. There are differences in elevation, of course, but the real difference lies not in the road but in our mind. Subconsciously we know that we're on the wrong path. Lack of exertion— and lack of joy— is laziness. Laziness reduces the possibility of bringing about hap­piness. Exertion liberates us from laziness, and takes us toward joy.

We all want joy in our lives, but we often go about seek­ing it in a backward way. We fool ourselves into thinking that pleasure lies in not applying ourselves. Even though we can­not really take a break from life, we keep trying. We're finally on our dream vacation, and we just want to flop. Without structure and plans, however, we never really enjoy ourselves. When we don't make the effort to reserve seats at a restau­rant or to learn how to scuba dive, there is that much less joy. We need to rest at times, of course, but exertion is natural. The mind needs to engage. We naturally want meaning in our life.

In contemplating exertion, we may draw the conclusion that we don't have much of it. But if we look at the landscape of our lives with the eyes of the tiger and ask What am I ex­erting myself toward/ we'll see that, in fact, we are practicing exertion all the time— often in the wrong direction. We ex­ert ourselves toward scheming how we're going to make things work out for me, We exert ourselves in venting our anger. We exert ourselves toward finding a little pleasure to temporarily ease our pain. We use it to try to have fun. Iron­ically, with exertion, we don't need to go out to have fun. We can have fun inside.

Sometimes in India, we would ask the old masters if we could leave the monastery to have a few hours off. Our teach­ers would smile and agree to our request, but in such a way that we would wonder what they meant. We thought that maybe they were old and had forgotten how to have a good time. Then we would go out and try to have fun, always with mixed results.

After years of practice and study, I've begun to under­stand why those realized teachers don't need to go out to have fun. It's not that they' are antisocial or afraid of the world. They already have what everybody else wants and is looking for— contentment and joy. However, theirs are of a more permanent variety. They may not have seen the latest movie or eaten at the trendy new place, but they know that movies and restaurants come and go. They know that ultimately it is not food that brings about the relaxation from which satisfaction and joy arise. It is exerting ourselves to­ward a meaningful life, developing confidence in basic good­ness, and expressing it with wisdom and compassion.

When we hear about our potential for ruling our world, the number one factor that makes it seem impossible is lack of exertion. When people ask me how they could hold the view of basic goodness, be compassionate, and manifest wis­dom, what is written across their faces is doubt. Exertion would render that doubt powerless. When exertion arises, doubt— which manifests as drip— disappears.

What are the mountains in our lives that exertion can climb? The steepest hill is no higher than one step. As I've learned in running, having exertion for that one step can make any mountain flat. With exertion, we can conquer ag­gression. How many times do we really apply ourselves to­ward overcoming anger? Meditating helps us clear the space in our mind to see it, which is a step in the right direction. Contemplating karma inspires us to work with it. The process of overcoming it is exertion. As rulers, we know that our greatest treasure is our ability to exert ourselves toward virtue. Exerting ourselves toward virtue creates stability in our lives— happiness that we can depend on.

Hanging Out with the Right Crowd

The tiger knows that life is precious. Whom are we going to spend it with?

We may wake up with confidence in basic goodness, but unless we are the Buddha, our view is going to change throughout the day. Unless our friends Fred and Mary Jane are the Buddha, their view is always going to be changing, too. Who are we going to listen to, Fred and Mary Jane, or the Buddha? The Buddha wakes up and goes to bed every day with the same view. Even if we woke him up in the middle of the night, his view would still be the same. This isn't because he's stubborn or opinionated; it's because his view is based on certainty in the reality of basic goodness, rather than on certainty in the concept of me.

In making friends, we are cultivating the influence of each other's view. If we want to rule our world, we need to be mindful about who we're hanging out with and aware of their influence. Fred and Mary Jane are sitting on the couch eating potato chips and clicking the remote control, and we think, Oh, that looks like fun, lets try it. At work, our friend uses lunch as an occasion to gossip about other people on the staff, and after a while, we begin to take pleasure in that. Our best friend yells at his children, and we start to do it, too.

At this early stage of training, even though we aspire to use discernment in our conduct, we're sometimes not able to hold the view of the tiger when we're with others. We forget about karma. Our mind dribbles. Our windhorse weakens. Our discernment slowly wanes, and we fail to exert our­selves. Drip thickens our view, and we forget the meaning of our life. Our compassion diminishes. If we're always hanging out with the wrong crowd, after a while we don't think twice about following the example of our friends— even stealing or hurting our family— and our noble qualities are totally eclipsed. It is difficult to connect with windhorse in an envi­ronment that encourages nonvirtue.

However, if our friends conduct themselves in a positive way, they have a positive influence. We think, Wow. Fred was really angry, but he let it go. Maybe I could let go, too. Or Mary Jane doesn't seem to speed around as much since she started meditating. Maybe I should try it. The teachings tell us that it's better to have one virtuous friend than a thou­sand bad ones.

The king and queen regard everyone as a friend, because their confidence in basic goodness is indestructible. Their in­tention is always to generate compassion. They can extend the wish-fulfilling jewel of wisdom and compassion even to­ward a pigeon that has just left droppings on the windshield of their car. The rest of us, however, are still caught in the un­stable mind of me. Even though we may be getting glimpses of peace and stability in our daily practice, our budding windhorse is like a child taking its first steps.

To help it thrive, we must be discerning about our men­tal and physical environment. The Shambhala teachings in­struct us to put ourselves in the cradle of loving-kindness, On the path of the tiger, we begin with kindness toward our­selves, which means cultivating thoughts and friends that strengthen windhorse. Appreciating our life and the influ­ence of others, we look at our relationships with the eyes of the tiger. Hanging out with the wrong crowd, be it the crowd of thoughts in our head or the people we call friends, only re­inforces discursiveness and negativity, Nonvirtuous compan­ions are like termites that eat away our noble qualities. The tiger knows that life is precious. Who are we going to spend it with?

If we're led around by negative emotions, we're likely to choose friends with whom we can get cozy in a small world of shared complaints, shared dislikes, shared desires. In choosing who we hang out with, what is our attitude? Are we shoring up the citadel of me? Or do we look for a deeper ba­sis of friendship?

In sitting practice, we're using the mind's natural clarity to start our day with the right friend. We're creating a less hassled atmosphere, an environment that is free from dis­tracting marauders that provoke knee-jerk reactions like jeal­ousy and competition. We're hanging out with the Buddha, which is like listening to a good friend who is telling us the truth. Even though we sometimes squirm and want to walk away, we decide to stick around, because we recognize that, no matter how uncomfortable we may feel, our friend has our best interests at heart. We can use that natural strength to remind us every day of who we are— goodness.

There is a blue buddha known as Samantabhadra, the all-good. Blue represents the basic nature of all beings, like a cloudless sky. That blue we see when we look high up— that's who we are. When we rest in the natural energy of our mind, doubt and hesitation evaporate, and we can experience that goodness. Like the sky, it's empty; therefore it can accommo­date everything. Hesitating about who we really are or hang­ing out with the wrong friends— whether they are people or the negativity in our mind— is like the clouds. We see clouds and take them to be real, but behind the clouds the sun is shining, illuminating the world. The Great Eastern Sun is our own wisdom. The more we choose to trust and nourish it, the less influenced we are by the clouds.

As we stabilize our certainty in basic goodness, we are able to extend ourselves to others with genuine purpose. One of the Tibetan words for friend means helper. In Tibet, the first thing we do upon meeting someone is to offer this inten­tion in the form of a white scarf that symbolizes friendship. We greet everyone with the hope and wish of helping them first. The thought of helping others is compassion, knowing how we can do it is wisdom, and doing something about it is courage. The wish-fulfilling jewel of wisdom and compassion is the basis of true friendship.

Sometimes we are like children sitting on the playground wishing we had more friends. But if we dwell in this im­mature state— wanting to get, unwilling to give— having friends becomes difficult. We lack the basic currency of friendship. Trying to rule our world through selfishness doesn't work, because we are taking, not giving. Once we take, others take from us. Under such conditions, none of us is able to gather virtue. In helping our friends, we accomplish their wishes as well as our own. Helping our friends in­creases their ability and willingness to help us.

Friendship is derailed when we stop helping our helper, because we're treating it as a one-way street headed toward me. When people ask me about their personal relation­ships, I can read the future simply by the attitude of the question. If they talk about what the other person is not do­ing for them, I know the relationship is probably doomed. If I hear, I need more support, I need more love, I need more attention. My concerns have to be understood, I take it as a sign that the friendship has collapsed. These are symptoms of desperation. Although it may all be true, they have forgot­ten that friendship takes two. They are unable to accommo­date the ups and downs of relationship. Friendship is based upon karma. If you help the other person, your friendship develops. If you are totally self-absorbed, your marriage is not going to last.

To create a lasting relationship requires continual dis­cernment and exertion. It means thinking about what we are willing to give before looking at how much we are going to get. As difficult and unjust as it may sometimes seem, if we are to be a true friend, we should always be thinking, What can I do for my friend? How can I support her? How can I care for him more? For this reason, before we engage in a friendship, we should reflect on what it will ask of us and make sure we can follow through on that commitment.

With this attitude, friendship becomes a spiritual prac­tice, one which teaches us that we can be strong, accom­modating, and generous. Our kindness creates a field of power— wangthang— a quality of genuine presence that grows from our intimacy with virtue. The more peaceful, cheerful, and generous we are, the more successful we are in attracting friends, as well as everything else we need.

The enlightened king and queen are friends to everyone, because they have a fierce commitment to their welfare. Spir­itual friends like this are selfless, infused with compassion. They help others help themselves. Not only do they lead people in the right direction, but they always have others' best interests in mind. They see even an enemy as a future friend. When we live in a meaningful way and inspire others in the same direction, we too can be spiritual friends. Being this kind of friend requires the humility of the tiger: we know that in working with others, we are working with our­selves.

How do we rule the world? By making friends with it. Thus, a useful contemplation on the path of the tiger is, How can I be a true friend to myself and others? What should I cultivate and what should I discard? In contemplat­ing questions like these, we are inviting our heart to open. This is how to be a friend as soon as we arise.

The Confidence of Contentment

Moving through our life with the steady vigilance of a tiger, we no longer feel the need to prove our- selves, because we know the truth of our own peace.

The Buddha tought that suffering is a result of roaming, the urge to keep looking for an external source of happiness. In Tibetan, a word for human beings is drowa— movers. We wander not out of delight but out of discontent. The place that we're looking for, where happiness lies, is con­tentment, In a restaurant, we might look over and see some­body eating a delicious-looking salad, a nice juicy steak, a piece of pizza dripping with cheese, or some double chocolate cake with whipped cream and berries. We turn to the waiter and say, I want that. When it arrives, it somehow doesn't taste as good as we'd imagined. It wasn't the food we wanted— it was the contentment we saw in that other person.

Much of our stress these days is caused by a simple lack of contentment. In my constant travels, from the highland mead­ows of Tibet to the tropical rain forest of Brazil to the busy streets of Hong Kong, I've learned that you have to be content wherever you are. Otherwise, traveling is exhausting, because you're always thinking that the next place will be better. Some­times the people who travel with me— although they are young and energetic— burn out, because they are not content. They spend their energy hoping that the bed or the meal will improve somewhere down the road.

Even if we don't travel from country to country, our mind is always moving. We think that contentment is going to be found in one more bite of food, one more word, one more round of golf, one more glass of wine, one more item of cloth­ing, one more kiss. How much of the day do we spend in this ordinary pursuit? We have a meeting with desire at six in the morning, and again at ten, and a lunch date with desire, and definitely drinks, then dinnertime with dessert— the biggest desire— and even a midnight snack. Somehow in the midst of all this, we have to relax, stop grazing, and be content. Otherwise, we exhaust ourselves with the ambition of always moving on to the next desire.

If we don't know how to be content in our mind, we can't even be content with our food. Eating at the best restaurant in the world won't make any difference. There is someone in a vil­lage in India eating curry out of a clay bowl, more content than we are. When we find the pair of shoes we want, for a brief mo­ment we feel content. But when that moment passes, we're on the move again: food doesn't taste good, clothes don't fit, the sheets are too rough, the baths not hot enough. We need better movies, more exciting books, a new relationship. We need to live on a different planet.

Desire is a creature with an endless appetite. Like a spark put to dry grass, it just consumes. By its very nature, it can never be satisfied, because it is rooted in the aggression of look­ing outside ourselves for relief. That expectation always results in disappointment, self-generated pain. It's the mind giving it­self a hard time. Seeing how we give ourselves a hard time is intelligence. The result of payu— knowing when to stop— is contentment. This kind of contentment gives us dignity. Walking mindfully with discernment, possessing tremendous exertion, we are meek and gentle, because we know we already have everything we need. We have discovered our mind's peace, and we have a plan for living our life. This contentment is the confidence of the tiger. It is called confidence because it stabilizes the mind and quells the aggression of wanting things to be anything but what they are.

The Shambhala teachings say that the confidence of con­tentment arises from being friendly to ourselves and merciful to others. Friendliness to ourselves is a result of meditation. When we have learned to practice meditation properly, we are no longer struggling with our mind. Our mind is content because it is no longer stolen by ordinary activity— the meaningless fan­tasy of What about me? Self-reflection and payu have given us some distance from our projections. No longer are we paupers looking for the next crumb of confirmation, because we have discovered the peace that lies beneath that agitation. We are not rehashing what happened in the past; we are not thinking about what we could do in the future; we are acting now.

If we are able to see what to cultivate and what to discard— even as we work with our own thought patterns— then we are inviting the drala of contentment. We are practicing the basis of an enlightened world: the ability to see our aggression, to discern what the result of that agitation could be, and to make another choice. We think twice before acting with irritation or ambition. That might mean taking a deep breath, not honking the car horn, counting to ten before speaking, or saving the draft of an angry e-mail, instead of pressing Send. At that moment, instead of creating the kingdom of fear, the kingdom of arrogance, or the kingdom of animosity, we are deciding to radiate another kind of energy. Because we have confidence in our own peace, we can dwell in the kingdom of contentment. The more we trust our peace, the more we see that it is very potent. With that sense of contentment, negativity is easier to disperse. It has the power to take us beyond fear. The result is complete friendliness— har­mony and lack of agitation. We are no longer creating tension.

Mercy is having enough friendliness with our own mind to see someone else's predicament. At this point, being merciful to others is very much a conscious decision. It comes from knowing what happens if we do not have mercy: we act with aggression. We use spiteful words, or knowingly engage in be­havior that denigrates someone else. Now we see clearly that if we lie, lash out, or react with jealousy, we feel contaminated, heavy, and defensive, as if we are trying to validate ourselves. When we do this, we can feel our windhorse weaken. This tells us that our mind has slipped into ordinary activity, a symptom that we are no longer content.

Payu reminds us that we do not have to be fooled by our own projections. We can choose to act with care. When we make a decision according to the law of karma, we are synchro­nized with the ways of the world. We are modest and therefore without pride. We do not pounce out of reactivity. We are not on the prowl for attention or entertainment. We know that fix­ation leads to suffering. We know that having more doesn't necessarily bring pleasure. That is how we release ourselves from the fetters of aggression.

Every time we step beyond aggression, we gain ziji— inner confidence— an understanding that is beyond emotional intel­ligence. Moving through our life with the steady vigilance of a tiger, we no longer feel the need to prove ourselves, because we are anchored in the truth of our own peace. Beautiful new clothes, a promotion at work, or climbing Mount Everest might bring pleasure, but they are not going to make that peace any bigger.

The contentment that payu brings is like being lost and then finally knowing how to get out of the woods. No longer do we use deception as a tool, because we're not engaged in an ongoing battle of self-preservation. We are not leading our life trying to bolster ourselves up with pleasure or hide from our own pain. For example, we often talk ourselves into thinking we are having a good time on the me plan. The notion of over­coming deception is to be totally honest about that. It is not necessary to wake up on our deathbed with the realization that we were not having a good time and that we were afraid to do something different.

With the contentment of the tiger, we have not given up on life— far from it. Meditation reveals the pattern of short-term gain and loss, and payu points us toward longer-term rewards. This doesn't mean that we don't enjoy a game of football or try to do our best at whatever we undertake. We take it all in stride. On the path of rulership, we are engaging in our worldly life in an unconventional way. We are not looking for rewards such as gain; we are not looking for high-maintenance victory. We know that all gain turns to loss; all pleasure turns to pain. By expanding our confidence in basic goodness, we learn to trust ourselves, and we give up trying to succeed with ambition or aggression. Eventually, we even give up attachment to pain and pleasure, hope and fear.

The self-assured strength that grows from knowing that we already have what we need makes us gentle. We are gentle because we are no longer desperate. We might associate gentle­ness with being demure or afraid. On the contrary, lack of ag­gression is the fruition of the tiger's path. It comes from the insight that being pushy makes things harder. Studying in Nepal with Tulku Ugyen, one of the great old teachers from Tibet, I was tremendously affected by something he told me: Being aggressive, you can accomplish some things, but with gentleness, you can accomplish all things.

When we approach a situation in a meek and humble way, the blessing energy of drala is there to help. Sacredness be­gins to shine through the world as the richness of the Rigden— our own awareness. Our senses— taste, touch, sight, smell, sound— take on a higher quality. There is a strong sense of ap­preciation. That sense of appreciation is coming from a mind that is much more able to appreciate, because it is content.

The Virtue of Discipline

The discipline of the lion allows windhorse to arise, which brings energy and delight.

When I'm on retreat in India, I keep a very dis­ciplined schedule. The early morning gong goes off around four, and I can hear the drums beginning for the morning liturgy. Young monks are chanting, and in other parts of the monastery, people are doing their early morning meditations. There's an atmosphere of discipline and energy. When I'm back in the West, people ask me if being in India at the monastery is difficult. It's true that we go for periods without electricity or water, that sometimes it's very hot, that there are many strange insects, and that the food is simple. But because I'm engaged in something that I want to do and enjoy doing, I'm always happy to be there.

The path of the tiger has shown us that discernment and exertion bring peace. Not only that, but it is satisfying to have a plan for our life. On the path of the lion, we use the precision of discipline to increase our joy. Without disci­pline, the small mind of me takes over, because that's our long-established habit. Our mind begins to drift. When we have no direction, it's hard to be content. We become edgy, anxious, or depressed. We become sloppy, which affects our mental alertness. We become dull and unexpressive in our communication and less productive in our work. We study, yet we don't learn. Our colleagues feel as if we are dragging them down. With discipline, we are making a container in which we can continue to grow. Only through discipline can we truly experience our vast mind, the outer limits of our possibilities.

Tibetan tulkus— incarnate lamas who choose to be re­born in order to help others— were held in the highest es­teem, but they were brought up under the strictest of conditions. In Tibet, there's a saying, Gold and tulkus must be beaten. Unless gold is pounded out, its purity is simply raw potential, never fully utilized. Great teachers like my fa­ther and others of the older generation have been very matter-of-fact about how strictly they were disciplined in their upbringing. If their tutors hadn't been strict, these teachers wouldn't have had such deep development and un­derstanding. At the same time, without exception they are delightful people.

This strictness carried into my own training as a sakyong. Once my father instructed me to do a series of meditations that would require one long year of practice. A year later, I enthusiastically told him that I had completed the practice. When he heard this, he told me to go do it again. He said, You will always have to do twice as much as everybody else, because in the future you will have to lead people. Therefore you need to be worthy. At the time, it was hard to accept his response. However, I found that practicing this way made me feel confident, as though I could accomplish anything. The discipline of the practice helped me tame my mind. My mind had made a leap. I had more perspective on what I was doing and why.

Connecting to a larger view, we begin to conquer small-mindedness. No longer is our mind so cluttered by negativ­ity, thick with drip. We keep meditating, contemplating, and trying to apply virtue in our daily life because doing so seems to make a difference. Our life is making more sense. At first perhaps it felt like drudgery to stick with our training, but now we do it because we enjoy it. The discipline of the lion allows windhorse to arise, which brings energy and delight.

With the discipline to engage in virtue and to stay with it, enjoyment comes naturally. In traffic, we notice that slow­ing down to give the parking spot to someone else feels less stressful than stepping on the gas to get there first. At work, we see that being patient instead of angry when a project takes longer than scheduled actually gives us more energy to complete it. Before, virtue was a theory, a place that we had heard about. Now we have experienced it firsthand. Abiding by the laws of karma has brought us the confidence of con­tentment. We know that virtue is the way to go. We see how not harming ourselves and others frees us from confusion. We feel lighter, as if our internal brilliance is buoying us up.

This levity is nyingje— compassion, noble heart. When our nobility is liberated, compassion and love flow freely. There's an uplifted quality to our being, because we have risen above aggression. We are no longer caught in the trap of doubt. Doubt is that part of the mind that is obscuring our wisdom. Its expressions— anxiety, jealousy, ambition, aggression, forgetfulness, and pride— hide our basic good­ness and make the mind less flexible. When we are liberated from the trap of doubt, our mind is bigger and compassion flows naturally. We can incorporate any situation without a struggle.

I have seen this open-hearted quality in the great teach­ers that I have studied with, including my father. People of­ten remember him for his crazy-wisdom energy, but having been with him day in and day out, I remember someone who was very gentle, loving, and kind. I have had the same expe­rience with my teachers Khyentse Rinpoche and Penor Rinpoche; they exude gentleness and joy because they do not struggle with reality. This is a result of their discipline. Hav­ing completely conquered their own aggression, they devote their lives to awakening others to the truth of basic good­ness. Proclaiming this truth is known as the lions roar.

By far the best way to conquer aggression is to think of others. At tax time, for example, if we remember that others are suffering the same panic, worry, or irritation, it softens our agitation. When we re ill, thinking of others who are also sick dissolves our claustrophobia and fear. Thinking of others connects us with our noble heart. When we maintain this connection, we are patient with our own suffering. We re not derailed by negativity, because compassion has expanded our mind, and me looks smaller. We're no longer eyeing the world jealously with the view that we're the only ones who suffer. We know that everybody suffers.

Thinking of others is the lions discipline. We are de­lighted to help others, because when we do, we can feel our heart rising above self-absorption. With that kind of delight, we are no longer lowly beings, caught in the valley bottom— hesitant, doubtful, not understanding the purpose of life. We are high on the mountain, knowing why were here and which direction we want to go. In the flag of Tibet, the snow lion is holding up the sun, which represents having confi­dence in our own nobility. Our hearts are cheerful, because we appreciate our own wisdom. Because we do not confuse what we should accept with what we should reject, our body and mind are healthy and youthful. With this kind of confi­dence, we are frolicking in the highlands, where the air is clean and the water is pure, leaping from mountain to moun­tain through the clouds. It is said that the snow lion lives in meadows that are teeming with wildflowers and fragrant air. This means that when we practice virtue, we ourselves smell sweet, for virtue is the strongest of perfumes. Like snow lions, we revel in this high-mindedness. We're not high because of arrogance— we are high because we know why we are using virtue in our life, and where it is taking us. Bringing purpose to our life is taking us above the paupers jealousy. This discipline brings delight.

Because of our discipline, we no longer enter the lower realms of negativity. We are uplifted and joyful in whatever we do, and our actions are graceful and splendidly accom­plished. Having dared to make this crucial leap, we can enjoy the fruits of the higher realms— long life, good health, a good body, good luck, good family, wealth, and prajna— that continue to liberate our noble heart. When our compassion is unfettered, we can act on it, extending joy to all.

No Blame

There is always something to complain about; blaming others is not going to bring about peace or happiness.

Recently I was in the security lineup at an airport. Everybody was upset because our luggage was being X-rayed so slowly. People were putting themselves into an increasingly agitated state, blaming the security personnel for making us late. Obviously, the staff were just trying to do their jobs, and ultimately, we didn't solve any problems by blaming them for the hassles of travel these days. I realized that we could just as easily be blaming people who want to blow up airplanes, who are themselves blaming someone else— and the wheel rolls on. It seems like the world is be­coming too small a place for everyone to be wielding blame. Where can it all go?

When were disappointed or frustrated, when we're in pain, or when our days not going well— these are times when we're likely to forget about the lion's discipline and delight, and search for an object of blame. Our backbone softens, and our heart hardens. Our mantra becomes If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be having this problem. The ruler knows that blame is tricky. We believe someone stole our joy, and that becomes our view. When we blame, we are failing to deal with our own mind. We're hardening our frustration and jealousy into a little ball and throwing it at somebody else. The minute we say, It's your fault! we are abdicating the throne of our mind.

That moment shows that our discernment, exertion, contentment, and discipline are still conditioned by having things go our way. We can't hold the royal view of certainty in basic goodness, so we abandon it. Having walked away from our stability and strength, we become paupers, jealous that someone or something has stolen our peace, and pro­jecting our helplessness outward: If only the driver in front of me had been going faster, I wouldn't be late for work. If only someone else had cleaned the kitchen, I would be watching my favorite TV show instead of doing these dishes. Even if we find someone we can logically blame for our pain, conducting our life with complaint does not pro­vide genuine relief. Blaming and complaining just lay the ground for further discontent. Looking for an object to which we can attach our negativity and irritation destroys our discipline. We forget all about the highland meadows of the lion and sink into the swamp of me.

By blaming others when the world does not move the way we want, we are creating narrow parameters into which everything must fit. We become dead set on what we think will solve our problem; nothing else will do. Blame ties us to the past and makes our mind smaller. It dampens our de­light and limits our possibilities. What is blame going to accomplish? In this dark age, when it's so easy to blame other countries, other cultures, other ways of thinking, blame will only exasperate any situation. Even when we experience an acutely painful event and feel completely justified in pointing the finger of blame, we are choosing to make our­selves smaller. We are ingraining our meditation on What about me?

As long as we re looking for someone to blame, we are un­able to stay on the path of the lion, because our mind is unable to settle. Through meditation, we acknowledge the activity of our mind in a very pragmatic way. This is an opportunity to observe the activity of blame. Rather than radiate negativity, we can see that the real source of our dis­content is our unwillingness to work with our mind. As long as we are looking for a place to attach blame and complaint, we are ignoring the possibility of using discipline to see con­fusion for what it is.

Instead of looking for a place to attach our blame, we could be using our mind to understand that aggression itself is an expression of suffering. If we develop the self-awareness to realize this, we will no longer be hooked into the habit of blame. We don't need to become masochistic and blame our­selves; we need to realize that pain and suffering— no matter what kind of day we are having— are a very basic reality. We can acknowledge that we are having a difficult time; we are in pain. That acknowledgment opens our heart and mind to the reality of compassion. No matter who we find to blame, that individual also is in pain.

The Buddha outlined four basic truths. Truth means rel­evant for everyone— not true for some and not for others, or true on some days and not the rest. The first truth is the truth of suffering. He said, Everyone is suffering because they are clinging to this idea called me. When things are taken away, we get angry. When things are given, we become attached. We are jealous when others have more than we do. This clinging makes karma, which keeps us in an endless cy­cle of dissatisfaction. We think about that, and we draw the conclusion that negative emotions keep us in a cycle of suf­fering. Drawing this conclusion inspires us to remember the discipline of the lion, which comes from having a sense of purpose.

We live in a world where suffering is the constant. If we find pain in our life, we shouldn't be shocked, or take it as a personal insult. We haven't failed as human beings if we suf­fer. In fact, suffering lays the ground for compassion— con­sideration for others and ourselves. Everybody has bad days, everybody has difficulties, and blaming somebody else is not going to change that truth. Blaming is a way of running from that truth. When we take the path of blame, each complaint lays the ground for the next, and nothing gets any better. Thus the cycle continues. That is the meaning of the word samsara— circular, always feeling the rub of suffering and then looking for a way to make it go away.

The remedy for samsara is a reality check. There is al­ways something to complain about; blaming others for that is not going to bring peace or happiness. If we can relax our mind instead of blaming, we might see the humor in how the world works. We will remember that underneath it all, we are already happy. Recognizing, acknowledging, and releasing thoughts by bringing our mind back to the object of meditation helps remind us that the frantic agita­tion of blame is unnatural and temporary. The wisdom and love beneath the clutter of negativity are natural and per­manent.

In discovering this space, we are spawning a new relation­ship to our life. We are switching tracks. The maturity we de­velop by following the path of virtue gives us the base by which we can feel compassion for others instead of blaming them. Instead of obsessing on our own satisfaction, we begin to see what is going on with others. We can see that the per­son we are blaming needs help, and so we help him. Helping him reduces our desire to blame, and increases our desire to be of benefit.

This is how life becomes joyful. We are relieving our mind of the burden of blame, no longer draining our lifeforce energy in a fight with the environment. We are coming out of our shell of self-obsession, breaking free from our pre­conception of how things ought to be. Not blaming doesn't make us docile, just accepting whatever comes along. It al­lows us to open our heart to suffering instead of closing it with blame.

I have heard my father and others of the older generation of Tibetan lamas saying that they did not blame the Com­munist Chinese for the destruction of Tibet. They felt that blaming the Chinese would not solve anything. It would only trap Tibetans in the past. As the Dalai Lama has said, the Chinese invasion became a teacher, a powerful challenge for increasing compassion, an opportunity to understand that when people do something that hurts others, they them­selves are bound by fear and delusion. Rather than rehashing events in our mind and repeatedly aiming the arrow of blame at our chosen target, we too can consciously decide to turn our minds tpward something bigger. Instead of investing in fixation, we can engender the discipline to contemplate com­passion.

Not blaming gives us a way to access our natural intelli­gence. This process takes mindfulness, awareness, discern­ment, and discipline, because we are going against the grain of habitual pattern. Instead of blaming, we decide to extend compassion— if only to ourselves for being trapped by a klesha like blame. When we can do this on the spot, we're no longer so predictable. The person who is expecting us to blame him might be taken aback; others might even think we are stupid or crazy. We're not stupid— in fact, we're wise. Be­fore we were confined to a prison cell— now we are sitting on a throne in a beautiful palace.

In opening our heart, we are tapping windhorse, which fuels the lion's delight. We begin to appreciate the peculiari­ties of life. We become more imaginative, able to find creative ways to uproot our own negativity by contemplating the suffering of ourselves and others. When we want to pin the blame on somebody— even ourselves— the most creative thing we can do is wish that person happiness instead. Our training is liberating us from the occupation of finger-pointing. By changing our attitude, we are moving in the direction of a future that includes joy and freedom.

Letting Love Flow

With wisdom in love, we can frolic in the high­lands of our natural joy.

On the path of the lion, we begin to experience mo­ments of bliss that feel just like being in love. We feel blissful because discipline and delight are turning our mind outward. We are beginning to unravel the knot of self­-obsession, Eventually, generating love becomes effortless, like the sun radiating warmth and brilliance. The sun doesn't say, Look, I'm shining! It is thoroughly engaged in providing for the welfare of others. This is how the genuine king and queen see clearly and love without attachment. They have learned to stabilize their minds and contemplate the happi­ness of others.

Stabilizing our mind any time of the day or night is like taking a mineral bath. It dissolves our stress and revitalizes us. As we anchor our mind to the breath, we feel grounded, strong, and clear. Our hassles slide away, because we re con­necting with a deeper stream of energy. Is this peace the ul­timate happiness? No, its just the first stage of joy. When the wind stops blowing, the world feels peaceful. Then the sun comes out, and everything warms up.

To bring about the next level of joy, we contemplate the happiness of others. Delighting in the happiness of others is the ground upon which windhorse gallops. We are express­ing the energy of love, our genuine nature. We all love to be in love, because deep inside we love caring for others. Want­ing someone else to be happy is like bathing in honey and milk. We don't want him to get sick. We want her to sleep well, enjoy her food, have good windhorse.

We may become confused and think that the other per­son is the source of our delight— that he is the pill of love and we swallow him. Love not understood becomes clinging tight. We believe that the object of our love is a permanent source of joy. We keep going back for more. We are confusing love with fixation, which brings suffering, not joy. The permanent source of joy is our love, not another person. Be­ing in love with a particular person helps us become familiar with the joy that comes from considering the happiness of others. We think about how to make her happy— what to give her, what to say to her, what to do with her. But true love is not dependent on any one object. True love is the natural energy of our settled mind, an inexhaustible resource that we cultivate with the appreciation of the tiger and the discipline of the lion. When we experience this big kind of love, we are experiencing virtue.

At first when we love somebody, we are delighted when anything good happens to her. She gets a promotion at work, somebody compliments her on her haircut, and were de­lighted. Then our love begins to sink beneath the weight of expectation, familiarity, and attachment. Our mind closes down. Negative emotions like jealousy and anger become stronger, and our love becomes weaker. We are no longer en­thralled with kindness for the other. We feel competitive. Now we are engaging in nonvirtue. How can we cultivate love when we're caught in anger and jealousy?

As long as negative emotions have the power to rule us, love is like a volcano sporadically erupting from under the earth. The lava of love bubbles up, but with attachment it cools and becomes a gray mountain. Jealousy and anger sup­press and calcify our love. We don't know when it will bub­ble up again. We are meant not to wait for moments of love to randomly arise but to be always cultivating love like a gar­den. We need to till the soil so that the seed of our love can open, sprout, and break through. If we water it and give it air and sunshine, it will grow.

One way to practice the contemplation of love is to bring forth the thought May my friend get whatever he wants. Sometimes our mind gets discursive and thinks, Well, she shouldn't get too much ice cream; otherwise shell get fat. Or He doesn't need a new car— it would just go to his head. But this practice is not about preventing weight gain or van­ity in those who are its object. The reason we do it is to develop the discipline to be loving and kind, even when reality isn't matching our expectations. Perhaps we feel unappreci­ated or belittled. We begin to harbor ill feelings for our friend because we feel ignored. We don't want her to be suc­cessful, We're afraid that if he finds a better job, we won't be good enough for him anymore. Our windhorse fizzles, and of course our friend is less attracted to us. Holding back out of jealousy, competition, or pride only makes us miserable. The struggle for control makes us prisoners of our own war.

Often people resist this contemplation on loving others because they think its a burden. To them I say, I'm asking you to be in love for ten minutes a day, D'ont you want to be in love? We're always contemplating something— what to wear, who to call, or how to get our way. Whatever we choose to contemplate, that's what we're going to sit in. Mulling over what someone said to us and plotting our revenge, thinking about how our spouse keeps cutting us off in conversation and wishing for her to falter, replaying an accident that already happened— this is like stewing in a toxic bath. Do we want to bathe in motor oil, or do we want to bathe in milk and honey?

When we practice being in love, we are digging deeper into our jar of virtue. We are freeing our minds from me and plumbing the depths of our being. Contemplating love gives us the biggest of minds. The farther our love extends, the bigger our heart grows. We can be in love with the whole world. Being in love with the whole world isnt a burden. It is great joy, the confidence of the lion.

If we lack the discipline to infuse our love with wisdom, love can bring us down because we become attached to what we love. Then we become possessive, and we get ourselves in trouble. We encase each other with rules— we cant do this and we can't do that. We're not allowing enough open­ness. Wisdom understands that we all need space. Ignorance looks at another without really examining, and is fooled into thinking that this is my friend.

W hen we don't allow space, we sink into jealousy and greed, feeding our own needs. Instead of extending ourselves, we take from others and provide no space. W hen we have taken everything we can from one relationship, we move along to find another. We can never get enough. This is how a pauper acts. True nobility serves its own needs by serving the needs of others.

Most relationships don't work out because there's a lack of oxygen. When we first fall in love, even when we kiss, we are giving space, because we're open and curious about each other. There's no sense of ownership. As the relationship evolves, there is less and less space. Our concepts about each other begin to fill it with expectation and attachment. Love needs space. Space says, Don't be jealous. Don't try to pos­sess the ones you love. Love mixed with space is called let­ting go.

To counteract attachment, we can contemplate the space between others and ourselves. The people we love have their own breath, their own bodies, their own minds. They do not belong to us. A deeper contemplation lets wisdom penetrate even further. We can ask ourselves, Who are my loved ones, really? They are conglomerations of flesh and bone, thoughts and words, but they are not as solid or everlasting as we believe.

When a relationship ends, we are stricken with grief, be­cause we are being forced to deal with space in an untimely fashion. We are reeling from our own misunderstanding. That person didn't exist the way we thought. All that re­mains is memories and emotions. Perhaps we mistook him for part of our own identity. He is gone, but he was never re­ally there the way we imagined. The reality is just more bla­tant now. When later we say, I'm over that; I've let go of him, what we are really saying is, I've let go of the concept of that person and how things would be between us. Wis­dom teaches us to see the space between the lines. Things aren't as solid as they appear. It was the concept that was causing us heartache.

When we let this wisdom penetrate us, we gain tremen­dous space because we are no longer quite so possessed by our own projections. The people we love feel less oppressed by our fixation, and genuine love has room to bloom. Using the lion's discipline, we are cultivating certainty in the bigness of our hearts instead of expecting others to cater to our small-minded needs. With wisdom in love, we can frolic in the highlands of our natural joy.

Generating Compassion

Radiating from basic goodness like the sun, com­passion lifts us above self-involvement and brings us out of the dark age.

Compassion is the unfettered yearing that responds to the world with noble heart, the understand­ing that others are just like us. The lion looks at the world and sees that everyone— an ant scampering along the ground, a worm crawling under the earth, a bird flying high above, an antelope darting across the plains— is motivated by desire for happiness. Everyone wants to stop suffering. From the moment we wake up until we go to bed— whether we are taking a shower, having breakfast, going to work, or watching a movie— we are all engaged in this pursuit. We spend every day hoping not to suffer. With the discipline of the lion, we actively extend that wish to others as well. This is the source of the lions delight.

Wishing for others not to suffer may seem as futile as placing a flower down the barrel of a rifle, but the ancients say that compassion is more powerful than the anger behind the gun. Ultimately we are here because of compassion. Out of the compassion of our parents, we were fed and clothed. Someone didn't want us to be hungry or cold. The food we eat, the house in which we live, the clothing on our backs— all of it comes from compassion. It is true that there is profit involved, but mixed in with it is compassion.

Compassion is the foil of bewilderment. We all want happiness, and most of us are bewildered about how to get it. We take self-involvement as the way to achieve it. If we're always conducting ourselves like miserly business owners, thinking only of our own profit, we're only harming ourselves and others, because we are full of self-interest. Living life in this bewildered way results in pain, stress, disappointment, and regret— the fruits of nonvirtue. The Tibetan word for self connotes being full and falling. Being full of self­-involvement immediately produces negative emotions, and that's what keeps us falling into the dark age.

Compassion, by contrast, is the mind's genuine energy, ra­diating from basic goodness like the sun. It lifts us above self­-involvement and brings us out of the dark age. Just like the sun behind a cloud, it shines through our self-centeredness. We're rushing for the bus, but seeing another person with heavy bags slows us down. We would like her pain to stop. Compassion cuts through our speed, and we help that other person.

Compassion is based on seeing suffering, relating with it, and letting it go. We think about the whole world and all the beings caught in tremendous suffering, and we rouse the as­piration to develop the power to ease their pain. The experi­ence of pain brings a sense of feeling trapped, of having no way out. Contemplating that aspect of pain engenders com­passion, the big heart of the lion. We wish that all beings were liberated into the light of their own wisdom and com­passion, so they would no longer suffer.

To contemplate compassion, we first bring to mind a per­sonal experience that evokes it. Sitting there and thinking, May everyone not suffer can be too vague; such a big thought— in the beginning, at least— might not give rise to much compassion. I often begin by remembering the time I saw a dog being hit by a car. The car screeched to a halt, the dog whimpered and cried. It was hit in the hindquarters; its legs were dragging. Without thought, my heart jumped out with a strong desire for its pain to stop. Bringing to mind that personal experience always arouses a feeling of compas­sion in me. That's how we make compassion powerful— by kindling its spark on an intimate level. The Buddha taught that we can have that intimate feeling of compassion for all sentient beings.

When the feeling of compassion arises, we meditate on our response for a moment, and compassion begins to flow. Now that we've generated compassion, we can extend it to our family and friends, little by little. This is how we make it bigger. If we bring intelligence into our compassion, we can extend it even to our enemy. People are always being pushed around by their own anger and pride. When we're in an ad­versarial relationship with someone, if we can see that his suffering arises from the negative emotion that is torturing him— like a victim and his bully— we can feel compassion.

Compassion even has the power to overcome demons— invisible beings who are trapped in negative emotions and wrong views. Caught between lives, they harm others out of ignorance. There are stories of Tibetan Buddhist lamas try­ing to banish demons with exorcisms and spells, to no avail. But when the lamas extended compassion to them, the demons found peace and were liberated from their painful state.

There are two kinds of compassion: compassion mixed with clinging and compassion mixed with prajna— best knowledge. The compassion we feel toward friends and fam­ily is usually mixed with clinging. We want the best for them, but our wish is colored by jealousy, attachment, or fear. Clinging makes it hard to be straightforward in our compas­sion. We're still thinking of ourselves. We want someone's suffering to go away because it is inconvenient for us, it scares us, or it causes us personal pain. Through contemplative meditation, we filter out the dirt of negative emotions and hit the mother lode of virtue— unadulterated, openhearted compassion.

The Buddha said, Don't just take my word for it, con­template it. It's better for you to convince yourself than for me to convince you. Convincing ourselves is practice. In con­templation, we practice pointing ourselves in a particular di­rection and staying there for a while. When we hold our mind to something, it has no alternative but to get more fa­miliar with that place. That's the meaning of one Tibetan word for meditation, familiarity. Another Tibetan word for practice means bring it into experience. When we contem­plate compassion, placing our mind on the welfare of others, we recognize and acknowledge when we are thinking of our­selves instead. Then we return our mind to the thought of compassion. This is how we become familiar with compas­sion and bring it into our experience.

When we experience compassion, we pan its gold with prajna, knowing how things are. With prajna's insight, we learn to extend compassion to others not because we are at­tached to them or afraid of their pain but because we know that all beings want happiness, just like ourselves. Just like us, they do not want pain. With this knowledge and under­standing, we can extend our care to others like the warm rays of the sun that shines on the lion's highland meadow. The more compassion we generate, the bigger our mind becomes. Since compassion brings joy, it makes us happy.

When we wake up in the morning, we should remember that all lasting happiness comes from wisdom and compas­sion. Compassion is not simply a feeble response to over­whelming greed and aggression. The mind of wisdom and compassion is the victory banner of the golden age. When we raise this flag in our life, windhorse increases.

The Confidence of Delight in Helping Others

When our attitude is open, we can have fun with what the world presents.

One of the great Indian teachers, Shantideva, who wrote about the path of the bodhisattva-warrior, said, The discomfort of contemplating the welfare of others is small compared with the benefit we get from it. Just think­ing about how to help others relieves stress, brings joy to our mind, and has fantastic karmic repercussions. This is how the discipline of the lion enriches the world with the confi­dence of joy, which expresses itself as the ability to uplift any situation with the question How can I help?

Most of us spend our day in a continual contemplation about how we can help ourselves. With the lion's discipline and delight, we learn to flip that contemplation inside out. At first, we might forget to do it. Then we might feel frustrated because we do not know how to help others. Even though people are always asking me how to do it, I can't tell you. I can only encourage you to make it a central theme in your contemplation and your activity. Contemplating how to be helpful opens our hearts and our horizons. By remembering the basic intention of a ruler— to ensure others' welfare— we are laying the ground for enriching our family or business, and ultimately for our own happiness and success.

If we have a family, we can take a few minutes in the morning to contemplate our commitment to them. We may have concerns about the mortgage, the childrens schoolwork, or someone's health. Before we get all caught up in the day-to-day, we can step back and uplift our mind with this thought— May my family be happy. May they not suffer. First we stabilize our mind by focusing it on the breath for a few minutes. Then we place our mind on this thought. When we notice that we're thinking about something else, we bring our mind back to the thought.

With this gut-level wish, we are generating the discipline and delight of the lion. We are reminding ourselves of heaven— the view on which we are going to base all the de­cisions we need to make. This strengthens and deepens our commitment to our family before we come down to the nitty-gritty decision making of earth. By first contemplating our view, we can learn to bring the joyful confidence of the lion into whatever the day offers. That confidence will take us beyond the fear and hesitation that keep us stuck in me. We may have a million thoughts about how we want our family to be happy— eating the right food, making a good grade, having the right clothes and friends. If we focus on those thoughts and concerns too much, we lose track of why we are nourishing our family in the first place, and we be­come oppressed by our lives, as if we are looking at the earth under our feet all the time, forgetting to lift our gaze to the sky. Contemplation is a way to orient our mind before the day begins. Regardless of what school our children are at­tending, we want them to have joy in their lives, and not to be plagued by suffering. In focusing on that intention, we are reminding ourselves that underneath all the meaningless mental drama, we possess the wish-fulfilling jewel, the en­lightened mind of bodhichitta, the wisdom and compassion that ride on windhorse.

We may say, I don't need to contemplate my wish for others to be happy. I already know what I'm doing. But of­ten if we do not consciously bring to mind our motivation for others not to suffer, the wish-fulfilling jewel becomes hazy and distant. The more superficial aspects of our life take over, and we become fixated on who didn't put the milk away or who's hogging the remote. We lose touch with the deeper reason we're together. What is not foremost in the mind, we tend to forget.

That is why we contemplate how to help. We are learn­ing to draw conclusions that will lead to stronger windhorse. The longer we hold our mind to a particular thought—-May my family be free from suffering— the sooner we arrive at a point of truth: our genuine intention is for others to be happy, but irritation often obscures that wish. We realize that others' happiness is the root of all happiness, and that all happiness is rooted in freedom from ignorance. When our mind has become familiar with thoughts like these, those truths become the foundation of our life. This is how we transform from pauper into ruler.

If we have a business, we can start our day in the office by taking the time to remember why we are working: in order to be happy, we all need money to provide for our families and ourselves. We simply sit at our desk for five minutes, let our mind settle, and place it on the thought May my co-workers be happy. Some people might not be working as hard as they should; some people may have made mistakes. These local ups and downs will always be with us, so we needn't become overly distracted by them. We can settle to a deeper level of consciousness. Orienting our mind toward heaven helps us be magnanimous, as opposed to oppressive. Throughout the workday, we can contemplate the thought May I offer myself as a vehicle for others happiness.

Once we're inspired to uplift our mind and look out for the welfare of others, we can always find a way to help. The discipline of the lion is the starting place, because it lifts us above doubt and laziness. We can practice speaking encouraging words, even when we're feeling speedy or de­pressed. We can make time to help our child with homework or cook an omelet for a friend. Helping others is not about specifics— Should I make a Spanish omelet or a cheese omelet? The point is to generate a sense of warmth and openness while we are doing it, cultivating delight that we are able to help.

As far as the details go, when our attitude is open, we can have fun with what the world presents. Instead of feeling an­gry that there's no cheese in the fridge, or that we have run out of eggs, we can use whatever happens to uplift the mo­ment. We can play with the whole situation— enjoy making a casserole instead of an omelet, or go to the store in the spirit of helping. The discipline of not resisting circum­stances is how we drop our concepts and move forward, bringing everything that happens to the point of our con­templation.

Opening our heart is like tilling a new garden. At first it's rough, because the soil needs working and there are plenty of rocks to remove. We feel discouraged. We're so accustomed to putting ourselves first that thinking of others may seem impersonal and arduous. But over time the soil softens up, and our heart naturally begins to sprout kindness, compas­sion, and joy. The more we help others, the softer and more fertile our heart becomes.

Helping others represents a new approach to life. We don't check it off our list and then go back to What about me? Feeling puffed up about helping, as if it's an important new project, is not confidence; it's a sign that we're using our practice to fortify small-mindedness. We think we're better than others; they're privileged that we're helping them. If we act out of pity or duty rather than care and warmth, making someone else the most elaborate meal will not bring us joy. Instead, we'll feel tired, because we're not really thinking of others, we're thinking of ourselves. We'll often draw a blank about how to help, because our caring energy isn't flowing outward yet. We don't really know how to give. We might be tempted to give up and forget about helping others. Then we're not helping ourselves, either.

We may be sitting there contemplating others, and in thse back of our mind thinking, I need to do more for myself. By thinking of others, we are doing more for ourselves. Generat­ing joy by helping others is a secret way— and the best way— of helping ourselves. Every time we think of someone else's happiness, we are taking a vacation from the me plan. It's like getting physically fit by helping our neighbor shovel the snow from her driveway.

At first we continue to think of ourselves because that's our habit. We're also not quite convinced that thinking of others is worth it. We shouldn't feel bad if we think, If I help them, maybe they'll help me. Even if we're stuck on helping others as a way of helping ourselves, instead of having a hun dred thoughts about me, we might have at least thirty about others. Over time, as we stay with the discipline of helping others, the ratio will shift and the joy of the lion will perco­late our self-absorption. We'll have more thoughts about others, fewer about ourselves. We're getting used to our new way of life, and we can see that it's working. Little by litde, our windhorse is rising, because we're using our day as a way to practice virtue. As in all contemplations, we are starting in a small place to get to a big one.

When my mother was ill, I watched as Lama Pegyal, an ac­complished meditation practitioner, helped her. He would talk to her softly, bring her water, and gently turn her over in bed when she was sore. Every move he made demonstrated genuine kindness rooted simply in wanting my mother not to be in pain. I realized that all of us can embody that kind of generosity throughout the day. We can bring someone a cup of coffee, let our friend read the newspaper in silence, give our spouse another napkin when hers has fallen on the floor. We can help push the car when its stuck in the snow. Even though these acts of kindness may be unappreciated or un­seen, we should keep our practice up. The sun shines, whether it is day or night, and so should our concern for others.

Enriching our thoughts and actions with love and com­passion releases tremendous positive energy, as if our wind­horse has been liberated. Like churning milk into butter, there is alchemy involved. When we churn What about me? into What about you? we are consciously changing our mo­lecular structure by engaging the big-mind chromosome. The result is ziji— radiant inner confidence. As we turn our en­ergy outward, we are present for the world in the whole­hearted manner of a child offering a gift. There are no politics involved, no scheming, no manipulation. Our compassion beams outward in delight at the happiness of others.

The Truth about Existence

The mind of the garuda is outrageous because it is no longer on the me plan.

I recently reached age forty, a turning point in most peoples lives. Before that birthday, people would routinely describe me as a young lama or a young teacher They were always exclaiming, You re so young! But when I turned forty, something surprising happened. They started saying, Oh, you re getting old. One day I was young, and the next day I was old. One day I had all the time in the world, and the next, time was running out. I thought, What happened to the in-between period when I could just be an or­dinary adult?

Tibetans are cheerful about getting older, because they are proud to have lived another year. People in the West seem to take a different attitude. We sometimes have a hard time accepting change, especially when it involves aging, sickness, and death. We feel depressed about getting older, because we are getting further from being young. I certainly don't mind getting older. I've enjoyed the process of growing and learn­ing. I owe my appreciation in part to my teachers, who taught me to contemplate the truths of human existence. They would often laugh as they talked about all the different ways we could die. They said, Ultimately, death comes without warning. They were not being callous or vindictive. They knew the power that comes from contemplating reality. It frees our mind from hope and fear. Now I know that I can either fight impermanence tooth and nail or accept it and grow from there.

We start aging as soon as we are born. Birth is both a de­lightful and a painful experience. As children, we all have growing pains connected with being fascinated by and fear­ful of the world. As teenagers, we give birth to incredible intelligence and skepticism, but we have little experience. As adults, we experience the stress and pain that come with knowledge and responsibility, and eventually the aging, sick­ness, and suffering associated with death.

Often older people say, I wish I'd known what I know now when I was young. By contemplating the truth about existence, we can know it while we're young. If we accept im­permanence, we can dare to live beyond hope and fear of what will happen next. This is the outrageousness of the garuda, a mythical bird with human arms that hatches from space fully developed. The garuda is outrageous not because it jumps up and down in attention-getting ways but because it has abandoned the reference point of me. It has total per­spective, a fresh mind that cuts through concept with a self-existing sword, as one Shambhala text says. Therefore the mind of the garuda knows no boundaries. This is truly out­rageous. The garuda knows that sickness, aging, and death are teachings, if we can accept them. A separation, a death, a birth, an illness is like a drop of water. We can be drowned by it or nourished by it.

Sometimes just watching people step off a bus, I think, Everybody is going through a crisis— a midlife crisis, an adolescent crisis, a senior crisis. The young are worried about education so they can get a job. The middle-aged are con­cerned about working hard so they can afford retirement. The old people are worried about being lonely and not bur­dening their children. Others are just having a life crisis. They're afraid of life, or they think they're missing some­thing. We become self-obsessed and down on ourselves be­cause we can't accept our suffering.

Change causes anxiety and suffering. That suffering doesn't have to be personal, as though we're being singled out, but most of us do take it personally. When what we want doesn't happen, we think we've lost; when it does, we think we've won. W hen our car is stolen, when we get sick, when we lose our job or have to move, we feel baffled, sur­prised, or insulted. We want the pain to go away. When we win at poker, finish a project, or fall in love, we feel elated, confirmed, or on top of the world. We want our pleasure to last as long as possible.

Contemplating the truth about existence reveals that life is constant change. The Buddha says, You may be in a good situation, but it won't last. Everything you see is imperma­nent. Everybody experiences birth, aging, sickness, death. We think, He seems to be right about that. All the people I know will pass away; everything in this material world will dissolve.

When I went to Nalanda University in Injdia— for cen­turies the epicenter of Buddhist learning— I was greeted by a few dilapidated structures. Of the Greek and Roman em­pires and the Asian empire of Kublai Khan, all that remain are some names, some stories, and a few ruins. If that is what happens to the greatest earthly achievements, what hope do we have of creating anything permanent?

Contemplating worldly gain and loss reveals that we spend part of our life trying to get it together, and the other part watching it fall apart. As soon as we have time— I have a whole hour free— we are losing it. As soon as we make a friend, we're losing him. As soon as we have fame, it becomes tinged with notoriety. As soon as we have wealth, we're los­ing it. Looking for something new to gain helps us forget to look but a few seconds back at the last thing that we lost. Fabricating this chain of desire is how we keep ourselves in samsara. We are using instability to try to make stability. We're investing in hope and fear, banking on denial of a sim­ple truth: all the pleasure the world can offer eventually turns to pain. Everything we gain is subject to loss.

Why do we put all that effort into gain when, in the end, we are going to lose it? Has anything we've gained brought us lasting happiness? Is there anything we own that we will be able to keep? What in our lives is not subject to the winds of gain and loss? Even this body will dissolve. In the face of death, there is only basic goodness. Gain and loss is just an illusion— one that we've allowed to rule us.

Contemplating the truth about existence invites us to let go of our attachment to hope that we will gain something and fear that we will lose it. It gives us the perspective to see that life is constantly happening to us, and that's okay. What causes suffering is our desire for things to be a certain way. Most of us wake up in the morning with a faulty assumption that we are going to get happiness by dividing our day into what we want to happen and what we don't want to happen, into those who are for us and those who are against us. The mind of the garuda reveals hope and fear for what they are— simple fabrications of the mind, like random spots we mark on the tablet of the sky. If change walks into that space, we feel threatened, because we've frozen it with an idea of how we want the world to be. The world we build with our illusory expectations is that absurd. We need to change our attitude.

The garuda flies high in the sky, looking at the ups and downs of life with a bird's-eye view. We are seeing clearly and flying free because we've cut through the web of opinions, de­sires, and avoidance tactics that keep us bound to me. We see how measuring our lives with this unstable standard makes us paupers. It shrinks our vision and dulls our sword of wisdom. How can we stay in the present moment when we're ruled by hope and fear of what might happen next?

Contemplating impermanence results in a mind that says, Bracing myself against the truth is not going to make it disappear. Worrying about sickness and death is not going to improve my health or make dying any less eventual. When we've contemplated reality face-to-face, we're more cheerful in any situation. We no longer waste time feeling sorry for ourselves. We're not afraid of change. We can act in the most outrageous way: to free ourselves from the conventional mind that is fixated on how we want the world to be, at­tached to hope that it will meet our expectation and fear that it will not.

From its first leap into space, the garuda can fly anywhere, because its wings are balanced, neither buoyed up by hope nor weighed down by fear. Knowing that there is nothing to possess but our own awareness gives us the freedom to dwell in that space. With the big mind of the garuda, we have an intelligence that balances our life. On the one hand, when we miss the plane because of a traffic jam, we don't become up­set, because our mind is big enough to see it as a passing inconvenience. On the other hand, when someone gives us thousands of air miles so that we can take a vacation, we don't become elated, as if our suffering is permanently re­solved.

This kind of outrageousness in the face of change takes practice. Letting go of thoughts as we watch them rise and fall in meditation, we've become familiar with the space be­yond our discursiveness. With practice, that space gets big­ger— so big that it can accommodate whatever our day presents. When we feel disappointed or excited, we can re­gain our balance by taking a deep breath, looking up at the sky, or even smiling as we dissolve our attachment to how we think things ought to be. We're not playing Pollyanna, we're learning to let go and fly in the space of things as they are. Meditation has shown us that our mind is not solid. It is not made of earth. We cannot measure basic goodness. What brings measure to mind is expectation—hope and fear. Knowing the reality of change, we accept gain and loss— no hope and fear attached. When we do this, we become natu­rally and spontaneously lighthearted. We are no longer try­ing to cure change by applying fixation. Rather, we accept what the moment presents and use it to expand our heart and mind.

I was recently looking at a magazine article called Ten Things to Do Before You Die. I have a list of one. Before we die, we should all experience our wisdom and compassion. If we don't experience that, the list of ten things will grow to a hundred or a thousand. As if our mind has a tapeworm, we will constantly be consuming, never satisfied, always looking for the thing that will finally do it for us. That hungry feel­ing is doubt— doubt of basic goodness. Doubt is not recog­nizing the glory of our own being. We don't see that basic goodness is everywhere. When we have confidence in our true nature, we can glide in the sky of our impartial mind, no matter what changes on the outside. True victory is not be­ing caught by the illusion of permanence. This freedom al­lows us to extend ourselves outrageously, with wisdom and compassion, in all worlds.

The Virtue of Letting Go

Without attachment to the myth of me, we are much happier.

If we take a careful look at hope and fear, un­derneath all of it we find attachment. We might think that to overcome attachment we have to get rid of whatever it is we're clinging to— our favorite sweater, our relationship, or the ice cream we love to eat. We think, I am so fixated on ice cream, I need to give it up. I see myself pushing other people out of the way so I can get to the counter first. But the problem isn't the ice cream. The problem isn't even that we're pushing people. The problem is our view. We want things to be a certain way, and we push in that direction. The garuda knows that there is nothing to get. The only thing we own is our attachment, and attachment creates karma. This is how wanting puts our world in motion.

Knowing that attachment creates karma is relative prajna— best knowledge. Developing prajna takes constant reflection. There are three kinds of prajna: hearing about the truth, contemplating the truth, then meditating and becom­ing familiar with the truth directly in our immediate experi­ence. The Buddha says, The world is fluid, not solid. It's fixating on what you want that hurts. Stop clinging so tightly. We hear this and it strikes a chord. Could it be true? We contemplate it, we chew on it; we mull it over. We look at our behavior. What the Buddha said begins to make sense. The world is moving, and it hurts when our mind tries to stop it. Letting go begins to seem like a good idea. We should stop clinging so tightly. How do we do this? We med­itate. In meditation, we become familiar with letting go. We watch our thoughts arise and let them go. We're spreading our wings, loosening up, so that we can let go anytime. The flexibility of the garuda is the cause and result of letting go.

When we rise from our meditation seat, we can continue the practice of letting go as we bring it forth into our day. When we're about to sink into a depression or indulge in dis­cursiveness, we can remember that letting go is an endless possibility, one that lets us soar into our life instead of being oppressed by it. This process takes coaxing. It's like dealing with two children fighting over a toy. If we convince one of the children that she doesn't need that toy, after a while she gives birth to a little prajna and lets go. She may immediately turn around and grab something else, but that moment of letting go, of emptiness, is prajna. The child is no longer an­gry or possessive.

Such moments help us realize that clinging will never lead to lasting happiness. For example, feeling love for the people and things around us might create a sense of attach­ment. We want to possess what we love. Prajna helps us see that our attachment isn't even to that person or that thing; we are just attached to being attached. We're having a kneejerk reaction. We may not be angry with someone in partic­ular— we're just angry. Our anger finds a target, and we fixate. The virtue of the garuda is letting go.

Letting go of attachment is the ultimate generosity, be­cause it connects us with our wisdom and compassion. It can be as simple as shutting your mouth instead of yelling at somebody, or turning off the television, walking to your meditation seat, and working with your mind. It is getting up early to contemplate compassion, even though you'd like more sleep. Letting go is thinking of the comfort of others before your own. It's coming in from the cold and making someone else a hot drink before you make one for yourself. It's saying I love you when you're afraid the other person doesn't feel the same. It's saying I'm sorry when you think the other person is to blame.

Sometimes letting go is keeping things to yourself. When I ran my first marathon, everything was going well. Then at about mile six, I felt a blister developing on my right foot. In putting on a pair of new socks that morning, I had violated a cardinal rule: never use new equipment on race day. What was I to do? Changing my stride would affect my time. I had to be sensible— but how sensible is running 26.2 miles? I de­cided to run on the blister so it would pop. The pain became a meditation of sorts, and after a while, I let it go. I finished the race in decent time. The friends I was running with were surprised I hadn't mentioned the blister, which was now quite bloody. But if I had told them about it, they would only have worried, and there was nothing to be done. It was bet­ter to let go.

We often find it difficult to let go, because the modern world is so competitive. Competition doesn't enable us to ac­complish what we want. It just introduces the hook of trying to gain by outdoing somebody else. We are as good as we are, and forcing another person down doesn't make us any better. Trying to manipulate the environment by promoting our­selves and hoping for others to fail is cowardly, not outrageous. When the winner of a sports competition is asked what she did to win, the reply often points to an inner balance and re­laxation that enabled her to perform well, rarely to a despera­tion that drove her to beat somebody else. Many world-record holders say that when they ran the hundred meters or did the long jump, it felt effortless. That balance is windhorse, a self­less synchronization that comes from letting go.

What do we discover when we let go? Space. Sometimes it is known as openness, selflessness, or emptiness. Is it empty because we lost something? No, it is empty of our concept of what we thought it was. Emptiness is empty of our assump­tions, and it is full of compassion. This is basic goodness. Discovering it is freedom. We realize that assumptions are the basis of most of our experiences. We discover that when the mind and the world are empty of those assumptions, we can live in space like the garuda because we re running on equanimity instead of attachment.

If we keep letting go, at some point prajna will reveal that there was never really anything to hold on to. Life at the core is radiant wisdom and compassion. It is empty and liberated from the idea of having to be a thing or have a thing. Prajna leads to fearlessness, because it gives us perspective on our suffering. We're more patient, no longer so dependent on things going our way. Without attachment to the myth of me, we are much happier. We feel clean, more available to others. It's like when we have told the truth— our mind feels crisp and clear. Our body feels more confident. Now we can leap into space and soar, because we're riding on windhorse instead of on attachment.

The Confidence of Equanimity

When we have gone beyond the boundaries of hope and fear, we are able to work with whatever comes our way.

The garuada's outrageousness doesn't mean that we act recklessly out of frustration, impatience, or bore­dom. It is confidence full-fledged. When we have gone be­yond the boundaries of hope and fear, we are able to work with whatever comes our way. Our judgment is exact, ac­cording to the situation. Though leaving me behind does not protect us from misfortune, it takes us beyond our con­cepts to a place where few dare go. This kind of outrageous­ness brings exuberance in a surprising form— equanimity. Equanimity is a balanced state of mind. With equanimity we can glide evenly through our day, because we no longer get hooked by negative emotion.

One summer when I was teaching at Shambhala Moun­tain Center in Colorado, we had an incredible heat wave. In the midst of it, my uncle Damcho Rinpoche, my cousin Karma Sengay Rinpoche, and two monks arrived on their first trip out of Tibet, Day and night they wore the same heavy clothes, the Tibetan equivalent of a woolen suit. At one point I asked Damcho Rinpoche, Don't you feel hot? He answered, Well, apart from the feeling of heat, I am okay, I understood him to be saying, Theres this feeling, and I could be attached to it, or I could not be attached to it. If I were attached to it, then how would my life be? I would be taking off clothes and putting on clothes all day long, spending most of my time trying to get comfortable. Instead, I could just sit here and enjoy what is happening." So that was what he was doing. People are always saying, I'm happy to be here, but he really meant it. That is equanimity.

Equanimity is the mind's natural joy. It comes from culti­vating wisdom and compassion. When we are strong enough to extend our love toward everyone, without bias, we enter the garuda mind. This might happen for only moments at a time, but that's okay. Because I meet with others constantly, I am always watching people struggle with their minds. Do we have to keep things churning in order to feel alive? Hav­ing equanimity means we've given it a break. We've relaxed our mind; the brilliance of the Rigden is present and engaged.

The garuda knows that wherever we are, no matter what we are doing, we can feel the awareness of the Rigden— basic goodness, beginninglessness, and endless freedom. Our basic goodness is not created by hope coming true, nor is it deflated when fear raises its head. It does not depend on ex­ternals. It doesn't wax or wane from one moment to the next. W ith this impartial mind, we can practice compassion and wisdom freely.

Without equanimity, we might be able to feel some com­passion, but it would be only for those we care about or those who arouse it easily. With that limited form of compassion, we will also develop aggression, because we don't want any­one to harm those we care about. We're still believing in the dead world, which is conditioned by hope and fear. With a static point of view, we imagine that the world came from somewhere, that it is going somewhere, and that there is something to be gained or lost. Equanimity liberates our at­tachment so that we can accept the world as it is— constantly changing and alive with basic goodness.

Sometimes we think that, because we are in modern times, we have modern views. No matter what the era, how­ever, there will always be some variation of two basic views, reflections of hope and fear. The first view is eternalism. Eternalism has it that a permanent, unchanging creator made the earth. People with this view believe that their ac­tions influence this life and what happens afterward, but they think there is a supervisor who remains unchanging.

The second view is nihilism. In ancient India there was a school called Jangpenpa. Its followers did not believe in karma. They believed that you have only one life to live, and you might as well live it the best you can. The only criterion for this life was how much fun you could have. Whoever had the best time had the best life. There was no previous life, no previous karma. At the time of death, the elements of the body would separate and the consciousness would just dis­solve into space. There would be no afterlife. If you had a good time, you did a good job. If you didn't— too bad, be­cause you wouldn't be getting another chance.

Another view is the view of the Buddha, who looked at things from a relative and absolute perspective. This view is called the middle way. People often mistakenly think that middle refers to the way between the two extremes of eternalism and nihilism, between existence and nonexistence. But middle refers to the fact that this approach surpasses exis­tence or nonexistence. It is a balanced view.

According to this view, things exist on a relative level— we have a name and an address, and the car we drive takes us to a restaurant. The objects of our sense perceptions— sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch— appear, but they are not inherently permanent. On an ultimate level, they are as ephemeral as last night's dream. They are beyond the hope and fear of eternalism and nihilism, beyond the concepts of real or not real, existing or not existing. It's like talking about what happened yesterday. Today, whatever happened yester­day is beyond what we think happened or did not happen.

Uma, the middle way, is known as freedom. It is free from the concept of existence and nonexistence— both and neither. What sees the freedom beyond these four extremes? The wisdom of prajna. Prajna is called best knowledge because it takes us toward experiencing reality directly, without the veil of me. The garuda's equanimity gives birth to deeper prajna. The projections we create with fixed mind seem thin­ner as the sword of prajna makes a little tear in the fabric of illusion. Eventually, we move beyond perceiving things in a dualistic way. This experience is known as emptiness. It is empty of concept and duality. The garuda hatches full-blown and able to fly because it is not afraid to leap into the open space of the present moment. It can soar above attachment to its own projections, into the sky of impartial mind.

When we think of living without attachment, we might imagine someone like Mahatma Gandhi, or a yogi living in a cave. But the Buddha taught that there are two worldly lifestyles that exemplify the equanimity of the garuda— that of the enlightened ascetic and that of the enlightened ruler. Since both have renounced attachment, one is no better than the other. Both are benefiting others, but in different ways. For example, the Buddha was the total ruler of his world, even though he abandoned material possessions. The first king of Shambhala, Dawa Sangpo, was totally enlightened, even though he lived in a palace. Nonattachment is a view, not a vocation. It comes from seeing the illusory quality of ourselves and our experiences.

As Shambhala kings and queens, we embody basic good­ness: profound, brilliant, just, powerful, and all-victorious. Abandoning attachment to me, we use our presence in the world to reflect that confidence: we dress well, eat well, think well, and live well because we respect our dignity as truly human beings who can cultivate ziji— inner confidence— to bring about windhorse, success that includes peace, happi­ness, and material prosperity. Our strength does not come from outer wealth, however; it comes from knowing that there is nothing to be given or taken away. The equanimity of the garuda has become a personal field of power.

In Tibet, this field of power is wangthang. Wang means power, and thang means expanse. Wangthang is authentic presence that arises from true wealth, the realization of emptiness and compassion. Free from fixed mind, we are lib­erated into the magic of things as they are. We see that oth­ers have fixed mind and therefore experience suffering. We realize in an outrageous moment that if we approach all be­ings with kindness, appreciation, and love, we can be happy anytime, anywhere. Our love is liberated from the prison of bias. We are like the garuda; the world does not impinge on our freedom. With this field of power, we magnetize what­ever we need to move forward. We are gathering the drala of richness. The world is continuously rich; whether we seemingly gain or lose something does not matter.

Equanimity is confidence that is free from attachment. It takes practice, especially when we are still being fooled by the highs and lows of samsara. The best way to cultivate equa­nimity is to bring our mind back to the fluid nature of our­selves and the world, the dreamlike quality of appearances. Everything is changing all the time. Our longing for our friend can change from love to anger in an instant. What we think will make us happy shifts from moment to moment. What will happen tomorrow is happening only in our mind today, along with what happened yesterday.

When it sees that the mind is not solid, the garuda sees that the world is not solid, either. Inherently, all is emptiness and compassion. When we see the world this way, we're not so obsessed with duality. Now we can follow the garuda's example— take a leap into space. Do something outrageous. Accept whatever happens as the self-existing wisdom of things as they are, and use it to nurture wisdom and compas­sion.

Outrageousness can be smiling at the person sitting next to us on the subway, not making such fixed plans all the time, or realizing that our life— and the meaning of our life— is made not just of how many things went right and wrong for us. Since others around us may live their lives in hope and fear, it takes courage to leap, and we can't be idiotic about our leaping. For example, deciding to quit one's job without knowing what's going to happen next is not necessarily outra­geous. Knowing when it's time to quit and doing it could be.

With the garuda in our life, we have total perspective, even under the most challenging circumstances. We know the truth about existence, the flower of compassion is bloom­ing, and ziji— brilliant confidence— is giving us a field of power in which to spread our wings. We start to glow, which magnetizes whatever we need to fuel windhorse— the confi­dence in basic goodness that brings true success and happi­ness.

Th e Virtue of Knowing Selflessness

Losing the idea of me is the point of liberation.

When my friend Jon and I were running in the Scottish Highlands one day, we came into a valley and saw a big dog. We started strategizing how we were going to avoid being attacked. Should we run? We were already running. What about climbing a tree? There wasn't a tree in sight. As we approached the dog, we realized it was just a large stone. We laughed at ourselves and kept running. We had created an object in our minds and then responded to it with fear. We were afraid of our projection, which had stemmed from ignorance. The minute we saw our mistake, the fear dissolved. Our relief came from seeing how things really were. Seeing things as they are is prajna, the self-existing confidence of the dragon.

The dragon is a symbol of rulers and master meditators. It represents ultimate wisdom, confidence, and power. There is something inscrutable about the dragon, something that cannot be understood. It has the form of a serpent, yet it flies. There are many stories about dragons, but who has seen one? The Tibetan word for thunder is drukdra— the sound of dragons. Like thunder, the wisdom of the dragon wakes us up. It shatters conceptual mind and uproots our insecurity.

The dragon says, I dance and play in the depth of your own mind. Let me out! The dragon mind is fathomless. It cannot be read. It rests naturally in the Great Eastern Sun— the wisdom of prajna. With prajna, our mind goes beyond the limits of space. The Shambhala teachings describe the dragon mind as space which cannot be punctured by an ar­row." The dragon is deep wisdom that looks precisely at everything. It sees how we're always trying to make appear­ances into "things, projecting a concrete world onto a fluid process. We say, I have a self. I exist, but there is no self in the way we perceive the self. Just as I mistook a rock for a dog, we are always mistaking our ever-changing experience for a solid self or me. As we continue to sit quietly, meditat­ing and contemplating, we begin to understand that our own wisdom is always trying to awaken us to this truth, which is as elusive as the breath, or as the dragon itself.

We can start by contemplating what the Buddha said: the self we imagine to be solid and continuous is really just a gathering of ingredients— heaps. It is the conjunction of blood, bones, memories, emotions, thoughts, and percep­tions. When we experience this conglomeration of elements, ignorance says,I think I'll call this me. We are creating an illusion and. giving it a name. Not only is the illusion trans­parent and dreamlike but the things we make it with are the same. It's like watching clouds form into the shape of a dragon. We know it's not a dragon. We know the clouds themselves are not really solid. But when we see that form, we give it a name— something recognizable.

The moment we mistake the collection of heaps for me, attachment arises, fear arises, pride arises— and we believe in me. This projection forces us to perceive the whole world in a certain way. We think, I'm real, and so are they, and there­fore it follows, If I'm real and they take something away, I will get mad. We suffer from that ignorance. Suffering is the reverberation of not knowing selflessness, the virtue of the dragon.

In his first teaching after his enlightenment, the Buddha made this very point. Life is painful for the basic reason that we are self-obsessed. Sometimes we think, If I didn't feel an­gry and jealous, then I would have peace. In fact, negative emotions are simply the embodiment of thinking of a self. Every time we feel irritation or attachment, we are experienc­ing self-absorption.

If we contemplate this, we will see that it's true. Anger, desire, jealousy— all negative emotions are rooted in attach­ment to me. They are fighting a losing battle, for there is no me. If there is a self, where is it? Contemplating selflessness reveals that looking for me is like trying to find the horizon. It looks like a straight line, and from afar it's a definite geo­graphical reference point. But if we re asked to pinpoint it, we'll only go in circles. We'11 never find it. We'll just find moods that come and go. Those moods are also selfless; they come and go because they are on unstable ground. There is not another self, apart from the self we try to hold together with the pride of our view, seeing ourselves as separate from— and maybe slightly better than— everything else. The bewilderment from which this pride arises is always telling us a lie. We're making a cloud into a mountain. Without this confusion, there is no belief in a self, for there is no self-infatuation.

Even when we speak of selflessness, the mind goes to me. We think, I'm selfless, but everything is selfless. Saying everything is selfless is like calling that stone dogless. It might give the impression that a dog was there at some point, but it never was. It was our idea of a dog that was there. Sim­ilarly, we say that everything is selfless, but the self was never there. There was only our idea of a self. When we realize that we have always been selfless, what is missing? The conceptual mind that centralizes into me and then projects a world out there that is solid and separate. Who we think we are and what we think of the world is a concept that we are creating with our mind. We create a concept in our mind and we believe that concept. Our belief in a self is the most obvious example of this fundamental ignorance.

The wisdom of the dragon asks us to contemplate why we are trying to make things so solid. What is it we're trying to hold together? The chair is not saying it's a chair, nor are our arms and legs and chest saying, I'm me. Our mind is weaving the elements of our body, feelings, sense percep­tions, and judgments into a solid entity called me. Me is a mental fabrication. There is no me, and that's okay. Seeing this and losing the idea of me is the point of liberation. What is liberated? Lungta— windhorse— and the wish-fulfilling jewel of wisdom and compassion.

Because negative emotions are rooted in ignorance, it's sometimes hard to know when we are bound by their influ­ence. To see them we need prajna, which grows from the mindfulness and awareness of the tiger. It is enriched by the discipline and joy of the lion. W ith the sharp eyes of the garuda, it recognizes when negativity has thrown us off bal­ance. When we blame, cling, compete, or complain, prajna sees these signs of self-fabrication. It knows what we need to do when they arise: generate compassion and courage, the fortitude to overcome fear. Fear is just lack of prajna. Prajna and compassion are the ultimate drala, because they burn through negativity like a laser. The result is great bliss, a mind that has risen above the mistake of the self.

When my own teachers would ask me to look for my self, in the beginning I thought, What a silly question. I'm right here. When I tried to figure out exactly where here was, it became a little tricky. I had assumed a here My body might be sitting in a chair right now, but where is the body I had when I was three? Where is the self I thought I was yester­day? And where is my mind? Westerners think the mind is in the head; Tibetans think its in the heart. In looking for my mind, I discovered that it seems to be in many different places. Sometimes it is drinking a glass of water, remember­ing swimming in the summer, feeling the breeze. In this con­templation, I observed that the self is more elusive than I thought. Thus began my journey into discovering that my experiences are not as real and solid as I had assumed. Ques­tioning that assumption is what my teachers wanted me to do.

My teachers then instructed me to contemplate appear­ances— all the things I could see, touch, smell, hear, or taste. Which of those things is not generated by mind? The con­clusion I drew was that if my mind weren't here to experi­ence these appearances and— if what they were saying is true— generate them, then I would have no way of knowing if something is not generated by the mind. My teachers wanted me to realize the power of the mind and how it gen­erates our whole environment. We think that there is a self, and that everything else is separate from it. But there is no self, and nothing is separate from selflessness.

When I ask people to contemplate selflessness, they sometimes react as if I've asked them to put their house on the market or give away all their money. If there were a self that existed in the way we think, discovering selflessness would be like putting our house on the market. But in the Buddhist tradition, the discovery of selflessness is called completely joyful. It's not called the raw end of the deal, or I'd rather go back to bed, or This is scary and depressing. I remember rising from my meditation seat one day and being struck by the transparency of the world's appearances. This was not like being in some kind of dream or god realm. It felt like a balance between groundedness and fluidity. I could no longer solidify every thought, every word, every ap­pearance, because the transitory quality of myself and every­ thing around me— the lack of substance— was so vivid. My mind felt buoyant and joyful, because it was open, free from concept.

When we separate ourselves from the world and imagine that me has to conquer it, we are paupers who think that there is something to subjugate, own, or manipulate. Because we are objectifying the world, we see it as a threat and we de­fend ourselves against it. With the virtue of knowing selflessness, we are pulling the rug out from under the world's ability to terrorize and confuse us. Truly ruling our world is seeing the world for what it is— constantly shifting appearances that we attempt to freeze with assumptions and expecta­tions. It is moving waves and particles that, like the illusion of me, we take as real and solid. The selflessness of the dragon understands that the world is appearing, but that, at its heart, those appearances are empty. In reality, there is no world to rule. We are ruling a dream, and we are all sharing the same dream.

Discovering the selfless nature doesn't have a monumen­tal Eureka! quality. It is more like being continually per­plexed, the way we feel when we're looking for the car keys we're so sure are in our pocket, or when the supermarket's be­ing renovated and what we need has moved to a different aisle each time we go shopping. That experience of being somewhat dumbfounded is the beginning of wisdom. We can no longer believe what our negative emotions are telling us, because prajna is bringing us in tune with deeper truths. We re beginning to see through our ignorance— the every­day vigil we sustain to confirm that we exist in some perma­nent way. We look at our mind and see that it is a fluid situation, and we look at the world and see that it is a fluid situation. Our expectation of permanence is confounded.

Glimpsing selflessness requires us to penetrate reality, as every enlightened ruler has done. If we are to rule our world— generate compassion without attachment— we too will have to embark on this monumental quest. The starting point is our contemplation. Seeing clearly how things are on the relative level takes us toward the truth about how things are at the ultimate level. It loosens our discursive mind and lets prajna emerge. We can sit and contemplate, If I have a self, where is it? Is it inside me, or outside me? As we con­ template, a little prajna pokes out its head. It's a feeling that maybe that sense of self is not really there. We have let go of our concept for just a moment. We are having a glimpse into reality. In Tibet, people write poetry about this experience.

We can only understand the truth of emptiness by con­templating a concept like the self. Placing our mind on this concept and contemplating it is like a taking a spaceship to the sun, which is wisdom. As we get closer to the sun, the heat of wisdom ignites the concept. Finally there is no con­cept, and we realize the empty, ungraspable nature of every­thing, beyond, the four extremes of existence, nonexistence, neither, or both. This is how we arrive at an understanding of emptiness. There is no way that concept can land on wis­dom, but we have to use concept to get there.

It helps to have a teacher to point us in the direction of the truth and give us a description of the way to see it accu­rately. For example, If the accurate understanding of selfless­ness were a person, it would look like this. Contemplation is like taking that picture and finding the face that matches it. Once we find that person, our job is to live with her, get to know her intimately, and marry her. Our bond is finally ce­mented with the first child, which is our realization. It means we have internalized the truth of selflessness. Understanding one thing, we understand all things. We are no longer fooled. Seeing the world in the light of ultimate prajna, the Great Eastern Sun, we know that all is basic goodness. This is the royal view.

The Confidence of Wisdom

The mind of the dragon speaks a different lan­guage than does the mind caught in hope and fear.

Sitting in a mountain cave in Tibet, gazing down into endless valleys, I could see why that country is known as the rooftop of the world. Far below me, animals and villagers tarried through the day, their view limited by the walls of the valley and their daily needs. Expanding my mind across the horizon from high on the mountain, I en­countered no such obstructions. My mind felt big and free, a reflection of the sky in all its vastness. This vast place where sky meets earth is where the dragon plays.

When I came to the West and heard about knights slay­ing dragons, I was shocked. In Tibet, the dragon symbolizes incomprehensible profundity. Profound is the depth of our vast and fathomless mind. To know profundity is to know basic goodness. It is self-existing, without beginning or end. It is beyond conditions. It is victorious in every situation, be­cause it is not manufactured. It cuts through all concepts. With profundity, we can look at people and see all the games they re playing, as if their manipulation is a suit they are wearing to cover their basic goodness. Understanding reality, we are less gullible.

The mind of the dragon speaks a different language than does the small mind caught in hope and fear. The claustro­phobic mind is unable to read the signs of this profound wis­dom; because it believes in me, it speaks the language of aggression. If we're angry or jealous and somebody is full of compassion, we simply cannot comprehend his accommoda­tion and love. He is residing in the brilliant mind of the dragon, and were being tormented by the drip of the dark age. When we finally relax, we realize that our anger was for nothing. From a distance, we can even see the humor in it. Now our mind is gaining elevation. It is coming closer to the principle of dragon. We feel the vastness of mind and won­der how we could have gone to the valley's depth.

The wisdom of the dragon transcends duality. Seeing through the illusion of duality means we have made friends with the world. We no longer divide the world between this and that, or I want and I don't want. We see wisdom as who we are, and as who others are. When somebody walks into the room, we don't feel threatened; we feel curious. In using the strategies of the tiger, lion, and garuda, we've devel­oped precision in how we relate to our mind, and we're more open to the world. Now, with the mind of the dragon, we are open to whatever the world presents, taking interest in its every detail. This open-mindedness and precision are the in­gredients of fearlessness. Instead of defending ourselves against others, we feel inquisitive. How do they talk? How do they behave? How do they present themselves?

From working with our own mind, we know that we all have a little scheme called me. Now we can see this clearly in others. She's too well assembled, too perfect. Or there's an air of forced relaxation. Perhaps she wants to help, but is trapped by hesitation. Something's not straightforward; there is something she's not saying. Does she want power, confirmation, or just to be left alone? We're using relative prajna to see what's going on. When we see the game that someone's playing, we're curious about that, too. We don't solidify it. Our wisdom comes from knowing we can learn from her, and therefore we can help her. Working with oth­ers, we are working with ourselves. That's emptiness and compassion. It's no longer me against you- The boundary has dissolved.

This sky of a mind is the result of the tiger's content­ment, the lion's joy, and the garuda's equanimity. We are liv­ing in a very big place. Anything is possible, because we're using exertion, discipline, and generosity to keep stepping through the hesitation called me. We appreciate everybody and everything. With the selflessness of the dragon, we can harness anything we experience to propel us along the path of confidence, as if it were wind in our sails. We radiate confidence naturally, like the sun shining. We are not clinging to a concept of what we hope or fear will next arise.

The Buddha says, Now contemplate that all of us are Buddha— totally enlightened beings. The word buddha means awake. A buddha wakes up and sees that everything is awake. It's like waking up from a deep sleep— the world looks different. That is clear seeing in its most sublime ca­pacity. We conclude that yes, we are awake, an enlightened king or queen. This certainty in the bigness of our being is the wisdom mind of the dragon, the luminous intelligence of the Great Eastern Sun.

With the wisdom mind of the dragon, life itself becomes the source of our energy. The more we are involved with our life, the more energy we have. We actually become younger, because we are less burdened, less jaded. When we start a new project or meet a new friend, we don't think, Here we go again. I've already done this a million times. We have an open mind that is genuinely and continually engaged, with­out any kind of pre-thought.

The dragon dances with the elements of every situation. When people are irritating, we're amused, because we under­stand that what's irritating us is our own irritation, which is fluid and empty. Others can't comprehend how somebody could be so simple and cheerful. They are sitting at the same table, perceiving what we are perceiving, but caught in self-protective mind, they perceive the world as hard and un­friendly, Their minds feel tight, the opposite of spacious, because they are in pain.

Others might even find the inscrutability of the ruler to be freakish, out of touch with reality. The mind of me can't understand the profound reality of the dragon. But the dragon understands the suffering of the mind of me. For people whose minds are plagued by doubt, reality is unstable since it will change from today to tomorrow. From the per­spective of the dragon, they look like children, happy and sad over meaningless things; like insane people, chasing mirages, wishing to express their love but suffering needlessly. There­fore we must be merciful and try to awaken their vastness.

The dragon mind feels a unity with the environment that allows us to perceive the world in an elemental way. Like the elements, the confidence of the dragon doesn't have to be cre­ated or propped up. This wisdom sees water for water, earth for earth, fire for fire, and wind for wind. We are not surprised by change, and when it occurs, we can be like water and flow. When it is time to be solid like the earth, we can be steadfast. When the heat of enthusiasm is necessary, we are like the fire of all fires. We can blow with the wind of virtue, uplifting any situation. Or we can rest in space, accommodating everything. This is the power of a king or queen— the warrior of all warriors.

When we plug into our elemental richness, there is a sense of total empowerment. We are electrified with ziji, the glory of our being. We can do whatever we want— not because we have figured out how to dominate everybody but because we are fearless. Our windhorse is completely liberated. With this kind of confidence, we hold the future in our hands.

The dragon is sometimes shown holding the jewel of aus­piciousness. This is the enlightened heart and mind of the king and queen. With the wisdom of the dragon, we discover that the Rigden and ourselves are the same. Our wisdom, compassion, and courage are no longer a myth. Once we pos­sess this jewel, our life becomes blessed. Because of our open­ness and precision, causes and conditions come together naturally, like the elements, to create success and accomplish­ment.

Attracting Auspiciousness

A mind that knows its own depth can see the bril­liant, elemental magic of the world.

With the selflessness and wisdom of the dragon, we are in a stable, open space, no longer de­railed by the delusion of duality. We become sensitive to the subtle energies of the environment, and they become sensi­tive to us, because our senses are open to all the realms. As we take in the suffering of others, we join the intuitive wis­dom of prajna with the practicality of compassion. Our windhorse is strong; we are drinking ziji for breakfast. Now we are able to judge conditions and time decisions properly in order to give new endeavors the greatest possible advan­tage for success. Because we are in tune with it, the environ­ment becomes reflective in our decision making, shutting the door in our face or providing what we need to go forward. As the golfer Ben Hogan once said, The more I practice, the luckier I get. In Tibet, this luck is known as tasbi tendrel— auspicious coincidence.

When I visited Tibet, people were constantly offering me gifts, a customary way to make a karmic connection with a lama. Since I am considered to be the rebirth of Mipham Rinpoche, one of the most revered teachers in Tibet, many people wanted to make such a connection. I was offered horses, herds of yak, fabric, grains, and land. I kept telling people that I appreciated their gesture, but that on this trip, I was just visiting and observing. It was not the time for me to accept big gifts.

At the end of the journey, we arrived at the valley of Magyal Pomra, where the legendary warrior-king Gesar, one of my ancestors, lived and ruled. In addition, when the pre­vious Mipham Rinpoche had visited this area, he told the people that he would return. Taking my arrival as the fulfill­ment of his promise, the local residents offered me a moun­tain and a valley in which to build a monastery. They were so fervent in their request that I said I would climb to the mountaintop, and if I saw any auspicious signs, I would con­sider accepting their gift. So off I went. When I reached the top of the mountain, three rainbows appeared, which put me in an awkward position. All of the people and monks were smiling broadly, and I had no choice but to accept.

The Buddha taught that all things are interdependent; nothing comes about on its own accord. The more we con­duct ourselves with wisdom and compassion, the more aus­picious our lives become. It is as if drala were offering us a gift. By acting virtuously, exerting ourselves in service to oth-ers, we are blessed in return by harmony and good luck.

Auspicious coincidences lead us toward joy and freedom by presenting us with circumstances that will further our re­alization and understanding. They can lead us to a spiritual teacher, a lover, or a new friend who will change our life. For example, the poet Allen Ginsberg met my father, who be­came his teacher, while they were trying to hail the same taxi­cab on a street in Manhattan.

As we continue our training in rulership, tashi tendrel— auspicious coincidence— increases. A mind that knows its own depth can see the brilliant, elemental magic of the world. The world communicates to us because we re avail­able, like a flower in spring. Conditions are ripe, and the flower opens. Wisdom and compassion attune us to life, and the environment responds.

Each situation that comes together with auspiciousness shows us how we can step forward— not backward or side­ways— into the limitless light of the Great Eastern Sun. Causes and conditions meet in such a way that we know when it's time to take action— or not. When we're awake enough to see what the world is presenting, conditions can show us the right time to build a house, start school, or expand our business.

In Tibet, when people are about to do a meditation re­treat, they consider all the signs that might indicate when the retreat should begin and where it should be. If we are look­ing at a particular place and someone offers us flowers or we run into a friend, that is tendre. Or perhaps somebody un­expectedly says something encouraging and positive. These signs might indicate that the time is right to do a retreat in that area. Similarly, if we are looking at a place and a lightbulb burns out, or we see a dead bird or hear people arguing, we might conclude that the place is inappropriate. An ad­vanced practitioner whose meditation is deeply rooted will be less affected by the environment, and might even specifi­cally choose to meditate in a difficult location in order to become stronger. But for most of us, having an inviting situ­ation is incredibly important, because we already have plenty of difficulties and obstacles to overcome.

When we approach our difficulties aggressively— think­ing that if we just push hard enough, something is bound to give way— we become proud and stubborn. Drip obscures our vision, and it is difficult to perceive the signals that the world is sending us. We're so wrapped up in speed or worry that we've still got our umbrella up, even though its not rain­ing anymore. At times like that, we aren't present to hear what the world is telling us.

Once after spending several months with my teacher Khyentse Rinpoche, I was returning to the West. On the day I left for the airport at Kathmandu, everything was difficult. First I had trouble getting there, and then, when I was at the airport, there were hassles with my passport and my luggage. Because I was committed to teaching a series of meditation workshops, I pressed onward. In my hurry to return to my responsibilities, I was not looking clearly at what the envi­ronment was telling me.

It was such a relief when I was finally on the plane. In Nepal and India, however, you're never really there until you're there. As we taxied down the runway, we heard a loud bang— one of those sounds you never want to hear on an airplane. The pilot brought the plane to a screeching stop ten feet from the end of the runway— in Kathmandu, a drop off a high precipice. One of the engines had blown up. Everyone was completely silent as we taxied back to the terminal. We were lucky that no one had been hurt.

Right away I sent a message to Rinpoche, telling him what had happened. He replied that I should return to the monastery immediately. There were obstacles, especially be­cause this was the end of the lunar year, considered a time of change. My teaching on wisdom and compassion would also attract obstacles, just as it had for the Buddha.

ARinpoche wanted me to delay my trip for three days. During that time, we performed meditations and rituals, and he bestowed empowerments on me to help strengthen my windhorse, clear my vision, and overcome obstacles. We did the lhasang— the juniper-smoke ceremony— several times. As we concluded, I felt rejuvenated. Now it felt like the proper time to leave. With a relaxed mind and invigorated windhorse, I entered the new year with enthusiasm.

Auspicious occurrences indicate that our mind is begin­ning to relax into the present moment. When we are able to relax, we realize that the present moment is all there is. What we think of as the past is only a present memory, and what we think of as the future is a projection of the present. The wisdom of the dragon tells us to slow down, let go, and be present for the moment, for that is where all power and magic lie.

I am always struck by the awesome power generated by my teachers. Such genuine presence— wangthang— attracts auspiciousness. This is not ordinary charisma that comes and goes with conventional success and failure. At times, it is gentle and deep; at other times, it is like heat radiating from a dormant volcano. They are different from other important people. Their presence is big and stable. Sometimes looking at them is like staring into the sun; their brilliance is over­whelming, The source of their power is a deep understand­ing of their minds. Since they are devoted to the benefit of all sentient beings, I am certain that to some degree such people magnetize tashi tendrel for everyone.

When Gerald Red Elk, a Sioux medicine man, came to meet my father, we were in the middle of a meditation program at Shambhala Mountain Center, where we were all liv­ing in tents. This was the meeting of two great wisdom lineages. It was very dramatic. First there was an incredible thunderstorm that cleared the air. It was so intense that everybody knew something important was happening. The minute Gerald Red Elk arrived, the storm stopped. Every cloud disappeared. When these two warriors touched heads in greeting under a completely blue sky, it was like a new day. We knew that the connection had been made, and that it was good. Each of these rulers was standing on a powerhouse of virtue, and their meeting illuminated the environment with lightning and sunshine.

Ruling from the Ground Up

Within my body I have this incredible confidence— contentment, joy, equanimity, and wisdom.

This simple contemplation on the four kinds of confidence was born one morning when I was doing my daily exercises. It occurred to me that the tiger, lion, garuda, and dragon are not just concepts that inspire us toward rulership. Their energies are reflected within our own bodies, where joining heaven and earth begins. This exercise is called ground lungta, because we do it lying down, relax­ing, with our eyes closed. We can use it to raise windhorse before entering our daily life.

We start with the feet, imagining that they are the tiger, which is orange, representing the confidence of contentment. Contentment comes from being discerning and appreciative. The tiger moves with large cushioned feet through the jungle, across the earth, and through the grass. It isn't walking carefully because it is afraid. It is present for every step be­cause it respects its environment. As rulers we have total re­spect for how virtue moves us forward and nonvirtue moves us backward. We know that ruling from the mind of What about me? does not bring happiness.

We sometimes know what we should not do, and we do it anyway. Sometimes we know what we should do, and we cannot do it. Exertion is the key to engaging with virtue and moving forward. By imagining our feet and legs as the tiger, we are connecting with the earth of our day, remembering our precious human life, and deciding to use it well.

Next we move our awareness up to the area inside our body just below the navel. In this place, we have heat. This is the lion, which is white and represents discipline, delight, and energy. The lion has tremendous joy, because it is no longer burdened by bewilderment. It knows that virtue brings the warmth of the Great Eastern Sun and that non­virtue brings the heaviness of the setting sun. Virtue elevates us above confusion and heaviness; the mind is liberated from doubt. We are able to frolic in the joy of the highlands, be­cause we have certainty that helping others leads to happi­ness. When we offer the fire of this discipline and joy, the world reflects it back to us. Extending compassion to others strengthens windhorse.

Now we place our awareness on our chest and arms. This area is the garuda, which is red, the confidence of equanim­ity, a mind that has no boundaries. The garuda is outrageous because it has gone beyond the conventional way of doing things, which is to be totally fixated, totally attached. The most outrageous thing we can do in this world is to accept what happens and fly with it.

We are often living with a sense of fear. When we enter our day, we don't know if we're going to fall or fly. The garuda knows that fear is a projection of fixed mind. There is no boundary to space. When we are free of fixed mind, like a newly hatched garuda, we can expand our wings— our arms— and embrace the present moment. This is how we at­tract the blessing of drala.

In this dark age, we all need as much drala energy as we can get. Sometimes simply cleaning our room, our desk, or our car is a way to attract drala. Removing the clutter from our environment and making it sparkle cheers us up. Just from a little situation like that, we can invite drala. From a conventional point of view, that seems very outrageous. But the ruler knows that enriching the world with care and ap­preciation is how we live a life in which we are always mov­ing forward.

Finally we move our awareness to the head and shoul­ders; they represent the selfless confidence of the dragon, which is blue. The confidence of the dragon is wisdom that transcends concept. W ith prajna, we are no longer fooled by appearances. We have abandoned small mind— using nega­tive emotions to get what we want, trying to manipulate the world into our corner— for the mind of the Great Eastern Sun. Great means that we know the vast profundity of our mind and heart. Eastern means that our wisdom is perpet­ually available— always arising and waking us up. Sunz means brilliance, lack of ignorance. Great Eastern Sun is what we all possess, but at a dualistic and conceptual level, the mind of the Great Eastern Sun cannot be compre­hended, so to others our wisdom is inscrutable.

At this point, we place our awareness back on our feet and say to ourselves softly and slowly, KI KI. Then we move our awareness up to the area below our navel and say SO SO. Then to the chest and arms— KI KI. And finally to the head and shoulders— SO SO. These are very old syllables used by Shambhala warriors to invoke drala. As we say them, windhorse begins to percolate and rise. We visualize the or­ange tiger, the white lion, the red garuda, and the blue dragon dissolving into our heart center, into the Great Eastern Sun. We open our eyes, sit up, and imagine the warmth of the Great Eastern Sun expanding everywhere.

We finish with the warrior cry: ASHE, LH A GYAL LO. Ashe is the embodiment of fearlessness— the primordial confidence that cuts through doubt. Lha implies something high up, divine. Gyal means victorious. When we say, May heaven be victorious, we are increasing our ability to rise above negativity. We are saying, Within my body I have this incredible confidence— contentment, joy, equanimity, and wisdom. That is totally victorious and wonderful.

We also could say, Oh, but its just the feet and blood and bones and the guts and the head and the brain, It's true, it is completely physical. But from the inner perspective, in terms of windhorse, we are contemplating specific parts of the body to invoke drala. That's how Milarepa, the Tibetan yogic saint, could fly. We probably won't be doing that any time soon— unless we re getting on an airplane— but in using the same principle, we are bringing windhorse— the energy of awakened mind— into every molecule of our being. This is how we invite drala into our day.

Having completed our practice, we can get up and engage with our life. We can meditate, make a latte, take a shower, kiss our spouse or partner, say good morning to our children, or turn on the news. We can do this practice at any time of day, of course, even when we are standing, sitting, or walking. With the confidence of the Great Eastern Sun, no matter what time it is, we will rise and shine.

Ruling with Wisdom

By resting in a big mind, we can conquer small mind.

When I formally assumed my responsibilities as a sakyong, I was to lead one of the largest meditation communities in the West, as well as take my seat as a spiri­tual leader in Tibet. I saw two elements: possibility and chaos. Although I had always known I would eventually take this role, it was only now that I could fully see the issues at hand. There was factionalism. Also, I was young. Many peo­ple I was to lead had been students of my father; they had strong opinions about how I should proceed. Newer stu­dents wanted to change how things were done. There were also financial issues. In addition, people were coming to me with their personal problems and business concerns. I was to guide people on their meditative journeys as well. I was also acting as a cultural bridge. The Tibetans wanted me to be­have in a traditional way. They were concerned that I was spending too much time with Westerners. The Westerners thought that I was paying too much attention to Tibetans and the old ways. It would have been easy to feel crushed by the weight of these responsibilities. How was I to create har­mony?

The Buddha taught Dawa Sangpo, the first king of Shambhala, how to rule by joining heaven and earth. Earth is where we live, and heaven gives us the ability to live with meaning. Following the paths of the tiger, lion, garuda, and dragon, we learn to balance heaven (wisdom and equanim­ity) with earth (contentment and delight in helping others). Then we are all-victorious, able to accomplish what we want, by ruling our world every day. The Shambhala teachings tell us that to join heaven and earth, we need to be benevolent, true, genuine, fearless, artful, and rejoicing. These are the six ways of ruling.

The first three ways of ruling— being benevolent, true, and genuine— are related to heaven. They are qualities of justness. Being just arises from wisdom, unwavering cer­tainty in basic goodness. This is the first step in bringing heaven down to earth. We have discovered our own sanity by conquering confusion. People look up to us because our life has purpose. Our presence is benevolent, true, and genuine, like a beam of light breaking through the clouds.

Benevolence is rooted in patience, which results in gentle­ness, absence of aggression. Our mind is spacious because we have total confidence in it. This is not blind compassion or an anything-goes attitude. As rulers, we understand that people suffer, which connects us with the earth. We use the tiger's exertion to keep our feet on the ground. Earth gives us purpose. Its saying, Since the sakyong is the earth-protector, bringing peace, compassion, and wisdom to earth is your re­sponsibility.

If we want to fulfill our mandate, we can't take suffering too personally. If we take it too personally, we lose touch with heaven. We become attached, letting every scenario draw us in. Our mind becomes a little box. We begin to panic because we have no room to maneuver. For example, a project is tak­ing longer than expected and our colleague starts blaming us. We become angry. Our benevolence begins to dissolve. We make excuses, or perhaps we blame someone else. We're up against the wall, and aggression is putting us there. Our windhorse weakens, and our doubt strengthens. Basic good­ness seems like a myth; wisdom, compassion, and courage seem like faint ideals. At this point we don't need to be less gentle— we need to be more gentle. That panic is telling us that we're holding on too tightly. It's time to let go into space, like the garuda. Then we can play like the dragon, moving with the elements as they arise.

In my situation, I felt like first I needed to listen to all the problems and perspectives, I could just let people express themselves. I tried to be open-minded and inquisitive. Some people were friendly, and some were aggressive. In both cases, I got a closer look into people's minds. I learned that when others are acting out of aggression and speed, they can't quite trust benevolence. Small mind cannot understand big mind, so the wisdom ruler often encounters blame and criticism. Others try to usurp our power by moving us away from be­ing gentle, attempting to hook us into negative emotion. But gentleness is always the best whip, one that everyone re­spects, because it is devoted to the welfare of others.

Benevolence requires the steadiness of an elephant— a sense of trusting ourselves and remembering the suffering of others— because it is easy to become irritated with people. If we feel cornered in the hallway by irritation, it seems over­whelming, and we're likely to react aggressively. Since we're trapped not in a building but only within the confines of our mind, we can be patient. Patience creates space beyond the logical conclusion of negative emotion, like a large meadow in which our irritation can stomp around. After a while, it looks silly.

In some situations, being wrathful might appear to be the most compassionate thing we can do. At such times, we need to look carefully at our mind and heart and ask, Is this really compassion? Or is it negativity in disguise? Discernment stands back and takes a look at what is happening before acting. Discipline remembers the delight of helping others. Equanimity releases attachment and concept. Wisdom knows that we will often make mistakes; our training in rulership is ongoing and never-ending. If we want to know whether our wrath is compassionate, we can look at the result: the result of compassion is joy and happiness; the result of anger is that our reputation suffers, and those around us are hurt and stressed.

Benevolence is infused with being true, the second way of ruling. We are true to ourselves in moving forward on the path of virtue. We will not be deterred. This is conviction grounded in confidence, like the force behind a strong breeze. The breeze might be warm and pleasant, but it is constantly moving. Be­ing true to the strategies of tiger, lion, garuda, and dragon grounds our benevolence. Without the unshakable quality of being true, benevolence becomes protocol or politics.

Being benevolent and true to the view of basic goodness gives us natural diplomacy. Having worked diligently with our own mind, we're familiar with realms of anger, jealousy, and ignorance, as well as those of generosity and joy. We can see where people are coming from and what their tactics are, and we know what game they are playing.

Even our friends will sometimes try to manipulate us or reinterpret our intentions in order to mask their incom­petence or insecurity. If we are true, they will soon discover that this behavior doesn't work, because our gentleness is weighted with conviction. We no longer believe that we can get what we want with negativity. We're using different strategies. We understand how power flows: by resting in a big mind, we can conquer small mind.

With benevolence as our base, the spirit of being true will strengthen and build. It is a process of constantly sharpening our wisdom on the whetstone of experience. It can be lonely. Our connection with heaven gives us the strength to make decisions without feeling doubt, but at times we have to make decisions that others don't like. In my own situation, people are quite liberal in giving me advice. One person's ad­vice is always contradicting another's. It would be easy to crumble under the weight of others hopes and fears. In the end, whatever the issue is, I have to be just. Just means not straying from the path of virtue.

Being benevolent and true is how to arrive at genuine­ness— the third way of ruling. This is not even our genuine­ness particularly. It is just genuine, a star in the sky that everyone can see. We all recognize the truth when we see it. With a mind elevated by wisdom and anchored in a noble heart, we know we're doing the right thing, because whether we're a ruler or a pauper, it is the right thing to do. If we're in doubt, we need to reconnect with being benevolent and true. With these three ways of ruling, whatever we do will be just.

When we are just, others are willing to carry out our wishes. The Sanskrit word for spiritual teacher—guru— connotes heaviness, a deep understanding. When my teach­ers speak, even ordinary words seem laden with meaning and potency. This kind of power carries a natural command— a penetrating influence that is neither a threat nor a trick. Clearly, truth is being expressed, so we listen.

Ruling with Power

Our power comes not from suppressing others but from uplifting them.

Recently I asked Stanley, a scriptwriter friend of mine, about the movie business. He said, It's so transparent, so elusive. Even if you did something great be­fore, if you're not doing something now, people treat you as a has-been. It's exhausting to keep up your power, which is very short-lived. The king and queen know that power that depends on manipulation of circumstances is not genuine power. Power that depends on bombarding others with our ambition or terrorizing them into submission does not last, because it requires constant maintenance.

In order to be genuinely powerful, the ruler balances the next three ways of ruling: fearlessness, artfulness, and rejoic­ing. These three connect us to earth. True power is grounded in fearlessness, a natural expression of our confidence, knowledge, and understanding. We are fearless in jumping into our own wisdom, because we are beyond doubt about basic goodness. We are not afraid of the power of windhorse, which brings worldly and spiritual success. Because it does not need to prove itself, this fearlessness has a gentle quality, rooted in unwavering compassion.

If we fear our own power, we have lost our connection with heaven. As a result, we lose our connection to earth, and we become political. Then, like fools, we think that we need to manipulate or steal the power of others, imagining that someone else has something we need, and that going after it is how to obtain it. Because conventional politics is rooted in fear, power rooted in politics doesn't last. Others see that we're not being totally honest, and our lack of stability be­comes a weak piece they can wiggle.

If we fear the power of others, we have lost our connec­tion with earth. Trying to rule our world single-handedly, we are not really ruling. We are giving up. We may believe that independence is a sign of power, but not wanting to work with others is a sign that we haven't conquered self­absorption. We're saying, I don't want to work with others, because it makes me angry. It takes too much patience. Peo­ple are stupid. The reality is that we can't handle our anger, we can't develop our patience, and we can't cultivate our wis­dom without working with others. How can we practice not yelling when we're angry if there's no one around to push our buttons?

We have to be fearless in making decisions. The decision may concern something that affects a whole community, like determining a course of study or it may concern something that affects only one person, like deciding what time we're going to be home so that our partner can use the car. Mak­ing decisions in a tentative way— especially since the anxiety of others often manifests as criticism— only creates more fear. Our own fear can create havoc in our business, family, relationship, or country. If our fear translates into reticence, people will pay no attention to our words. If our fear trans­lates into being heavy-handed and forceful, they will resent our power and resist us. We have to be fearless, because peo­ple are depending on our power. That power comes not from suppressing others but from uplifting them. Fear is a state of mind. Fearlessness is our nature. In ruling from fearlessness, we are ruling from our roots. Like fear, fearlessness can spread.

Some years ago, when we were planning to expand our facilities at Shambhala Mountain Center, people in the ad­ministration were hesitant. They came up with all sorts of reasons that building was not a good idea. They asked me, Are you sure that this is all going to work? Underneath their hesitation was fear. I told them that, as elders in posi­tions of power, they had to be fearless, because our intention is to benefit others.

The next aspect of power is artfulness. Rulership is an art. The enlightened king and queen know how to balance power's inner and outer aspects, and they arrange the kingdom of their life accordingly. The circle of people around us gives us a base from which to generate power. As rulers we need domestic partners and family to promote decency in our home. We need ministers— administrative helpers and friends who promote our efforts to create harmony in the world. We need generals— fearless protectors in the guise of caring friends and teachers who remind us to hold the view of basic goodness.

Our circle of friends, family, and work associates is our treasury, because they provide a container in which we prac­tice virtue. If we are to rule, we need someone to protect and care for. Working with others artfully engages all the strate­gies we've learned on the tiger, lion, garuda, dragon path. It hones our discernment, increases our exertion and discipline, enlarges our joy, engages our fearlessness, and sharpens our wisdom and skill.

Establishing the people around us in their positions is like wearing jewelry. Certain pieces go on the head and oth­ers on the wrists. The king and queen use discernment to re­flect on the qualities of each person and determine her or his place. We might appreciate the creativity of our friend who stays up until all hours writing television shows, but that kind of creativity isn't what we'd look for in choosing an ac­countant. Some friends we reflect deeply with, confiding our innermost concerns; with others we only play golf. There are people at work whom we greatly appreciate, but we would never invite them to our home.

Some people in our circle will be able to take on more re­sponsibility; others would be overwhelmed by it. Which of our siblings can be responsible for the care of our aging par­ents? There will be different times for different people. Our assistant was a perfect trainee when he was fresh out of school, but now he is bored. Shall we move him into a more challenging position? Fitting the person with the position with the time— this results in harmony. Good people in good positions increase good fortune like a wish-fulfilling tree.

Choosing the wrong person for a position will hurt the kingdom as a whole. Putting a small-minded person in a po­sition of influence is like having a leak that requires continu­ous attention. That person's lack of synergy with others will drain the windhorse of the entire situation. If our mother or child marries someone who influences her in a negative way, for example, the windhorse of our family will weaken.

Putting someone with bad behavior in a high position only fuels further bad behavior. If we choose to work for an employer who encourages us to lie or steal, our windhorse will erode. So will everyone else's; one person's negativity has the power to sabotage the collective inspiration, and obsta­cles will arise. With people properly chosen and the harmony that naturally grows, everyone becomes powerful, and our work proceeds smoothly.

Artfulness has the tiger's payu, discernment. We contin­ually examine the influences in our environment. If we favor people with money, we will contort our principles. Then virtue is no longer ruling; money is ruling. Similarly, if we favor close friends and consorts, desire will begin to rule. When we are manipulated by our own attachment, our windhorse spirals downward. If everyone in our circle flatters or agrees with us, our self-awareness will become cloudy, like a faded mirror. We will lose our ability to determine what to cultivate and what to discard. If we listen to rumors and slan­der, we will begin to take sides. This will create friction, which makes an aggressive environment.

Acting artfully means we know what we are going to say and what it means to others. Before we speak, we ask our­selves, How will this help? We determine whether we should talk to our mother or our father first. Always consid­ering others, we communicate our wishes with impeccable skill and timing. We may have good news for our family, our business. We're going to change neighborhoods; there's a new product on the horizon. If we bombard people with our in­spiration, it loses its effectiveness. We need to allow space in which they can absorb the information. If we are overly anx­ious in the beginning, or too exuberant, others may back off. If we hesitate in relating the news to others, they may feel hurt that we didn't tell them sooner. A conversation here, a conversation there— as small as it may seem— builds har­mony all around. When we know a change is on the way, well-timed words to our parents, our children, our neigh­bors, our secretary, our boss— all reflect consideration. What distinguishes this kind of communication from manipula­tion is that it is not clandestine. Many people are afraid of change. If we are artful with our power, they will see our fear­lessness and grow from it.

Consideration of others is the root of being artful. This is consideration based on trying to be genuine, not on fear of stepping on people's toes. In that case, we are ruling not from fearlessness but from fear of retribution. If we fear retri­bution, we are hiding something. We fear being exposed. Then we are not conducting ourselves from the genuine source of power— emptiness and compassion beyond at­tachment to me.

In the practice of artfulness, we're considering how best to help others, not how best to avoid hurting their feelings. Of course, we must be sensitive to how others are feeling. Pe­ter the Great once dressed as a commoner in order to listen to the needs of the people with open ears. Similarly, the more confidence we have in our own wisdom and compassion, the more artful we will be in listening to others and knowing how to help them. We should ask questions, because answers often reveal both good and bad intention.

With artfulness, we open a difficult situation up with wisdom rather than close it down with our own negativity. We want to draw people out, not suppress them. When peo­ple have acted badly, we can ask, W hat do you think hap­pened? Did this behavior bring the result you wanted? How did it make you feel? Would you like to do things dif­ferently? Instead of forcing our opinion on them, we try to create space in which they can learn to use discernment and discipline to discover their own wisdom. The questions we ask are often as important as the answers we offer.

We are artful in acknowledging the virtuous efforts of others, even if their work is not obvious to anyone else. When people do good work, we offer appreciation, praise, af­fection, or a gift. Our encouragement brings delight; it in­fuses their work with meaning. When people are feeling discouraged, we foster inspiration. On a journey in Tibet, it is traditional to stop and look back to see how far we have come. Pausing and reviewing our accomplishment strength­ens our resolve to keep going. Sometimes we can encourage people by helping them see their priorities more clearly, with the motivation of leading them to a more positive state of mind.

In order to get things done, sometimes we have to go slowly, and sometimes we have to move quickly. But with art­fulness, whatever the pace of our activity, it looks seamless. This kind of power stems from our genuine appreciation of the moment— from how we drink a cup of tea to how we wear our clothing. In ancient Japan, samurai warriors mas­tered many arts— flower arranging, tea ceremony, and con­versation. They were able to contain their power in the most delicate of activities. A cup of tea conveyed the warmth of perfect friendship, an arrangement of flowers brought the cosmos into a dish. With the same elegance, they could draw their sword and strike a fatal blow, or release an arrow and pierce the heart of an enemy. Such perfect balance and tim­ing attracts drala. It overtakes others before they know it, like the sun moving from morning to midday. When people feel our warmth, they are delighted. This is the art of power.

After we have studied Buddhist metaphysics and prac­ticed debate for long hours, my teacher Penor Rinpoche often calls me out to share some tea. We talk about birds, the weather, or flowers. He loves to talk about animals. He is bal­ancing my intellectual training with the art of conversation, which involves the equanimity of the garuda, letting go of our own concerns and making space to hear what others have to say. Whether physical or intellectual, power has to be bal­anced, Expressing it artfully creates harmony.

When we communicate power artfully, everyone feels in­cluded, as if we have each persons interests in mind. Because our power is not oppressive, communication is healthy and open. We feel fortunate in one another. This love brings the delight of the snow lion, because virtue gives birth to virtue. From the ground up, virtue manifests as basic decency— re­spect for the environment and care for each other. We have fearlessly rejected self-absorption, so joy and celebration arise. This brings us to the sixth way of ruling— rejoicing. At Shambhala meditation retreats, both teachers and participants are working the principles of the tiger, lion, garuda, and dragon. We try to maintain our connection to heaven— confidence in basic goodness. We try to ground our view in earth— our everyday activity. In bringing heaven and earth together, were attempting to generate harmony and create an enlightened world.

At the end of these programs, there is always a celebra­tion, Inevitably, a series of toasts arises. Students toast teach­ers and meditation instructors in appreciation of their guidance; meditation instructors and teachers toast students in appreciation of the challenges and dedication they offered. This isn't the only time I feel the sense of rejoicing and cele­bration in our community, but in this dark age, when it's so easy to succumb to aggression, our mutual exchange feels very powerful. It reflects how hard we are working together.

When I walk into a room where one of my teachers is sit­ting, I often feel as if I have just missed some kind of celebra­tion. There is an air of crescendo. It's not that anything special is happening; I have just walked in on a cheerful, un­cluttered state of mind— the tigers contentment, the lion's delight, the garuda's equanimity, and the dragon's selflessness, all in one. My father exuded an air of celebration that in­cluded a big smile and a sense of playfulness and invitation. A ball of tsampa— roasted barely flour— from my teacher Khyentse Rinpoche tasted more delicious to me than a piece of chocolate cake.

The natural celebratory energy of balancing heaven and earth can arise anywhere. Celebration can be spontaneous or formal. We can put on some music and dance, or we can schedule a picnic in the country with our co-workers after we've finished a project together. When we have an impor­tant announcement to make, we can gather our friends and family for a special meal. We can express our joy by doing something we were scared to do before, or just by taking an afternoon off to see a movie with a friend. If celebration is missing in our life, we can take it as a sign that we have not been ruling our world. Our love and care are blocked. Nega­tivity has crept in. We don't see anything to celebrate. When this happens, we need to remember basic goodness.

In Tibet, the lunar New Year— usually observed, in Feb­ruary— is like Christmas, New Years, Easter, and our birth­days all rolled into one. I asked an old Tibetan lama how he felt about the celebration as a child. He said, Of course we were excited. We could barely sleep the night before. N ot only was there the lhasang— the juniper-smoke ceremony— the many offerings, the ceremonies but we also had a deli­cious meal. I wondered what that was, and he told me it was yak head. They would sit at the table and eat the aged and preserved innards of the yak— a far cry from ice cream and cake but a celebration, nonetheless.

Celebration is an attitude. We are happy in our skin. We are happy in our family. We are happy in our work. We are happy in our country. This is the ultimate appreciation of daily life. We're not just in it for ourselves; we re in it because we want to offer wisdom and compassion to others, who feel the power of our love and care. This kind of relationship with our kingdom creates harmony, a friction-free environ­ment. As we overcome fear and aggression, there is less bick­ering, jealousy, and competition. Thus as a group we have strong windhorse, which makes us all-victorious.

Ruling Your World

When we create the right conditions for success, windhorse doesn't just gallop, it flies.

The tradition of rulership tells us that we are all meant to rule our world. We don't have to rule the entire world, but if we rule our own mind and thus our environment, our peace and power does in fact begin to spread into the rest of the world. This energy is lungta, wind­horse— spiritual and worldly success.

The teachings of Shambhala emphasize the reality that we all have basic goodness, and that the world we live in has basic goodness. However, in this dark age there is a constant sense of fear and dissatisfaction. That negativity consumes us so that we cannot settle even in our own mind, let alone in our family or our society. When we are all saving the last piece of pie for ourselves, we are constantly undermining the possibility of creating stability and happiness. When we ap­proach our planet with this attitude, the world is ruled by small-mindedness. Businesses and governments are crippled and ultimately fail, because everyone is on the me plan. Be­ing dragged around by emotions destabilizes our mind, our day, our life, and ultimately, the welfare of our planet. That is the notion of suffering.

The ruler looks at that suffering with the intention of do­ing something about it. In Shambhala, we vow to create an enlightened world. This vow reflects our aspiration to re­lieve suffering by awakening the world to its own potential.

After King Dawa Sangpo received the transmission of these teachings from the Buddha, he realized, as did all the Rigden kings, that in order for a society to be truly harmo­nious, it cannot be based on jealousy, greed, and anger. It must be rooted in a more primordial principle, something that cannot be bought and sold. Dawa Sangpo began to propagate the transmission he had received from the Buddha about basic goodness, the awakened nature of all. He taught his subjects to meditate and contemplate, and instructed them in the four strategies for bringing meaning to their lives. People became more peaceful, kind, and happy. Their confidence increased. Soon they were sleeping, eating, walk­ing, and working according to the understanding of their in­destructible nature. This is how the citizens of Shambhala discovered their own enlightenment.

Just as in the context of Buddhism we are all already buddha— awake— the world is already Shambhala. It is only because we are roaming in the kingdom of doubt and anger, jealousy and pride, that we cannot see it right now. When we see through our perpetual agitation and relax into basic goodness, the enlightened world of Shambhala begins to ap­pear. Enlightenment is things as they are before we color them with our projections. When we take the vow of the ruler— to help create an enlightened world— we're saying that we're going to work in this life, right now, to develop confidence in basic goodness, so that we will be able to live in that sacred world, wherever we are.

There are no castes in the kingdom of Shambhala. We are all Rigden— possessor of the family— because we al­ready possess our own awareness fully. To see this on the in­dividual level, we need to wake up to the natural energy of our mind. Practicing meditation and contemplation is how we purify our mind, just as we polish a crystal ball so that we can actually see the full display of radiance. Understanding all as basic goodness, we take this life as our opportunity to be confident and free.

As a worldly path, Shambhala is grounded in doing what is best for society. The best thing for society, even in an every­day situation, is the complete fulfillment and happiness of the individual. If we want a world that generates love and happiness, we need to start watering the seeds of peace and stability in our own mind. By ruling our mind and using it to generate compassion, we can rule our economy and our fu­ture. The enlightened king and queen regard wealth as a measure of success, but to this they add the cause of true happiness. They know that happiness is never going to come just from physical forms, because happiness is a state of mind. With the wish-fulfilling jewel of wisdom and compas­sion as the basis of our life, we can develop this conscious­ness of happiness.

The enlightened kings and queens of the past, as well as the ascetics meditating in caves, have all said that the secret to creating stability is to put the welfare of others before our own. Some may consider this approach unrealistic. But the ruler knows that getting off the me plan is the most expedi­ent and practical element in any economic system. An econ­omy based on compassion infused with wisdom will not self-destruct. Trying to create stability without the founda­tion of these qualities will only condemn us to perpetual fric­tion, and we will continue to pollute our world with the fumes of self-interest. The wish-fulfilling jewel is the best pollution control, because it brings spaciousness to the mind, which allows windhorse to arise.

Riding windhorse is how we use our worldly life as a spir­itual path. We nurture heaven by developing certainty in ba­sic goodness. We bring heaven down to earth by having the courage to act with compassion. Then we can live in the world as a ruler no matter what we are doing. We can be married, have children, and own a house. How we use our mind and live our life determine whether windhorse in­creases or diminishes. To rule our world is to live in a way that continually strengthens windhorse.

Windhorse brings spiritual and worldly success— per­sonal power, harmony with others, strong life force, and ma­terial prosperity. It is connected with understanding how in­terdependence works. Like a good cook, we know that one ingredient does not create a delicious meal but that many elements must come together in exactly the right way. The ingredients for windhorse are mindfulness, awareness, and virtue, as well as the wisdom and skill that allow us to bring them together. Then life tastes good, because we are in tune with the glory of our being. Because we are free from self-interest, we have authentic presence and confidence— a field of power that radiates. We develop an aura that makes us seem bigger and more beautiful to others. This attracts the blessing energy of drala.

To rule our world, we need to make these Shambhala teachings our own experience. Sometimes people write down bits of wisdom and post them on the refrigerator. That is a very sweet gesture, but if we do not take those words and incorporate them into our lives, they are only decoration. Even if we are deeply inspired by this book, if we don't fol­low the instructions for contemplating the strategies of rulership, our inspiration will be short-lived. When we try to apply them to our lives, we will become disheartened, be­cause it will feel nearly impossible. We have to internalize them. That's the power of contemplation. It's like kneading water into dough— we have to keep working it in. Otherwise we might hear the truth, but most likely it won't stick. We'll just go back to how we we're doing things before. Learning to rule our world is not easy, but it helps that every enlight­ened person has undergone the process of studying these principles and working them into their lives. If we also con­template these principles in formal sitting practice and throughout our day, everyone will definitely benefit.

If enough of us learn how to rule our world, we will even­tually be able to rule our planet in a way that reflects our in­nate sanity as truly human beings. When we create the right conditions for success, windhorse doesn't just gallop, it flies. The effect may be gradual, but even a ten percent effort by a small number of us could enlighten the world sooner than we think. Virtue has the power of a hundred thousand suns. If even some of us turn our minds toward virtue just ten per­cent of the time, we will soon be living on a planet illumi­nated by the power of several billion suns. The Shambhala teachings tell us that when that light shines, the happiness of all sentient beings will be accomplished, and the new golden age will dawn.

A few years ago, my friend Greg told me that his brother was going on an expedition to climb Mount Everest. He asked me if there were something I would like him to take. I gave him the flag of Shambhala. The Shambhala flag has a white background representing basic goodness. It has a yel­low circle representing the Great Eastern Sun, the inherent wisdom of all beings. It has four stripes, of orange, white, red, and blue, representing the four kinds of confidence— the tiger, the lion, the garuda, and the dragon. These represent the contentment, joy, equanimity, and wisdom it takes to rule our world.

In Tibet, when you reach the top of a mountain you un­furl a flag, the idea being that the wind will carry the confi­dence of windhorse and basic goodness in all directions. At the same time, you shout the warriors cry, LHA GYAL LO— Heaven is victorious.

As Greg's brother approached the top of the mountain, the weather changed and he was unable to continue. One of the Sherpas took the flag and carried it to the top. A lull in the wind allowed him to unfurl the full-size flag and raise it. The profound, brilliant, just, powerful, all-victorious way of the ruler has been taught and practiced in Tibet and Cen­tral Asia for centuries. Now a huge nylon flag from the West is radiating the confidence of windhorse from the rooftop of the world. May its blessing inspire each of us to rule our world, bringing the golden age of peace, true wealth, free­dom, and happiness to all.

The Posture of Meditation

(1) The spine is upright, with its natural curves.
(2) The hands are resting on the thighs.
(3) The arms and shoulders are relaxed.
(4) The back of the neck is relaxed, which allows the chin to come down.
(5) The gaze is downward; the eyelids are half shut.
(6) The face and jaw are natural and relaxed.
(7) If youre sitting on a cushion, keep your ankles loosely crossed. If youre sitting on a chair, keep both feet firmly on the floor.

Guidelines for Breathing Meditation

(1) Take the posture of meditation.
(2) Make a clear and precise beginning to your practice: Now I will begin to work with my mind and develop peace.
(3) Place your mind on the breath. Stay with its flow, which soothes the mind, allows for steadiness and relaxation, and reduces discursiveness. This is ordinary breathing; nothing is exaggerated. If you're having a hard time staying with the breath, you can count the in- and out-cycles: in and then out— one; in and then out— two. If you use this method, count seven or twenty-one breaths and then start over. If you become distracted and lose count, start over again at one. Once you are more focused, you can drop the counting.
(4) When you notice that you're caught up in thinking, acknowledge it. Label it thinking, if you wish. Recognizing and acknowledging the thought allows it to dissipate as you return the placement of your mind to the breath: Now I am placing my mind on the breath.
(5) Talking about your meditation practice with someone else and being part of a community of fellow meditators can be a tremendous support. Shambhala Centers offer a program based on the detailed instruction presented in my first book, Turning the Mind into an Ally.

Guidelines for Contemplative Meditation

(1) Calm the mind by resting on the breathing.
(2) When you feel ready, bring up a certain thought or intention in the form of words.
(3) Use these words as the object of meditation, continually returning to them as distractions arise.
(4) In order to help rouse the heartfelt experience of their meaning, think about the words. Bring ideas and images to mind to inspire the meaning.
(5) As the meaning of the words begins to penetrate the heart, let the words drop away, and rest in that.
(6) Conclude your session and arise from your meditation with the meaning in your heart. Meaning is direct experience, free from words.
(7) Now enter the world aspiring to conduct yourself with the view of your contemplation. For example, if you have been contemplating the preciousness of human birth, your view will be one of appreciation.

Glossary

basic goodness

The unconditional purity and confidence of all.

bodhichitta

The wish-fulfilling jewel of wisdom, compassion, and courage. The mind of enlightenment.

dharma

In Buddhism, the truth about the way things are; also, teachings that express that truth.

drala

Literally, above the enemy. The blessing energy that arises when we overcome our own aggression.

drip

Contamination and obscuration that arise from negative emotions and self-centeredness.

karma

Confused action based on a mistaken belief in me and "other." The intentional activity of body, speech, and mind created by the interdependency of causes and conditions.

klesha

Confused emotion rooted in ignorance.

lungta

Windhorse, the innate ability to attain success that occurs from acting virtuously.

nyingje

Literally,noble heart. Compassion, the wish for suffering to cease in all beings,

payu

Discernment.

prajna

Best knowledge, incisive insight. In Tibetan iconogra­phy, it is symbolized by a sword.

Rigden

Possessor of the family. Embodiment of basic good­ness. The name given to the twenty-five enlightened rulers of the legendary kingdom of Shambhala.

Rinpoche

A Tibetan honorific meaning precious jewel.

sakyong

Earth-protector. Title of the king of Shambhala. The queen is called sakyong wangmo, earth-protector pow­erful lady. Representatives of the Rigdens, the king and queen of Shambhala are benevolent rulers who join heaven and earth to bring about an enlightened world.

samsara

Circular. An endless cycle of suffering and discontent, arising out of ignorance.

tashi tendrel

Auspicious coincidence.

wangthang

Field of power. A quality of genuine presence that grows from our intimacy with virtue.

windhorse

See lungta.

ziji

Brilliant confidence.