When I was young and bloodthirsty, the constant judging and criticizing that form these patterns made me feel sharp, clever, discriminating. They gave me distance from the adjectives I was so afraid of: dull, commonplace, dependent, soft. It took time to realize that I needed to be leery of the distance itself. And of mistaking disapproval for discernment. And of building barriers instead of bridges. It also took time to see that my judgmental tendencies and my capacity for discernment have their roots in the same sharp clarity—but one is neurosis, and nothing else. We’ve all got some balancing act going. Maybe we juggle clarity and criticism; or it could be devotion and credulity, warmth and vagueness, energy and rivalry, precision and a need to control. We may struggle to cultivate one and suppress the other, but sometimes all it takes is a willingness to let go of our patterns as soon as we recognize them, and to stay open to whatever comes next. Motivation is of the essence here.
As a dharma teacher and the student of an ideal master, I can hardly justify my habitual vexation. Here in this temple, the ideal master is right in front of me on his throne, receiving everyone who comes for a blessing with impartial kindness, from the moneyed members of Nepal’s high society to the Tibetan beggar woman with cheerful folly in her eyes who bows to everyone before approaching him with a worn scarf and a ten-rupee offering. Although he is solicited from dawn to dark, Sherab Gyaltsen Rinpoche is invariably good-humored, empathetic, and available to all who need him, even when he’s so tired that he can hardly stay awake. Spending time with a human being who seems to be entirely devoted to the welfare of others is a rare privilege indeed; at the same time, it is a constant reminder of my own shortcomings and imperfections.
During this particular retreat I will vacillate between remaining comfortably—sometimes blissfully—focused and present, and battling irritation, berating myself for being unable to recognize the sound of dogs yapping or nuns spitting as the sound of the mantra.
My new neighbor, who has uncommonly large nostrils, is picking his nose. He finally finds what he’s been drilling for and wipes it on the side of the table. I am so incensed I could burst. And then I look around, and everyone else seems to be practicing. The world has not stopped spinning because of yogi snot. In fact, I cannot imagine Rinpoche—or virtually any of the other practitioners present— making the kind of righteous big deal about boogers, smelly toilets, gassy practitioners, or spit that my mind keeps producing. And even if I am currently incapable of transforming these phenomena into manifestations of the divine, I know I can train in recognizing the negative thoughts as they arise, let go of them, and slide back into practice. Maybe my neighbor has been doing the same thing with my frequent leg shifting. Anyway, who’s to say that Marpa didn’t pick his nose? Or that Saraha wasn’t given to belching? Or that Patrul Rinpoche’s feet were fungus-free, or that Machik Labdrön didn’t noisily slurp her tea or smack while chewing? Maybe she dribbled! How can we know? How can we know who is sitting beside us, what their level of realization is, the trials they’ve endured, the kindness in their hearts?
