Lianna Patch
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When I think of my lineage, I think first of one of my dearest friends, John. I came to the practice through MBSR (very much focused on reducing my own anxiety and depression). But John came to it via a more spiritual journey, and got involved with Padma Samye Ling monastery, in the Catskills.
We drove to PSL once from New Orleans and stayed there for five days on sort of our own mini-retreat, which was the first time I experienced the spiritual side of Buddhist practice. I was completely cowed by the gorgeous intricacy of the temple, and frustrated by the chanting, and sore from all the sitting. Also, the idea that we each needed to contribute to the upkeep of the place was a welcome challenge. That was my first (and last) time pushing a lawnmower up a hill. It was HARD. But looking back, those five days made a real impact on me.
I also think of teachers and writers: Thich Nhat Hanh, and Pema Chodron, whose writing I really connect with. (And obviously Susan! Duh!) I had several teachers leading my mentorship group through Cloud Sangha, and appreciated them all. I used to regularly listen to dharma talks via the Audio Dharma podcast. And then there’s the natural world. Plenty to learn from there.
Can all of these threads be part of my custom-woven lineage?
If there’s a unifying factor among the people I admire, it might be their wisdom, or kindness, or equanimity. I see those qualities and I want to embody them. (More specifically, I LONG to embody them. Longing is a pretty constant theme in this big, bleedy heart of mine.)
I appreciate the invitation to consider lineage in a broader, looser context — thinking about all my teachers, whether they know they’re teaching me or not.
(Reposting because apparently this didn’t post the first time!)
I regret to inform you all that I approached this question as I usually approach existential questions: from a place of skepticism and negativity. (I think that sounds worse than it feels? But also, it’s why I’m here.)
The answer to “What are you already devoted to?” for me feels like: Recognizing the good in the world, and in other people, in a way that helps me grapple with the not-good.
Feels kind of like a tidal battle between the forces of good and evil, except it’s mostly happening in my brain. (I submit that we’re evolutionarily wired to overemphasize the negative, to the tune of giving bad experiences 5x more mental weight than positive ones. So my ~personal~ efforts to counteract that imbalance usually involve consciously trying to see more of the good that very much exists.)
From this precarious little ledge I’ve built for myself, devotion to a guru could be a bit distracting, because how can one person stand in for the vastness of the human experience? Shouldn’t we be focusing on EVERYONE, not just one?
But on the other hand, a guru or guide can be a prism — helping students focus their devotion and reflect it out to the world. Maybe it’s the practice of devotion that matters more than the original recipient of the devotion.
Warning: unhinged ramble ahead.
I was so tempted to write about the first noble truth, since it’s what drew me to Buddhism (this seemed to be the only spiritual practice that faced head-on what tend to feel often — that there’s SO MUCH suffering out there, and I struggle to deal with it all).
Instead I’ll write about the third noble truth, or the cessation of suffering.
When I was in eighth grade, I was just starting to fall into a cycle of depression and anxiety that’s been with me since then. I felt everything so deeply, which meant I often felt rejected or isolated. Naturally, I communicated this isolation by listening to terrible nü metal, dressing in all black, and snapping at my parents.
At that time, a good friend of mine gave me the cavalier advice “Don’t care,” which seemed much easier said than done. (Also, how did another eighth-grader have such a nihilistic view at that age? Whatever, he’s doing great these days, super proud of him.)
But at its core, “Don’t care” feels like a component of the third noble truth. To let go of attachment feels like deciding not to care, though there’s definitely a balance necessary here to walk the middle way between eternalism and nihilism. (I think it’s less about completely turning off the caring, and more stepping outside of the emotional attachment to the caring itself. Dang, it’s so hard to explain this stuff.)
I’m also reminded of my occasional volunteer work in animal rescue. People who work in animal rescue are people who care ENORMOUSLY about animal welfare, but caring so deeply can lead to burnout.
So to be more effective, for longer, and to preserve their own energy and capacity for future good deeds, animal rescuers often have to work on practicing letting go of attachment: to desired outcomes, to the dream of saving every animal, and to the idea that working themselves to the bone will make a difference.
It’s probably not the right focus to think of cultivating non-attachment as a practice that will make me “better” at anything. But maybe it’s a start along the path of awakening? (All of my essays are probably going to end with these “maybe??” conjectures. Sorry not sorry.)
Rachel! I have so much respect and admiration for your devotion to the process of making art. I feel like society places so much importance on the end result of the process, which overlooks the transformative power of, you know, actually DOING the thing. (I once did an art therapy class as part of an outpatient depression treatment program, and privately thought “This will be dumb/What could I possibly learn from this??” So naturally it ended up being one of my favorite parts of the program.)
And +1 for dear friends being gurus in their own way, without trying or knowing it. I learn so much from my friends.
Oh, I love the idea of “words to redeem”. What a beautiful way to be reminded that there’s more depth to certain concepts than we sometimes see at first.
Completely agree with initially bristling at the idea of “devotion”. I also hadn’t realized that I was applying Western patriarchal ideas to it. Thanks for this insight, Anne 🙂
