One of the most important questions we come to in spiritual practice is how
to reconcile service and responsible action with a meditative life based on
nonattachment, letting go, and coming to understand the ultimate emptiness
of all conditioned things. Do the values that lead us to actively give,
serve, and care for one another differ from the values that lead us deep
within ourselves on a journey of liberation and awakening? To consider this
question, we must first learn to distinguish among four qualities central
to spiritual practice--love, compassion, sympathetic joy, and
equanimity--and what might be called their "near enemies." Near enemies may
seem to be very close to these qualities and may even be mistaken for them,
but they are not fundamentally alike.

The near enemy of love is attachment. Attachment masquerades as love. It
says, "I love this person as long as he or she doesn't change. I'll love
you if you'll love me back. I'll love that if it will be the way I want
it." This isn't love at all--it is attachment--and attachment is very
different from love. Love allows, honors, and appreciates; attachment
grasps, demands, needs, and aims to possess. Attachment offers love only to
certain people; it is exclusive. Love, in the sense that the Buddha used
the word metta is a universal, nondiscriminating feeling of caring and
connectedness, even toward those whom we may not approve of or like. We may
not condone their behavior, but we cultivate forgiveness. Love is a
powerful tool that transforms any situation. It is not passive
acquiescence. As the Buddha said, "Hatred never ceases through hatred.
Hatred only ceases through love." Love embraces all beings without
exception, and discards ill will.

One near enemy of compassion is pity. Instead of feeling the openness of
compassion, pity says, "Oh, that poor person is suffering!" Pity sets up a
separation between oneself and others, a sense of distance and remoteness
from the suffering of others that is affirming and gratifying to the ego.
Compassion, on the other hand, recognizes the suffering of another as a
reflection of one's own pain: "I understand that; I suffer in the same way.
It's a part of life." Compassion is shared suffering.

Another near enemy of compassion is grief. Compassion is not grief. It is
not an immersion in or identification with the suffering of others that
leads to an anguished reaction. Compassion is the tender readiness of the
heart to respond to one's own or another's pain without grief or resentment
or aversion. It is the wish to dissipate suffering. Compassion embraces
those experiencing sorrow, and eliminates cruelty from the mind.

The third quality, sympathetic joy, is the ability to feel joy in the
happiness of others. The near enemy of equanimity is unintelligent
indifference or callousness. We appear serene if we say, "I'm not attached.
I don't care what happens anyway because it's all transitory." We feel a
certain peaceful relief because we withdraw from experience and from the
energies of life. But true equanimity is not a withdrawal; it is a balanced
engagement with all aspects of life. It is opening to the whole of life
with composure and with balance of mind, seeing the nature of all things.
Equanimity embraces the loved and the unloved, the agreeable and the
disagreeable, and pleasure and pain; it eliminates clinging and aversion.

Although everything is empty, we nevertheless honor the reality of form. As
Zen Master Dogen says: "Flowers fall with our attachment, and weeds spring
up with our aversion." Knowing deeply that all will cage--that the world of
conditioned phenomena is insubstantial, we are fully present and in harmony
with it.

Attachment, pity, comparison, and indifference are all ways of backing away
from life out of fear. Spirituality is not a removal or escape from life.
It is seeing the word with a deeper vision that is not self-centered, a
vision that sees through dualistic views to the underlying
interconnectedness of all of life. It is the discovery of freedom in the
very midst of our bodies and minds.

In the Eightfold Path the Buddha talks about Right Thought or Right
Aspiration, which has three aspects. The first is cultivating thoughts that
are free from desire, discarding transitory experience, and developing a
sense of inner contentment. The second is cultivating thoughts free from
ill will and resentment; this means cultivating thoughts of compassion and
gentleness. The third is cultivating thoughts free from cruelty; this means
nourishing the forces of kindness and active love within us. With a sense
of Right Aspirations we can use all the different situations we face as
stepping stones, This is the thread that unites all the moments of our
lives. Each moment becomes an opportunity.

While in India, I spoke with Vimala Thaker about the question of meditation
and activity in the world. Vimala had worked for many years in rural
development and land redistribution projects when, as a result of her
longtime interest in Krishnamurti's teachings, she began to teach
meditation and devoted many years to this. She has recently returned to
development work and to helping the hungry and homeless, teaching much less
than she once had. I asked her why she decided to go back to the type of
work she had been doing years before. She replied: "Sir, I am a lover of
life, and as a lover of life, I cannot keep out of any activity of life. If
there are people who are hungry, for food, my response its to help feed
them. If there are people who are hungry for truth, my response is to help
them discover it. I make no distinction."

The Suds have a saying, "Praise Allah, and tie your camel to the post."
Pray, but also make sure you do what is necessary in the world. Meditate,
but manifest your understanding of this spiritual experience. Balance your
realization of emptiness with a sense of compassion and impeccability to
guide your life.

Seeing emptiness means seeing that all of life is like a bubble in a
rushing stream, a play of light and shadow, a dream. It means understanding
that this tiny planet hangs in the immensity of space amidst millions and
billions of stars and galaxies, that all of human history, is like one
second compared to the billions of years of earth's history, and that it
will all be over very soon and no one is really going anywhere. This
context helps us to let go amidst the seeming seriousness of our problems,
and to enter life with a sense of lightness and ease. Impeccability means
that we must realize how precious life is, even though it is transient and
ephemeral, and how each of our actions and words affect all beings around
us in a most profound way. There is nothing inconsequential in this
universe, and we need to respect this fact personally and act responsibly
in accordance with it.

One could make a very convincing case for simply devoting oneself to
meditation. Does the world need more medicine and energy and buildings and
food? Not really. There are enough resources for all of us. There is
starvation and poverty and disease because of ignorance, prejudice, and
fear, because we board materials and create wars over imaginary geographic
boundaries and act as if one group of people is truly different from
another group somewhere else on the planet. What the world needs is not
more oil, but more love and generosity, more kindness and understanding.
The most fundamental thing we can do to help this war-torn and suffering
world is to genuinely free ourselves from the greed and fear and divisive
views in our own minds, and then help others to do the same. Thus, a
spiritual life is not a privilege; it is a basic responsibility.

But there is also a convincing argument for devoting oneself entirely to
service in the world. I have only to mention the recent horror of Cambodia,
the violence in Central America, the starvation in Africa--situations in
which the enormity of suffering is almost beyond comprehension In India
alone, 350 million people live in such poverty that one day's work pays for
only one meal. I once met a man in Calcutta who was sixty-four years old
and pulled a rickshaw for a living. He had been doing it for forty years
and had ten people dependent on him for income. He had gotten sick the year
before for ten days; within a week money ran out and they had nothing to
eat. How can we possibly let this happen? Forty children per-minute die
from starvation while 25 million dollars per minute are spent on arms. We
must respond. We cannot hold back or look away. We have painful dilemmas to
face. Where should we put our energy? If we decide to meditate, even
choosing which type of meditation practice can be confusing.

The starting point is to look directly at suffering, both the suffering in
the world and the suffering in our own hearts and minds. This is the
beginning of the teaching of the Buddha. and the beginning of our own
understanding of the problem of world peace. At this moment on our planet.
there are hundreds of millions of people who are starving or malnourished.
Hundreds of millions of people are so impoverished that they have little or
no shelter and clothing, or they are sick with diseases that we know how to
sure, but they cannot afford the medicine or do not have access to it.

For us to begin to look directly at the situation is not a question of
ceremony or of religion. We have a mandate to took in a very deep way at
the sorrow and suffering that exists now in our world, and to look at our
individual and collective relationship to it, to bear witness to it, to
acknowledge it instead of running away. The suffering is so great that we
do not want to We close our minds. We close our eyes and hearts.

Opening ourselves to all aspects of experience is what is asked of us if we
want to do something, if we want to make a change, if we want to make a
difference. We must look at the world honestly, unflinchingly, and
directly, and then look at ourselves and see that sorrow is not just out
there, external, but it is also within ourselves. It is our own fear,
prejudice, hatred, desire, neurosis, and anxiety. it is our own sorrow. We
have to look at it and not run away from it. In opening ourselves to
suffering, we discover that we can connect with and listen to our own
hearts.

In the heart of each of us, a great potential exists for realizing truth,
for experiencing wholeness, for going beyond the shell of the ego. The
problem is that we become so busy and lost in our own thinking that we lose
our connection with our own true nature. If we look deeply, we discover
that the wholeness of our being comes to know and express itself both
through meditation and through sharing ourselves with others, and the
course to take is very clear and immediate. Whether it is an inner or an
outer path, it has enormous power to affect the world.

I spend most of my time teaching meditation. A few years ago, when many
"thousands of Cambodian people were fleeing the violence in their homeland
only to face starvation and disease in refugee camps in Thailand, something
in me said, "I've got to go there," and so I went. I knew the people and a
few of the local languages. After being there for a short time, trying to
assist, I returned to this country to guide intensive meditation retreats.
I did not deliberate much at the time about whether or not I should go to
work in the refugee camps. I felt that it had to be done, and I went and
did it. It was immediate and personal.

The spiritual path does not present us with a stylized pat formula for
everyone to follow. It not a matter of imitation. We cannot be Mother
Theresa or Gandhi or the Buddha. We have to be ourselves. We must discover
and connect with our unique expression of the truth. We must learn to
listen to and trust ourselves.

There are two great forces in the world. One is the force of killing.
People who are not afraid to kill govern nations, make wars, and control
much of the activity of our world. There is great strength in not being
afraid to kill. The other source of strength in the world--the real
strength--is in people who are not afraid to die. These are people who have
touched the very source of their being, who have looked into themselves in
such a deep way that they understand and acknowledge and accept death, and
in a way, have already died. They have seen beyond the separateness of the
ego's shell, and they bring to life the fearlessness and the caring born of
love and truth. This is a force that can meet the force of someone who is
not afraid to kill.

This is the power Gandhi called satygraha, the force of truth, and the
force that he demonstrated in his own life. When India was partitioned,
millions of people became refugees--Muslims and Hindus moved from one
country to another. There was horrible violence and rioting. Tens of
thousands of troops were sent to West Pakistan to try to quell the terrible
violence, while Gandhi went to what was then East Pakistan. He walked from
village to village asking people to stop the bloodshed. Then he fasted. He
said he would take no more food until the violence and insanity stopped,
even if it meant his own death. And the riots stopped. They stopped because
of the power of love, because Gandhi cared about something--call it truth
or life or whatever you wish--it was something much greater than Gandhi the
person. This is the nature of our spiritual practice, whatever form it may'
take. Living aligned with truth is more important than either living or
dying. This understanding is the source of incredible power and energy, and
must be manifested through love, compassion, sympathetic joy, and
equanimity.

One of the exquisite experiences of my travels in India was going to the
holy city of Benares by the Ganges River. Along the river bank are ghats
where people bathe as a purification, and there are also ghats where people
bring corpses to be cremated. I had heard about the burning ghats for years
and had always thought that being there would be a heavy experience. I was
rowed down river in a little boat, and up to the ghats where there were
twelve fires going. Every half-hour or so, a new body would be carried down
to the fires as people chanted "Rama Nama Satya Hei," the only truth is the
name of God. I was surprised. It was not dreadful at all; it was peaceful,
quiet, and very sane. There was as a recognition that life and death are
part of the same process and therefore death need not be feared.

There is a deep joy that comes when we stop denying the painful aspects of
life, and instead allow our hearts to open to and accept the full range of
our experience: life and death, pleasure and pain, darkness and light. Even
in the face of the tremendous suffering in the world, there can be this
joy, which comes not from rejecting pain and seeking pleasure, but rather
from our ability to meditate and open ourselves to the truth. Spiritual
practice begins by allowing ourselves to face our own sadness, fear,
anxiety, desperation--to die to the ego's ideas about how things should be,
and to love and accept the truth of things as they are.

With this as our foundation, we can see the source of suffering in our
lives and in the world around us. We can see the factors of greed, hatred,
and ignorance that produce a sense of separation. If we look directly, we
can see the end of suffering because its end is an acknowledgment and a
clear understanding of the oneness of light and dark, up and down, sorrow
and joy. We can see all these things without attachment and without
separation.

We must look at how we have created and enforced separation. How have we
made this a world of "I want this; I want to become that; this will make me
safe; this will make me powerful?" Race, nationality, age, and religion all
enforce separation. Look into yourself and see what is "us" and what is
"them" for you. When there is a sense of "us," then there is a sense of
"other." When we can give this up, then we can give up the idea that
strength comes from having more than others, or from having the power to
kill others. When we give this up, we give up the stereotype of love as a
weakness.

There is a story from the Zen tradition about an old monk in China who
practiced very hard meditation for many years. He had a good mind and
became very quiet, but never really touched the end of "I" and "others" in
himself. He never came to the source of complete stillness or peace out of
which transformation comes, So he went to the Zen Master and said, "May I
please have permission to go off and practice in the mountains? I have
worked for years as a monk and there is nothing else I want but to
understand this: the true nature of myself, of this world." And the master,
knowing that he was ripe, gave him permission to leave.

He left the monastery, took his bowl and few possessions, and walked
through various towns toward the mountains. He had left the last village
behind and was going up a little trail when there appeared before him,
coming down the trail, an old man carrying a great big bundle on his back.
This old man was actually the Bodhisattva, Manjusri, who is said to appear
to people at the moment that they are ripe for awakening, and is depicted
carrying the sword of discriminating wisdom that cuts through all
attachment, all illusion, and separateness. The monk looked at the old man,
and the old man said, "Say, friend, where are you going?" The monk told his
story. "I've practiced for all these years and all I want now is to touch
that center point, to know that which is essentially true. Tell me, old
man, do you know anything of this enlightenment?" The old man simply let go
of the bundle; it dropped to the ground, and the monk was enlightened.

That is our aspiration and our task --to put it all down, to drop all of
our clinging, condemning, identifying, our opinions and our sense of I, me,
mine. The newly enlightened monk looked at the old man again. He said, "So
now what?" The old man reached down, picked up the bundle again and walked
off to town.

We want to put it all down, which means also to acknowledge where it
begins. To see sorrow, to see suffering, to see pain, to see that we are
all in it together, to see birth and death. If we are afraid of death and
afraid of suffering, and we do not want to look, then we cannot put it
down. We will push it away here and will grab it again there. When we have
seen the nature of life directly, we can put it down. Once we put it down,
then with understanding and compassion we can pick it up again. Then we can
act effectively, even dramatically, without bitterness or
self-righteousness. We can be motivated by a genuine sense of caring and of
forgiveness, and a determination to live our lives well.

A number of years ago I attended a conference at which Mad Bear, an
Iroquois medicine man spoke. He said, "For my presentation I'd like us to
begin by going outside," and we all went out. He led us to an open field
and then asked us to stand silently in a circle. We stood for a while in
silence under a wide open sky, surrounded by fields of grain stretching to
the horizon. Then Mad Bear began to speak offering a prayer of gratitude.
He began by thanking the earthworms for aerating the soil so that plants
can grow. He thanked the grasses that cover the earth for keeping the dust
from blowing, for cushioning out steps, and for showing our eyes the
greenness and beauty of their life. He thanked the wind for bringing rain,
for cleaning the air, for giving us the life-breath that connects us with
all beings. He spoke in this way for nearly an hour, and as we listened we
felt the wind on our faces, and the earth beneath our feet, and we saw the
grass and clouds, all with a sense of connectedness, gratitude, and love.

This is the spirit of our practice of mindfulness. Love--not the near enemy
of attachment, but something much deeper--infuses our awareness enables us
to open to and accept the truth of each moment, to feel our intimate
connectedness with all things, and to see the wholeness of life. Whether we
are sitting in meditation or sitting somewhere in protest, that is our
spiritual practice in every moment.