Against All Odds 2: The Five Practices

Caitríona Reed

Practice is both action and thought; it is also intention and aspiration, image and word. It is the entire realm of our lives and experience. We call it “practice” perhaps because all the elements of our lives are forever changing, and within that change, we ourselves can change, to become what we never imagined we could become, and to do what we never imagined we would do.

To stand in front of the tanks, or to face down the guns of the police or the military—in the West Bank, Bosnia, Tianamen Square, Manila, Moscow, Kurdistan, or North America is not passivity. To resist war is not simply to abstain from violent actions. It is active resistance, a determination to prevent others from engaging in violent action or from perpetuating a violent system. Nonviolence derives its strength not from a sense of being right, but from love. It is an expression of the core understanding that we are connected with each other, and that all our actions touch every one of us.

Like the child on banners and t-shirts of a few years ago who embraces the globe and proclaims, “Not with my planet you don’t,” nonviolence is defiant and tender, determined, and clear, though not necessarily certain of the outcome.

Here are five interrelated practices to support such determination. They came to me by chance, from conversations with a student who was moving away. On her return, she thanked me for the “five practices” I had given her. I had forgotten them as elements of a coherent whole, so it is entirely thanks to her that they have arrived in their present form.

Honor the Ancestors. We use a verse for walking meditation at Manzanita Village. The lines are repeated silently, one for each step:

       I walk in my ancestors’ footsteps

       My ancestors walk in my footsteps

       I walk in the footsteps of all the living beings

       All living beings walk in my footsteps

       I walk in the footsteps of the future generations

       The future generations walk in my footsteps

I never learned to honor my ancestors from Buddhist teachers in the West. It was only after exposure to certain Asian teachers, and later through non-Buddhist friends and teachers in the United States—mostly African-American and Native-American—that I learned to acknowledge the presence of the Ancestors. I can no longer separate myself from those who came before: my blood ancestors, my spiritual and cultural ancestors, as well as the land ancestors, whose presence now seems palpable on the land where I live. In the same way, I cannot forget the silent presence of the generations who are yet to be born.

Remembering the presence of the ancestors in my heart, and as a vital component of the countless trillion cells of my body, helps me maintain both perspective and a sense of responsibility. I am not alone. I am connected to sources of wisdom and energy that are beyond anything I can claim as my own. I carry an ancient flame—life itself, which flickers in me for the moment that is my lifetime before it passes on to future generations.

The world invites us to attention through our senses, as well as through the heart and the imagination. Consider your eyes, ears, heart, and imagination as being on loan to you. With that loan comes the promise of limitless access, limitless community. The world is yours, not separate from your body or heart. Through you, the world sees itself anew—like lovers recognizing each other for the first time, again and again, for æons. The generations that will follow, as well as all living beings, will surely benefit from the tenderness of that love affair.

Make an altar for your ancestors in your room, whoever you imagine them to be. Include your teachers and mentors, as well as poets, peacemakers, anyone who may have touched your life. You might begin your meditation, (or your yoga practice, your hike, meal, or meeting) with an invocation to acknowledge the presence of your ancestors in what you are doing.

Know what’s happening. One of our duties as human beings, and as members of society, is to keep ourselves informed. Yet, to do so is often confusing and painful. We have access to so much information, questionable statistics, sensationalized news reports, and the various outpourings of special interest groups. If we attempt to stay in touch with everything that is going on in the world, we will reel with outrage, grief, and our own sense of inadequacy. It is impossible to take in all the information, and often hard for us to make sense of what we do take in.

To guard against being overwhelmed we often unconsciously frame things within prefabricated constructs, based on our disposition and culture—Buddhist or Christian, Marxist, environmentalist, activist or contemplative, investor or day laborer; black, white, or brown—which reinforce those constructs and protect us from new experience and understanding.

As a remedy, get your information from multiple sources, explore unfamiliar situations, take risks, and listen to what communities and individuals other than the ones you are familiar with have to say. Look for new points of view.

More importantly, in order to avoid burnout and to maintain clarity, take a sabbatical from information altogether—for an hour, or a month. Turn off the TV. Turn off the radio. Not in order to become like the ostrich, hiding her head in the sand, but to broaden and deepen the context in which you situate yourself. Meditate. Go on vacation. Study history, ornithology, puppetry, or something else you might not have considered before.

Trust Your Vulnerability. Two years ago I met someone with whom I felt a connection as deep as any I had ever known. Both of us were already involved in long-term primary relationships with partners we had no intention of betraying. Neither of us was prepared to abandon our connection with each other. My friend said, “Trust this, trust this.” We continue to trust a friendship that is, in its intensity, unlike any friendship either of us has known before.

Since then, I have echoed the phrase to others; “Trust this!” inviting them to trust whatever is uncertain in their own lives. Sometimes the things that seem to make the least sense are the things we must learn to trust the most. Can we learn to trust and live, not just with unexpected and startling love, but also with fear? Can we live gladly with grief, rage, and the uncertainty of life? Can we learn to truly trust it? Can we live with integrity without burying the things that challenge, disappoint, and confuse us? Alice Walker says, “Grief is gold” — as are rage, shame, fear, and loneliness.

Our enemies are our best teachers. To avoid them, to be merely conciliatory, is as dangerous as anything those perceived enemies could ever come up with. Anger, buried or made known, is not the only source of violence. When they are hidden, our fear, shame, and blindness—blindness to what we are, to what the other is, to our interconnection—also erupt into violence. I was once part of a community that seemed, on the surface, to advocate awareness and peacemaking, but where unexamined fear proscribed open communication. I watched people lose their spontaneity and integrity in the name of spiritual progress. As a gender-queer woman, a transsexual, I am aware of how stifling any sort of closet can be, and of how much can be learned in the process of coming out—from all our shame, fear, secrecy and confusion.

If we cannot trust our own the shadows we miss seeing the other within ourselves. The shadows are flickering reflections of ourselves. If we reify them they turn into monsters which we then imagine we must destroy before they destroy us. We fail to see that the unknown other is always an essential part of ourselves.

When we turn away from the difficulties in front of us, we may do violence to ourselves. When we are patient and trust the dynamics of our own heart, we are made whole. ‘Trust’ does not mean resignation or fatalism. If we are attentive, we can celebrate both the uncertainty itself as well as the wisdom that is yet to be revealed. Let’s remember Cervantes’ teaching that “Time ripens all things.”

Work Every Day. I have a friend who is a photographer. She once conducted a ceremony alone on an empty beach in which she dedicated herself to her work as an artist, to her camera, to her visual sensibilities. She “married” her photography.

She does not make photographs every day. There are days when she is occupied with other things. But every day she remembers who she is, and what her work is. Every day her art is furthered by that recollection. Her work is not a mere job description; it is an identity, and an intention with which she directs herself, evolves and learns, both as an artist and as a person.

Our work is the thing we love. If we earn our money by doing things we do not enjoy, then we can think of our ‘real’ work as something else. In this way meditation is work, breathing is work, loving is work. Being creative in all the ways we can be creative is work. There is no need to define our “work” by our job description. Reevaluate what your real work is, then do it every day.

Such work, no matter what outward form it takes, is already a way of peacemaking. Through such work you develop a natural awareness, not only of the task at hand, but also of the larger context, building bridges, remembering who you are, remembering that you have the power to make a difference. You may not think you are working directly on issues of peace and justice, but you will find that you are–because you are no longer just working for the fulfillment of ambition and security. If your work is already directly concerned with issues of peacemaking and social justice, then the inner commitment to hold a clear intention is all the more important as a way of helping you stay grounded.

Work is action. It is also resting, waiting, learning, and remembering. Being patient is part of the work; so is jumping right in, taking risks, acting up, making mistakes, making amends, making noise when you are expected to be silent, remaining silent when you are expected to speak. Above all, the work is being aware, awake, holding the intention that lets your basic integrity inform your actions.

Ask For What You Want. To ask for what you want means to know what you want. It also means to know what you don’t want. It is to be clear. It is knowing what others might want or not want, and also what it might be possible to provide for them. It is generosity. It is knowing the context. It is not assuming that people can read your mind—which is a kind of autism, a disconnection. Your government cannot read your mind, nor can it speak for you. The same is true for corporations, friends, associates, lovers, and antagonists. Asking for what you want is being clear about your intentions. It is risking disappointment, being vulnerable, being able to regroup and problem-solve. It is risking accusations of inconsistency, because your needs and perceptions will always change. It is also knowing when to ask, whom to ask, how to ask. It is growing up; you are no longer an infant who can only cry to express your needs. It is touching the erotic energy of desire, of your own subversive living body. It is touching your power to undermine the oppressive nature of mere intellect, the hierarchical constructs that tyrannize our thought and our society.

If you want world peace, economic justice, honest government, and a green planet, then you must ask for them. You must work every day for it. Otherwise no one knows that you are even paying any attention to what’s going on around you.

Adapted from a longer article on non-violence and social justice 'Against All Odds' published in Paths Of Learning, July 2002. www.PathsOfLearning.net. Published in this form in the Turning Wheel, Spring 2003