His Holiness the 17th Karmapa, Ogyen Trinley Dorje

Latest Karmapa Chenno MV 新MV【 ཤེར་བསྟན། 2017 】噶瑪巴千諾

噶瑪巴Karmapa
(藏文:ཀརྨ་པ་,藏語拼音:Garmaba,威利:karma pa,THL:Karmapa),全稱為嘉華噶瑪巴(Gyalwa Karmapa),又稱大寶法王(為明成祖賜號),是藏傳佛教噶舉派中的噶瑪噶舉派之最高持教法王,並且也是最早開啟乘願轉世傳統的藏傳佛教領袖。藏傳佛教視他為金剛總持的化身。
—-維基百科

(法王是小編接觸藏傳的第二個上師,剪完這輯內心真是悸動不已。還記得九年前首次去尼泊爾、菩提迦耶見法王,博塔四周的所有的佛像殿都選遍了,就是看不上一尊喜歡,啥都不投緣!當時路進角落邊的一間小店,窗底小櫃的一尊“小菩薩”吸引了我的目光,初學朦朧不知….,原來當時有緣請回的,是一尊_金剛總持。)

World Peace and Harmony

His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s address at an interfaith dialogue at the National Sports Council of India Dome in Mumbai, India on August 13, 2017.

Gratitude for My Torturers
by Phakyab Rinpoche

After escaping from a Chinese prison, Tibetan lama Phakyab Rinpoche travels to the United States as a refugee and is treated at New York City’s Bellevue hospital for a severe pain in his ankle that eventually turns to gangrene. In the following excerpt from his book, Meditation Saved My Life, the Tibetan Buddhist teacher recalls his admission to the refugee program and the different ways that he and his doctor view his torturers.

The interview with the psychologist for my admission in the Program for Survivors of Torture will last two hours. I know these two hours will stir up many sufferings — first of all, my present condition as a refugee. I have been greeted with tremendous generosity at Bellevue hospital. But at this point I have lost everything, including my health. The interview will also bring back the shameful denial of humanity that I was subjected to in Chinese jails. Not being human any longer, being reduced to the despicable dregs of society with a dismantled body dismembered by torture, humiliated by degrading treatments — how can I express all of this to human beings whose physical and moral integrity has never been trampled? It will feel as if I am attacking their intact humanity by displaying my own violated humanity.

I have never told anyone about my experience in prison, neither people close to me nor my masters. When I met the Dalai Lama after my escape, I did not need to describe to him my tortures. He knows only too well what goes on in the prisons of the Roof of the World. Without asking me any questions, he hugged me silently. Then he simply said: “Three months of prison and torture! It’s a terrible ordeal! But for others, it lasts 10 years, 20 years! It kills some!”

I understood then how important it is to put our sufferings into perspective, to not lock oneself in a painful past that indefinitely extends the ordeal. When that happens, we become our own torturer.

On June 17, 2003, in the office of the Program for Survivors of Torture, I am greeted by the psychologist, a smiling young woman with the blue eyes of a doll. Her manners are demonstrative and her kindness is conventional — both features of social relations in the United States of America. I have not yet gotten used to this in the weeks that have gone by, and I must seem very coarse to some of the people I speak with. Indeed, my culture is not very exuberant.

Although I can see this young woman intends to be genuinely benevolent and open to my story, a misunderstanding quickly arises between us as soon as I mention my detention and tortures. I will soon realise that Westerners easily indulge in victimisation. This explains their amazement, and their total lack of understanding, when I joke about the ill treatments I suffered in prison.

In her eventual report, the Bellevue psychologist will state: “Mr. Dorje’s affect was stable, however, it seemed inappropriate at times. For example, he was smiling, animated, and even laughed as he described his torture in detail and his survival.”

She would have better understood my feelings had I acted like a punching bag and expressed myself with the tearful language of complaint. Then she would have sympathised and undoubtedly shared my wailing, my indignation, my anger, and my hatred to­ward my torturers. During our interview, I got the impression that she was driving me into a corner and wanting me to accuse my tormentors. That was when I burst out laughing.

How can I take on a hatred I do not feel?

In fact, on that day, even if I was only a penniless refugee and a sick man with a gangrenous leg, I was not the victim. The victims were my jailers. I had left prison, but what about them? They were locked up in a vicious spiral that would hound them during this life and for many lives yet to come!

The psychologist did not understand that I laughed at the absurdity of hating those who had shown such hatred toward me. During my incarceration, I was often dumbfounded at the idea that people who did not know me, and whom I had never been harmful to, could relentlessly torture me. And I have meditated at length on karmic causality. What was happening to me was only the result, the consequence, of a negative spirit and negative thoughts that in previous lives had led me to injure and cause pain to other beings, both human and nonhuman. My torturers were not my enemies. The real enemy is not outside of us. It is to be confronted within us. It takes the shape of selfishness, attachment, self-cherishing. I was therefore laughing at how absurd hatred, thirst for revenge, and anger are. By laughing, I was hoping to relax the psychologist. But I only managed to make her tense.

Sometimes when I think of the bad karma built up by the People’s Armed Police officers who tortured me, I feel tremendous compassion for them. Moved to tears, I pray for them more than for anyone else. And I have completely forgiven them. It is only thanks to my forgiveness that one day, as soon as possible, I hope, they may free themselves from their infernal karma.

In appearance they were the torturers and I the victim. But in reality, we were all victims. I was their physical punching bag, and they were the victims of their own uncontrollable, destructive emotions. The actions they committed to ensure the meager sustenance of their families could lead them to the terrible torments of being reborn as hungry ghosts, hot or cold hellish beings, or animals . . . How can I know? I dedicate to them the positive energy of my praiseworthy actions so that they may find peace of mind at last.

While talking to the psychologist at Bellevue Hospital, how could I explain that the understanding of karma I developed in prison freed me from the unbearable burden of negative emotions? I thus feel gratitude toward those who tortured me. They taught me patience, unconditional compassion, and impartiality, more than have any of my masters. Every day, I express my wishes for them and offer them my prayers so that they may free themselves from mental states upset by hatred and anger. Has the psychologist in front of me ever heard about karma? I doubt that it was part of her studies. If it had been, she would express herself differently.

The law of karma implies that we must assume our share of responsibility in what happens to us. This is easier in the case of happiness and when positive developments occur in our life. But in adversity, I find a source of deep wisdom. It has allowed me to become friends with what I would otherwise deem bad and therefore reject. As it is said in one of the fundamental teachings I meditated on during my training at the monastery:

When the container and the contents are full of negativity,
Transform adverse fortune into an awakening path.
Use all immediate circumstances in meditation.

I have therefore fully accepted the idea that I created the causes of my detention through actions whose essence came to maturity in this life, and I am delighted at having cleansed these negativities. Such an attitude has transformed the way I see those who brutalised me with unimaginable barbarity. Through the sufferings they inflicted on me, they created the necessary conditions for my transformation. How can I not feel infinitely grateful to them?

Phakyab Rinpoche 1.

It is neither something to be corrected nor transformed, but when anyone sees and realises its nature all that appears and exists is Mahamudra, the great all-encompassing Dharmakaya. Naturally and without contriving, allowed simply to be, this unimagined Dharmakaya, letting it be without seeking is the meditation training. But to meditate while seeking is deluded mind. Just as with space and a magical display, while neither cultivating nor not cultivating how can you be separate and not separate! This is a yogi’s understanding. All good deeds and harmful actions dissolve by simply knowing this nature.

— Naropa

拜佛的真义
惟覺老和尚

问题:什么是迷信?拜佛真正的意义为何?

老和尚开示:拜拜其实是一种善良的美德。拜就是膜拜,也就是虔诚、恭敬地礼拜。然而现在一般人对于神明、佛祖,只知道在事相上来膜拜、来祈求,而没有进一步了解为什么要拜?到底在拜什么?

拜拜是对佛菩萨一种恭敬心的表现。现在一般社会上的人,都喜欢拜恩主公、拜妈祖,乃至于土地公都有人拜。大家要知道,妈祖是一位孝女,拜妈祖是要向妈祖学习她的孝行、孝道,这才是真正在拜妈祖,这才是拜妈祖的精神。

拜恩主公,要知道恩主公就是关公,是忠义的表征。我们要了解为什么恩主公值得后世的崇拜?关公的一生,不但尽忠而且很讲义气,所谓义薄云天,在拜恩主公的同时,我们更应该学习他的忠义精神。

土地公就是一般人所称的福德正神。修行一定要修福报,福报是从修善法当中得来的;如果不修善法,即使天天拜土地公,土地公也很难令你增福延寿。如果土地公为了得到膜拜者一点点的礼物,就令他能增福延寿,不就成了贪官污吏了?贪官就不是正神,而是邪神。因此拜土地公的意义就是要修善积福。

要如何修善呢?就佛法而言,受三皈:皈依佛、皈依法、皈依僧;受五戒:不杀生、不偷盗、不邪淫、不妄语、不饮酒,这些都是修善。就一般而言,「不以善小而不为,不以恶小而为之」,修一切善、断一切恶,这就是修善。能依此而行,无论是拜恩主、土地公或是拜妈祖,一定能从中得到启示,一定能消除自己的恶业。

追根究底,膜拜的意义,第一是恭敬,第二是忏悔。每一个人都有过失,都可以在佛、菩萨和神明之前表白,惭愧、忏悔、改过。一个人真正具有恭敬心,又能改过迁善,一定能消除业障,增长福德智慧,做任何事情都容易成就。再者,膜拜的目的是在学习,学习佛、菩萨,乃至于一切神明的精神,这就如同儒家所谓的「见贤思齐」。我们要学习佛、菩萨及神明对社会、对大众的服务与贡献,这才是真正的拜佛、拜神明,也才能真正地获得拜拜的利益。

所谓「近朱者赤,近墨者黑」,我们经常跟佛、菩萨、神明在一起,跟好人在一起,心中就会常想到诸佛菩萨所做的善事,自然而然就能得到佛、菩萨和神明功德的熏修,自己也能建立完整的人格。人格健全、福德增长了,做什么事情都会很顺利,这就是真正拜拜的意义和目的。

Ven Wei Jue (惟覺老和尚) 5.

Having trained your mind in the common path in this way, it is absolutely necessary to enter the vajrayana, for thanks to that path you will easily complete the two collections without having to take three countless aeons to do so. Moreover, having received an experiential explanation on the way to rely on a spiritual master up to meditative serenity and special insight, meditate daily in four sessions, or in a minimum of one, and gain a transformational experience of the stages of the path, for this is the best method to take full advantage of your life with freedom and fortune.

— 4th Panchen Lobsang Chokyi Gyaltsen

She Who Hears the Cries of the World
by Christina Feldman

Compassion is no stranger to any of us: we know what it feels like to be deeply moved by the pain and suffering of others. All people receive their own measure of sorrow and struggle in this life. Bodies age, health becomes fragile, minds can be beset by confusion and obsession, hearts are broken. We see many people asked to bear the unbearable — starvation, tragedy, and hardship beyond our imagining. Our loved ones experience illness, pain, and heartache, and we long to ease their burden.

The human story is a story of love, redemption, kindness, and generosity. It is also a story of violence, division, neglect, and cruelty. Faced with all of this, we can soften, reach out, and do all we can to ease suffering. Or we can choose to live with fear and denial — doing all we can to guard our hearts from being touched, afraid of drowning in this ocean of sorrow.

Again and again we are asked to learn one of life’s clearest lessons: that to run from suffering — to harden our hearts, to turn away from pain — is to deny life and to live in fear. So, as difficult as it is to open our hearts toward suffering, doing so is the most direct path to transformation and liberation.

Compassion and wisdom are at the heart of the path of the Buddha. In the early Buddhist stories we find young men and women asking the same questions we ask today: How can we respond to the suffering that is woven into the very fabric of life? How can we discover a heart that is truly liberated from fear, anger, and alienation? Is there a way to discover a depth of wisdom and compassion that can genuinely make a difference in this confused and destructive world?

We may be tempted to see compassion as a feeling, an emotional response we occasionally experience when we are touched by an encounter with acute pain. In these moments of openness, the layers of our defenses crumble; intuitively we feel an immediacy of response and we glimpse the power of nonseparation. Milarepa, a great Tibetan sage, expressed this when he said, “Just as I instinctively reach out to touch and heal a wound in my leg as part of my own body, so too I reach out to touch and heal the pain in another as part of this body.” Too often these moments of profound compassion fade, and once more we find ourselves protecting, defending, and distancing ourselves from pain. Yet they are powerful glimpses that encourage us to question whether compassion can be something more than an accident we stumble across.

No matter how hard we try, we can’t make ourselves feel compassionate. But we can incline our hearts toward compassion. In one of the stories in the early Buddhist literature, the ascetic Sumedha reflects on the vast inner journey required to discover unshakeable wisdom and compassion. He describes compassion as a tapestry woven of many threads: generosity, virtue, renunciation, wisdom, energy, patience, truthfulness, determination, loving-kindness, and equanimity. When we embody all of these in our lives, we develop the kind of compassion that has the power to heal suffering.

A few years ago, an elderly monk arrived in India after fleeing from prison in Tibet. Meeting with the Dalai Lama, he recounted the years he had been imprisoned, the hardship and beatings he had endured, the hunger and loneliness he had lived with, and the torture he had faced.

At one point the Dalai Lama asked him, “Was there ever a time you felt your life was truly in danger?”

The old monk answered, “In truth, the only time I truly felt at risk was when I felt in danger of losing compassion for my jailers.”

Hearing stories like this, we are often left feeling skeptical and bewildered. We may be tempted to idealise both those who are compassionate and the quality of compassion itself. We imagine these people as saints, possessed of powers inaccessible to us. Yet stories of great suffering are often stories of ordinary people who have found greatness of heart. To discover an awakened heart within ourselves, it is crucial not to idealise or romanticise compassion. Our compassion simply grows out of our willingness to meet pain rather than to flee from it.

We may never find ourselves in situations of such peril that our lives are endangered; yet anguish and pain are undeniable aspects of our lives. None of us can build walls around our hearts that are invulnerable to being breached by life. Facing the sorrow we meet in this life, we have a choice: Our hearts can close, our minds recoil, our bodies contract, and we can experience the heart that lives in a state of painful refusal. We can also dive deeply within ourselves to nurture the courage, balance, patience, and wisdom that enable us to care.

If we do so, we will find that compassion is not a state. It is a way of engaging with the fragile and unpredictable world. Its domain is not only the world of those you love and care for, but equally the world of those who threaten us, disturb us, and cause us harm. It is the world of the countless beings we never meet who are facing an unendurable life. The ultimate journey of a human being is to discover how much our hearts can encompass. Our capacity to cause suffering as well as to heal suffering live side by side within us. If we choose to develop the capacity to heal, which is the challenge of every human life, we will find our hearts can encompass a great deal, and we can learn to heal — rather than increase — the schisms that divide us from one another.

In the first century in northern India, probably in what is now part of Afghanistan, the Lotus Sutra was composed. One of the most powerful texts in the Buddhist tradition, it is a celebration of the liberated heart expressing itself in a powerful and boundless compassion, pervading all corners of the universe, relieving suffering wherever it finds it.

When the Lotus Sutra was translated into Chinese, Kuan Yin, the “one who hears the cries of the world,” emerged as an embodiment of compassion that has occupied a central place in Buddhist teaching and practice ever since. Over the centuries Kuan Yin has been portrayed in a variety of forms. At times she is depicted as a feminine presence, face serene, arms outstretched, and eyes open. At times she holds a willow branch, symbolising her resilience — able to bend in the face of the most fierce storms without being broken. At other times she is portrayed with a thousand arms and hands, each with an open eye in its center, depicting her constant awareness of anguish and her all-embracing responsiveness. Sometimes she takes the form of a warrior armed with a multitude of weapons, embodying the fierce aspect of compassion committed to uprooting the causes of suffering. A protector and guardian, she is fully engaged with life.

To cultivate the willingness to listen deeply to sorrow wherever we meet it is to take the first step on the journey of compassion. Our capacity to listen follows on the heels of this willingness. We may make heroic efforts in our lives to shield ourselves from the anguish that can surround us and live within us, but in truth a life of avoidance and defense is one of anxiety and painful separation.

True compassion is not forged at a distance from pain but in its fires. We do not always have a solution for suffering. We cannot always fix pain. However, we can find the commitment to stay connected and to listen deeply. Compassion does not always demand heroic acts or great words. In the times of darkest distress, what is most deeply needed is the fearless presence of a person who can be wholeheartedly receptive.

It can seem to us that being aware and opening our hearts to sorrow makes us suffer more. It is true that awareness brings with it an increased sensitivity to our inner and outer worlds. Awareness opens our hearts and minds to a world of pain and distress that previously only glanced off the surface of consciousness, like a stone skipping across water. But awareness also teaches us to read between the lines and to see beneath the world of appearances. We begin to sense the loneliness, need, and fear in others that was previously invisible. Beneath words of anger, blame, and agitation we hear the fragility of another person’s heart. Awareness deepens because we hear more acutely the cries of the world. Each of those cries has written within it the plea to be received.

Awareness is born of intimacy. We can only fear and hate what we do not understand and what we perceive from a distance. We can only find compassion and freedom in intimacy. We can be afraid of intimacy with pain because we are afraid of helplessness; we fear that we don’t have the inner balance to embrace suffering without being overwhelmed. Yet each time we find the willingness to meet affliction, we discover we are not powerless. Awareness rescues us from helplessness, teaching us to be helpful through our kindness, patience, resilience, and courage. Awareness is the forerunner of understanding, and understanding is the prerequisite to bringing suffering to an end.

Shantideva, a deeply compassionate master who taught in India in the eighth century, said, “Whatever you are doing, be aware of the state of your mind. Accomplish good; this is the path of compassion.” How would our life be if we carried this commitment into all of our encounters? What if we asked ourselves what it is we are dedicated to when we meet a homeless person on the street, a child in tears, a person we have long struggled with, or someone who disappoints us? We cannot always change the heart or the life of another person, but we can always take care of the state of our own mind. Can we let go of our resistance, judgments, and fear? Can we listen wholeheartedly to understand another person’s world? Can we find the courage to remain present when we want to flee? Can we equally find the compassion to forgive our wish to disconnect? Compassion is a journey. Every step, every moment of cultivation, is a gesture of deep wisdom.

Living in Asia for several years, I encountered an endless stream of people begging in the streets. Faced with a forlorn, gaunt child I would find myself judging a society that couldn’t care for its deprived children. Sometimes I would feel irritated, perhaps dropping a few coins into the child’s hand while ensuring I kept my distance from him. I would debate with myself whether I was just perpetuating the culture of begging by responding to the child’s pleas. It took me a long time to understand that, as much as the coins may have been appreciated, they were secondary to the fact that I rarely connected to the child.

As the etymology of the word indicates, “compassion” is the ability to “feel with,” and that involves a leap of empathy and a willingness to go beyond the borders of our own experience and judgments. What would it mean to place myself in the heart of that begging child? What would it be like to never know if I will eat today, depending entirely on the handouts of strangers? Journeying beyond our familiar borders, our hearts can tremble; then, we have the possibility of accomplishing good.

Milarepa once said, “Long accustomed to contemplating compassion, I have forgotten all difference between self and other.” Genuine compassion is without boundaries or hierarchies. The smallest sorrow is as worthy of compassion as the greatest anguish. The heartache we experience in the face of betrayal asks as much for compassion as a person caught in the midst of tragedy. Those we love and those we disdain ask for compassion; those who are blameless and those who cause suffering are all enfolded in the tapestry of compassion. An old Zen monk once proclaimed, “O, that my monk’s robes were wide enough to gather up all of the suffering in this floating world.” Compassion is the liberated heart’s response to pain wherever it is met.

When we see those we love in pain, our compassion is instinctive. Our heart can be broken. It can also be broken open. We are most sorely tested when we are faced with a loved one’s pain that we cannot fix. We reach out to shield those we love from harm, but life continues to teach us that our power has limits. Wisdom tells us that to insist that impermanence and frailty should not touch those we love is to fall into the near enemy of compassion, which is attachment to result and the insistence that life must be other than it actually is.

Compassion means offering a refuge to those who have no refuge. The refuge is born of our willingness to bear what at times feels unbearable — to see a loved one suffer. The letting go of our insistence that those we love should not suffer is not a relinquishment of love but a release of illusion — the illusion that love can protect anyone from life’s natural rhythms. In the face of a loved one’s pain, we are asked to understand what it means to be steadfast and patient in the midst of our own fear. In our most intimate relationships, love and fear grow simultaneously. A compassionate heart knows this to be true and does not demand that fear disappear. It knows that only in the midst of fear can we begin to discover the fearlessness of compassion.

Some people, carrying long histories of a lack of self-worth or denial, find it most difficult to extend compassion toward themselves. Aware of the vastness of suffering in the world, they may feel it is self-indulgent to care for their aching body, their broken heart, or their confused mind. Yet this too is suffering, and genuine compassion makes no distinction between self and other. If we do not know how to embrace our own frailties and imperfections, how do we imagine we could find room in our heart for anyone else?

The Buddha once said that you could search the whole world and not find anyone more deserving of your love and compassion than yourself. Instead, too many people find themselves directing levels of harshness, demand, and judgment inward that they would never dream of directing toward another person, knowing the harm that would be incurred. They are willing to do to themselves what they would not do to others.

In the pursuit of an idealised compassion, many people can neglect themselves. Compassion “listens to the cries of the world,” and we are part of that world. The path of compassion does not ask us to abandon ourselves on the altar of an idealised state of perfection. A path of healing makes no distinctions: within the sorrow of our own frustrations, disappointments, fears, and bitterness, we learn the lessons of patience, acceptance, generosity, and ultimately, compassion.

The deepest compassion is nurtured in the midst of the deepest suffering. Faced with the struggle of those we love or those who are blameless in this world, compassion arises instinctively. Faced with people who inflict pain upon others, we must dive deep within ourselves to find the steadfastness and understanding that enables us to remain open. Connecting with those who perpetrate harm is hard practice, yet compassion is somewhat shallow if it turns away those who — lost in ignorance, rage, and fear — harm others. The mountain of suffering in the world can never be lessened by adding yet more bitterness, resentment, rage, and blame to it.

Thich Nhat Hanh, the beloved Vietnamese teacher, said, “Anger and hatred are the materials from which hell is made.” It is not that the compassionate heart will never feel anger. Faced with the terrible injustice, oppression, and violence in our world, our hearts tremble not only with compassion but also with anger. A person without anger may be a person who has not been deeply touched by harmful acts that scar the lives of too many people. Anger can be the beginning of abandonment or the beginning of commitment to helping others.

We can be startled into wakefulness by exposure to suffering, and this wakefulness can become part of the fabric of our own rage, or part of the fabric of wise and compassionate action. If we align ourselves with hatred, we equally align ourselves with the perpetrators of harm. We can also align ourselves with a commitment to bringing to an end the causes of suffering. It is easy to forget the portrayal of Kuan Yin as an armed warrior, profoundly dedicated to protecting all beings, fearless and resolved to bring suffering to an end.

Rarely are words and acts of healing and reconciliation born of an agitated heart. One of the great arts in the cultivation of compassion is to ask if we can embrace anger without blame. Blame agitates our hearts, keeps them contracted, and ultimately leads to despair. To surrender blame is to maintain the discriminating wisdom that knows clearly what suffering is and what causes it. To surrender blame is to surrender the separation that makes compassion impossible.

Compassion is not a magical device that can instantly dispel all suffering. The path of compassion is altruistic but not idealistic. Walking this path we are not asked to lay down our life, find a solution for all of the struggles in this world, or immediately rescue all beings. We are asked to explore how we may transform our own hearts and minds in the moment. Can we understand the transparency of division and separation? Can we liberate our hearts from ill will, fear, and cruelty? Can we find the steadfastness, patience, generosity, and commitment not to abandon anyone or anything in this world? Can we learn how to listen deeply and discover the heart that trembles in the face of suffering?

The path of compassion is cultivated one step and one moment at a time. Each of those steps lessens the mountain of sorrow in the world.