At this time, we
tend to be more concerned with ourselves than with our families. This is an age
in which individualism has been emphasized to the point of absurdity. The
opportunity that we have to develop as individuals in the modern world is quite
amazing, isn't it? Each of us has been given free rein to be a self-sufficient,
independent person. We are told to be a personality, to develop our creativity,
to develop our lives in any way we want as free individuals. We can do what we
personally want to do, whether our family likes it or not. Now the problem with
glorifying individualism as an end in itself, is that it promotes a neurotic
and meaningless existence. Just being a free agent - an individual person who
can do what he or she wants - can give us certain pleasant moments, and we can
appreciate that in some ways. But at other times it is very depressing not to
be truly related to anyone, not to be able to serve anyone. There is something
in all of us, both men and women, that makes us want to give ourselves. We
would all like to sacrifice or give ourselves to another person or to a cause -
to something that is beyond ourselves.
Living the
religious life is a giving of oneself - to the Dhamma, to God, or to whatever
is the ultimate truth in a particular religion. The purpose of monasticism is
to give yourself completely. You let go of the desire for personal reward or
acknowledgement of any sort, just to be able to become a good monk or nun, and to
give yourself totally to the refuges of Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha.
The ideal of
family life is for man and woman to join together to give themselves to each
other. So the sense of being one independent person has to be sacrificed for
being a couple. Then with the ensuing children, it becomes a family, and the
couple has to give up everything for the children. I see how parents must
surrender totally to the needs of their children, and I find it very admirable.
It seems to be about 24 hours a day of continuous giving to another being. In
some ways, it must be exasperating and annoying, but in other ways you can see
that it is very fulfilling. You can see that parents can really give wisely,
not out of necessity, but out of real reflection and understanding of the
situation. They get tremendous joy out of giving up personal interest, privacy,
rights, and much more, for a helpless child.
In this present
time, there's a lot of confusion about the roles of men and women, because the
traditional roles are now in question. We can't take for granted that `a man's
duties are this,' and `a woman's duties are that.' In my mother's generation,
they could take that for granted, because the roles were more clearly defined. And
even now, the roles are unquestioned in a more traditional society, such as the
rice farming communities of Northeast Thailand. Everybody knows what they are
supposed to do. The social structure, the whole way of life, is accepted as natural,
as being in harmony with nature, so no one questions it.
But then,
especially when you are educated, you start questioning when you leave the
security of a situation. You start reading, and you start listening to other
people. You hear different views and opinions, and you begin to doubt. You ask,
"Does life have to be just like this, or is there some other way of
looking at it? Does a woman have to be just this way? And if she changes, is
she wrong or right? What should a man be? What is the duty of a mother and of a
father?"
Traditional
Roles
I'd like to
summarize the advice in the Pali Canon on the duties that people have in
their various roles. These are the guidelines of an Asian culture from 2,500
years ago. The Sigaalaka Sutta lists the duties of parents and children,
pupils and teachers, husbands and wives, friends, masters and servants, and
spiritual teachers and their disciples.
The first
guidelines are about parents and children. A parent should
not let the child do evil; a parent should encourage the child to do good, see
that he or she receives training in the arts and sciences, find a suitable
spouse for him or her, and give over their wealth at the right time. And a
child, in turn, should help look after the parents' affairs, ensure the
endurance of the family name, conduct himself or herself in ways that make the
child worthy to receive inherited wealth, and make offerings in the parents'
memory when they've died.
I don't remember
ever getting advice like that. In fact, my parents said, "We want you to
grow up and be completely independent of us. And for our part, we hope to save
enough money so that, when we are old, we will never have to be dependent upon
you." There was a sense of independence on both sides. Clearly, we have a
different model for how parents and children should behave towards each other
in our modern society.
The second set of
guidelines is about pupils and teachers. A pupil should
stand up to receive the teacher as a sign of respect, wait in attendance on the
teacher, pay attention to what the teacher says, and learn with a respectful
attitude. The teacher, having been upheld in these ways, should lead a pupil
well, keep nothing about the subject matter secret or undisclosed, praise the
pupil among friends, and protect and look after the pupil. Unfortunately,
nowadays very few pupils receive such nurturing from a teacher, and most
teachers would be surprised to receive such treatment from a pupil.
The third set of
guidelines is about husbands and wives. A husband should
praise his wife, affirming that she is truly his wife; he should not look down
on her; he should not be unfaithful; he should let her be in charge of the
home, family, and money; and he should give her trinkets and adornments. A
wife, in her turn, should organize the family affairs well, help the husband's
relatives and friends, not be unfaithful, look after the family property, and
be energetic in her duties. This is the advice for a traditional marriage; it
presents an ideal of what each partner was expected to do. These were the
guidelines for a cooperative relationship, in which there could be mutual
support and respect, rather than independence, rights, and conflicts.
The fourth set of
guidelines is about the relationship between two friends. One should
share things with a friend, talk pleasantly, do things that are useful, be
even-minded without pride, and speak truthfully without pretention. In return,
the friend should give protection when one has been careless, protect one's
property when one has been careless, give shelter when there is danger, not
abandon one in a time of adversity, and uphold one along with one's relatives.
The fifth set of
guidelines is about masters and servants. A master should
arrange a servant's work so that it is suitable and in accordance with their
strength, give them food and rewards, look after them and nurse them when they
are sick, share unusual or tasty delicacies with them, and give them time off. A
servant should get up in the morning and start work before the master, finish
work after the master, take away as their own only what the master gives them
(in other words, not steal from him), constantly try to do better work, and
praise the virtues of the master.
The final set of
guidelines is about the relationship between spiritual teachers and their
disciples. A spiritual teacher should encourage a disciple to do
good, help them with a compassionate mind, tell them things they had not
previously heard, make clear things they had already heard, and tell them how
to attain the heavenly realms. A disciple should support the teacher, through
loving-kindness, with actions of body, actions of speech, and actions of mind. In
addition, the disciple should not forbid the teacher to enter his or her house,
and the disciple should provide the requisites of food, shelter, clothing, and
medicine.
These guidelines
represent the traditional Buddhist advice regarding relationships. But right
now, in our culture, we have to contemplate for ourselves: "What is a
relationship? How should we relate? What do we expect? What do we want or
demand? And what are we willing to give?" We have to ask ourselves these
questions, and consider whether we know how to relate to another person.
Finding
Balance Without Traditional Roles
If we come from
an idealistic position, such as, "We are all equal, we are all exactly the
same, there is no difference," then in various situations it's difficult
to relate, isn't it? Who's going to do the dishes? Who's going to empty the
dustbin? Who is going to lead? Who is going to follow? If we all feel that we
are the same, then we can become confused because we don't know how to relate
to each other in a structure or in a hierarchy of duties and responsibilities. So
sometimes, if we are attached to the ultimate view of equality and freedom, we
can become very confused, disgruntled, and even threatened by the practical
side of life.
In the practice
of Dhamma, we are opening the mind to the way things actually are. We begin to
notice that nature itself is hierarchical, that there is always form or
structure, and that when you have form, you are always going to have sequence. One
is always going to be followed by two, and two is always going to be followed
by three; A is followed by B, and B is followed by C. You can't say A is the
same as B. If you spelled everything with an A, it would be meaningless,
wouldn't it? In the conditioned world we recognize that there are sequences.
Now if we take a
fixed position on hierarchy, we become tyrannical. Someone who says that they
have to be the boss at all times - always number one and never number two -
becomes a tyrant. But, on the other hand, an idealistic egalitarian, someone
who says that we must always be equal and always the same, is setting up the
situation for confusion and contention. When it's time for a meal, everyone
wants to be first in line. But if we are willing to designate a sequence, we
can relate to that sequence. That's a relationship, isn't it? You are relating
as being senior or junior, teacher or student, parent or child. A sequence
provides a structure for relationships, so that we know how to live with each
other without endless conflicts and confusion.
In the monastic
life we have a particular form and structure, to which we all agree. It's a
voluntary life. It would be a tyranny if everyone were forced to become monks
and nuns and live within the structure. But because people join the community
by choice, it is not a tyranny; it's a cooperative, harmonious way of living.
You can apply
these principles to family life. If you, as mother and father or husband and
wife, do not decide on some clear guidelines for duties and responsibilities,
then who is going to do what? Who is going to go to work? Who is going to stay
home? Who is going to do the dishes? Who is going to take care of the children
when they are ill? What are our duties and responsibilities in relating to each
other in a family?
Nowadays, a
relationship between a man and a woman can tend to be a competition, because
there are no guidelines for mutual respect and understanding. You can see that
in some marriages, where the husband and wife are competing with each other. They
feel that they have to prove that one is as good as the other, or better than
the other. But how can you have a family relationship with a competitor? The
purpose of family is to live as a unit where there is harmony, where you've
established enough agreement to let you relate to each other in a decent way in
everyday life.
In a traditional
society, the agreements are made by the society. But now we all choose our
mates - who we are going to marry, who we are going to live with, who we are
going to have a relationship with. Oftentimes we base that choice only on
personal preference in the moment, rather than wise reflection on what kind of
person would most be suitable for us to live with. We might choose the one who
is most attractive, most charming, wealthiest, or most interesting at the
moment. Or we might just need support: a man might be looking for a maternal
woman, a mother who is going to replace his own mother; a woman might be
looking for a father, some strong protective man who will take care of her.
Often these
desires are never really acknowledged because of our idealism. We think we are
going to have the perfect relationship, based on total honesty. By `total
honesty,' people tend to mean saying exactly what they think whenever they feel
like it, which to me is a description of a hell realm! I am really grateful
that I don't say all the things I think. Sometimes what one is thinking should
not be repeated; it would only cause pain, confusion, fear, and depression in
the minds of those listening.
The way of
mindfulness is the way of allowing ourselves to open up to the situation. Rather
than waiting for the perfect person, or thinking you have to get rid of the one
you are with because you're not getting on, or thinking that you can find
someone better, you can contemplate how to use the situation. You can reflect
that this is the way it is, rather than expecting somebody to change or blaming
yourself because you can't live up to your high ideals. So you become more
aware of the way life actually is, the way it has to be, whether you like it or
don't like it. This is the way of reflection, of mindfulness. You are not
demanding happiness, or even fulfillment, from the world, but you are willing
to take on the challenge that exists by beginning to work with life. Now you
can only do this kind of reflection by yourself - you cannot expect someone
else to tell you what you should do in your relationship, because there are so
many things to take into account. Only you know them all.
For example, many
people ask themselves, "Should I just live my life for myself, for my own
development, even at the expense of the people who are close to me? Or should I
give up any hope of ever developing myself, in order to further their
welfare?" Those are the two extremes: the selfish extreme and the
self-sacrificing extreme. Self-sacrificing sounds noble, doesn't it? It sounds
like something we should be doing. And selfishness sounds like something we
shouldn't be doing. We think it's not nice, it's wrong, to be selfish. But the
Buddhist position is not an intimidating one, saying we should be totally
self-sacrificing and unselfish; it encourages us to open up to that very
selfishness, or to our desire to sacrifice ourselves.
We can
contemplate this in our own lives. For example, instead of thinking of
ourselves as selfish and then feeling guilty about it, or being caught up in
the other extreme of endless giving, nurturing, and caring for others, without
taking any time for ourselves, we can recognize our inclination, whatever it
is. Then, having recognized it, we can look at it without judging it and try to
reach a balance.
Using
Opposites for Spiritual Development
We can begin to
see that family life can be regarded as a symbol for inner spiritual
development, because the family is a religious archetype. In Christian
symbolism, we have God the father, Mary the mother, and Christ the child. In
other religions, we might have the Divine Father and the Earth Mother
symbolizing the marriage between the heavens and the earth. When you begin to
really look at yourself, you find there is both a mother and a father inside,
and these opposites can be reflected upon as part of your spiritual practice.
You find that
just the fact that you have a female body or a male body doesn't mean that
everything about you is totally female or totally male. What we need to open up
to in spiritual development is the opposite; a man needs to open up to the
female within, and a woman needs to open up to the male. This is not an easy
thing to do, but we can use the external presence of the opposite gender to
help in our practice. When a man sees a woman, or a woman sees a man, they can
use the external characteristics as reminders. In a monastic community where
there are monks and nuns, rather than getting involved in relationships, monks
can see the external female, and they can begin to acknowledge the feminine qualities
that they find internally. And for the nuns, it's the same: they can find the
masculine qualities within.
My own experience
as a monk, from the masculine side, is that men usually have a lot of drive;
they are quite aggressive and have a lot of will power. So you often find monks
becoming internally aggressive to themselves. They try to exterminate anger,
destroy fear, wipe out jealousy, and annihilate lust. But where does that get
you? You get so stiff that your head aches. You become internally sterilized;
you are just dried up like a parched desert. There is nothing, no emotion –
just will power sitting there. You develop a lot of strength that way, because
it does take a lot of strength to maintain that attitude for any length of
time, but it is also fragile in the sense that it can be easily upset. It
becomes very dependent on blind will, not on wisdom or love - not on anything
that is malleable, flexible, and receptive.
So until a monk
begins to open up to the inner female, he has no balance. For a man to learn to
be a receptive, sensitive being, he has to stop using his will power and
forcing issues all the time. He has to let go of things and become kind,
gentle, and patient with himself - and with others. He needs to learn how to be
extremely patient with the people he finds irritating.
One time Ajahn
Chah pointed this out to me, when I was going through one of those phases of
will power. There was one monk in the monastery who really irritated me. I
couldn't bear him. Just at the sound of his voice, I would feel aversion
arising in my mind. I asked Ajahn Chah what to do, and he said, "Ah, that
monk is very good for you. He's your real friend. All those nice friends, those
other bhikkhus that you get on so well with, they aren't very good for you. It's
that one who's really going to help you." Because Ajahn Chah was a wise
man, I considered seriously what he said. And I began to see that somehow I had
to just totally accept that monk - accept the irritation - and let him be as he
was. The masculine energy always tends to want to set someone right: `Let me
tell you what's wrong with you.' But to find the feminine quality of acceptance
- to just sit there and let that monk be irritating and to bear with the inner
irritation - I had to learn how to be patient. I began to understand what it
meant to find that balance within, because I could see that I had been out of
balance.
And it seems that
for women the imbalance tends to be the opposite. Oftentimes they would rather
be accepting of everything, no matter what it is. They are often willing to be
told what they should do next. But to relate to the inner male, a woman needs
to find that in herself which she can trust - that which is strong within her,
that which is guiding - instead of waiting for some external authority figure
to tell her what she should do. I see that it's difficult for many women to
trust in their own strength. Often they find a lack of confidence in themselves.
It takes the willingness not to just wait and be receptive to things as they
come, but to be firm in a situation. In general, a woman needs to develop a
sense of strength; she must trust in being wise, rather than waiting for some
external wise person to direct her.
We need to be
reminded of our opposite, don't we. So we can use the external balance, the
external male and female, as reminders of the internal male and female. One can
use a marital relationship or a monastic situation wisely in this way. If you
forget and become lost in your habitual tendencies, then whenever you see the
opposite, that is a chance to remember. Rather than just seeing the opposite
through the eyes of sexual attraction, or desire, or judgment, or just through
the discriminative faculty, you can use the situation to remind yourself to
open up within. That way, for a man, all women can be symbols for the internal
female, so there can be a sense of respect for all women, because they
represent that symbol. I assume that men can serve the same symbolic function
for women.
Question: How
about non-attachment within a relationship?
Answer: First you must recognize what attachment is, and then
you let go. That's when you realize non-attachment. However, if you're coming
from the view that you shouldn't be attached, then that's still not it. The
point is not to take a position against attachment, as if there were a
commandment against it; the point is to observe. We ask the questions,
"What is attachment? Does being attached to things bring happiness or
suffering?" Then we begin to have insight. We begin to see what attachment
is, and then we can let go.
If you're coming
from a high-minded position in which you think that you shouldn't be attached
to anything, then you come up with ideas like, "Well, I can't be a
Buddhist because I love my wife - because I'm attached to my wife. I love her,
and I just can't let her go. I can't send her away." Those kinds of
thoughts come from the view that you shouldn't be attached.
The recognition
of attachment doesn't mean that you get rid of your wife. It means you free
yourself from wrong views about yourself and your wife. Then you find that
there's love there, but it's not attached. It's not distorting, clinging, and
grasping. The empty mind is quite capable of caring about others and loving in
the pure sense of love. But any attachment will always distort that.
If you love
somebody and then start grasping them, it tends to go off; then what you love
gives you pain. For example, you love your children, but if you become attached
to them, then you don't really love them any more, because you're not with them
as they are. You have all kinds of ideas about what they should be and what you
want them to be. You want them to obey you, and you want them to be good, and
you want them to pass their exams. With this attitude, you're not really loving
them – because if they don't fulfill your wishes, you feel angry and frustrated
and averse to them. So attachment to children prevents us from loving them. But
as we let go of attachment, we find that our natural way of relating is to
love. We find that we are able to be aware of our children as they are, rather
than having fixed ideas of what we want them to be.
When I talk to
parents, they say how much suffering there is in having children, because
there's a lot of wanting. When we're wanting them to be a certain way and not
wanting them to be another way, we create this anguish and suffering in our
minds. But the more we let go of that, the more we discover an amazing ability
to be sensitive to, and aware of, children as they are. Then, of course, that
openness allows them to respond, rather than just react to our attachment. You
know, a lot of children are just reacting to our saying, "I want you to be
like this."
The empty mind -
the pure mind - is not a blank, zero-land, where you're not feeling or caring
about anything. It's an effulgence of the mind. It's a brightness that is truly
sensitive and accepting. It's an ability to accept life as it is. When we
accept life as it is, we can respond appropriately to the way we're
experiencing it, rather than just reacting out of fear and aversion.
Ajahn Sumedho
Source:
Forest Sangha Newsletter, October 1995/2538, Number 34,