This is an AI-generated transcript from auto-generated subtitles for the video Stories of Awakening and Wisdom with Leigh Brasington (2 of 4). It likely contains inaccuracies.
The following talk was given by Leigh Brasington at the Insight Meditation Center in Redwood City, California. Please visit the website www.audiodharma.org for more information.
Welcome, everyone. The story tonight is a Jātaka tale1. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Jātaka tales. The Jātaka tales appear to be traditional Indian folk tales that were co-opted by the Buddhists to represent the Buddha’s previous lives. In other words, in order to become a Buddha, it takes many, many lifetimes. You have to clean up all your karma, you have to be a really wonderful person, and you have to practice all the Brahmavihāras2, especially compassion. These are assumed to be the Buddha’s previous lives.
There’s a collection called The Hungry Tigress by Rafe Martin. I don’t know if it’s still in print, but that’s where I first read this Jātaka tale. Some of the Jātaka tales made their way to Greece. You’ve probably heard of Aesop’s fables; some of Aesop’s fables can be traced back to Jātaka tales. As an example, one of Aesop’s fables is about the fox that’s trying to get some grapes that are too high. He’s jumping up and trying to get them down, but he can’t get them. Finally, he walks away, saying, “They’re probably sour anyhow.” This is where we get our phrase “sour grapes.”
But it’s got a Buddhist element. He was suffering—dukkha3—from not getting the grapes, but he was able to release his craving by saying, “They’re probably sour anyhow,” and that alleviated his dukkha. I don’t know for certain if this comes from an Indian folk tale, but it always struck me that when I finally learned that some of the Jātaka tales became Aesop’s fables, this might have been one of them.
Tonight’s talk is “The Banyan Deer.” A Banyan deer is a deer that has so many antlers that it looks like a banyan tree turned upside down.
The Banyan deer was born into a deer herd in the forest and quickly showed prowess at everything deer can be skilled at. When the Banyan deer finally grew to adulthood, he became the leader of the herd. For many years, he led them in safety in the Great Woods.
But things change. A new king of the humans came to power near the Great Woods, and this new king loved hunting. He felt hunting was the best thing he could do with his time because it kept him fit for war. He loved nothing more than getting up at the crack of dawn, getting some of the town’s people to serve as bush beaters, getting the members of his court, and they’d all go riding across forest and fields, hill and dale, hunting and killing animals right and left.
The king was very proud of himself and what he was accomplishing. Nobody else particularly liked it. The members of the court were used to a more genteel life, and getting up at the crack of dawn and spending the whole day on horseback chasing after the king while he was pursuing his hunting was not something they enjoyed. The town’s people didn’t like it either. Nothing like getting ready to open your shop and having some of the king’s soldiers show up and say, “You’re a bush beater today. Don’t open your shop, come with us,” and then having to go running across the land trying to scare up animals for the king to kill.
But you know who hated this the most? The farmers. You might have a really nice crop growing, not quite ready for harvest, but it’s going to be a great harvest, and suddenly all these people come trampling across your field on horses and on foot, destroying your crops. Everybody was grumbling, but nobody knew quite what to do. After all, he was the king.
It was the farmers who came up with the idea. They told the townspeople, and the townspeople told one of the members of the court who they thought might be sympathetic. Indeed, this minister was quite sympathetic to the problem; he did not like getting up at the crack of dawn and spending the day on horseback. He went to the king and said, “Great king, all this hunting indeed does keep us fit for war, but we don’t have any enemies at this point, so it’s not terribly necessary that we do this every day. And when we go hunting, we ride across the farmers’ fields and trample their crops. Great king, this might lead to a famine, and I don’t think you want a famine in your land. Things are going fairly smoothly now, but with a famine, all sorts of troubles crop up.” The courtier didn’t mention, of course, that he hated getting up at the crack of dawn and the complaints of the town’s people, but he figured the famine angle would work.
The king was hesitant, but the minister said, “We have a plan. We think you will like this plan. The farmers are going to donate some land near the Great Woods that’s not very good for growing anything, and we’re going to build a giant stockade—so huge that you can barely shoot an arrow across it. After it’s finished, we’ll go into the woods and find herds of deer and drive them into the stockade. Then we’ll build a viewing platform, and you can hunt from the viewing platform. You won’t trample anybody’s field, there won’t be a famine, and you can keep your eye finely tuned as you’re shooting all the way across the stockade at the animals on the far side.”
Well, the king didn’t particularly like the idea, but he had to admit that causing a famine was not going to work terribly well. So reluctantly, he agreed. The town’s people and the farmers got together, cleared the land, and built a giant stockade. Then they went deep into the forest, found two herds of deer, and drove them into the stockade, slamming the door shut. One of the herds was headed by the Banyan deer.
They reported back to the king that the stockade was built and he should come take a look. So he rode out with some of the members of his court. There was a nice viewing platform. He mounted up the steps and looked in. This was a lot better than he thought. It was huge; he could just barely shoot an arrow to the far side where it would arrive with enough lethality to be functional. And it was full of deer. This would feed his court for a long time. This was great.
He quickly spotted the leaders of the two herds—a king knows kings, right? And he said, “Oh, these are the leaders of the herds. They are under my protection. No one is to harm them.” And then he strung his bow, grabbed some arrows, and started shooting.
It was five minutes of sheer terror. The deer were trying to avoid the arrows, hitting each other with their horns and their feet. Some were hit by the arrows and injured, some were killed, and others were injured by their fellows trying to flee. It was five minutes of horrible terror. Then the king unstrung his bow and said, “Collect our supper.” So the members of the court went and collected the dead deer and brought them back for the evening meal at the palace.
The Banyan deer went to the leader of the other herd and said, “Brother, I’ve tried to find a way out of here, but I don’t know one, and I don’t have any ideas how to solve this. But we have to keep up the spirits of our herds and keep thinking about what to do.”
Every few days, the king and members of the court would show up and repeat the five minutes of terror. Then the Banyan deer went to the leader of the other herd again and said, “Brother, I have no idea how to get us out of here, but I think I can reduce some of the suffering. What I think we should do is draw lots, one day from your herd and one day from my herd. Whichever deer gets the short straw must go and present themselves to the king. This won’t stop the killing, but it will stop us injuring each other as we flee from the arrows, and it will hopefully only be one deer each day.”
The leader of the other herd agreed that this was better than what had been happening, but still problematic. So the two leaders drew lots to see which herd would go first. The losing herd drew lots, and the next day when the king arrived, there was one deer standing down below, trembling, and all the other deer were at the far end of the stockade, looking at the king. The king was like, “These are magnificent beasts indeed. They have apparently chosen one deer to come by lot. Okay, we will honor what they want to do. Shoot the deer that waits below; don’t harm the others.” The king left, and one of his courtiers dispatched the deer below.
Each day, first from one herd and the next day from the other, one deer would draw the lot and have to go stand and be the dinner for the king. This went on for almost a week. It was the other herd’s turn, and the lot was drawn by a pregnant doe. She rushed to the leader of the other herd and said, “It’s not fair that two should die. Please let me give birth to my fawn and wean it, and then I will take my place.” But the leader of the other herd said, “You know the rules. You’ve drawn the lot. There’s nothing I can do. You’ll have to go present yourself to the king.”
In desperation, the doe fled to the Banyan deer and again told her plight. “It’s not fair that two should die.” The Banyan deer said, “You’re right, it’s not fair that two should die. Our agreement was that only one would die each day. You are free to go.” The pregnant doe rushed back to her herd.
But the Banyan deer now had a problem. He couldn’t very well ask anybody from his herd to go; it wasn’t their turn. When the members of the court showed up—the king had not been out all week—to shoot the deer that waits below, the Banyan deer was waiting. This presented a problem. The king had said, “Do not harm the leaders of the herds,” and the king had said, “Shoot the one that waits below.” There was nothing to do but send for the king.
They dispatched a messenger back to the palace. The messenger arrived with the message, “Your Majesty, you need to come to the stockade right away to see an astonishing sight.” The king mounted up and rode like the wind. He’d been having nightmares about deer, and maybe what was going on there would help with his nightmares. He dismounted and bounded up the steps two at a time, and there was the Banyan deer waiting below.
The king said, “Banyan deer, what are you doing? I told everyone you’re protected. You’re under my protection. Why are you waiting here instead of some other deer?”
The Banyan deer looked up at the king and said, “The pregnant doe drew the lot today, and it’s not fair that two should die. So, as my prerogative as leader of the herd, I’ve taken her place.”
The king was astonished. It had never occurred to him that as a leader, he might need to sacrifice himself for one of his subjects. That was very strange, but also very interesting. This was an example of compassion like he’d never even heard of. “Wow. Banyan deer, I deeply appreciate this lesson that you have taught me. And in thanks for you teaching me this lesson, you are free to go.”
The Banyan deer said, “It won’t do any good. You’ll just kill some other deer. No, I have my duty, you have yours. Shoot.”
The king was used to sitting in judgment on criminals, saying, “Kill this man,” or “Throw this man in the dungeon.” Occasionally he would say, “Be out of the kingdom by 5:00 p.m. or you will die.” And here he says, “I could kill you, but you’re free to go,” and the person says, “Nah, kill me.” That just did not register. But that’s what the Banyan deer just said, because the burden would fall on other deer. He was not going to leave so that somebody else could die.
“Banyan deer, you are a magnificent beast indeed. As a reward for your magnificence and the lessons you’re teaching me, you and your entire herd are free to go. Now are you happy?”
The Banyan deer looked up at the king and said, “It won’t do any good. The burden will just fall twice as hard on the other herd. No, I have my duty, you have yours. Shoot.”
The king was completely flabbergasted. He had just released half of the animals in there and gotten turned down. But again, he had to admit the Banyan deer had a point, because they were just going to kill a deer from the other herd every day, maybe drive another herd in there as well. What to do? The Banyan deer was right. The Banyan deer was brave, standing there saying, “I have my duty, you have yours. Shoot.”
“Okay, Banyan deer. You and your herd may leave, and the other herd may leave. How would that be? We’ll throw open the gates of the stockade and all of you can go. Now are you happy?”
The Banyan deer looked up and said, “You’ll just go back to killing the other four-footed creatures. The killing will go on, even if it’s not us. No, I have my duty, you have your duty. Shoot.”
The king again had to admit the Banyan deer was correct, because that’s what he was thinking: “We’ll just go back to hunting like we used to. We can leave the stockade, tear it down, but we’ll just try not to go across the fields.” And the Banyan deer again was totally correct. The killing would go on.
“Okay, Banyan deer. We won’t kill any four-legged creatures. None. No wild animals in this kingdom. Now are you happy?”
The Banyan deer looked up and said, “You’ll just change to killing the birds. I know you. You’ll have your arrows and spears and nets, and you’ll be trapping birds like crazy. This is not a good thing. No, I have my duty, you have yours. Shoot.”
The king had been thinking exactly that. “Well, okay, so we won’t kill the four-footed creatures, but hey, there’s lots of birds here, pheasants and lots of tasty game still.”
“Okay, Banyan deer, look. We won’t kill any birds. We won’t kill any wild four-footed creatures. You can all just go and live in peace. Now are you happy?”
The Banyan deer looked up and said, “Who will speak for the silent ones? The fish in the lakes and rivers and streams? Your men are out there with nets and hooks catching these right now. The death will just increase. The killing will go on. No, I have my duty, you have your duty. Shoot.”
The king turned to all the members of the court who were standing there, rather astonished at what had transpired, and he said, “This is my decree. From this day forth in my kingdom, no one is to harm any wild creature—no animals, no birds, nor fish. Print up this proclamation and post it where everyone can see it.” And then he turned back to the Banyan deer and said, “Now are you happy?”
The Banyan deer looked up at him and said, “Yes,” and leaped high into the air.
They threw open the gates of the stockade. All the deer went back into the forest, deeper and deeper than they’d ever been before. Eventually, the king had the stockade torn down. Where the Banyan deer had leaped high into the air out of the joy that he had saved everyone, the king had a stone cairn erected and a circular plaque placed on it. It showed a deer with many antlers leaping high into the air, and around it he wrote the words, “Never cease to care.”
I like this story because it illustrates the four Brahmavihāras. To be willing to sacrifice his life for the pregnant doe—another spiritual teacher said, “No greater love has anyone than they would give up their life for another.”
This is what mettā4 is about. It’s this unconditional love. I know it gets translated as “loving-kindness,” but my teacher translated it as “unconditional love”—loving someone just because they are someone, with no conditions attached. The Greeks had multiple words for love you’ve probably heard: philos (brotherly love), eros (romantic love). They also had agape. This is what mettā is, this love with no strings attached.
Of course, in the commentaries, they talk about the “near enemy” and the “far enemy” of each of the Brahmavihāras. The far enemy of love is hate; this is fairly obvious. The near enemy is attachment. We live in a culture that promotes love as attachment, love as a transaction: “I’ll do this, and you’ll do this for me,” and so forth. But this isn’t what mettā is about. It’s loving just because there’s someone there to love.
The second of the Brahmavihāras is karuṇā5, usually translated as compassion. This is often interpreted as: love should be your attitude all the time, and when you go out into the world and you encounter suffering, you do what you can to alleviate that suffering. So compassion would be mettā in action in the face of suffering. The far enemy of compassion would be cruelty, causing harm for whatever reasons. The near enemy is often said to be pity. It can have some attachment in it: “Oh, let me help you so I won’t have this poor person in my life.” It’s about me not wanting to have that there. Or, “Let me help you so that when I help you, I’ll feel really good about myself.” Again, attachment and self-interest are in there. But real compassion is, “Oh, I see your suffering. Is there anything I can do to alleviate your suffering?” And if you can, you do it. And if you can’t, well, then you can’t. Furthermore, compassion has to be done with no attachment to the results. That’s hard. We want to help this person out, and we do the very best we can, and we expect it to work. We expect them to appreciate it. But if it’s true compassion, it’s done just because it’s known that this needs to be done. That’s it. And there’s no attachment to the results. If it works, great. If it doesn’t work, you did your best.
So, mettā, karuṇā, muditā6. Mettā goes out into the world and encounters rejoicing; it rejoices with it. Muditā is translated in multiple ways. The first time I heard it was “sympathetic joy,” which meant exactly the same to me as the word muditā—I had no idea what either of them meant. I’ve heard “empathetic joy,” which is a little bit better. I like “appreciative joy”—appreciating that someone, including yourself, is rejoicing or having good fortune. And yes, you can practice muditā for yourself. It’s in the suttas7 that way, it’s in the Visuddhimagga that way. It’s only in one of the sub-commentaries, a commentary to the commentaries, that there is a prohibition from practicing muditā for yourself. So if you have good fortune and you can appreciate it, that’s muditā. Now, if you make the mistake of having good fortune and thinking, “This proves I’m a wonderful person,” or anything like that—in other words, if your ego gets involved—that’s not muditā. That’s the near enemy.
The far enemy of muditā is envy. We have a good English word for that. Somebody wins the lottery, and you’re like, “Why didn’t I win? I bought a ticket! I need the money!” This is envy. Muditā would be, “Oh, I hope they can use the money wisely so it brings them great happiness, and brings all the people that know them great happiness as well.” That would be muditā. The near enemy is rejoicing, but with some ego involvement. The Super Bowl is coming up this weekend. Maybe you’re going to watch it, maybe you’re not at all interested. But if you’re going to watch it and your team wins and you’re rejoicing, are you rejoicing because a bunch of grown men playing a kid’s game won the last game of the season and you identify with them? That’s not muditā, that’s ego.
Suppose your kid comes home from school and they have excellent grades, and you’re happy. When the neighbor’s kid comes home from school and has even better grades, are you even happier? If so, that would be real muditā. This is a difficult one. I’ve heard it said it’s the most difficult one to practice. I very vividly remember the time that muditā came naturally to me without me trying to force it. I was driving to work, a seven-minute drive, and I stopped at a stoplight. This couple crosses the street in front of me. They’re very much in love, or at least in lust. It was very obvious they were totally into each other. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t go, “Oh, why not me?” I went, “Oh, isn’t this sweet?” And then I realized that’s what muditā is: to see something happening that’s really positive for someone and appreciating it. Appreciative joy.
So, love at the top. If it goes out and meets suffering, it’s compassion. If it meets joy, it’s appreciative joy. And it’s all balanced on equanimity, upekkhā8. Upekkhā literally means “standing near,” but it has a connotation of standing near and not getting freaked out or blown away or caught up in anything. You’re able to stand near what’s going by. It’s usually talked about as even-mindedness. Something happens, and you don’t panic, and you also don’t become over-exuberant. Your team wins the Super Bowl, and you don’t go out and turn over police cars and set garbage cans on fire. That’s not equanimity.
The far enemy of equanimity is getting upset, becoming over-exuberant, acting out. The near enemy is apathy. You don’t look upset, and you probably aren’t, but that’s because you don’t care. Equanimity fully cares and still doesn’t get upset.
These are the Brahmavihāras. My teacher said that these are the four emotions we want to cultivate. If you cultivate these four, you’ll be doing really well. One other one that I will introduce is anukampā9. That would be a word that could be translated as “care.” So when the Banyan deer leaped high into the air—muditā, celebrating that he had saved them all—and the king put up the stone cairn with the circular plaque and around it, “Never cease to care,” I suspect the word in Pali is anukampā, but I didn’t look up the Pali for the Jātaka tale.
Question: Could you please explain how do you cultivate that evenness and not get freaked out by the ups and downs in life and not have your ego get all riled up?
Leigh Brasington: Probably the first thing is the topic that I found the most references to, which is mindfulness. Anytime you find yourself in a situation where freaking out or over-exuberance is possible, you need to be mindful. “This is a situation where I could lose my equanimity.” You may have to say that out loud to yourself. The way to cultivate it is to recognize the opportunities. If it’s a huge tragedy, that’s probably not going to be your starting point. But for something that you could get overly excited about, can you recognize, “Oh yeah, this is an opportunity to get overly excited. What’s it like to not be overly excited? What else can I be aware of other than my internal excitement?” So, using your mindfulness just to explore what’s going on. The same thing if it’s a scary situation and there’s a tendency to want to panic. Panic is the worst thing you could possibly do. So what can you do other than panic? How can you keep your mind stable enough? This is not easy. They say muditā is the hardest one to cultivate, but upekkhā in stressful situations is probably even harder. But get your mindfulness in there and recognize the situation. That’s the first thing you’ve got to do. And then, remember that what you’re striving towards is equanimity, even-mindedness, and you’ll just have to figure out, given the situation, what you can do to move in that direction. There’s probably not any general rule except: don’t panic.
Question: Are the Jātaka tales part of the Pali Canon?
Leigh Brasington: Well, it depends. There are actually four versions of the Pali Canon, I think two in Sri Lanka, one in Burma, and one in Thailand. In at least one of those, the Jātaka tales are included in the Pali Canon, and in at least one of those, they are not. I don’t remember which collections and how many it’s included in. I would say that it’s a late addition to the Pali Canon when it’s included. I think of them as interesting stories. If you find Rafe Martin’s The Hungry Tigress, it’s worth reading. There are some interesting stories in there. They’re Indian folk tales, and most of them have to do with compassion towards others.
Question: When I’m listening to the story, Brahmavihāra did not cross my mind. I thought it was about becoming a vegetarian. Was that not part of it?
Leigh Brasington: It may be part of it, but I’m going to leave it to you to interpret it that way. There is a sutta, number 55 in the Middle Length Discourses, where Jīvaka, who was the royal physician and the Buddha’s personal physician, came to the Buddha and said, “The people in town say that your monks are causing all sorts of animals to be killed.” And the Buddha said, “No, that’s not what we do. The monks can eat what’s put in their begging bowl as long as they don’t know or suspect that an animal was killed expressly for them.” This would mean that if you go to someone’s house and they serve chicken curry, you can eat it. But if you go to someone’s house and before the curry is served you hear squawking in the backyard, and then there’s chicken curry served, you can’t eat it. Devadatta came to the Buddha and suggested that the Buddha have five more precepts to make the order more ascetic, and one of them was that they be vegetarians. The Buddha said it was not practical; the populace isn’t vegetarian, and if we were vegetarians, they’d have to cook a different meal for us. So you can eat what’s in your begging bowl as long as you don’t know or suspect that some animal was killed expressly for you. That’s the sutta teaching on vegetarianism. Now, yes, if you’re a vegetarian, fewer animals get killed, this is true. But you’re going to have to make up your mind for yourself. I refuse to get involved in that. When I saw my teacher three weeks before she died, her parting advice for me was, “Don’t get involved in Dharma politics.” And that has been wonderful advice and has kept me out of a lot of trouble.
Question: Can you do a little more parsing between anukampā and karuṇā?
Leigh Brasington: This is unsettled, shall we say. I didn’t know the word anukampā until I was on retreat with Gil Fronsdal, and he started talking about it. He translated it as “care.” He said if compassion means finding someone who’s suffering and helping them, that’s a limited set of people, but care can be for everyone, whether they’re suffering or not. You care about them. It’s got a broader range than compassion does, the way we usually think about it. After looking at karuṇā and anukampā—anukampā, by the way, shows up in 179 suttas, quite a bit more than the 53 for karuṇā—it’s quite clear that karuṇā is the opposite of cruelty. So is that kindness? That seems more like the opposite than helping those who are suffering. It’s not really clear. The good news is that Gil Fronsdal is working on a book on this, and hopefully, we’ll have a really good book out at some point. He seems to be the anukampā guy. Part of me wants to translate anukampā as “care” and karuṇā as “kindness.” Of course, that conflicts with “loving-kindness,” but that’s okay with me because I’m going to translate mettā as “unconditional love.”
Question: If anukampā appears that many times in the suttas, why did it get aced out of the Brahmavihāras?
Leigh Brasington: I suspect anukampā probably got aced out of modern Buddhism because in the Mahayana, compassion (presumably karuṇā) and wisdom are the two wings you fly to awakening with. The emphasis on compassion really drove karuṇā to a very prominent place in the Mahayana, and I think that feeds back into Western Buddhism in general. But why it was like that in the time of the suttas, I couldn’t say.
Question: I practice Brahmavihāra to enter into jhāna10. While I am doing it, what I was noticing is when I come to muditā, it’s about feeling the joy about somebody’s doing well, but at the same time, I noticed that even if we are going through difficult and painful times, we feel that joy because we are there to support and connect with each other. I felt like that is also muditā. What do you think of that?
Leigh Brasington: Definitely. Yes, there are situations where there’s both sadness and joy happening at the same time, particularly around the death of someone who’s led a really good life. If they’ve led a really good life, they’ve had an impact on a lot of people who are going to miss them, and that’s sadness. But they led a really good life, and there’s joy for the fact that you knew them. So the two are together. The sadness is sadness, and the joy, since you’re sharing it with all these people, yeah, it’s muditā.
Question: A teacher I know insists that there should be 11 pāramīs11 and not 10, because she says the Buddha made a mistake. The 11th pāramī for her is gratitude. I would love to hear you riff on that.
Leigh Brasington: So the first thing, the pāramīs don’t occur in the suttas; they’re in the Jātaka tales. So it wasn’t the Buddha that made the list. It was somebody who liked the number 10, I presume. So yeah, adding gratitude is actually a very good idea. My teacher said at the start of every meditation period, you should generate some gratitude. Sit down, and instead of putting your attention immediately on your breath, generate some gratitude—gratitude to the circumstances that taught you to meditate, that allow you to meditate, your teacher, the Buddha, whatever’s going on. She also suggested that you do some mettā before you start your meditation as well. Take these lists as suggestions, and if you think there’s something else that fits, just because it’s not in the list doesn’t mean that you should ignore it. If you think it fits, then practice it, definitely.
Okay, so everybody please put your attention on your breath for a few moments.
Look into your heart, and you will find a brightly shining sun, a sun whose beautiful rays fill you with their warmth. This is the sun of love, and it fills you from head to toe.
Now, think of someone you really care about. It doesn’t matter who it is—your significant other, a child, a dear friend, your cat. Get a sense of this being, and now let the sun in your heart shine on this being as well, filling them with the warm and beautiful rays from the sun in your heart.
Now think of other people you’re close to. Bring them to mind one by one and fill each of them with the rays of love coming from the sun in your heart.
Think of your acquaintances—people like your neighbors, your co-workers, people you see in stores that you frequent. Again, bring them to mind one by one and let the sun in your heart shine on each of them, filling them with love.
Think of someone you find difficult, and let the sun in your heart shine on them as well. The sun shines on everyone.
Let the sun in your heart shine on everyone on this Zoom, all the folks from all over.
Let the sun in your heart grow brighter, so it illuminates your entire neighborhood, shining on everybody—all the birds and squirrels and dogs and cats and all the people. Just let that love from your heart, the sun, shine more and more brightly until it fills your town, your city, the whole area around you.
Let the sun in your heart grow so bright that it touches every living creature on the continent.
Let the sun of love in your heart reach out to the whole world, touching humans and animals, birds, fish, insects, reptiles, amphibians, forests, and fields.
Now put your attention back on yourself and notice as the sun in your heart sends its rays out to fill the world, the first thing it does is fill you.
May all beings everywhere be happy.
Jātaka tales: A voluminous body of literature native to India concerning the previous births of Gautama Buddha in both human and animal form. ↩
Brahmavihāra: The four “sublime states” or “divine abodes” in Buddhism: mettā (loving-kindness), karuṇā (compassion), muditā (sympathetic joy), and upekkhā (equanimity). ↩
Dukkha: A Pāli word, central to the teachings of Buddhism, often translated as “suffering,” “stress,” or “unsatisfactoriness.” ↩
Mettā: A Pāli word for loving-kindness, friendliness, and goodwill. It is the first of the four Brahmavihāras. ↩
Karuṇā: A Pāli word for compassion. It is the second of the four Brahmavihāras. ↩
Muditā: A Pāli word for appreciative or sympathetic joy. It is the third of the four Brahmavihāras. ↩
Sutta: A discourse or sermon attributed to the Buddha or one of his close disciples. ↩
Upekkhā: A Pāli word for equanimity. It is the fourth of the four Brahmavihāras. ↩
Anukampā: A Pāli word often translated as “sympathy,” “compassion,” or “care.” ↩
Jhāna: A state of deep meditative absorption. ↩
Pāramīs: Perfections or virtues. In Theravāda Buddhism, these are qualities cultivated over many lifetimes on the path to becoming a Buddha. ↩