This is an AI-generated transcript from auto-generated subtitles for the video The Arrows of Buddhism - Gil Fronsdal. It likely contains inaccuracies.
The following talk was given by Unknown at the Insight Meditation Center in Redwood City, California. Please visit the website www.audiodharma.org for more information.
Thank you all for coming today and meditating together. I don’t take it lightly that people come together in this way. It sets the context for this talk, both for you to listen to it and also for me to offer it. There’s much more going on here than just the talk; there’s the context, the settleness, the receptivity, and hopefully, the fact that my having meditated for these 35 minutes beforehand connects me to the practice in a way that I wouldn’t be if I’d been running around taking care of all kinds of things in a hurry.
First, I’d like to dedicate the talk to Joanna Macy.1 Joanna Macy died a week ago or so, and she was one of the great elders for our Buddhist community. I’m not sure if she considered herself Buddhist, but she was deeply involved in Buddhism. She wrote a dissertation using systems theory—the idea of ecosystems and how it’s not direct cause and effect but how whole systems work together in unison—to understand Buddhist teachings. She created a conversation between this philosophy of systems theory and Buddhism, and her profound dissertation became a book. That’s how I first learned about her.
Over time, she became a bigger and bigger part of our community. One of the significant things she did that brought her international prominence was when she was invited to go to Russia after the Chernobyl explosion to tend to the trauma and despair that people experienced living in the zones poisoned with radiation. Some people had to leave their homes where they had lived for generations and couldn’t return. She went there and did a kind of despair and empowerment work, where she had them really look at their despair, their anger, and their experience of disruption. They had lost so much.
Some people resisted it. They had never done this before and thought they were going to be made to feel better, but she made them feel worse. It was only by facing the despair that something different could happen. And for some of them, it did. Their hearts broke open, and a whole new vision about how to live was born. Out of that work in one village came a dance called the Elm Dance. I was with a group of about 30 people this last week, living in the woods, and we danced the Elm Dance. We were taught the dance that came out of that village, and Joanna Macy’s work still continues.
She sat a month-long retreat with me at Spirit Rock, and I was so inspired by her as a practitioner. One of the things that people who knew her well said was that no matter how terrible the world got, she would say, “Oh, it’s so exciting to be alive now.” Why exciting in a time when things are so terrible? As I understood it, it’s exciting because it gives life purpose. When things are falling apart, there’s purpose. For her, the purpose was to create what she called the “new turning,” a new society, a new civilization.
In Buddhism, there’s an idea that there were three big turnings, three tectonic shifts in its history. She said we’re living now through the fourth turning, so we get to be part of it. She had this idea that there are all these Bodhisattvas2—beings who have dedicated their lives to awaken and liberate all beings—waiting to be born. They are lining up to come down here and be a Bodhisattva in this age, in this time when things are falling apart. I love this idea that no matter how bad it gets, no matter the despair, we can always take from it a sense of compassionate purpose to make the world a better place, to do what we can. That’s what Joanna Macy’s life was based on. She supported many thousands of people to go out into the world to make this world a better place. One of our great elders died. She was 96, and her work continues in the lives of the people she touched.
With that as a dedication for the talk, I want to start by saying that if you want to have grape juice, don’t press gravel. You won’t get grape juice. If you want grape juice, you have to press grapes, and then you have some chance of getting it.
So if you go about doing spirituality, Buddhist practice, trying to press the wrong thing, then you’re not going to get the wonderful nectar and elixir of the dharma3 to fill you, nourish you, and support you in this world. You have to know how to recognize where the practice centers. That sometimes takes a long time. People can practice for a long time and get a lot of benefit from it, but they haven’t really discovered the grape yet. They don’t know where the source of the practice that has the greatest benefit is.
Many of you know the metaphor of the two arrows, and probably many of you have even told friends about it. I want to develop it a little bit more. The metaphor that the Buddha gave is that if an archer shoots you with an arrow, that certainly hurts. But if you get struck by a second arrow, that hurts even more and causes more injury.
The Buddha said that the first arrow is inevitable in this human life. Not that another person shoots us, but rather we get sick, we get old, we die. Our car has a flat tire. All kinds of things will happen, some simple and mundane, some more serious. The weather changes, and there’s flooding. Maybe that’s the first arrow.
The second arrow is what we contribute to it—how we add suffering on top of suffering. How we actually make the situation worse by how we react to it, respond to it, and deal with it. If we respond with hostility, we’re kind of shooting an arrow at someone else. The Buddha talked about “verbal daggers” that people throw at each other. But not only that, if you respond with hostility, you’re actually harming yourself. You’re shooting that second arrow into yourself.
We want to be very careful about that second arrow and not be blind to the fact that we’re harming ourselves. Sometimes it’s obvious because maybe the hostility is directed at oneself. Then it has this terrible quality where both the hostility is an arrow, and the fact that we have the hostility is like a third arrow. It’s compounded.
Can we be careful how we respond to anything and not add suffering on top of suffering, not make the situation worse? I see that with so many horrible things going on in the world that we want to change. It’s bad enough what’s happening, but for some of us, we contribute to making it worse if we get caught up in our anger, our despair, and our fear. It’s almost like there are people who are trying to get you to be afraid, trying to get you to be angry. And then we participate in that by being angry at them or afraid of them. And there we are, contributing more second arrows to ourselves and maybe to the world.
There’s another story of arrows where the Buddha talks about someone who is struck not just by an arrow but pierced by a poisonous arrow. A wonderfully skilled doctor comes along and offers to pull the arrow out. The person says, “Well, no, wait. Before you pull it out, I need to know who shot it, what clan they came from, their name, how old they are. I need to know what kind of wood the arrow was made from, and I need to know exactly what poison they used. Go find those things out first before you take the arrow out.”
I think the idea behind this story is that by the time you find out all the background information for this arrow hitting you, you’re dead. Some things you just want to take out. Let the doctor do the work; maybe it’ll save your life.
But there’s something else, and the Buddha doesn’t talk about this, but I’d like to add it: how the doctor takes it out might make a difference. If you are completely anxious, upset, yelling, “Take it out, do it now!” and maybe the arrow is in your arm and you’re waving your arm around, the doctor will cause a lot of damage because you’re moving so much. You have to be calm, slow down, hold your arm still.
But the doctor should also be that way. The doctor will do better work if they are calm, centered, and focused on the work, not trying to take care of your distress and anger at the same time. And so it might be that you would say to the doctor, “Thank you. Yes, please take it out. But let’s together take three breaths first so that I can be a little bit calmer, so you can be calmer, and so you can know that I’m here ready for you and not going to flail around or make it harder for you.” Then the doctor can maybe do better work. How we are makes a huge difference.
Now I want to apply this directly to meditation. When we sit down to meditate, I’ve certainly shot second arrows, third arrows, lots of arrows because I don’t like what I see, what goes on. I don’t want it to be this way; I want it to be different. Then I’m upset because I can’t make it different, and it’s not what it’s supposed to be. I’ve done this for 50 years, so I’ve had my share of doing things like this in meditation and shooting second arrows, making it harder. I’ve also tried in my meditation to get that grape juice by squeezing the wrong thing, by pushing against the wrong thing, not understanding where the practice center should be.
So from all these years of experience, I’ll describe to you what I often do when I first sit down to meditate. I first sit down and I try not to do anything else but check in with myself, check in with what’s actually happening here and now. I’m not rushing ahead to get concentrated. I’m not trying to change anything. I’m allowing myself to be exactly the way I am and then trying to discover what is here. How do I feel? What are the sensations in my body? What are the emotions that are here? Where’s the energy? What’s activated in me?
It’s fascinating to do this tour of my inner life, just to check it out and see what parts are more activated. Sometimes it might be the belly, sometimes the chest, sometimes the face, sometimes the arms and hands. It’s always fascinating to look into what’s going on in the mind—not just what I’m thinking about, but the sensations of thinking, the pressure of thinking, the tension associated with thinking. The spirit of it is to allow everything to be the way it is. No second arrows. Let’s just discover. Let’s make room for everything to be there.
This way of being mindful is often taught as a nonreactive mindfulness. We’re not trying to change anything. Sometimes it’s described as a receptive mindfulness. We’re not actively involved in trying to do something; we’re just staying receptive and open, allowing things to come. And that’s all very nice. Something settles. It’s nice to check in with myself. Generally, something settles, something opens.
But then comes the magic, the more significant time. I’ve been being aware of myself, seeing what goes on, and at some point, I turn around and look at myself and ask, “How am I being aware? Am I overeager? Am I aware from a place of tension? Am I trying too hard, even in just being mindful like this?”
Is there a place of being aware that has no tension in it? Is there a place of being aware where the tension of “me, myself, and mine”—what I want, what I’m afraid of—is not part of being aware? Is there a different source for the mindfulness practice within? I can’t do this too quickly. I have to wait until things are settled, until I’ve become aware and familiar with what’s here.
What I’ve learned is that there’s a deeper source within for awareness that is kind of impersonal. I can’t quite identify it with that place inside that I associate with “me, myself, and mine,” because that tends to be a place where there’s tension and pressure. If we’re really sensitive and careful, we see that the whole center of “me” that we operate from, which is often 90% swirling with thoughts about me, myself, and mine, has some subtle or strong tension associated with it.
That’s pressing gravel. It doesn’t work. You don’t get grape juice by pushing the self thing, the self-tension, the self-pressure, the self-agitation. If you’re really sensitive, you might even feel that it has a locus, a place inside. If we’re operating from that place, pushing against that place, pushing with that place, we don’t get the dharma juice.
Is there a different location within? Is there a different source within that is not the source of “me, myself, and mine”? I’m the hero. I’m the doer. I’m the competent one. I’m the one who’s supposed to do better. I’m the failing one. The whole complex of self and self-preoccupation is so many second arrows. Is there a different source?
One of the dharma operating systems that the Buddha points to is this profound source within. He uses the ancient word for “womb” for this other place to come from. So at some point, as I’m sitting and I’ve done my checking out, discovering what’s here, allowing what’s here to be here, then I’ll ask myself, “Where’s that more profound source from which awareness arises, knowing arises, practice arises?” I’m not exactly the doer of the practice, but I certainly have an important role. At some point, the role is to allow for this deeper source to emerge. To allow awareness, to allow knowing, to allow joy, to allow care, compassion to flow from a place inside that I can’t identify with that same usual place of “me, myself, and mine.”
It’s not someone else’s; it’s part of this psychophysical system here, this ecosystem that I’m somehow a caretaker for. But then to feel, is there a place that allows and holds, creates a context, an opening, an atmosphere that allows for something deeper inside? It’s not my inquisitiveness, not my despair, not my reactivity, but actually some deeper kind of flow—a source of wisdom, of care, of understanding, of intelligence that is somehow coming from deep inside.
For me, it’s often arising out of my belly. I don’t know if that’s because it’s universal or because I spent 50 years hanging out in my belly, starting with Zen practice. Zen has this idea of the hara. Then when I went to Burma, the breath meditation we were taught there was again about the belly. So I felt, “Oh, I’m home.” But it shifts sometimes. Sometimes it’s in the heart. Some people might feel the source is their heart. There are times when I feel like this deeper source, the wellspring of the practice, doesn’t have any location at all. And that’s pretty cool. If someone asks where it is, I probably would just go like this with my arms, as if it’s everywhere or nowhere.
If we’re pressing against the wrong place, if we’re trying to practice with the wrong state of mind, if the way we’re doing mindfulness is from this acquisitive, selfish, self-concerned, aversive, tense, reactive place inside, then it might have some benefit, but you’re not really going to get the dharma juice flowing. The dharma juice really flows when we’re opening up, and the sense of practice is that we’re allowing it to surface, allowing it to come and fill us, allowing it to emerge from a deeper place.
Where is that deeper source inside of you? What’s the source of wisdom? What’s the source of gratitude? What’s the source of love in you? What’s the source of peace? What’s the source of kindness and friendliness?
The Buddha made a distinction between the thinking from the reactive mind and the thinking from this deep, profound place—profound contemplation. It’s not about getting rid of anything but about coming from a different attitude, a different place, a different source within us for how we can operate and how we can live.
So, be careful you’re not pressing gravel. Find where the dharma juice can flow. The nectar, the ambrosia. One of the wonderful coincidences of the dharma practice is that the ancient Sanskrit word for ambrosia also means “deathless”—that which doesn’t die. We’re talking about a very different place inside that doesn’t really fit the usual logic for how we want to put our life together. What is it that has no death within us, without making it a thing? What’s the source?
Those are my thoughts for today. These talks are not meant to just be abstract ideas. They’re meant for each of us to really consider. How does it find any home inside of you? For some of you, you might be ready to put it in the garbage. You’re certainly welcome to do that completely. However, it is a lost opportunity. There might be once in your lifetime that what I talk about today might have some relevance if you think about it, if you reflect on it.
Did anything in what I said today land deeper in you? Does it have any relevance? Did it touch something or remind you of something or inspire something inside, even if it’s just curiosity? If you’re willing, you can turn towards one or two people next to you, say hello, and share a little bit about your thoughts on the talk.
[Audience discussion]
Wow. You mean meditators can talk too, with so much energy. Fantastic. Thank you very much.
I ended a little early to see if there are any comments or questions.
Audience Member 1: When harvesting grapes, it’s a seasonal event. I was thinking, can we extend the metaphor? Also, the tools that came up for me were the unborn, is that like the deathless? And also Jhāna4 practice?
Gil Fronsdal: Yes, the unborn is similar to the deathless. And yes, Jhāna practice. One of the metaphors for Jhāna is a deep wellspring bubbling up from inside. Thank you.
Audience Member 2: The analogy you mentioned about going to a doctor to take the arrow out. I was thinking more like some people I’ve met usually try to be a doctor. They don’t need a doctor. They think they know more than a doctor or a psychologist. Can you elaborate on how not to be a doctor?
Gil Fronsdal: I’d rather not answer that question as you asked it. I don’t know about fixing people, but just feel sorry for them. Have empathy and compassion for them for two reasons. It could be that they care, so appreciate their care. The other is that it’s also coming from the wrong place. It’s probably coming from some tension inside of them, maybe their own discomfort they want to make go away. Sometimes they feel responsible, and that’s the inner tension they’re living with. Sometimes it’s egotistical, and that’s the inner tension they’re living with. So, give them the benefit of the doubt that there’s probably some care, and at the same time, care for them because they’re operating from some level of suffering themselves. How can you care for that suffering they have? It’s a bit of aikido, mostly an aikido of caring for them so that something in them can relax.
Audience Member 2: The concept of surrendering is reoccurring to me. When you’re in the right place, like with the doctor, just surrender and trust that they have enough wisdom to treat you.
Gil Fronsdal: Maybe sometimes trusting, yes. But when someone’s being your doctor inappropriately, maybe there’s a wonderful magic of doing the opposite of what you want to do. You might just lean forward and say, “Thank you. Oh, I see that you care for me.” That’s medicine right there. That might disarm them because you’re not responding to what they told you; you’re responding to the way they did it. That creates a connection, and maybe they’ll just drop the whole idea of telling you that you should take more ibuprofen.
Audience Member 3: Our group managed to connect two parts of your talk. I was struck by the description of the world having lots of bad things happening but also that being in some sense exciting. I was distracted by the notion that I know a lot of people feel like there’s a lot of bad things in the world, but they have no meaning. That seems inconsistent; if there are lots of bad things, then you might have a purpose in addressing those. One of the gentlemen in our group mentioned that might be because you’re trying to press the whole vineyard rather than the grape.
Gil Fronsdal: Yes, exactly. I think this is a huge problem for many of us. This huge problem exists, and we think we have to solve the whole thing and press not just the vineyard but everyone’s vineyard, and our arms aren’t big enough for that. But meaning and purpose can come from asking, “What is our gift? What is our contribution that we can make?” Maybe it’s not directly in Washington D.C. or in Gaza or Ukraine, but maybe by caring for the neighbor’s kid, you’re preventing the next big war. Who knows what that kid, if not supported growing up, might do? But if this kid gets even one person who loves and respects them, it might settle them in a way that, who knows, you might be preventing a war in 30 years. There’s always meaning to be had in doing what we can to make this world a better place, even if you can’t take care of the whole vineyard.
Thank you very much for being here. For those of you coming to the picnic, maybe the ice has been broken, and it’s easier to come and say hello. I look forward to seeing some of you there. And to the rest of you, I wish you a wonderful Sunday.
Joanna Macy (1929-2024): An American environmental activist, author, and scholar of Buddhism, general systems theory, and deep ecology. She was a prominent voice in the anti-nuclear and peace movements. ↩
Bodhisattva: In Mahayana Buddhism, a person who is able to reach nirvana but delays doing so out of compassion in order to save suffering beings. ↩
Dharma: A core concept in Buddhism with multiple meanings, including the cosmic law and order, the teachings of the Buddha, and the path to enlightenment. ↩
Jhāna: A state of deep meditative concentration or absorption. It is a key component of the Buddhist path to enlightenment, achieved through sustained focus and tranquility. ↩