Stories

skydancer

How did you find your way to Buddhism?

Mine came through suffering. My father committed suicide in 1981. I went to my first meditation retreat the following year.

The first teaching I ever heard was 'life is suffering'.

Now-Is-reality

I got tired of suffering, so when a kid at school talked about buddhism, I was immideitly intrigued and have since been following it.
My family are a bunch of crazy people, and though I love them, I allowed myself to be heavily effected by their actions as well as treatment of me, and thus arose insecurity, anger and for a good portion of my life I was always very upset.... so I suffered for my reliance on what others said and did, etc. Buddhism was an easy path because it said there was an end to suffering, and being a logical thinker, it has been very beneficial and worthwhile. Buddhism, I feel, is an extrodinary path .

Namaste,
Ashley

skydancer

My family is also a bunch of crazy people Ashley. There is wisdom that comes from the healing of suffering. I'm so glad you found buddhism.

skydancer

This poem is one I've been working with in meditation by my favorite poet, Rumi. I thought maybe some of you may like it too.



The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

~ Rumi ~

RayfieldNeel

I'll quote my own story from another similar thread.

My "story" starts with martial arts as well. Took 3 years of Tae Kwon Do in college, from a real ball-buster sabunim. I noticed that something about spending time with the forms (what the Koreans call pumse, and the Japanese call kata) left me feeling very serene and relaxed. I took a college course in Buddhism, and became fascinated, though it would be a number of years before that evolved into a practice.

I tried out various forms of Christianity, but could never get past the dogma. I could never reconcile my engineer's view of the world with the Protestant Church's idea of God, and there seemed to be all sorts of discrepancies between what's now practiced in the modern Church, and what Jesus reportedly said. (To me) I continue to sporadically attend a church with my wife and kids; there are nuggets of wisdom there, and the kids/wife enjoy it.

Stress became a real problem for me a few years ago; I was walking around with a king-sized knot in my stomach, from a combination of job and family burdens. I found Jon Kabat-Zinn's work on mindfulness, and entered into that world from the secular angle. I began a daily practice of very brief meditation. It seemed to help.

Something very personal and painful happened to me a couple of years back, and I began looking for different ways to understand my suffering. Since then I've become something of a "salad bar" Buddhist. I pick from the Theravada and Mahayana/Zen bowls as needed. Currently meeting with a Thich Nhat Hanh sangha in town, but still really looking for that person that I can identify with as "my teacher". Now trying to meditate between 30 min and an hour a day.

I don't know where this path will take me...but I think perhaps I'm at least pointed in the right direction.

skydancer

Great story Rayfield.

The path continues to unfold. It will be interesting to see where yours takes you.

Anupassī

I'll quote myself as well.

Well, it all starts, like a Greek tragedy, with hubris. About January 2009, I just reached a critical level of disgust and sullen, underlying anger. People around me lied, lusted, and treated each other poorly, I could see, and it angered me. Not a wild, open rage, but a deep-set, quiet contempt. Contempt is addictive in the rich, exulting feeling of superiority it gives one over other people, so the more I felt contemptuous, the more I wanted to. Eventually, I just slashed off all my social connections (except for my family and a single friend), and went into an emotional bunker. And for a while, I enjoyed that. The separation was so pure, my mind and emotions unmoved by the trials and pleasures of those outside. I read about personality disorders, to try and give a justification for how I felt, but that was fairly dishonest. So I was secluded, shut up in myself. I used the metaphor of a fortress a lot in the essay to describe this state. It was as though I was a king in his fortress, looking out upon the land, and I saw all the other people of the world as serfs, of no value, forbidden to enter the fortress. By March 2009, the fortress was locked and barred, and I sat in there, all by myself, with one exception.

You see, not only contempt, but an underlying fear drove me there. A fear I did not even notice at the time, but which lurked beneath all of my actions. I feared judgment, of "negation by labeling". Thus afraid, I could not stand those who judged in any form, and pulled away from them while calling myself their better. But my closest friend, Pete, had never judged me or labeled me. I took refuge in my friendship with him, a single window open in the fortress walls. He wasn't a serf. He was an adviser to me, then. He alone had my affection and gratitude of all the people in the world.

But seclusion became dull. I was unmoving, yet I wished to be moved, to do things. I ended up investigating ascetic practices, not comprehending that the ideal of asceticism is to dissolve attachment to the ego and awaken to something higher. I saw such practices, instead, as a crowning self-affirmation, a perfection of the ego. So it was that, while on YouTube and typing up "celibacy," I got a video. It was a monk, in an brownish-orange robe, with a British accent. His name was Ajahn Brahm, and he talked about letting go. He talked about opening the doors of the heart. He talked about letting things be. I was shocked. But the tone of his voice and the subjects of his discourse drew me in. This would be about April or May 2009.

And so I listened, and listening, I was drawn into reflection. Dozens of hours of Ajahn Brahm talking went into my ears, and it began to erode the fortress walls. My contempt faded somewhat with every listening, but I still kept myself shut fast from the world.

Summer came. During summer vacation, I really got down to studying what Ajahn Brahm had to say. I downloaded talks by Ajahn Sumedho, Ajahn Amaro, and Bhante Gunaratana, and listened to those nonstop. Timidly, I began talking to one person I had abandoned, who rapidly forgave me. It was gradual, listening to each different talk and mulling over what it had to say. In August, I vowed not to touch a computer at all for as long as I could, plugging my iPod into the stereo in my room, turning up the volume, and lying downstairs with a pillow and a bottle of iced water, listening to an Ajahn talk. (I live in Massachusetts, and the summers here are muggy, so I didn't feel inclined to do much else). I practiced meditation occasionally, but often I was drawn more to listening to talks than to attending to the breath.

Although I did have one interesting meditation experience. On one day, which was cooler than usual, I was in my bedroom, and I had a futon out. With nothing to do, I decided to simply sit on the futon, somewhat reclined, and shut my eyes. That's all I did. What happened next is difficult to phrase in words. For a while, it was as if I was asleep, with no consciousness. But then, there was something else. No sense-contact. No thought. No memory. Perfect, silent suspension, without beginning or end, without limit. Then I stirred, and simply stared at my knee. I cried somewhat. I smiled, too. I felt as though everything that I considered part of myself was opening up to embrace all things.

Then I came back to school in September, repaired my old friendships, and got back to doing schoolwork. Since then, I've been listening to talks, reading suttas, and reflecting on myself. And then, in February 2010, I showed up here.

There you go.

Brigid

Great story, Anu.

Anupassī

Brigid wrote: »

Great story, Anu.

It was even better as the original essay.