Not liking what we see,

we can always stop looking. 

The distractions we encounter seem boundless: short-lived products crammed floor to ceiling on superstore shelves; waiting-room magazines discussing everything from gossip to sports to politics scattered on tables and stacked in wall displays; ceiling-hung news-reporting TVs everywhere we turn in airports and restaurants. All shouting “Look at me!” All vying for our attention. All luring us in. What’s a person to do! Instead of stewing over poorly made junk, the latest political squabbles, the news headlines we cannot do anything about, just look away. Averting our attention, we block the visual “noise” while protecting our pure mind. How do we look away? By distracting ourselves. We could change our focus by turning to something familiar and calming. Or, better still, we could replace the raucous dialogue racing through our mind to the soothing, inspiring sound of “Amituofo.”

Not only should we do what is right,

we need to do so correctly.

What are some incorrect ways? One is to envisage a coveted outcome. This invariably sets us up for disappointment since things rarely turn out as we anticipate. Another is to act egoistically. Perhaps we dream of succeeding where many have failed. No one need not know, we just long to hear that inner voice: “Yes! I knew I could do it!” Or possibly we do indeed imagine others congratulating us. How can we avoid such pitfalls? Just as a horse with blinders on his bridle is forced to focus on what lies ahead, we concentrate on our goal. Thus focused, our aspiration to do what is right becomes free of expectations and ego. We seek to do something for one reason: it’s the right thing to do. Personal views, fame, success do not matter. We do our best hoping conditions will provide fertile ground in which the seeds of our aspirations can take root, and maybe, just maybe, even grow a little. 

Those who do not understand, ask “Why?”

Those who do, struggle; but move on.

When faced suddenly with a tragic loss of life, an initial response is often the grief-stricken moan, “Why?” But as heartrending as the loss is, even more terrible is remaining stuck, forever searching for an answer. Never understanding how such a tragedy could happen. Never moving forward. As Buddhist practitioners, such loss still leaves us with a wrenching sorrow, but we have thankfully learned the answer to “Why?” Everyone, even the young and innocent, planted the seeds for what happens to them in this lifetime. Our minds are not yet clear enough for us to know the karmic cause of an unexpected death. But we can at least grasp that the cause existed because the result would not have happened otherwise. The loss is tragic, but not unfair. Such understanding does not magically erase our pain. It does, however, enable us to move on and figure out how to exist with our grim new reality.

When inclined to take the easy way out,

determine whether you can 

live with the consequences.

When confronting an unappealing job, we often resist. Not because we question whether it is appropriate to do, we lack the necessary skills, or it entails some other valid reason. The chore is something we just don’t feel like doing. So, day after day we sense a stirring of discomfort inside us as yet again reminders of the still uncompleted task loom up before us. And, once again, our response is delay. Aversion. Laziness. Resistance. Call it what you will, we’re like little children stamping our feet and yelling, “I don’t want to!” Sounds silly, when we think about it. But our resisting could prove grave. What might happen if we don’t finish our task? An acrimonious relationship? An even more dreaded task? Diminishing good fortune? We need to consider the logical outcomes and ask ourselves, “Will the consequence be more painful to endure than the job itself?”

It is not the quantity of teachings that matters,

but how we practice those we have.

Our goal is not to become a “nightstand Buddhist,” but a focused practitioner. The former consumes teachings: reading one book, moving it to the read pile, and picking up a new one. Those focused in their practice read the book, get to the last page, turn the book over, and begin reading again. And again. And yet again. A book reviewer once complained that a master’s books kept repeating the same thing. A commenter replied it was because we still weren’t doing what the master had instructed in the earlier books. In other words, until we internalize and practice a book’s teachings, we’re not ready for more. So, we do not need a bookshelf full of books. We need to practice what we have. In Pure Land Buddhism, we do not have dozens of books to pile on our nightstand. And that’s okay because the ones we possess provide abundant teachings. We just need to clear away the clutter on our nightstand for our one book.