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. 

As a fissure can split a stone,

doubt cripples one’s confidence.

Fissures, in even the hardest rock, can stress the rock to the point where it cracks and, with time, crumbles away. Similarly, and with equally disastrous results, doubt can eat into and, eventually, decimate our confidence. This is why our belief needs to be as imperishable as a diamond. We need to believe in ourselves, secure in the knowledge that we have the same nature as all Buddhas. Having this same Buddha-nature, we too can awaken and become a Buddha. We also need to believe in the Buddhas and their teachings. We must guard against doubting what the Buddhas and ancient masters have taught, guard against questioning our ability to awaken. Failing to do so, our skepticism will, like a fissure, split and shatter our resolve. With unwavering belief in ourselves and in the Buddhas, we will eliminate doubt and burnish our confidence until it shines as brilliantly as a diamond.

When disagreeable thoughts of others arise,

convert them to those that are amiable.

For our own sake, as well as that of others, we need to replace our offensive mental chatter about others with “Amituofo.” While returning to the Buddha-name, we can seize the opportunity to quickly transform our offensive thoughts into caring ones. The last impressions of the person thus embedded in our store consciousness will be favorable. Accomplishing this, when we next see the individual, the first feelings to bubble up to the surface of our consciousness will hopefully come from those congenial impressions rather than the earlier derogatory ones. Failing to accomplish this, when we next meet, regardless of how the other person acts toward us, our indignation will surge upward and we will resume thinking of—and acting on—those harsh untransformed thoughts. The person may well smile at us, but we will bristle at them. And have spawned yet another enmity. 

Although others may cause us pain,

we can control our suffering

by how we react to our pain.

The Buddha explained suffering as two darts. Pain, the first dart, can be either physical or emotional.  Suffering, the second dart, we inflict on ourselves as we react impulsively to the pain. Let’s say you rush into a room and, in your haste, walk into a chair. A painful first dart. The second dart ensues as you scold yourself for being clumsy and careless; you never learn! At other times, we inflict the second dart when there was no first. For instance, we take a co-worker’s remark the wrong way. Not bothering to check to see if a first dart even existed, we automatically stab ourselves with a second dart of anger or distress. The solution? We cannot always avoid first darts. But we can control the second ones. We create the suffering; we can stop it. As soon as you sense a second dart is poised for striking, recognize it. And drop it for the worthless thing it is.

Do not seek the measure of your actions’ worth

in the eyes of others.

Seek it within yourself.

A long time ago, when the Buddha was in our world, an old woman wished to make an offering to the perfectly enlightened being. But all she had were two coins from her day’s begging. Undeterred, she used them to buy some oil for a lamp. Setting out her offering, she vowed to eliminate the suffering of all beings. After leaving the lamp, exhausted and starving she died. The same night, the king also offered lamps, row upon row of them. The next day, amazingly, not only was one of the lamps still burning, its flame shone even more brightly. When asked how this could be, the Buddha said the lamp was the old woman’s. It continued to burn due to her compassionate vow. The woman had not needed to ask if her meager offering was worthy; she did what she knew to be right. Her gratitude was immeasurable, her own needs inconsequential, her vow unwavering.