Several years ago I was on pilgrimage in Bodh Gaya, India, where the Buddha attained enlightenment. Behind my lodging lived a mother dog and her five puppies. Although they were large enough to be weaned, the puppies had nothing but her milk to sustain them. The mother, skin and bones, was gone most of the day looking for food. When she returned, there was always a loud commotion as all the puppies tried to get a meal. The mother stood there as they drank, so weak that she would weave back and forth. When the milk was gone, she would again leave.
One day she did not return. The next day the puppies began to die. I fed them yogurt, but one by one the life went out of them. Just inches away, behind a wall, an enormous Tibetan prayer wheel turned, a bell sounding with each rotation.
It was not until last spring, when I became a mother, that I remembered this incident and realized the profound blessing of it. It had exposed me to a level of suffering that, until then, I had felt was too painful to look at. That glimpse gave rise to my fervent aspiration that the suffering of all beings be resolved. With my son, I have been moved to enact that intent countless times. Though my efforts certainly do not reach the far corners of samsara, I aspire that they will.
Before becoming a mother, I thought that worldly responsibilities such as motherhood would hinder my spiritual path. But my practice has been deepened and enriched by my son's presence in my life. Infact, I have found motherhood to be a very profound form of practice. What began in Bodh Gaya as a wish to end suffering has matured into a confidence in the spiritual methods that actually do so. Having a child has been like entering a retreat where I finally have both the time and inspiration to apply the teachings. It has been a very natural process.
Caring for a child and engaging in family life is a challenge on many different levels. I have found, though, that when I am receptive to the mind of the lama, even the most ordinary activities can give rise to extraordinary blessings. The most valuable thing I have learned is that whenever I put another being's needs before my own, my mind stretches. By repeatedly letting go, the sense of self, other, and that which passes between them diminishes. Compassion, or great mind, begins to move from a concept to an actual experience. The process is not easy; in fact, it is often painful, but it always forces me to be honest with myself.
When Sam was first born I looked at him as someone outside of me, as someone I had to deal with for so many hours of the day. But the distinction only made me miserable. After a while I stopped drawing a line between my time for him and for myself, and suddenly life became much easier. As our experiences together opened up, we both started to have more fun. The joy we share now is pure and infectious.
My son acts as a constant mirror, showing me my lack of compassion and patience but also the benefit I can offer him by my example. He looks to me for guidance. If l am overcome with negative emotions, it will not benefit him. In the mind of a child there is the constant interplay of joy and suffering. As I watch him it shows me how my own mind vacillates, caught up in the same cycle of what I pull toward me and what I push away. The difference is that I have more perspective on what is happening; I have the training and ability to cut the cycle.
As I let go of many of my former activities, I see the depth of my attachments and the suffering they cause. When I used to work alone, I was attached to achieving a goal and pushed myself to accomplish it. With Sam, I have learned to be more flexible. Something will come up and I must be open to his needs. Whether a swim in the pond, a walk in the forest, or just a small cry, these breaks now punctuate everything we do together. I use them to refresh my mind and reexamine my intent. The end result becomes less important and the process is enriched. After all, what is ever really finished? Certainly not the diapers or the dishes. When I die, my work won't go with me, but the patterns I have established in my mind will.
As a late afternoon rain shower washes through the valley, I sit in the shrine room at Tara house, Sam playing quietly beside me. It is the final Tara tsog before Rinpoche leaves for Brazil, and I feel extremely fortunate to be here. However, by the first mantra recitation, the baby starts fussing. I feel a deep sadness as I pack our things and walk out. But once outside, I can see a brilliant double rainbow, and as I walk toward the Guru Rinpoche statue, the sadness begins to fade. I see that the lama's blessings are not confined to a particular situation, but extend everywhere without boundary. When I try to grasp them, like a child chasing rainbows, they slip away. Yet when I place the needs of my child above my own, my mind opens and the blessings become obvious.
Maile Wall, a student of H.E. Chagdud Rinpoche since 1986, lives at Rigdzin Ling with her husband, Jeff Miller, and son, Sam.
Several years ago I was on pilgrimage in Bodh Gaya, India, where the Buddha attained enlightenment. Behind my lodging lived a mother dog and her five puppies. Although they were large enough to be weaned, the puppies had nothing but her milk to sustain them. The mother, skin and bones, was gone most of the day looking for food. When she returned, there was always a loud commotion as all the puppies tried to get a meal. The mother stood there as they drank, so weak that she would weave back and forth. When the milk was gone, she would again leave.
One day she did not return. The next day the puppies began to die. I fed them yogurt, but one by one the life went out of them. Just inches away, behind a wall, an enormous Tibetan prayer wheel turned, a bell sounding with each rotation.
It was not until last spring, when I became a mother, that I remembered this incident and realized the profound blessing of it. It had exposed me to a level of suffering that, until then, I had felt was too painful to look at. That glimpse gave rise to my fervent aspiration that the suffering of all beings be resolved. With my son, I have been moved to enact that intent countless times. Though my efforts certainly do not reach the far corners of samsara, I aspire that they will.
Before becoming a mother, I thought that worldly responsibilities such as motherhood would hinder my spiritual path. But my practice has been deepened and enriched by my son's presence in my life. Infact, I have found motherhood to be a very profound form of practice. What began in Bodh Gaya as a wish to end suffering has matured into a confidence in the spiritual methods that actually do so. Having a child has been like entering a retreat where I finally have both the time and inspiration to apply the teachings. It has been a very natural process.
Caring for a child and engaging in family life is a challenge on many different levels. I have found, though, that when I am receptive to the mind of the lama, even the most ordinary activities can give rise to extraordinary blessings. The most valuable thing I have learned is that whenever I put another being's needs before my own, my mind stretches. By repeatedly letting go, the sense of self, other, and that which passes between them diminishes. Compassion, or great mind, begins to move from a concept to an actual experience. The process is not easy; in fact, it is often painful, but it always forces me to be honest with myself.
When Sam was first born I looked at him as someone outside of me, as someone I had to deal with for so many hours of the day. But the distinction only made me miserable. After a while I stopped drawing a line between my time for him and for myself, and suddenly life became much easier. As our experiences together opened up, we both started to have more fun. The joy we share now is pure and infectious.
My son acts as a constant mirror, showing me my lack of compassion and patience but also the benefit I can offer him by my example. He looks to me for guidance. If l am overcome with negative emotions, it will not benefit him. In the mind of a child there is the constant interplay of joy and suffering. As I watch him it shows me how my own mind vacillates, caught up in the same cycle of what I pull toward me and what I push away. The difference is that I have more perspective on what is happening; I have the training and ability to cut the cycle.
As I let go of many of my former activities, I see the depth of my attachments and the suffering they cause. When I used to work alone, I was attached to achieving a goal and pushed myself to accomplish it. With Sam, I have learned to be more flexible. Something will come up and I must be open to his needs. Whether a swim in the pond, a walk in the forest, or just a small cry, these breaks now punctuate everything we do together. I use them to refresh my mind and reexamine my intent. The end result becomes less important and the process is enriched. After all, what is ever really finished? Certainly not the diapers or the dishes. When I die, my work won't go with me, but the patterns I have established in my mind will.
As a late afternoon rain shower washes through the valley, I sit in the shrine room at Tara house, Sam playing quietly beside me. It is the final Tara tsog before Rinpoche leaves for Brazil, and I feel extremely fortunate to be here. However, by the first mantra recitation, the baby starts fussing. I feel a deep sadness as I pack our things and walk out. But once outside, I can see a brilliant double rainbow, and as I walk toward the Guru Rinpoche statue, the sadness begins to fade. I see that the lama's blessings are not confined to a particular situation, but extend everywhere without boundary. When I try to grasp them, like a child chasing rainbows, they slip away. Yet when I place the needs of my child above my own, my mind opens and the blessings become obvious.
Maile Wall, a student of H.E. Chagdud Rinpoche since 1986, lives at Rigdzin Ling with her husband, Jeff Miller, and son, Sam.
Several years ago I was on pilgrimage in Bodh Gaya, India, where the Buddha attained enlightenment. Behind my lodging lived a mother dog and her five puppies. Although they were large enough to be weaned, the puppies had nothing but her milk to sustain them. The mother, skin and bones, was gone most of the day looking for food. When she returned, there was always a loud commotion as all the puppies tried to get a meal. The mother stood there as they drank, so weak that she would weave back and forth. When the milk was gone, she would again leave.
One day she did not return. The next day the puppies began to die. I fed them yogurt, but one by one the life went out of them. Just inches away, behind a wall, an enormous Tibetan prayer wheel turned, a bell sounding with each rotation.
It was not until last spring, when I became a mother, that I remembered this incident and realized the profound blessing of it. It had exposed me to a level of suffering that, until then, I had felt was too painful to look at. That glimpse gave rise to my fervent aspiration that the suffering of all beings be resolved. With my son, I have been moved to enact that intent countless times. Though my efforts certainly do not reach the far corners of samsara, I aspire that they will.
Before becoming a mother, I thought that worldly responsibilities such as motherhood would hinder my spiritual path. But my practice has been deepened and enriched by my son's presence in my life. Infact, I have found motherhood to be a very profound form of practice. What began in Bodh Gaya as a wish to end suffering has matured into a confidence in the spiritual methods that actually do so. Having a child has been like entering a retreat where I finally have both the time and inspiration to apply the teachings. It has been a very natural process.
Caring for a child and engaging in family life is a challenge on many different levels. I have found, though, that when I am receptive to the mind of the lama, even the most ordinary activities can give rise to extraordinary blessings. The most valuable thing I have learned is that whenever I put another being's needs before my own, my mind stretches. By repeatedly letting go, the sense of self, other, and that which passes between them diminishes. Compassion, or great mind, begins to move from a concept to an actual experience. The process is not easy; in fact, it is often painful, but it always forces me to be honest with myself.
When Sam was first born I looked at him as someone outside of me, as someone I had to deal with for so many hours of the day. But the distinction only made me miserable. After a while I stopped drawing a line between my time for him and for myself, and suddenly life became much easier. As our experiences together opened up, we both started to have more fun. The joy we share now is pure and infectious.
My son acts as a constant mirror, showing me my lack of compassion and patience but also the benefit I can offer him by my example. He looks to me for guidance. If l am overcome with negative emotions, it will not benefit him. In the mind of a child there is the constant interplay of joy and suffering. As I watch him it shows me how my own mind vacillates, caught up in the same cycle of what I pull toward me and what I push away. The difference is that I have more perspective on what is happening; I have the training and ability to cut the cycle.
As I let go of many of my former activities, I see the depth of my attachments and the suffering they cause. When I used to work alone, I was attached to achieving a goal and pushed myself to accomplish it. With Sam, I have learned to be more flexible. Something will come up and I must be open to his needs. Whether a swim in the pond, a walk in the forest, or just a small cry, these breaks now punctuate everything we do together. I use them to refresh my mind and reexamine my intent. The end result becomes less important and the process is enriched. After all, what is ever really finished? Certainly not the diapers or the dishes. When I die, my work won't go with me, but the patterns I have established in my mind will.
As a late afternoon rain shower washes through the valley, I sit in the shrine room at Tara house, Sam playing quietly beside me. It is the final Tara tsog before Rinpoche leaves for Brazil, and I feel extremely fortunate to be here. However, by the first mantra recitation, the baby starts fussing. I feel a deep sadness as I pack our things and walk out. But once outside, I can see a brilliant double rainbow, and as I walk toward the Guru Rinpoche statue, the sadness begins to fade. I see that the lama's blessings are not confined to a particular situation, but extend everywhere without boundary. When I try to grasp them, like a child chasing rainbows, they slip away. Yet when I place the needs of my child above my own, my mind opens and the blessings become obvious.
Maile Wall, a student of H.E. Chagdud Rinpoche since 1986, lives at Rigdzin Ling with her husband, Jeff Miller, and son, Sam.
Several years ago I was on pilgrimage in Bodh Gaya, India, where the Buddha attained enlightenment. Behind my lodging lived a mother dog and her five puppies. Although they were large enough to be weaned, the puppies had nothing but her milk to sustain them. The mother, skin and bones, was gone most of the day looking for food. When she returned, there was always a loud commotion as all the puppies tried to get a meal. The mother stood there as they drank, so weak that she would weave back and forth. When the milk was gone, she would again leave.
One day she did not return. The next day the puppies began to die. I fed them yogurt, but one by one the life went out of them. Just inches away, behind a wall, an enormous Tibetan prayer wheel turned, a bell sounding with each rotation.
It was not until last spring, when I became a mother, that I remembered this incident and realized the profound blessing of it. It had exposed me to a level of suffering that, until then, I had felt was too painful to look at. That glimpse gave rise to my fervent aspiration that the suffering of all beings be resolved. With my son, I have been moved to enact that intent countless times. Though my efforts certainly do not reach the far corners of samsara, I aspire that they will.
Before becoming a mother, I thought that worldly responsibilities such as motherhood would hinder my spiritual path. But my practice has been deepened and enriched by my son's presence in my life. Infact, I have found motherhood to be a very profound form of practice. What began in Bodh Gaya as a wish to end suffering has matured into a confidence in the spiritual methods that actually do so. Having a child has been like entering a retreat where I finally have both the time and inspiration to apply the teachings. It has been a very natural process.
Caring for a child and engaging in family life is a challenge on many different levels. I have found, though, that when I am receptive to the mind of the lama, even the most ordinary activities can give rise to extraordinary blessings. The most valuable thing I have learned is that whenever I put another being's needs before my own, my mind stretches. By repeatedly letting go, the sense of self, other, and that which passes between them diminishes. Compassion, or great mind, begins to move from a concept to an actual experience. The process is not easy; in fact, it is often painful, but it always forces me to be honest with myself.
When Sam was first born I looked at him as someone outside of me, as someone I had to deal with for so many hours of the day. But the distinction only made me miserable. After a while I stopped drawing a line between my time for him and for myself, and suddenly life became much easier. As our experiences together opened up, we both started to have more fun. The joy we share now is pure and infectious.
My son acts as a constant mirror, showing me my lack of compassion and patience but also the benefit I can offer him by my example. He looks to me for guidance. If l am overcome with negative emotions, it will not benefit him. In the mind of a child there is the constant interplay of joy and suffering. As I watch him it shows me how my own mind vacillates, caught up in the same cycle of what I pull toward me and what I push away. The difference is that I have more perspective on what is happening; I have the training and ability to cut the cycle.
As I let go of many of my former activities, I see the depth of my attachments and the suffering they cause. When I used to work alone, I was attached to achieving a goal and pushed myself to accomplish it. With Sam, I have learned to be more flexible. Something will come up and I must be open to his needs. Whether a swim in the pond, a walk in the forest, or just a small cry, these breaks now punctuate everything we do together. I use them to refresh my mind and reexamine my intent. The end result becomes less important and the process is enriched. After all, what is ever really finished? Certainly not the diapers or the dishes. When I die, my work won't go with me, but the patterns I have established in my mind will.
As a late afternoon rain shower washes through the valley, I sit in the shrine room at Tara house, Sam playing quietly beside me. It is the final Tara tsog before Rinpoche leaves for Brazil, and I feel extremely fortunate to be here. However, by the first mantra recitation, the baby starts fussing. I feel a deep sadness as I pack our things and walk out. But once outside, I can see a brilliant double rainbow, and as I walk toward the Guru Rinpoche statue, the sadness begins to fade. I see that the lama's blessings are not confined to a particular situation, but extend everywhere without boundary. When I try to grasp them, like a child chasing rainbows, they slip away. Yet when I place the needs of my child above my own, my mind opens and the blessings become obvious.
Maile Wall, a student of H.E. Chagdud Rinpoche since 1986, lives at Rigdzin Ling with her husband, Jeff Miller, and son, Sam.
Several years ago I was on pilgrimage in Bodh Gaya, India, where the Buddha attained enlightenment. Behind my lodging lived a mother dog and her five puppies. Although they were large enough to be weaned, the puppies had nothing but her milk to sustain them. The mother, skin and bones, was gone most of the day looking for food. When she returned, there was always a loud commotion as all the puppies tried to get a meal. The mother stood there as they drank, so weak that she would weave back and forth. When the milk was gone, she would again leave.
One day she did not return. The next day the puppies began to die. I fed them yogurt, but one by one the life went out of them. Just inches away, behind a wall, an enormous Tibetan prayer wheel turned, a bell sounding with each rotation.
It was not until last spring, when I became a mother, that I remembered this incident and realized the profound blessing of it. It had exposed me to a level of suffering that, until then, I had felt was too painful to look at. That glimpse gave rise to my fervent aspiration that the suffering of all beings be resolved. With my son, I have been moved to enact that intent countless times. Though my efforts certainly do not reach the far corners of samsara, I aspire that they will.
Before becoming a mother, I thought that worldly responsibilities such as motherhood would hinder my spiritual path. But my practice has been deepened and enriched by my son's presence in my life. Infact, I have found motherhood to be a very profound form of practice. What began in Bodh Gaya as a wish to end suffering has matured into a confidence in the spiritual methods that actually do so. Having a child has been like entering a retreat where I finally have both the time and inspiration to apply the teachings. It has been a very natural process.
Caring for a child and engaging in family life is a challenge on many different levels. I have found, though, that when I am receptive to the mind of the lama, even the most ordinary activities can give rise to extraordinary blessings. The most valuable thing I have learned is that whenever I put another being's needs before my own, my mind stretches. By repeatedly letting go, the sense of self, other, and that which passes between them diminishes. Compassion, or great mind, begins to move from a concept to an actual experience. The process is not easy; in fact, it is often painful, but it always forces me to be honest with myself.
When Sam was first born I looked at him as someone outside of me, as someone I had to deal with for so many hours of the day. But the distinction only made me miserable. After a while I stopped drawing a line between my time for him and for myself, and suddenly life became much easier. As our experiences together opened up, we both started to have more fun. The joy we share now is pure and infectious.
My son acts as a constant mirror, showing me my lack of compassion and patience but also the benefit I can offer him by my example. He looks to me for guidance. If l am overcome with negative emotions, it will not benefit him. In the mind of a child there is the constant interplay of joy and suffering. As I watch him it shows me how my own mind vacillates, caught up in the same cycle of what I pull toward me and what I push away. The difference is that I have more perspective on what is happening; I have the training and ability to cut the cycle.
As I let go of many of my former activities, I see the depth of my attachments and the suffering they cause. When I used to work alone, I was attached to achieving a goal and pushed myself to accomplish it. With Sam, I have learned to be more flexible. Something will come up and I must be open to his needs. Whether a swim in the pond, a walk in the forest, or just a small cry, these breaks now punctuate everything we do together. I use them to refresh my mind and reexamine my intent. The end result becomes less important and the process is enriched. After all, what is ever really finished? Certainly not the diapers or the dishes. When I die, my work won't go with me, but the patterns I have established in my mind will.
As a late afternoon rain shower washes through the valley, I sit in the shrine room at Tara house, Sam playing quietly beside me. It is the final Tara tsog before Rinpoche leaves for Brazil, and I feel extremely fortunate to be here. However, by the first mantra recitation, the baby starts fussing. I feel a deep sadness as I pack our things and walk out. But once outside, I can see a brilliant double rainbow, and as I walk toward the Guru Rinpoche statue, the sadness begins to fade. I see that the lama's blessings are not confined to a particular situation, but extend everywhere without boundary. When I try to grasp them, like a child chasing rainbows, they slip away. Yet when I place the needs of my child above my own, my mind opens and the blessings become obvious.
Maile Wall, a student of H.E. Chagdud Rinpoche since 1986, lives at Rigdzin Ling with her husband, Jeff Miller, and son, Sam.
