Diligence Paramita
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In the fifth talk in this series of ten talks on the paramitas or perfections, Zuisei speaks about our relationship to diligence or discipline and its place in and importance for the path.
Instead of seeing discipline as doing what we have to do because it’s ‘good for us,’ we can think about it as the exercise of self power—as wanting to do what we have to do. This means aligning our actions with a deep desire and a carefully thought-out intent. Diligence is not a vague sense of responsibility or actions that come out of our fear of consequences, but the practice of being in harmony with ourselves and our environment.
This talk was given by Zuisei Goddard.
Transcript
This transcript is based on Zuisei's talk notes and may differ slightly from the final talk.
Diligence Paramita
I would like to speak about Virya Paramita, and it’s translated as energy, or zeal, enthusiasm, or diligence. And I wanted to talk about it in terms of diligence, in terms of careful and persistent work or effort. Because I’ve been thinking about it in terms of its relationship with discipline.
And, you know, discipline, let’s face it, is not a very popular word. When I looked it up in about half a dozen dictionaries, the definitions I found just reinforced its unpalatability. It was defined as the practice of training people to obey rules or a code of behavior, using punishment to correct disobedience. “Penitential chastisement,” or “physical punishment, teaching suffering, martyrdom.” It derives from a Middle English term that describes mortification by scourging oneself.
Less punitively, but none the lighter, it is training that corrects, molds, or perfects the mental faculties or moral character, or a rule or system of rules governing conduct or activity. In any case, the way that we use the term really sets it as the opposite of enjoyment. As far as most people are concerned, discipline is doing what you have to do, even when you don’t want to, because either it’s good for you or because it will take you closer to whatever goal you have set for yourself.
But I think there is a different, perhaps more open way to think about discipline—as the exercise of self-power, as choosing to do what you have to do. This is an alignment, aligning your actions with a deep desire, which we speak of as aspiration, and a carefully thought-out intent, instead of acting out of a sense of responsibility or fear of consequences. In this sense, being disciplined really means being in harmony with yourself—the totality of yourself and your environment.
Given a choice—let’s say if you’re not living in a totalitarian state or in prison—all of us really do what we ultimately want to do and little else. Even in a place like this, where so much is decided for us, when we don’t want to do something, we don’t. We fudge, we prevaricate, we delay, or we do something halfway. Or our body sometimes conspires. We get sick, or we get tired, we get dull.
The more choices we have, the less likely we are to respond to any kind of coercion, especially if it comes from ourselves. Our ego likes to rebel, and it’s never happier than when it’s fighting against itself. I think we’ve all experienced at some point saying, with some determination, “I’m going to do X,” and finding ourselves doing exactly the opposite. We know that forcing ourselves to do something doesn’t really work. It only gets us so far.
At the same time, sometimes we have trouble owning our own power, and so we rely on someone else to make us do something—to create that discipline for us. Sometimes people say quite directly that they come, for example, to a sesshin because they’re having trouble sitting at home. They’re hoping that coming here will recharge their practice. Usually we say, actually, you want it to be the other way around. You want to be sitting consistently, and this is just a way to deepen. But you don’t want to rely on the schedule, on the teacher, on the sangha to carry you.
At the same time, this is skillful means; otherwise, we wouldn’t do it. It is helpful to be with a group of people who are all doing the same thing. The bell rings in the morning, we all get up and come into the zendo, and then when it’s time to work, we all work. Obviously, that is skillful. But when what motivates you is externally driven, then it’s not at all surprising that when we step out into our lives, we find it’s not carrying over into work or our relationships.
Choosing What Truly Matters
People are often surprised and disappointed—crushed, sometimes—especially if they’ve been here for a while, a year or two, that it’s not working in the same way in their own lives. How could it? It’s like putting on a coat and hoping that it will warm your soul. Deep down, I think we all know that it’s up to each one of us and no one else. But it can be hard to bear this responsibility.
Or is it? Maybe when we look at it from the outside, it seems difficult. Is it truly difficult? Is it a struggle to be the master of your own life—to truly own your choices? As you know, there’s that well-known koan of Zuigan and the Zen master. Every morning he would call out to himself, “Master!” and he himself would answer, “Yes!” “Master, don’t be deceived by others, anytime, anyplace.” And he would say, “No, I won’t. I won’t be deceived by others. I won’t be deceived by myself.”
Let me offer a slightly different definition of discipline: as a practice of training yourself to identify what is most important to you—that one thing necessary that I spoke of in my last talk—and as the careful and persistent work of choosing those actions that will affirm that one thing, instead of denying it, instead of acting at cross purposes to it. When what you have to do and what you want to do are aligned, then most of the work is done. When your wish becomes an imperative, you will be unstoppable. Forget about punishment, chastisement, suffering, martyrdom—they become irrelevant.
Discipline, in the sense of “towing the line,” is such a narrow, limited, and suffocating definition. Truly, it is a matter of choice—choosing what you most want. In Understanding the Mind, Thich Nhat Hanh uses a very simple but vivid analogy for the mind that illustrates how discipline as choice can work. He speaks of the mind, or mind consciousness, as the gardener, and the storehouse consciousness as the garden.
In Buddhism, fundamentally, there are three types of action: wholesome, unwholesome, and neutral. These manifest in three ways: body, speech, and thought. We know that when an unwholesome thought arises in our mind, most likely, the result of this thought will also be unwholesome. It’s not necessary—karma can be transformed in a moment—but it is most likely that an unwholesome thought will manifest as unwholesome action. This is one of the characteristics of these seeds of action: they are consistent. Just as we wouldn’t expect to plant a lemon seed and end up with an apple tree, we shouldn’t expect that an unwholesome seed will give rise to a good and affirming result. And yet, often, we do. We do exactly that.
All of the seeds of every action we’ve ever experienced, done, or perceived are stored in this storehouse consciousness, which is the eighth, base consciousness. You have the five senses; the sixth is mind; the seventh consciousness, called manas, is roughly equivalent to the ego. It arises in a fascinating way: the storehouse consciousness turns around, observes part of itself, falls in love with itself, and creates manas—the ego. This reminded me of the myth of Narcissus, which seems so apt. He was the fairest of all the gods, incapable of loving someone else or accepting love or affection. One of the nymphs he jilted got angry and cursed him. Nemesis, the goddess of retribution, took up that curse and said, “May the one who cannot love others love only himself.” As the myth goes, he fell in love with his own reflection and wasted away pining for what he already had. It perfectly describes narcissistic personality, though I think we all have a bit of a narcissist in us to the extent we are infatuated with ourselves. We cannot see someone else, let alone love them.
The storehouse consciousness, which is vast, contains all of these seeds and latches onto a piece of itself. Sowing a seed is called action as cause, and the ripening of that seed—the blossoming of the result—is action as fruit. It is a very clear and vivid way to understand cause and effect. Intent is also involved, but we can understand how an unwholesome thought ripens into an angry action, an angry word, or another angry thought. Sometimes we don’t see the effects right away. Sometimes the seed ripens instantly; sometimes it takes lifetimes.
In my practice, I can think of examples where I wanted to do something and it took fifteen or twenty years to reach it. Initially, I struggle, fight, procrastinate, or do it partially and drop it. It feels subject to my mood at any given moment. Then, when the circumstances are ready, it clicks into place. Some effort is meticulous, some not. But once it is in line with my deeper aspiration, it is no longer a struggle. I do not fight the process, and I do not get impatient. I know some things take time.
Thich Nhat Hanh says that is exactly why we do not need to wonder why we are not yet enlightened. We are doing all this work; why am I not at peace yet? The only thing we need to do is carefully and consistently water those seeds of practice, kindness, and burgeoning clarity. In time, these seeds will ripen. When the time is right, we act—but it is not even “we” who do it. This is why these are paramitas, these are wisdoms. When intent aligns with truth, it is no longer about me. This alignment removes struggle from the picture; I am no longer in my own way.
Within this framework, discipline is simply choosing the right seeds to water in accordance with our aspiration. Then it is just a matter of light and time.
Which Seeds We Choose to Water
I was wondering if discipline is like talent—that either you have it or you don’t, or that some people are born with more of it than others. I doubt it. We all have limits, strengths, and weaknesses. But really, what is a strength, and what is a weakness? Somebody gave me a book some time ago about a chess prodigy who became burned out in the world of chess and switched to Tai Chi, the combat forms. He became very good—world champion. He said it wasn’t that he was particularly good at chess or Tai Chi; he was very good at learning. He was very good at identifying his strengths and the areas he needed to work on. He was very good at aligning intention and commitment. To be clear about what is important for us—not what we think is important, nor what others say should be important, but what is truly most important in this moment in our lives—is essential. We will do what we have to do.
Somebody sent me a link to an article about Michael Phelps attempting a comeback for the Olympics in Brazil. He is probably one of the greatest athletes of all time, with 22 medals—the most ever in any sport—and numerous world records. The article was prompted because he had been arrested for a DUI and went to rehab. One of the first things he said was, “I’ve never given it my all.” I thought, what a shame—that he didn’t have to, because he is so talented. What would it have been like if he had given it his all? That is the curse of talent. Most of us are not like that. We have to work hard. In that working hard, we inhabit our lives fully. The question, at least for me, is: all of this work, this discipline—for what? What is most important?
Pema Chodron calls this virtue enthusiasm or heroic perseverance. It is not heroic because it is extraordinary or strenuous, but because it is pervasive, universal—it covers the whole universe. It cannot be about me; metaphysically, it is impossible for it to be about me when it is this kind of perseverance.
I came across a snippet of a poem by Emily Brontë, No Coward Soul is Mine: “Though earth and moon were gone, and suns and universes ceased to be, and thou were left alone, every existence would exist in thee.” She is speaking of the ever-present deity—but that is you, that is me. Every existence exists in me. Every possibility, like in a quantum system, exists until it collapses into a single reality—a single observable reality, like Schrödinger’s cat, both alive and dead, and everything in between. Every single possibility is viable and existent. The entire garden is there, part of it lying fallow, waiting to be sown. It depends entirely on which seeds we water. It has nothing to do with an external force; it is completely up to me.
There are times when we feel limited in our ability; we can only do what we are able at any given moment, see only what we can see. That is real. But most of the struggle is misalignment. We may try to do what we are not ready for. Often we give up, get tired, or bored. We work hard for a few periods, then lose focus. We practice silence in the zendo, but then our minds wander. We may act in ways that distract us and then wonder why practice isn’t working. Discipline is not never struggling; alignment with intent is a process, and getting to that alignment can be a struggle.
What we are doing here is so important that we had better not take it too seriously.
I consider myself fairly disciplined, and yet I write regularly with a particular anxiety. Every time I sit down, I see tasks that need attention—cobwebs to clean, laundry to fold. I get hungry, thirsty, tired. I interact with my partner who kindly reminds me, “Aren’t you supposed to be writing?” It is anxiety specific to writing, not to other consistent practices. Some writers rush home from errands to scribble before anything else; the act of writing must be forced in a particular way. Despite that, I no longer resist the process. Confusion and delusion remain, but sometimes we simply do not know which seeds to water.
Ho-Jun Oh-Shu said we must get very quiet. Why do we do sesshin here so often? To create the best conditions to hear ourselves. That voice—the voice of wisdom—is always speaking, though we often cannot hear it. Even in the most deluded person, it is present, though hidden by noise. As Brontë said, there is no place apart from me.
We struggle to get to the cushion and the silence. Discipline and diligence involve deliberate choice. We choose not to do some things so we can do others. There is a process of mourning for the things we do not do. Even when we love what we do, we may feel sadness for what is lost. Every choice involves loss, whether big or small. No one can have it all. As a gardener, I am responsible for every seed in my garden. It would be easier with individual fenced plots, but it is one vast field. It can be a field of benefaction or a battleground. What I think and how I see myself is reflected out there. Every thought, word, and action affects everything else.
Recently, someone gave me a copy of The Little Prince, which I had read again shortly before. The story illustrates this clearly. The little prince tends his planet carefully, distinguishing between good and bad seeds. Baobabs, invasive plants, must be removed immediately, while radishes or roses are tended and left to grow. Discipline is required, tedious as it may seem. Even small moments of neglect can have consequences beyond imagination.
The little prince cares for a rose, which is proud and demanding. He leaves his planet to explore, meets a king, a narcissist, a drunkard, a lamplighter, and comes to Earth, where he asks the pilot to draw a sheep with a muzzle so it won’t eat his rose. In doing so, he demonstrates responsibility, sacrifice, and attention to the small but crucial details of life. Even when absent-mindedness occurs, the world changes: a sheep may or may not eat a rose, a seed may bloom. Nothing in the universe is quite the same.
At the beginning, I quoted Shunryu Suzuki Roshi: what we are doing here is so important that we had better not take it too seriously. It is so serious that over-seriousness works at cross purposes. Yet it is not unimportant. A seed sprouts in a moment of inattention; it may stop if noticed, or it may turn invasive. This is not allegory; this is our world. Discipline as ultimate choice-making means holding the reins in our hands, recognizing that every action connects to others. If we understand that, it is not heavy or difficult—it is careful, persistent work done every day. What else would we do? How else would we spend our time?
Diligence Paramita, a dharma talk by Zen Buddhist teacher Zuisei Goddard. Audio podcast and transcript available.
Explore further
01 : Ten Paramitas
02 : Understanding Our Mind by Thich Nhat Hanh
03: No Coward Soul is Mine by Emily Bronte