Patience Paramita
Photo by Joe Dudeck
Paramita in Sanskrit is translated as “gone to the beyond”, or “gone to the other shore.” It is is also known as “perfection,” in the sense of “wholeness” or “completeness,” and refers to a set of qualities that are based on the realization and cultivation of wisdom.
In the first talk in this series of ten talks on the Paramitas, Zuisei speaks on the importance of cultivating patience: “Patience arises out of seeing what is. It’s accepting what is. It’s not opposing what is. It’s enduring what is. Patience is not fighting, not rejecting or resenting or begrudging. Patience is wholeheartedly embracing reality.”
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.
Patience Paramita
I have been reflecting about patience, partly because of the time that we're in, the time of change, partly because Shugun Sensei has invoked it a few times recently. And just in myself, I've been thinking about it, and we can always use more of it. And of course, patience in Buddhism is one of the Paramitas, one of the perfections.
So I was doing a little bit of reading on just how even the perfections came about. And it's interesting. Bhikkhu Bodhi has an introduction to a treatise called the Kariya Pitaka, the basket of conduct or the basket of proper conduct, a commentary by a monk called Akarya Dhammapala. And I couldn't find his dates, but they said he was an early commentator on several of the canonical works sometime after the first Buddhist council.
The first Buddhist council was convened about 30 years after the Buddhist death. Most of the monks were grieving. Their great teacher had died. But there was one monk, Sumerra, who was actually glad and who said something: “Now that the World-Honored One is out of the way, we can do whatever we want.” And so Mahakasyapa got alarmed that this would happen, that the monks would interpret the Buddhist teachings according to what was convenient to them.
So he called this council. It was a set of 500 arhats, including Ananda, who was not an arhat at the time, and they weren't going to let him in, but the night before, he entered the stream and was allowed to come. And of course, he was the one who remembered most of the Buddhist teachings.
Even then, practitioners were hearing what they wanted to hear, and not hearing what they didn't want to hear, reframing the Buddhist teachings in their image. This basket of proper conduct sets down the Paramitas, actually the ten Paramitas in the Pali Canon, and it also speaks of the Buddha's former lives, similar to the Jataka Tales, and sets his development from a Bodhisattva to a Buddha, a perfectly enlightened being.
The Buddha himself used this term, Bodhisattva, before his enlightenment. In the Pali Canon, they also recognized the existence of many Buddhas. Shakyamuni Buddha was not the first, and he wouldn't be the last. There was this sense of evolution: a Buddha became one through sometimes eons of practice and struggle. The Bodhisattva ideal began to take shape.
How Enlightenment Became a Shared Path
There were originally three paths to enlightenment. The ideal was the perfectly enlightened Buddha, Samyaksam Buddha, who realized themselves without help, without a teacher, and vowed to teach others. Shakyamuni was the supreme example. Then there was Pratyekabuddha, a solitary Buddha, who had a spontaneous realization, didn't have a teacher, but wouldn't necessarily teach. It was enlightenment for their own sake. Then there was an Arhat, a perfected person, who realized themselves under the guidance of a teacher and who taught according to their capacity and inclination.
The goal of these three vehicles, paths, was enlightenment, nirvana. It was the same, but it was understood that there were grades of difficulty. Bhikkhu Bodhi says perhaps because over time the rarity of a supreme Buddha appearing in the world became evident, that may be why these three paths and then the three vehicles eventually were established.
One of the stories that gave birth to the Bodhisattva ideal is of the ascetic Sumedha. He made an aspiration at the feet of Buddha Dipankara, the twenty-fourth Buddha of antiquity, and vowed to renounce his own realization so that he could return in future lives and save all sentient beings. He postponed his own enlightenment. Dipankara confirmed this vow with a prediction that this would indeed be the case.
Sumedha went off into solitude to reflect on the qualities he needed to perfect, to cultivate in order to become a Buddha. These became the ten paramis, the requisites of enlightenment. It is not enough to have the aspiration to realize yourself; you must prepare and cultivate yourself. Parami means supreme or most excellent. Paramita, the Sanskrit term, is translated as "gone to the beyond" or "gone to the other shore," with a sense of transcendence.
Regardless of which Buddha you wished to become, these perfections were indispensable. The ten paramitas are giving, virtue, renunciation, wisdom, energy, patience, truthfulness, determination, loving-kindness, and equanimity. In the Mahayana, they were synthesized into six: giving, virtue, patience, zeal or energy, concentration or meditation, and wisdom. They are presented in sequence, and Dhammapala speaks about the reason for the particular order in which they are set down.
I am already transgressing by starting with patience, and I have no justification for it other than that it was what most strongly came up for me. The Kariya Pitaka says that the fundamental condition for these ten Paramitas is great aspiration, expressed as: crossed, I would cross; freed, I would free; tamed, I would tame; calmed, I would calm; comforted, I would comfort; attained to Nirvana, I would lead to Nirvana; purified, I would purify; and enlightened, I would enlighten. This is the Bodhisattva's great vow.
This aspiration, in life after life, means you wouldn't shrink from such a task, no matter how challenging. They said that if you were told to swim across whole world systems filled with water, using only the strength of your arms, you wouldn't hesitate. If you had to cross through fire, sharp swords, or be tortured, you would not shrink away from fulfilling your vow.
Patience as Strength, Not Waiting
Patience, or Shanti Paramita, is defined as follows: patience has the characteristic of acceptance; its function is to endure the desirable and the undesirable; its manifestation is tolerance or non-opposition; seeing things as they really are is its proximate cause. Patience arises from seeing things as they are and accepting them. It is not fighting, rejecting, resenting, or begrudging, but a wholehearted embrace of reality.
Patience is active. It is very active. You are not waiting for anything. Patience is the unimpeded weapon of the good in developing noble qualities, for it dispels anger, the opposite of all such qualities, without residue. It is the adornment of those capable of vanquishing the foe—the foe of anger or delusion. It is the strength of recluses, a stream of water extinguishing the fire of anger, the basis for acquiring a good reputation, a mantra for quelling the poisonous speech of evil people, the supreme source of constancy in those established in restraint.
Patience is an ocean on account of its depth, a shore bounding the great ocean of hatred, a panel closing off the door to the plane of misery, a staircase ascending to the world of the gods, the ground for the habitation of all noble qualities, the supreme purification of body, speech, and mind. It is the limit of hatred, the boundary of anger, the stopper for poisonous speech. It has no shore, no bounding limits, and no restraint, although it requires restraint. It is limitless.
This wording gives a sense of the power of patience, what a source of strength it is, and how necessary it is for the spiritual path. It is the ground for living in all noble qualities. Shantideva, speaking of patience, says there is no evil, similar to anger, and no austerity compared to patience. Pema Chodron interprets “austerity” as self-discipline, restraint, or abstinence, which takes courage to not meet anger with anger, and a deep trust in emptiness and impermanence.
Shantideva says there is no austerity comparable to patience. “Steep yourself, therefore, in patience in various ways, insistently.” Because, in the paragraph before, he said that a flash of anger destroys eons of good works. Who hasn't been there? That thoughtless word, shouted or mumbled to your partner, parent, or child, can destroy eons of good works. The weight of regret follows, if not in that moment, then inevitably later—the karma of impatience, of intolerance.
So steep yourself in patience, Shantideva says. Immerse yourself in it, bearing what is difficult to bear. Seeing things as they are includes seeing that they are constantly changing. Sometimes we have to be patient and let that change unfold, allow it to be. As Shugun Sensei said yesterday: let it be; do not force it.
Patience is often coupled with anger for obvious reasons. We get carried away, and in our impulsiveness, thoughtlessness, and carelessness, we hurt one another. It is also deeply rooted in desire. The Buddha said that we suffer when we don't get what we want, when we get what we don't want, when what we want ends, and when what we don't want doesn't end. Viewed this way, we are perpetually dissatisfied. In a way, we are perpetually upstream in a current of discontent.
We don't have to be enraged to be angry; it can be subtle, like an underground stream—a continuous “no.” Shugun Sensei referred to this yesterday. Practicing patience means falling into neither desire nor aversion. Try this next time you are faced with something you don't like or want: say to yourself, “If that's how things are, I accept this.” It is simple in one way, and extremely difficult in another; it takes great courage. Accept this without defiance, without resistance.
Dhammapala says patience is listed after energy in the ten Paramitas because it is fueled by energy, by effort, by exertion. It also tempers that exertion and leads to equanimity. It is called the adornment of energy. Practice requires tremendous effort and infinite patience. You cannot make yourself be where you are not, but you can always practice. You can practice wholeheartedly, with every bit of you. Entireness has no bearing, because you can have little or much energy, and still practice wholeheartedly, leaving nothing out—everything you feel, everything you experience.
Training Patience Through the Little Things
If you are gravely tired, that is why you practice patiently. In order to train in patience, we begin with the little things, Shantideva says. If we cannot do it with the small challenges, how will we possibly do it when faced with great adversity? “There is nothing that does not grow light through habit and familiarity. Putting up with little cares, I’ll train myself to bear with great adversity.” What seems difficult becomes easier with time.
We become familiar with postures, concentration, whether on or off the cushion, little by little. What was heavy becomes light. Sushin is the perfect training ground for all those little cares that we have to face: the open window above your head in the morning in the zendo, somebody taking your bench, the missed doksan, the unpassed koan, the look somebody gave you or didn't give you. All those little cares—Kien Senor Borimpoche calls them bourgeois suffering.
When Tenge and I were coming back from Florence, we were at the airport, essentially a hangar with a tiny food court. Even there, Tenge noted, the coffee is lovingly made, cup by cup. We were waiting to board the plane. The gate opens, and they put us in one of those little buses. The flight was full, and we were standing tight against one another, for maybe 15–20 minutes.
Just when it felt like someone was about to act, the driver came in, started the bus, and we moved 20 feet. Then he stops and opens the door, revealing the plane. We thought, really? We couldn’t just walk to the plane? These are little cares, bourgeois suffering. How do you deal with it? By not fretting. If there is a remedy, what reason is there for dejection? If there is no help, what use is there in being glum?
It seems simple, but why is it so difficult? When someone takes your bench, why is it an offense? Why does worrying feel like it helps? There is a strange comfort in worrying, and it is hard to let go. These are little worries. What about great adversity—old age, illness, death? Shouldn’t we worry? Shouldn’t we plan?
If we want our lives transformed, we cannot be casual about it.
St. Francis once chided a monk for soaking beans overnight. He said, “Our vow is to not think of tomorrow.” Their food was often inedible. When it wasn’t, when it tasted too good, he mixed it with water or ashes so he wouldn’t enjoy it too much. Some practitioners live without thought of tomorrow, though it is difficult, especially if others depend on you.
Dada Roshia often said: is it possible to plan when planning is needed, without worrying? Yes. You don’t ignore tomorrow, but you are not waiting for it either. It may or may not come. We hope, but cannot guarantee. This is the razor's edge of a human life: long enough to compel us to ask, what is this, and what do I do about it? Suffering compels us to look for another way.
Being in Florence, I said to Tink, why practice here? It is so beautiful. It felt like the God realm. Yet Florence has one of the most violent histories I have read. They were always fighting, and even now there is pride that is impressive. For years, they were fighting amongst themselves—the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, supporters of the Pope or Roman Emperor. The Guelphs won, splitting into the blacks and the whites, named after one family matriarch, Bianca, meaning white.
The story goes that two boys from each family were playing with swords. One nicked the other. His father sent him to apologize. The other father had his servants chop off the boy’s hand and sent him back with the message: “Tell your father that iron, not words, is the remedy for sword wounds.” That incident, and probably others, started a feud lasting hundreds of years. A flash of anger shattering eons of good works. How many examples of this exist through history?
We sit on our cushions practicing patience. This is human history, this is our life. A word or slight fueled wars, beliefs fueled genocide. That is why these are perfections. When practiced, they can alter the destiny of a nation. When neglected, the opposite occurs. If we can be patient in small things, we can be patient in great adversity.
Courage to Wait and Change
Remember the definition of patience, which also tells us how to practice it: patience has the characteristic of acceptance; its function is to endure the desirable and the undesirable; its manifestation is tolerance or non-opposition; seeing things as they really are is its proximate cause. First, we see clearly. Then, we accept and tolerate, not oppose. We endure what we desire, knowing it will end. We endure what we do not desire, knowing it too will end.
When we are insulted or harmed by others, we remind ourselves that they too are caught in their suffering. Through practicing Patience Paramita, we heal ourselves and, indirectly, we heal them. That is the power of virtue, the unlimited nature of patience. At the same time, acceptance is not resignation and is never blind. Sometimes things should be changed. If you are in an abusive relationship, an untenable job, or the victim of injustice, action may be necessary beyond mere acceptance.
Earlier, I mentioned that the fundamental condition for the Paramitas is aspiration. There are also several external conditions. First, one must be born human, as only humans can aspire to enlightenment. Beings in other realms are too preoccupied with suffering or desire to give rise to that thought. According to the Kariya Pitaka, two other conditions were traditionally required: being male and being a monk. The reasoning was that the Buddha himself was a man and a monk, establishing a self-perpetuating system.
As a Buddhist, as a female, and as a lay practitioner, I do not accept that only men or monks can realize themselves. If I believed this, I would not be here, and neither would most of you. I do not think this reflects reality but rather the views of a small group at the time. Perhaps it was said out of fear—that without such limits, things would not abide. Fear that things will change, end, or that we will not get what we want or will lose what we have.
This fear is understandable. We live in a precarious existence. One small touch on the web of life and the whole system shudders. Responding with fear is understandable. But I also know the bright, luminous nature of emptiness, the empty nature of all things, which has no characteristic. Somehow, it embodies goodness and love and is indestructible. I cannot explain why, but I know it to be true. Because it is so, fear has no purchase.
On our meditation cushion, we discern when to affect change and when to allow things to unfold. Change happens; the question is how we relate to it. This is where patience comes in. Anything worth doing takes time. Giverti’s doors in the Baptistery in Florence took 50 years to create. We stand outside, oohing and aahing for five to ten minutes, take pictures, and say, “I’ve seen Giverti’s doors.” We do not need to be tourists of our practice, tourists in our own mind.
If we want our lives transformed, we cannot be casual about it. We cannot say, “This is important, that is not. I’ll do this quickly, and ignore that.” Practice must include all of it. We must slow down to take it all in. Even if we could leave something out, why would we want to?
Patience Paramita, a dharma talk by Zen Buddhist teacher Zuisei Goddard. Audio podcast and transcript available.
Explore further
01 : Ten Paramitas by Thanissaro Bikkhu
02 : The All Embracing Net of Views Translated by Bhikkhu Bodhi
03: No Time to Loose: A Timely Guide to the Way of the Bodhisattva by Pema Chodron