Your Life, Your Meditation Cave: Awakening to the Present Moment

When I first encountered Buddhism in my early 20s, it was its more esoteric or inner forms that attracted me the most. It was the idea of the yogi or yogini on the mountain, the idea of the recluse who's gone away from the world and who goes into a literal meditation cave or some kind of meditation hut or cabin and sits with their mind and sits with their practice. At the time, I think I really had no clue of what that actually meant. It was a fantasy, an idea from books I had read on yogis. I think the first book I read on yogis was "Autobiography of a Yogi" by Yogananda, which kindled my interest in Eastern spiritual traditions. From there, I found the Zen traditions of Buddhism and eventually landed in Tibetan Buddhism, where we have lots of stories of yogis and yoginis who are monks, nuns, or mountain-dwelling practitioners.

Specifically, what I'm thinking of, which is not just inspiring to me but inspiring to most Tibetan Buddhist practitioners, is Milarepa. Some of you might know of him, some might not. If you don't, I recommend checking out one of the excellent translations of his biography. Milarepa inspired so many because he went from not only an average human life but a human life filled with a lot of adversity, to accomplishing full enlightenment in one lifetime. In his youth he took revenge on those responsible for imposing cruel hardships on him and his family by killing them through black magic. Immediately after, he experienced intense guilt and regret. Because he lived in Tibetan culture, seeking out the Dharma was part of the culture, and he turned to it as a means to work through his guilt and regret.

After meeting several teachers, he eventually met his main root teacher Marpa, who was an accomplished practitioner and translator going between India and Tibet and had studied with profound masters like Naropa in India. Marpa was a major lineage figure, a householder, and a family man. Millerapa eventually found him, and you can read in the biography what happened. He went through trials with his teacher as well as in his practice and eventually became a mountain-dwelling yogi who conquered space, time, and suffering, becoming awakened in one lifetime.

Milarepa is this kind of Buddhist rags-to-riches story in the truest sense, going from rags and creating harm to attaining Awakening in one life. Milarepa primarily did that through solitary retreat, enduring physical hardship to progress in his practice. There are also many stories in Tibetan Buddhism of practitioners in monasteries attaining high realization and Awakening, as well as stories of householder practitioners of all walks of life, all ages, attaining Awakening. They shifted their minds enough through meditation to transcend suffering and benefit others in ways that still remain out of reach for most of us.

So what's in common with all these practitioners, from Milarepa to monastic practitioners, non-monastics, householder practitioners, or different kinds of yogis and yoginis? They all worked really hard at the practice of working with the mind, thoughts, emotions, how clinging arises within the mind, duality, and how that binds us to samsara or the circle of suffering. That's what they had in common, even though they approached it in many different ways.

The other day, I was reflecting on our modern predicament as practitioners seriously wanting to progress in our practice within this body, within this life. We often find ourselves fantasizing about the way other practitioners have done it. Still, it might not be available or accessible to us because we have a family, lack the means, or find it daunting to give away all our possessions and live on a mountain or become a monastic. I've dabbled in this fantasy to a certain extent, even though I'm not a very disciplined practitioner.

But I tried my best because, as I mentioned, in my early 20s, I was initially drawn to this sense of wanting to be like Milarepa, the yogis I read about in "Autobiography of a Yogi," and my teachers who had done extensive retreats. However, the more I studied Dharma, the more I realized that the core practice is how we work with the mind. Still, how we use our physical body, speech, and set up our life does affect the practice. No matter if we're a monastic, a yogi, or a householder, we all need to practice, study the Dharma, reflect on it, and deepen our understanding. For those of you who are just beginning with mindfulness meditation or something similar, it applies to you as well. We're all here to deepen our practice and use meditation to benefit our lives.

It takes effort, time, and practice, and this is the one thing many of us lack in the modern world because we fill our time with various distractions. So, one challenge I want to address is this. But anyways, back to my story, just briefly to share it with you. At around the age of 20, I wanted to become a monk. I talked to my teacher, Lama Zopa Rinpoche, about it, and he advised that it was possible, but there were some obstacles, mainly because I was in college at the time, studying music. I was graduating, and he saw some obstacles coming up. These obstacles, by the way, did arise around those times. I wanted to tour with my band, date, have partners - I mean, I was 23, you know. So I decided to wait. 

At 23 I toured with some bands, and I became interested in recording engineering. I explored that and eventually started working for a recording studio in San Francisco. I moved from Boston to San Francisco and pursued that. I worked part-time jobs while building up my career and eventually transitioned full-time into being a recording engineer, producer, and audio mixer for people's albums and recordings. It was great, and I really enjoyed it. It was creative and fun. I would go on retreats when I could; my teachers would come to the Bay Area, and I'd attend teachings. I had my daily practice, but I was also living a 20-something life in San Francisco at the time. So, there were many distractions taking me away from my practice.

I think, at the time, I felt this duality - my practice was there, and I felt the need to deepen it. As a Buddhist practitioner, I also felt the need to grow this potential of mind I had read about, studied, and seen in my teachers and some sangha members. But there was this other part of me that just wanted to have fun and enjoy life. 

If we study Buddhism long enough, we eventually come across the question of what true enjoyment really means? Is spending time in pleasurable pursuits going to bring lasting joy? That's the real question we explore in the Dharma, especially in the teachings and practices for developing renunciation. For all of us in the modern world, we need to look at our pleasure and our pain and see how we work with them. Is chasing temporary pleasure going to bring lasting joy or not? We need to question that; otherwise, we stay stuck in our habitual patterns, and our practice doesn't progress the way we want it to.

Anyway, back to the story. I continued this lifestyle throughout my twenties. Then, around the age of 27, I did a three-week retreat with one of my teachers on the East Coast, and something transformative happened during that retreat. It was a very powerful purification retreat and, by the end, I was pretty sure that the life I was leading wasn't going to lead me to what I wanted in terms of my Dharma practice and its growth. I felt some shame at the time, I think. So, I decided to seek out becoming a monk, just like I had wanted to when I was 20.

So, I asked my main teacher, Lama Zopa Rinpoche, again, and this time, it was more than a yes; it was a resounding YES! He handed me robes and we made a plan. He said, "Go do it this time of year, either with this teacher or, if you can, with the Dalai Lama." A year later, I was able to wrap up all my business matters and I went to India to become a monk. In the Buddhist tradition, when you become a monk, you typically enter a monastery, you don't just become a monk and go live alone. You leave your home and enter the community of ordained practitioners.

Though a little unconventional for a brand new monastic, Lama Zopa Rinpoche suggested I go into solitary retreat. I also wanted to go into retreat. I wanted to sit in a cabin in the woods alone and delve into my mind, work with the Dharma and apply it to my practice. And that's what I did. Lama Zopa Rinpoche connected me with a retreat place in California where there were other monastics in various retreats, and everything was set up to spend my days and nights in formal meditation sessions. It was very simple and rustic, but had all that was needed to enter a serious long term retreat. However, coming from being a new monk, only a monk for about three months, and coming from a very active lay life, it was like... I can't even describe it. I was so excited, and I had a lot of fantasies about it. I thought I would make quick progress in my practice. But after the first week, I hit a wall. I hit that wall hard and recognized that my confused mind had also come with me into retreat. I had changed my clothes, my attitude, my hair, and my intentions when taking monastic vows. Also, going into retreat was like two significant changes at once. 

So, I hit that wall and continued to work with many challenges for three years, doing three to four-month retreats, maybe two per year, sometimes three. I was in retreat for more than half the year, and during those periods, it was really challenging because I was alone. I had this ideal that I should be very austere and in silence all the time. However, in the retreat community, there were monks with a lot of knowledge and experience who had been in retreat for three, six, eight years. I wanted to meet with them. So, in some retreats, I made it a bit looser. I would keep my sessions but have tea with one of the monks or share a meal with them once a week and chat if they weren't in retreat. In some retreats, I was very strict, and I didn't see or talk to anyone. They were incredibly isolating, and there were elements of my psychology that weren't ready for that level of solitude. Yet, over time they turned out to be very fruitful. I was able to work with the Dharma and connect with it in ways I hadn't before. 

After leaving that retreat center after three years, I moved to another retreat center under my other main teacher, and I remained a monk for another seven years. I would try to do at least four months of retreat per year, if not more. The rest of the time, I was traveling to receive teachings or teach myself. While it was a bit less focused than my solitary forest environment, it was still very supportive. In fact, I believe in integrating shorter periods of solitary retreats with regular life. For modern practitioners, going into a retreat for a weekend or a week can be very beneficial. When you have more time, go for a month, and then come back to your life and check your practice. See how it impacts your relationships with family and work and how you can integrate these experiences. I find this approach very helpful.

In 2017, I decided to return my monastic vows and move to New York City to continue my teaching work and pursue a committed relationship. It was a challenging decision for me to return my monastic vows, and I received a lot of precious advice from monastic friends at the time. Returning my vows wasn't a cause for celebration; it was quite a somber moment for me. I knew a part of me wanted to continue, but there were other things I needed to explore, including basic human desires like wanting a partner. One friend told me that “now I wore my robes around my heart”, similar to the idea that our life is a meditation cave. Another monk advised me to rejoice in all the effort I had put into my practice and to keep going. It was his advice that gave me the strength to carry on, and to continue pursuing my life as the Dharma. 

Life as “the meditation cave” is something many of us have to embrace. The metaphorical cave represents the place where we work with our minds, with the Dharma, to deepen our understanding, compassion, loving-kindness, and to connect with Buddhist non-duality. We aim to cut through clinging, suffering, and understand what binds us to pain. From a Buddhist perspective, this bondage happens in the mind, not externally. So, recognizing this, we work with our thoughts, emotions, and the fundamental confusion of how we perceive ourselves and the world around us. We start to question our perceptions, and once we do, our whole perspective can shift. As we cultivate awareness and the ability to be present with our minds, we work with them, fall, get up, work again, fall again, and keep going. This practice becomes a passionate endeavor and the most meaningful thing we can bring to our lives and the world around us. As we cultivate compassionate wisdom, we can extend it to others to help them with their suffering, pain, and confusion.

So, I find it helpful to think of my life, whatever is in front of me, as the meditation cave. My mind and body go wherever my legs take me, and I must be conscious, mindful, and aware of how I conduct myself, work with my thoughts, and relate to my sense of self in each moment. We have numerous practices in the Dharma for deepening our understanding, and for those who are already practicing traditional Buddhism, you know what I'm talking about. No matter what practice we're working with, the fundamental thing is to be present with our minds, not allowing our thoughts and destructive habitual patterns to deceive us, spin stories, or project illusions that lead us into afflictive emotions, anger, clinging, attachment, and misperception. 

We're remedying this through awareness and mindfulness. When we become exhausted with trying to create a specific state in meditation, maturity develops, and we recognize that a state is just another form of temporary delusion. No matter how blissful we may feel during meditation, it ends the moment we get up and start walking around. Our thoughts return, our sense of self reforms, and our afflictive emotions and habit patterns resurface. So, we need to work with these, falling and getting up, and keep going. That's the point; there's really no other option. We develop a passion for this practice, recognizing that it brings profound meaning to our lives and allows us to extend compassionate wisdom to others, helping them with their suffering and confusion to some extent.

To truly advance in our practice, it's essential not only to learn but also to find teachers. This is especially important for those of us who are household practitioners. Many of us have jobs, families, and busy lives, so we must take every moment as an opportunity to practice the Dharma. Whether we're lying down, standing up, walking, with others, alone, working, or at ease, we need to approach each moment with sobriety and mindfulness.

For many, a formal meditation practice is crucial because it's during these dedicated moments, such as in the morning, that we set aside the time to cultivate awareness, bodhichitta, boundless compassion, and a clear and awake mind in a quiet environment with less distractions. This awareness cultivated in formal practice then gets applied in our daily life. Without this formal practice, it's challenging to have a metaphorical "meditation cave" to carry with us throughout the day.

Aspirations are vital in this journey. Fantasies, on the other hand, can be detrimental. If we constantly fantasize that practice will happen later, or we need specific conditions or a perfect meditation space to progress, it may not be healthy. However, if these fantasies lead to aspirations to deepen our connection with the Dharma and the mind of awakening, then they serve a positive purpose. Aspiration is our driving force. It's what propels us to deepen our practice and awaken from our suffering and confusion while helping others do the same. We need to distinguish aspirations from fantasies that distract us.

My personal experience has taught me that things don't always turn out as we expect. Even though I somewhat achieved what I aspired to do, it was still incredibly challenging and far from perfect. I made many mistakes along the way. Nevertheless, I can't deny the value of the formal retreats I undertook in shaping my practice. The key takeaway is that everywhere we go, whether in a solitary retreat, or with our families, we bring our mind with us. The main focus should be on cultivating tools to work with our mind. These tools don't have to be complex; simplicity can be very effective, though it can also be quite challenging. Personally, I've found value in delving more extensively into the Dharma, providing a context for simpler practices and making them relatable.

Whether we're full-time practitioners, full-time parents, monks, nuns, CEOs, or anything in between, we all have to find our way to delve into the essence of the Dharma and uncover our awakened nature. Traditional Dharma paths have thousands of years of collective wisdom, and can be incredibly useful in helping us to navigate our modern lives. The mind is timeless, and the Dharma applies to it universally, regardless of culture or identity. Our challenge is to both bridge the Dharma into our lives, while simultaneously making strong efforts to meet it with an open mind.