The Buddhist Path to Simplicity: Spiritual Practice in Everyday Life

We believe that it is difficult to let go but, in truth, it is much more difficult and painful to hold and protect. Reflect upon anything in your lives that you grasp hold of—an opinion, a historical resentment, an ambition, or an unfulfilled fantasy. Sense the tightness, fear, and defensiveness that surrounds the grasping. It is a painful, anxious experience of unhappiness. We do not let go in order to make ourselves impoverished or bereft. We let go in order to discover happiness and peace. As Krishnamurti once said, “There is a great happiness in not wanting, in not being something, in not going somewhere.”

In the search for simplicity we are drawn to ask ourselves: “What is truly lacking in this moment?” Would even more thoughts, possessions, experiences, sights, or sounds have the power to liberate us from complexity and unhappiness, or would they add more clutter to an over-cluttered life and heart? When we are lost in these states of want and need, contentment, simplicity, and peace feel far away. We become fixated upon the next moment, the moment we arrive at the rainbow’s end, fulfilling our desires and gratifying our needs. The promise of happiness and peace is projected into the perfect moment, the ideal relationship, the next attainment or exciting experience. Although experience tells us how easily we become dissatisfied, bored, and disinterested with what we gain, we continue to invest our happiness and well-being in this projected promise.

Pursuing our obsessions, we forget that this acute sense of deprivation is not rooted in the world but in our own minds. Simplicity is not concerned with resignation or passivity, nor with surrendering vision and direction in our lives. It is about surrendering our obsessions and addictions, and all the anxiety and unhappiness they generate. Over and over we learn to ask ourselves, “What is truly lacking in this moment?”

In my early years of meditation practice I had a great longing for stillness, believing that my progress depended on finding the perfectly quiet mind. I found myself pursuing the perfectly quiet world, believing it to be a precondition for the quiet mind. First I had a room in a tiny village, but soon became dissatisfied. The sound of an occasional truck or a market peddler disturbed whatever quiet I managed to find. So I moved further up the mountain to a small house, convinced that it would be perfect. Before long I was irritated by the sounds of passing herdsmen and the occasional barking of a dog, so once more I moved further up the mountain to an isolated hut, far removed from any human contact. I covered the windows with blankets so even the sun wouldn’t distract me and I breathed a sigh of relief—perfect quiet. In that part of India lived tribes of large, silver-haired monkeys and they discovered the delight of my tin roof. One day, finding myself outside shouting and pouring abuse upon the monkeys, it finally occurred to me that perfect calm was perhaps more a state of mind than a state of environment.

Fixated upon getting, possessing, and arriving at the “perfect moment,” we overlook the fact that the perfect moment comes to depend upon the fulfillment of our goals, desires, and fantasies. We believe we will be happy when we have ordered the world to suit our wants, expectations, and ambitions. Strangely, this perfect moment and promise of fulfillment never arrives; it is ceaselessly pushed over into the future as yet another need or desire arises within us. One of the richest men in America, after finally reaching his goal of possessing three billion dollars, remarked to a friend, “You know, I really don’t feel all that secure. Maybe if I had four billion.” Peace and simplicity are not so complicated; they are born of being, not of having. Each time we become lost in our obsessions and cravings we deprive ourselves of the simplicity, contentment, and freedom that is to be found in a single moment embraced with attention and the willingness to be touched by its richness. An ancient Sufi saying tells us, “Within your own house swells the treasure of joy, so why do you go begging from door to door?”

Renunciation is Compassion

One of my first teachers once told me, “Letting go is an act of compassion for yourself.” We drive ourselves into deep states of sorrow and anxiety in our quest for gratification and happiness. Driven by what the Buddha described as the two deepest fears of a human being: the fear of having nothing and the fear of being no-one, we try to grasp the ungraspable, preserve the changing, secure the unpredictable, and guarantee the unknowable. It is an act of great kindness to learn how to let go in this life, to be with what is, to harmonize ourselves with life’s inevitable changes, and open up to the mystery of the unknown. When we no longer live in fear of losing what we have, we can begin to learn how to love and appreciate what is already with us. We learn to reclaim our inner authority, to discover happiness within ourselves and within each moment. In a path of renunciation, all that we are truly letting go of is a world of unease and discontent. Coco Chanel once remarked, “How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something but to be someone.”

In his first discourse, the Buddha stated that craving is the cause of sorrow and pain. The craving to gain what we do not have, the craving to get rid of what we do not want, and the craving for experience and identity, are all manifestations of an energy that leads us to depart from the truth of what is in each moment. The Buddha went on to say that the cause of sorrow lies in our own hearts and minds; the cause of happiness lies in our own hearts and minds. Our immediate response may be to say that this is too simplistic. There appear to be so many things that cause us sorrow—the job we dislike, the relatives we struggle with, the aches in our body; the list is endless. As we look more deeply we should ask: do any of these hold the power to cause us to be lost in sorrow, pain, or confusion? Or is it the movements of our minds that dismiss, judge, reject, and avoid, which cause the greatest pain and sorrow?

We can go through life with the mantra, “This shouldn’t be happening. I want something else to happen. This should be different than it is.” Pursuing what we want and do not have, trying to get rid of what we have and don’t want, losing interest in what previously fascinated us, are all the tentacles of a single energy of craving. It is a powerful energy that leads us to flee from the moment and ourselves. As our appetites become jaded, we find ourselves needing ever more intense excitement and experience. The Buddha compared this energy of craving to a forest fire which consumes the very ground that sustains it. Our energy, time, well-being, and peace are consumed in the fires of craving. Renunciation, learning to let go gently and clearly in our lives, extinguishes the fire; it is the antidote to craving.

In the last century an affluent tourist went to visit a Polish rabbi, renowned for the depth of his learning and compassion. Arriving at the impoverished village where the rabbi made his home, he was astonished to discover the rabbi living in a simple room with only a few books and the most basic furniture. “Rabbi, where is all your furniture, your library, your diplomas?” he asked. “Where are yours?” answered the rabbi. “Mine? But I am only a visitor here.” “So am I,” replied the rabbi.

In the early 70s I traveled to India in search of a spiritual path and found myself in a Tibetan refugee village. I found a community of people who had lost so much: their country, their homes, their possessions, and their families. What was so stunning was the absence of despair, rage, hatred, and desire for vengeance. Their openhearted welcome and generosity, the smiles upon their faces, the devotion that permeated the camp, were a testimony to the reality that they had not lost their heart.

There is a sacred hunger rooted in our hearts—a yearning for freedom, happiness, connectedness, and peace. It is a hunger that prevents us from surrendering to despair and disconnection, that inspires us to continue searching for a way of feeling truly intimate in this world, at one with life, free from conflict and sorrow. In our confusion, this sacred hunger becomes distorted and diverted; it turns into craving and the pursuit of projected promise invested in experience and things outside ourselves.

Renunciation is not a dismissal of the world. It does not involve surrendering the joy found in all the precious and delightful impressions and experiences that will visit us in this life. Through withdrawing the projected promise invested in sensation, impression, and experience, we learn to find a sense of balance that embraces the pleasant, unpleasant, and neutral experience. Believing that happiness and fulfillment lie outside of ourselves we project onto the 10 thousand objects and experiences in this life the power for them to devastate, enrage, gratify, or elate us. We then become a prisoner of those 10 thousand things. Withdrawing this projected promise, we can deeply appreciate the pleasant, remain steady in the midst of the unpleasant, and be fully sensitive to the neutral impressions and experiences life brings. We discover that the root of happiness lies not in what we are experiencing but how we are experiencing it. It is the withdrawal of the projected promise and the surrender of the fear of deprivation which enables a relationship to life that is rooted in sensitivity, compassion, and intimacy. Craving propels us outwardly, away from ourselves and from this moment, into an endless quest for certainty and identity. By exploring the energy of craving and loosening its hold, we are returned to ourselves, able to acknowledge the sacred hunger within us for intimacy and awakening. At ease within ourselves, we discover a profound refuge and happiness rooted in our own capacities for awareness and balance.

The Enlightened and the Unenlightened

The Buddha spoke about the distinction between an enlightened and an unenlightened person. Both the enlightened and the unenlightened experience feelings, sensations, sounds, sights, and events that can be pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral. When an unenlightened person encounters the unpleasant experience they grieve, lament, and become distraught and distracted. Two levels of sorrow are experienced; one in the actual experience and one in the reactions and story about it. It is as if a person crossing the pathway of an archer was shot by an arrow; whether enlightened or unenlightened, that person would experience pain. The difference lies in the level of both the story and the fear that are added to the experience. In seeing the archer prepare to shoot a second arrow, the unenlightened person would already be anticipating its pain, building a story centered around living with a wounded leg and entertaining thoughts of anger towards the archer. In the heart of the unenlightened person, layers of aversion and associations with the past and future lead them to depart from the reality of what is actually being experienced in that moment. The unpleasant experience is layered with aversion and resistance. We try to end the unpleasant experience by finding one that is more pleasant or by suppressing or avoiding it. In the midst of any of the unpleasant experiences, we need to ask ourselves what is more painful, the actual experience or the stories, fear, and resistance with which we surround it. Calm simplicity does not depend upon the annihilation or control of the unpleasant experience but is born of our willingness to let go of the layers of our stories and fears.

The enlightened person is not exempt from any form of feelings, whether pleasant, unpleasant or neutral, but is not bound or governed by them. The arrow will hurt, but the pain of the body will not be matched by sorrow and struggle in the mind. Blame, judgment, and retaliation are the children of fear. Wise responsiveness, equanimity, and discriminating wisdom are the children of deep understanding. The enlightened person would find little value in shouting, “This is unfair” at the world, would not seek to take revenge upon the archer nor vow to never venture out again. The enlightened person knows the pathways of wise response rather than blind reaction. Surrendering the story is not a dismissal of the wounded leg but is an empowerment, releasing the capacity to care for what needs to be cared for with compassion and responsiveness, letting go of all the extra layers of fear, apprehension, and blame.

The pleasant experience evokes a different response and different story line in us. We want more, we don’t want it to end, we strategize the ways to defend it—it is layered with craving and grasping. We have a moment of calm during meditation and find ourselves rehearsing our debut as the next world-famous teacher. A smile from a colleague and in our minds we are already embroiled in the romance of the century. Once more our stories divorce us from the simplicity of the moment and we are puzzled and disappointed when these stories are frustrated. Pleasant experiences are hijacked by craving and wanting, and once more we are not living in the simplicity of the moment but in the dramas of our minds. In the midst of the pleasant experience, we can learn to let go of our stories, projections, and fantasies. We can learn to love what is.

The neutral experiences, sounds, sights, and sensations we encounter become layered with voices of confusion that tell us that something is missing, something needs to be added. If the things of this world neither delight nor threaten us they are often dismissed, ignored, or simply missed. The tree outside our window, made familiar by time, no longer appears to offer anything to attract our attention. We fail to notice the texture of its leaves, its changing colors, its growing and aging, the way the sun reflects on its leaves. We believe we need something more stimulating and exciting for it to be worthy of our attention. In learning to stay in the present, we discover that it is the power of our attention that makes all things worthy.

There are experiences of pain that are inevitable in this life, rooted in our bodies as they age or sicken. In our lives we will all experience loss, separation, and contact with those who threaten us. There are levels of sorrow and pain that are optional, rooted in fear, aversion, and grasping. We need to learn to let go of the stories that carry our fears and wanting, we need to learn to see life, ourselves, others, as they actually are. Simplicity is always available. Learning to let go of the layers of our stories and cravings, learning to let go of our craving for the pleasant and our aversion for the unpleasant, is the discovery of peace.

In the Tao it is said, “In the pursuit of knowledge, every day something is gained. In the pursuit of freedom, every day something is let go of.” We tend to hold grandiose ideas of renunciation, regarding it as a spiritually heroic task or breakthrough experience on our path that will happen at some future time. A spiritual life asks us to hold onto nothing—not our opinions, beliefs, judgments, past, nor dreams of the future. It seems a formidable task but we are not asked to do it all at once. Life is a journey of 10 thousand renunciations, sometimes in a single day. We are not asked to be an expert, but always a beginner. The only moment we can let go is the moment we are present in.

The Wisdom of Impermanence

As we reflect upon the nature of life and ourselves, we discover that there is an innate naturalness to letting go. The nature of all life is change; winter lets go its hold to change into spring; for summer to emerge spring must end and this season can only last for a time before it fades into autumn, which in turn lets go for winter to emerge once more. In the same way, our infancy was let go of as we emerged into our childhood. All of our life transitions, our capacity to grow and mature, depend upon a natural process of letting go of what went before. No matter how strenuous our efforts, we cannot make one single thing last. No matter how much we delight in a pleasant thought, experience, or connection, we cannot force it to stay. No matter how much we dislike or fear an experience or impression, it is already in the process of changing into something else. There is a remarkable simplicity discovered as we harmonize our own life with the natural story of all life, which is change. From the moment of our birth, our life has been teaching us about letting go. There is remarkable complexity in seeking to bend and mold life’s story to support our personal agendas of craving and aversion. We are not separate in any way from the process of change, not just detached observers. We are part of this life with all of its seasons and movements.

Aitken Roshi, a much beloved Western Zen master, once said, “Renunciation is not getting rid of the things of this world, but accepting that they pass away.” A deep understanding of impermanence is an insight that has the power to transform our lives. Understanding the nature of change deeply and unshakably loosens the hold of craving and aversion, bringing calmness and great simplicity. To study life is to study impermanence. This insight into impermanence is not a breakthrough experience but an ongoing exploration of what is true. Take a walk through the rooms of your home—can you find one single thing that is eternal, that is not already in a process of change? Explore your body—it speaks to you of the inevitable process of aging and change. Walk through the rooms of your mind with its cascade of thoughts, plans, anxieties, memories, and images. Can you hold on to any of them? Can you decide only to have pleasant thoughts or ideas, only pleasant feelings or sensations? Neither sorrow nor complexity are born of this changing world, but of our grasping and aversion, and our desire to seek the unchanging in anything that is essentially changing. As you take those walks through the rooms of your life and mind, ask yourself whether anything you encounter truly holds the power to dictate your happiness or sorrow, or whether it is more true that the source of happiness and sorrow lies within your own heart and mind.

When we hear the word “impermanence” we tend to nod our heads wisely in agreement—it is an obvious truth. Yet, when caught in craving or aversion, we suffer bouts of amnesia, convinced that everything is impermanent except this experience, feeling, or thought. Life continues to be our greatest teacher, penetrating these moments of forgetfulness, if we are willing to listen and pay attention. In truth, there is no choice but to let go; the nature of impermanence tells us that no matter how desperately we hold onto anything, it is already in the process of leaving us. Our choice is whether or not we suffer in the course of meeting the inevitable arrivals and departures, the beginnings and endings, held in every moment of our lives. Each time we are lost in craving or aversion, we open the door to a flood of thoughts, stories, strategies, and images. Each time we learn to let go, we open the door to peace and simplicity, to joy and appreciation.

Renunciation is not a spiritual destination, nor a heroic experience dependent upon great striving and will. Renunciation is a practice of kindness and compassion undertaken in the midst of the small details and intense experiences of our lives. It is the heart of meditation practice. We learn to sit down and let go. Each time we return our attention to the breath or to the moment we are in, we are practicing renunciation. In that moment we have let go of the pathways of stories and speculation about what is happening, and have turned our attention to what is actual and true in each moment. The practice of renunciation is essentially a celebration of simplicity.

A group of businessmen renowned for their dishonesty went to visit a great Indian saint, intent on earning the merit they hoped would balance their covetousness. Sitting down, they proceeded to sing her praises, extolling her great virtues of wisdom, renunciation, and simplicity. After listening for some minutes her face creased into a smile and she began to laugh. Disconcerted, the group asked what was so amusing to her. Answering she said, “It is not I who is the great renunciate, it is you, because you are living in such a way that you have renounced the truth.”

Moment-to-Moment Renunciation

Letting go is a present moment practice. We learn to sit down and let go. We love deeply and let go. We embrace wholeheartedly the laughter and joy of our lives and let go. We meet the challenging, disturbing, and unpleasant, and let go. We are always beginners in the practice of renunciation. Each moment we begin we are following the pathways of freedom rather than the pathways of sorrow.

Studying life, we see the truth of the process of change from which nothing is exempt. Understanding this deeply we live in accord with its truth, and we live peacefully and simply. We liberate the world, other people, and ourselves to unfold and change according to our own rhythms, withdrawing our personal agendas rooted in craving and aversion. Letting go, we liberate ourselves from the burden of unfulfilled or frustrated desire. We learn to rest in ourselves and in each moment. Reflecting on impermanence, we begin to appreciate deeply the futility and unnecessary sorrow of being lost in craving or resistance.

Renunciation comes effortlessly to us in times of calm and ease. Nothing stops; sounds, sights, thoughts, and feelings all continue to arise and pass—seen and appreciated wholeheartedly. Yet none of them gains a foothold in our minds and hearts, our inner balance and well-being is undisturbed; there is a natural letting go. There are times in our lives when calm and balance seem to be a distant dream as we find ourselves lost in turmoil, struggle, or distress. In those moments we remember the freedom of being able to let go, yet the intensity of our struggle overwhelms us. In those moments, the first step towards peace is to recognize that we are lost. In those moments, it is not more thinking, analyzing, or struggle that is required; instead we are invited to look for simplicity. In these moments of complexity, letting go requires investigation, effort, and dedication—recognizing the sorrow of being entangled.

The Buddha spoke of wise avoidance, a word that may carry for us associations of denial or suppression. There is a difference between wise avoidance and suppression. Suppression is the unwillingness to see; wise avoidance is the willingness to see but the unwillingness to engage in pathways of suffering. In moments of intense struggle, renunciation happens in a different way; by learning to step out of the arena of contractedness. We turn our attention to the fostering of calm and balance. Bringing our attention into our body, to listening, to touching, to breathing, we learn to loosen the grip of struggle and confusion. Recovering a consciousness of expansiveness and balance, the understanding of the nature of our struggle comes more easily to us and we may discover we can let go.

It is easy to let go when there is nothing that we particularly crave or resist. Yet it is in the midst of our deepest obsessions and resistances that renunciation holds the power to transform our heart and world. Our capacity to let go is often clouded by ambivalence and reluctance. We know we suffer through overeating, but the second plate of food really does taste so good. We know that our anger towards another person makes us suffer, but if we were to let it go they may get away with the suffering they inflicted. We know that fantasy is a poor substitute for happiness, but its flavor is pleasurable. We know we may suffer through exaggerated ambition, but the feeling of pride when we attain our goals justifies the pain. Pleasure and happiness are too often equated with being the same; in reality they are very different. Pleasure comes. It also goes. It is the flavor and content of many of the impressions we encounter in our lives. Happiness has not so much to do with the content or impressions of our experiences; but with our capacity to find balance and peace amid the myriad impressions of our lives. Treasuring happiness and freedom, we learn to live our lives with openness and serenity. Not enslaved to the pleasant sensation, we no longer fear the unpleasant. We love, laugh, and delight, and hold onto nothing.