Saturday — Equanimity
As I mentioned Wednesday night, the four brahmavihāras all come down to two: goodwill and equanimity. Goodwill—together with its extensions, compassion and empathetic joy—is a wish for happiness. Equanimity is the ability to maintain the mind on an even keel when events don’t fall in line with your goodwill. The suttas say it’s an antidote to irritation.
The difference between the first three brahmavihāras on the one hand, and equanimity on the other, can be easily seen in the phrases we repeat to express these attitudes. The first three are expressed as intentions: “May all beings be happy. May they be freed from stress and pain. May they not be deprived of the good fortune they have attained.” It’s all “may, may, may.” But with equanimity, it’s a statement of fact: “All beings are the owners of their actions, heirs to their actions, born of their actions, related through their actions, and live in dependence on their actions. Whatever they do, for good or for evil, to that will they fall heir.” It’s the reality check for the other three attitudes: Because of the principle of people’s free choice in deciding how to act, you have to accept the fact that not all beings will be happy anytime soon.
As I also noted on Wednesday, goodwill as a brahmavihāra is said to be a form of mindfulness, something you have to keep in mind. And you have to be determined to keep it in mind. That’s why you need all four factors of determination to develop and maintain it: discernment, truth, generosity, and calm.
There’s no place in the Canon that says explicitly that equanimity is a form of mindfulness or that it’s related to determination. But when you try to practice it, you realize that it, too, is a form of mindfulness that you have to be determined to develop if it’s going to become a brahmavihāra. As with ordinary, human goodwill, ordinary, human equanimity is partial. It’s easy to be equanimous about some things but not about others. If a stranger in foreign land gets sick, you may feel a little compassion, but it’s easy for the mind to switch to equanimity: This is the way of the world. It happens every day. But if someone you deeply love gets sick, it’s hard to stay equanimous. Yet at times like that, if you really want to be of help to that person, you have to develop some equanimity, to get the mind to calm down so that you can think clearly about what’s the most helpful thing to do.
In this way, equanimity is clearly related to the fourth determination, calm, but it’s also related to the other three.
First, the fact that you’re willing to accept the principle of kamma is related to discernment. So is the fact that you can see that equanimity itself is something you have to develop as a brahmavihāra to be able to apply it whenever is necessary, regardless of what the situation may be.
To begin with, note that there are skillful forms of equanimity and unskillful forms. The type of equanimity that simply doesn’t care, that’s indifferent to the sufferings of others, is unskillful. So is the lazy equanimity that doesn’t care if unskillful qualities are taking over your mind, the equanimity that simply accepts their presence without thinking of doing anything about them. The Buddha didn’t teach indifferent or lazy equanimity.
Ajaan Chah calls lazy equanimity the equanimity of a water buffalo. You may know the story. A storm went through his monastery one time, and the next day he was walking around the monastery to survey the damage. He came upon a hut with half of its roof blown off. The monk who lived in the hut was sitting inside, meditating. Ajaan Chah called out to him, “Why aren’t you fixing the roof?” The monk replied, “I’m practicing equanimity.” Ajaan Chah scolded him, “That’s the equanimity of a water buffalo. You’re a human being. Fix the roof.”
If you look in the Canon, you’ll notice that the Buddha never teaches equanimity alone. It’s always taught in combination with other qualities, and it takes on aspects of the qualities that accompany it. In the context of the brahmavihāras, the Buddha is teaching the equanimity of a good doctor. A doctor has to start with goodwill and compassion for the patient. But he also needs equanimity. If he tries one approach to treat the patient but it doesn’t work, he doesn’t get upset. He has to develop some equanimity to think clearly, to try to figure out what other approaches might work. If he sees that there are some symptoms that he cannot alleviate at all, again, he can’t get upset. He has to be equanimous about those symptoms so that he can focus on the symptoms he can alleviate.
When you discern the type of equanimity the Buddha is talking about here, you’ll also discern why equanimity is a necessary complement to the other three brahmavihāras. There are three main reasons in all.
The first reason relates to the intention in each of the other brahmavihāras: You focus on the wish that other beings will behave in a skillful way, for the sake of their own happiness. Remember the statement for goodwill: “May all beings understand the causes for true happiness and be willing and able to act on them.” Compassion: “May this person learn to act in ways that don’t cause more suffering.” Empathetic joy: “May these people learn to act in ways that will create more happiness.” You’re placing your hopes on the choices that other people will make—and you know how little control you have over their choices. So these attitudes are bound to be disappointed if they’re not backed up by equanimity. As Ajaan Fuang once said, goodwill—if it isn’t supported by the equanimity of concentration—is a source of suffering. So to prevent yourself from suffering, you have to accept the fact that not all beings will follow in line with your good wishes for them.
But some people will. This is the second reason for why equanimity is a necessary complement to the other three brahmavihāras. It allows you to focus your energies on areas where you actually can be of help, to yourself and to others, without wasting energy trying to help those who resist or simply can’t benefit from your help. You accept the fact that there may be some past kamma—either your past kamma or the other person’s past kamma—getting in the way, and you can’t go back and undo what was done in the past. So you focus your energies in areas where you can be of help.
In this way, equanimity is related to a basic principle of generosity: As the Buddha once said, you should give where you feel inspired or you feel that your gift would be well used. You may feel inspired to help everyone, but because your energies and resources are limited, it’s best to focus on areas where your help would be well used.
Ultimately, though, we have to be like the doctor who knows that even though he can cure some of his patient’s illnesses, someday the patient will have to die. So the doctor has to be equanimous about that fact. In the same way, we have to realize that all living beings are subject to aging, illness, and death. We ourselves are subject to aging, illness, and death. This is the third reason for developing equanimity. We have to realize that if we don’t put an end to our craving, we’ll have to keep coming back to worlds where we and all the beings around us are subject to more aging, illness, and death. Do you want that? If not, you have to focus your energies on the practices that will free your from the processes of saṁsāra. This requires that you’re equanimous about areas that, if you gave your attention to them, would pull you away from the practice.
In this way, you’re practicing equanimity in line with the first line in the Karaṇīya Mettā Sutta: “This is to be done by one who appreciates the state of peace.” You’re taking your brahmavihāra practice and using it to help in your practice of the duties of the four noble truths, leading to the peace of the third noble truth. You may remember from Wednesday that you can practice the brahmavihāras either for the sake of becoming a Brahmā or for the sake of gaining awakening. When you develop your discernment, you realize that awakening is a much better goal for this practice.
As for the truth of your equanimity, it’s similar to the truth of your goodwill: You have to learn how to breathe, think, and use perceptions and feelings to help keep your equanimity solid in the face of events that would otherwise shake it up.
The Buddha talks about many levels in developing equanimity. He notes that our ordinary, everyday type of equanimity—where we happen to keep the mind on an even keel in the face of good and bad input coming through our eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind—is not very reliable. It can easily be shaken as new input comes in, especially if you’re not mindful. So, in different suttas, he explains how to develop your everyday equanimity to make it stronger. In some cases, such as MN 137, he emphasizes developing equanimity by using insight before concentration; in others, such as SN 36:11, he advises developing concentration before insight. In both cases, he’s again taking you beyond ordinary brahmavihāra practice and using it to serve the purposes of the four noble truths.
It’s important to note, however, that in either case, he doesn’t have you go straight from everyday equanimity to heightened equanimity. Instead, he has you develop joy and refreshment—either through insight or concentration—as an intermediate step. And it’s easy to see why. If you went from ordinary “blah” straight to stronger “blah” with no sense of joy, the practice would get dry or depressing pretty fast. As Ajaan Fuang once said, if the practice doesn’t have a sense of rapture and joy to keep it alive, it’s like an engine without any oil to lubricate it. It’s going to seize up and stop running.
So let’s look at how the Buddha would have you develop joy as a way to strengthen your equanimity, to see which method would work for you.
In the case where he would have you start with insight, he recommends that when you feel distress over the inconstancy of the things you love, you shouldn’t go running to sensual pleasures to escape that distress. Instead, you remind yourself that there are people who have gained liberation from all distress, and you give rise to a desire to follow their example. This thought in itself may be distressing—you think about how far you are from the goal—but at least it offers hope: There is a way out. I read recently someone saying that Buddhism doesn’t have a word for hope, but it actually has two: the noun, āsā, and the verb, paṭikankhati. And the Dhamma is as hopeful a teaching as you can imagine: It teaches that there is a sure way out of all the disappointments of life.
When you set your sights on gaining some release from your sufferings, then you contemplate on how all objects of the senses—past, present, and future—are inconstant and subject to change. When you adopt this attitude and can willingly accept it, it can lift your mind to a level where you feel above all that change. For some people, this realization is accompanied by joy. They feel liberated from their day-to-day concerns. Then as that joy calms down, you move on to equanimity as you maintain that same perspective of insight.
From there, the Buddha would have you develop that equanimity into the higher levels of concentration. And then, once that concentration is established, he would have you reflect on how it, too, is inconstant, stressful, and not-self. That realization can lead to unbinding, which—like your original insight—is accompanied first by joy. In fact, it’s the highest happiness of all. Then when you reflect back on the changing phenomena of the world, you can view them with an unshakeable equanimity, because your happiness lies beyond their reach. That’s one approach.
Now, some people find the insight into inconstancy, if it’s not backed up and preceded by concentration, can be disorienting rather than joyful. They feel as if the ground has been pulled from under their feet. If that’s the case with you, you should develop concentration first.
Here the first step, the Buddha notes, is to strengthen your everyday equanimity through a series of perceptions: Try to make your mind like earth. People throw disgusting things on the Earth, but the Earth isn’t upset by them. Make your mind like fire: Fire burns garbage, but isn’t upset by the garbage. Make your mind like water: Water washes away dirt, but isn’t upset by the dirt. Make your mind like wind: Wind blows garbage around, but isn’t upset by the garbage. Make your mind like space: People can try to draw pictures and write words in space, but there’s no place for pictures or words to stick.
When you can adopt these attitudes, then it’s easier to deal with the difficulties of getting the mind in concentration. You can observe clearly what’s working and what’s not working as you try to get the mind to settle down, without getting overly excited or upset. That makes it possible to develop concentration as a skill.
In other words, when your mind is like earth, it’s not just a clod of dirt. It’s simply solid and not easily shaken. That’s the kind of mind you need to observe and understand what’s going on in your mind so that you can get it to settle down with a sense of ease.
Then, to get the mind to a deeper equanimity—the equanimity of the fourth jhāna—you first have to develop the first three jhānas, which are characterized by pleasure and rapture or refreshment. When the mind has been nourished by the pleasure and refreshment, then it’s ready to settle into a secure state of equanimity with a strong sense of well-being.
From there, you can develop the insight that will take you to awakening, which as we’ve already noted, is the highest happiness, and is accompanied by equanimity when you reflect on the world on which you no longer need to feed.
When you give your equanimity a strong, solid foundation like this, you’re making it unshakeable and true. Your truth is also taking you beyond ordinary brahmavihāra practice and using it for the sake of awakening.
As for generosity: When you solidify your equanimity with a sense of well-being, you’re giving yourself a safer food inside for the mind to feed on. Or even better, if you follow these steps all the way to awakening, the mind has found a happiness that no longer needs to feed at all. This means that you don’t have to feed off the other brahmavihāras, and that helps to purify your practice of them. Your gift of the other brahmavihāras becomes more pure.
Let me explain. There are times when people feed off of their own goodwill and compassion, expressing these attitudes in their actions in ways that may not necessarily be conducive to the good of others. They’re actually more concerned with how good their compassion feels to them, and don’t notice that they’re actually not being helpful to the other person at all.
I heard a Dhamma teacher once say that he didn’t want to be reborn in a world where no one was suffering, because he wouldn’t have the opportunity to express his compassion. On the surface, this sounds noble—he always wants to be helpful—but when you think about it, it’s actually quite selfish: This teacher needed to have somebody else suffer so that he could feel good about his compassion.
A nobler attitude is one that doesn’t have to feed off of compassion. And that’s what developing a well-grounded sense of equanimity encourages, even if it’s just the equanimity based on concentration. It provides you with your own inner food of well-being that allows you to see more clearly, when the time comes to help other people, exactly what kind of help would actually benefit them the most.
And as for calm: We’ve already noted that equanimity is a calm mind state in and of itself. But there are gradations of equanimity. The levels of equanimity that come from developing strong concentration—or even better, that come from awakening to the highest happiness—are the calmest of all, in that they’re based on a strong inner sense of well-being.
We might call this the equanimity of a winner. This is different from the way equanimity is sometimes taught with a defeatist attitude. A defeatist attitude says, basically, that there’s no lasting happiness to be found in the world, so you might as well give up trying to find it. Just learn to accept things as they are and don’t hope for them to be better than what they are. When you give up on your search for happiness, you can be equanimous and content with what you’ve got.
That, as I said, is a defeatist attitude. It’s equanimity tinged with regret, disappointment, and a sense of powerlessness. It’s heavy and narrow, a contentment found by lowering your standards for satisfaction.
We bow down to the Buddha, though, because he actually has us raise our standards for satisfaction, to accept nothing less than the ultimate happiness. There’s nothing defeatist in his attitude at all. In fact, he called the noble eightfold path the path to victory: You can find a happiness that’s not subject to aging, illness, and death, that’s totally free of sorrow. You win out over all your defilements and all the changing and unreliable things in the world.
This is what Ajaan Fuang called the brightness of life: Even though there’s suffering, there’s also a path to the total end of suffering, and it’s open to everyone. When your equanimity is based on well-being, it’s expansive and light. Because it comes from well-being, there’s no regret or disappointment or powerlessness at all. It’s a state of calm that’s really satisfying—and when a state of calm is satisfying, that’s the highest calm of all.
So when you understand the Buddha’s teachings on equanimity, you can see that it’s a necessary complement to the other brahmavihāras. It keeps them from leading to suffering. It keeps them focused. It keeps them pure. And when you develop it properly, it helps all four brahmavihāras lead to something even higher: a state of mind that can experience a happiness beyond the world, one that frees you from having to come back and feed off the world ever again. This is the ultimate way in which you show goodwill for yourself and other beings: You provide for your own true happiness—as the phrase says, you look after yourself with ease—and your happiness doesn’t require you to take anything from anyone ever again.
