None of us knows what’s around the corner. Only one thing is certain: it’s going to be a mixture of pleasure and pain. As the expression goes, ‘stuff happens’.

Many of us will have visited ancient cathedrals and seen the saints preserved in stained glass, looking serene and beautiful, but also rather anodyne, as if nothing even happened in their lives to disturb their pious expressions. But closer inspection reveals that the martyrs are often holding the instruments through which they met their gruesome fate.

Though he lived into old age and died of natural causes the Buddha was not immune from ‘stuff’ happening. Because we see his serene statue everywhere, from health clubs to garden centres, candle shops to Asian restaurants, we can easily forget that the historical person who grew up as Siddhartha Gautama was flesh and blood just like us. Those images remind us that he managed to preserve his serenity, despite difficult family relationships, troublesome monks and even assassination attempts. If he had lost his cool or succumbed to ‘events’ it is unlikely that the memory of his life would have been passed down through generations of followers. He would not have been seen as exceptional by those who knew him. In short, the life of the Buddha demonstrates that we might not always be able to change what happens, but we can shape our reactions.

Once, on a residential leadership development seminar, I took part in a session which made me extremely uncomfortable. I felt as if I were being compelled to speak about work matters which I regarded as confidential. I wasn’t prepared to do this, and I was concerned that this would be perceived as unwillingness to participate. By the end of the seminar I was both exhausted and upset. What should I do? As I went to bed that evening, I realised I had three options: pack my things and leave; sulk for the remaining day; or confront the situation gently and assertively the next morning. Which option I chose is not the main issue (in the event, I stayed and explained). What I realised, sitting in my room, was that – despite my wound-up state – I could choose which route to follow.

Why had it taken me decades to realise that I could shape my own emotional state and my response? A book by Julia Cassaniti which I read recently seems to sum it up. It’s entitled Remembering the Present: Mindfulness in Buddhist Asia and its argument is that people raised in a Western environment tend to see emotions as something which ‘happen’ to us, whereas in the Buddhist countries of south-east Asia, where her research was conducted, emotions are understood as something which people themselves construct. Such a perspective gives us far more agency. And it is this sense of empowerment, the possibility of deciding how one is going to feel, that first led me to explore mindfulness and its deep roots in Buddhist tradition.

The ancient narratives tell how the Buddha, with the wisdom derived from the insight of Awakening, managed to hone his responses to an extraordinary degree. Yes, the serenity so powerfully represented in Buddhist iconography is genuine; but it is achieved against the backdrop of many vicissitudes. I’m quite certain that I’m not going to achieve anything like that level of equanimity in this lifetime, but it is encouraging to begin to understand that we’re not inevitably the prisoners of our experience and emotions. At every moment it is within our power to think differently, to make different choices, and to unknot the tangled web of thoughts and emotions which ensnares us. In the Buddha’s own words: we do not need to be troubled.

Graham Dixon

In December 2021, just as I was about to send the final draft of my book on forgiveness to the publishers, The Forgiveness Project’s founding patron, Archbishop Demond Tutu, died. This was followed a month later by the death of the Buddhist monk and spiritual teacher Thich Nhat Hanh. Both men had been courageous and radical peace activists, renowned for being visionary leaders. It felt like the world had lost two moral giants.

Desmond Tutu and Thich Nhat Hanh were also two of the people who most inspired me to spend nearly two decades of my life exploring the complex geography of forgiveness. I appreciated them particularly as they were able to speak beyond the boundaries of religion and, despite having witnessed suffering on a global scale, were able to help people address all the familiar harms and resentments of their everyday lives.

Desmond Tutu would often dispel the commonly held notion that forgiveness means reconciliation. He once explained that if someone is constantly abusing you, being ready to forgive doesn’t mean you have to be a masochist and hang on in there. In fact, it is far better to release the relationship than to renew it. In other words, you can turn your back on toxic relationships and still forgive. He also often spoke about forgiveness being the best form of self-interest, a kind of self-preservation, counselling people to forgive not because those who have hurt you deserve forgiveness, ‘but because you deserve peace’.

Thich Nhat Hanh’s life of reflection led him to believe that forgiveness was the key to creating a peaceful, just and sustainable world, and he maintained that ‘only when compassion is born in your heart, is it possible to forgive.’ In the film The Power of Forgiveness he recites a meditation for the ‘many angry sons and daughters’ who cannot make peace with their parents. In a soft, measured voice you can hear him instructing a room full of people with the words: ‘breathing in I see myself as a 5-year-old child; breathing out I hold that 5-year-old child with tenderness. Breathing in I see my father as a 5-year-old boy; breathing out I smile to my father as a 5-year-old boy.’ The point he is making is that only when you are able to visualise your cruel father or mean mother as a fragile and vulnerable 5-year-old, can you begin to understand and feel compassion for the person they have become.

Thich Nhat Hanh’s process to soothe the wounded hearts of adult children may not be easy but it has been adapted in multiple settings.

So many people who have shared their forgiveness journeys with me, have managed to free themselves from mental angst and bondage. Forgiveness is a virtue based on the ability to love when others are not loving you. Only then will a shift or transformation take place; only then can relationships be rebuilt and restored.

MARINA CANTACUZINO

The Buddha was born long ago and far away. He grew up in a world without writing, in an ancient civilisation that is no more. The buildings of his childhood, the trees under which he sat in meditation, and the dusty roads down which he once walked have long since vanished from view, buried deep beneath concrete and steel. Even the course of the mighty River Ganges has changed.

And yet something remarkable remains. Over two thousand years later his words continue to resonate and his teachings continue to inspire. Buddhist statues and shrines, temples and meeting houses can be found in almost every corner of the world. More than 500 million people alive today call themselves ‘Buddhist’ and look to him as their spiritual forefather. Never has interest in Buddhism been greater or more widespread.

How is it that a man with no home, no money, and no worldly possessions came to be one of the most influential figures in the history of humanity? What does his life-journey teach us today? Why do his words still speak to us so directly – even in our age of consumerism, cars, and computers?

The answer is simple: the fundamental questions raised by the Buddha long ago remain as salient now as they were in his day. Why? Because, for all our ‘stuff’ and self-importance, we, like the Buddha, remain nothing but the sum of our relationships with the world, our family and friends, with our communities, with each other, and, fundamentally, with our own inner selves.

That’s why, although circumstances change, the core Buddhist tenets have stood the test of time. The Buddha’s diagnosis of our spiritual malaise and his prescription for our well-being and happiness are no less powerful and relevant now than they were 2500 years ago. Finding a meaningful response to the challenges of our lives seems even more necessary and urgent than ever.

Since this book first appeared in paperback, five people named in the text have died: Saddam Hussein, Osama bin Laden, Colonel Gadaffi, Leonard Cohen and Thich Nhat Hanh. It’s worth reflecting on which of them enriched our world – and why.

TONY MORRIS

My father had an embarrassing habit. He would unexpectedly break into poetry at odd moments, and, more embarrassing still – his own poetry. He wrote colourfully, but mostly didactically, insisting that his methods add spice to learning. Since he taught homeopathy, his poems were embellished (or encumbered) with anatomical parts, bodily functions and psychosomatic turns of phrase – topics I rarely touched, especially over the dinner table.

Imagine my concern when I found myself following in his footsteps.

Teaching mindfulness to students is a blessing of a job. My classrooms are full of people who actually want to be there. There’s no marking, no exams, and we follow that most engaging of curriculums: the human heart and mind. And as I hear about my students’ mindful journeys, it inspires me to follow my own. I’m sure I learn as much or more from their insights than they ever do from me. Then again, my approach is never to teach, but more to share. Forty years of tumultuous inner life comes in handy – so I have been spared the imposter syndrome that plagues some teachers. That is … until I started sharing my poems.

One of my greatest pleasures in meditation is to take time afterwards to write. I search for a way to describe to myself what went on. Can I find a way to express even the most humdrum meditation let alone the most profound? I play with words and metaphors; and feel an exquisite pleasure when they fit ‘just right’. Often they tell me something about myself that I did not know.

The occupational hazard of all this is the way it lingers. I’m liable to turn up for a class with a poem still in mind, and when a hapless student unwittingly asks a question that touches on the same theme, I can’t help myself. ‘I wrote a poem about that this morning!’ I proffer. The words are out of my mouth before I know it. ‘Oh help,’ I mutter, turning red, ‘I’m turning out just like my dad.’

Possibly more forgiving of me than I was of him though, my students encourage me. They like the poems (they say); it helps them understand their own meditation. And so my Gentle Guides to Meditation came to life, including both poems and prose. If my poems could help me learn – might they also help others?

Journeys to the Deep is the first of three slim volumes, each exploring different aspects of meditation – in this case Setting Out, Curiosity and Enjoyment, and Listening Within. I hope you enjoy the book. Who knows? Perhaps it may even inspire you to write, or draw, or sing about your own inner journeys too?

ELIZABETH ENGLISH

Travelling is my life – and Buddhism is my compass.

My very first expedition took place when I was only twelve months old: a journey by train from my birthplace in Milan to Aalborg in northern Denmark (my mother and grandmother are both Danish). From the age of three onwards every holiday would alternate: one summer in Denmark with its windswept, green flatlands and wide skies; the following summer far to the south in the remote heartland of Basilicata, with its chirping cicadas and sleepy ancient villages perched on the top of steep hills. Most of the time we would travel in my father’s small car – three full days to reach Denmark, another three days to get to Accettura, his native village …

At the age of 16 I took my first solo trip abroad – to Norfolk to work in an international Summer Camp. It was a momentous experience. For the first time in my life I felt I was a citizen of the world, surrounded by young people like me from all over Europe, Asia and Africa.

Shortly afterwards, I discovered Buddhism through a book I came across by chance in the small library of my secondary school; but it was a further ten years before I started practising meditation.

Aged 27 I left a teaching job in Italy and spent several years studying and working in the UK, Spain and the Netherlands. I continued to take every opportunity to travel: to Japan where I managed to see the giant Buddhas in Kamakura and Nara, to North Africa (Morocco in particular), to the Middle East and to Cuba.

It was when I got a university post in Brunei on the Island of Borneo that my fascination with Buddhism really took off. I had maintained an interest in Eastern spirituality through reading and meditating twice a day, but it was travelling through Buddhist countries that brought up the urge to write and document my various encounters.

After leaving Brunei and before starting my present teaching and research activity here in Malaysia, I embarked on another epic journey: a five-month backpacking tour of Southeast Asia and China. Many other travels followed (including the sites described in this book). All the time I was immersing myself in the world of Buddhism, thanks to the many Dharma talks and retreats I attended in this wonderful multi-ethnic and multicultural country of Malaysia, where the presence of Buddhism is so strong.

Travelling and living in so many countries has been not just a discovery of places, languages and cultures; it has given me a deep sense of connection with the planet and the people living on it. Whenever I have found myself in a different Buddhist country, it has made me appreciate Buddhism’s social, spiritual and artistic achievements even more.

At some point it occurred to me that I could combine travel writing and my interest in Buddhism: hence Buddhism and Pilgrimage. My hope is that readers will feel at least part of what I’ve experienced during my pilgrimage in India and Nepal to the four key Buddhist sites – Lumbini, Bodhgaya, Sarnath and Kushinagar. It is a pilgrimage that the Buddha himself recommended:

‘Ananda, there are four places the sight of which should arise emotion in the faithful. Which are they?

“Here the Tathagata was born” is the first.

“Here the Tathagata attained supreme enlightenment” is the second.

“Here the Tathagata set in motion the Wheel of Dhamma” is the third.

“Here the Tathagata attained the Nibbana-element without remainder” is the fourth.’

Bon Voyage!           

PAOLO COLUZZI

Whenever I mention ‘Buddhism and Computing’ as a title, the response is almost invariably the same: surprise followed by curiosity. Google seems a bit taken aback too, for typing that phrase (in quotation marks) into its search box initially indicates hundreds of thousands of matches, but barely two pages of actual results. So it’s official: ‘Buddhism and Computing’ is a rare pairing because Google says so! Well, not necessarily, but it is worthy of special interest.

I originally set out to write only about the phenomenon of social media, which, despite its vocal advocates, I’ve long felt is deeply flawed. It fosters a dwindling quality of attention, an impoverished sense of friendship and a growing sense of bewilderment – yes, there are good uses, but in many ways it’s anti-social. I’ve been trying to understand how we come to be in this situation since 2007, when I was persuaded to register for a Facebook account. It has meant carrying out historical detective work and delving into the nature of the human mind, often facilitated by walks in Wytham Woods, fortified by refreshments at the village shop. Many ideas occur to me in the midst of nature, away from computers.

Digital technology is increasingly tied to the rise of artificial intelligence (AI) and algorithms. The implications of this trend often get lost in complexity, jargon and mind-boggling sums invested in futurology. There’s always plenty of potential and room for speculation. But what of the here and now? How come so many people’s subjective experience in the present moment is a growing sense of dis-ease and unsatisfactoriness?

For the Buddha the problem was not technology per se; it was dukkha. Human flourishing could come about only with the eradication of dukkha, and in order to achieve that we need to follow a clear and balanced path. Nearly all of today’s online ‘journeys’ involve digital technology of some kind or another, so understanding what that path entails means exploring fundamental questions about mind, machines and intelligence. That’s basically how this book began. I found myself writing a series of thought-pieces about computing as seen through the lens of Buddhist ethics, each chapter somewhat self-contained, but leading by degrees from the past to the present, and from first principles to application.  This particular Mud Pie ‘Slice’ is, therefore, made up of several smaller slices.

What about the growing body of literature on cultivating ‘digital wisdom’ by drawing on various philosophical and religious traditions? The reflections may be profound, but I fear they are having little effect on the juggernauts of ‘Big Tech’. That’s because the ancient teachings are rarely applied to the specification and design of software systems.  Instead, they are mainly used to adapt to and accommodate them. The tech companies, meanwhile, under pressure from financial interests, continue to massage and manipulate the ‘attention economy’. More dukkha.

The Buddha’s teachings were delivered over two thousand years ago, but they have never been more relevant. In this book I show how they can readily be applied and incorporated into systems architecture and user interactions. Yes, we can indeed enhance our cognitive abilities and thrive – but only so long as we are vigilant and everyone actively participates in these developments. This is how to flourish in the Age of Algorithms.

Paul Trafford