You Can Only Do What You Can Do

When my mom checked herself out of the rehabilitation center again, I was ready to give up on her. For eighteen months she’d been struggling with serious health problems—emphysema, chronic kidney disease, exhaustion—and had been rushed to the emergency room three times. Each time, doctors stabilized her and sent her to a short-term rehabilitation facility to regain her strength, but she refused to stay. After a few days, she’d return home, resume drinking and smoking cigarettes, and within a month or two would need to return to the ER and start the whole process over again. It was painful to watch her suffer, and I was frustrated, angry, and desperate for her to listen to me, stay and let the medical team help her heal, and acknowledge that she needed help.

I spoke with her doctors and close friends, and they all told me the same thing: There was nothing I could do. My mom was a mentally competent adult, legally able to make her own choices, even if they harmed her. People who cared about me saw how stressed and anxious I was, and urged me to stop trying to save her when she didn’t want to save herself. I knew they were right—partly. It was true that I couldn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to do, and pleading with her and getting mad at her was ineffective and upsetting both of us. But it was also important to me to approach my mom’s struggles with wisdom, good sense, and kindness. As a Buddhist student, I knew there is always something you can do. And I knew that a truly compassionate person would never give up on anyone, even someone as difficult as my mom.

People often say “there’s nothing you can do” because we believe that doing something has to mean taking a physical action that affects an outcome or makes a change. But in the Buddhist tradition, doing something includes thinking and speaking, as well as conduct; when you generate beneficial and nonharmful thoughts and communicate wisely and kindly, that’s a type of action. So I began practicing loving-kindness and tonglen meditations for my mom. Loving-kindness, or metta, is a technique from the early Buddhist tradition of offering silent phrases of happiness and well-being to other people. Tonglen, or giving and taking, is a Tibetan compassion practice of breathing in (taking) another’s suffering, and breathing out (giving) ease, healing, and peace. At first, it might not seem that these practices—which happen entirely in the mind—can possibly affect circumstances or other people. But if you look closely, you can see that’s not true because our thoughts and intentions direct and inform everything we say and do.

Though my meditations didn’t miraculously change my mom’s mind or heal her body, they affected me. When my attention shifted from my mom’s behavior to the suffering that was driving it, I felt her fear and trauma and worry, and I understood that she was doing her best. She wanted to feel better, and drinking was the only way she knew how to do that. I noticed my anger soften and my heart open to her as I kept connected with her struggles, and I began to speak to her with less impatience and frustration. As I became gentler and more compassionate, my mom felt less defensive and alone, and I remembered something the teacher Thrangu Rinpoche said: Compassion and loving-kindness practice always works—immediately or eventually. Sometimes these acts of kindness show results quickly and directly, as they did with my mom and me. In other situations, our loving efforts simply contribute to another’s happiness sometime in the future, perhaps even in a future life.

Even as I practiced, a part of me was still so exasperated with the situation that I was tempted to walk away and let her live however she chose without me. But I knew that I wouldn’t be able to do that, because it didn’t feel right to me, and also because I’d taken the bodhisattva vow. When I did that, my Tibetan teacher explained that unlike other vows, such as the five lay vows (the five precepts), it’s considered “unbreakable.” The precepts can be clearly violated—if I tell my employer I’m sick because I want a day off, I’ve broken the vow against false speech and will need to renew it. But the bodhisattva vow is different. You don’t break it by making mistakes or acting unskillfully, because your intention—to benefit all beings—remains intact. The vow is broken only if you completely give up on someone. If you believe, “I hate this person so much that even if she was hit by a car in front of me, I wouldn’t call an ambulance,” or “I would never help that person if he were suffering because he’s a terrible man,” or “They deserve to be miserable because they keep making terrible decisions,” you’ve abandoned the vow.

The bodhisattva vow recognizes that all beings, even those who are dangerous and destructive, are struggling and suffering and deserve compassion and care.

The bodhisattva vow recognizes that all beings, even those who are dangerous and destructive, are struggling and suffering and deserve compassion and care. This doesn’t mean that we allow people to cause harm, because sometimes compassion means taking firm action, like standing up to an abusive boss. But we do so without hate or ill will, and without giving up on the possibility that they might change. I knew that I couldn’t close my heart to my mom, not only because turning away would betray my vow but because it would feel terrible to shut down my own compassion—to turn away from suffering rather than move toward it, even if it wasn’t in my power to fix it.

My mom continued to decline for a few more years, resisting medical advice until she died. She suffered a great deal, much of it unnecessarily, and, despite this, she didn’t really change at all—but I did. I continued my practice, and through my relationship with her, I discovered that it was actually harder to close my heart to her than it was to allow myself to accept her as she was, respect her choices, however unwise they were, and wish her to have peace and ease. I learned that staying vulnerable and openhearted is less painful than withdrawing and becoming hard-hearted. And today, when I feel helpless, I remember there is always something I can do, and you can too. Even if you can’t stop a war or change an alcoholic family member, there’s always still the possibility that you’ll be able to do so in the future. So please—keep paying attention, choose to cultivate goodwill and care, and develop your compassion and wisdom. Practice loving-kindness meditation and tonglen. Then, just like a bodhisattva, when it’s possible to help, you’ll be ready.

Practice

When I learned that bodhisattvas never give up, I felt exhausted, because it seemed to me that I had committed to doing something impossible. The idea that I could benefit all beings over countless lifetimes and help them awaken to our deep connection to each other seemed not only preposterous but an endless and futile endeavor that I could never fulfill. But then I realized that I wasn’t doing it alone; I’m actually doing it together with so many others, because there are lots of people in many traditions—including you—being bodhisattvas in their way and creating conditions of well-being for the world—in the past, in the present, and in the future too.

And if you’re feeling tired or discouraged, or if you sense that your heart is closing to another person or to the world, it’s OK to give yourself a moment to rest and have compassion for yourself. This practice will help you do this and to reconnect with yourself, with your beautiful nature, and help you remember your vast intention and recommit to your bodhisattva vow to benefit and not harm all beings—including yourself.

Find a place where you can be undisturbed, and take this opportunity to reconnect with your true self, your loving and wise nature. Bring your attention to your body, your feet, your seat, your belly. Make any movements or adjustments that seem right to you—you could stretch your legs or shake out your hands. Then let yourself come to stillness. This kind of stillness doesn’t mean you’re frozen; it means you’re steady, not flitting from branch to branch like a bird.

Place a hand on your heart and a hand on your belly, and connect with your breath. Remember that your body is always breathing for you, and you can just receive it. Feel your breath: your stomach moving, your chest moving with each inhale and exhale. Now, allow sound to enter your ears. Relax your forehead, your cheeks, and your jaw, and feel your thighs and your feet.

With one hand on your heart and one hand on your belly, I invite you to connect with a person who has inspired you or has cared about you—someone with whom you have an uncomplicated relationship, maybe a teacher, a grandparent, or a very dear friend. Feel their presence beside you and imagine their face and their presence, and hear them say to you:

May you act with wisdom and courage.
May you be undisturbed by what you can’t change right now.
May you be at peace.

Allow yourself to receive these blessings, hearing this special person repeat these phrases to you. For a few minutes, silently listen and take in these well-wishes: May you act with wisdom and courage. May you be undisturbed by what you can’t change right now. May you be at peace.

While you’re practicing, you might get swept away from the phrases, and that’s OK. Gently and patiently gather your attention, reconnect, and begin again.

You can keep your connection with this person as you now connect with yourself. Feel your hand on your heart and your belly, and connect with your loving presence. You might imagine yourself as you looked this morning in the mirror, or you might imagine yourself in a moment of difficulty or discouragement. Now, say to yourself, May I act with wisdom and courage. May I be undisturbed by what I can’t change right now. May I be at peace. Repeat these phrases to yourself, for a few minutes, as if you’re giving yourself a gift. 

Sometimes it’s hard to give yourself loving-kindness. You might notice that your attention has strayed or you’re distracted. That’s OK. Be gentle with yourself. Remember, you can begin again. Simply gather your attention, reconnect, and say the phrases: May I act with wisdom and courage. May I be undisturbed by what I can’t change right now. May I be at peace. 

After a few minutes, or whenever you’re ready, you can take a few minutes to practice tonglen, or taking and giving. Tonglen is a Tibetan compassion meditation, and it’s very useful to quickly reconnect you to your compassionate and wise heart and to share it with others.

Imagine someone you know who is struggling. You can begin tonglen practice by breathing in their fear, confusion, ill health, pain, or greed, and breathing out your patience, wisdom, kindness, and ease. Take a few minutes to take their suffering and give your love. If you like, as you breathe in, you can imagine their struggles as thick dark smoke that you inhale deeply into your heart, where it’s transformed into light. Then, as you exhale, you can imagine this brilliant light flowing to this other person, and you can continue breathing in smoke and breathing out light. 

Next, give yourself permission to practice tonglen for yourself. Breathe in whatever you’re struggling with—your fears, your confusion, your insecurities, your self-judgment, any physical pain or illness—and exhale love, compassion, ease, and reassurance. Spend at least five minutes taking in your suffering and giving yourself whatever you need to heal. 

Before you conclude your practice, I’d like you to truly thank yourself and appreciate the value of your efforts—and rejoice that you’re part of a long lineage of human beings who share the deep intention to reconnect to themselves and each other and to be of benefit to the whole world.

Listen to more guided meditations in Tricycle’s Daily Dharma App.