Charlene looks at me with a long gaze, longer than would be comfortable if I were sitting across from her at a coffee shop. But we are in the interview room, during a silent retreat. Gazes are not uncommon. Silence is not uncommon.

Charlene is about sixty, with strong blue eyes. She wears a tie-dyed t-shirt that says “I’m on Island Time.” She has just told me about her cancer, in her liver, in her brain. She has told me that she is getting her affairs in order and that she wishes to start living a more spiritual life, in her last few months or years, however long she has. 

I have only known Charlene for a few days, but I am already inspired by her. She signed up for this death and dying retreat, where we are now, keeping silence, eating vegetarian food, meditating. The retreat enrollment was restricted to experienced meditators, those who had already finished a program of study. But hearing of her prognosis, I could not say no. We, the young and healthy, are interested in reflecting on the inevitability of death. She, on the other hand, was living the inevitability of death. She was on Island Time now, and she deserved to be spending it here, perhaps more than anyone. 

She muses, “I have been trying to figure out if I should forgive my brother, while I still have time left.” I ask her, “What do you think you should do? What are you feeling?” She shares that she is still very angry at him, as he continues to make the family’s life difficult. I nod in acknowledgment of her pain, her anger. I notice my own anger rising at this brother of hers I have never met. I breathe into that feeling and remember my commitment to being here now, to witnessing her. I refocus and listen. 

***

Encounters like this were not what I anticipated when I began to step into the ministerial duties of being a lama, a Tibetan Buddhist minister, several years ago. It was, I imagined, a role about transmission of Buddhist truths from one generation to another, guiding others in practices of meditation, and explaining the fine points of Buddhist philosophy. It was about being adept at ritual. 

In reality, it turned out to be about many other things, unspoken and unexpected. In reality, being a dharma teacher has turned out to be about cultivating relationship with sangha, interfaith dialogue, sitting at bedsides, and praying for and with people. In many cases, it is about performing christenings, weddings, and funerals. It is also about listening attentively to the stories of others, and bearing witness to their joys and sorrows. In short, being a lama has been about being a friend, a community organizer, and a spiritual caregiver, in many contexts. 

Listening as Part of Spiritual Care

The term “spiritual care” is fairly new to me, but as soon as I heard it, I recognized it as what we are often doing in the role of Buddhist teacher. The term “spiritual care” captures the reality that, in order to thrive, humans need more than medical and psychological care. There is some part of us that is nourished and cared for by spiritual practice, spiritual community, and spiritual presence in our lives. 

In the area of spiritual care, ministers, pastors, lamas, and roshis have much to offer, and that is quickly recognized by a sangha. Whether in Asia or here in the West, Buddhist teachers fulfill that role for many congregations. Dharma teachers are  often called to hear stories, comfort those in pain, and witness growth. People who come to our teachings do not just look to us for wisdom. They seek someone to reflect with them on the vicissitude of life. They seek to be witnessed. To witness is very different from simply teaching. To be a witness involves being present to others, listening to others, developing the capacity to be in skillful relationship. Even teachers who try to limit their duties to the formal dharma hall, or to the podium, find themselves—either willingly or not—in relational contexts in which witnessing plays an important role (or should). 

I see listening, like dharma learning and teaching, as a lifelong practice needing consistent cultivation.

To witness is to be permeable, to be willing to look and listen. Over time, as I find myself in the role of witness, listening has floated to the top of my priority list of things to “learn how to do better.” It was not always high on my list. In fact, it was not even on my radar. I have not always been a good listener, and I do not claim to be one now. Rather, I see listening, like dharma learning and teaching, as a lifelong practice needing consistent cultivation. 

Remarkable things happen when we leave space for an answer, or nonanswer, to emerge on its own. 

What You Can Do 

A source that has been useful for me as I take up listening as a practice is the section on “The Three Defects of Listening” in Patrul Rinpoche’s Words of My Perfect Teacher. In this book, we find an ancient way of talking about listening that can inform our modern practice of Buddhist ministry. 

The three so-called “defects” of listening are (1) listening like an upside-down pot, (2) listening like a pot with holes in it, and (3) listening like a pot containing poison. In Patrul’s discussion of the “three defects,” the student is the listener, and three analogies are used to illustrate how this hypothetical student should not listen to a Buddhist teaching. One should not listen like an upside-down pot, a broken pot, or a poison-filled pot. Implicit in this presentation, however, is its positive counterpoint: how one should listen. These good listening practices have value for a minister listening to his or her student, or a chaplain listening to a patient. 

Attentive Listening 

The first of the “three defects” of listening is “listening like an upside-down pot.” This concerns receptivity in the practice of listening. 

Patrul starts with advice on the effective practice of listening—the intact and upturned pot—a mind directed without distraction: 

Listen to what is being said and do not let yourself be distracted by anything else. 

This is a definition of attentive listening, a practice of listening that has also been a major point of exploration in modern contexts by Buddhist caregivers, in connection with meditation practice. Attentive listening is focused enough so that outer and inner distractions fail to break the mind’s tether to the verbal content heard. 

To choose attention over distraction is a mental discipline, a force of intention that compels our mind to stay with what is spoken and not anticipate a future response. We might see this first quality of listening as a commitment, on the part of the spiritual caregiver, to value our student or patient’s speech, coming at us in the moment, similar to the way disciples value the speech of their guru. We can respect, in a deep and sustained way, the inner wisdom of the person we are hearing, and—in the deepest sense—trust his or her buddhanature to find its way. If we see the other in this light, it becomes easier to choose the act of listening over the outer and inner distractions that vie for our attention: thoughts, judgments, feelings, obsessions, sounds, physical sensations, and so forth.

Good listening begins with letting go of the need to be heard ourselves, in favor of entering the world of another for a time.

This kind of discipline is greatly aided by curiosity. If we are genuinely curious about the internal world of another person, we will stay with the story, because we care to know the outcome. We care to know what the person cares about. We cannot maintain curiosity if we are constantly concerned about sharing who we are and what we know. Good listening begins with letting go of the need to be heard ourselves, in favor of entering the world of another for a time. 

Drawing a parallel between our meditation practice and listening can help with the quality of our attention. Listening can be a kind of meditation in this way. It is the quality of attention that turns the “pot” of our mind into a sound vessel, capable of retaining what is heard. And like meditation, simply paying attention makes the act of listening rewarding both for the listener and for the one listened to. 

Attentive listening has a potential to go beyond mental attention to paying bodily and emotional attention. Patrul Rinpoche says it like this: 

When listening to the teachings, you should be like a deer so entranced by the sound of the vina (Indian stringed instrument) that it does not notice the hidden hunter shooting his poisoned arrow. Put your hands together, palm to palm, and listen, every pore on your body tingling and your eyes wet with tears, never letting any other thought get in the way. 

Good listening is a somatic experience; it is an attention of the entire body and emotions. It involves our posture, emotion, and feeling. How are we sitting? How are we standing? Although our palms may not be joined literally, we can assume a posture of attentive respect, as the basis for our listening practice. We can meet the story of the other with the readiness of a disciple, not with preconceived notions of what the other should or should not do, might or might not say. 

The body is a kind of radar that is constantly listening to its environment. As caregivers, we can learn to fine-tune our radar to listen more completely to what is being communicated by our students, clients, or patients. 

Listening with Retention

The second “defect” of listening is to listen like a pot with holes in it. Patrul Rinpoche describes this type of listening: 

If you listen without remembering anything that you hear or understand, you will be like a pot with a leak: however much liquid is poured into it, nothing can stay. No matter how many teachings you hear, you can never assimilate them or put them into practice. 

When we listen, we need to retain what we hear and knit it together with our past experiences, so that we can respond appropriately. Listening is the initial act of hearing the story. Assimilation of that story relies on memory—the retention and processing of our past experiences with relationships, with this person, and with others. Based on our own past experiences, we can empathize authentically. In some sources, this kind of listening process is identified as “active listening,” because instead of listening passively we make an effort to process what we hear in relation to our knowledge and memories. When we listen actively, we allow ourselves to get involved. In this space, the very interaction offers us information and understanding to be enacted in this and our future acts of caregiving. 

Listening with Right Motivation 

The third “defect” is to listen like a pot containing poison. This pertains to what is already in our mind before we even begin to listen: our attitude, our motivation, and our emotions. When we begin to listen, we can inquire into our present state of mind and our motivation. Are we a clear vessel, or are we bringing a charge into the room? Why are we listening? What do we hope to accomplish? Regarding the attitude, Patrul specifies the wrong attitude as one that wishes to glorify oneself and vilify others, who are the source of knowledge. Just as Patrul Rinpoche calls for his students to notice their subtle attitudes of disrespect and vilification, we also can be attentive to how we approach and identify a person we are listening to: Are we respectful, or are we subject to unconscious prejudices? Is the person in front of me my first priority, or am I caught up with self-concern? To what degree is my practice of listening colored by my own hopes and fears? 

I have found it helpful to think of listening as an act of generosity, or dana, in which attention is offered to another. Just as with the practice of dana, the fewer expectations we have when giving our attention, the greater the merits.

***

Back in the interview room, Charlene asks me, “Will you hold my hands? Last time, before I left, you held my hands and it made me feel human.” I take her hands in mine and we look at each other. She is smiling a big, sunny smile. The room has a little Zen rock fountain in it. The fountain trickles. The air conditioner whirrs. I spend a good deal more time in silence than in speech during the fifteen minutes of our interview. Then Charlene squeezes my hands, lets go, still smiling wide. “I know what to do now,” she says. “My brother has done terrible things. I cannot change that. But I can notice how I feel and work with that. I want to work myself to forgiveness before I die, but not for him. For me. That’s my spiritual practice.” She rises. The interview is over. 

I leave interviews like this one in awe. I am energized by Charlene’s liveliness even as she is facing the sunset of her life. In this brief exchange, she has taught me what it means to listen to oneself and find the root of forgiveness. 

It seems like most of us first came to Buddhism like Charlene, with very basic needs. More likely, like Charlene, we came to Buddhism seeking solace and freedom from our particular sufferings. And as we sought out freedom, we found ourselves in spiritual relationship, wishing to be heard, seen, and understood by our teachers and peers in a spiritual community. We longed to be heard and seen because we intuitively know that is the first step in a healing relationship. Thus we began the process of understanding the nature of our suffering, learning to relax deeply, and finding a ground on which to accept ourselves. Being heard allows us to find our own avenue out of suffering and into the light.  It helps us find solutions to our particular problems through our own experience. And down the line, if we are lucky enough to become listeners, we are blessed by the practice of witnessing, and sometimes we find the information we need to act skillfully. 

My personal aspiration is that the younger generation of Buddhist teachers will deeply consider the role of listening in their ministry. If that happens, we may spawn a generation of dharma listeners, who will do some teaching as well. On the contrary, if we do not cultivate good listening skills, we risk being isolated in our own world of “rightness” and undoing all the good our sharing of the dharma has spread in the world. Listening, I believe, is one of the unsung gems of the Buddhist path that needs to be cultivated by every Buddhist leader as a conscious practice and uplifted as an expression of effective bodhisattva activity in the world. 

♦

From The Arts of Contemplative Care: Pioneering Voices in Buddhist Chaplaincy and Pastoral Work by Cheryl A. Giles and Willa B. Miller © 2012. Wisdom Publications, Somerville, MA.