1. Loving-Kindness
Susan Kaiser Greenland leads us through metta meditation, showing how simple phrases of goodwill can dissolve fear and open the heart to connection.
Buddhist tradition tells of a time, centuries before the common era, when five hundred monks set out to find a quiet clearing in the forest where they could devote themselves fully to meditation without distraction. The grove they choose, though, was already home to tree spirits who wanted the forest for themselves. The tree spirits hoped the monks would leave after a few nights. When they didn’t, the spirits hatched a plan to frighten them away by haunting the grove with eerie cries and ghostly visions. Terrified, the monks fled back to their teacher—the Buddha—for guidance.
“The forest is full of demons,” they said. “We can’t stay there!”
“Go back,” the Buddha told them. “But this time, take some armor to protect you.”
“What kind of armor will protect us from ghosts?”
“Loving-kindness,” said the Buddha.
What did he mean by this? In the Karaniya Metta Sutta, the Buddha taught specific phrases of loving-kindness—aspirations like “May you be happy. May you be safe. May you be at ease.” These weren’t abstract ideas but practical words to be repeated, a meditative practice designed to transform fear into goodwill. Several translations even describe loving-kindness as armor, shield, or weapon—imagery that surprised me when I first encountered it, since loving-kindness, metta in Pali, is the heartfelt wish for every being, great and small, to be happy and free.
The monks returned to the forest chanting metta phrases. Feeling the warmth of their goodwill, the spirits came down from the trees to help the monks, offering to carry their bowls and robes, and posting guards around the grove so the monks could meditate in peace.
What’s the moral of this ancient story? Even the darkest emotions can be transformed—not by running from them, nor by putting on armor as we usually imagine it, but by meeting them with love.
This is the essence of metta practice: repeating simple phrases of goodwill until they take root in our hearts. In Buddhism, love isn’t sentimental or selective. It’s an innate quality of essential goodness, sometimes called buddhanature, already whole within us. Yet in this age of bio-hacks and self-help strategies, even love gets the makeover treatment, as if it were something we could build or optimize. Metta practice reminds us instead to uncover what is already present, by noticing what gets in the way of love.
With children, I call metta practice “sending friendly wishes.” Friendliness captures the essence of the Pali word metta, and wishes reminds us these are aspirations, not affirmations. When holding friendly wishes in mind, we’re not declaring something to be true; we’re opening to what’s already within us—an innate human quality that reveals itself more fully the more room we give for it.
Relaxing into love isn’t always easy, especially when we don’t notice how we close ourselves off from it. By turning metta toward the self, we soften the very patterns that keep us from love. This is why metta practice starts with ourselves.
To start practicing, close your eyes and picture a peaceful place, real or imagined, where you feel happy. When you imagine a peaceful place, you’re not pretending. You’re noticing what factors help you feel safe and at ease.
Now, put yourself in the picture. Imagine yourself in the peaceful place. Rest for a few breaths imagining
you are happy, safe, and at ease. A reminder: When you imagine being happy and safe, you’re not playing make-believe. You’re rehearsing what it’s like to feel that way. Just as a gymnast mentally practices a routine, or an actor becomes her character, you can use imagination to help bring to life the qualities you hope to embody.
Then, silently repeat loving-kindness phrases that resonate with you, something like: “May I be safe. May I be healthy. May I live with ease.” When you bring these phrases to mind, stories might bubble up—emotional patterns shaped by old feelings and experiences. Notice them but let the urge to analyze them pass. Instead, shift your awareness back to the peaceful place, and the heartfelt wishes that reflect what you long for most.
Rest and continue wishing yourself well until you’re ready to close the practice. End by sending friendly wishes to all beings, everywhere. Some traditions suggest you imagine goodwill radiating in all directions—around you, above you, and below you—extending further and further until they become immeasurable.
The practice of loving-kindness begins with knowing ourselves, but it doesn’t end there. Extending goodwill toward friends, strangers, and even those we find difficult helps us grow steadier and more balanced—better able to connect to the love within us. When we’re truly connected to love, there’s a ripple effect. Just like the tree spirits in the forest felt the warmth of the monks’ goodwill, other people sense our goodwill when we extend it. When we truly embody love, it radiates effortlessly, without any struggle to fix or control another’s condition or state of mind.
Stay with sending metta to yourself for several sessions. Give the practice time to sink in. As Sharon Salzberg, a leading voice in bringing loving-kindness to the West, often says, even when the practice feels dry or mechanical, something meaningful is still unfolding beneath the surface. When you’re ready, move to the next set of loving-kindness practices.
Start by extending friendly wishes to someone you love. Repeat: “May you be safe. May you be healthy. May you be free.”
Then send these wishes to someone for whom you have neutral feelings, perhaps a stranger. Next, send these wishes to someone you find difficult. Right now, the aim is not that you love absolutely everyone. Love works best when it grows organically, rather than being imposed. The encouragement at this stage is to find something loveable in the person you’re sending wishes to—and open to that.
Lastly, send wishes of loving-kindness to everyone and everything. This is something we all know deep down: Everyone is connected. Loving-kindness isn’t simply about wishing happiness for ourselves and others. It’s also about seeing that there’s no real boundary between the two. When you make a friend smile, you also feel lighter. When you take good care of yourself, you give yourself what you need to show up for others.
In the Buddha’s first teaching on loving-kindness, the monks learned this firsthand. When they met their own fears with goodwill, the tree spirits felt their warmth and responded with care. The protection loving-kindness offers doesn’t lie in defending ourselves but in remembering how deeply we’re all connected.
2. Compassion
Shin Buddhism teaches that wisdom is the cornerstone of compassion. Ellen Hamada Crane Sensei explains.
During the lifetime of the Buddha, there were those of the Brahmanical faith who hoped for eternal existence with Brahma, the creator God. A Brahman once asked the Buddha, “What can I do to ensure that I will be with Brahma after I die?” and the Buddha replied, “As Brahma is the source of love, to dwell with him you must practice the
—loving-kindness, compassion, joy, and equanimity.”
As a Shin Buddhist, I was not familiar with the brahmaviharas since this grouping is not emphasized in our tradition. Shin Buddhism, rooted in the teachings of Shinran Shonin (1173–1263), reflects a Mahayana perspective in which wisdom and compassion are inseparably intertwined and stand as two of its most vital principles. According to Shin Buddhism, seeking wisdom is the most important issue, and it is out of wisdom that compassion arises.
Wisdom is direct insight into dependent origination—the truth that all things arise and pass away due to causes and conditions, without any permanent self. This realization of interdependence and emptiness forms the very foundation of wisdom. What matters most is that this understanding is not abstract but a living wisdom we experience as we recognize the truth of it in our own lives. Buddhism is first and foremost a path of self-examination and self-discovery. Enlightenment comes from insight into the true nature of oneself and all of existence.
When Shakyamuni, the historical Buddha, attained enlightenment, he recognized that the self was only an assemblage of causes and conditions, without any permanent essence. After his awakening, Shakyamuni had no intention of sharing what he’d realized, as he thought the dharma was too subtle for most people to understand. Yet when he reflected more deeply on the truth of dependent origination—that all things arise through causes and conditions, without any permanent self—compassion arose. Seeing that all beings are interconnected in suffering, he could not remain silent. Out of compassion, he returned to the world of samsara to share the teachings, offering a path to liberation.
Shin Buddhism makes a distinction between two forms of compassion: small compassion and great compassion. Small compassion is the one we generally think of when we speak of compassion—the one we engage in as everyday people. It arises when we see another in pain and want to offer some relief. It is dualistic: There is a giver of compassion and a recipient of the act of compassion. One is aware of an act of kindness given. There is no doubt that this form of compassion can have a tremendous impact in the world and for oneself, yet our small compassion cannot be separated from our flawed human nature.
Shinran was unwavering in his recognition of the powerful nature of the ego. He taught that, no matter how well-intentioned we may be or how much we may wish it to be otherwise, it’s impossible to act selflessly. He said, “In this life, no matter how much pity and sympathy we may feel for others, it is impossible to help another as we truly wish; thus, our compassion is inconsistent and limited.”
He also said, “I am such that I do not know right from wrong and cannot distinguish false from true. I lack even small love and small compassion and yet for fame and profit enjoy teaching others.” Did he mean for us to not to even try to be compassionate?
I do not think so.
We must try to be compassionate at all times and with all beings. At the same time, we need to be aware of our limitations and attentive to how our ego operates in each circumstance. Everyday situations invite us to turn inward and discover what our actions show us about ourselves. Our pursuit of self-examination and self-understanding offers the key to unlocking wisdom.
In contrast to compassion that is still entrapped by ego, great compassion is always working to awaken sentient beings to truth and the attainment of enlightenment. All actions and activities that work toward realizing wisdom and spiritual transformation are deemed to be great compassion. From this perspective, it is only wisdom that offers ultimate liberation and happiness.
When Shinran Shonin talked about great compassion, he pointed to the boundless, limitless compassion that flows to us from ultimate reality. It is nondual, free of ego attachment, and is the gift of awakening calling to us at all times and in all situations, always working for our liberation. Arising from multiple causes and conditions, it reaches us from countless directions and in countless ways. Our task is to recognize great compassion, to appreciate the awakening being offered, and to respond with gratitude. Great compassion often arrives unbidden and unexpected—in the happy gathering of friends and family, on a walk in the woods, or in the laughter of a child.
Sometimes great compassion arrives in the form of a difficult situation, as it did twenty-two years ago when my husband and I discovered that our child had a problem with substance abuse. This wrenching experience tested us to our limits as we struggled to help our child, attempting many acts of small compassion over the years. Ultimately, I turned to the buddhadharma, returned to the temple, and immersed myself in the teachings—and great compassion led to a path of meaning, fulfillment, insight, and gratitude. The struggles remained, but through wisdom, a way forward to happiness opened up.
3. Sympathetic Joy
Koun Franz explores how tonglen meditation can allow us to share in the happiness of others, transforming envy and isolation into connection.
Sympathetic joy is exactly what it sounds like. Whether we name it or not, spiritualize it or not, we know the experience of not only being happy for someone else, but actually being happy with them, of joining them in their joy.
The other day, I turned a corner to see a little girl petting a puppy—she was laughing at how much the dog loved it, and the dog was wagging its tail, rolling around, basking in that love. It was a small thing—nothing unusual—but I was instantly smiling myself, feeling lucky to witness it. It felt good to be in the presence of something that felt that good.
So, on one level, the brahmavihara, or divine abode, of sympathetic joy is simply available, whether we seek it out or not. In fact, each of the four brahmaviharas—loving-kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity—can arise spontaneously when we feel spacious, generous, or soft. But most of the time, it isn’t that easy. Usually, we need to make some effort, because these qualities don’t always reveal themselves on their own. Buddhist practice lies in noticing these qualities and then choosing them.
How do we do that work? One way is simply to trust the progression of the brahmaviharas as they are laid out. If we practice loving-kindness and compassion, we develop the muscle of offering. We come to see that we can offer joy infinitely. We learn not only that doing so costs us nothing, but also that if we pay attention, we feel the same joy we’re offering up. We catch on to a remarkable notion: Joy has no borders.
When we practice offering on any scale, we chip away at the idea of mine and yours, me and you, here and there. Experience becomes more permeable; we become more permeable. We armor ourselves less and open up more. In this way, through the simple practice of earnestly saying, “Have a good day” and “Take care,” we get a taste of sympathetic joy. It reveals itself to us. It starts to make sense.
With time, we also develop a keener sense of what sympathetic joy is not. Tradition informs us that each brahmavihara has “enemies”—a far one (its opposite) and a near one (a counterfeit version, one that we can easily mistake for the real thing). The far enemy of sympathetic joy is, no surprise, envy. In another mood or on another day, for example, maybe I’d turn that corner and wish that I could be the one petting the puppy. When we gravitate toward envy, it isn’t a moral failure. That’s too simple. Envy is natural, and just like sympathetic joy, it can take us by surprise. But if we don’t notice it (or, more precisely, if we don’t notice what else is there in front of us), we miss the opportunity of the moment. We become small and fixed, whereas we could become spacious and vast.
The near enemy of sympathetic joy is exhilaration. It’s being caught up in joy, in all the energy it provides, but in a way that exists only for itself. Imagine being at a concert: dancing, singing along, feeling your favorite music reverberating through your bones. Picture closing your eyes in that space, just drinking it all in. It’s good—that, as it is, is a pretty great moment. Depending on who’s performing, maybe it’s even a lifetime high. You are surrounded by joy. You can feed off of it, and of course by being there, you’re contributing to it. But if you stop there, you don’t get to see that underneath that simple joy—that exhilaration—there’s something deeper, a recognition that allows what others are experiencing to become, even if just for a moment, part of who you are.
As with envy, the problem with exhilaration isn’t the exhilaration itself. It’s how, if we don’t pay attention, we close ourselves off instead of opening ourselves up. To get a sense of what it means to go beyond exhilaration, picture opening your eyes at the same concert. Instead of focusing only on the band and going inward, scan the audience’s faces. Take in how ecstatic the people around you look, how they’re jumping around, how they keep looking to their friends with eyes that say, Can you believe how amazing this is?
Meditation is a perfect vehicle to grow our capacity for sympathetic joy. In Tibetan Buddhism, tonglen (“sending and receiving”) is a compassion practice where one breathes in the suffering of others and breathes out relief and kindness. A variation of tonglen meditation can be used to cultivate sympathetic joy.
First, picture someone you love and bring to mind a specific instance of their happiness, or success, or good fortune. As you inhale, breathe in their joy; feel it enter your lungs and fill your body, becoming part of who you are. Be nourished by it. Metabolize it. Then, as you exhale, send it back. Offer yourself—the you that has become inseparable from this joy—freely and completely, withholding nothing because there is nothing in you that is separate from that person or their experience. Let this be joyous—like giving a precious gift to a dear friend.
When offering joy to a loved one becomes natural, extend this practice by offering joy to those you feel neutral toward, perhaps strangers. In time, try doing this practice for someone with whom you have tension or enmity. Recognize the other person’s joy, and in doing so, locate the impulse in yourself toward envy or resentment, the inclination to begrudge them their happiness. Then follow the same process, offering them back not only their own happiness but also your own. From there, practice it with larger and larger groups: with a city, a country. Allow yourself, like a child being tackled by a puppy, to feel the pure wonder of a world that, though it contains much suffering, is also filled with joy. Take that joy into your body and share it, without hesitation or grasping, with all beings in the ten thousand directions. Be with them all, celebrate with them all, laugh with them all. Accept their offering and make it your own.
You can do this even if you don’t completely feel it. Even if you have to go looking for the sympathy—or even the joy—you can still decide to follow this process. Every thought, word, and action either reinforces what’s natural or strengthens what comes less naturally. It’s up to us to choose.
Sympathetic joy reveals to us what we’re capable of. We discover, if we pay attention, that we can be with someone in their joy, and that if we can be with them in that way, then we can also simply be with them, for whatever that means in the moment. In joy and in sorrow, in safety and in fear, without concern that the moment is too much for us or that we’re not enough for the moment, we can just stay.
4. Equanimity
We so often strive to remove every discomfort. Let go of that impulse, says Gullu Singh, and discover a steadiness that needs no fixing.
The Buddha described equanimity as an unshakable steadiness of mind and heart that meets life’s inevitable changes without being swept away. When we are equanimous, we are not ruffled by the eight worldly winds: gain and loss, praise and blame, success and failure, pleasure and pain. These vicissitudes of life are always shifting and never really under our control, so the strength of equanimity lies in flexibility, in the grace to yield, to bend, and to rise again.
Equanimity emerges naturally from meditation practice. Focused attention practices such as mindfulness of breathing settle the heart and calm the nervous system. As agitation subsides, more equanimity arises.
Equanimity also deepens through vipassana practice. Vipassana, often translated as “insight meditation,” involves carefully observing the changing nature of thoughts, sensations, and feelings to see them clearly as they arise and pass away. As we study the nature of experience, we see that things are always changing, so we are less shocked when that change is not to our liking. As we observe the continual arising and passing of experience, it begins to feel less personal. Eventually, we recognize unsatisfactoriness woven through life itself: unpleasant things happen, and pleasant ones fade. This understanding—often referred to as wise view—resets our expectations for this human life and allows us to relax our resistance when things are difficult, as they invariably will be from time to time.
In the well-known teaching of the second arrow, the Buddha outlines the typical pattern that leads to loss of equanimity. A painful experience arises: This is the first arrow. It hurts, and it is unavoidable. These fragile human bodies and tender human hearts will, at times, hurt. The uncultivated mind immediately reacts: This should not be happening. How can I escape this?
We become preoccupied with getting rid of the unpleasant sensation or emotion. We might generate anxious, looping thoughts in our struggle to find escape, and then resistance builds to those painful thoughts themselves. We reach for sense pleasures: ice cream, our phone, intoxicants, anything to soothe the sting. Relief comes, but only a little and only briefly.
Then comes identification: I am hurt. My life is ruined. Something is wrong with me. We might even define ourselves in relation to whatever we are experiencing—I am anxious, I am depressed—as if that is all we are.
The escape attempts, the resistance, the search for a fix, and the identification are the second arrow: the extra mental anguish we add to physical or emotional pain.
When the mind is cultivated, the first arrow is still felt. Pain is present, but it stops there. No dramatizing, no piling on, no urgent need to fix or flee. There is simply awareness: Anxiety is here, sadness is here. That shift from “I am sad” to “Sadness is here” is the first flowering of mindfulness. In that instant, the thought is seen rather than blindly believed, and the tension diminishes.
Of course, when a fix is obvious, it’s wise to take it. If I am cold, I can put on a sweater. If I am hungry, I can eat. If I have caused harm, I can try to make amends. When there is no quick fix, though, the training becomes essential.
Equanimity is aspirational. It’s easy to say, “Meet every experience without resistance or problem-solving or pleasure seeking or identification.” But retraining the mind takes patience, time, and endless repetition. It begins by simply noticing moments of nonequanimity. Notice the unpleasant experience and observe how the mind resists and the agitation that resistance creates. Notice the longing for distraction or pleasure. Notice the personalizing reflex that wants to make it my problem, my flaw, my failing, or who I am.
Sometimes people hear this teaching and ask, “Then what?” It’s another way of saying, “But, ultimately, how do I get rid of this unpleasant experience?”
Our conditioning runs deep. We assume relief comes only when the unpleasant disappears. The practice invites us to test a different hypothesis—that ease is possible even in the midst of what we do not like and that most of our suffering comes from the second arrow.
As the German monk Bhikkhu Analayo writes, “When mindfulness meets experience again and again, understanding ripens naturally.” We don’t need to figure everything out. Mindfulness keeps gathering the data, and wisdom unfolds in its own quiet, ineffable way.
The heart of equanimity is this capacity to stay present with the unpleasant without collapsing or pushing it away. We learn to relax the compulsion to fix every discomfort or straighten every crooked line. In doing so, we discover a mind that can stand steadily in the midst of things.
Jan Frazier, the contemporary spiritual teacher and author of When Fear Falls Away: The Story of a Sudden Awakening, offers a beautiful description of equanimity: “whatever has weighed on you suddenly no longer weighs…it has no mass, no gravity. All that has ever troubled you is now just a feature of the landscape, like a tree, a passing cloud. Every bit of emotional and mental turmoil…is utterly, inexplicably gone. Into the startling emptiness flows a quiet joy that buoys you morning, noon, and night…. Everything you undertake happens effortlessly.”
Moreover, Frazier continues, “You are happy, but for no reason. Nothing bothers you. You feel no stress. When a problem arises, you know what to do, you do it, and then you let it go…. Because your equanimity is disconnected from anything in your outer life, you know that no matter what challenge you are handed—for the rest of your life—the peace will sustain.”
Jan Frazier is pointing to the same truth the Buddha revealed: Peace arises when grasping and resistance soften. The storms of life don’t disappear; they simply lose their power to rattle or define us. This equanimity is not beyond reach. It unfolds naturally and incrementally in anyone who practices and who dares to notice that whenever there is difficulty, there is some resistance that can soften, even just a little. This is how the heart learns to rest. Over time, what once felt impossible becomes more and more the way we move through the world.
