Boundaries and Buddhism
Boundaries and Buddhism
Boundaries and Buddhism
Lately, in response to another routine samsaric crisis, I have been thinking a lot about boundaries.
I love boundaries. They stop someone from walking into my home, having sex with my pot plants, eating all my peanut butter straight from the jar, and then using my bathtowels to line their cat's litter tray. But enough about my weird cousin Darryl.
Or, OK, more seriously, having a clear sense of boundaries allows you to calmly say "no" to guilt trips, abuse, mind games, and so forth, and "yes" to respectful behaviour, love and good wholesome fun. And to clearly recognise the difference between these things- often surprisingly difficult to do.
And... I love the dharma. It's a view of reality which I have found unfailingly useful and helpful and admirable.
But... how do boundaries, and the dharma, sit with each other? My understanding of boundaries is that it involves clearly delineating between "you", "me", "him", "it", and my cousin Darryl. They can all cooperate, sure, but they all stay separate. My shallow understanding of the deep truth of the dharma is that there is no separation between anything or anyone. The idea of separation is simply nonsensical. We are all made up of bits of the earth, sea, sky, and each other, for heavens' sake. You are probably breathing in an air molecule exhaled by Elvis and the Dalai Lama and Genghis Khan and Beyonce right... now! Far out hey.
I don't know, but I reckon the solution to this conundrum lies in the noble eightfold path, as well as other places no doubt. I reckon for a beginner, play-dough-n-poopy-pants-level Buddhist like me, "right" views, thoughts, words, actions and so forth give good boundary-type guidance while leaving the path open for further depth of understanding, wisdom and experience, which can develop as my practice deepens. I hope. It's just a feeling I have, but I reckon it's helpful for now.
Boundaries would see me calmly and lovingly confronting Darryl, telling him he is no longer permitted to treat my pot plants as his own.
Right actions might see me, out of compassion, not allowing Darryl to harm me by leaving me bereft of peanut butter, though maybe I could then give him a set of bathtowels and a maidenhair fern for his birthday.
They are both helpful, and I think, when understood well and used wisely, somehow not so far apart.
P.S. Naturally, my cousin Darryl, who I use to crudely illustrate my point here, is not real. Her real name is Celeste.
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