This is the third of the six Paramitas and follows restraint. It is closely tied with restraint since, when we restrain ourselves, we are not doing or saying that which we wish to and this inevitably requires patient endurance. Patient endurance requires putting up with things which we do not like or wish to avoid, and includes an expectation that things will get better or become as we want them to be. All is subject to change but sometimes things can get more difficult rather than easier, so patient endurance also entails laying down this expectation and an opening up to what is.

To endure in this way requires faith in the practice, otherwise we would just not bother. We need to have faith that something will come from the practice of restraint and endurance and that it is therefore worth doing. Sometimes it is difficult to see how discomfort, disagreeable or downright painful, can be of any benefit. We therefore need to consider that life simply does not deliver what we want and that inevitably we need to learn to endure patiently. If we try and fight or reject something, this makes things worse because we add more energy to an already difficult situation. It helps to step back from the situation for a moment. We can consider that the training is undertaken not just to benefit ourselves but also all those around us, (for example maintaining the form during a retreat and so not disturbing others). This makes it more bearable and gives meaning. My personal discomfort, which in the end is just a judgement and an impermanent sensation, is attenuated by a turning away from myself.

Reflecting on how our responses change as we continue the practice, the realisation comes that it is indeed possible. 

All intentional thought, speech and action have consequences, an outflow, and at each ceasing there is a change in that outflow. Seeds are laid down which are more positive. So, when the next situation arises, the conditions have subtly changed and it is that little bit easier to restrain. We need patiently to endure the time that the practice takes and also to endure our mistakes and be patient with the limitations of our inherent abilities and the many obstacles that inevitably come our way. Fundamentally, this training is learning to see and accept things as they actually are. To say yes to them, both the physical and mental, but not to be attached; in other words, to see them as they are, which is empty. 

There is a story from Trevor Leggett: 

‘During civil disturbances in the nineteenth century, a fugitive samurai took refuge in the temple of Master Bokusan. Three pursuers arrived soon after and found just Master Bokusan on his own. They demanded to know where the samurai was. ‘No one here’, was the reply from Bokusan. (Actually, as an aside, it is worth noting that he was not lying; he was telling the truth – there is no-one here, all is empty).

‘Well’, the intruders said, ‘if you don’t tell us we will cut off your head.’ ‘Then if I am to die’, replied Bokusan, ‘I think I shall have a little wine.’ He took down a small bottle, poured it and drank little sips with relish. The pursuers looked at each other then finally left. Later, when asked by his monks what had happened, he said, ‘When those fellows came, I did not do what they wanted but neither did I quarrel with them or plead with them. I just gave up their whole world and had nothing to do with them. After a time, I found they had gone away.’

This is how we work with the passions. We neither quarrel nor plead with them, we know they are there but we give up their whole world and, as Bokusan says, after a while they go away, energy spent. Our human plight could be considered tragic; after all what is this being that can feel, perceive, understand, love and experience joy and then be subject to old age, sickness and death? But it is not all tragic, because there is something very much greater than us which we are   fully a part of and are one with. 

Danin Katagiri tells the story that in the Second World War a Japanese surgeon, Senri Uyeno, was operating on an American airman who had bailed out when his plane was shot down. Uyeno was ordered to kill him but he refused and continued operating. An air raid was signalled and they all had to take refuge and briefly leave the operating theatre and the patient. When they came back the airman was found to have been stabbed to death. Uyeno was accused of murder, found guilty and executed. Later, one of the theatre attendants confessed to the crime. A week before he died, Uyeno wrote a beautiful poem. Here is one of the verses: 

“Even if you mock my miserable life,

There is something much more beautiful

Much more truthful and precious that everyone knows,

Nothing matters anymore other than love and sincerity,

And the sun and a little rain from time to time.

If I had a healthy body and a little bread

I would set out with a smile and a joyous heart.”

Our life can on the surface seem miserable and we may look at it somewhat cynically. This is the viewpoint of ‘I, me, mine’ since that is all that ‘I’ can see. However, Senri, despite his extreme circumstance, reminds us of that other, which is far greater than myself and of which we are also part. He also points out that when at one with it we do not need much to set out joyfully.