Sunday, May 24, 2026

Greetings, everyone, from central Pennsylvania. I think it's a little cooler here than it is there. It's about 50 degrees, but it's a cold spring. I just returned from Arzendo to my house, and we had our morning service, our Sunday service, and everyone was crying. It's an odd coincidence that I'm giving a talk to you on tears, because one of our sangha members gave a talk on reconnecting with her biological father, who she never really knew, and only actually reconnected with him at his funeral. It was a very profound talk, and there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

But today — this afternoon for me, this morning for you — I don't want to talk about those kinds of tears. Tears simply of loss, or tears that are just emotional. I've been finding myself crying a lot these days, and usually with other people present.

The other day I was driving with a friend to lunch and we were listening to the news on the radio. There was a report on Iran and what was going on there, and I just found myself crying. It seemed very strange that listening to the news would bring tears, especially in the presence of someone beside me who wasn't crying at all, but was just taking in the news of the day.

I've found myself crying lately at very odd times. Last week during our walking meditation — we also walk outdoors on a meditation trail — I was in the back of the line, just watching everybody do kinhin, and I just started to cry. I looked at my cat's whiskers the other day and started to cry. I've cried during the chanting of the Heart Sutra. The other day there was a turkey vulture — which is actually not a very pleasant bird; it actually regurgitates in front of you if it doesn't like you — but the wings of that bird were making a shadow over me as I was working in the garden, and I happened to look up and saw this soaring bird and started to cry. The song of the whippoorwill here at night brings tears.

So I'm not really a crybaby. It seemed like, what's going on here? I thought, well, let's examine this strangeness. It seems strange to me that I would be crying at all these odd times, especially in the presence of other people. So I asked myself: are these tears appropriate? Is something else going on here that I'm unaware of? Some deeper experience, some deeper event — that I'm crying, but I'm not really being appropriate in my response, that the situation I'm responding to with tears is not one where tears are really appropriate?

I tried to over-examine myself. Was I trying to be too forthcoming about my emotional life? Were my tears a burden for others? Were they sort of trespassing on other people's consciousness and their emotional life? Was I trying to be manipulative in some way — trying to evoke some kind of response from others, maybe sympathy, or questioning, or wanting a teaching? So all of those questions accompanied my sense of why is this happening so frequently.

And it struck me that there is quite a fine line between tears that are self-indulgent — merely emotional, sometimes even histrionic or sentimental — and were those the kinds of tears I was shedding? There's a very fine line between strictly emotional tears and what I'm calling Dharma tears.

What I've kind of come to the conclusion about is that what makes these tears different, or maybe a little stranger than purely emotional tears, is that they have some wisdom in them. They are not purely sensual or purely emotional.

So I've tried to identify five different kinds of Dharma tears, which have some wisdom in them and thus are appropriate to our practice. I'll enumerate those five kinds of Dharma tears, and I'm sure you might be able to come up with others or variations on the ones I'm identifying.

The first is tears of empathy. Those are tears that really connect us with others — sometimes others that we're not even aware of or don't have a strong connection with. Even animals, or trees, or birds — this sense of feeling as if their pain is our pain. It's not the kind of empathy which is "I'm feeling what you're feeling," which I actually think inhibits us in taking a skillful action, a compassionate action. What I mean by empathy is feeling as if the pain were yours — not literally that you are feeling exactly what they're feeling, because that can be paralyzing. So that's the first kind of Dharma tear I've identified.

The second would be tears of helplessness. That happens a lot for me. These are tears which arise out of what you might say is the ungovernability of dukkha — that we really cannot control suffering. It's something that we can't manage most of the time, because it's a fact of our life. So there's a sense of recognizing the centrality of dukkha, the first noble truth. It's a recognition that dukkha is ungovernable, that we have no control over it, and that as long as there is human life — as long as there is life at all — there is going to be suffering. Those tears are tears of recognition of a truth. And so I'm calling them tears of helplessness.

The third is tears of relief. Sometimes — I'll talk about myself — sometimes when I come home after a lot of socializing or a difficult experience and I step through the door, I realize: I'm here. I'm here in my place. There's a form of relief when you come into alignment with who you are and what your place in life is. I would extrapolate that to the finding of this path. For me, it has been a deep, tremendous relief to have found the Buddha way. And even the Buddha recognized this — that it's rare, first of all, to be born a human being, and then to hear the Buddha's teachings. So this sense of relief: I found meaning. I found my way. I found my home. There's that crying of gratitude, in a way, of having found something so profound and so meaningful.

The fourth Dharma tear is what I'm calling tears of moral elevation. I find myself sometimes responding with tears when I witness some beautiful deed that somebody has performed. Just recently I've been having some dental work done with a new dentist. The dental hygienist doesn't know me, and she was so incredibly caring and comforting. A lot of people don't like going to the dentist — I'm not one of those people — but I was so moved by the fact that she offered her care so indiscriminately, and it was genuine. It didn't feel like it was just part of her job or mechanical.

So when somebody performs some morally beautiful deed — kindness, helpfulness — it is very moving, because it indicates what human beings are capable of. We hear many stories about heroic action, and not only in the big dramatic form, but also in small deeds like this hygienist. I'm sure you can identify people in your life who just were good — who had a good heart and who were genuinely helpful. Bodhisattvas. The bodhisattvas that are kind of all around us, and sometimes we don't even recognize them. But there they are, and they're there to help. And so when somebody acts as a bodhisattva, it's very moving. There's an expression of an understanding of our interconnectedness and our need to be there for each other, to help each other. That's what the bodhisattva can often evoke — that kind of response.

And the fifth Dharma tear is tears of response to beauty. Here in Pennsylvania we're just in the beginnings of the spring season. I can walk down the meditation trail and see a white peony just beginning to open. And it's — oh my gosh — what incredible beauty. It's inexpressible. It feels so beyond words that all that can happen is this tear.

I also want to mention when we come upon art. I remember going to an exhibit by a collage artist named Kurt Schwitters at Princeton. I came upon a framed, strange item. The item in the frame was a rag from Kurt Schwitters's studio. That rag that he had selected out to exhibit had all of the texture and color — the subtlety of color — that spoke of his art generally. That he took this rag from his studio and saw the beauty in it and exhibited it, framed it. And I just stood there crying. Again, just that sense of transcendence — of moving beyond just the surface of things and seeing more deeply into the is-ness of life. There's more than just a beautiful picture there. There's wisdom there. He deliberately took that rag and framed it to express something that was beyond just a pretty picture.

So those are the five Dharma tears I've identified. And I wanted to select a few with examples.

The tears of empathy we all kind of know are the tears of Avalokiteshvara. This is from some writing on Avalokiteshvara's tears:

In one legend, Avalokiteshvara, the infinite bodhisattva of compassion, was so moved by the world's suffering that he cried. His heart became heavy by seeing the great sufferings of life and death. His tears, containing deep regret, flowed onto the ground, leaving a still lake. And from the depths of this serene pool, a lotus flower bloomed, and its petals unfurled to reveal the radiant Tara.

So this is the legend in which Green Tara, this female manifestation of divine love and mercy, was born from Avalokiteshvara's tear. What a beautiful image — that tear produced this divine helper. The lotus flower is a traditional symbol of purity and enlightenment arising from the tears of compassion. I thought it was interesting that Green Tara was born out of this empathy that Avalokiteshvara had, and that Green Tara became a skillful means for helping. The tear contained the skillful means — Green Tara — to be of help.

I also want to offer a quote from Goethe:

Only the words break the silence. All other sounds have ceased. If I were silent, I'd hear nothing. But if I were silent, the other sounds would start again, those to which the words have made me deaf, or which have really ceased. But I am silent. It sometimes happens. No, never, not one second. I weep, too, without interruption. It's an unbroken flow of words and tears with no pause for reflection. But I speak softer every year, a little softer, perhaps slower too, every year a little slower. Perhaps it is hard for me to judge. If so, the pauses would be longer between the words, the sentences, the syllables, the tears. I confuse them, words and tears. My words are my tears, my eyes, my mouth.

So when there's this sense of helplessness, we reach for something. In Goethe's case, words. In fact, I'm remembering that the title of Jean-Paul Sartre's autobiography is Words. Goethe says, "My words are my tears." Those tears, in response to helplessness — we reach for a teaching. We reach, in the face of silence, of helplessness, of the muteness of the world, and we speak. The words, the tears, are transmuted, transformed into words. And thus the tears have wisdom in them — they're not just emotional. The words become the embodiment of the tears, of the helplessness.

And finally, I'm sure some of you know this from Dogen:

Once when I was in Song China, practicing on a long sitting platform, I observed the monks around me. At the beginning of zazen in the morning, they would hold up their kashayas, place them on their heads, and chant a verse quietly with palms together. "Great is the robe of liberation, the robe beyond form, the field of benefaction. I wear the Tathagata's teaching to awaken countless beings."

Dogen says: This was the first time I had seen the kashaya held up in this way, and I rejoiced, tears wetting the collar of my robe. Although I had read this verse of veneration for the kashaya in the Agama Sutra, I had not known the procedure. Now I saw it with my own eyes. In my joy, I also felt sorry that there had been no master to teach this to me and no good friend to recommend it in Japan. If I had stayed in my land, how could I have sat side by side with the monks who had received and were wearing the Buddha robe? My sadness and joy brought endless tears. Then I made a vow to myself: however unsuited I may be, I will become an authentic holder of the Buddha Dharma, receiving authentic transmission of the true Dharma, and with compassion show the Buddha's ancestors' authentically transmitted Dharma robes to those in my land.

He says, "My sadness and joy brought endless tears." And I love the image of — what does he say — "tears wetting the collar of my robe." This is just a lovely image, that his tears wet the collar of his robe.

These tears are both joy and sadness. The joy — for me, these are tears of moral elevation, where you're seeing the monks venerating the robe and it is uplifting. It's inspiring, morally and energetically. He saw it with his own eyes and it brought tears of sadness and joy. So they're a different kind of tears than just emotional tears.

So I've talked about three of these — giving a bit more explanation about three of what I'm calling Dharma tears.

It occurred to me: did the Buddha ever cry? Did he ever mourn? Certainly he was aware of dukkha, of the suffering of the world. I kind of want my Buddha to cry. I want my Buddha to be flesh and blood, not merely a stone Buddha. But of course, in our practice, there's a kind of emphasis on tranquility and equanimity and not a lot of encouragement of strong emotions, or perhaps any emotions.

But I'm suggesting here that, much as with Goethe, the Buddha's words were his tears. When he awakened — and he awakened with this response to the suffering that he saw in the world — he actually wanted to retreat, thinking that perhaps nobody would really respond to or understand the teachings. But this great compassion in him led him to teach, to put his teaching into words. So again, our Buddha did cry, but his words are his tears.

And I want to end with another kind of crying that is expressed in a poem by T.S. Eliot. The poem is called "Your Blinded Hand."

Suppose that everything that greens and grows should blacken in one moment, flower and branch. I think that I should find your blinded hand.

Suppose that your cry and mine were lost among numberless cries in a city of fire when the earth is afire. I must still believe that somehow I would find your blinded hand.

Through flames everywhere consuming earth and air, I must believe that somehow, if only one moment were offered, I would find your hand.

I know, as of course you know, the immeasurable wilderness that would exist in the moment of fire. But I would hear your cry and you hear mine, and each of us would find the other's hand.

We know that it might not be so. For this quiet moment, if only for this moment, and against all reason, let us believe — and believe in our hearts — that somehow it would be so. I'd hear your cry, you mine, and each of us would find a blinded hand.

This is another kind of cry — it's a cry for connection. It's a different kind of cry, a Dharma cry, but so deeply needed right now: to cry out for a hand, to connect. And I think this is our great task as Dharma practitioners and as sangha members — to reach out, to cry out for one another, and to make that deep connection that only warm hand to warm hand can actually make.

So thank you very much. I'm happy to hear your responses, your questions, anything you would like to share.

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Meido Barbara Anderson: Thank you. And of course, there's Dharma laughter too — so maybe that's the next talk.

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Question: In our service this morning, we chanted the Emmei Jukku Kannon Gyo. Kannon — she who hears the cries of the world. That's the cry that resonates with me. And it evokes the image of Kannon, Kuan Yin, Avalokiteshvara, with all those hands full of tools, skillful means. Sometimes I actually think that the Heart Sutra, as well as many of the sutras we chant, are actually cries for help — almost like prayers.

Meido Barbara Anderson: Yes. Very much so. We're calling on Avalokiteshvara to help us find the skillful means to relieve suffering. So it's a call that has not only compassion in it, but also wisdom, because it involves skillful means. It involves being clear as to what the suffering is and what is needed to respond. Thank you for bringing that up.

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Question: This topic came up for me this week too, because I've been crying a lot. And often — I notice this not just for myself, but when I speak about it with other people — it's such a difficult energy to just allow to be and to happen. So often I want to tamp it down. It feels very big sometimes. It will flow more freely when, even if only one other person is there, they're crying too — it's almost like it gives you permission to release it. But I find it so fascinating that even after all this time, if I try to suppress that energy, that wanting to move through, it will just wreck my whole day. And then when I finally allow myself to release it, there's not only an energetic relief, but that is when the wisdom comes in. What I'm grappling with a bit, listening to this, is how these teachings connect to what I've also encountered around keeping things in my head rather than just listening to my body and letting it move through. Instead of trying to figure out where it's coming from — because that's usually what keeps me suppressing it — I'm feeling a little like I'm in a kind of no man's land around how to connect that. Because I find what you've brought up very rich, and yet sometimes it's also simply what I might call the body's wisdom just moving something through, and then something takes rise from there. Does that make sense?

Meido Barbara Anderson: Yes, it does. You know, we grow up being told to be a big girl or be a big boy — if you're going to cry, go to your room. It's not something that's encouraged for adults in particular, and even children are often criticized or judged or called crybabies. This emotional release is usually quite blocked and can't be discharged. But that's pretty purely emotional. I suspect, though, that that could be a foundation for other kinds of tears, other kinds of crying.

That's a whole other approach — to allow these emotional responses to flow freely through the body — and I'm sure that has an effect on other forms of crying and tears. Certainly, when I come into contact with deep beauty, I don't want to suppress that. But it is fascinating how difficult that other component is compared to seeing something soaring in the sky and just having that moment where you move to tears.

I suppose spontaneity is involved, but many of us just are not spontaneous. We're very controlled. We often don't allow ourselves to be helpless in the face of life. We're usually in the mode of mastery and control. Our practice, because it's so focused on being with what is — on being fully present — can perhaps encourage spontaneity and help us learn how to respond intuitively as well as spontaneously. Our practice may have a positive effect on our ability to just be with what is as it arises, without putting our concepts and stories and judgments on it. Rather than immediately asking, as I did, "Is it appropriate for me to cry now? Am I trying to be manipulative? What will that person think of me? Am I making a fool of myself?" Our practice could go a long way in helping us let go of those constraints.

Question: Thank you. That's something I'm going to sit with.

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Question: The Heart Sutra starts with Guanshiyin. There are two names for Guanshiyin — one is Guan, which means to observe. Avalokiteshvara — he who looks down and sees the cries of the world — is represented by two wings of a bird: wisdom and compassion. Guan is to observe with compassion. I wonder if you could expand on that.

Meido Barbara Anderson: Yes. I think the term "Dharma tear" kind of brings those two together. Compassion without wisdom is just pity, just sentimentalism — the Hallmark version of compassion. That's why I used the word empathy rather than compassion, which is a little overused. In our practice we call it great compassion — and that's different from ordinary compassion. It's great because it has to meet great suffering. There's a very thin line between a sentimental compassion and great compassion, and we really have to patrol that line in our practice. That's where wisdom comes in. Without clarity, without the teachings, without skillful means, we don't have great compassion — we just have sentimentalism or pity.

Similarly, if all we have is a sort of intellectual or rational understanding of what somebody is going through — a very businesslike approach — even if it's strictly therapeutic, as if you're sitting in a psychiatrist's office being diagnosed, there's no impetus for action. Wisdom without compassion is sterile. It doesn't have consequence. It just sits there as an analysis of something. So the two are absolutely necessary in a skillful response: the wisdom that helps you understand what is actually happening and how best to help, and then the compassion — not just emotional, but the empathic connection with the suffering. Those are the two wings that enable us to fly.

Question: I remember one of my professors once saying that the person who has the most pain at any one time is Avalokiteshvara — and that was a shock to a lot of people. But he's wise, he understands the cause of suffering, so how could he suffer so grievously? And yet, when you say "lokita" in Avalokiteshvara — it means the world — you're looking at the cries of the entire world at one time, and he's practicing Prajnaparamita at that time.

Meido Barbara Anderson: Yes. And that tear of Avalokiteshvara produces Green Tara, with all of those arms and hands with the tools of skillful means. So it's not just feeling all the suffering — it's also being available to help relieve the suffering. We don't want to forget all the hands and tools that Avalokiteshvara has at his disposal. It's more than a Hallmark card.

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Question: I'm Deidre, and I've been doing a lot of tears. The one you talked about — the connection — resonates with me. My husband passed recently. And so listening to this — is there a separation between emotional and what you call Dharma tears? I'm very new to the Zen practice. I've only recently joined because I'm looking for connection, and I find this group is what I need at the moment. When you talk about transformation — I've been finding words. I've been writing some poetry that's coming from deep within me, transforming my pain into words and sharing them with family and close friends. And they seem to be rather transcendent, having almost a universal connection with people, that they can relate to. So I feel like I'm on a journey, and it's a difficult one, but it's exposing me to many experiences I've never had before. I tend to be rather spontaneous in my days, just following what comes up. So I guess what I'm listening to, all of this, is bringing up that difference — or that connection — and one leading to the other between the emotional and the wisdom that perhaps is coming out of it.

Meido Barbara Anderson: So beautiful. I wish you all the best on your journey. For me, our practice is getting in touch with the heart, so never lose that. And it's wonderful to be a beginner — all that freshness and openness. I hope you find that you've found your home here. This is tears of relief — I found a group, I found a sangha. I'm very moved by your finding a home and a path. Congratulations, and I wish you all the best.

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Thank you all for listening. This is kind of a strange talk, but I hope it was worth your time. And of course, there's Dharma laughter too — so maybe that's the next talk. Have a great Memorial Day, everyone. Thank you.