Humility isn’t a shortcoming, 

it’s strength. 

Remaining quiet isn’t avoidance, 

it’s self-control. 

Self-cultivation is about the quiet things, the inner work we undertake. It’s being humble not only when we fail, but also when we finally accomplish a difficult task and others congratulate us on a job well done. It’s remaining quiet when we’re tempted to babble, but know our speaking would disturb others and, very honestly, isn’t really necessary.

Like the other qualities we cultivate, to those who are unaware, those more used to seeing strength exhibited in a show of power and self-control displayed in regards to language or the restriction of physical appetites, humility and quietude could appear as weaknesses.

To those who master them, they are anything but.

A source of stability and contentment, our ability to remain free from arrogance or pride and to know our wisest course of action may well be to remain silent, can bring incredible peace of mind. 

Often a gift received, then presented to another, 

brings us more joy 

than if we consumed it ourselves. 

Usually, when someone knows us and has selected something we enjoy, we happily use it. It’s only good manners! The fact that we like the high mountain tea or those luscious dark chocolates has nothing to do with it. We’re just being polite. Honestly!

But what if we didn’t consume our gifts?

What if we, in turn, give the tea to a tea lover who probably has never savored this rare kind? Or give the chocolates to someone who wouldn’t think of splurging so on herself?

If we drink the tea and eat the chocolates, they’ll soon be gone. Especially those chocolates. We wouldn’t want to keep recalling the wonderful aromas and tastes because that smacks of attachments. But imagine our joy when years later a cup of tea is handed to us and the aroma triggers the memory of how much our good friend enjoyed his tea.

Our own personal pleasure is immaterial. Others happiness truly matters.

If you have to ask if it’s wrong, 

it very likely is. 

Asking our teacher for help in trying to figure out what we should do will often solicit advice to chant the Buddha-name. The purpose being that the chanting will help our mind become tranquil. This will allow the answer to be perceived, just as a no longer agitated pool of water will disclose the sand at the pool’s bottom.

Why doesn’t the teacher just tell us what to do?

First, her role is to teach principles, not decide for others how to live their life.

Second, she doesn’t need to tell us. We already know, just haven’t realized it. At least not clearly. An inkling is there. Its presence becomes more apparent when our appeal for help begins with “Is it wrong to . . . ? ”

If we’re wondering if something is wrong, it’s because we’re uneasy. Something about the action doesn’t feel right. That’s very likely our elusive inkling.

And so we need to ask ourself whether what we’re considering is something we could live with, be at ease with. If not, perhaps we should give it a pass.