Tag: philosophy

How One Line Touched Me

On By jopburgsLeave a comment

Reflections on Lineage, Blessing, and the Living Transmission of Dharma


“It’s not the appearances that bind you, but the attachment to the appearances.”

I came across this line some years ago, in a book by Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche. I don’t remember which book — perhaps The Myth of Freedom or Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism — but I remember the moment clearly. The sentence struck me as something complete in itself. It had the ring of an instruction, not just an idea. It didn’t feel like a phrase meant to be pondered, but something to be practiced.

It is often attributed to Tilopa, spoken to his disciple Naropa. And even if the exact wording may vary, the essential insight is unmistakably Mahāmudrā: the problem is not appearances themselves, but the way we relate to them. We don’t suffer because of what arises in our minds or senses — we suffer because we grasp. Because we take appearances to be solid, external, other. We believe in their inherent existence, and that belief binds us.

From the perspective of Mahāmudrā, we are not instructed to reject appearances, nor to improve them. We are asked to look directly at the nature of mind, to see that appearances are not outside of mind, not other than awareness, not ultimately real. They are vivid, luminous, and empty. To take them as real is to fall into dualism. To see their nature is liberation.

This sentence — “It’s not the appearances that bind you, but the attachment to the appearances” — gives us that instruction in just a few words. It’s a pith teaching: precise, unadorned, and true. It cut through a layer of habitual thinking for me. But what touched me most wasn’t only the content of the teaching. It was the fact that I was reading it at all.

Detail from a Sankrit version of ”The Perfection of Wisdom in Eight-Thousand Stanzas (Skt. Aṣṭasahāsrikā Prajñāparamitā) by the scribe Sujātabhadra, Katmandhu, around the 10th to 11th century CE, The times of Tilopa, Naropa

It had somehow reached me.

I was holding a Western-printed Dharma book, in English. And this sentence — born in India perhaps a thousand years ago — still worked. It was still alive. It carried weight. And that weight came not only from its meaning, but from its source. It had reached me through lineage.

That realization brought a kind of awe.

Because how does such a line survive?

How does something spoken in an ancient Indian dialect, possibly in the open air between a realized master and a committed disciple, find its way across language, culture, war, exile, and time — and appear before me now, on the printed page?

The short answer is: it survived because people cared. People practiced. People endured. It didn’t reach me only because it was written down. It reached me because it was remembered. Realized. Transmitted.

Tilopa gave this teaching to Naropa, not as a concept, but as a pointing-out instruction — introducing him directly to the nature of mind. Naropa himself had been a brilliant scholar, a master at Nālandā, well-versed in logic and scripture. But Tilopa dismantled that. He gave Naropa trials. Not metaphors — real trials. Hunger, exhaustion, humiliation. All to cut through pride, and to rip away the subtle layers of belief in solidity. After years of hardship, Naropa received the essence.

And then came Marpa — the Tibetan translator. Marpa crossed the Himalayas to India, not once but several times, at immense personal risk. He faced thieves, famine, political instability, and illness. He offered everything he had to receive teachings, and he brought them back to Tibet — not just in writing, but in his heart.

detail from an 18th-century tanka painting featuring the sage Milarepa

Marpa passed this realization to Milarepa — a figure often romanticized, but whose life was marked by immense difficulty. Marpa made him build and destroy stone towers again and again before giving him the teachings. Milarepa meditated alone in high mountain caves, wearing only a cotton cloth through the winter. He lived on nettles and snowmelt. But he attained realization, and his songs are still sung.

From Milarepa came Gampopa — a monk, physician, and master. He received Mahāmudrā from Milarepa and merged it with the Kadampa monastic tradition. From him arose the Karma Kagyü lineage. And from there, the transmission continued through the centuries — from teacher to student, sometimes in monasteries, sometimes in caves, always heart to heart.

But that wasn’t the end of the journey. There were centuries of hardship still to come.

In the 19th century, great masters like Jamgön Kongtrul Lodrö Thaye and Jamyang Khyentse Wangpo, foreseeing the fragility of many teachings, began the Rimé movement. They collected lineages, recorded oral teachings, and ensured that instructions like this one would not be lost.

And then came the catastrophe of the 20th century. The Chinese invasion of Tibet. The destruction of monasteries. The deaths of great teachers. And once again, the teachings survived — not because they were hidden away, but because they were carried. Carried by monks and yogis on foot, crossing snowy passes, starving, leaving behind texts but never letting go of what they had practiced and realized.

Many of those teachers reached India, Nepal, and Bhutan. And from there, some crossed oceans. They came to the West — into a world with little context for what they brought. And they still taught.

Among them was Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche.

Trungpa Rinpoche probably early 80’s

Trungpa Rinpoche was no ordinary scholar. He had trained in the traditional monastic system, but also studied at Oxford. He understood both the depth of Tibetan Dharma and the difficulty of conveying it in the modern world. He saw the risk of misinterpretation. But he didn’t dilute the teachings. He found a new language for them — not by simplifying their meaning, but by cutting through the veils of cultural confusion with shocking clarity.

And through that effort, this sentence appeared in English. And it reached me.

It wasn’t just a phrase on a page. It carried something. I could feel it. A weight, a warmth — a kind of blessing. Because it had passed through Tilopa, Naropa, Marpa, Milarepa, Gampopa, Jamgön Kongtrul, and many others — not in theory, but in practice. Not just in language, but in realization.

And it reached me not only because of them — but also because of the teachers I have met in this life.

I’ve had the rare and humbling opportunity to meet realized masters, who helped me understand that these teachings are not just words. They are living transmissions. Without such teachers, I don’t believe I could have understood what this line really meant. Not from the outside. Not just as philosophy. But as something I could taste. Something that points to the actual nature of experience — beyond concepts.

This is what lineage is. Not just a list of names, but a thread of living understanding. And when that understanding is received, something shifts. You realize you’re no longer just a reader. You are part of something — even if you feel unworthy, even if you’ve barely begun to practice it. You’ve received it.

And that means: now it’s your turn.

Not to teach. Not to repeat. But to live it. To practice. To preserve the clarity. And eventually, maybe, to pass it on — not as a slogan, but as something you’ve truly come to understand.

“It’s not the appearances that bind you, but the attachment to the appearances.”

This line is not just a relic. It is a living instruction.

And for that — for the lives, the hardships, the memory, the love, the caves, the ink, the tears, the devotion, the silence — I bow my head. I feel deep, unshakable gratitude. And with it, a sense of quiet responsibility.

Because this is how the Dharma continues.

Through devotion.

Through practice.

Through blessing.

Through us.

Meditating with my friend Rinchen at a cave where Naropa is said to have meditated — Sankhu, Nepal, February 2025.

Bridging perspectives at 30,000 feet

On By jopburgsLeave a comment

There’s something strangely intimate about airplane conversations. Suspended thousands of feet above the earth, sealed inside a metal tube hurtling across the sky, time seems to loosen its grip. Perhaps it’s the shared vulnerability of being neither here nor there, or the fleeting certainty that these exchanges exist in a pocket outside the demands of daily life. Whatever it is, I’ve noticed it happens often to me. Almost every time I travel by plane, I end up in conversation with someone remarkable. But perhaps it’s not that I’m unusually lucky—maybe it’s that everyone becomes remarkable when you really listen.

On this flight from Amsterdam to Istanbul, I find myself next to a sturdy, tall man with Asian features. There’s something about the openness in his eyes—clear, curious, and unguarded. Before long, we’re talking.

“Short transfer in Istanbul as well?” I ask.

He smiles, and the conversation begins.

When I mention that I’m on my way to Kathmandu, he raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Ah, so you’re one of those hippies? Going to smoke hashish in the mountains?”

I laugh. “Well, do I look like a hippie who smokes hashish? I mean, I do have long hair.”

He chuckles, and I let the humor linger. It’s a light moment, one I don’t feel the need to explain. The truth is, my hair isn’t about style or rebellion—it’s part of my yogic tradition. But honestly, it doesn’t matter much to me what people think.

When I tell him I’m not traveling for leisure, but for a Buddhist pilgrimage, I see his curiosity sharpen. His posture shifts slightly, and the chatter of the cabin seems to recede as we lean into a conversation that feels less like small talk and more like discovery.

I learn that he’s Uyghur. He came to the Netherlands years ago as a refugee, spent two years in a refugee center, and eventually became a Dutch citizen. He’s lived in the Netherlands for a long time now, long enough to understand Dutch culture—not just its surface politeness, but the deeper rhythms of its modern life.

He shares openly about his experiences—his search for meaning, his frustrations with modernity, and the sense of emptiness that followed years of living a lifestyle shaped by Western ideals. He speaks candidly about things he struggled with: dating culture, fleeting connections, the party life that promised so much excitement but delivered so little satisfaction.

Screens, apps, and endless options—all of it created the illusion of abundance, but left him feeling isolated and unfulfilled. Over time, he realized there had to be more to life than what the modern world was offering.

In response, he returned to Islam. It wasn’t a dramatic moment of revelation, but a gradual return—an anchoring into something older, something solid. He speaks about his faith with warmth and clarity, and there’s a quiet strength in the way he carries it.

But beneath his calm and steady demeanor, there’s also pain—a deep, unspoken hurt that surfaces briefly when he shares a more personal story. His mother was in a re-education camp for two years. He doesn’t say much about it, but the weight of it hangs in the air between us. There’s a fragility in his voice when he mentions it, and I can see the trauma in his eyes, even if he doesn’t put it into words.

I don’t push further. Some silences are better left undisturbed, some pain too raw to probe. Instead, I listen, offering space for whatever he feels comfortable sharing.

When our conversation drifts to Buddhism, he already knows that it doesn’t involve a creator deity. But when he asks how Buddhists understand the source of everything, I feel myself treading carefully.

“What many faiths might call God,” I begin slowly, “we’d call Buddha Nature or True Nature. It’s not an external being or a creator overseeing the universe. It’s… the essence of everything. The ground of being itself.”

He listens, his brow furrowed slightly in thought.

“But at the end of the day,” I continue, “mind is at the heart of it all. In Buddhism, everything—every experience, every appearance—depends on the mind. The world we see, the suffering we feel, the peace we might find… it all comes back to the mind.”

I can sense the conversation reaching a threshold. The nuances of these concepts are difficult to express, especially to someone whose worldview is shaped by an Abrahamic perspective. It’s like trying to explain color to someone who’s only seen shades of gray—not because they lack understanding, but because the frameworks are fundamentally different.

Yet, we find common ground again when we speak of Sufi mysticism—of Rumi and Hafiz. There’s admiration in his voice, but also caution.

“It’s beautiful,” he says softly, “but also… dangerous.”

I tread carefully here. I don’t push, don’t press. Instead, the conversation lingers in that space between admiration and caution, remaining open, respectful, human.

Throughout our exchange, I notice something about him—an unspoken dignity, a quiet directness. There’s a clarity to him, a grounded confidence in how he carries his faith and his values. It’s a quality I’ve noticed before in Tibetans I’ve met—a kind of warrior-like presence, not in aggression, but in steadfastness. A quality that combines deep humility with an unshakable sense of purpose.

It’s inspiring. And it reminds me that we, as Western Buddhists, have something to learn here. Too often, Buddhism is perceived as abstract, overly philosophical, or detached. But that’s not the Buddhism I know. Guru Rinpoche embodies this perfectly—a figure of unwavering clarity, directness, and confidence.

We, too, need to exude that confidence. Not in a way that’s aggressive or rigid, but in a way that carries the weight of conviction—lived, embodied, and unshakable.

The hours pass unnoticed as we speak—nearly the entire three-and-a-half-hour flight. Faith, life, culture, politics, the emptiness of modernity, and the search for meaning—we cover everything, flowing seamlessly from one topic to the next.

As I walk through the sprawling airport, softly reciting mantras under my breath, I feel a deep sense of lightness—almost floating, yet firmly rooted.

Istanbul—Constantinople, as I still sometimes call it—is a place steeped in history, where East and West have always met.

This encounter feels like the perfect beginning to my journey. A reminder of why I travel—to broaden my horizons, to meet people who challenge and inspire me, and to carry their stories with me.

The path ahead feels alive with possibility. My heart feels open, my steps feel light, and a faint smile lingers on my lips as I walk towards my gate, mantras humming softly in my mind.

Reclaiming Dignity, Beauty, and the Sacred in a Fragmented World

On By jopburgsLeave a comment

Growing up in the Netherlands in the 1990s, I always felt something was missing. There was no framework to understand or experience beauty meaning or a deeper transcendent reality, no connection really to anything sacred. Secularism had taken over, and while it brought certain freedoms, it also left a cultural void. Materialism basically dominated, reducing life to what could be measured or owned, leaving little room for reverence or awe. Even Christianity, in the form I encountered in my youth, often felt hollow—stripped of mystery, ritual, and beauty. And yet, this wasn’t just my personal experience. It reflects something much larger: a spiritual crisis in the West.

At times, I caught glimpses of something deeper. I remember my grandparents. They were of a generation that still carried a sense of dignity, even in simple things. The way they cared for their home, the atmosphere they created, it was subtle but palpable. There was a respect for life, a quiet humility, and a sense of meaning that was woven into the everyday.

Before meals, they would pause to say a prayer “Our Father, who art in heaven…” their voices steady, their words spoken with sincerity. Sundays were treated as a special day, marked by stillness and simplicity. Life seemed to slow down in their home as if the day itself was set apart for something sacred. These small rituals reflected a connection to something larger, something that gave their lives a quiet depth and order. It was a reminder of older values, of something we’ve largely lost in the modern West.

The Spiritual Desert of the West

Today, the West has become a spiritual desert. Materialism has flattened our view of the world, reducing human beings to biological machines and dismissing anything that cannot be quantified. Beauty, dignity, and the sacred have been pushed to the margins. As Ian McGilchrist writes in The Master and His Emissary: “We have created a world that is paradoxically everywhere and nowhere, increasingly virtual, and increasingly lacking in depth and meaning.” This lack of depth manifests in every area of life, leaving people disconnected from themselves, from each other, and from the world.

This crisis didn’t arise in isolation. Materialism is not some separate force that swept in and replaced religion it’s the result of the West’s own historical and cultural development. Protestantism, for all its virtues, rejected mystery and beauty in favor of rationality and utility. Over time, this mindset paved the way for modern capitalism and the materialistic worldview we see today. Tom Holland captures this well in his book Dominion, tracing how Christianity shaped the West’s values, but also how these values evolved into something disconnected from the sacred. We’ve lost our way, not by abandoning our roots, but by distorting them.

Our modern-day practice of spirituality hasn’t escaped this distortion. Western Buddhism, for instance, is often reduced to merely a tool for self-improvement, or through frameworks shaped by materialism or even Christian moralism. These are not words of reproach, but reflections born of my own experience with these difficulties. Through the years, I’ve come to understand, often through my own missteps that its vital to fully embrace a transcendent sacred worldview.

Buddhism is not a self-help tool, a utility, or a hobby. It’s about a radical shift in perspective, a letting go of dualistic thinking, and stepping into something far greater than ourselves.

Western Buddhists and the Struggle to Go Beyond

One of the most difficult things about being a Buddhist in the West is recognizing the water we swim in. Materialism and Christian frameworks are so deeply embedded in Western culture that we often don’t even see them. I’ve experienced this in myself, and I’ve seen it in others. Even as I embraced Buddhism, I found myself holding onto materialistic ways of thinking, viewing practice as something utilitarian, something to “fix” or improve myself. I also unconsciously carried Christian-influenced ideas of morality, seeing things in terms of right and wrong, or good and bad, rather than the more subtle and nuanced view Buddhism offers.

I’ve noticed this even more strongly in the generation that came before me, particularly among baby boomers. Many of them rebelled strongly against Christianity, rejecting its traditions and dogmas. But in doing so, they often failed to see how deeply shaped they still were by the Christian worldview. It’s as if they wanted to start fresh but couldn’t recognize the water they were still swimming in. The same is true of materialism, which permeates so much of the Western mind. Even long-term practitioners (myself included, admittedly) often unconsciously approach Buddhism through these lenses, unable to go beyond.

These influences are subtle and pervasive, and it takes tremendous effort to go beyond them. Buddhism offers us a path to transcend both nihilism (the materialist view that nothing has meaning) and eternalism (the Christian-like belief in a fixed, ultimate reality). But stepping into this path requires us to question everything we’ve been conditioned to think and believe. It requires courage, not just to reject old frameworks, but to let go of them entirely.

Dignity and the Sacred

For me, at the heart of this transformation is a rediscovery of dignity. And by dignity, I don’t mean the superficial kind tied to status or comfort. I mean the dignity that comes from recognizing our own basic goodness, what Trungpa Rinpoche called the intrinsic worth we all possess simply by existing. This understanding of dignity contrasts sharply with the modern Western worldview, where worth is measured by what you produce or own. It’s even there in the term net-worth.

I’ve been privileged to meet Buddhist masters who embody this innate dignity completely. Some of them had almost no possessions or social standing, yet their presence is awe-inspiring. The way they move, the way they wear their robe, the way they conduct themselves it radiates a quiet, yet profound self-respect and humility a dignity that isn’t dependent on external validation. It comes from within.

But dignity isn’t just personal. It reflects outward, shaping how we treat others and how they, in turn, treat us. When I began to live with more self-discipline, self-love, respect for my own Buddha nature, I noticed something profound: others naturally began to treat me with more respect, too. This is a small example, and it points to something larger. Dignity isn’t just about the individual it’s the foundation of meaningful relationships and communities and a sane society 

Vajrayana and the Magic of Guru Rinpoche

What I’ve come to realize is that embracing the sacred worldview of Buddhism isn’t just about adopting new ideas. It’s about undoing the karmic frameworks/habits from our past and present lives

This is why I find Vajrayana Buddhism so profoundly transformative. It’s a tradition that doesn’t just speak to the mind only, it engages the body, speech, and mind as inherently sacred. Vajrayana practices aren’t abstract, they are vivid, embodied, and alive. They remind you, in every movement and word, that you are already an expression of Buddha nature.

And then there are the stories, especially the extraordinary life of Guru Rinpoche. Guru Rinpoche isn’t just a figure from the past—he’s a living presence in the Vajrayana tradition, a practice, and a teaching all at once. His stories are filled with magic, mystery, and an energy that defies all logic. They show us a world that is far richer and more layered than the one materialism presents to us. These stories aren’t meant to be rationalized, they are meant to open your heart and mind to a sacred reality that transcends conventional thinking.

Guru Rinpoche represents the perfect union of wisdom and skillful means. A master embodying the sacred in every action, every word, every thought. His life and teachings challenge everything we’ve been conditioned to believe in, especially in the West. They invite us to step into a reality where the sacred is everywhere, where nothing is mundane, and where every aspect of life is alive with meaning.

A humble reflection

Writing these reflections has been a way for me to gather my thoughts on what feels essential: dignity, beauty, and the sacred. These are not luxuries. They are the foundation of what makes makes us human and what makes live meaningful. And yet they seem to be slipping further away in the modern world. I’ve seen this loss in myself, in the culture I grew up in, and even in the ways we sometimes approach spirituality.

For me, the journey toward rediscovering these qualities has been shaped by the teachings of the great masters I’ve been fortunate to meet, and by the example of simple lives lived with dignity and care, like my grandparents. Their quiet humility and sense of meaning, rooted in something beyond themselves, have stayed with me as a reminder of what we’ve largely lost, but what we can find again.