Lotsawa Sherab
Garden of Maitreya
ISSN 3044 – 8972 ISSN L 3044 – 8972
Transcript and Edit: Veronica Anghelescu
June 22, 2025
We have already spent some time together, so I would like to simply share a few thoughts with you. Please do not expect anything new or unusual; all genuine teachings are essentially the same. Every master, regardless of time or lineage, brings us back to the same points. As Shantideva once said, he had nothing new to offer, only the words of the Buddha. And in that humility, he revealed the essence of Dharma: to remember what has already been given, and to make it alive again.
At Nalanda Monastery, Shantideva was viewed by many monks as a lazy and unremarkable figure. They mocked him. One day, hoping to expose him, they prepared an elaborate high throne and invited him to speak before the assembly. Their intention was not to honor him but to humiliate him, assuming he would be too embarrassed to say anything. But Shantideva stepped onto the throne, lowered it with his meditative power, and began reciting verses that would later form the Bodhicaryāvatāra. What he shared was not a performance but a direct flow of the Dharma, rooted in compassion, clarity, and deep realization. This story has remained for centuries not because of its spectacle, but because of its teaching: Dharma must be sincere.
I do not compare myself to Shantideva. I am a translator, a listener, and a student. I have spent my life with books, with teachers, with long hours translating texts that are far more eloquent and wiser than I could ever be. If I speak today, it is only to share what I have learned, not to impress, not to innovate, but to hand forward the blessings that I myself have received.
Among the many teachers I have encountered, Lama Zopa Rinpoche stands out for his unshakable patience and devotion to practice. When he taught, he didn’t rush. He repeated points again and again, allowing the meaning to soak in. He encouraged people to pause after hearing each teaching and meditate on it. Not just to understand with the intellect but to internalize with the heart. Some people found his style too slow, too repetitive. But those who stayed with him, who endured the long sessions, often found that the real transformation happened in those pauses, in the space between words.
The Dharma is not something we master. It is something we enter into, slowly, with humility. When the Buddha taught, he tailored his words to his audience. Some people heard one sentence and awakened. Others needed years. And still others, like ourselves, need the teachings explained in detail, step by step. That is why we have texts like the Lamrim Chenmo, the Great Treatise on the Stages of the Path to Enlightenment, composed by Je Tsongkhapa.
Tsongkhapa lived in the fourteenth century and saw clearly that people were losing their ability to comprehend condensed teachings. Where once a few lines might suffice, now entire volumes were needed. He responded not with criticism, but with compassion. He wrote for people like us, distracted, uncertain, longing for clarity. His Lamrim is a vast ocean of Dharma, organized with precision and filled with insight. It is not meant to be read in haste. It is meant to be lived.
The Lamrim begins by guiding the practitioner through reflections that form the foundation of the path: the precious human life, death and impermanence, the workings of karma, the sufferings of samsara. It then moves toward cultivating renunciation, generating bodhicitta, the mind that seeks enlightenment for the benefit of all beings, and understanding emptiness. These are not abstract ideas. They are trainings for the heart.
We begin with the recognition that this human life is rare and valuable. To be born with a human body, with the mental clarity to discern right from wrong, with access to the Dharma, this is not a small thing. It is said that the chances of such a birth are like a blind turtle surfacing once every hundred years and placing its neck through a wooden yoke floating on the ocean. We have that chance now. But this life is fragile. Death will come. We don’t know when.
Reflecting on impermanence does not make us morbid. It makes us real. Everything we grasp will eventually slip through our fingers: health, possessions, relationships. When we know this, we start to live differently. We become more grateful, more patient, more intentional.
Karma follows us like a shadow. Every action of body, speech, and mind leaves an imprint. When we act out of anger or greed, we sow seeds of suffering. When we act with kindness and honesty, we plant the causes of future peace. Karma is not punishment, it is precision. What we put into the world returns to us.
With these foundations, we begin to see samsara for what it is: a cycle of suffering driven by ignorance, craving, and aversion. Even the pleasures we chase are unstable. Renunciation arises when we stop pretending that worldly achievements will satisfy us. It is not a rejection of the world, but a clear seeing. A letting go.
And then bodhicitta arises, a vast, open-hearted wish that all beings be free from suffering and attain enlightenment. This is not just a feeling. It is a commitment. A life orientation. With bodhicitta, our practice becomes vast. We no longer sit just for ourselves. We sit for all sentient beings.
The Lamrim also teaches the six perfections: generosity, ethics, patience, joyful effort, concentration, and wisdom. Each is a training. Each softens and strengthens the mind. Each leads us deeper into the truth.
Wisdom, especially the wisdom of emptiness, is subtle and profound. It reveals that things do not exist inherently. Everything arises in dependence. There is no solid, separate “self.” This does not mean that nothing exists. It means that everything is interwoven. When we see this, clinging loosens. Compassion expands. Fear dissolves.
The beauty of the Lamrim is that it integrates all of this into a path. It meets us where we are. It guides us forward. It does not ask us to believe blindly, but to test, to contemplate, to experience.
Now, in our time, these teachings have come to the West, to places like Romania, Italy, and France. The transmission is young here. The roots are still growing. But the potential is vast. We do not need grand temples. We need sincerity. We need people who will read, practice, and preserve the Dharma.
Even one person practicing with sincerity can benefit countless beings. One person who studies, who reflects, who teaches with humility, keeps the lineage alive. So do not underestimate your role. You may not be famous. Your name may not be remembered. But if you carry even one piece of the Dharma forward, you are fulfilling a sacred task.
Our lives are short. We do not know when they will end. But while we are here, we can do something meaningful. We can practice. We can serve. We can love. And when the time comes to die, we can let go with grace, knowing we lived with intention.
The Buddha did not teach to create followers. He taught to awaken beings. He pointed the way. The path is long, and sometimes hard. But it is also joyful. It is lit by wisdom and compassion. And it is open to all.
This is only the beginning. In the sections that follow, I will continue to expand each step of the Lamrim path with depth and reflection, drawing from the original teaching. Please take your time with it. Let each word rest in your mind like a seed. It will grow.
Let us now go deeper into the stages of the path. In the Lamrim, the practitioner is encouraged to reflect again and again on the nature of this life. Why is it so precious? Because it offers something extraordinarily rare: the chance to act with intention, to direct the mind, to transform our experience. Other realms of existence, if you believe in them, do not easily provide this opportunity. The suffering of the hell realms is too overwhelming. The distraction of the god realms is too seductive. Only in this human life, balanced between pleasure and pain, do we have both the incentive to change and the capacity to do so.
But we forget. We take this life for granted. We fill it with trivial concerns. That is why the first meditation is on appreciating this precious life. Not with guilt, but with resolve. We reflect: how rare it is to be born as a human, how rare it is to have access to the teachings, to have leisure time, to have a functioning mind. This reflection should not make us feel burdened. It should uplift us. We are not meant to waste this life. We are meant to use it well.
Then, we reflect on impermanence and death. Everything we see, touch, love, and fear will pass. This body, too, will die. We don’t know when. Perhaps today, perhaps decades from now. But the certainty of death is not a cause for despair, it is a call to presence. It reminds us that time is precious, that arguments are petty, that our inner development cannot wait. People often ask, “How can I find time to practice?” But the real question is, “How can I not?”
Reflecting on death, we prepare ourselves for life. We clean up our intentions. We prioritize the heart. We become less attached to the shifting tides of praise and blame, gain and loss. Death puts things in perspective. And with that clarity, we turn to the workings of karma.
Karma means action. Every thought, word, and deed creates an imprint on the mind. These imprints shape our experiences. When we act from love, honesty, and generosity, we strengthen those qualities in ourselves. When we act from hatred, greed, or delusion, we deepen our confusion. Karma is not fate. It is momentum. And it can be changed.
Understanding karma empowers us. We stop blaming others for our suffering. We stop expecting the world to fix itself. We look within. We take responsibility. This is not easy. But it is liberating.
Next, the Lamrim guides us to contemplate the suffering of cyclic existence, samsara. Often, we seek happiness in external things: relationships, careers, possessions. But all of these are unstable. They bring pleasure for a while, then change. What we love decays. What we fear arrives. Even at our happiest, there is the anxiety of loss. Samsara is not just a place, it is a pattern. A way of relating to the world that is fundamentally unsatisfying.
Seeing this clearly, we develop renunciation. Not rejection. Not disgust. But a gentle, honest turning away from the belief that samsara can ever fulfill us. We begin to seek something deeper. Renunciation is the soil in which true spiritual growth begins.
Then comes the turning point: bodhicitta. When we look around, we see that all beings are caught in the same cycle. Everyone wants happiness. No one wants suffering. Yet we are all confused. All grasping at what cannot last. In that recognition, compassion arises. And with compassion, the wish to free others. Bodhicitta is the mind that says, “I will not rest until all beings are free.”
This is not a poetic ideal. It is a practical shift in orientation. With bodhicitta, everything we do becomes vast. Studying, meditating, even resting, if done with the intention to benefit others, becomes the path.
To cultivate this mind, the Lamrim offers meditations: equalizing and exchanging self with others, seeing all beings as mothers, recalling their kindness, wishing to repay it. These practices soften the heart, dismantle pride, and create the space for true altruism.
Then we come to the six perfections, generosity, ethics, patience, joyous effort, concentration, and wisdom. Each perfection is like a facet of a jewel. Together, they form the path of the bodhisattva.
Generosity begins by giving material things, food, shelter, protection, but matures into the gift of fearlessness, the gift of the Dharma. It is not about how much we give, but how we give: without attachment, without expectation, with joy.
Ethics is the ground of all practice. Without ethical conduct, the mind is restless, defensive, burdened. Ethics means refraining from harm, speaking truthfully, acting with kindness. It also means guarding our intentions, recognizing when we slip, and returning again and again to integrity.
Patience is the antidote to anger. It does not mean passivity. It means strength. The strength to bear difficulty without collapsing into resentment. The strength to listen without reacting. The strength to remain open in the face of insult or confusion.
Joyous effort is the fuel that keeps us going. It is not grim determination. It is delight in goodness. Enthusiasm for practice. Courage in the face of obstacles. Without joyous effort, we give up too soon.
Concentration is the gathering of the mind. In daily life, the mind scatters, here, there, a thousand places at once. With concentration, we bring it back. We train in mindfulness, in stillness, in presence. And in that presence, we prepare for the deepest wisdom.
Wisdom sees things as they are. It sees that all phenomena are empty of inherent existence. They arise in dependence. They change. They do not possess fixed identities. When we see this, our grasping begins to loosen. We stop clinging to things as solid, permanent, and real in the way we imagined.
This wisdom is not cold. It is freeing. It allows compassion to move more freely. It dissolves fear. It does not erase appearances, but it changes our relationship to them. We engage the world not as something to conquer or cling to, but as something to serve and understand.
These perfections are not linear stages. We cultivate them together, over a lifetime. We return to them again and again, each time more deeply. This is the way of the bodhisattva. And it is available to all of us.
I will continue with the final third of the teaching shortly, drawing together the reflections on practice, lineage, death, and legacy. Please pause here and let these words settle before we continue.
Now let us consider how these teachings unfold in our daily lives. Many people feel overwhelmed by the idea of spiritual practice. They imagine long retreats, perfect concentration, or complete renunciation. But the Lamrim shows us that practice begins exactly where we are. Each moment of kindness, each effort to restrain harmful speech, each choice to be mindful rather than distracted, these are the stepping stones of the path.
You don’t have to live in a monastery to train your mind. You can practice while walking, eating, cleaning, working, raising children. The key is intention. When we infuse daily activities with awareness and compassion, they become sacred. Sweeping the floor can be an offering. Listening patiently to someone’s struggle can be a form of generosity. Resisting the urge to speak harshly can be a great act of ethics.
We should not underestimate the power of small actions. When done consistently and with the wish to benefit others, these acts accumulate merit. Merit is not some abstract reward. It is the inner capacity to understand, to feel, to awaken. It clears the obscurations of the mind and creates the conditions for wisdom to arise.
At the same time, we must also purify. We all carry the weight of past actions, some remembered, some forgotten. Through practices like Vajrasattva meditation, confession with regret, and making offerings, we can purify these imprints. Purification is not about self-condemnation. It is an act of renewal. A way of saying: “I see clearly now. I choose differently.”
Alongside these practices, we maintain our connection to the lineage. The teachings we receive did not appear out of nowhere. They were passed down through generations of practitioners who devoted their lives to realization. When we study the Dharma, we are not alone. We are held by a great river of transmission that flows from the Buddha to our present teachers.
This lineage gives the teachings their authenticity. It reminds us that the path has been walked before. That awakening is possible. That we are part of something larger than ourselves. And that the guidance we receive is not mere philosophy, it is the distilled wisdom of centuries.
To deepen our trust, we reflect on the qualities of the teacher. A genuine spiritual teacher does not seek power, wealth, or fame. They seek only to benefit beings. Their life becomes a mirror of the teachings. Their words point beyond themselves. And their presence invites us to discover our own capacity for wisdom.
With devotion, we receive their instructions. Not blindly, but with open hearts. We test their words in our own experience. We meditate. We observe. We adjust. And gradually, confidence grows, not just in the teacher, but in the teachings and in our own potential.
As we progress, we face obstacles. Laziness, distraction, doubt, pride, discouragement, they all arise. This is natural. What matters is not that we are perfect, but that we do not give up. We acknowledge our difficulties. We apply antidotes. We seek support. And we keep going.
Sometimes the mind is clear. Sometimes it is cloudy. Sometimes we feel inspired. Sometimes we feel lost. But the path is long, and the weather will change. Our job is to stay the course.
Eventually, we come to the deeper practices, calm abiding (shamatha) and special insight (vipashyana). Shamatha trains the mind in stability. It develops the power of sustained attention. With it, we can calm the turbulence of thought and dwell in a state of relaxed clarity.
Vipashyana builds upon this foundation. It investigates the nature of reality. With refined attention, we examine the nature of self and phenomena. We begin to see their emptiness, not as a concept, but as a direct perception. This seeing changes everything. It cuts the root of suffering.
But even here, there is no pride. Realization brings humility. We see how much we do not know. We see the depth of others’ suffering. And our compassion grows. We become less interested in our own awakening and more devoted to the awakening of all beings.
This is the hallmark of a bodhisattva, not someone who has all the answers, but someone who refuses to abandon others. Someone who returns again and again to help, even after attaining great realization.
In the end, the path is simple. Not easy, but simple. Turn the mind toward virtue. Let go of what causes harm. Serve others. Study the teachings. Meditate. Be honest. Be kind. Keep going.
When death comes, and it will, we can look back without regret. We can say, “I used this life as best I could.” We can face the unknown with peace. And perhaps, if we have practiced well, we will carry the seeds of awakening into our next life.
Until then, we continue. We support one another. We rejoice in each other’s progress. We weep at each other’s pain. We share the burden. We celebrate the light. This is the sangha, the spiritual community. Not perfect people, but sincere companions.
May this teaching support your journey. May it bring clarity where there is confusion, courage where there is fear, peace where there is agitation. And may it remind you, always, that you are not alone.
The Dharma is vast. The mind is luminous. The path is open. Walk it well.
May all beings benefit.
Lotsawa Sherab
June 22, 2025
Via Zoom for the Romanian Community
The Garden of Maitreya 