When we think about Buddhism, we often think about meditation—sitting, being mindful, contemplating. But that’s only part of the perspective. These teachings also have a lot to do with relationship: how we relate, how we manifest ourselves in the world, how we are with other beings. They encompass all parts of our lives — how we work, what we say, what we think, how we act. They’re really a whole-life practice, not just one part of our lives.
With that being said, I’d like to share about what are called the Ten Pāramīs in Buddhism. One translation of pāramī is “perfection,” and that can sound a little intimidating. I like to think of the pāramīs as more of aspirations — something we’re living every day, especially if we make them part of our conscious practice. They’re not necessarily a noun; they’re more of a verb. To practice the pāramīs reverently, with some energy, opens our human capacity for compassion and wisdom, and they also serve as a path to liberation. They helps us let go of some of the things that get in the way in our lives.
The particular pāramīs that I’d like to focus on now, to me, are like bookends—ones that focus a little more on the relational aspects of practice. They are the first two, generosity and ethical conduct, and the last two, loving-kindness and equanimity. As we practice these, they relate with each other—both in sequence and cross-sequence. They don’t necessarily come in order. There’s a circularity to them. Sometimes one affects another. They can be organic if we allow them to be in our lives by noticing how they manifest in our everyday lives and relationships.
And these pāramīs are non-obligatory. They’re not something we have to do. They’re something we choose to do—like this whole path, this whole practice. We don’t have to do it. It’s not fundamentalism. If we don’t do this, it’s not that something terrible is going to happen. It’s a choice we all make. And I hope it’s one we make out of respect, and something skillful that grows within us.
So the first one: generosity. The Pali word for generosity is dāna. If you donate when you register for a meditation class, or give of your time—that’s dāna. That’s a form of generosity. But it’s really more than just an act of giving. It’s an opening of the heart and of letting go. Letting go of holding onto money or things, but particularly of letting go of wanting — grapsing — everything for ourselves. It’s a cultivation of the perspective that others are important in our lives and in the world.
In Southeast Asia, practitioners are encouraged to practice dāna before they ever start meditating. It’s so important in the tradition there to start with giving, not with focusing solely inward—to reach outside of yourself, to establish connection outside of yourself, to support and care for others, before you even start turning inward.
It can be really easy to become self-obsessed with cultivating generosity in a way that benefits you and doesn’t have other people’s benefit at the center of it. I don’t know if you’ve ever done this before—given something because it’s going to make you look good. I’ve done that, particularly earlier in my life. I wanted recognition. I wanted a name on a plaque or some kind of certificate. That’s not at the heart of dāna. Dāna is given without any expectation of return. It’s completely free and open giving, unburdened by any idea that this is going to come back and help me.
This is something we can practice with. We can develop it by noticing the ways that we get in our own way. Do we block our own pure heart by having some expectation other than giving for care, kindness, or support? As a pāramī, dāna is non-obligatory—completely voluntary. And another thing that can happen is that when we give, we feel it as an obligation, or we do it resentfully. I’ve done this before too. This is just an invitation to notice that these things can arise. True generosity is not self-aggrandizing. It’s not selfish. It’s completely voluntary and open.
The next of these pāramī “bookends” is ethical conduct. This is the aspiration to live in a way that doesn’t harm other beings. How can I live my life in a way that doesn’t contribute to suffering? There are five precepts often offered: to abstain from killing, stealing, sexual misconduct, false speech, and substances that cloud the mind. What matters to me is doing things thoughtlessly, heedlessly, or with malice. Each of us needs to explore how this lands in our own life.
The relational aspect is to refrain from harming. And in doing so, we also refrain from harming ourselves by acting out of alignment with our deepest values. Most of us know what that feels like—we feel it in the body. The practice is to notice, set intentions, and keep learning when we make mistakes. It’s a path of unfolding and growth.
On the other side are the bookends of loving-kindness and equanimity. Mettā can be translated as loving-kindness, kindness, or goodwill—simple goodwill toward other beings. This can be practiced formally or lived in everyday life. Kindness isn’t always soft. It can be fierce and protective. When kindness meets suffering, that’s compassion. And when we can celebrate others’ joy without envy, that’s kindness too.
Equanimity is the ability to remain balanced when things are going sideways. Life moves through gain and loss, praise and blame, pleasure and pain. Equanimity is not indifference—it’s a deep concern rooted in compassion and wisdom. It offers perspective, reminding us that sometimes we’re at the bottom of the wave, sometimes at the top, but eventually we glimpse the horizon.
Each of us has good qualities we can practice with and develop, sometimes on our own, sometimes in community. This is what inspires me to practice and to teach. And the science supports this too: generosity and gratitude actually shape our minds toward contentment and goodwill. So I hope something about these bookends—the front and the back of the pāramīs—might inspire you, in how you relate to others and to your own experience, and in developing an open heart and a wise mind.
Warmly,
JD