Is That All There Is?

The Question That Launched a Zillion Spiritual Paths

I’m fond of funny mahavakyas (great utterances), and cartoonists can sometimes be sages. The cartoon above, which I clipped from a Facebook post, put me in mind of something I’ve observed in the hundreds of interviews I’ve done with spiritual seekers, teachers, leaders, and experts of different kinds. In response to my question about the origins of their spiritual quests, I’ve heard an extraordinary variety of stories. They tend to fall into a few general categories.

One is the spontaneous spiritual experience—an unanticipated moment of transcendence, what some traditions call Grace, that is so luminous, so exalted, and so satisfying that one is compelled to find out exactly what happened and how to replicate the experience, hopefully in a lasting manner.

Another category is tragedy. It might be a serious illness or permanent disability, or the loss of a loved one, or sudden financial ruin, or a natural disaster that destroys homes and families—the kind of upheaval that triggers Book of Job-like anguish and causes one to question their cherished assumptions and philosophies. What’s it all about?

A third category is basically the opposite of tragedy: people who, like the canine monk in the cartoon, obtain everything they thought they needed to lead a good life— spouse, kids, home, career, achievements, financial security, leisure time, etc.—only to find that they’re still discontent. OMG, retrieving tennis balls isn’t enough!

For sensitive, perceptive souls, that realization leads to “Is that all there is?” and the beginning of a search for what else there might be. A whole lot of sparkling spiritual journeys, including those of some of history’s greatest luminaries, have started that way, with privilege, good fortune, and uncommon blessings that sour in time.

As it happens, I’m reading about one of them. The child who became St. Francis of Assisi was born into wealth. As a young man he was blessed with intelligence, resourceful skills, and a winning personality. He was as admired and popular as he was affluent. He had a lot going for him. It wasn’t enough. He thought glory in war would do it, but that didn’t work out either. Like the cartoon dog and a whole lot of human beings before and since, he came to realize that the joy and satisfaction that come from fulfilling desires inevitably fade—sometimes slowly and gradually, sometimes shockingly fast—and the mind moves on to the next bauble, the next thrill, the next amusement, the next delight. Rinse and repeat.

Round and round we go. Some stay on the wheel like hamsters, chasing one craving after another, often dying with regret. Others step off the wheel and search for a deeper, more enduring source of fulfillment. That’s what we call the spiritual path. It comes in myriad forms, of course. It could be said that there are an infinite number of paths, one for each of us because, despite external similarities, everyone is on a road of his or her own making. (How would you describe yours?) But the direction of any authentic spiritual path is always the same: inward. We direct our senses outward, move our bodies here and there, point our minds at various sources of wisdom and our hearts toward particular objects of devotion. But the real direction is internal, and the real aim is inner transformation. Sooner or later, it becomes clear that ultimate peace, contentment, joy, and happiness have always been and will always be at the core of Being itself.

Francis turned to a life of renunciation, rather spectacularly. He was what Hindus would call a bhakta, a lover of the Divine in both its transcendent oneness and its immanent expression in multiple forms: Brother Sun, Sister Moon, Brother Wind, Sister Water, and all the fauna and flora he famously adored. (Read Francis’s Canticle of the Sun, aka Canticle of the Creatures here.) He was also a karma yogi, selflessly ministering to the destitute and the afflicted.

Another child of privilege, in a different time and place, also became a historically momentous renunciate. We call him the Buddha, the Awakened One, and he articulated the human condition described above (and in the cartoon) in his Four Noble Truths. The first is frequently interpreted as “life is suffering,” and facile commentators leave it at that, forgetting about the other Noble Truths, thereby making Buddha sound like a depressing pessimist instead of the agent of liberation he was. In place of “suffering” many translate the Pali term dukkha (Sanskrit duhkha) as discontentment or dissatisfaction. This points to what we described above: the impermanence baked into existence and the fleeting nature of external sources of happiness. In the second of the four truths, Buddha locates the source of discontent in craving or grasping. The solution, he said, was the cessation of craving, and he outlined in his Eightfold Path methods for doing so and achieving, in the end, the state known as enlightenment, awakening, liberation, and other such terms.

It's pleasant to think of Francis and the Buddha (along with all the other seers, sages, and saints) enjoying a good laugh watching us foolish humans strut about enmeshed in our cravings, and perhaps shedding tears that so few of us pay attention to their example. But many of us have heard the message and are carving out our paths as best we can, not by renouncing worldly life but while playing our roles in the everyday drama.

It’s a long and winding road, and we need reminders to keep us moving in the right direction. That cartoon is a reminder to keep on asking Is that all there is?