There Are No Others

There’s a Hasidic story about a rabbi who asks his students, “How can you tell the exact line between night and day?”

“Is it the moment when you can see how many sheep graze on a hill?” a student asks.

“No,” says the rabbi.

“Is it the moment when you can see the difference between a fig tree and a peach tree?” another asks.

“No.”

“So what is it?”

“It’s the moment when you can look upon any woman or man and see your sister or brother,” the rabbi says. “Until then, you live in a world of perpetual night.”

This isn’t a sentimental story about loving everybody. It’s easy to love “people” in the abstract. It’s much harder to see THIS person in front of me, the one who may think, act, or vote differently, yet who is exactly like me in wanting to be happy, in wanting to make the most of this short life. It’s hard to see this person, because in the light, this person becomes my mirror, and I have to see myself. It’s easier to live in perpetual night.

The Buddha said we should practice for ourselves AND all beings. If you work on yourself only for yourself, you’ll see happiness as a scarce commodity you have to fight others for. If you work on yourself only for others, your own lack of wellbeing will cause you to become a burden on people. But if you practice for all beings, you’ll see that true happiness is always shared. It circulates. You might be the one working on your life, but your life doesn’t come from you, isn’t limited to you, and will be taken from you in just a short while.

Someone asked Ramana Maharshi, “How should we treat others?” He replied, “There are no others.” He didn’t mean that other people literally don’t exist. He meant that, in the end, what’s real is THIS next action, THIS next intention, which casts wide ripples out into the world. As my teacher says: your heart is a bell that never rings just for you. So take care of your heart. Ring the bells that still can ring.

Leon Zernitsky, "Baal Shem Tov" (2019)