I recently returned from Maui, where I co-taught a retreat with old friends Ram Dass, Krishna Das, and Mirabai Bush. I’ve known each of them since I first learned meditation in January 1971 in Bodhgaya, India.

When the Buddha introduced the idea of intention 2,500 years ago, the prevalent social structure in India was the caste system.

Most of us are familiar with the strange, addictive quality of anger — the rush of energy we seem to sometimes need to protest, to point out unpalatable truths, to draw a line — and also the chronic overlay that anger can become, as we fall into isolation and bitterness.

In Buddhist teachings, you will see an image of a feather, held near a flame, curling away from the heat. Traditionally, this image is supposed to represent morality. We are reluctant to be the cause of suffering.

In Hinduism, there is a tradition of offering your heart to a personal deity from amongst the pantheon of gods and goddesses. That deity is known as an ishta dev.

A hope to not be ruled by guilt is not to say that there is never a time and a place for recognizing things we have done wrong.

I often think about a memorable conversation I had with His Holiness the Dalai Lama in 1990 while we were at a small conference in India sponsored by the Mind & Life Institute.

In the process of writing my next book Real Love, I’ve found myself asking students, friends, and colleagues about their associations between the words “attachment” and “love.” Too often, we confuse love with attachment — a state of mind characterized by clinginess, greed, and the impulse to possess.

When I first began studying with the Burmese master Sayadaw U Pandita, I had been practicing meditation for 14 years. He was a powerful teacher with a rigorous pedagogy, requiring that each student meet with him one-on-one six days a week for interviews to describe our meditation experiences to him.

The evening of the Pope’s appearance in Central Park, I went to a local coffee shop for dinner. The place was packed. It seemed to me that everyone — aside from me — had come from lining up for many hours in Central Park to have a glimpse of the pontiff.

The word dukkha in Pali, the language of the original Buddhist texts, refers to the pain that arises out of the ungovernable nature of events in our lives.

The book I’m currently writing is called Real Love. I seem to choose topics that are pretty lofty, so my continual need is to try to stay grounded and keep my writing as “real” as possible.

The widespread use of the words “meditation” and “mindfulness” is continuing apace, a trend that of course I find very gratifying — and also sometimes amusing and even bewildering.

Last fall, I traveled to Santa Fe, New Mexico to attend a retreat with the Tibetan Buddhist teacher Tsoknyi Rinpoche. Several of us on the retreat were staying at hotels apart from the Zen center where the course was held.

Life is so fleeting. This past week, for the very first time, I received a senior discount. On an Amtrak train.

I attended the wedding of a friend’s daughter recently, chatting with someone who, like me, was of Jewish origin and had long been practicing meditation techniques carried by Buddhist lineages.

The stories told by others about us — from teachers and mentors to bosses, colleagues, or fellow students — can have an enormous impact on how we perceive ourselves.

I see forgiveness as a difficult and noble action — not a weak one, not a surrender or a capitulation. Of course, we can confuse it with giving in, with giving up our standards or principles, as tantamount to forcing amnesia.

I clearly remember the Cuban missile crisis from my childhood. It was a 13-day confrontation between the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. over Soviet ballistic missiles deployed in Cuba.

This year marks the 20th anniversary of the publication of my first book, Lovingkindness. For years before 1995, I had very much wanted to write that book in order to highlight the distinct methodology of lovingkindness meditation.