Chapter 3The Defects of Samsara

We might imagine, having reflected on how rare and precious our human life is, and how swiftly death will claim it, that once we die it will all simply be over -- like a candle blown out by the wind, or water drying up in the sun. If that were the case, there would be nothing further to worry about. But the Buddhist teachings are very clear on this point: death is not the end. After we die, we do not dissolve into nothingness. We are compelled by the momentum of our actions to take birth again -- and that birth will happen somewhere within this vast, turning wheel we call samsara.

The word samsara literally means "going round and round." It is like a potter's wheel, or the great wheel of a water mill, spinning without pause. Think of a fly trapped inside a sealed jar. It buzzes frantically from one end to the other, up toward the lid and down to the bottom, but no matter where it goes, it never escapes. The upper part of the jar is like the higher realms -- the heavens of the gods, the comfortable lives of fortunate humans. The lower part is like the realms of intense suffering -- the hells, the world of hungry ghosts, the animal kingdom. Wherever we find ourselves within that jar, we remain imprisoned.

And we have been imprisoned for a very, very long time. Since beginningless time, we have wandered through these realms. Every being we encounter -- every person, every animal, every insect -- has, at some point in this endless journey, been our own dear mother or father. The great Nagarjuna once pointed out that if we tried to count back through our generations of mothers, using little pellets of earth the size of juniper berries, we would exhaust the entire earth before we finished counting. The tears we have shed from cold and hunger and thirst across all our lifetimes, if they had not dried up, would fill an ocean vaster than all the great oceans of this world combined. The limbs we have lost -- even just from lives as tiny insects -- would, if piled together, tower higher than Mount Meru.

Yet despite all of this, beings continue to wander. Driven by craving and attachment, never pausing to feel even an instant of genuine remorse, we accumulate still more causes for suffering.

Even if we were to gain, through some fortunate past action, the magnificent life of a great god -- seated on a jeweled throne, surrounded by every conceivable pleasure -- we could not hold onto it forever. The moment the merit runs out, we would plummet back down into the lower realms. Those very gods who illuminate the four continents with light can find themselves reborn in darkness so thick they cannot see their own hands. There is nothing in samsara worth placing our trust in.

The Realms of Intense Suffering

The Hell Realms

The traditional teachings describe eighteen hell realms in vivid, unflinching detail. These are not meant as mere mythology. They are contemplative tools -- ways of opening our hearts to the reality of suffering and the urgency of practice.

The eight hot hells are described as layered one above the other, each with ground and walls of white-hot iron where there is nowhere safe to step. In the first of these, beings who are driven there by the force of their own hatred perceive one another as mortal enemies. They fight and kill each other with phantom weapons conjured by their karma, and when they fall, a voice calls out commanding them to rise again -- and the whole terrible cycle begins anew. The lifespans in these realms are almost inconceivable, measured against the vast timescales of the gods.

In deeper hells, beings are marked with burning lines and sawn apart, only to become whole again and suffer the same fate over and over. They are crushed by mountains that take the shapes of the animals they once killed, ground in enormous iron mortars, roasted in buildings of molten metal from which there is no escape. They are boiled in vast cauldrons, impaled on tridents of blazing iron, and consumed by fire until their bodies become indistinguishable from the flames. In the deepest hell, every torment of the seven hells above converges at once, and the lifespan stretches across an entire intermediate kalpa.

Surrounding the deepest hell are the neighboring hells -- places where beings who have partially exhausted their karma emerge, only to stumble into pits of burning embers, swamps of decomposing corpses, plains bristling with razor-sharp blades, and forests whose branches are sharpened swords. There is also a terrible hill of iron trees, where those who broke vows of fidelity are lured up and down by visions of their former lovers, pierced through the body by leaves that reverse direction at each turning.

Then there are the eight cold hells -- realms of snow mountains, glaciers, and perpetual blizzards where beings, entirely naked, are tormented by cold so severe that their skin blisters, cracks, splits into petal-like fragments, and finally shatters into innumerable pieces while tiny creatures devour the exposed flesh. The lifespans here are measured by imagining a massive container filled with sesame seeds, from which a single seed is removed every hundred years.

Finally, there are the ephemeral hells, which appear in all sorts of unexpected places. Beings may find themselves trapped inside stones, frozen in ice, or identifying with objects that are constantly used and broken. The great siddha Lingje Repa was once gazing into Yamdrok Lake when he suddenly wept, crying out in anguish about the misuse of offerings. When his companions asked what he saw, he explained that a lama who had squandered the offerings entrusted to him had been reborn as an enormous fish in that lake -- a creature so vast it spanned the entire body of water, covered in tiny creatures devouring it alive. The lama had been called Tsangla Tanakchen, the Black Horse Lama from Tsang, a teacher whose speech had once carried tremendous blessing. But when performing funeral rites, he had demanded exorbitant payment in horses and cattle for each recitation.

Similarly, the great siddha Tangtong Gyalpo was once practicing yogic exercises on a large rock when the rock split open. Inside was a huge frog, its body crawling with small creatures eating it alive, its dark mouth opening and closing in unbearable pain. Tangtong Gyalpo told his companions that this being had once been a priest who sacrificed animals.

These stories are meant to bring the reality of karmic consequence close to our hearts. As Patrul Rinpoche reminds us, we should withdraw to a quiet place, close our eyes, and truly imagine ourselves in those realms. If even the thought of it fills us with terror, how much more unbearable would the actual experience be?

The Realm of the Hungry Ghosts

The hungry ghosts, or pretas, are beings consumed by a hunger and thirst they can never satisfy. Some wander for centuries without so much as hearing the word "water." When they glimpse a stream in the distance, they drag themselves toward it on limbs too fragile to support their enormous bellies -- only to arrive and find the riverbed bone dry. Orchards of fruit turn out to be withered husks. Food they spot from afar turns out to be guarded by armed sentries who beat them back.

Others have mouths no bigger than the eye of a needle and throats as narrow as a single hair. Even if they could somehow swallow a drop, the heat of their own breath would evaporate it before it reached their vast, country-sized stomachs. Whatever does reach them bursts into flame and burns their insides.

One of the most haunting stories from the sutras tells of the monk Srona traveling through the preta realm. He met a beautiful woman, adorned in jewels, seated on a throne to which four pretas were bound. She warned him not to share even a morsel of food with them. When he tried anyway, the food transformed -- into chaff for one, into a lump of iron for another, into the preta's own flesh for the third, and into pus and blood for the fourth. The woman explained that these four had been her husband, son, daughter-in-law, and servant. Each had reacted with anger or greed when she once offered food to the great sage Katyayana, and their own bitter words had become the seeds of their present torment. Their words had ripened into their very reality.

The primary cause of rebirth as a hungry ghost is stinginess -- hoarding what we have, resenting the generosity of others. We should reflect on how much suffering even a single morning without food and water causes us, and then try to fathom years or centuries of such deprivation.

The Animal Realm

We can see animal suffering with our own eyes, which makes this contemplation especially immediate. The oceans teem with creatures devouring one another -- larger ones swallowing smaller ones whole, smaller ones burrowing into the flesh of larger ones and feeding from the inside. Wild animals live in constant terror, unable to eat a single mouthful of food without watching for predators. Hawks kill small birds, small birds kill insects, and the cycle of hunting and being hunted never stops.

Domesticated animals fare no better. They are milked, loaded down, castrated, pierced through the nose, and yoked to the plough. When they can no longer work, they are sold off or slaughtered. Horses continue to be ridden even when their backs are open sores. What makes this realm especially poignant is that animals generally lack the intelligence to understand the causes of their suffering or to practice anything that might free them. Once born there, it is extraordinarily difficult to escape.

The Sufferings of the Higher Realms

We might expect that the higher realms -- the worlds of humans, demigods, and gods -- would at least offer some real happiness. But even here, suffering pervades everything.

Human Suffering

Human beings experience three fundamental types of suffering. The first is the suffering of change -- the way happiness suddenly turns into pain. One moment we feel perfectly well after a good meal; the next, we are doubled over with stomach cramps. We are celebrating good fortune, and then a fire destroys our home, or we receive devastating news.

The second is suffering upon suffering -- the way misfortunes pile on top of one another before the first has passed. We fall ill, and then we are injured on top of our illness. We lose a parent, and then another loved one dies soon after.

The third and most subtle is the suffering of everything composite. Even when things seem to be going well, we are thoroughly immersed in the causes of future suffering. Patrul Rinpoche offers a remarkable analysis of this, tracing the suffering hidden in something as simple as a cup of tea or a handful of tsampa. Growing tea involves the killing of countless small creatures. Transporting it breaks the backs of porters and pack animals. Trading it involves deception and broken promises. Even butter and milk -- foods we consider pure -- come at a cost: baby animals are separated from their mothers before they can nurse, tied up with ropes so that their rightful food can be stolen. By spring, the mothers are so weakened they can barely stand, and the young have mostly starved. Everything that seems to bring us comfort in this life, when examined closely, is produced through a web of harmful actions whose consequences will ripen in the future.

Beyond these three overarching types, there are the four great rivers of suffering that every human must navigate: birth, old age, sickness, and death.

Birth itself is suffering. The consciousness entering the womb passes through the painful stages of embryonic development, trapped in that dark, suffocating space. When the mother eats hot food, the fetus feels scorched; when she eats cold food, it feels plunged into freezing water. The process of being born is an agony in itself, with both mother and child, as Guru Rinpoche said, going halfway to the land of death.

Old age creeps upon us while we are busy with our endless, unfinished tasks. Our eyes dim, our hearing fails, our memory falters. Milarepa captured it perfectly in his song to the old woman: rising from the ground is like pulling a peg from hard earth; walking is like stalking a bird; sitting down is like a sack crashing to the floor when its strap breaks. Our skin hangs in wrinkles, our bones protrude, everyone scorns us, and the closer we come to death, the more terrified we become.

Sickness strikes without warning. However young and vital we may be, illness can crumple us in an instant, like a small bird struck by a stone. We sink into our bedding, unable to find comfort. Days feel endless. We endure bitter medicines and painful treatments, haunted by the fear that this sickness may be our last.

And then death itself arrives. We collapse into our final bed, unable to rise. Family and friends gather around, but they cannot delay our departure even by a moment. We leave utterly alone, unable to take a single possession. The dying person who has not practiced the Dharma is seized with regret, terrified by premonitions of the lower realms.

Beyond these four, humans suffer from the fear of meeting enemies, the anguish of losing loved ones, the frustration of never getting what they want, and the helplessness of encountering what they do not want. Our children, as Milarepa sang, begin as charming little gods we adore, then grow into fierce demanders who are never satisfied, and finally become like distant neighbors. Our friends flock to us in prosperity but treat us as enemies the moment we fall on hard times.

The Asura Realm

The demigods enjoy pleasures nearly rivaling those of the gods, but they are consumed by jealousy. Looking upward, they see the wealth of the divine realms -- fed by a wish-fulfilling tree whose roots happen to grow in their own territory -- and they are filled with unbearable resentment. They wage war on the gods again and again, but the gods tower over them in size and possess divine ambrosia that heals their wounds instantly. The demigods, who die like humans from any vital wound, are slaughtered by the hundreds of thousands. Their existence is an unbroken cycle of envy, conflict, and defeat.

The God Realm

At first glance, the gods seem to have everything. They enjoy perfect health, extraordinary beauty, limitless pleasure, and lifespans that can stretch across entire kalpas. But this is precisely their trap. They are so intoxicated by comfort that the thought of practicing the Dharma never once arises. They spend their entire existence in distraction, and then, with shocking suddenness, death finds them.

Five ominous signs announce a god's approaching death: the radiance that once surrounded his body grows dim; his throne, where he once sat in perfect ease, becomes uncomfortable; his flower garlands, which never faded, begin to wither; his garments, always fresh, become filthy and begin to smell; his body, which never perspired, begins to sweat.

When these signs appear, the god knows he is dying, and his agony is immense. His divine companions can no longer bear to come near. They throw flowers from a distance, calling out, "May you be reborn among the humans! May you do good deeds and return to us!" And then they abandon him. Utterly alone, the dying god gazes with his divine eye toward his next rebirth. If it is in a realm of suffering, the torment of his fall overwhelms him even before his present life has ended. The mental anguish of this double suffering -- looking back at all the happiness he is losing, looking ahead at the suffering he must face -- is said to exceed even the torments of the hells.

In the two highest divine realms, there are no obvious sufferings of death and transmigration. But when the merit that placed those gods there is finally exhausted, they simply fall into the lower realms as though waking from a dream.

The Essence of the Teaching

Wherever we look across these six realms, from the summit of existence down to the deepest hell, there is not even a pinpoint of real, lasting happiness. As the great master Padmasambhava said, should we happen to find even a small measure of happiness within samsara, it will inevitably contain within it the suffering of change. It is like a pit of fire, or an island of murderous ogresses -- there is no safety anywhere.

The purpose of contemplating all this is not to make ourselves miserable. It is to wake us up. It is to develop what the tradition calls disenchantment -- that clear, honest seeing that recognizes samsara for what it is. This is not depression or nihilism. It is the beginning of wisdom.

The great Geshe Langri Thangpa was known for his perpetually solemn expression. When one of his attendants told him that people called him "Gloomy-face," he replied simply, "How could my face be bright and cheery when I think about all the suffering in the three worlds of samsara?" It is said that Langri Thangpa smiled only once in his life. He was watching a mouse trying to move a turquoise that sat upon his mandala offering. The turquoise was too heavy for the little creature, so it squeaked, calling for help, and a second mouse came running. One pushed while the other pulled, and together they moved the stone. That made Langri Thangpa smile.

This meditation on the sufferings of samsara is not merely one practice among many. It is the very ground from which all the qualities of the path spring. It turns our minds toward the Dharma. It gives us confidence in the principle of cause and effect. It loosens our grip on the pursuits of this life. And it awakens love and compassion for all beings who are caught, as we have been, in this endless round.

The Buddha himself, in each of the three turnings of the wheel of Dharma, began with these words: "Monks, this life is suffering." He did not say this to discourage us. He said it because recognizing the truth of suffering is the doorway to freedom.

There is a story about the great Indian master Atisha. As he was nearing the end of his life, a yogi came to him and asked, "After you have gone, should I meditate?" Atisha replied, "Even if you do, will it really be the Dharma?" The yogi tried again: "Well then, should I teach?" Again, the same response. Bewildered, the yogi asked, "Then what should I do?" Atisha answered, "Renounce this life."

Similarly, a monk once approached Geshe Tonpa at Radreng Monastery while circumambulating the temple. Tonpa said to him, "Circumambulating is a fine thing, but would it not be better to practice the real Dharma?" The monk switched to reading sutras. Again Tonpa said, "Reading is a fine thing, but would it not be better to practice the real Dharma?" The monk took up meditation. Once more Tonpa said, "Meditation is a fine thing, but would it not be better to practice the real Dharma?" At last, desperate, the monk asked, "Then what should I do?" And Geshe Tonpa replied, "Renounce this life. Renounce this life."

The story of the Buddha's cousin Nanda brings this teaching home with particular power. Nanda was deeply attached to his beautiful wife and had no interest in spiritual practice. Through skillful means, the Buddha managed to ordain him as a monk, but Nanda's heart was not in it. He was on the verge of running away when the Buddha miraculously transported him to the top of a snow mountain and showed him a one-eyed monkey. "Who is more beautiful," the Buddha asked, "this monkey or your wife?" Nanda scoffed -- his wife was a hundred times more lovely. "Very well," said the Buddha, "let us visit the realm of the gods."

In the divine realm, Nanda wandered through palace after palace, each filled with goddesses of breathtaking beauty. In one palace, however, there were many goddesses but no god. They told him that a cousin of the Buddha named Nanda was keeping monastic discipline, and when his merit ripened, this palace would be his. Overjoyed, Nanda threw himself into practice. But the Buddha told the other monks that Nanda was practicing only for divine pleasures, not true liberation, and instructed them to shun him. Even his brother Ananda walked away.

Heartbroken, Nanda was finally taken by the Buddha to visit the hell realms. There, amid unimaginable suffering, he came upon an enormous empty cauldron with a blazing fire inside it, surrounded by the minions of the Lord of Death. When he asked why no one was in the pot, they told him, "There is a young cousin of the Buddha called Nanda who is keeping monastic discipline in order to be reborn among the gods. After he enjoys the happiness of that celestial realm and his merit is exhausted, he will be reborn right here."

Terror pierced Nanda to the core. He saw, in a flash, the complete futility of pursuing pleasure even in the highest realms when it all inevitably leads back to suffering. From that moment on, he practiced with genuine renunciation, and the Buddha eventually praised him as the disciple with the finest mastery over the doors of the senses.

We do not need to visit the hells with our own eyes. Even a vivid contemplation is enough to shift something deep within us. As Nagarjuna said, if merely seeing paintings of the hells or hearing descriptions of them fills us with such dread, what will we do when we face the full, inescapable results of our own actions?

The message is clear: whatever Dharma we practice, if we do not first develop a genuine recognition that samsara is suffering, our practice will lack depth and power. But once that recognition takes root -- once we truly see that there is nothing in these three worlds worth clinging to -- then turning toward liberation becomes as natural as breathing. Compassion for all beings arises on its own. The determination to practice becomes unshakable.

As Padampa Sangye counseled: material possessions are like clouds and mist -- never imagine they might last. Friends and family are like birds gathered on a branch -- do not cling. You will not be here long. Practice now, without delay.