clinging

Mythbusting the Buddha as a prince

January 17, 2025

Many Americans like to “do” a Scottish accent. These attempts all sound the same, but none of them are particularly like an actual Scottish person. The thing is that when an American does a Scottish accent, they are not imitating any Scot they have ever heard — they are imitating another American doing a Scottish accent. Who is in turn imitating another American doing a Scottish accent. And so on…

The American “Scottish” accent has become its own thing, rather detached from the reality of how Scots actually speak.

The stereotypical Buddha story

Something similar happens with books and articles about the Buddha. Over and over you’ll come across accounts like this:

The Buddha was born as Siddhartha Gotama. His father was a king, and wanting him to assume the throne when he was older, he kept the young Siddhartha from contact with the world, surrounding him in luxury in three palaces that he was not allowed to leave.
But Siddhartha was very curious, and persuaded his charioteer to take him out into the surrounding town. There, Siddhartha saw, for the first time, an old man. He was shocked by this, but his charioteer told him that this was the fate of everyone. On two subsequent trips, Siddhartha was again shocked by seeing a sick man and a corpse. Again, his charioteer informed him that this was the fate of us all — Siddhartha included.
On a fourth trip, Siddhartha saw a holy man walking through the town, serene and calm, and he knew that spiritual practice was his only hope for finding meaning and mental peace in this impermanent world. So in the dead of night he sneaked out of the palace and “went forth” into the holy life.

This is something I put together myself, rather than being a quote from any book or article, but I’m sure you’ve seen something like it many times.

The thing is, almost none of it is true — or at least, if you look at the scriptures you’ll either fail to find evidence for it or will find evidence that directly contradicts it.

Many books and articles on the Buddha and his teachings are a bit like the American “Scottish” accent I described: they are imitations of other books and articles, which are themselves imitations of other books and articles, probably going back to the late 19th century, when people in the west started to take Buddhism seriously, having realized that the Buddha was a historical figure, like Plato or Socrates, and not a mythic one, like Zeus or Odin. Like the American “Scottish” accent these accounts have developed a life of their own, and bear only a passing resemblance to the real thing — and in the case of the Buddha, the closest we have to a “real thing” is the early scriptures.

Usually we learn these stereotypical accounts long before we encounter those scriptures. And having already been told that the Buddha’s father was a king, we read accounts of Suddhodana and imagine him in a palace, surrounded by advisers and courtiers. As we read the scriptures, we see things that aren’t in them. Our original understanding of who the Buddha was remains untouched.

The Buddha was not a prince, because his dad wasn’t a king

Today I want to clarify that Suddhodana wasn’t a king, and Sakya, the territory he lived in, wasn’t a kingdom. I’ll deal with some of the other misconceptions in later articles.

Sakya, like some of its neighbors, was a republic, governed by a council of elders. It didn’t have a king. Therefore, the Buddha wasn’t a prince.

There were both monarchies and republics in north-east India at the Buddha’s time. In the map below, Kosala was a kingdom, ruled by Pasenadi and later by his patricidal son, Vidudabha. The Sakyans and their neighbors, the Koliyans and Mallas were republics.

The republics were not democracies, where everyone had a say, but oligarchies (government by the few), where the heads of the most powerful families were in charge of government. There was a council of elders that made decisions, sometimes witnessed by a wider assembly that represented other families and perhaps trade groups who wanted to ensure that their interests were represented.

The leader of the council was not a king. They had the title “raja,” but not “maharaja,” which was what kings like Pasenadi and Vidudabha were called. Raja, in this context, meant something more like “chief,” because the countries that had a republican form of government were not socially or technologically well-developed.

Sakya wasn’t all that

A priest from Kosala gave a very unflattering outsider’s portrait of the Buddha’s people: “The Sakyans are rude, harsh, touchy, and argumentative. Primitive they are, and primitive they remain!” He was of course prejudiced.

Sakya was not a rich territory. It was rural and relatively poor. Its council would have met in a wood-and-mud hut that didn’t at all resemble a royal palace. In fact, excavations in Tilaurakot (the likely site of Kapilavastu, Sakya’s ancient capital) have revealed no palaces or impressive buildings at all from the time of the Buddha. The richest people there — like the Buddha and his folk — lived in wooden longhouses in which the animals were kept on the ground floor with the family living above. The most impressive buildings were made of mud bricks. The city was defended with a wooden palisade.

This was very different from how the leaders in the nearby monarchies lived. In the kingdom of Kosala, the king lived in an actual palace and had a standing army, which is something Sakya lacked. Standing armies were how kings (and the lands they governed) became rich. They could conquer neighboring lands, seize their wealth, and demand taxes.

One important scripture describes how the Buddha, as a boy, sat under a tree while his father plowed a field. It’s likely that, as a landowner, this is something that Suddhodana actually did. Some people explain this scene as being ceremonial, like the tree-planting or foundation-stone laying of a modern monarch. But what the Buddha-to-be did under the tree was to slip into a natural state of meditation, which isn’t very compatible with a regal event, which would be likely to include an audience, speeches, religious ceremonies, and men blowing on conch shells. It makes perfect sense, though, if we imagine a quiet rural scene with the head of the household doing his daily work.

How did people come to see the Buddha as a prince?

If the Buddha wasn’t a prince, how did people come to think of him that way?

Accounts of the of the Buddha as a prince arose just a few hundred years after his death.

While the Buddha was still alive, the republics were vassal states of the much more powerful monarchies. Shortly after his death, Sakya was brutally invaded by the Kosalan king, Vidudabha. Eventually monarchism became the only form of government people knew. After a few hundred years of monastic rule, people would largely have forgotten that there had ever been an alternative. So when people thought about past nations, they thought about them as having kings.

The reality is that Buddha left the wood-and-mud home where he lived above the livestock and became a religious wanderer. This is significant, but it’s not as dramatic as if he’s seen as a prince renouncing the throne. That’s a much larger sacrifice to make, and proves him to be a man capable of great things.

Clinging to beliefs

If you’ve believed the myth of the Buddha being a prince because you’ve been told it over and over, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s natural to believe what seemingly reliable sources tell us. Especially if lots of people are saying the same thing.

Maybe you still don’t believe me, but if you investigate the history of Sakya and the other north Indian republics you’ll realize that the Buddha wasn’t and couldn’t have been a prince.

Maybe you’ll be grateful to have a more accurate perspective on history.

But some people get angry when it’s pointed out that they’ve believed a myth. Sometimes that’s because, despite what they may say to the contrary, they have a “religious” view of Buddhism, meaning that, despite anything they say to the contrary, they treat Buddhism as a series of propositions to be believed. The person who points out their mistake is treated just as any blasphemer in any religion is treated. They are insulted, told to shut up, and told they know nothing.

Or sometimes we just don’t like to admit we’ve been wrong. That’s an ego thing, and it’s what we’re trying to get away from. Not clinging to beliefs was an important strand of the Buddha’s early teachings. Of course he stressed this precisely because we do tend to cling to what we believe. But it’s ironic when people emphasize that they’re the most faithful at practicing the Dharma (i.e. the Buddha’s teachings) by refusing to let go of a belief that’s demonstrably false. And when they accuse people of being “bad Buddhists” for following the Buddha’s teaching.

Why does it matter?

Truthfulness is fundamental to being an ethical person. If we are not prepared to face the truth, then we won’t live ethically, because it’s more “efficient” to do bad things and then just lie about them to ourselves and others. it’s efficient because it means we don’t have to expend as much effort.

The ethical thing to do when we realize we’ve inadvertently been passing on misinformation is to correct ourselves. When people refuse to do that it’s usually to do with believing, erroneously, that correcting yourself is a sign of weakness, which in turn is because of ego-clinging, which is what we’re trying to get away from. So having realized something is untruthful, the ethical thing is just to let go of it.

The opposite of defensiveness is humility, which is a powerful spiritual virtue. Humility allows us to recognize when we’ve been wrong, and to admit it. Humility is the practice of radical self-honesty.

Also, I believe that recognizing the truth of who the Buddha was brings us closer to him. Building up the Buddha’s going forth into a heroic act of renouncing the equivalent of multi-millionaire status might be intended to inspire us — “If he can give up all that, you can give up much less.” But it also makes the Buddha seem fundamentally different from us. His biography becomes a fairy-tale. He becomes, on some level, not real.

A mythic Buddha is one we can worship from afar, across a great gulf. To me, at least, a real, flesh-and-bones human being is one I can empathize with, understand, and feel close to.

The Buddha was very real. He watched his father plow fields. He sat in wood-and-mud-walled meeting halls listening to old men drone on about sacrificial ceremonies, and water rights, and disputes about cattle trespassing on fields. And he decided (why is something I’ll discuss later, and it had nothing to do with seeing four sights) that this wasn’t for him, and that he would seek the truth. And having found the truth, he taught this:

Herein someone avoids false speech and abstains from it. He speaks the truth, is devoted to truth, reliable, worthy of confidence, not a deceiver of people. Being at a meeting, or amongst people, or in the midst of his relatives, or in a society, or in the king’s court, and called upon and asked as witness to tell what he knows, he answers, if he knows nothing: “I know nothing,” and if he knows, he answers: “I know”; if he has seen nothing, he answers: “I have seen nothing,” and if he has seen, he answers: “I have seen.” Thus he never knowingly speaks a lie, either for the sake of his own advantage, or for the sake of another person’s advantage, or for the sake of any advantage whatsoever.

Those are words to live by, and to be remembered when we talk about the Buddha’s status in the republic of Sakya.

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If you let go completely, you will be completely happy

April 16, 2015

Rick Hanson PhD

on practice

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What are you holding onto?

I’ve done a lot of rock climbing, so I know firsthand the importance sometimes of not letting go! This applies to other things as well: keeping hold of a child’s hand while crossing the street, staying true to your ethics in a tricky situation, or sustaining attention to your breath while meditating.

On the other hand, think of all the stuff – both physical and nonphysical – we cling to that creates problems for us and others: clutter in the home, “shoulds,” rigid opinions, resentments, regrets, status, guilt, resistance to the facts on the ground, needing to be one-up with others, the past, people who are gone, bad habits, hopeless guests, unrewarding relationships, and so on.

Letting go can mean several things: releasing pain; dropping thoughts, words, and deeds that cause suffering and harm; yielding rather than breaking; surrendering to the way it is, like it or not; allowing each moment to pass away without trying to hold on to it; accepting the permanently impermanent nature of existence; and relaxing the sense of self and opening out into the wider world.

Living in this way is relaxing, decreases hassles and conflicts, reduces stress, improves mood and well-being, and grounds you in reality as it is. And it’s a key element, if you like, of spiritual practice. To quote Ajahn Chah, a major Buddhist teacher who lived in Thailand:

If you let go a little, you will have a little happiness.
If you let go a lot, you will have a lot of happiness.
If you let go completely, you will be completely happy.

Appreciate the wisdom of letting go, and notice any resistance to it: perhaps it seems weak to you, foolish, or against the culture of your gender or personal background. For example, I remember talking with my friend John years ago about a woman he’d been pursuing who’d made it clear she wasn’t interested, and he felt frustrated and hurt. I said maybe he should surrender and move on – to which John replied fiercely, “I don’t do surrender.” It took him a while to get past his belief that surrender – acceptance, letting go – meant you were wimping out. (All ended happily with us getting drunk together and him throwing up on my shoe – which I then had to surrender to!) It takes strength to let go, and fortitude, character, and insight. When you let go, you’re like a supple and resilient willow tree that bends before the storm, still here in the morning – rather than a stiff oak that ends up broken and toppled over.

Be aware of the letting go that happens naturally all day long such as, releasing objects from your hands, hanging up the phone, pushing send on an e-mail, moving from one thought or feeling to another in your mind, saying bye to a friend, shifting plans, using the bathroom, changing a TV channel, or emptying the trash. Notice that letting go is all right, that you keep on going, that it’s necessary and beneficial. Become more comfortable with letting go.

Consciously let go of tension in your body. Exhale long and slowly, activating the relaxing parasympathetic nervous system. Let go of holding in your belly, shoulders, jaws, and eyes.

Clear out possessions you don’t use or need. Let in how great it feels to finally have some room in your closet, drawers, or garage.

Pick a dumb idea you’ve held on to way too long – one for me would be that I have to do things perfectly or there’ll be a disaster. Practice dropping this idea and replacing it with better ones (like for me: “Nobody is perfect and that’s okay”).

Pick a grievance, grudge, or resentment – and resolve to move on. This does not necessarily mean letting other people off the moral hook, just that you are letting yourself off the hot plate of staying upset about whatever happened. If feelings such as hurt still come up about the issue, be aware of them, be kind to yourself about them, and then gently encourage them out the door.

Letting go of painful emotions is a big subject, with lots of resources for you in books such as Focusing, by Eugene Gendlin, or What We May Be, by Piero Ferrucci. Here’s a summary of methods I like: relax your body; imagine that the feelings are flowing out of you like water; vent in a letter you’ll never send, or out loud someplace appropriate; get things off your chest with a good friend; take in positive feelings to soothe and gradually replace the painful ones.

In general, let things be pleasant without grasping after them; let things be unpleasant without resisting them; let things be neutral without prodding them to get pleasant. Letting go undoes the craving and clinging that lead to suffering and harm.

Let go of who you used to be. Let yourself learn, grow, and therefore change.

Let go of each moment as it disappears beneath your feet. It’s gone as soon as you’re aware of it, like a snowflake melting as soon as you see its shape. You can afford to abide as letting go because of the miracle – which no scientist fully understands – that the next moment continually emerges as the previous one vanishes, all within the infinitely tiny duration of Now.

The Third Noble Truth – the Noble Truth of the end of suffering

December 15, 2014

Rick Hanson PhD

on practice

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The Third Noble Truth comes directly from the Second one: The end of suffering comes with the end of clinging.

As Achaan Chah said, “If you let go a little, you’ll have a little happiness. If you let go a lot, you’ll have a lot of happiness. If you let go completely . . . you’ll be completely happy.”

You can do this at the macro level, in letting go regarding lights turning green, or payments arriving, or your teenage children giving you a hug. Sure, you’d like things to turn out well, and that’s fine. You take practical steps toward them turning out well, and that’s also fine. But you can simultaneously have a peaceful, accepting attitude about however it turns out.

The Noble Truth of Suffering
The Noble Truth of the Cause of Suffering
The Noble Truth of the End of Suffering
The Noble Truth of the Eightfold Path

And you can let go – practicing non-clinging – most fundamentally at the micro level, with moment to moment experience.

For example, when you observe your experience, you will see that there is always a feeling tone automatically associated with it – a tone of pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral. That tone – called “feeling” in the Pali Canon (distinct from emotions) – usually triggers craving, which is the seed of clinging.

But if you can simply be mindful of the feeling tone without reacting to it – then you can break the chain of suffering!

In the short-term, we can’t do much about the feeling tone. So you’re not trying to change the feeling tone itself. But you are trying to not react to it via one form of clinging or another.

The epitome of non-clinging is equanimity — which is not, according to a teacher, U Pandita, “. . . insensitivity, indifference, or apathy. It is simply nonpreferential. . . . One does not push aside the things one dislikes or grasp at the things one prefers.”

He goes on to say:

“The way to bring about equanimity is wise attention: to be continually mindful from moment to moment, without a break, based on the intention to develop equanimity. . .
In the deepest forms of insight, we see that things change so quickly that we can’t hold onto anything, and eventually the mind lets go of clinging. Letting go brings equanimity; the greater the letting go, the deeper the equanimity. . . .
Freedom comes when we begin to let go of our reactive tendencies. . . .
In Buddhist practice, we work to expand the range of life experiences in which we are free.”

When we do this, much of what we see is how we fall away from equanimity, from perfect balance, again and again. But seeing that ever more deeply and precisely . . . slowly but surely helps us tip over less often.

The Second Noble Truth – the Noble Truth of the cause of suffering

December 1, 2014

Rick Hanson PhD

on practice

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The Second Noble Truth describes the principal cause of suffering. It is clinging. . . to anything at all.

The bad news is that we suffer. The good news is that there is a prime cause – clinging – that we can address.

There are lots of words that get at different aspects of clinging. For example, the original Pali word is “tanha,” the root meaning of which is thirst. Here are some related words, and you might like to pause briefly after each one to get a sense of the experience of it: Desire. Attachment. Striving. Wanting. Craving. Grasping. Stuck. Righteous. Positional. Searching. Seeking. Addicted. Obsessed. Needing. Hunger.

The Noble Truth of Suffering
The Noble Truth of the Cause of Suffering
The Noble Truth of the End of Suffering
The Noble Truth of the Eightfold Path

As a general statement, clinging causes suffering by causing it to arise in the first place or to increase further, and by blocking factors that would reduce or end it.

The inherent suffering of clinging
For starters, any moment of clinging – in all of its forms, gross or subtle, and regardless of its objects – inherently contains suffering in two ways.

First, as you’ve probably noticed, the experience of clinging itself – in all of its forms – is unpleasant. It feels contracted, tense, uneasy, and at least a little stressful. And this is true even if what we crave is enjoyable: the craving itself robs the enjoyable experience of some of its savor.

Second, as the Buddha observed, one of the three fundamental characteristics of existence is impermanence. Everything changes. Nothing of mind or matter lasts forever. Every single moment changes instantly into something else.

That’s the absolutely universal nature of outer reality and of inner experience. But what is the nature of the human mind?

The mind evolved to help us survive, and it does so by trying to figure out stable patterns in the world, and in our life, and to develop lasting solutions to life’s problems. As a result, our mind is forever chasing after moments of experience or moments of reality — trying to hold on to them to understand them, to get a grip on them, to control them.

At the most basic, microscopic level, it is the nature of mind to cling. As a strategy for passing on genes, it has worked spectacularly well. But Mother Nature doesn’t care if we suffer; she only cares about grandchildren!

Because, unfortunately, by the time the mind has gotten mobilized to pursue a moment of experience in order to make sense of it and figure out a plan for dealing with it . . . . POOF! It’s gone!! Moment after moment . . .

Truly, we live life at the lip of a waterfall, with reality and experience rushing at us – experienced only and always NOW at the lip – and then, poof, zip, zap, it’s over the edge and gone.

But our mind is forever trying to grab at what has already disappeared over the edge.

As the 8th century sage, Shantideva put it:

Beings, brief, ephemeral,
Who fiercely cling to what is also passing
Will catch no glimpse of happiness
[In this or any life].

Four objects of clinging

In addition to the two ways that suffering is inherent within the very fabric of clinging, the Buddha described how suffering arises from the four main targets of clinging:

To sense pleasures – which includes resisting unpleasant experiences
To the notion or sense of self
To views
To routines and rituals

Systematically developing insight into your clinging in terms of these “targets” will really help reduce your suffering. As an extended example, let’s explore the first one.

The suffering of clinging to sense pleasures

First, life inevitably has lots of painful experiences. There is no way around them, no matter how much good fortune we have.Things like death, old age, illness, trips to the dentist, kids leaving home, traffic jams, etc.

Whenever we resist an unpleasant experience – including desiring a better experience – boom! right there our suffering increases. Let’s say you’re in the dentist’s chair: wishing you were somewhere else just makes it worse.

In addition to what is happening in the moment, we resist painful experiences by fearing them before they begin, and by dwelling on them after they have occurred.

Of course, it’s natural to have other preferences when you experience pain. But when you get attached to those preferences, that’s when suffering begins.

Second, desires get awakened for pleasures we cannot or will not get to experience, and that’s frustrating, disappointing, sense-of-futility-creating . . . in short, suffering.

Consider these common examples: success or fame or beauty . . . attractive people to be with . . . fabulous vacations . . . fame . . . promotions . . . hugs from surly teenagers. . . etc.

Shantideva again: “O foolish and afflicted mind, you want, you crave for everything.”

Third, even if we attain them, most pleasures are actually not that great. They’re OK, but . . . Look closely at your experience: is the Oreo cookie really that mind-boggling? Was the vacation that outstanding? Was the satisfaction of the A paper that intense and long-lasting?

Fourth, even if we attain them and they’re actually pretty great, many pleasures cost us much pain. Alcohol and drugs and certain sexual relationships may be good examples here. But also consider the possible “collateral damage” of career ambitions, winning arguments, needing the house to be “just so,” and so on.

If you look closely: what is the cost/benefit ratio — really?

Fifth, even if we attain a pleasure, and it’s actually pretty great, and it doesn’t cost too much – the gold standard – because of impermanence, even the most pleasant experiences inevitably change and end.

For example, one day we will be separated from everyone we love by their death or our own. Ouch: but no way around it. The cookie will be eaten: all gone! as the little kids say. We’ve got to get out of our warm and cozy bed for work. Time to leave the nice hot shower. You turn in the big report and the boss and everyone else sings your praises for a day or two and then it’s over and on to the next thing. The orgasm lasts just a few seconds!

As the Buddha said, everything that is subject to arising is subject to ceasing. Period. No way around it.

Since pleasant facts and experiences will inevitably end, it’s both doomed and painful to grasp after them.

When the heart grasps what is painful, it is like being bitten by a snake. And when, through desire, it grasps what is pleasant, it is just grasping the tail of the snake. It only takes a little while longer for the head of the snake to come around and bite you.

Ajahn Chah, A Still Forest Pool

Enjoy pleasant experiences, yes, as they pass through, as long as (A) you do not cling to them, and (B) your enjoyment does not fan the flames of desire for them – a possible but very challenging thing to do. You really have to be on top of your game for that, with lots of mindfulness.

Pretty grim, huh? But it’s helpful to remember that the point of developing mindfulness of and insight into the causes of suffering is to become free of them – and thus relatively (and perhaps even absolutely) free of suffering itself.

To summarize, for all the reasons we’ve discussed, any experience is incapable of being completely satisfying. We have been looking for happiness, security, and fulfillment in all the wrong places.

So, what’s the right place?

Cling less, love more

March 23, 2012

Rick Hanson PhD

on practice

As a rock climber and a parent, I know some physical kinds of clinging are good – like to small holds or small hands!

But clinging as a psychological state has a feeling of tension in it, and drivenness, insistence, obsession, or compulsion. As experiences flow through the mind – seeing, hearing, planning, worrying, etc. – they have what’s called a “hedonic tone” of being pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral. It’s natural to like what’s pleasant and to dislike what’s unpleasant: no problem so far. But then the mind takes it a step further – usually very quickly – and tries to grab what’s pleasant, fight or flee from what’s unpleasant, or prod what’s neutral to get pleasant: this quality of grabbing, pushing, resisting, or pressing is the hallmark of clinging.

Clinging is different from healthy desire, where we have wholesome values, aims, purposes, aspiration, and commitments – without being attached to the results. Yes, we could feel passionate about our goals and work hard for them, and the stakes could be high (e.g., the health of child, the success of a business, the fate of the earth’s climate), but when there’s no clinging, we are deep down at peace with whatever happens even if the surface layers of the mind are understandably disappointed, sad, or upset.

Watch your mind and you’ll see it cling to lots of things (remembering that pulling toward and pushing away are each a form of clinging). These include objects, viewpoints, routines, pleasures and pain, status, and even the sense of self (as when we take something personally).

Recognize the costs of clinging. It’s never relaxed and always has a sense of strain, ranging from subtly unpleasant to intensely uncomfortable. It sucks us into chasing problematic goals, like stressing out for success, getting rigid or argumentative with others, being hooked on food or drugs, or seeking rewards in relationships that will never come. It clenches and contracts rather than opens. And clinging today plants the seeds of clinging tomorrow.

Most fundamentally, clinging puts us at odds with the nature of existence, which is always changing. The American Buddhist teacher, Joseph Goldstein, likens the stream of consciousness to a rope running through your hands: if you cling to any bit of it, you get rope burn.

But if you let it run free – if you let experiences come and go – you feel peaceful and happy. Your mind and body open, and love flows freely, the natural expression of the unclenched heart.

How do we learn to cling less?

As context: It’s familiar advice I’m sure, but do what you can to take care of your needs and those of others you care for, pursue wholesome aims with energy and diligence, and keep the needle of your personal stress meter out of the Red Zone. Each of these steps will pull logs off the fire of clinging.
Learn about clinging. Pick something specific – like a position about how something should be – and first really really cling to it. Insist in your mind that it MUST turn out a certain way. Notice what clinging feels like in your body and mind. Then really try to relax the clinging. It’s fine to wish for a certain result. But help yourself be at peace with whatever the result is by reminding yourself that you and others will likely still be fundamentally OK. Imagine whatever you’ve clung to as something small in a great space, such as a single stone in a vast plain seen from an airplane passing overhead. Disengage from over-thinking, ruminating, or obsessing. Help your body relax and soften, open your hands, let your mind open, and let the clinging go. Recognize the ease, the peace and pleasure in releasing clinging, and let the sense of this sink into you – motivating your brain to cling less in the future.
Set down your burdens. Try the practice just above with other things you’ve clung to. Start with easy things and work up. Remember: you can be fiercely, energetically committed to something without being attached to the result.
Wake up from the spell. Investigate your experience of things you cling to: such as pleasant sensations, or certain sights or ideas. Isolate any aspect of this experience and look closely at it in your mind. Ask yourself: Is there real happiness in this (this sight or idea or sound, etc.)? I think you’ll see the answer is always No.
Stop looking for things to want. Notice how the mind continually looks for a reward to get, a problem to solve, or a threat to avoid: in other words, something else to cling to. A little of this is OK, but enough already! Bring your attention back to the present moment, to this activity, this conversation, this breath. This will pull you back into Now, the only time we are truly happy.
Open your heart. As clinging recedes, let love move in. Look for small everyday expressions, such as a kind word here and gentle touch there. As you cling less, it’s natural to lighten up, stay out of quarrels, have more compassion, put things in perspective, and forgive. As you let experiences flow through you without clinging to past or future, you’ll feel more fed by the richness inherent in the present, which makes the heart overflow.

Love in all its forms large and small crowds out clinging, which brings more love in a wonderfully positive cycle.