A reflection on Buddha, Rousseau, and the two causes of suffering

You’ve heard the Buddha’s prescription for the cause of suffering: craving.

There is a classic Buddhist story that advises you cannot carpet the whole world, but you can carpet your feet — in other words, wear sandals.

“Where would I possibly find enough leather
To cover the surface of the earth?
But with leather soles beneath my feet,
It is as though the whole world has been covered.”

Likewise, it is not possible for me
To restrain the external course of things;
But should I restrain this mind of mine,
What need is there to restrain all else?”

~ From the Bodhicaryāvatāra, Chapter 5 (“Guarding Introspection”), verses 13–14, translated by Vesna Wallace and B. Alan Wallace (1997).

The advice is sensible and deeply consistent with the Buddha’s teaching. I cannot remove every object of inconvenience or temptation, but I can work with myself.

Reading a beautiful and profound book, Animals are People by Peter Morville, I came across this passage about Jean-Jacques Rousseau, an Enlightenment philosopher who believed humans are naturally good but are corrupted by society and inequality.

“That’s right, Jo. He sees inequality as the root cause of misery. He says that while ‘there is hardly any inequality in the state of nature,’ human society shows ‘the violence of the powerful and the oppression of the weak.’ It’s an echo of the aboriginal belief that the most destructive idea in existence is ‘I am greater than you; you are less than me.’ It’s a slippery slope. The belief in supremacy over animals primes people for supremacy over their fellow humans.”

Rousseau sees inequality as the root cause of suffering. The Buddha and Śāntideva locate the root in the mind. Who is right? Both are. One is the internal approach; the other is the external. Each has its strengths and each its limits.

The Buddha begins with the mind because every encounter with the world is filtered through attention, emotion, and habit. Even in a perfectly just society, an untrained mind becomes entangled in craving, aversion, and confusion. Śāntideva’s sandals metaphor is a reminder that we carry the world inside us. Suffering arises the moment we insist that reality conform to our preferences.

Rousseau begins with society because the world shapes us long before we know we are being shaped. Inequality distorts relationships, incentives, and self-worth. It teaches hierarchy and violence long before a child has the capacity to think critically about them. The injustices we internalize become the very cravings and fears the Buddha warns us about. To ignore this is to pretend the mind grows in a vacuum.

So the two views are not opposites but complements. Inner discipline protects us from being dominated by our reactions; outer justice protects us from being placed in conditions that breed those reactions. Inner work without outer change can drift into quietism. Outer change without inner work can repeat the same old patterns under new banners. A mature response to suffering requires both: clarity of mind and clarity of society, sandals and a path worth walking.

How to Meditate by Lawrence LeShan was a practical introduction

I picked up my first meditation book at age eighteen.

Growing up in a Dutch fundamentalist community during the 1970s and 80s, my reading options were limited to the carefully curated shelves of our Dutch Reformed school library. Fauns and witches in Narnia? Perfectly fine. Meditation, on the other hand? Far too weird. Later, in public high school, I explored a broader collection but never encountered a book on meditation. Occasionally, I ventured into the city’s public library, but my hometown of St. Thomas, Ontario—a conservative factory city—offered little exposure to unconventional ideas like meditation.

Meditation began gaining traction in the West during the countercultural movements of the 1960s and 70s. Often associated with hippies, alternative lifestyles, and a rejection of mainstream norms, it was viewed with suspicion in many communities. Rooted in Eastern traditions like Buddhism, Hinduism, and Taoism, meditation was often seen as foreign or strange in Western society. In my community, elders discouraged it entirely, which only piqued my curiosity as I grew older.

In 1983, as I neared the end of high school, my future felt predetermined. Many of my peers worked in local auto factories or pursued trades through college. I wasn’t sure what else I could do. Then a friend handed me a pamphlet from the school guidance centre about a youth volunteer program called Katimavik. In it, young people from across Canada—English and French speakers—would travel the country for nine months, volunteering along the way.

“Sounds weird,” I told my friend. Then I signed up.

The program began in Kingston, Ontario, which did little to challenge my assumption that Canada was just like my hometown. I worked on an archaeological dig and even met Brian Mulroney on the campaign trail for prime minister.

The second rotation, in Northwest River, Labrador, was transformative. I learned to chop wood, repair an axe, and operate a chainsaw. I travelled by boat along the Labrador coast and connected with Indigenous communities, even trying my hand at making mukluks.

Our third rotation brought us to St. Brieux, Saskatchewan. I volunteered at the local school library, where I stumbled upon a small book: How to Meditate by Lawrence LeShan. I checked it out.

LeShan’s book was a practical introduction to meditation. It explored various techniques from different traditions, emphasizing meditation’s transformative effects on personal growth, inner peace, and emotional resilience. His conversational tone and real-world examples made meditation seem both relevant and achievable. By demystifying the practice, he highlighted its universal benefits—improved focus, reduced stress, and a deeper sense of connection to oneself and the world. While there were a few eccentricities, such as cautions about extrasensory perceptions, I realized meditation wasn’t so weird after all.

I decided to try LeShan’s breath-counting technique. It’s a simple yet effective method: sit comfortably, close your eyes, and focus on your natural breath. Count each exhalation, starting from one and continuing to ten. Once you reach ten, start again at one. If your mind wanders and you lose track, gently refocus on your breath and begin again. This practice trains attention, cultivates mindfulness, and quiets mental chatter—a foundational exercise for beginners.

When I returned from Katimavik, I was apparently untainted and still acceptable to my family and community. Yes, I’d permed my hair, but I had no tattoos and hadn’t experimented with drugs. My brothers took one look at me and knew I was still a virgin. What they didn’t know was that I’d gained a new “mystical” understanding of meditation.

I practiced privately, using meditation to relax when I felt stressed or to quiet my thoughts before sleep. It remained a casual practice for decades. I read many more books on meditation, but LeShan’s remained a solid introduction and a practical guide. I’ve recommended it to many others.

Even today, meditation carries a lingering stigma in some circles. Media often portrays it in stereotypical or humorous ways—monks chanting “om” or people sitting cross-legged in robes—which reinforces the perception that it’s not for “normal” people. As meditation has become more mainstream, it has also been commodified—through apps, wellness retreats, and lifestyle brands. This commercialization sometimes leads to skepticism about its authenticity or seriousness.

Yet over time, as scientific research has demonstrated the mental and physical health benefits of meditation, and as people from diverse backgrounds have embraced the practice, its reputation as “weird” has faded. While a few stereotypes remain, meditation is increasingly recognized as a valuable tool for achieving clarity, balance, and well-being in today’s fast-paced world.

There was a time when I did not exist.
Now I exist.
There will be a time when I do not exist.

It only makes sense that I will exist again —
as a person, an animal, a tree, a rock, perhaps.
Somewhere nearby, or on another planet,
in the future, the past, or even beside me now.

We all feel this me-ness,
not an immortal soul,
but the shared current of consciousness itself.

Derek Parfit called it a bundle:
thoughts, memories, sensations, intentions —
linked by continuity, not by ownership.
Hume saw the same when he looked inward
and found no self, only “a perpetual flux.”

What matters is not identity but continuation,
like a flame that keeps its shape
while the particles pass through it.
The I is a pattern —
and patterns recur.