The high school I attended in my small South Indian village had no provisions for training in sports, so most of us had no idea that there was such a thing as training. We all just played as we knew.

When it came to foot races, for ­example, my schoolmates and I were under the impression that somebody just takes off running and then everybody else tries to catch up, and at some point somebody wins. This was quite adequate for the athletic goings-on in our little ­village. But then one day our high school sent a team of promising sportsmen like myself to a race in the neighboring town of Palghat.

My cousins and I, being fairly good runners, were certain that we would bring home some medals. I can even recall rehearsing the speech I would deliver to my mother and granny upon our victorious return. But when we arrived in Palghat, we learned that the boys there had undergone rigorous training at the YMCA. They showed up wearing all kinds of special running attire and doing a series of strange exercises – and, for a reason we could not fathom, sucking lemons. My cousins and I didn’t know what to make of all this. We had never even seen anybody undergoing training.

When it was time for the race to begin, the Palghat boys formed a line and all crouched down like leopards ready to pounce. Shortly thereafter, a fellow standing off to the side fired a little gun. We soon learned that these two events were not unrelated. Nobody had explained any of this; for us, a race started when somebody started running.

We were fairly swift on our feet, but by the time we realized the race had started, it was practically over. I wouldn’t like to admit this anywhere in India, but I finished last.

Afterwards, despite a lot of embarrassment, we summoned the nerve to approach one of the prizewinners and ask, “How long have you been training?”

“Since last year,” he replied, “getting up every morning to run, and practicing with our coach.”

“Coach” to us meant a carriage. “Oh, no,” he said. “The coach comes and shows you what to do – how to stretch, how to spring forward, and how to run straight and keep your eyes on the finish.” Unlike my cousins and me, who would turn back to see who was gaining on us, these trained athletes channeled all their energy into going forward.

Just as the body needs training to perform skillfully, the mind needs training if we are to live skillfully – if we want to be at our best whatever comes. Every spiritual tradition uses this metaphor, but whatever our religious background – or lack of it – we can’t find a better coach than the Buddha, because his emphasis is completely on training the mind.

In fact, this is the keynote of the Buddha’s teaching. Without training the mind, he maintains, it is not possible to reach our full potential as human beings. We may start the day with our eyes set on the highest goals – to be kind, to be patient, to give our best at home and work or school – but then things happen and we blow up or break down, so that by the end of the day we may come home feeling drained or dissatisfied with how we have performed.

There is no surprise in this, the Buddha would say. That’s how people who teach themselves to run usually begin – that’s the nature of an untrained mind. Whenever we get anxious, irritated, or resentful, the Buddha would say, we are like a runner in need of training. Not only do we fall short of giving our best performance, but we waste a lot of energy and run the risk of getting injured: physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually.

It wouldn’t be much help if the Buddha were to tell us, “You’re running all wrong!” and leave it at that. What makes him a consummate teacher is his unparalleled ability to diagnose what is frustrating our best efforts and to offer straightforward solutions.

There’s no need to feel discouraged, he assures us. Like an expert trainer, he ticks off a list of instructions: one, two, three. Start practicing these skills regularly, he says, and things will begin to go right.

And like all good coaches, the Buddha is a realist. His confidence in us is unshakable and he sets his sights high, but he always starts right where we are. He knows that everyone’s mind can be trained – and that every day offers new opportunities.

Circuit training

Whenever Christine and I went to San Francisco, we enjoyed going to the Marina for a walk. It’s a favorite place for people of all ages to come for exercise, and many of the runners had a routine that fascinated me. They would jog to a place marked by a sign and stop to do a specific routine – jumping, bending, twisting, stretching. Then they would run on to the next place and do something there. The city had put up exercise stations, each with a sign explaining what to do. You start at Station 1 and do the recommended exercise; then you run on to Station 2, and so on around the field.

Every day is a training circuit like this, and the first station is breakfast. When the toast is burning, you’re out of coffee, the dog won’t stop barking at you, and the children come in late, knock the milk over, and then announce, “Oh, we forgot, we don’t have time to eat. We’re late for school” – that is when most of us feel tempted to burst out, “All right, I’m not going to have breakfast either! I’ll just drop in at Denny’s when I get hungry.” We can’t help stomping off, slamming the door, and tripping down the front steps, leaving the children to stare after us.

That’s not what any of us really wants to happen, of course. We know we’re going to feel dissatisfied with ourselves afterwards. So events like this are ideal training opportunities: a chance to learn to exert a little more control; a perfect time to try to stretch our patience.

Work offers fresh opportunities. When you irritate a co-worker with some harmless comment and she hurls back a cutting remark, you’ve just reached another exercise station. She doesn’t want to be unkind, but the teeth of her mind are on edge. Snapping back at her is like lying down in front of the exercise sign and crying, “I can’t do this! It’s too hard!” You lose the opportunity to strengthen a particular muscle – to break through one of the stumbling blocks that hinder your personal growth, to solve one of the problems that keep you from deepening your relationships with everyone around.

If the exercise is stressful, that is precisely because that muscle needs strengthening. As in physical training, you just work on it a little; soon you will be doing it effortlessly.

At this point you may be thinking, “Wonderful! Just what I need: a lot of complicated exercises to squeeze into a stressful day.” The Buddha reassures us: “No, it’s simple, really. There’s the same sign at every one of these stations: Be kind. Be kind. Be kind.”

Of course, it’s not just the Buddha who says this. It’s the same in every spiritual tradition. Jan van Ruysbroeck, a great mystic of the Middle Ages, gives us precisely the same formula, in words that have been quoted in the West for generations by everyone from your Aunt Sadie to James Barrie and Henry James.

It does sound simple – too simple, really – and also rather shallow, as if they were asking us to be goody-goodies or to make ourselves into doormats for everyone to walk over. Only when we try to practice it do we begin to see that being kind in the face of unkindness reaches deep into consciousness to bring out the highest performance we are capable of – our “personal best.”

Why do they repeat it – “Be kind, be kind, be kind”? Because the point is not just to be kind when it’s easy. As Jesus says, anyone can do that. The challenge is being kind when it is difficult, even painful. Only when you try to do this every day do you begin to glimpse your peak potential.

One reason the Buddha appeals to us in the modern world is that he speaks to us like a coach rather than a moralist. He breaks this exercise down so we can practice it: in action, word, and thought.

Be kind in action

The first exercise is to act kindly – which most of us probably don’t consider much of a challenge. We tend not to notice our little tantrums. When somebody is being nasty to you, it seems such a healthy relief to respond in a similar manner. You feel so good – you think – at least for the time being.

But that’s just when it’s important to be kind. After all, you have already been hurt. How does it help to hurt the other person in return? How is it better to have two hurt people rather than one?

In such circumstances, there is a certain amount of suffering in restraining oneself and not retaliating. No one is denying that. But it is by putting up with this suffering and being kind that you reverse the dreary conditioning of revenge and retaliation that burdens life for everyone. That’s why Jesus tells us, “Bless them that curse you. Do good to them that hate you.” It not only benefits them; it will benefit you even more – and everyone else around you.

Runners build up their capacities little by little. Cultivating kindness is the same: slow, steady resistance training. At home, at work, with friends, among colleagues, when your patience is draining out and the muscles of your willpower are trembling, try to hold out just a little longer. You’ll want to exclaim, “I can’t endure any more! I’ve come to the end of my tether.”

That’s when my spiritual teacher, my grandmother, used to tell me, “You have no idea how long your tether is. You have no idea how much endurance you really have.” All of us are potentially peak performers; that is our legacy as human beings.

Kind speech

The second exercise the Buddha prescribes is speaking kindly: using language that is considerate, words that do no harm.

Kind speech is direly needed today, when angry words are taken for good communication and stinging language is recommended as the most effective way to tell others where we stand. It is not only the recipients who suffer from this approach. “Harsh words hurt,” warns the Buddha, “and come back to the speaker.”

In today’s world, all of us are likely to find ourselves in situations where self-will is violated and tempers flare. At such times, kind speech means more than just refraining from hot words. It is essential to learn not to spread anger and agitation, and how to calm the situation down.

In every argument, it is really not what we like to call “ideological differences” that cause the agitation. It is simply lack of respect. That’s what lies beneath the surface of the mind, so that is what erupts when we’re provoked and lose control. We lash out without thinking, and whatever we may say then, it’s as if we’re holding up a flashcard to convey the real message: “You don’t matter. You’re not worth listening to.”

This would make every argument a comedy if it weren’t for tragic consequences. Imagine Romeo in a heated altercation with Juliet, going on and on in blank verse while the whole time he is holding up a flashcard: “I’m Right.” Then Juliet waves hers: “You’re Wrong!” That’s all the quarrel amounts to.

Kindness in speech means, before anything else, respect: the simple willingness to agree that there is something in what you say just as there is in what I say. “I want to listen to you with respect. Please listen to me with respect too.” Once this attitude is established, every difference can be made up. It may require a lot of hard work, but the quarrel is no longer insoluble.

With practice, we gain so much security doing this that we can bring people together when conflicts arise. This is a vital service that the world needs desperately. Every day when I look at the papers I wonder, “Instead of letting our anger explode like that, why can’t we try to work together? Why not forget about who did this and who did that, and what I am going to do if you won’t do what I want, and just say instead, ‘Let’s join hands to see what we can do together’?”

Even little people like you and me can play this part – at the office, on the campus, at home – if we have patience and some training in staying kind. Wherever a quarrel erupts, try to bring people together. Wherever a community is divided, try to bring people together – by showing respect for all sides, never saying anything negative or hurtful, and keeping the focus always on finding a solution that works for everyone involved.

That is what Saint Francis means when he prays, “Make me an instrument of thy peace,” and no challenge is more thrilling. In my days as a professor, when I would cross paths with students who had graduated years before, they wouldn’t talk about my opinions on Shakespeare or Milton’s Paradise Lost. They would say, “You brought my friend and me back together. You reunited me with my family.” This is the highest praise that any of us can receive.

Thinking kindly

The Buddha’s third exercise is training the mind to think kindly, and I have to admit this is a tall order for anyone. Fortunately, every effort to speak or act kindly helps the mind learn to think kindly too, and that is the beginning of a complete transformation of character, conduct, and consciousness.

Whenever we get angry or afraid and want to strike back, our thoughts are racing out of control. Just by checking your pulse when someone cuts you off in traffic, you can verify for yourself what this does to the body. A mind that doesn’t react like this saves a lot of wear and tear on the nervous system, which means more vitality and resilience in the face of stress.

To begin training the mind, then, we need some way to slow it down when it starts to race out of control. And the very best way to do this is to start repeating the mantram as soon as the agitation arises.

When Christine and I were living on the Blue Mountain in India, we had a colorful British friend named Mary whose next-door neighbor liked to drop in on her for a chat. These were not visits that Mary looked forward to – in fact, the very sight of this lady coming up the path used to throw her into turmoil.

One day, when this problem had her at her wit’s end, she consulted me. “What should I do about this? Should I hide under the bed until she goes away?”

Mary’s cottage was set back from the road by a nice English garden with a gate that she could see from her kitchen window. So I told her, “Don’t wait till she gets to your door. As soon as you see her opening the front gate, start repeating your mantram.” Mary’s mantram was Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, and she was blessed with the persistence of an English bulldog. She kept at it. We’d be conversing with her in her kitchen when suddenly she’d start saying, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” (Incidentally, I recommend repeating the mantram silently to oneself, for reasons you can surmise.) I would look and sure enough, her neighbor would be just opening the gate. It was a race between the mantram and the agitation, and for a while the agitation went on winning.

But one day when we were visiting, Mary’s neighbor showed up without any sign of Mary getting agitated. When I asked her about it afterward, she smiled and replied, “It’s not a problem any more. Now the mantram can outrace her. When I see her coming, the mantram dashes to her side and reaches me before she does.”

This is real training. The Buddha doesn’t deny that it is difficult, or imply that perfection will happen overnight. But like a good coach, he encourages us to take up the challenge and reach beyond what we think we can achieve. He knows it will give us the confidence that we can handle whatever life brings. “Those who hold back rising anger like a rolling chariot are real charioteers,” he says. “Others merely hold the reins.”

For a long time, this is more an ideal to be sought after and cherished than something we can achieve here and now. But it is possible for every one of us to draw inspiration from these simple words: Be kind. Be kind. Be kind. They remind us what our latent capacity is as human beings, compared to which we are practically crawling on the earth when we can soar like eagles in the sky.

Meditation and the mantram have the almost magical power to reverse all the deep-seated conditioning that prompts us to react to challenges with fear and violence. Where we used to respond with anger, we learn to respond with compassion and affection. In situations that used to exasperate us, we now have the strength to stay calm and reassure others. And where we felt overwhelmed by the odds against us, we now feel secure enough to turn the odds around.

This transformation doesn’t require that we belong to any particular religious tradition – or one at all. I have had many friends who considered themselves agnostics but were kind and forgiving. I used to upset them delightfully by saying, “That’s really being spiritual. That’s what religion means.” It does not matter whether you call yourself by any particular religious label; it is the dynamics of the mind, the dynamics of personal behavior, that show what being spiritual means.

Teresa of Avila illustrates this kind of peak performance in one haunting line of a little poem: “In darkness I can find my sun.” What she is telling us is that she doesn’t even know the meaning of depression. Even when everything is going against us, she says, we can still manage to be cheerful, calm, and courageous. We never need feel swept away by the tides of life that ebb and surge around us.

I have seen these capacities personally in Mahatma Gandhi too, but they are not just for saints and giants. They are latent even in ordinary people like you and me. I can tell you in utter humility that nothing on earth can break my spirit today. I wasn’t always like that. It is something my teacher has enabled me to do by training my mind through meditation and the practice of its allied disciplines. That is the power of spiritual disciplines, and that is why Gandhi promises in words that are etched on my heart, “I have not the slightest doubt that any man or woman can achieve what I have, if he or she would make the same effort and cultivate the same hope and faith.”