During my days as a professor of English literature, one writer with whom I felt a special kinship was Gilbert Keith Chesterton. Not only did he do keen studies of favorites of mine such as Robert Browning and Charles Dickens, but he wrote a fascinating portrait of Saint Francis of Assisi which shows that Chesterton had some personal grounding in matters of the spirit. You can see this even in those rattling good detective stories he gave us, featuring the redoubtable Father Brown.

On one occasion, it seems, friends of Chesterton’s were complaining that people today have nothing to believe in. “The real problem,” Chesterton replied, “is that when you don’t have something to believe in, you will believe in anything at all.”

This is our great contemporary tragedy. If something is presented seductively, if it appeals to our society’s carefully cultivated taste for profit or pleasure, most of us will believe in anything that comes along. Millions of people of all ages and occupations, out of intentions which for the most part could not be called wrong, are entangled in activities that in the long run will injure their health, impair their peace of mind, inflict suffering on their families, darken their prospects, and eventually threaten the very life of our society – all because, in the depths of their hearts, they lack something to believe in that is loftier and more meaningful than personal pleasure and profit.

Contrast this picture with the scene five thousand years ago on the banks of the Ganges. The sages of ancient India used to pray every morning as the tropical sun rose in glory:

“To that radiant Being, who gives life and strength, I offer all my desires, all that I am.”

This shining Being within is what gives meaning to life. Nothing in the world of change outside us can provide the abiding purpose that we seek. “He is the source of my strength, my very self,” this prayer implies, “so I owe my life to him. Everything I do, everything I desire, everything I am, should go to serve him in the rest of his creation. Understanding this gives purpose to life; practicing this brings fulfillment.”

Sanskrit describes this core of divinity as satyam, shivam, sundaram: the source of truth, of goodness, and of beauty. The seas surge with the flow of his love; the mountains reflect his glory. All the loveliness we see in nature is his. Yet although we may admire the beauties of his garden, the mystics say, very, very few of us actually seek to discover the Gardener, who dwells in the heart of every creature.

Different religions use different names for this aspect of divinity which is the very core of our being: Krishna, Christ, the Buddha, Allah, the Divine Mother. But the reality referred to is one and the same. In Sanskrit the term is simple and universal: Atman, the Self, radiant, loving, immortal, infinite, who is the same in all beings, in all creatures, in all of life.

“The soul has two eyes,” says Meister Eckhart: “one looking inwards and the other looking outwards. It is the inner eye of the soul that looks into essence and takes being directly from God.” It is because we do not know how to look to this shining Being inside us that we try to light up our dim lives from outside in any way we can. Not knowing how to turn inward, we look for meaning and fulfillment in the fickle realm of sensory experience.

Those who are sensitive to what goes on inside them know how much of this effort is generated by a nagging sense of desperation, of emptiness within. Such is the nature of the human being, such is our very constitution, that we have to have a purpose greater than the endless struggle to satisfy personal desires. We have to believe in something more lasting than creature comforts. Otherwise we will eventually feel driven to do anything, try anything, to find fulfillment – as Chesterton implies, to do anything at all.

We need, in short, a central force to hold us together; otherwise we fly apart, pursuing our separate goals. The Sanskrit word for this force is one of the oldest and most meaningful in the Upanishads: dharma, “law,” – the law of unity, that life is one indivisible whole. The Buddha did not talk about God; he said simply, “Esa dhammo sanatano: the fact that all of us are one and indivisible is an eternal law.” Unity is the very law of life. In that law lies our growth; in it lies our future; in it lies our fulfillment. And today, in the world of medicine, we are discovering that in unity also lies our health, our longevity, our vitality. When we live just for ourselves, we are stunting our own growth and courting illness. It is in living for all that we rise to our full potential of vibrant, vital, creative action.

Much of the art of living, then, rests on the rare ability to discriminate between what is in harmony with this central law of life and what violates it. To act wisely, we must see clearly. “Does this particular choice bring me closer to my partner or my family? Does it resolve a conflict, foster clean air, bring peace to my mind or to people around me?” If the answer to such questions is yes, that course of action is in harmony with the unity of life. If the answer is no, it is not – however pleasant it may be.

To grow spiritually, we need both the detachment to see clearly and the discrimination to know what is of lasting value – and, of course, the willpower – the determination – to put our insight into effect. Discrimination is pure, detached love in action.

Without discrimination, by contrast, “anything goes.” The only basis for choice is personal conditioning – likes and dislikes. One of the grimmest warnings in the Sanskrit scriptures states, “Lack of discrimination is the source of the greatest danger” – to health, to security, to personal relations, to life itself.

One of my lover’s quarrels with modern industrial civilization is that, despite its tremendous achievements, it is so lacking in discrimination that it cannot see how its choices and values are violating the unity of life. In focusing on manipulating the world outside us, we have lost sight of the world within; yet only there can we find meaning, purpose, and value.

Where do our choices lead?

In daily living, discrimination means making wise choices – knowing what to do and what not to do, not so much in moral terms as in terms of where our choices lead.

One of the most stirring of the Sanskrit scriptures, the Katha Upanishad, uses two marvelous words to help us see which course of action will lead to trouble in the long run and which will lead to detached, loving living. I say “marvelous” because these words apply to every choice, in every circumstance, so they dispel the haze that often surrounds a difficult situation. Wherever you have a choice, ask yourself this question: “Which is preya, that which pleases, and which is shreya, the long-term good?”

Preya is what we like, what pleases us, what offers immediate gratification to our senses, feelings, or self-will. Shreya is simply what works out best in the end. Preya is the “pleasure principle”: doing what feels good, whatever the consequences. Shreya means choosing the best consequences, whether it feels good or not – often forgoing a temporary pleasure for the sake of a lasting benefit.

Junk food is one of the clearest illustrations of preya: sugar, salt, and saturated fat so fast and easy that you don’t even have to sit down for it. The consequences are equally clear. Or look at exercise: “no pain, no gain.” Training and toning the body is often not pleasant. We do it for the sake of its long-range benefits – because later we will really feel good in a deeper, longer-lasting, more satisfying way. That is shreya, choosing what is best.

When we learn how to look for it, we see that this choice between preya and shreya comes up every moment, in virtually everything we do. There is no escaping it. The moment dawn breaks, the choices begin: “Shall I get up for my meditation, or shall I pull the blanket over my head and stay in bed a little longer?” It starts there, and it goes on until you fall asleep at night.

Early morning, therefore, have your meditation right on time. It sets the tone for the rest of the day. The Bhagavad Gita, in a verse that is etched on my heart, assures us that regular meditation will protect us from life’s gravest dangers. “Even a little meditation will guard you against the greatest fears”: against physical ailments, emotional problems, disrupted relationships, spiritual alienation. Most critical, perhaps, meditation slowly opens our eyes and hearts to the needs of those around us. That is discrimination, and I know of no better protection against the mistaken choices that can so burden life with guilt and regret.

After meditation, of course, more choices come in a flurry, generally at the breakfast table. With all the conditioning of the media, where eating is concerned, right choices are not easy. Food has become a kind of religion, and business is quick to cash in on it. To choose wisely, your senses must listen to you. That is the essential prerequisite. And for your senses to listen to you, your mind must listen to you. That is why, as you train your mind in meditation, your eating habits come under your control. Likes and dislikes begin to change, and choices open up everywhere.

What we feed the mind

Yet discrimination, of course, extends not only to eating but to everything. In the Sanskrit scriptures, we are said to eat through all the senses. Just as we learn to be discriminating about what we put into our mouths, we learn to be vigilant about the books and magazines we read, the movies and television we absorb, the conversation we indulge in, the company we keep: in short, in everything we do and say. Ultimately this extends even to what we think. We have a choice in all these things; that is what is meant by intentional living.

Let me illustrate with reading. Having spent the first half of my life in the world of books, I can speak about them with some authority. There was even a time when I thought the Lord could be found in the lower stacks of the library. That was a phase I had to go through, being a university man. Today, because I am involved in publishing, I still look at bookstore shelves and book-trade journals with great interest. But I have to confess that I see very few books worth reading, and when I look at some of the magazines and tabloids on display in supermarkets, I envy my grandmother her illiteracy. It has come to such a pass.

Even where highly recommended books are concerned, we have to be exceedingly judicious about what we put into our minds. The fact that a book has become a bestseller is no guarantee at all of quality. I am not talking about morality now but simply about the effect on the mind. When you are training a puppy, you don’t try to teach it limits for an hour and then say, “All right, you’re off duty now. Go do whatever you like for the rest of the day.” It is the same with training the mind. Why spend half an hour every morning in meditation, going through the agony of teaching an unruly mind to be calm and clear, and then go out and stir up all its appetites again in the name of relaxation?

Some years ago, a man who honestly thought he was doing people a service wrote a best-selling book on sex. The subtitle might well have been “A Guide to Disrupted Relationships and a Bloated Ego.” His theme was simple: “Your needs come first. Don’t hesitate to impose them on others; everybody will be happier for it.” When has this ever worked?

Anybody who takes this kind of advice seriously is going to become more lonely, more frustrated, and more estranged. Physical appetites can never be satisfied for long; the more we want, the less they can be fulfilled. Gradually the mind becomes unruly in everything, and other people become things that either please or hinder us. Then, where two people sincerely sought love, they find only anger, bitterness, and regret. Yet the books and magazines and movies go on promising: satisfaction lies in sex, and it’s just around the corner; try again . . .

Many years ago, for the Fulbright orientation program, I spent a beautiful summer month at the University of Kansas, where I visited the home of a colleague who had a twelve- or thirteen-year-old daughter. In the course of the evening I got acquainted with the girl and said, “Let’s see what you are reading.” After looking over the row of books piled up on her desk for the summer vacation, I went privately to her father, just as I would have done in India. “Do you know what kind of books your daughter is reading?” I asked.

“Oh, sure,” he said casually, as if amused by my provincial Indian attitude. “This is a free country, you know.”

I had already heard this a few times before. “By the way,” I said, “I noticed a lock on the bathroom cabinet. Is that an American custom?”

“No,” he laughed. “That’s where we keep dangerous drugs, so the kids don’t get into them.”

“There are drugs that injure the body,” I said, “and there are books that injure the mind.”

To him, I suppose, this must have sounded censorious. But just as a physician understands what drugs can do to the body, I understand what sense impressions and potent images do to the mind. That is my field. It disturbs me deeply that most of our children have little guidance in what goes into their minds, and I will tell you why. In our area we have a popular daily that boasts on its masthead, “Sex and Crime.” Every day a big dose of both is offered. When this is poured in over and over again, sex and crime is what a person is going to think about. He or she is being drugged – and no street drug is more addictive.

Today, of course, my young friend’s summer reading would look tame compared with what is available to teenagers now. Potent mind-drugs are available at the touch of a button, acted out for us on the screen so that everything is reduced to its lowest level. The real problem raised by this kind of mass distribution of mind-drugs is spelled out in two terrible verses in the Gita:

When you keep thinking about sense objects, 
Attachment comes. Attachment breeds desire, 
The lust of possession which, when thwarted,
Burns to anger. Anger clouds the judgment
And robs you of the power to learn from past mistakes. 
Lost is the discriminative faculty, and your life 
Is utter waste.

As our minds fill up with junk thoughts and junk feelings, we get addicted to them. We lose our discrimination, and as these junk thoughts fail to satisfy – as they must – the craving for them becomes more and more acute. But we are hooked: we can’t get them out of our heads. Is it merely coincidence that angry, frustrated teenagers are turning to just what that tabloid touts . . . sex and crime?

Consider the effect on their relationships. If a child spends an hour a day with a parent and five or six hours absorbed in the fantasies and so-called realism of the mass media, what images of people and of personal relationships are going to fill that child’s mind? What makes up the bulk of his or her experience? Whether we like it or not, this is the world that child will live in; those experiences are teaching that child how to act.

Rediscovering entertainment

There was a time when, saying these things, I felt my voice was crying in the wilderness. Today I am very glad to say that I am not alone. Excellent books like Marie Winn’s Unplugging the Plug-In Drug relate the experience of many, many families who have “gone straight”: either locked the television in the basement or thrown it out altogether. After a short period of feeling deprived, people discover suddenly that they have time again – time for being together, time for doing the things they want which somehow got crowded out. In addition, for anyone who is meditating, I doubt that any single step could make more difference than getting the media habit under control.

One gentle, effective way children can be weaned from the TV and other media is for their father or mother to take a good book and read to them. If that sounds old-fashioned, try it. Many families of former media addicts will tell you that it works. Younger children love to have a story read or told to them, and if older children want to read to themselves, encourage them and set an example. We need to educate their tastes, show them how to appreciate stories with depth, sensitivity, and strength of character rather than just action – and most parents find that in educating their children’s tastes, they educate their own as well. There are many good books available today, not only the time-tested classics but good stories by contemporary authors, and no end of books that explore science and culture in ways young people can understand. I have seen children coming to ask for such books. They won’t be content with the cheap substitutes our mass media try to force down their minds.

But we need to set them a good example with our own reading too. There you can do no better than to turn to the mystical tradition. It is a whole world of beautiful literature – inspiring, practical, nourishing, strengthening. These are words that have endured the passage of centuries. In the Hindu tradition we have magnificent epics, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, which cannot be surpassed for drama, adventure, character, and spiritual insight. Most Hindu children grow up on these stories, which offer noble role models and teach the basic laws of life in the midst of high entertainment.

Every spiritual tradition has its literature, full of poetry and the passionate desire to communicate what words cannot contain, where men and women who have soared to the heights of human experience try to convey to us what they have discovered and what they encountered along the way.

Every day, in everything, we have a choice. Nobody can say, “I’m not free to choose.” Those two words from the Upanishads can always help us see our choices clearly: preya, that which is pleasant but probably benefits nobody, even ourselves; and shreya, that which is of lasting benefit to all. Shall I reply curtly to her rude remark, or shall I speak kindly? Shall I spend the afternoon doing something I like, or shall I work at something that helps a few others? Everywhere we have choices like these, and discrimination comes when we start choosing what serves the welfare of all.