I was still a child when I first felt the tug toward renunciation—though I didn’t have the full language for it then. I had already encountered Buddhism, just enough to sense that life is shaped by causes and conditions, by samsara’s looping patterns, and by the quiet power of choosing differently. Something in me understood—instinctively—that I could renounce one small thing and shift the direction of my own mind.
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So one afternoon, without hesitation or ceremony, I decided to become a vegetarian.
I walked into the kitchen where my mother was elbow-deep in preparations for Christmas—three weeks to go, the counters crowded with ingredients for dishes that were, by tradition, decidedly meat-based. I made my announcement with the kind of innocent confidence that adults find either admirable or simply confusing.
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My mother paused, exhaled, nodded once, and carried on. Consent by understatement. Adaptation by instinct. Mothers are skilled at that.
Renunciation and the Mind
I didn’t think of it as giving something up. It felt more like placing something down. Later, as I deepened my Buddhist practice, I recognized that early instinct for what it was. Renunciation isn’t the punishing act some imagine—it’s not about self-imposed penance, dramatic gestures, or living in deprivation. It’s quieter. More precise. More personal.
It is the simple act of letting go.
We all move through the world collecting habits the way Christmas tree burrs stick to our sleeves—because they cling easily, because we move quickly, because we don’t notice until later. Renunciation is the slow, thoughtful removal of what scratches against the mind: habitual reactions, cravings, worn-out identities, or the need to be entertained, validated, or right. Everyone has something. Meat just happened to be mine.
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And truly, renunciation is never about the object itself.
It’s about the space that appears when we stop grasping.
A Gentle Practice of Release
Buddhism teaches that the mind isn’t tamed through force. It’s steadied through release—through allowing desire to rise and then fade away, through not acting on every impulse simply because it appears, through choosing presence over habit. You don’t need to abandon the Christmas roast to start. (Though if you ever do, may your mother be as gracious as mine.)
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Try a small, intentional renunciation: a moment of silence where you would normally react, a breath before following a habitual impulse, a gentle refusal to feed irritation, a pause instead of distraction.
Renunciation, in the Buddhist sense, isn’t loss. It’s permission to let go—permission to step back, release, and see clearly. To create space for clarity, compassion, and steadiness.
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Sometimes it begins with a child in a warm kitchen in December, announcing a private revolution while the world continues—unaware that freedom has quietly begun to take root.
Wishing you happy holy days,
Lama Chimey
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Lama Chimey 