Saints and Soldiers

      In his book The Perennial Philosophy, Aldous Huxley writes about the saint as "one who knows that every moment of our human life is a moment of crisis; for at every moment we are called upon to make an all-important decision--to choose between the way that leads to death and spiritual darkness and the way that leads toward light and life; between interests exclusively temporal and the eternal order; between our personal will, or the will of some projection of our personality, and the will of God." (p.43)
      I like Huxley's metaphor, because he positions spirituality as a choice that happens at every moment. In one way, there  is a commitment to moment-to-moment awareness, to being present, and to surrendering to life's conditions rather than trying to fight conditions through desire or rejection. If I am not choosing the way of pointing to the mind, I am only following vexations of some kind or another. The thing that Huxley really appreciates is that spiritual practice is not so easy. He at one point describes a soldier as someone who is trained to put themselves  aside in some circumstances, particularly in times of having to fight or risk one's  life in battle. In contrast, Huxley maintains, the saint 's spiritual training "leads to a transcendence of personality...in all circumstances and to all creatures."  (p.44).
    The question I had while I was reading Huxley was: why did he choose to compare saints to soldiers? In a sense, doing so makes the two kinds of people appear to be similar, in that they are waging a kind of battle, perhaps even with themselves. But I have to wonder whether the experience of being a saint is really about conquering or transcending the self. It could be the opposite: in giving up my struggle to transcend anything (let alone myself) I see its impermanence, and I give up trying to create a solidified sense of self. In fact, I recollect one vignette in William James' Varieties of Religious Experience where a person only starts to realize the real nature of 'self' when he stops even trying to get rid of self. There is a kind of space there where I have exhausted every possibility at my disposal to even conceive of 'conquering' self by way of self.  It is that moment of surrender when I realize that the self was not really substantial in the first place.
   I sometimes wonder if in fact the idealized notion of the saint was ever achievable. Why is the saint held up as an example for others to follow? Huxley humorously alludes to the decline in the genre called hagiography (p.46), or 'biographies of saints', in favour of the more adventurous distractions of tragedy or thrillers. It may appear that the saint has 'conquered' her or his desires, but is that the real experience of being a saint? In recent years, I have hardly heard anyone referred to as a saint, except in colloquial terms ("oh, that guy-he brought hot dogs to our barbecue--what a saint he is"). I wonder if the practice has either declined, or perhaps only the social framing has changed over time.
   What I can suggest  is that the account of saint as one who conquers self is problematic for many people. Perhaps that is so because it conjures images of people who practice extreme self control on the outside, but might repress desires inside. Such is the model 'soldier' but it is also a picture of someone who is trying to get rid of things they judge as unsavory (or perhaps the greater society anyway). People have a harder time these days buying into the idea of good coming at the expense of other impulses that are considered 'profane' or less-than-human, especially  at a time when we have studied the mechanisms of denial and suppression, as well as their deeper legacies in schools and churches. Equally interesting is the realization that any term that polarizes or divides people can be problematic. If there are saints, how does one describe the non-saints? And how to educate non-saints so that they can be like saints? Whenever there is a division, "what to do with the rest of us" becomes an unresolved management question.


Huxley, Aldous (1945) The Perennial Philosophy. New York: Harper

and more 'aware'

  In the previous posting I wrote, there is something there that could take me many lifetimes to really understand. When I note that being aware of feelings is sometimes enough, does that mean that I just act on them? What is the difference between 'accepting' and 'reacting' with emotions? Again--it takes a while for me to truly understand the meaning.
      The difference between accepting and reacting? Well, in a way, they are opposites. For example, when I am reacting, I am usually in a conflict with some thought or emotion that I dislike, or want to remove. Rather than just enjoying the emotion as it arises, there is an intense desire in me to act on that emotion: I have to take it and 'do something with it', like it is a hot potato to hand over to someone else. Reacting could be thought to be the game of 'hot potato' where I try to find a willing (or unwilling) lap on which to deposit the emotion. At this point, the emotion is kind of like an object. I struggle to find some place to put it.
   Accepting an emotion is sort of the opposite. It is an attitude of not even needing to form a concept of the emotion, like 'this is my emotion'. It is almost a kind of pre-cognitive awareness that something is in the air. By not really fixing a notion onto this feeling, it pervades my pores, and I remain open to its possibilities as it is actually happening. I don't elaborate on thoughts related to it. At that point, one can even say it doesn't matter where the emotion came from or why it exists. Even if I try to hang an explanation on the emotion, that explanation is only a way to give the emotion unnecessary artillery or wheels: artillery to charge forward at an invading army, or wheels to retreat into the self. So, it's an important aspect to simply let the emotion be what it is. There is no right or wrong for it to be there. In this way, I am not reacting or even acting on the emotion. I like that emotion on its own terms, without trying to create an agenda out of it.
   As I reflect in this way, I realize: so much of what passes for 'acceptance' of emotions (or even self-acceptance) is often an elaborate defense against emotions that one dislikes. For example, I might say, "I totally accept the way I am regardless of how you treat me!" But already, in that statement, there is a rejection of the kind of emotions that arise when another person treats one a certain way. If I accept all the emotions, I wouldn't need to differentiate between 'the way I am' and 'the way others treat me''. They would both be the same experience, and I could potentially enjoy all of it .  But because I make a distinction between 'my true self' and 'your experience of me', I find reason to reject the latter. I try to protect 'me' from others' opinions. But if I accept all emotions, I wouldn't try to reject even sadness that arises from what others say about me. I can just happily accept the sadness that arises.
    When I was in seventh grade, I was not a particularly great student. I think the main reason was that somehow I had not quite gotten the hang of how to be successful in school, and I think I had a lot of interests beyond school as well. Most teachers might see this 'lack of school ambition' as something negative, and they would try to condition me through encouragement, reinforcement, etc. More or less, that conditioning must have worked; otherwise, I perhaps would not have succeeded in securing employment. Lack of interest might be seen as pathological to some, but in retrospect, I didn't need to 'fix' that lack of interest, or substitute something else for it. It was just there, and it would pass like many emotional states.
     I found  that the most effective way that teachers use to motivate students is to give them a compelling identity that suggests that one can succeed. The problem is that in relentlessly pursuing a cultural ideal of the 'model student', one ends up having no way to really be with emotional states which counter that model.  Repression results, as well as the relentless pursuit for the elusive model self. But in trying to be this model self, I lose the ability to stay in emotions that don't have a clearly defined self. These emotions almost seem to threaten my stability or the 'hope' I place in the model identity. But if I treat emotions meditatively, I no longer need to see them as annihilating or crushing in any way. This subverts the classic notion of trying to choose emotions that are most conducive to a 'virtuous' being. Actually, in not choosing, one will naturally be virtuous, because there is no longer a need to react, to run away from emotion or to pretend it doesn't exist.

it is enough to be aware

   After meditation session tonight, we had a discussion about the question of whether one can have a thought without 'talking to oneself'. The discussion became quite interesting, because it explored this question of who is talking and who is listening, when we 'talk to ourselves'. Are thoughts really uttered by subjects to objects? When a thought arises, is it a part of me having a conversation with myself? I am reminded of the analogy of a chess player who plays against him or herself by switching between playing the black and white pieces. In order for this person to really enjoy the game to which she is engaged, she would have to attach to each 'player' while forgetting that she was the 'other' player just a moment ago. Endlessly, we play this part with ourselves.
   Another theme that came later on in the discussion in the car, was the idea of having to be peaceful all the time, which seems to be a preconception for spiritual practitioners. Spiritual practices like meditation are often promoted as these kinds of practices for calming the spirit and promoting tranquility. Yet, the irony of this promotion is that the more I try to make myself calm, the more I separate this 'non-calm' me from the 'calm' and presumably ideal 'me'. When dealing with emotional turmoil, is it a compassionate idea to try to pose as this super-calm person who tries to suppress emotions?
   It might be more useful, as one practitioner suggested, to look into each passing emotion and ask the question: what part of this experience is the still and authentic mind? What part of what I experience doesn't fluctuate, no matter what the emotion might happen to be? This approach is quite opposite to the idea of trying to suppress emotions using an ideal self. In fact, the approach of Chan isn't to try to avoid emotions, but to allow emotions to emerge, under the awareness that they are all arising in mind.  It is to look for mind in the emotion, or trace the origin of that emotion.
  This also seems to be a more compassionate approach to life. I recently had a conversation with a friend who shared about how people might go to religion so that they can forgive themselves of sins, only to find themselves committing the same 'sins' all over again. Why is that? I think it's because they already divide themselves into a spiritual self and a 'sinful' self, and this duality ends up creating more temptation to sin. This kind of situation involves always trying to measure oneself against an ego-ideal: the ideal, virtuous, "likeable" character. It does not consider that mind plays all the parts in the drama and is never limited to like/dislike.
       In those situations of having a vexation, is it enough just to be aware of the vexation itself? In a sense, it involves observing without attaching a notion of self to what is arising. As long as there is no separate self emerging, the thoughts are always able to co-exist, and there is no contradiction or obstacle between thoughts. But when the thought that I "should calm down" clashes with the thought of "I am not calm", a strange situation arises where I am not able to fully live with the situation. I am 'divided' in thought between a feeling /thought arising and a clashing idea of who I should be.

The "Peter Principle" and Meditative Life

  Today rains, washing the leaves of autumn into nearby gutters.  Strange clouds were brewing around the horizon since the past weekend. I remark to a co-worker about how the rain we are getting could be the bigger aftermath of last week's hurricane in the south. Things get grey and dark very fast.
   Fall is also a season about 'falls', and it's curious to trace the meaning of it in my own personal narrative. Fall, on the one hand, symbolizes cyclic falls and renewals. On the other hand, there is "The Fall" of humankind which I recall studying in my last year in high school, particularly through the plays of Arthur Miller, After the Fall and All My Sons. Both plays explore the particular 'falls' from innocence experienced by men at the later periods of their lives. The former explores a narrator coming to realize that his presumed 'innocence' in relationships with the Communist party is a kind of front or 'sham'--a theme that is recurrent in Miller's plays, as he grapples with issues of maintaining false identities to the surrounding society. The latter play deals with a man whose sons discover that he had wilfully neglected to consider safety in designing war planes, leading to the deaths of many soldiers. Both explore how characters deal with the blow of 'discovering' that they are not who they think they are or want to be. Many great plays seem to offer the platform for this discovery and self-betrayal to unfold, including Ibsen's The Wild Duck and Sophocles' Oedipus Rex.
   As much as I enjoyed the study of narrative 'falls' in high school, I don't always think it's useful to consider the fall as a devaluation or a 'lowering' of status. There are times when falls in one area can reveal learning to be done in another area of life. It isn't that one falls in stature as a person, but that one is forced to re-evaluate their meaning of success. One book called The Peter Principle (Laurence J Peter) explores the notion that any rise upward in some area of life is going to eventually reach a maximum point. At that point, a person will reach the limit of what they are capable of doing in a certain area given the skills they have in the moment, and might even find others who can perform a certain job more effectively than themselves. Then they would need to examine whether they can continue, come up with a new strategy, or simply find other ways to contribute to the world besides one narrow focus on success.
  But there is another opportunity that arises when one faces having to fail in some area that one had previously identified as a personal success. I think the opportunity might be framed as a dare to embrace failure itself. The embrace of failure might refer to the attitude that falling is not going to destroy one's being. In fact, the falling or letting go is a strangely liberating release from a very fixed notion of who one is. I think the analogy in meditative life is the ability to reveal the notion of success as an idea, and to continue to point to something that isn't bound to that goal or meaning.
  

A Reflective Workplace

 In his book Rediscovery of Awe, Kirk Schneider asks his readers to imagine a workplace where "there are weekly 'discussion hours' to air philosophical concerns, where health and exercise are encouraged, and where workers have a consistent say in operations" (p.77).He goes on to identify an area in the workplace where "ethical philosophers hold monthly seminars and depth-psychologists work intimately with employees to reflect on their lives." (ibid) While a lot of this sounds Utopian and, to some, impractical, Schneider suggests that such a work site would value "meaningfulness as much or more than making a profit and as a by-product of its emphasis generally becomes profitable in spite of itself." (ibid) As I am reading this passage, I do wonder, how feasible is it to make a work place a site for philosophy?
    I think that Schneider makes an interesting point: when a person looks beyond profit, they often inadvertently become profitable. Why is that? From the perspective just described, I think it is because dialogue is a way for people to become human, not just seen as wheels in a cog of profit. Rather than assuming that the value of a person is in what they do or how much they produce, Schneider puts a dialogic spin on the workplace. People can connect on different levels and have meaningful discussions about what makes a good life. In doing so, they can be more creative and real, which ends up giving them the passion to produce and create at the same time.
   A lot of what Schneider writes makes sense from the perspective of allowing workers to speak their minds and not attach to any dominant thoughts. But it's often hard to implement. It's not because people are only profit-seekers. I think it is because most ideas start out as suggestions, and then quickly build inertia until they are seen as absolutes. Whenever there is a discussion and free talk, there is a tendency to almost seek out the idea that 'fits' the best. But it seems that ideas are always based on a context that is always shifting. What is true for this moment may not be true for the next.
    I have also observed that the freshness and spontaneity of conversation almost requires a deep and heartfelt suspension of trying to find the 'best' answer. Eventually, people need to make decisions, but even these decisions don't need to be treated as permanent or absolutely 'right'. I wonder if perhaps, what might be needed in Schneider's account is how people in organizations cultivate space and silence, so that they are not clinging to their thoughts or opinions. Such a practice might round out Schneider's vision of the 'philosophic' workplace and make for a more harmonious process of dialogue, where people are not taking their thoughts as themselves.

Schneider, Kirk (2004) J Rediscovery of Awe St Paul: Paragon House

What Can Be Controlled?

    The leaves are becoming brown and crispy underfoot, and the wind is blowing a bit more strongly than in the previous week. I briefly consider whether yesterday's rain is the aftermath of a hurricane that ripped through Mexico a couple of days ago. When I get to the subway station to head to the gym,  I see a whole lot of people in the subway cars, waiting eagerly (if not resignedly) for the train to close its doors. Apparently, "we are experiencing a delay northbound at Lawrence Station". I wait for the subway train to finally start up after the delay...only to experience another delay at York Mills Station not ten minutes later.
    On the way to the gym, I still had an anxiety about a set of proposals I intended to work on for possible school projects in the future. And a reflection came to me: is there anything that I really control in these situations?  And at that point, I started to reflect that it's a bit like someone who plants seeds. If a person plants a seed and sits there waiting for the plant to bloom, chances are she will have wasted a lot of time that could have been spent planting other seeds. This isn't to say that it's not important to focus on one thing. It seems quite important, but even one commitment is actually composed of many smaller steps. To treat these steps as a whole without considering their parts would not only be overwhelming, but it would also be discouraging. It would be like trying to bank all my hopes on the full grown tree, rather than seeing its growth as the sum of different stages and movements. And it would also be privileging result over an unfolding process.
     I can plant seeds and do all the best things to foster a tree's growth, but is that any guarantee that the tree will grow from it? I would like to think that were so, but unfortunately not. Many factors beyond my control determine whether the tree grows or not, including the inside of the acorn or seed itself. I can influence and add whatever love or care I can to foster its growth, but it's the tree that has to grow, and not me. And even as I write that point, I am aware that the tree is just an abstraction: it too is comprised of many interlocking conditions.
    How does reflecting on conditions help? I think it is about knowing that I can only plant seeds, and it is not a failure on my part if none of them grow! It is only an invitation to gently explore what might increase the chances of growth, without attaching its failure to a personal failure. In this way, I stop linking the phenomena to this sense of self and will.

'Coping' with The Future

    I have been observing how, recently, my mind has many thoughts about what could happen in the future, or what hasn't happened yet. Thoughts about whether the future is secure, what will happen if I do this or don't do that. And I can see how people who are under that spell of thoughts can literally live in the future. Someone in meditation session had described it as: having a list of problems to solve and going through the list before allowing mind to settle. Does one really need to solve all their problems before the mind is settled? Well, maybe not, though at times it does feel as though one needs to solve everything before the mind is fully relaxed.
   I find that it is helpful, in these situations, to stop and realize that the 'future' I am seeing in the thought actually hasn't happened yet. By feeding energy into the thought, I 'create' the future, but the future I am experiencing is still just a present thought.  Furthermore, what I am thinking is often a projection of some anxiety, often from a previous thought or experience. To give an example: I may be worried about not being able to meet a deadline in the near future, or not being organized. However, that worry often is a repetition of some past thought that arose before, such as seeing myself falling behind in some area of life. If I let go of the idea that I am falling behind, the future also seems less intimidating. But instead of trying to address the thought from the past, I try to correct it through this idea called 'the future'. In reality, isn't the future just a reflection of the past? Otherwise, where else would one's  ideas of the future come from, including one's fears and hopes? I would even go further to say that the future is 'the past that never was': meaning, all the doors that were closed behind me through some choice I made (or didn't make) often gets projected into this future realm where those doors could be re-opened. Yes, it would be a source of great hope, but it would also be re-opening the wounds of closing doors.
    Years ago, I remember owning a book by scientist and writer Arthur C. Clarke called Astounding Days: A Science Fictional Autobiography. The cover pictures the author in a kind of garish space suit, surrounded by all sorts of futuristic superheroes and fantastic inventions that appear to somehow 'streamline' life. The book also explored how Clarke felt to be at the vanguard of a lot of  the technologies that a few privileged people enjoy today, such as radio, satellite, radar, etc. Interestingly, many of the technologies that Clarke describes were invented in times of war. The futures that many of the writers of Astounding science fiction magazine had conceived always seemed to be a seamless and had a dreamlike quality to them, as though pointing to a future paradise: robots as housecleaners, clean rocket fuel, gardens on Mars, easy colonization of planets, etc. Yet many were written in a time when America was in the Great Depression. I ask myself, how can something so beautifully smooth be imagined when the world was in the throes of two wars and a depression? More specifically, why did 'the future' at that time always get depicted as something 'smoother' than the past or even the present? Perhaps it is because the future always tries to resolve or even hide the unresolved aspects of the present moment. In that sense, thoughts about the future have a very sharp and urgent power to them: we must get to the moon now, we must push the boundaries, be the first, etc.
    In Chan, there is an expression: something like, there is no future, no past, no present. It means: all the thoughts are equally coming from the same source. It's not that people are rushing headlong into the future, because the 'future' is just a special kind of thought that arises supposedly pointing to a distant time to which the mind is 'moving'. But I wonder: does anybody ever really reach the future? If I reflect this way, the future and its possibilities loses its bite, and it becomes more manageable to deal with possibilities as possibilities, not things that have already happened or 'will' already happen.

Clarke, Arthur C. (1990), Astounding Days; A Science Fictional Biography. New York: Bantam

The Floating Opera

   At a book sale in the Bloor Street United Church, I went treasure hunting today. A few rare finds popped out at me, most of them reminding me of my years as an undergraduate. At times, I find a book that is worth re-reading, and I cannot help but pick it up at the low price. One such book is John Barth's The Floating Opera. Here is one of 6 books that I had managed to buy for a single dollar, as the church sale was just about to close shop until May of next year.
      Barth's narrative protagonist is Todd Andrews, a bachelor who describes himself as having very little passion or exceptionality in his life. He describes how the name Todd is a derivation of Tod, which means "death" in German,--a name which foreshadows Todd's attempt at 'near' death in the subsequent chapters. In fact, much of the book revolves around Todd's decision to take his life, and how the metaphor of the floating opera helps him to decide not to take his life after all.
     The idea behind the floating opera is that it is a kind of boat that moves from one side of a river to another, showing a theatrical display to spectators standing on the shore. The spectators essentially only get glimpses of what's happening throughout the play: a few snippets of dialogue, some action, and some appearances of actors emerging and disappearing as the boat comes and goes. Spectators are left to piece together the entire play from these spare bits of dialogue. Todd describes the floating opera as an allusion to what happens in our daily lives:

      "That's how life works: our friends float past; we become involved with them; they float on,     and  we must rely on hearsay or lose track of them completely; they float back again, and we must either renew our friendships--catch up to date--or find that they and we don't comprehend each other any more." (p.13-14)

I think that Todd is referring to an experience of impermanence and emptiness. The sense he has is that there is no single coherent story that really holds together the people who come and go on the floating opera. Initially, Todd sees this transitory nature of life as reason to despair and even attempt suicide, but then he later concludes that there is no intrinsic reason "not" to live either, so he doesn't take his life after all.
        I have had a sentimental attachment to this book, ever since I read it in my teenage years. However, in retrospect, the despair that Todd is describing is both endearing and somehow lacking a certain dimension.  Looking at it from the lens of Buddhist philosophy, I think that Todd's narration of the floating opera still clings to a notion of a separate self, with separate others floating by. Because of that, the narrative invites readers to pity the narrator and also to be nostalgic for a time when relationships seemed both lasting and meaningful.. The interesting aspect about many nihilistic texts is that they long for precisely what they intend to reject.
       A narrative that tries to exhaust itself and declare the 'end' of all reasons for living, is often in reality hearkening back to a time when there was a presumed fixed meaning. In the process of trying to end narrative, the protagonist ends up glorifying narrative coherence and a permanent nature to things and relationships by indicating the horror of its absence. But, I wonder,  does the impermanence of relationships make them any less meaningful? Does the fact that our relationships are fleeting mean that they are pointless?
   Perhaps no matter how impermanent relationships are, beings are always interconnected in some way. I think Todd's accomplishment at the end of the novel is to see beyond a self that gains or loses. It is to let go, in a sense, which causes him to rejoice. But in another sense, the book doesn't quite realize the rejoicing and letting go of self, because it still narrates in terms of all or nothing absolutes: either there is absolute, permanent meaning or no meaning at all. Hence, at one point, Todd reflects, "the reasons that people have for attributing value to things are always ultimately arbitrary." (p.216). Yet, I think it only seems that way when values are being designed for a single self. If values are related to the mind of all beings, there is no longer a need to despair over the lack of meaning in 'having/not having a self'.

Barth John (1956), The Floating Opera. Avon Library

spirit life and social life

    I have recently been reflecting on the interaction between spirit and social life. One of the concepts I wrestle with is the notion that spiritual practice is 'set apart' in some ways from the everyday world of establishing roles, defining one's career, and so on. Under the umbrella of this belief is the view that spirituality is distant from the practical matters of social life, or that the social/spiritual selves are split in some way. I have heard different variations on this question in discussions about meditation. Sometimes, people express  a fear that 'over-using' the spiritual aspects of their life will distance them from the world and emotions that arise from social interactions. Some even fear that this 'distancing' aspect might make them seem strange to others.
   
    What I am noticing recently, however, is that there is a certain paradox arising as a person becomes fixated on what they believe they absolutely need to do, in order to be 'fully functioning' members of a society or a community. I think the paradox I observe in myself is: the harder I try, the more I create difficulty within. It is almost as though a person were to take their own hand and physically turn a bicycle wheel extremely fast in order to get the bicycle to move more quickly. Besides being a bit dangerous, the notion of exerting control on a moving object to get it to 'do' something better is a bit counter-intuitive. The hand that is always trying to dabble  in the natural forces and control the spinning wheel will eventually get caught in the wheel itself, a victim of its own devices.
 
   The analogy here somewhat applies with social roles in general. If I become fixated on the notion that I must be a certain way to fulfill social connections in the world around me, I end up becoming attached to my own concepts of what should or should not be. I forget that, in fact, there were no concepts in mind that are specific to the social process prior  to my engaging it. To use an example: most relationships I have formed with people and organizations don't happen overnight, or in a mechanical, graduated sequence of becoming. More often, my emotional life with others proceeds spontaneously with its own rhythms, and without the felt sense that I need to be doing something all the time. I only start to get that concept in my head when I sense the impermanence of  the social situation, and want to keep it fixed in place.  That is when I start to panic and cling to an idea of who I should be and what conditions  I need to fulfill to be that person.

    In order to restore that more spontaneous sense of being with myself and others, I think it's helpful to practice imagining what it would be like to lose a cherished role that one has in a social circle or life. That role could be as a best friend, as a lover, as someone fulfilling a responsibility to others, as a leader, as a teacher, etc. Maybe that feeling of losing might seem scary at the beginning, but I found that it's possible for me to dare myself to enjoy losing---even to enjoy being a kind of 'loser' in life. This dare is my way of trying to open a little bit to the forces of change  that compose all experiences. But this exercise also (again, paradoxically) could help me better function as a social person, because it frees me of the need to perfect myself through my roles or others' impressions of me. I am not those roles or impressions, even though I may use them to achieve ends that are beneficial to the social world. In this way, it's easier to navigate scripts that are constantly changing in any case.

Mind is Simple, Life Complex

     During meditation session today, there was a sharing as to whether the mind truly seems 'simple' after meditation. I reflected that I was somewhat able to observe the mind as a simple process of witnessing what is coming up and down in awareness. However, I could also see that life itself is complex. It is interesting for me that in the midst of the most complexity, the mind still manages to be a witness to it. It is not that life is less chaotic or less involved, but in meditation, I am able to get a glimpse of a mind that isn't really ruffled by all of it. The mind can respond within the conditions around it without somehow being like a proverbial pinball, bouncing off this idea then, ricocheting off the other.
  I started to reflect on this topic tonight: besides sitting meditation, are there other ways that life ''teaches" us the simplicity in the midst of complexity? That is, besides a technique of using method to calm body and mind, are there other, analogous ways to get to this insight? The closest I had to  that analogous experience might be times when I have had such a strong fear or insecurity that I would lose something important to me. I often found situations where I was so often exposed to that insecurity that I eventually had to dive right through it to get to the 'bottom' of it. When I finally did get to the bottom (if there is such a thing), I found that the experience is really my own creation: empty thought, coming and going.
    Two examples I can think of that are strongest in me are the fear of losing a social role or position, and fear of losing my health. When I am confronted with the fear of losing a social role such as a job or title, I will try  to examine the source of the fear, and whether there is something I can do to address it or improve my performance to maintain what I have. But if the fear is too strong or happens too many times, I get to a point where I tell myself : "this state of perpetual fear is worse than the actual fear coming true". Then I start to loosen a bit and realize that the tension I am creating is from a desire for something that was never fixed to begin with. As I realize this a little bit more, I literally rest in the state of insecurity. Rather than trying to 'address' insecurity by getting rid of it, I start to play with the idea of loosening into the insecure feelings; being within it, rather than tensing up every time it happens. This way of approaching the emotion starts to reveal it to be a creation generated by mind: I am not in a reactive mode all the time with this thought, and I can create a soft space around the insecurity thoughts. At this point, I am no longer treating the fear as an enemy, but start to get closer to it until it is seen as part of mind, not a virus or an attacker.
     The second example is fear of losing my health, which often arises during meditation. If there is a certain painful feeling that feels raw and unchangeable, a thought often arises that I will never emerge from this pain, especially if it is chronic. Part of the problem is that the body's condition is ambiguous: I don't always know where the pain arises or even why, because it is bounded by so many different conditions which are changing. When I finally let go of the notion that pain defines my true self, and that I must end pain in order to live, I suddenly see that the pain was never an obstacle to begin with. It is just a state that is there, and suffering just arose from how I use thoughts to zero in on the pain or try to get rid of it. Neither seeking nor rejecting the pain, I recognize the mind's ability to behold pain, to own it and have it, without attaching or pointing to it.

Fear of Infinity

      I came across an interesting quote by Kirk Schneider, in his book, Rediscovery of Awe: Splendor, Mystery, and The Fluid Centre of Life. The quote reads, "The death of a beloved one--especially if it is faced--strips away the illusion of containment; it unveils life's infinity. This infinity is the great secret that classic writers of the macabre betray--if only we could perceive it." (p.33) I found this quote surprising, because I tend to think of the biggest fear in life as 'finity' and not infinity at all. When I think of fears that I have, they usually relate to losing things that are precious or important to me: loved ones, friends, job, status, health, and so on. Fear of losing what I love and having what I don't like is one suffering that is described in the Buddhist Four Noble Truths. But I can also relate to what Kirk Schneider is describing as well. I think he is describing an insecurity of knowing that what I hold dear could be taken away, and there is no rule to prevent that from happening. Schneider describes the horror protagonist as someone who is "hammered by being". There is never a guarantee that something is going to last forever, and nothing I can do can make that different. Behind the 'horror' story he describes, there is a kind of sense that the universe might even be indifferent to what one might consider to be human.
   Schneider describes the horror of infinity, though I haven't yet got to the part in the book where he might speak of delighting in its possibility. But I think that most of the great tragedies are attempts to reconcile with the infinite. Shakespeare's King Lear is an example of a story of someone who gets hammered by being. Lear expects his daughter Cordelia to be flattering toward him and demonstrate love in a way that models his expectations of a loving daughter. When she does not reciprocate, Lear is thrown into his own inner chaos: the sense that anything is possible, and the universe is not operating according to Lear's rules or imperatives. The rest of the play is essentially Lear's process of losing the stability of his power to two scheming daughters, 'going mad', and eventually reconciling with Cordelia, perhaps when it is all too late for both Lear and Cordelia. Lear recognizes that he is not identical to his power, or to the identity he thought he was in relation to his family. But in order to go through this process, it seems that Lear needs to taste the experience of not being as in control as he believes. It is similar to many of H.P. Lovecraft's stories, where the protagonists discover dimensions in which what they thought is human no longer applies. An indifferent or even hostile universe seems to emerge from this picture.
   Why does it seem that the highest people need to fall into 'infinity' in order to be reconciled to it? I suppose it's an easy question to answer, if I remember that Buddha also chose an uncertain journey in favor of the power and comfort of his princely life. But Buddha's story is also a different one, because it is an attempt to find principles of mind, rather than basking or simply reeling in chaos. It is not that Buddha saw this infinite possibility in the ill or the dying or homeless person, and said, "there are no rules, nothing to live for". Rather, seeing all these possibilities which lie outside his sphere of privilege and power was a sort of invitation for the Buddha to explore and seek that which is not moved by attachments to existence, or pleasures, or status. On the other hand, the sight of people dying, homeless and sick must have challenged the worldview that felt most comfortable to the Buddha. And it's only by seeing the monk that the Buddha is lead to imagine some other life that is not drawn into attachments. Without that hope in whatever form it takes,  I wonder how people could face chaos again without going into a defensive shell.

Schneider, Kirk J, (2004) Rediscovery of Awe: Splendor, Mystery, and The Fluid Centre of Life. St Paul: Paragon House.
 

A Common Daily Grind of Wheels

  Usually, after a day at work, I will tend to fall asleep on the subway. It is a terrible habit, but sometimes long days and then classes after work will do that. It is sometimes a wonderful experience to settle into the scene of the subway and finally let the items of the day disperse. Sometimes I might have a great many things in mind, but the restful moment seems to resolve these thoughts. It says to me: maybe you had that thought, but it was only the stirrings of restless mind. Rest dissolves the need to embellish those thoughts. And an ideal rest is the one that is alert to all the elements.
      Today, I saw a couple sitting on the subway seats. The lady was just resting her head on the man's shoulder, and her eyes were gently closed. The man appeared to be gazing out the window, while trying to balance the lady's leaning head with his collapsing shoulder. He didn't look like he was succeeding, but he still looked peaceful. And I jokingly referred to this scene as ''tired romance". It isn't meant to disparage the scene, only to show that sometimes being tired can be romantic. It suggests a natural commonality between people, and their willingness to be silent with each other.
  I have to admit, it's not easy for me to find the silence in things. The mind needs to be either sufficiently calm or subdued to be able to find examples of this kind of beautiful silence of just being.
    When I am very silent, I see that things are just okay and things fit together the way they are. I don't need to force anything together like a jigsaw puzzle. In a sense, there are so many examples even in the nature world of things coming together. Lewis Thomas writes in his book Medusa and the Snail: "no Darwin has yet emerged to take account of the orderly, coordinated growth and differentiation of the whole astounding system, much less its seemingly permanent survival. It makes an interesting problem: how do mechanisms that seem to be governed entirely by chance and randomness bring into existence new species which fit so neatly and precisely, and usefully, as though they were the cells of an organism?" (p.13)
     Why this impacts me is that it reminds me not to push too hard to connect. Sometimes, it is just a matter of putting myself into the world and making myself more available to what happens around me. Other times, I just naturally see that things fall into each other in patterns and then fall out of them, as a natural rhythm or process. Even destruction of elements is part of a natural order, not a reason to blame or feel one is being punished or left behind. It is part of an ongoing cycle that is renewing itself all the time.
      It is often quite hard to think or experience life in this way, because so much of social learning is about trying to master new skills and reach goals. But I think the 'hard' part is only the very complicated impressions I have as to what I need to do, to be or feel in order to survive in the world. There just isn't space to observe that the goal is only one possibility among many others. But even if I were to have no real status in the world, I would still be connected to other beings in some way. It is a journey to figure out those ways of connection that often remain hidden in the corner, like flies on the wall.

Thomas, Lewis, (1974)  Medusa and the Snail: More Notes of  a Biology Watcher. Toronto: Bantam Books

Signs of...

     Sometimes, when a person has to make a big decision in life, the expectation is that something out there will tell that person what is the best path to take. For example, just recently, I was at a little store in Chinatown when I saw a kind of magnetic compass that lands on different 'answers' depending on the question you frame to it. The answers possible are "yes", "no", "no way", "double no way", etc. When I was a teenager, I even experimented with this notion by purchasing an eight-ball that flashed little answers on its base. Sometimes, I would not be happy with the answer I received, so I would keep testing the ball until it became peeved with me and gave me random answers. I then moved on to the I Ching as another way of figuring out what works best for me in the future.
     Having a clear answer is always a comforting thing, but I have found over time that the situations and choices one has are often complex. The I Ching is actually a very deep text that shows the complex rhythms of decisions, while respecting that the forces at play are always rising and perishing over time. Nothing is ever the 'absolute ruler' in the I Ching, and forces co-exist with one another rather than giving way to one dominating force. There isn't always a clear answer in this form of looking at the future. I wonder if perhaps my wish to consult it at times reflects a longing for the a simple time when I could sometimes just be happy with a decision and not have doubts about it.
    I am thinking of future education and courses, and one thing that struck me in retrospect is that decisions aren't as catastrophic (or glamorous) as I make them out to be. For example, I have rarely had what is called an 'epiphany moment' where I clearly and unequivocally 'knew' that some decision or plan or action would be The One that would guarantee me eternal salvation (or at least the ability to pay rent). More often, decisions just sort of happen, and I find myself going with the conditions that are most conducive to what I have learned so far. If I try to totally transform myself while disregarding my shortcomings or my current challenges, I would end up making some decision that I might later regret.
     If anything, I think that decisions could be seen as cause and conditions that are subject to change at any time. I make decisions based on what seems best for me and those around me, but none of this is to say that I will not make other decisions to adjust or refine the previous one. Decisions only bring about more potential learning situations. In this respect, I find it hard to imagine these days that there will be some 'sign' telling me that one decision is the right one, while the other is not. It seems much more complicated, and I would rather entertain as many possibilities as I can before I make the decision. Even when I am certain that I will not be comfortable to take certain lines of action, seeing as many choices as possible is a way to help me be open to possibilities I could not have imagined in the past.

Managing Expectations

 It isn't usual weather for October, and I expect the snow to come down soon. I still feel the crispness of leaves against the ground, and feel a strange nostalgia to hear them and feel them as well. It almost makes me want to bottle the crispness and color of the leaves, as Ray Bradbury suggests we could potentially do in his short story "Dandelion Wine". I try a new Chinese restaurant in the mid town area with my close friend Judy. I enjoy the food, but quickly realize that somehow the method of cooking must be of a slower kind.
    I had this thought after the study group and dinner today. My thought is about how we manage expectations of others around us. In the Buddhist class, we talked about 'instant repentance' as being not taking others to be separate from the mind. There are different ways to look at this, but one such way is to see that the perceptions I have of other people are really my perceptions. There is no way for me to quite get to someone else except through the mediation of perceptions. From what I have read in Chan, there aren't these separate discrete beings called self and other, because there is this constant, flowing interconnection of conditions and information happening all the time. For me to say that this is 'mine' and that is 'yours' is at times to overlook the way there is a constant interconnection between me and you. The terms of 'me' and 'you' are continually shifting all the time.
   I will give an example of what I mean. I was once part of a hiking group where I had often tried to plan ahead of time what to say, how the conversation should go, and so on. In most cases, if not all, everything I expected or wanted to happen never went as I had planned. I ended up feeling deflated, because I wasn't able to simply take moment as it was. In my eagerness to make friends or learn about others, I overlooked the fact that what I 'planned' is just my own thinking, based on an idea of what 'doing my best' is supposed to mean. It has nothing to do with how things unfold in the context of being within that situation, with all its complex conditions. Later, I started to realize that hardly anything that happens in the present moment is governed by how I think or plan it. At best, what I plan is only a kind of resource that will help me steer a path or draw from old experiences that might have worked in some cases, in the past. But plans don't provide experiences that can be replicated. The same is true with expectations.
    I have often had some worries about not wanting to let other people down. When I was coordinating a workshop recently, I would occasionally judge how I was doing based on the feedback I had received from others. I learned how easily I go out to others to judge my work, and how afraid I was of letting others down or being seen in a negative light. But, as I reflected tonight, the only expectations I can or need to manage are the ones arising in the mind itself. It is not about imaginary expectations that might be happening to someone else 'out there', but more: what expectations do I face now about this situation I am in? Am I expecting perfection? Am I expecting others to overlook things I did, or recognize me more? Do I expect to be able to make others happy? It is only in examining these expectations that I see their basis in a kind of desire for me to be "okay", when only mind can say that mind is okay. Often, when I am afraid of others' reactions, I am really projecting my own reactions onto the situations around me. It is a reflection of the state of mind I am having. More tragic, I end up giving away mind's power to phenomena that have no power to reverse my fears.
   

Desert Mind

   There is a scene in the movie "Wild", (based on the book by Cheryl Strayed), where the protagonist is just embarking on her hike through the Pacific Valley Coastline, and the audience hears the voices in her mind. She is tired, very thirsty and exhausted from a long trek, carrying a burdensome knapsack that looks about twice her size. In that moment, the viewer 'hears' her thoughts, some of which arise from her childhood memories. There are times when the thoughts sound scattered and delirious. However, there is this sweet moment as a viewer where I hear the chaos of these thoughts but know that somehow this is just a movie. And there is a comfort in knowing (well, having read the book, that is), that Cheryl will pull through in the end.
   In meditation, it's a funny thing:  I will often have these strange thoughts come up, or at other times, the place seems arid, as though I were walking in a desert with no water or food for miles. And then I continue to use the method, but generating the energy to do so starts to get harder and harder. It is as though I were climbing a very steep hill and almost out of breath or energy. Yet, there is this determination to keep going inside me. I want to keep going, even when I have no idea when this dry spell is going to end. This kind of experience happened to me in the afternoon of today's meditation retreat. There wasn't an easy resolution to it, and certainly not the breakthrough experience I had hoped would end that 'desert' experience. Instead, I felt at times not sure where the practice was taking me. There were times when I simply surrendered to some higher being, even though I hadn't a clue what the higher being was...just having faith that I would be carried through it, because there isn't anything coming from inside me to keep going.
   Many contemplative traditions talk about the desert as a place of difficulty. Thomas Merton doesn't refer to the desert so much as the dark night of the soul.I think he is really talking about a place where one doesn't quite know whether to retreat or to keep going, and yet there is not much choice but to keep going.In a sense, one has already set out on the journey long ago and made preparations. There is no turning back at that point.
    From the perspectives I have read in Chan, there is no need to dislike or like anything that arises in meditative practices. What I react to is this sense that there should be 'me', and the dislocation  I get when I realize there is no place for the self. I think these situations challenge me to re-think what I am expecting or desiring in practice,and to keep letting go of the 'template' of what an experience looks like.

Desires as "Solutions"

   The week ends as of today, Friday, yielding to another eventful weekend. I feel release from the work week as I settle into school assignments. I enjoy  the idea of having to stay up later than usual, not being bounded by the sense of time or urgency to get sleep. My body naturally relaxes into that state of not being chained to the following day.
   This evening, I was reading a section in the Surangama Sutra where Buddha expounds on the 6 knots in a scarf. The six knots seem to represent the six sense faculties (seeing, hearing, smelling, touch, tasting, consciousness), whereas the scarf is the actual mind. In this section, Buddha is explaining to Ananda how working on one knot (or one sense) will end up gradually liberating all the others, if followed in a sequence.
   There is an intriguing part in this text where Buddha keeps demonstrating incorrect ways of untying the knots, such as pulling on both sides to make it tighter. Ananda finally explains to the Buddha that the only way to untie  the knot is to "pull on the scarf from within each knot" (p.199). As I read this passage, I kept wondering what this means.
     When I am trying to untie a knot, I often come to this similar sort of decision about how to untie it. If my mind is very agitated, I try to tug on either one side or the other of the scarf, thinking that forcing one part will cause the others to budge.This often happens when I have given up and just want something to move, not realizing in that moment that I am just making the knot tighter by reinforcing its conditions. Buddha's 'solution' is to literally reverse the way I am trying to untie: to pull the scarf gently out of the knot, rather than trying to separate scarf from its knots. This might be compared to seeing the mind in the sense itself, rather than trying to violently reject sensory experiences altogether.
     I am not wholly certain if I have it right, but I think the analogy might refer to seeing the true mind in all experiences and using experience itself to see true mind. In effect, the 'knot' is just the temporary form of the scarf, and it relates to how phenomena is perceived. It doesn't have a reality of its own that can be forced apart or 'pried open'. But because my focus is on that 'ball' of folds created by the scarf, I will want to do anything to twist it out of shape, as though it were an enemy to the scarf. When I understand that all those forms are just the scarf itself, I calm myself and start to work with it as a scarf, not as a separate form. I become less fixated on getting rid of the knots, and more attentive to the totality of the scarf and its possibilities.
   There are many examples of this principle in daily life. One such is the habit I have of rushing in to solve a problem, as though the problem were separate from the situation itself and its conditions. I want to cure an illness by having a surgeon 'pull it out of my body'. I might not realize that it's my body that is causing the illness, and not the physical symptom itself. But when I reflect on it, not everything need be so violent. If conditions make the knots appear, surely there may be similar conditions out there which might reverse the form of the knots. But if I try too hard to make the knot disappear by tugging at it or using some kind of physical force, I only transfer more tension and energy to the knot. Has it ever happened when a person quarrels with another person, and the energy of the argument only gets stronger? It's because the conflict is isolated and heightened. I try to engage 'the fight to end all fights', only to realize that it's my very own mental energy that is the conflict itself. I think Master Sheng Yen once said, if one does not 'fight back' with someone else, could the fight possibly continue? How can an argument even exist if I choose not to engage it? But, most of the time, I find the temptation is to use the energy of conflict to try to end conflict. This is a little bit like adding gasoline to a fire. Of course, it will probably extinguish some of the existing fire, but it will end up creating even more fire.
    Another example I can think of related to this topic is how fixating on 'problems' is often a way to prolong them. It's one of the great ironies of life that when a person treats something as a problem or as a sin, they only create more temptation for others to commit that sin or keep engaging in the 'problem'. I don't really know how or why that is the case, but if I view it from the mind perspective, anything I think obsessively about is going to create that phenomena in mind. It's going to feed it, even though my intention might be to squelch it. That is why parents who emphasize not doing something often have kids who do that very thing...and often! The parent is subconsciously giving the energy of that repressed thought to the child,without realizing it.
    Ananda's eventual understanding of how the knot is untied is a subtle teaching. I don't find it so easy to grasp. I might interpret the concept of 'pulling the scarf through the knot' as always starting and ending with the mind. If I am investigating the mind that is the source of the phenomena, suddenly my attention has shifted to something that can't be reduced to a single form. I can relax: whatever the solution is, it is not going to be in the things I am seeing or feeling. Pulling the scarf out means working with the mind, rather than picking and choosing: "I hate knots, so I need to remove them." If the knot is another form of the scarf, is the solution to try to remove them? What is being removed? Maybe a form, but not the scarf itself.
     A third example I have is that of using the raw experience of our problems to see the mind within it. It's hard to do this, because often mind is rushing to get to a solution that will relieve me of the problem itself.This works temporarily, sometimes, but people continue to get wrapped up in one difficulty after the next. Rather than using the experience to see their mind, they are devoted to trying to resolve, or get rid of vexations, only to face more later on.
    Over time, I think this mentality has lead me to associate desires with 'solutions' to problems. Whenever a problem arises, the desire arises to extinguish the problem. I become so determined to get rid of what I dislike, yet the desire to remove a situation constitutes yet another problem. It's a subtle problem because with desire, there is always the illusion that I will be content once I satisfy the desire. But life doesn't work like this!

Surangama Sutra (2009). Buddhist Text Translation Society

The Tickle in the Throat

   Fall is now turning into the more torrential kind of weather that I would expect from perhaps a late November. As I gazed out of the window at my workplace at around 5:15, I saw a very ominous cloud in the distance, foreshadowing hail or perhaps even snow. I managed to get to the meditation practice downtown tonight without too much of either at all. But I also started to feel the familiar tickle in my throat which tells me that I might be getting a virus soon.
   It is very typical, I think, for me to think of the body as 'on guard' against attacking invaders. I think that Susan Sontag many years ago came up with the idea that illness is often seen as something foreign, or as something that is simply not natural or meant to be. In her book Illness as Metaphor (1990) she exposed among other things, the kinds of stereotypical thinking that I often engage in when I frame colds and illness: I 'brace myself for the battle' against the virus, or 'take preventative measures' or 'be proactive' by loading myself with hot lemon and cold remedies even before the cold has set in. The point of these metaphors is how it presents the body as a citadel, where I must do everything in my power to protect it from harm. I have often also been presented with the idea that 'fighting a cold' is somehow a sign of inner virtue or strength. An old phys-ed teacher I once had explained that 'toughing it out' is the best way to 'fight' a cold. Here, the understanding is that if I decide not to take any medication at all, my body will somehow immunize itself through the power of the will 'against' the illness itself. It is incredible how many of these metaphors present starkly dualistic attitudes toward illness: it's 'me' vs. 'them', 'health' vs 'illness', 'strength'  vs. 'dependency' , and so on. Workplaces in North America follow this pattern by encouraging people with even a slight cough to stay home: "we don't want your cold", and "stay away from us".
    But like the weather, colds are also signs that health is a very temporary state of being that is subject to change, sometimes in an instant. The body is not as stable as I conceptualize it to be, and 'health' may not be this robust, steady state of being that I imagine it to be. Many things are happening in the background to maintain this fragile thing called 'health', and much of it isn't in my control at all. I remember reading an old Tibetan Buddhist text, where they talked about how even the tiniest malfunction in the body can lead to a whole cascading effect. For example, some slight malfunction in the kidneys can affect circulation or blood pressure, or the ability for the blood to contain few impurities. None of this is cause for self-blame or disparagement. On the contrary, it would be helpful to stop seeing illness as something abnormal or to be hidden away or suppressed, and to reframe it as one part of a health cycle that ebbs and flows. Illness is sometimes a signal to pursue a new path in life, as it was for Andrew Solomon when he described depression in The Noonday Demon, and when H.G. Wells had suffered a kidney accident after playing a particularly violent game of rugby...which later put him on the path toward writing.
   During the group meditation practice discussion period tonight, a practitioner pointed out the metaphor of meditation as seeing things from moment to moment as they are, moving into curiosity about what is happening from one point to the next. I found this insight to be helpful for me, because it points to the way, in meditation, one need not try to conform one's experience to an established norm of 'the way things should be'. Lacking that reference point, one simply uses curiosity to see what's happening in the here and now, even if it's not necessarily what I had wanted or planned. I am not sure if this perspective would help for people who are going through ebbs in their health, but at the very least, it might be helpful to see health as part of a greater cycle that changes continuously.

Sontag, Susan (1978), lllness as Metaphor and AIDS and its Metaphors. New York: Anchor Books
   

staying with questions

     I often wonder, when one is meditating, where does the decision to remain with the method really come from? For beginning meditators especially (and I am a beginner each time), images can be so powerful, particularly coming from the unconscious. Even when one is not trying to do so, images often come in to fill gaps. If one is not guarding against it, one can get into a very dreamy state after a while. In dreams, one just goes from one image to another and randomly connects them until they make some kind of 'cogent sense'. Like a very young child's writing or drawing, sometimes that sense only 'makes sense' to me. But when I awaken, the sense is gone altogether.
    During meditation practice today, I just stayed on a question (called huatou) without trying to generate answers to the question itself. It's not easy to do this, because the mind has a way of bringing up answers in the form of images, which ends up dulling the experience. It's as though I am constantly coming up with solutions to what appear to be problems, even if the 'solutions' make less sense than the problems do. But one way to circumvent this approach is not to fixate on any answer to the question. It is to be more curious about the question itself, the act of questioning, or the act of having something unresolved. It is not easy to do this at times, because it seems that I am conditioned to treat a question as a segue into an answer. How many times have I asked a question half-heartedly, thinking that deep down inside I already 'know' the answer to it? Funnily, when I am most convinced that I know the answer to a question, the answerer will end up surprising me.  So, I think that I need to get around this idea that having a question entails that I urgently need an answer right away. Rather than privileging the answer, it is often better to privilege the question.
   Another way to look at this is to keep prolonging the process of questioning, until I am convinced that the questioning is worthwhile and that my "answers" have exhausted themselves. That process takes me to a deeper state of fascination with the question itself: an ability to turn the question over and over, looking at it from different sides, and not letting the stream of consciousness kick in and block the process of questioning.
    Many spiritual traditions have emphasized the value of beholding mystery. Pat Schneider, who writes from a Christian perspective, remarks, "What is required to be open to an experience of mystery? Perhaps nothing is required. No formula, no specific words to be said or acts to be performed. No baptism, no creed, no doctrine, no priest, no confession of faith, no adherence to tradition." (p.34) Schneider beautifully captures the attitude of letting go, to see what is left over when one is not relying on any concept or rule while being open to  the unknown. At the same time, I don't think the process itself need be mysterious. It might take the form of being more aware of mystery and allowing it to be present, particularly when one is unsure as to which path to take or what solution to follow. Being with the not knowing can be an exhilarating process where I learn not to feel devastated when I don't  have the answers.

Schneider, Pat (2013), How the Light Gets In, Oxford: Oxford University Press

Pace of Life

   City life, like any kind of life,is a good way to learn the values of patience and yielding. Most of the places I frequent have line ups, and most of the city is pretty crowded with people trying to have their needs and wants met.I have heard someone explain that multitasking and taking on too many things is literally the 'violence' of the 21st century. But that kind of taking on a lot of things probably happens most often in the city life, where there are simply too many choices and not enough time to do everything. I wonder how people do manage to slow down the pace of life?
    I read an essay by Venerable Guo Xing  in the book Encounters with Sheng Yen that helped me to better understand this question. In it, he relates, "After I was ordained, I encouraged myself to be in a state of mind of a seven-day meditation retreat every second of the day" (p.66).  If I had such a state of mind, would everything appear to be so fast paced? It reminds me that the sense of pace is based on how I see the way thoughts flow in the mind. Because thoughts race past each other in rapid succession, I think that a lot of things are happening to me. For example, if I am in a crowded store,and suddenly the thought of being comfortable at home arises, I will have these two images seemingly juxtaposed in front of me. I use this thought of being at home to reject the thought of being in the store, or vice versa. The two thoughts almost appear to interact with each other. It's interesting to wonder if they really do interact.
    This past weekend, Venerable Chang Zhai used the example of a person moving to illustrate this point. If I see someone get up and move around, I assume that one thought of the person connects with the next thought, and so on...until I see this person moving across the room. The succession of thoughts generates the illusion of something that is moving. But if I can stop the camera and see that the images are just separate, I will see that consciousness joins those images together to form some illusion of movement. The thought that these images are 'joined' arises so quickly that there is no way to see that they are separate thoughts. The mind just starts to follow the idea that they are joined.I think the same goes with these two separate images: being in  the store, and being at home. When the image of the store arises, it is somehow joined to my image of relaxing at home. The two images are joined together. Then I add a third thought, "I don't want to be in the lineup,I'd rather be at home!"This goes on and on...until I get home and realized that I forgot to buy something at the store. And then a feeling of regret arises. And so on.
     If I were to really slow things down, I would see that the images don't really interact or connect with each other.The mind is always still, but the sense that the images are joined creates this illusion of 'moving' between the thoughts.
   It's important to reflect on that principle, because doing so can allow me to see how most of what I consider 'problems'are really the result of the habitual joining of unrelated images and thoughts. I see the thought now and connect it to past experience which I labelled as 'unpleasant'. Is the present thought therefore unpleasant? Before I go to trying to fix the problem (or the person),I need to examine this root habitual tendency. Most of my unsettled emotions arise from the way I conjoin images and thoughts, rather than seeing the stillness in the current thought.
 
References

Encounters with Master Sheng Yen II: (2013) Sheng Yen Education Foundation

Fall Walking

   In the distance, the fall leaves create a shimmering kind of impression. At times, it appears as though the trees were on fire. The flicker in reds and golds until they fade out into the hazy sky.
      I remind myself that this phenomenon I am observing is a kind of optical illusion. When I get close to the leaves, I no longer see the individual ripples anymore.  Rather, the leaves start to take on the form of solidity as I get closer to their forms.
     The neighborhood, what they call the Bridal Path, looks a bit forbidding; no sidewalks and narrow paths in some places. The gates are all ironed out, with lions and  heraldry gracing the sides and stony pillars. A few cars are lining the garages and along the sides of the streets. But I don't see too many people on this Thanksgiving weekend. The streets even look a bit lonely in places, even though the houses retain a certain majesty. And I feel like a voyeur if I linger too long to gaze at the architecture.
   It is not too long before a ladybug perches on my hand. I marvel at the ladybug's orange-colored, mottled surface. The ladybug seems to linger with me for a while and I start to wonder. I feel a faint pinching sensation along my finger, but I don't think too much about it. I only sense and enjoy the contact of this small insect. But when the ladybug finally flies away after about half an hour, I see a tiny marking on my finger. It appears that the ladybug was hungry! But I didn't mind to give it some of my blood. After all, it's not that I need all this blood to keep me alive.
   During the weekend talk, there was a topic about the four elements of the body. I remember that the four elements in Buddhist philosophy are earth (which corresponds to the bones and skin, the solid parts of the body), water (blood), fire (body heat) and wind (circulation and breath).   It interests me that these same elements recombine in different permutations, across the natural world. The ladybug even took some part from my body and put it into its own. Even something as solid as bone has to be replenished through food. Without the right kinds of minerals,these solid structures would quickly become fragile and start to break easily.
    Even then, where did the elements of my own body come from? Was there really a 'me' that had given anything to the ladybug at all? Everything that I have in my body seems to be mine to 'keep', but is it really that way? I remind myself of the time when I had read that the cells in our body are constantly being replaced at a fast rate. I can't really say that any of the skin cells or hair cells that I have today are the ones I had when I was born. Going down into this, I can see that there is no solid origin to this movement. Even when I say, "I think that...", the "I" of now is not the same as the one from five minutes ago or five years ago. I even reflect on how the cells that compose the body must borrow their energy from somewhere: from the foods we eat, from the soil,from water, and from the sun.Without these things, would the body even exist for a week?
    Reflecting on these biological and natural process might seem a bit strange, but it also seems a useful reflection on the constant flow of processes and materials. I wonder, do those who study the life sciences perhaps feel more gratitude, to know that all the elements that make up living bodies are composed of the minutest of elements from many places? But besides teaching a sense of gratitude, life cycles such as those of the seasons could be a way of demonstrating the inter-relatedness of forms. When I see that my own body is a constant give and take with other bodies in the world (plants, other humans, animals, etc), perhaps I might hesitate to think that my body needs to be privileged over another being's body. Feeling this way, I might lower my defenses and find a reason to better relate to living beings.

Exploring the Five Aggregates and Self

       Autumn starts to come in fast, almost relentlessly, leaving me to wonder where the summer just went. The changing colors in the trees are reminders of the winter to come, as well as the growing season that just passed. Things are constantly in process of change, renewal, integration and eventual dissolution. Just reflecting on change can be a form of strange release. I often wonder why, besides being the season of my birthday, the autumn has so much symbolic weight to me. I believe that it is the one season which reminds me the most of impermanence, It portrays the beautiful and colorful disintegration of life ,back into the crisp elements of the soil and cold wind.

       Today's study session is hosted by Venerable Chang Zhai, a very gentle and amiable nun who lectures very deeply and honestly on the Chan principle. Venerable Chang Zhai describes the Five Aggregates, Twelve Contacts, and Eighteen Realms. I found it quite fascinating how the Venerable started our session by having us explore what life means to us. After describing the Five Aggregates and how they compose the world we perceive (Form, Sensation, Perception, Volition, Consciousness), Venerable Chang Zhai then asked us to look again at our first question of the day. Did anything change between the question of life before and after learning the Five Aggregates?

         Venerable Chang Zhai compared the Five Aggregates to the pieces of a puzzle. While they inter-mesh and compose each part of one's experience, they somehow never quite become whole. When I see something in front of me, say, a cup or this computer, I already have gone through a complicated process to get to that point of 'seeing/framing' the object. There is a condition of an appearance, such as a form, followed by sensations hitting the eye or other organs (sensations), followed by a framing of the sensations into shapes or appearances (perception), then followed by my responding to that perception (volition), and my labeling the object in terms of set qualities or labels from memory (consciousness). Venerable emphasized the last as the part that drives the whole business. Without an ability to describe something as a 'thing' using discursive thoughts, there would not be this process of forming objects based on the aggregates. This leads me to feel that consciousness is the 'glue' that keeps the aggregates together, though it too is only a constituent in a never-ending cycle. What I mean is that consciousness must play a big part in sustaining my belief that a 'thing' is a 'thing' and sustains that same thing-ness over time. Yet, if I were to look at still shots of each part of an object's trajectory on a film, what makes me think that the ball in one shot is the same as the ball in the next shot? The act of unifying these two images is also an act of consciousness.

     This teaching is valuable  in itself, because it describes a way of approaching how the world is created by mind. Most of my energy and efforts are devoted to the 'practice' of responding to what I believe are self-contained, permanent objects that are 'out there', impinging upon 'me'. Because I believe that the images in mind have a separate, individual self, or a kind of independent substantial existence, I spend my time either seeking those objects that I like, or warding off what seems threatening to my happiness....or, ignoring what is neither desirable nor detrimental. How the sense of self is formed in all this is a mystery, perhaps worth some study with developmental psychologists, But the point is that, I literally attach a 'weight' to subject and object that is not real. I once read a book by Walker Percy, called Lost in the Cosmos where he refers to the self as a  kind of thing that 'sucks' the life out of objects around it, eventually draining the things of their qualities. For example, when we first buy a clothing that is attractive to us, our impression is to identify closely with that clothing ('I look good in this"),until eventually, the clothing loses its allure. Soon enough, it's not the thing we thought it to be, but is rather a piece of cloth sitting in the closet somewhere.

     Now, how did that happen? How did the self get to be what it is, appropriating what it likes and discarding what it stops liking or dislikes? Maybe my question is not an interesting one. A better question might be, 'what happens when that happens? What is that experience like?' I think it's the experience of constantly using up experiences and growing disenchanted as they no longer feed the weighted sense of 'me' or 'mine'. And that weight is so addictive that it must be frightening when a person first meditates and sees that the self does not have such a heavy weight to it. It is like, 'what's going on?' "Why don't I feel the grave matter of 'me' coming up, with all these wandering thoughts coming and going and disappearing?" A kind of ontological panic starts to set in. And I see that similar ontological panic when Descartes starts to question who he could be without thinking...or when Roquentin, the character from Sartre's Nausea, starts to deconstruct a tree into its thusness, no longer labeling what arises as 'a tree'.

   I think this can also happen in one's relationships as well. How often have I experienced times when others went against what I expect to be 'considerate' or 'sensitive' behavior, leaving me feeling demoralized? This sense of 'I am wronged' is such a pervasive source of suffering. It's based on a misunderstanding that there are actually these permanent selves that are connected in mutual 'obligation' to each other. In fact, my perceptions of another's behavior are entirely subjective ones, which are often based on false and hasty over-generalizations of what I think should happen in a given moment. But does even this sense of 'I' endure over time? Unless I am aware that this situation is a threat to a specific sense of 'weighted, substantial self',then I will spend all my time trying to defend the illusory sense of self,without being able to let go of my grip on it. It's a pity and a waste of time as well, to be driven by this habitual sense of 'this is what existence must be'. But on the other hand, those 'threats to self' are opportunities to peel away the layers of that sense of weight, to see that it's simply a heap of impressions "bundled together" by a false consciousness of a 'me' as opposed to 'you' or 'the world''..

  I think it's important to explore, at least phenomenologically, what happens when the sense of self is compromised or exposed. Otherwise, I think that subconsciously, it is easy to put up smoke screens and start to zone out when our experiences are seen as aggregates. But over time, we might start to experience the liberating potential of seeing our experiences as pieces in a puzzle

Arthur's Beautiful Solitude

     Reflecting on tonight's Buddhist study class, I realize how much one of the practitioner's comments had really struck a deep chord with me. She described how many of the chapter we had been reading in Chan and Enlightenment circle around the notion that everything 'comes back to you', meaning that it always comes back to this question of the ultimate source of one's experiences. Indeed, to try to answer such a question using the phenomena as a final appeal would be completely defeating, and yet it is this kind of defeating behavior, I suppose, that keeps us getting caught in the vexations of craving and everyday suffering. This practitioner reminded me of how everything that happens to me is my responsibility. This means that only I can take care of the experience I am having, and there is no way to appeal to anyone else to own my own experiences. While this seems so fundamental to most existential philosophy in particular, it is a hard teaching to live, because I am always appealing to others,including authorities, to help me along the ways of life.I believe that one still needs teachers,but the difference is that at the end of the day,only I can take care of my own experience.

    I often find it hard to wrap my head around this fundamental alone-ness. The one thinker who comes to mind as reminding me of this principle is Arthur Schopenhauer,  a nineteenth century German philosopher. Schopenhauer had written a work called "The Wisdom of Life". I read this book in my third or fourth year as an undergraduate. Mind you, it wasn't an assigned reading or anything, since Schopenhauer isn't that widely taught in schools these days.But in chapter 1 of this book, Schopenhauer essentially describes how happiness is really a result of one's outlook on life, which Schopenhauer attributes to 'temperament'. Listen to the contrasts that Schopenhauer makes,when he makes the following remarks:

      What a man [sic] is in himself [sic], what accompanies him when he is alone, what no one can     give or take away, is obviously more essential to him than everything he has in the way of possessions, or even what he may be in the eyes of the world. An intellectual man in complete solitude has excellent entertainment in his own thoughts and fancies, whilst no amount or diversity of social pleasure, theatres, excursions, and amusements, can ward off boredom from a dullard. A good, temperate, gentle character can be happy in needy circumstances, whist a covetous, envious and malicious man, even if he is the richest in the world, goes miserable. (p.15)

What kinds of contrasts does Schopenhauer describe in this passage? Some are quite agreeable to our times, while some seem a bit disagreeable, if not archaic in tone. Schopenhauer contrasted someone of high intellect to the amusements of a 'dullard', which suggests a clear polarity between intellectual and non-intellectual that runs throughout Schopenhauer's writing. I disagree with this distinction. I think that all human beings have some intellectual gift or talent, and the only differences I can observe are in whether these talents are fostered and cultivated. I also acknowledge that each person comes into the world with different conditions acting upon her or him, and therefore different talents as well.

What still resonates in Schopenhauer's writing, to me, is the metaphor of turning 'inward' to find the true and unending source of happiness--a theme that also resonates in a lot of spiritual narratives I have read. As I am reading this passage from Schopenhauer, I wonder: how much am I living according to his ideal concept of a person who finds happiness in herself, rather than dissipating her energies in so many activities or diversions? How much do I really practice the ability to be content with my own being, to not seek out diversions when I lack stimulation? Sadly, I reflect on how easy it is to dissipate my energy when I am spreading myself thin or wanting to complete so many tasks. On the other hand, Schopenhauer intimates how possible it is to find contentment in one's own still mind, rather than looking outward to find amusement or 'salvation in the outside world'.

If I were to go back to this theme of taking ownership and responsibility for one's own experience, I must ask the question, how does one go about this task of taking responsibility for experience? I think that the turn toward a greater enjoyment of solitude is one possible, albeit tentative answer. Through a cultivation of the joys of solitude and alone-ness, one can lessen her attachment to others and preserve energy that might otherwise be dissipated through endless pursuits. Finally, becoming more comfortable in one's solitude is also one good way not to burden others, who also have their own business to deal with.

There may be some out there (often myself included) who might be saying, "what about those who don't enjoy being alone?" I think that many people who are afraid to be alone may not have cultivated a strong faith in their ability to be by themselves, as well as to take a contemplative approach of wholeness. I suggest that people simply make more space and time to be by themselves and meditate,just to get a sense of what happens when we are not so driven by racing thoughts and the pace of daily life. This gradual immersion in meditative solitude might be one ideal way to become more grounded in a happiness that does not come from external elements. Over time, a person might begin to realize that the daily temptations of the phenomenal world are only temporary,and are no substitute for the joy of an uninterrupted sense of being in the universe. Although this sense of being is not an ultimate inquiry into existence, it helps in unifying the body and mind, as well as for bolstering a faith in mind.


Schopenhauer, Arthur (1995), The Wisdom of Life and Counsels and Maxims (tr. T.Bailey Saunders) Prometheus Books

stepping into and out of line

The rain pours down on an October evening, one that is neither terribly cold nor that warm either. Autumn is taking its toll very fast, with a few cold spells happening on the previous weekend. I count the days before I can expect some snow or chilly spells, but I am finding that the weather surprises me so often these days. Some have even joked with me that they are simply unable to decide what to wear, on any particular day. It seems perhaps best in these situations to stock up on a variety of options.

I am reading a book by Vinita Hampton Wright called The Soul Tells a Story. This book describes how Hampton Wright gradually came to realize that she wanted to become a writer, even though she had little encouragement from her family, and was expected to teach music when she graduated. Hampton Wright notes that being 'called' to do something meaningful or creative with her life often didn't come from a conscious decision, but rather came from "losing" control and finding her unique ways of being in the everyday. Creativity often takes the form of 'witnessing' (p.32) what our inner creations or narratives want to say, rather than trying to control the narrative from the very start. What I create is not a result of a self over-riding everything, but flows from a space that cannot be predicted. Rather, it "unfolds"before the writer's eyes.

I agree with many of of Hampton Wright's conclusions about writing and art.  In particular, Hampton Wright spends a lot of time exploring the social opposition that can arise when people choose to embark on a creative endeavor (see pp. 28-32), which lends credence to the view that the artist is a solitary trailblazer, But I also think that there is a complicating element of how my art connects with another person's art. I get a sense that art is never done in isolation, but, more so, consists of circles of resonance with other beings and their 'art'. The example I think of is how much I have been inspired by others to write, and how the creative process has often been nurtured by many people I have known along the way. I even come to the point where I cannot separate 'my' creativity (if there is a 'my' here) from the synergistic elements I have encountered with others. Of course, being original and speaking one's true voice often requires stepping out of the lines of social circles and influences. Hampton Wright notes how many good works of art go unrecognized within an artists' lifetime, due to the lag in time before an idea becomes accepted by a society.

I wonder how much 'art' really gets on a page. Though most peoples' first exposure to art is through a formal class where it is thought to be a noun, there is also an 'art of',which refers to a way of being that transcends individual objects. Many people, due to causes and conditions,may never have the sufficient encouragement to 'create' a work of art, yet their life in itself is a special kind of art, or way of being. Perhaps these people are meant to provide a different way of being that cannot be captured on paper or canvas after all. But there are still others whose life forms the inspiration for an artists' creation. I am thinking of that complicated, tumultuous relationship between Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller, which Miller (perhaps loosely) adapted into his play After the Fall. I also recall how Somerset Maugham was inspired to write about a character based on the artist Gaughan. Here are examples which blur boundaries between 'art', 'artist' and 'inspiration'. 

I suspect that many people do find their most creative work in the process of isolating themselves: perhaps by going on a retreat, or turning to their own energies to find wisdom within. Sometimes, however, it may be too much to ask a person to 'look within' for the source of creativity. No matter how original a creative idea is, it eventually needs to ground itself and even inter-mesh with other perspectives. Similarly, I think that there is always a tricky balance between stepping out of a line to pursue one's heart and passions, and coming back into the line to convey one's learning and refine them in a social context. Both seem to be necessary parts of a creative life. But they are also parts of an ethical, wisdom life. Without the ability to turn to my own experience,I would be easily drawn into destructive lifestyles or inauthentic views of life. But without the ability to share and learn from others,I would simply be using creativity to create an artificial barrier between myself and the world. The middle path, here, might be not attaching to either one's own identity as creator or others' identities as audience/judge.

Hampton Wright Vinita, (2005) The Soul Tells a Story: Engaging Creativity with Spirituality in the Writing Life. Downer's Grove: Intervarsity Press

A Seeing Eye Dog

      At Spadina Subway station, on a stairwell, a woman slowly descends the steps. In one hand, she sports a long white and red cane,while on the other hand,she has a tight leash. A black coated seeing eye dog slowly guides the woman down each step, one by one, until he stops midway at the middle point of the stairwell. The woman, noticing those slight hesitations, immediately pipes up,
    "Why are you hesitating?" she asks. She quickly tugs on the leash to encourage the dog, as well as to hasten herself to catch a train that hasn't arrived yet. Meanwhile, her companion, a young man in his twenties, walks confidently beside her and verbally explains to her all the objects in front of her,
    "I don't understand this dog at all," the woman remarks, as they finally reach the bottom of the stairwell together.
      When I reach the bottom of the stairs,I too become curious about the dog's hesitations. When I spot him, I see him eyeing the subway platform with an uncertainty that almost bordered on embarrassment.I wondered, what is this dog thinking? Perhaps the dog is confused because its owner decided to take a steep flight of stairs rather than take an elevator or escalator.Or maybe there are so many people on the platform that the dog feels unsure of itself or its role. Better still, maybe the dog is simply new to its job.Seeing that the size of the dog is quite small compared to others of its kind, I guess that the dog might be quite new to this job.
      I am even tempted to approach the dog and at least console him for his hesitation and uncertainty, but then I remember that I am not supposed to disturb seeing eye dogs when they are on their duties. So, I amble close to the far end of the platform, never quite getting a chance to return the dog's lonely gaze.

***
    There is something quite miraculous and even mysterious about seeing the uncertainty of another being. Perhaps it is all just a projection of one's own inner uncertainty. I am not sure if the dog-owner was reading into the dog's hesitation her own mixed feelings about not knowing where she is going. I sometimes find this situation happening when I am not sure whether I want to be in a situation or not, or engage in some social activity such as watching a particular movie. Rather than cluing into my own uncertainty, I might subconsciously project it onto someone else. I have also heard couples say something like "where are we going to now?" "....|"It's up to you..."... "no, no,it's really up to you". Finally, once the couple decides where they are going and one of the two does not like their destination after all, she or he will say, "well,this was your idea...I had no say in it!" But in reality, the person's uncertainty colored the experience itself. Somehow, the person was unable to commit to a line or action or throw her or himself into the present moment, once the decision was made.
      Is it a contradiction to see uncertainty in a being whose role is to 'guide' another being? Some people feel that uncertainty is a sign of unprofessional behavior, something like 'not knowing your stuff'. But without encountering one's questions, life would just be a series of automatic judgments, a little bit like what happens when one does the same work again and again for many years. It's true that one becomes more proficient in that way, but the ability to be in an unknown situation becomes threatening to that sense of security. Sometimes it can be a good idea to immerse oneself in the experience of simply being unsure, of being hazy, or of having a deep question but not yet knowing what that question is. That seems to be the beginning of the knowing gaze,the wandering eye, and the soft look that pulls a being away from a habit path around others,
    The wonderful thing about uncertainty is that it is very close to the living pulse of possibility. It moves and beats according to it. But it can be scary, and I saw my own fear in the dog's eyes. Uncertainty can help one to raise one's eyes a bit and see another compassionately, with a bare and vulnerable presence.