Thinking "Mythically"

 I am exploring myths and their function in a book by G.S Kirk, called The Nature of Greek Myths (1974). Kirk was a Greek scholar who not only outlined the meaning of Greek myths, but also talks about the function of myths. There are several theories about myths (what Kirk calls "Monolithic Theories") which operate on different levels to describe what they are, their function in a society, and (perhaps more importantly) how to read myths. Many of these interpretations seem familiar to me, because I encountered them before in my early years. For instance, I recall reading in science textbooks this idea that myths are attempts to 'explain' natural phenomena, such as how the wind and earth came to be formed, prior to inductive reasoning. This way of reading myths treats them as signs for 'literal' events on earth. Related to  this theory is the 'personification' theory, which proposes that myths personify natural events, thus reflecting or projecting  human nature onto otherwise natural events.
        Kirk also refers to another model proposed by Malinowski (see p.59), which states  that myths codify social and moral codes that are upheld in society, similar to a 'charter'. This is similar to the structuralist view which tries to look at religion in an entirely functionalist way: to use a crude example, the idea that "Hell was created by people so that there would be fewer criminals and more fear of the law".  Rather than interpreting myths in terms of inner meaning, this perspective turns it inside out to see how the myth functions as a way of enforcing social norms.
     Kirk is especially skeptical of the view that myths are representations of psychic contents--an idea that has become quite popular with psychologists like Jung. Kirk doubts that there are universal archetypes that are common to all minds. He suggests that there may be a lot of generalization about cases to fit the mould of the archetypes, and even wonders whether the element of 'sacred' or 'divine' nature really applies to all myths after all (p.78-80). I think Kirk is bringing up important issues of whether it is ever a good idea to try to reduce a term such as 'myth' into a single salient form, such as 'the sacred' or 'the divine'. Instead of trying to simplify or reduce all myths into a common theoretical meaning, he explores the grey areas and tensions between competing discourses on what these myths involve, showing that each has its strengths and sticking points.
      This subject fascinates me because recently, I have been thinking about the relationship between magical or 'supernatural' imagery and spiritual texts. In the chapter on "Bodhisattva Who Hears the Cries of the World", in Surangama Sutra, the reader is entreated to descriptions of a being, Avalokitesvara, whose compassion and enlightened nature can save beings from seemingly impossible predicaments. Avalokitesvara can manifest himself in an infinite number of forms, according to the needs and dispositions of people. Some of the descriptions in the Sutra are quite amazing. Because of his enlightened nature, Avalokitesvara is said to be able to avert flooding, attack by knives or even fire. Read literally, these verses sound miraculous, and make it appear that Avalokitesvara has magical powers to save all beings in any predicament. But when I understand the text on another level, it represents the power of the mind to overcome fears by letting go of attaching to self and the body. While some might take it to be that Avalokitesvera works by 'changing the laws of nature' through miraculous cures, others might say that the text represents a state of mind that isn't fettered by material dangers or bodily harm. It may be that those who recite Avalokitesvara's name are saved precisely because they shift their attitude away from fear and toward a sense of love and devotion. Rather than being saved by 'magic', they are saved by their own attitudes and states of mind inspired by Avalokitesvara.
      So, which is the 'best' way to read these incantations?  Are they to be read literally as the miraculous powers of an enlightened being? Or metaphorically as the power that all minds possess to shift their perspectives and lessen attachment? Similar to Kirk's take on mythologies, I am going to say that both interpretations have a value, and don't need to monopolize the others. While it's important to acknowledge the way stories represent the powers of mind itself (taking a psychological approach), it seems equally vital that stories remind us of those powers and give them a concrete representation which serves as a pointer or a symbol. Without these symbols, it is easy to be cast adrift on the ocean of our thoughts.

Kirk, G.S. (1974) , The Nature of Greek Myths. London: Pelican

Benefits of Non Ascertainment

  In the meditation practices I have read and experienced, there is often an emphasis on seeing things clearly as they are. Without judging, labeling or attempting to create a story out of them, I can start to see things more clearly and have a bright perception of them. Sometimes, mindfulness practice is focused on clarifying what something is, but I recently read in Geshe Kelsang Gyatso's book, Understanding the Mind, that there are times when 'not ascertaining' what something is can be a useful approach as well. It depends on what we are dealing with in the moment.
    Non ascertainment, according to Geshe Kelsang Gyatso, refers to being able to see clearly but not 'realizing' what it is one is seeing. An example is being in a crowd. Although the awareness functions to know that the crowd is there, I cannot make out the individual people, and mind isn't focused on seeing them as individuals. It is as though the mind is aware of something as a whole but is not engaging in its particular features or discriminating between parts of that experience. Another example referred to is when a baby sees her or his father. The baby has no words or even previous knowledge to recognize the father (p.68). The first example refers to knowing that something is present but not putting one's attention on that object or situation. The second comes from not having a prior experience to label the experience or focus on it. In both cases, I think the main activity of the mind is to recognize the sensations without putting too much meaning on it. The third example that Geshe refers to is on p.69, where he describes the case of people not knowing a language, yet still being able to hear the sounds. Because my recognition of sounds is not tied to a particular 'meaning' or chain of associated thoughts, the sound is experienced just as a sound.
   I would imagine that education is most often associated with ascertainment. The classic example is that the more familiar we are with the particular qualities or distinctions between certain things, the more discerning I am. I can tell the difference between a rope and a snake only when I have a clear understanding of how the two are distinguished, and am in a position to realize the nature of both. If I am in a dark room or am feeling ill, I may not have such a clear way to perceive these or know that what is in front of me is one or the other. Without this ability to ascertain or "make out" features, I wouldn't survive for very long. I would need to have quick reactions to know that what is coming toward me is a car, for example.
     However there are other cases I can think of where it may be important to let go of ascertainment or previous habitual experiences of something. The mind is always unconsciously ''selecting" which stimuli to focus and which is merely background noise that is not of much value. I wonder if you can imagine what it would be like if the mind were simply unable to filter these sensory experiences. What would happen if, instead of choosing to attend to a conversation, a person simply could not choose to blot out other background sounds? If the person's mind isn't calm, this experience might be quite challenging and cumbersome.
    Geshe uses a second example, and that is cases where a person has craving for an object. He remarks, "At any moment, when we meet an attractive object we usually pay considerable attention to it and try to gain as vivid a perception of it as possible...Instead of paying so much attention to objects of delusion it would be wiser to develop non-ascertaining perceivers with respect to them" (p.71) Geshe uses the example of restraining the senses when approaching objects we strongly like or dislike.
     What I got from this particular chapter is that mindfulness doesn't necessarily mean that one is focusing on every detail or experience around oneself. While it's beneficial to have an awareness of everything around us, we still have to decide from moment to moment what kinds of focus would lead to wholesome outcomes. When I attach to something I like and continue to 'seek' it, I overlook the question of who is seeking what. In fact, I take for granted that there is a fixed and separate body looking for something or trying to grasp it. "I" have already objectified the desire into an "it" without  exploring or questioning that assumption.
    It interests me that objectifying in this way is always a form of violence, both to the perceived 'subject'  and the 'object.' While Geshe recommends the practice of simply not being driven by attachments or distracted by them, I also suggest that the desire itself can be looked into deeply, and can even be questioned. What does it mean to have the desire? Who benefit and who is harmed by it? Is it really so great to pursue something that is interconnected to the universe? For example, if I crave chocolate, am I really aware of the real nature of this chocolate: where it came from, what its' composed of, who grew it, who is exploited from making it, whether it benefits or harms this body? There are so many questions that complicate the 'object' we perceive as chocolate.
      The other assumption that people can make when wanting or craving is that this wanting always leads to a desired outcome. I have often heard of a psychological idea which says, "If you want something, just imagine in your mind what you want, and it will naturally manifest over time." But what is overlooked is that wanting is also  a source of anxiety and suffering. Because I am too focused on ascertaining the 'object' of my desire, I overlook the anxiety, fear and emptiness I feel when contemplating the object. If I am too quick to ascertain 'what I like' and 'what I dislike', I may overlook the violence and suffering this creates inside.

Geshe Kelsang Gyatso (1993), Understanding the Mind: An explanation of the nature and functions of the mind. London:  Tharpa Publications
    

A Method of Hearing

  In the chapter on the Surangama Sutra, "The Bodhisattva Who Hears the Cries of the World", the sutra describes how Avalokiteshvara uses the element of sound as a way to contemplate a space where there is no abiding in sound. It sounds like (pardon the pun) a tricky concept, but I understand it to mean that a person using this method tries to contemplate the entire totality of sound, so that the sound just reflects on the mind, as in a mirror. Avalokiteshvara describes the different levels of this practice. First comes "redirecting my hearing" so that the sound appears inward (as part of the mind) rather than as a distinct property of an object. To take a simple example, if I close my eyes and manage to get into a relaxed state, I might get to a point where the sounds around me no longer link to a distinct visual object or concept. The sound is no longer automatically associated with a perceived object, such as a car or a plane. I believe this is what the chapter refers to when it talks about 'turning sound inward'. The sound is heard for 'what it is' pure and simple, without being impurely linked to visual objects or generic concepts that arise in mind.
    That sounds like a simple instruction, but most likely, it is not so easy to get. Part of the reason is that people crave objects with which to link sounds. I am reminded of an example of someone I met before who was a big lover of classic rock music. When I asked him whether he was into buying CDs, he quipped that it no longer gives him pleasure to simply 'listen to' music, because he is so used to watching music concerts in a DVD form. Here is an example of where the purity of music is compromised by the desire to associate music with an image. But Avalokiteshvara's example goes further than this, by suggesting that all sounds come from the same source, and to try to contemplate sound in the context of that source.
    Once there is no longer any attachment to a perceived object or concept associated with the sound, sounds become "stilled" (p.234) and "both sounds and silence cease to arise." (ibid) At this stage, I would say that the mind is reaching a point of equanimity, and is no longer even craving or liking some sounds more than others. It has stopped discriminating certain kinds of sounds as 'good' or 'bad' and seeking some sounds  over others. Hence, there is neither a clinging to sound nor a clinging to silence: they can be said to be one unified, seamless experience. "Sounds" and "silence" don't 'grab' my attention anymore, so we can say that they cease to arise.
    Then, Avalokiteshvara continues, "as I gradually progressed, what I heard and my awareness of what I heard came to an end." (ibid) If I understand this correctly, this is the point where I am no longer discriminating a self that hears the sound (let's say, a subjective awareness) from a distinct object of sound. This is subtly different from the previous level because in the former, there may still be traces of "I am hearing the sound" rather than sound and hearer are a single experience. At this point of non-differentiating subject and object, the 'awareness' of starts to yield to a completely unified state of sound and hearer.
     In the next stage described by Avalokiteshvara, we heard that "My awareness and the objects of my awareness were emptied, and when that process of emptying my awareness was wholly complete, then even that emptying and what had been emptied vanished." (ibid). This emptying seems to be a process where, again, subject and object are seen as impermanent and not discrete things. Perhaps it might even be alluding to the Buddhist concept of emptiness as conditioned phenomena, where sound and hearer need to exist simultaneously with a series of interdependent conditions. Thus even sound/silence has no 'foundation' in a fundamental, shared substance called 'mind'. Instead, their forms are empty of underlying permanent substance or essence. The last step, however, is that even that emptying process ("that emptying and what had been emptied") vanishes. Now what could this mean? When I first read it, I thought perhaps it means that even the concept of 'emptying' is abandoned, and the sounds can return to their associated objects without a confusion of sound with other senses. When I read it a second time now, the thought occurs to me that even when there is a process of 'emptiness' there is still lurking in the background something that is 'emptying' and 'emptied'...a dual self, for example. But even this 'emptying' self dissolves, in the recognition that it is not permanent or distinct in any way.
    All of this might sound a bit abstract at first. But this chapter raises interesting ontological issues for me with regards to the role of sound in establishing or potentially challenging identity. The most concrete way I can think of this would be to examine the process that the mind undergoes when there is mindful listening happening. What, for example,is the real difference between 'external' and 'internal' hearing, as this chapter relates? I think perhaps it means that a truly authentic listening does not cling to the objects that arise in mind when there are sounds. If, for example, I am listening to someone talk and I attach to many thoughts arising in mind, am I listening to the person in that moment? Quite often, this is not the case, because one is only using pre-existing concepts arising in mind to relate to what is being heard now.  But if I were to disengage from the ''objects" that sound produces in mind and hear the sound as is (without emotional or mental projection), I would be truly listening. Why? I think, because I am no longer confusing the sounds themselves for concepts to which they associate in mind. I also start to lose the sense that there is a solid "I" who listens to "the Other".  Compassion can arise when I treat the whole experience as my mind, rather than making a false distinction between the 'object' and the subject.

Surangama Sutra: A New Translation Buddhist Text Translation Society

"Forms" of Emptiness

   In the Multifaith Center tonight, the third floor Quiet Room is being used by Tibetan Buddhist monastics to create a sand mandala, which will be later destroyed on Friday evening. The event itself  is a reminder that things don't last forever, even when a person devotes their whole body and mind to a process. I would imagine that it would take depth of practice and courage for the monastics to focus on something that they know will be destroyed in a matter of a week. And I admire their ability to stay with the principle of dedicating themselves to building such an intricate work of art, even when the work will leave little or no trace after the week's end.
      We were discussing in our group sharing tonight the various ways that we contemplate emptiness. One such way is simply to contemplate the skeleton that is underneath or underlying all human beings. Another way that was suggested by one of the practitioners is to see people as animals of sorts, or even to compare human beings to other beings to see their commonalities. I suppose this kind of practice does indeed help people to realize that they are to be treated with compassion, knowing that they suffer the same impulses or desires of all sentient beings. And it goes beyond particularizing  a person according to their class or appearance. I even recall a book by zoologist Desmond Morris, The Human Zoo, which dealt with the theme of humans being advanced primates who do things on a scale similar to other related sentient beings. Of course, the practice has limits, but the point is to show one's interconnection with other beings, and to emphasize commonality over difference. It is also to broaden one's perspective and take it out of the narrow view that humans are somehow dominant or specially chosen beings.
    The two examples I suggest above are also examples of everyday experiences of emptiness. Contemplating the skeleton is an example, which can get beyond the idea that there are these static, unchanging appearances in bodies. The skeleton reminds people that their bodies age, get sick, and die, after which they re-enter a material universe, to be recycled into new life forms. I recall being in Kensington Market last week, discovering this special line of clothing and paraphernalia which deals with 'images of death'. Here you have sweaters and scarves with skulls on them. They even have a 'mint' called 'zombie mint' which presumably emulates the taste and smell of death! (The ingredients read "raw meat flavor", if that gives you any idea). I am wondering if fashion has perhaps gone too far in subverting itself. While traditional fashion focuses on the clean, sanitized and eternally young body, 'death' fashion subverts this view by calling attention to what lies underneath the skin itself. Does such a fashion get to the bottom of who people are? Does it help lessen people's attachment to their bodies, or is it just another fashion fad?
      There are many ways that discourses and images can transform a static image into something that challenges permanence. I think the important thing is not even to attach to the images themselves, but simply to contemplate them as reminders. Certain kinds of fashion emphasize death symbolism (such as Goth style) but it seems that this only commodifies symbols of death into new packages, making the concept of emptiness and change seem safe and innocuous. There is potential there for insight into constant change, but there is also the possibility of fetishizing death, or simply denying it by making its meaning into something static. The same can be said about the Buddhist concept of emptiness, especially if people take it to mean that life has 'no meaning' whatsoever. The human mind naturally wants to make impermanence into a static concept, so that its scarier potentials are hidden or even denied.

Difficulties

After the group meditation tonight, a video of Shifu Sheng Yen was shown regarding coping with obstacles and challenges. One of the things that most impacted me was Shifu's remarks that difficulties can be reframed as ways to improve character and mature oneself. They don't need to be avoided, and people don't need to always seek an easy answer or solution to feel comfortable. As  I had shared with the group members today, part of my difficulty lies in being attached to "100% success" and wanting to impress people at work with how I can handle problems. Quite often, it's hard for  me to admit when I can only complete 20% or so of what needs to be completed, and it seems a sign of weakness in a competitive world to ask for help. But I also understand that people need each other to meet their targets, and sometimes the low percentage is simply a sign of the effort really required to complete a task..
   I find that one good way to manage difficulties is to focus on the task rather than focusing on 'the person' or the self. If I am tasked with something quite mundane and  not that rewarding, I am often focused on  the result or the benefit I can incur  from the task.  But let's  face it: some tasks aren't particularly inspiring at all, and they are simply done to maintain one's social and physical existence. An example of this might be paying one's taxes. The process of doing so requires resources and the initiative to get to the mailbox, but none of this proves to be all that rewarding. It is, in the words of a former high school colleague, one  of those 'things you just gotta do' that offer no real reward. Looking  at Shifu's video tonight, I realized that it might help to see the process of difficulty or 'task' not as a burden but as a way to strengthen a person's resolve to do things without a sense of self.
   If I can see all experiences as phenomena that are pointing to the mind, that is probably an even better practice, though it is more subtle. The best way to describe this approach might be to see that all experiences are phenomena itself. Not privileging one experience as 'more rewarding' than others allows me to see them all equally, and I can let go of the desire to gain from one or avoid the other. The practice can even become a kind of challenge, where I try to determine how well I can let go into the experience rather than retaining a sense of time or space, or wanting to do something else.
    Under this latter view, there is really no difficulty that ends up being a waste of time, futile or pointless. They are all just ways of helping a person to let go of the baggage of a fixed 'self' which stands to gain or lose from anything. Once a person can truly stop identifying so much with that self and see it as impermanent, then all the tasks are equally valid ways to learn and grow. It simply is a matter of balancing necessity and managing the different shifting priorities of the moment.

The "Pliancy" of Renunciation

   Lately, I have been wanting to learn more about the deeper theories and psychological aspects of Buddhism, and it has made me more determined to read as much as I can in the little free time I have. But there are moments such as today where all the theories seem like tiny sticks floating in a jetsam on the ocean. There are so many theories of mind out there in the Buddhist tradition, and it is often hard to piece together a common narrative. I begin to feel that learning such theories requires a kind of mental pliability: an ability not to confuse the maps with the territory, and even to let go of the maps when required.
     Certainly, one of the wholesome states of mind that Venerable Chang Hwa described in her talk to Toronto last weekend was the notion of "upeksha", which is sometimes translated as renunciation. In other cases, I believe it is translated as "pliancy", or the ability to adapt oneself to the circumstances and let go of rigid views of the world or one's place in it. Geshe Kelsang Gyatso, a Tibetan Buddhist teacher, remarks:

  Whether we are listening to Dharma teachings, reading Dharma books, reciting prayers, contemplating, or meditating, we should do so with a light and happy mind, like a child at play....We may think that renunciation, for example,.is a joyless state of mind because it is so keenly aware of the suffering nature of samsara, but in fact renunciation is a light and peaceful mind that is bound for freedom (p.162)

I often struggle with pliancy, because the concept represents a subtle middle path which is not so easy to grasp. I am someone who, I believe, loves to create systematic or overarching 'models' of things. If there are situations where things seem fragmented or there is simply not enough time for me to see the big picture unfold, I often feel frustration arising. Geshe Kelsang Gyatso offers a different view, and that is to see the process of learning itself as somewhat spontaneous, joyful and unsystematic. Even though the teachings of Buddhism are quite systematic at a certain level, people who practice or learn those teachings don't need to be attached to systems themselves. They can take in as much as they like, and try to find spaces in what they hear to create meaningful action or change. However, one needn't do so out of a need to 'perfect' one's knowledge or be able to know 'everything'. In this sense, the motivation is not to 'complete' education but to play within the experience itself.
     Caroline Brazier offers the analogy of musical players, to describe what learning might look like, in her book, Buddhist Psychology:

To play music requires training and personal discipline. Although the music is full of passion and spontaneity, it comes to life only if the musicians have trained. They must also be able to play together. Producing good music in a group requires good co-operation. The players must be willing to blend with one another, letting go of individualistic styles and preferences in favour of the collective sound. They must be willing to place the shared performance higher in their priorities than their personal agendas, and to focus energy towards this. (1993, p.19)

Brazier compares this analogy to that of learning Buddhist teachings, where "it is not...a matter of willpower. It is rather a matter of being willing to flow." (ibid, italics mine). Like Geshe Kelsang Gyatso, Brazier offers an analogy which points to the joy of spontaneously flowing with one's experiences, rather than always trying to create a complete explanation for what or why something is happening. I get a feeling that for both teachers, the love or 'joy' of learning in itself is much more important than getting it all together or having a complete system realized in front of us. And, given the nature of dependent origination, it may not even be possible to realize a systematic world in one's present moment. There may always be a kind of messiness to life, where there are continued interruptions that disrupt one's sense of what 'wholeness' is supposed to look like from one moment to the next. Perhaps the ultimate view might be to see that wholeness is always what is happening, not what I imagine would complete what is happening.
         Relating back to my previous post on social justice and Buddhism: I have to wonder if perhaps the biggest contribution that Buddhism could (potentially) make to areas of social justice would be to shift the paradigms away from "model" society-building, and toward an unfolding, collaborative, non-dualistic agenda that continually shifts with the contribution of different, multilayered voices. Being with the ensuing confusion: what would that look like in terms of bringing about needed changes to the way people socialize and harmonize? Would it be too scary? Would it seem too passive, too resigned, too 'amorphous', like walking in molasses? Would it entail every sentient being learning to relinquish control while experiencing the joy of that relinquishment?
        In another sense, I think the idea of 'pliancy' as applied to learning would be to trust one's own improvisations, and not worry too much if they have fully integrated what they were meant to absorb in a particular teaching, world-view, system or philosophy. If the teaching or idea has created a lasting influence on one's thinking, then it will surely show up there at some point. If not, that is okay as well, since there is often no real way of determining which seeds planted in mind will reach fruition, or when, or in what form. I guess that's the adventure of learning.

Brazier, Caroline, (2003), Buddhist Psychology: Liberate Your Mind, Embrace Life. London: Robinson

Gyatso, Geshe Kelsang, (1993), Understanding the Mind. London: Tharpa Publications

Social Issues and Meditation: How Related?

  I attended a student multi-faith dinner tonight and the question was asked at our table: what social issues are of interest to us personally, and how are our respective spiritual groups promoting social issues and justice? I thought about the question for a while (since I was the last in the table to respond). This question has always interested me, because the University of Toronto meditation group is mainly focused on sitting meditation and teaching some principles of mind. And the one thing that came to my mind has to do with living relationships and their impact on the surrounding environment.
    From my own experience, meditative practice has never been simply about going into the self or self preoccupation. Rather, it is really almost entirely an interconnected experience. What motivates a person to even sit down and do this practice? It is often something that is beyond the self, be it the need for a more harmonious relationship to others, or sense that there may be more than 'this self'. In fact, the motivation for me has always been a question that cuts through where the self begins and where it goes into the world. To try to reduce this practice to 'self-examination' would be a kind of mistake. Nearly everything that one can even say is 'oneself' is connected to something else. But in meditation, there is no mind discriminating between 'this thought is me', or 'that is the environment'. So there is an access point to view things as interrelated in some way.
    Whenever I am presented with a question like the one at the dinner, I feel somehow compelled to come up with one favored issue, such as protecting the environment or poverty. But somehow, I see them as all connected threads in one larger puzzle. For instance, what is it that makes some people have a lot and consume a lot, while others have little? If I examine this question without looking into the mind itself, all I am left with are these prescriptions for how to redistribute wealth so that everyone is given things equally.  But there is still something missing here, and that is the deeper question of why the inequality emerges in the first place. Is the inequality itself due to some past event, or is it some deeper mindset that keeps people in this way? Somehow, I am feeling that it has to do with how people relate to their resources.
   To take a simple example: if my identity is bound up in what I own or wear, or how much I have done or travelled, I am bound to see my value in terms of how much I have, and how much I can earn. At that point, I am simply unable to imagine a world where there is real equality. That is so because I will be so tied up with keeping up with the expectation of who I 'should' be that I would overlook the greater social issues. But if I am doing the practice for a long time, something can happen where I don't take any of these possessions to be me at all. In fact, I may even see that the totality of the experience I am having is the true mind, and I would start to take care of the world in a very different way: not rejecting any of it,, but listening and trying to heal its wounds.
   
  

Devotion and Acceptance

  The used book journey today starts at Bloor and Spadina, then proceeds down through College Street, Kensington Market, and finally back up to Yonge and Bloor. I manage to find a book by James Joyce, then a book about dying from a Tibetan Buddhist perspective, as well as a book on creativity and one by Donald Graves related to teaching writing in the classroom. All in all, I am an eclectic reader as of late. The day, too, is eclectic, varying from chilly and snowy to slightly mild. It finally turns downcast in the afternoon, and runs into another quiet Sunday evening.
    In her book Being with Dying: Fearlessness in the Presence of Death (2008), Joan Halifax describes meditation practice using an interesting and very pithy line: "Just Show Up". Halifax maintains that accepting one's own pain is crucial to being with others as they face illness and death. While reading Halifax, I started to think about the beauty of just showing up with our pain, our inner processes, and our own long walks through life. Halifax has this to say about the process of just showing up:
 
    I sometimes say that our monastery in Santa Fe should have a slogan hanging over the gate: "Show Up". That's all we have to do when we meditate--just show up. We bring ourselves and all of our thoughts and feelings to the practice of being with whatever is, whether we are tired, angry, fearful, grieving, or just plain resistant and unwilling. It really doesn't matter what we're feeling; we just come to the temple and sit down. (xviii)

But there is another element to this acceptance that arose as I was doing meditation practice tonight. I think it relates to how acceptance ties into devotion, and how the two co-exist in a kind of mutual relation. Simple acceptance ("just show up") is certainly a crucial part of meditation, and is a key part of letting go and not seeking a result from the meditation practice. However, without a kind of faith and devotion to the method of practice itself, it would be difficult for acceptance to be anchored in an experience. To take an example: if I sit with pain and allow the thoughts to spontaneously arise, it won't take long before I get caught up in thoughts of resisting pain, or wondering what the purpose is in sitting. Without the context of a relationship to the meditative method, acceptance can become rudderless and not grounded in any principle.
   One of the most interesting things about "relationship" stories is how they embody the process of growing a relationship through patience, open-mindedness and growing 'into' the other. Hugh Prather wrote about this in Notes to Myself, where he describes his resistance to petting the dog after a tiring day. Prather suggests that when he is truly patient with the unfolding moment, he stops wanting that particular moment with himself and the dog to be any other way. It's through this total acceptance that Prather learns to enjoy being with the dog, even when it may not be the ideal of where he wants to be in that moment. Relationship stories are often miraculous in the sense that they show this opening up to the unexpected and allowing the energy between two beings to run a natural course.
     The 'devotion' aspect of the practice has to do with the decision to stay on the cushion, as well as the process of returning to the anchoring element of the practice--be it the breath, chanting, huatou, etc. I can only describe this process as an act of love. It's no wonder that practice is often referred to as 'cultivation', because staying with that method is very much like watering a seed or nurturing the soil. I am afraid that without the element of directing toward the method, acceptance lacks a foundation or a principle, and it easily can go into torpor or a lack of direction. And I also believe that an attitude of simple devotion, of 'returning back' to the method, gives acceptance the added meaning that it is enriching a relation to the practice.

Halifax, Joan (2008), Being with Dying: Fearlessness in the Presence of Death. Boston, MA: Shamhala

Prather, Hugh (1970). Notes to Myself.  Lafayette, CA: Real People Press

Purified Faculties

   During today's Dharma class, Chang Hwa Fashi had explored  the psychology of Buddhism, with a specific focus on the eight consciousness. This class was quite important to me, because I have to admit that I haven't gone into any sufficient depth to explore the meaning of these terminologies. Though I have heard of them before and read about them, I have often glossed over the terms, as though not sure how they all can fit together into a single framework. Fashi's talk encouraged me to learn to appreciate the terminology and framework, even if I am not sure where to go with it at the moment. I'd like to clarify some of my confusions.
    I have often wondered, why does Buddhism break down perception into ''objects", "faculties" and "consciousnesses"?  In my naivity, I do wonder why these are categorized separately, when they are often experienced as a totality? Chang Hwa Fashi noted that the six senses don't arise in meditative samadhi, which entails that senses are not 'pre-given' in experience but are conditioned by an interconnected process. In Orthodox Chinese Buddhism, Master Sheng Yen remarks, "The six faculties represent the entire physiological field...Thus, Buddhists analyse the human being from three perspectives: psychological, physiological, and physical" (p.108). There is already much to say in this statement, because according to it, Buddhism is neither entirely 'realist', nor 'idealist', nor a combination of both. While six sense objects (sound, sights, smells, taste, touch, thoughts) are said to be 'physical' in nature, the six faculties (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, intellect) are said to be physiological, and the six consciousnesses are psychological (ibid). Conditioned arising pervades the acts of perception, according to this view.
    An interesting consequence of this systematic view is that it does not privilege one process (object, faculty, consciousness) over another. Sheng Yen remarks, "These three divisions of the eighteen elements are like the three legs of a tripod; if one leg is lacking, the other two will be unable to carry out their functions." (ibid). I cannot say that what I see is just a product of thinking, since this would mean I am capable of creating the world just from imagination. At the same time, the sense objects don't determine what I think either. Chang Hwa Fashi showed us two examples of optical illusions today. One of them showed a series of straight  lines which actually appear to the mind as crooked, mainly due to the configuration of squares. Another showed a dancer who appeared to be moving in different directions (clockwise, counterclockwise, alternating directions) depending on the observer's way of looking at  the image. Both examples are meant to show that distortion can easily occur after sensing an object, because the mind has a way of constructing and interpreting appearances based on frameworks of seeing that are often embedded in the subconscious or in past thinking.
         Another example that Fashi gave was that of a young child who tastes pop for the first time. Initially, the baby doesn't know what she is tasting, and later starts to register sensations as either desirable (eg. sweet) or undesirable (e.g the intensity of the carbonated bubbles). Sensation is thus conditioned by a person's judgment or the social assessment of how desirable/undesirable something is.
    Much of the psychology that Chang Hwa Fashi presented to us today is based on the interdependence of faculty, object and consciousness. The states of mind I encounter in everyday life all seem to stem from how faculties, objects and consciousnesses interact with each other. For this reason, the faculties are said to be 'impure'. As Master Sheng Yen remarks, "the eyes crave for forms, the ears long for sounds, the tongue desires flavors, the body years fro tender and smooth sensations, and the intellect hungers for happy states of mind." (p.110) Only by 'guarding' the faculties through meditation, precepts and concentration can the faculties become purified (ibid). It's not that the six faculties are inherently 'bad', however. Master Sheng Yen remarks that the six faculties are "tools of the six consciousnesses" (p.109), merely carrying out the behaviors directed by the six consciousnesses. \
    In another instance, Master Sheng Yen suggests that the six faculties were never meant to be limited to grasping objects, even though this is exactly how the faculties are used in daily life. It's precisely when the six faculties are no longer governed by a craving mind that "they will be emancipated from sense objects." (p.111) It has even been said that advanced practitioners can see with their ears, or hear with their eyes, because at that stage their faculties are no longer tied to a grasping to particular forms. Rather  than being seduced by forms, purified faculties can freely interact with forms. This, I believe,  is where the practice of the Buddhist path becomes most valuable as a tool to go beyond clinging to objects out of habitual craving or aversion.


Master Sheng Yen (2006), Orthodox Chinese Buddhism: A Contemporary Chan Masters' Answers to Common Questions. Elmhurst, Ne York: Dharma Drum Publications
 
 

Softening Extremes

    I have noticed in myself that whenever a distressing feeling arises in mind, there is often an  accompanying thought that is drastic or even 'polarized'. I take it to mean that anytime I suffer an extreme emotion, I can usually find some kind of absolute notion about what 'should be' true behind that distressing event. An example might be thinking that someone else might prevent a person from fulfilling her or his potential. According to this view, people contend with one another to get the very 'best' positions, often believing that there is only one possible position out there. This is a little like saying that there is only one book worth reading in a library, and that is the Nobel Prize winner. While society, it would seem, inevitably ranks people according to their popularity or respect in a certain area, none of that means that only one or two people can be valued in a given field of expertise. Either you are 'a genius' or 'not worth reading or knowing', under this polarized vision of  life.But the same is true of everything. The fact that there are brilliant people in certain fields does not mean that all people were meant to emulate their brilliancy. More so, one can say that each individual has her or his own brilliancy, the spark within them that makes them unique and indispensable to the world. But because I fixate on the idea that only some few elite people can be leaders in some area, I forget the uniqueness that is particular to each being. This elitist view is not compassionate, and it gives rise to feelings of anxiety and perfectionism.
      Another example I can think of regarding 'polarized' thinking is what happens when one finds out that someone does not like them. It could even be a group of people in a room that unanimously decides not to like the person. It is often the case that a person can take this insight and then conclude, "I am not a likable person." Again, this thinking is a kind of 'good/bad', 'black/white' thinking which gives rise to all kinds of anxieties, such as the fear of being alone, being rejected, or not belonging anywhere. But the perception that people in a room don't approve of me does not mean that the whole world disapproves of me. Nor does it mean that I 'deserve' disapproval. But somehow, the fear of not being good enough for others can be so powerful that is becomes a person's reality. When a person is dominated by such a view, it's hard  for them to see good qualities in themselves, much less tap into those qualities. But it takes an act of personal befriending (and perhaps courage) to see that one's worth doesn't depend on anyone's opinion.
     I found that in times of emotional stress, it helps me to question the thinking behind the emotional state I am having, and to almost engage in a Socratic dialogue with the underlying assumptions of an emotion. Doing so tends to soften the emotions a bit, as though the mind discovered how starkly polarized their thinking is that gives rise to the strong emotion. I must add the qualification that it's best to do this when one's mind is quiet or in a more reflective mode, such as after a period of meditation or outdoor walking. A more radical way of doing this, I would say, is to take the approach that polarities are an integral part of cosmic existence, and often dance together in rhythmic cycles. This vision is perhaps inspired by Taoism. Under this view, one need not try to get rid of polarity or 'dissolve' it into non-polarity. Rather, one can step back from the polarized view and appreciate the interplay  of opposites, and why those opposites need to co-exist together.
    An example of this interplay would be to look at a situation where one feels regret about leaving something to the last minute, or not completing something on time. On the one hand, one can lament the fact that they 'should have' made the deadline, and 'should have' stopped procrastinating while the time was still available. But it also helps to understand the situation from another perspective. What if what actually happens has its own internal logic, its own dialectic, that needs to unfold in its own time? I might resolve never to be late for a deadline, but that resolve contends with many other pressures and factors that might delay a person's progress in  a task. Examples of these factors might include competing priorities, divided loyalties to other projects, lack of sleep, a major life change, etc. The point is, why should one have to tie themselves to one principle, when life often reveals many principles at work in shaping a situation? This doesn't mean that it is not important to be on time for things. It means that any principle must contend with conflicting principles, and they form a dynamic interplay that cannot be clearly delineated into parts. In order for 'non-procrastination' to exist there needs to be a tendency to procrastinate. Otherwise, no such term as 'procrastination' would exist. Given that the two terms exist,it's useful to understand how they connect in different situations. Why might 'procrastination' be helpful and needed in a situation?
   Looking at things as a dance of opposites might lessen the need to 'dissolve' opposites. It also allows the complexity and contradictions of inner life to be more accepted and even to co-exist. In order to assert one quality as 'true', certain other qualities need to be suppressed or seen as 'untrue'. But it would be more interesting to look at the 'truth' from both sides, and to give each side the full due it warrants, before making a decision on which way to go.

Total Responsibility

     During the afternoon Dharma talk today on protecting the spiritual environment, Chang Hwa Fashi explored the notion of 'total responsibility', a term coined  by Joe Vitale in his book Zero Limits: the Secret Hawaiian System for Wealth, Health, Peace, and More. According to this viewpoint, everything that is experienced is our experience, meaning that it cannot be shunted off to "someone else". Even if, for example, a person feels that someone else is the cause for their problems, it is actually experienced only by the mind that frames it as a problem. Therefore, the mind itself has total responsibility for that situation. To try to deny that or think it's someone else's problem is a form of self-delusion, thinking that the problem occurs in  someone  else.
     The concept that was introduced today felt quite deep for me. I wondered, does it mean that there is truly no such thing as 'self' and  'other'? I think from the mundane perspective, there is still a separate "I" and "you". Otherwise, one would be able to taste what someone else is eating, and this does not literally happen. Similarly, all parts of the body function in different ways, so one cannot truly say that they are somehow 'identical'. A hand behaves differently from a foot, because the two have different functions and even different conditions acting upon them.  Therefore, one cannot say that they are the same. However, in another sense, hand and foot are interconnected in one body. The hand does  not 'reject' the foot because it isn't a hand, and the two function in their own ways to maintain a greater whole.
    Even though I cannot 'taste' 'your food' or see what someone else sees, in another sense, I interconnect with others in ways that are most meaningful and significant. If one is having a quarrel with someone else, they may think that "it's their problem, not mine". But in that moment, the problem is one's own problem. Otherwise, who else would be having the pain or suffering? Without the mind that experiences suffering, where would suffering be? So regardless of whether or not I think it's fair for someone else to treat me a certain way, that experience itself is completely mine to own. Another example might be when we stub our foot in the morning or encounter a poisonous snake. Am I  going to blame the door or the snake for causing me injury? I could, but blaming these for my injury doesn't change the fact that this mind I use  to experience everything is having the suffering. When I fully own the fact that all experiences come from this mind in this moment, I am no longer pretending that the problem belongs to 'someone else's' experience. The snake leaves no trace behind it!
    I think what this teaching points to is the futility and delusion of blame. It seems that sometimes people like to blame others because it gives them a sense of power to know that someone else can take care of their own experience. But  there is no such thing at all. In order to truly feel 'satisfied' in the blaming act, there needs to be some sense that someone else has "taken" the blame. But even in those cases, the experience of "someone taking the blame" is entirely created by this mind. It may not even be true that someone else takes the blame, even when it appears to be the case. What this challenges people to do is let go of their habitual tendency to try to pin their suffering onto something or someone else. The alternative is to look at the situation as a totality and ask the question: what part of this needs acceptance, and what needs care? What kind of care do I need to take with this situation or this person, to benefit all beings? Letting go of blame frees up energy for me to just take care of this present moment in the best way that I can, rather than comparing it to the previous moment or generating blame and regret.
   

Listening To and Going Beyond the Body

 In my readings  of hospice care across  different spiritual practices, I have learned that there are a variety of approaches to what the goals of spiritual care are. On the one hand, some approaches tend to emphasize keeping the mind peaceful at the time of one's illness or death. Here, the aim is compassion toward self and body. Implied in this approach is the notion that a comforted mind and body are most at peace, and are most able to harmonize with others at the time of death. On the other end of the spectrum are approaches which emphasize end-of-life as a trial of suffering and separation. "Passing" or getting through such a trial involves an open view of pain and an ability to strengthen oneself by tolerating pain. Under this approach, it is best not to try to relieve pain or blunt it in any way, but to see it as a testing ground to purify one's heart and being into the next life.
    The analogy I can think of is meditation. One emphasis in group meditative practice is to calm the body prior to meditation. In fact, guided meditation hinges upon the very specific instructions to relax all the body prior to picking up the practice.  The initial stages of meditation are often about adjusting the posture and calming the body. Here, I am said  to 'listen' to my body to get a sense of what's happening to it in the moment, so that pent-up or tense energy can release and I can fully settle on the cushion. On the other hand, as I start to take up my method of practice and mind stability, I subtly shift away from tending to the particulars of the body. Why is this so? Once the body is relaxing on its own, there is simply no need to attach to it or keep checking to see if the body is 'relaxed' or not. In fact, doing so might only start to make the body more tense. Anytime  I focus my energy into trying to influence something to be a certain way, that  is bound to create added tension to the experience. Another reason is that it's not the body itself that relaxes itself. Rather, there is a feedback loop, where relaxed mind loosens its grip on the body and the body in turn is able to help the whole mind relax.
    "Going beyond" the body is a tricky notion, because one does not get rid of the body during meditation. Rather, 'going beyond' might simply mean embracing the totality of the experience without clinging to any particular as 'me' or 'mine'. One of the tricky things I notice about the 'talk' or discourse on health and hospice care, is that it often assumes that the body is the central core of a person's being. But I have to wonder, is it really? Sometimes,  the more bodies are 'treated', the more depersonalized it can seem for someone receiving health care. Perhaps one of the reasons for an urgent need for 'spiritualized' health care is that some individuals begin to realize that they are not 'just their bodies' or 'just their illnesses'. An excessive focus on bodily dysfunction can also give rise to a lot of fears, as well as a sense that the body is controlling one's destiny. Cultivating a sense that we are not limited to our bodies may be one way to move away from a body-centered approach to health, and toward a fuller understanding of who receives health care.

The Miracle in the Mundane

  Taking a ride downtown this evening, I had  a thought:  how is it possible that this body, with all its elements, is travelling at such a high speed  to  get to  this other part of the city? When compared to the way things might have been centuries ago, this seems to be a kind of small miracle, to transport one's  being to such far distances to get from one place to the other. But it doesn't take long before I begin to wonder, is this body the place where the mind resides?  If so, how is it possible that so many locales can be experienced in a span of less than thirty minutes? This is indeed a strange thought to have. But I decided to entertain the possibility of something that seems initially to be so obvious as to be absurd.
   When I see the world only in relation to 'this body', I forget how far it's gone, how much I am able to see, hear and feel, and so on. I forget the intricacies of having a body to begin with, that can perceive so wide a range of emotions and situations. The more I relax and take in this experience, the more I begin to wonder, was "I" ever exclusively living 'in' this body to begin with? Or is the body only one of many vehicles of experience?
    This concept seems abstract, but it seems interesting to reflect, does anything one experience have this specific location in space and time? If so, where would one locate it? It might be easy for me to  say that three hours ago, I was downtown at Yonge and Bloor, or even provide a series of coordinates to say where I have been. But in fact, is there anyway to 'map' such raw experiences? These coordinates I create are just reference points to keep in mind in order to arrive at certain juncture points in experience. But the experience itself, the sense of being 'here' ---can it ever be placed in coordinates, as on a map? Perhaps a scientist might argue that everything can be mapped, but only if it's an object that already exists in space and time. For example, I can 'map' the cup in front of me by drawing coordinates and lines pointing to other objects around it, such as the desk or the wall. But can I do the same with this present experience? If so, what would that present experience compare to?
     In a sense, I can put it this way: I intellectually grasp this fact that I was at Yonge and Bloor about three hours ago. I have such coordinates in my mind, including a map of the area and a clock. But, in another sense, I  can't really say I moved anywhere after all. There is a sense that the experience arose but didn't arise from 'anywhere' in particular, or 'anytime'. It happened, but there is no preceding happening to experience. This is hard to convey, and perhaps easier to contemplate when I drop my thoughts.

Everyday Bardo States

      I came across a chapter by Anne Bruce in a book about hospice care, Religious Understandings of a Good Death, called "Welcoming an Old Friend." This chapter deals with how different strands of Buddhism treat hospice care, and the differences in styles of approach to death from a Buddhist perspective. Bruce talks about a term known in Tibetan Buddhism as 'bardo states', which traditionally refers to the 'in between period' between different states of consciousness that happens after one's  death. Bruce interestingly positions the bardo state as something that could occur at any given point in everyday life. As Bruce remarks, "Bardos are seen as states of mind or realities characterized by deep uncertainty or groundlessness that arise in everyday experiences and in the transition of life." (p.61). Fremantle and Trungpa (1975, quoted in Bruce, p.61) even go so far as to suggest that bardo is part of one's basic psychological make-up. It consists of states where a person may not have an idea where they are going or what they are getting into. These authors stress that life consists of many 'mini' births and deaths, and death is not a stranger to the living. By couching these periods of uncertainty as groundless and perhaps even 'liminal' in nature, these authors  suggest a way of framing the groundlessness as coming to terms with non-existence. Physical death and existential groundlessness of 'everyday' death become mirror images of one another. I even begin to wonder if the Tibetan Book of the Dead could be read as a metaphor for what goes on in the everyday on an unconscious level.
       It's hard to quite characterize what the bardo state might mean as applied to  daily life, but I think part of it has to do with a sense of not knowing why we are here in the particular incarnations we  have. This uncertainty can create a great deal of doubt in terms of what a person can best do in certain situations. Imagine losing  all the elements of your body and consciousness at death, how confusing that is going to be...and how much support  one is going to need in that situation. Analogously, life is a whole  lot of uncertainty with some support dropped in between to help people along the way. Education is there, and various communities are around to help people navigate the uncertainties they face in daily life, but none of this removes the uncertainty people face as they navigate change and dissolution. Even one's valued social roles or ties may not stay the same forever. But as long as I don't take these phenomena to be enduring and permanent, there is no particular need to panic or be afraid of it.  Of course, this  requires a lot of practice  in not reacting to uncertainty as though it too were a permanent state of  being.
      At the same time, I believe that concepts like bardo can actually be quite useful as an interpersonal exploration. I am interested in the spaces where a person doesn't quite know where she or he fits into a group, or how to find an identity in a place where they don't feel their own existence in relation to others. Could the 'bardo'' concept be used to describe feelings of social invisibility, erasure, or even oppression? Perhaps I am stretching it a bit here. But the purpose of the analysis is to understand how people move between states of lucid existence and existential invisibility in different situations. Perhaps it's for further exploration, because I am a bit at sea with this concept at the moment.

Bruce, Anne, "Welcoming an Old Friend". From: Religious Understandings of a Good Death in Hospice Palliative Care (ed Harold Coward & Kelli I. Stajduar) (2012). New York: SUNY

An Interesting Tension

During the meditation today, I had a strange yet perhaps mundane experience. While practicing the method of huatou, a stray thought emerged regarding some action or activity I need to take care of, which hasn't been done yet. I put the thought away, knowing that I would have to deal with it in some future time. Yet, the thought had got me to a point where, in the second sitting session, I started to feel less focused on the practice method. It is as though, in giving up the tension of the wandering thought, I had become so relaxed that even practice felt extraneous to me. I attached to the feeling of 'letting go' of the challenging thought, only to find myself unable to return to my method with diligence.

I think this example showed me two different extremes that often occur in my life. On the one hand, there is the extreme of thinking or worrying that something absolutely has to be done at a particular moment, or should have been done the previous day. This kind of mental thought creates the attachment and worry that interrupts mindful practice and creates a barrier to a clear mind. The other extreme happens when I have managed to overcome the burdensome thought by 'resolving' it in my mind. At that point, I feel such a sense of release that I lose the motivation to continue to practice a meditative practice method.

I think one of the biggest problems I face is this oscillation between two extremes: being too 'tense' and being too 'relaxed'. In the Buddha's teachings, there is the analogy of a musical instrument which needs to be tuned in such a way that it is not too tight or too loose. In fact, the two mental attitudes somehow feed off one another. A sensed need or compulsion to do something 'right away' often leads to a high amount of tension which is often 'blown off' through a relaxing escape or some kind of inner negotiation. But, if there was no urgency behind the thought, would there be any need to banish the thought itself? In other words,if I didn't take to the view that certain thoughts or actions are absolutely necessary, perhaps I wouldn't shuttle between the views of "you must do this now!" and "there is no value in anything so why bother?" If one  is aware and sees the thoughts with equanimity, they might realize that there is no 'necessary' thought or action. Even if something that needs doing hasn't been done yet, there are other ways to correct the situation, and clinging to that thought does not have to be the only solution or way.

Sometimes, thoughts can also be deceiving. An example might be where I start to have a thought about something left undone, and the thought arises: "It's because I am lazy that it hasn't been done!" And this leads me to feelings of anxiety or the urgency of achieving something right away. But when I look more closely at the situation, it may not be some 'lazy' inclination at all. There could be specific emotional or even physical barriers to accomplishing the task that prevent the task from being done. This doesn't mean the task needn't be done at all (which is the other extreme). Rather, it invites me to explore what causes and conditions might be making the action complicated. For example, in business terminology, I have heard the expression "opportunity cost", meaning that one can have a good opportunity, but at the cost of sacrificing another opportunity, especially in terms of time and energy. Rather than concluding that an uncompleted task makes me 'lazy'  would it be more compassionate and discerning to explore the other opportunities that arise from not doing the task right away? What other positives or factors are being overlooked when I conclude that I 'should have' or 'should' do some specific task? Such a process of thinking requires that a person become less driven by one particular thought, and more willing to explore it in the context of a total situation.

Useless Moments

  One of the harrowing aspects of doing presentations, I find, is the realization that what I present might not be relevant to others or even seen as valuable. I had such a moment today after I had done a presentation for a Buddhist organization at U of T.  The group's comments were that my piece seemed confusing, and didn't go specifically into the kind of topics they were looking to explore within their organization. A few remarked that the topic was too general. In the end, I could see that there was a long way to go before I could turn out something that is satisfying for the group's needs.
    From a Buddhist perspective, I have to wonder how to deal with moments when a person feels that their efforts were in vain. An example I can think of is the story in Buddhism about the king who builds monuments for Buddhism, only to be told by Bodhidharma that his efforts amount to nothing. What this story suggests is that there can be very little merit as long as a person is attached to the self who gains merit. I think that in moments like these, a person can look deeply into the non-self of the experience. In fact, if a person directly contemplates that moment of 'non-achievement', they may be able to let go of the need to have a 'self with a purpose' or to cling to that self. But it's hard to practice such a letting go, because it means going beyond the defensiveness of trying to cling to an illusory self.
   I believe that, for me, there is a deeply conditioned fear of falling behind from what I am expected to do in society. An example would be with grades. Whenever I received a very poor grade in school, I would often panic, as though the grade itself were a reflection of an inner deficiency or emptiness. But does the actual letter make a person 'empty' or 'lacking in value'? In the end, it is only a symbol, and it is meant to evaluate people's efforts, not their value in themselves. Related to this fear is the sense of having wasted time on something that doesn't build into another thing. Of course, to be realistic, much of what human beings and sentient life does is not building on anything at all. Eating, sleeping, and simple chores often don't lead to anything else. They are processed into the fabric of experience, rather than leading to any monumental change in the world. But if I am truly accepting and following the path of practice, I would not cling to any ideal of progress, 'getting better' or 'building' a dream. Progress itself seems to be relative, in a sense. This is not to devalue efforts, but to realistically assess efforts on a spectrum.            According to my reading of Buddhist teaching, things are neither permanently existent nor non-existent. Here is how the Dalai Lama explains it in the book Gentle Bridges: Conversations with the Dalai Lama on the Sciences of Mind:

...when we explain impermanence, it is almost like presenting a view of emptiness in that we have to free ourselves from the two extremes of nihilism and eternalism. Momentary change doesn't mean that a phenomenon disappears even in terms of continuity. We should be able to speak of a phenomenon momentarily changing while retaining its nature, its quality.In retaining the continuity of its nature, it is there--this frees us from nihilism. The fact that it is momentarily changing also frees us from the extreme of eternalism, or believe in absolute permanence  (p.77)


I think the Dalai Lama's words are quite valuable, because they suggest a middle path between extremes. If I cling to a specific notion about how knowledge, learning, sharing or information "should" progress, I am bound to be disappointed to know that it often doesn't have such a smooth progress. In fact, things can be so complex and deeply layered that it is hard to find an enduring or wise insight into where to go in life or in an organization. On the other hand, if I am too nihilistic, I reject all views, and this can lead to a feeling that 'nothing is worth doing'. In a sense, this is only the obverse of eternalism: one concludes that there is nothing worth doing because nothing is permanent. But if I am able to work with impermanence, I find myself content and able to utilize whatever I have at my disposal to share with others.

I think one of the trickiest things in life is to be able to keep going, even though the end involves the loss of self and basis for an enduring self. With more practice, perhaps I can keep going forward and contributing to the social fabric without harboring the illusory notion that "I" am getting better because of it!

Wayward, Jeremy W & Varela, Francisco J. (2001), Gentle Bridges: Conversations with the Dalai Lama: Boston: Shambhala

Thunder Beings

  During the Buddhist Study Group session, we had been talking about Master Sheng Yen's chapter on discrimination and non-discrimination, in Chan and Enlightenment. The chapter describes how people form good and bad affinities with others, based on their tendency to discriminate between things in terms of like and dislikes, thus forming attachments. One of the problems is that the more people attach to some things and reject others, the more the cycle of suffering continues into many lifetimes. "Affinity" refers to the tendency for some relationships to go more smoothly than others over time, due to a tendency for people to prefer some situations and people. In contrast, 'poor' affinity refers to failures to achieve harmony between people or beings over time.

    As I was reading this chapter, I wondered whether there is truly such a thing as 'good' or 'bad' affinity after all. Can some beings offer 'good' effects even though they may initially come across as unpleasant? Can we learn more from these difficult or challenging relationships, rather than simply coasting on 'smooth' ones? Here, I am reminded of a professor who mentioned to me about the Lakota tribe, who honored what they refer to as 'thunder beings (Wakinyan). According to these legends, thunder and lightning heralded both the coming of spring and the potential for destroying life. Fire, for example, can be a way to warm people and provide food, as well as a destructive and uncontrollable force in the universe, depending on how it is used.  According to this professor, the natives celebrate the coming of the Thunder Beings with respect and honor, rather than trying to repel those beings or avoid their powers.
 
  It would be quite interesting to reframe unpleasant experiences with others as potential growth and befriending experiences. But the practice of honoring the 'thunder beings' in our lives is far from easy. It's almost a kind of knee-jerk reaction to say that someone who causes us unpleasantness is somehow bad or to be avoided. But when I pause to be mindful of it, I notice that it's only my own emotion. Using my imagination, I can change the situation to reframe the person as a potentially benevolent being, who is only helping us to dissolve a hardened sense of self. But in those moments when I am faced with the "Thunder Being" there is always a choice as to whether to contract into my solitary ego, or to see the relationship as an opportunity for letting go.

Of course, there are other aspects to being able to defuse the tension of encountering a Thunder Being. One is to recognize that none of our encounters with others is ever 'staying' or permanent. For example, no matter how much difficulty a person puts me through, I can know that the problem isn't lasting. There is always a way through the situation if I am able to persevere and recognize my options and resources in the present moment. Sometimes, this insight requires looking into the conditioned nature of experience. Something might give rise to frustration or misery today, but will that feeling remain forever? It's not likely, considering that the conditions are always changing.

Yet another aspect is to understand how encountering difficult others can improve a person's capacity for compassion. It's one of life's ironies, I think, that a harsh encounter with someone can often make us realize and appreciate mercy and the ability to understand. If I don't have any moments where I am seen as defiant of the law, I would have no compassion toward those who are labelled as criminals. And it would be harder for me to realize that even 'criminal' is a label that we put on some people and not others, without considering the circumstances that person faces.

I think Thunder Beings exemplify the importance of using the right attitudes. Rather than seeing someone or something as an unsurmountable challenge, what would it be like to befriend the challenge itself and see it as the opportunity for inner growth or change?

Lonely Diner

   Subway delays and a fire investigation and Rosedale station prevent me from stopping for dinner before the meditation class starts. By the time the session finishes, I am just living on the granola bars I had brought with me. I decide to stop off somewhere close to Centerpoint Mall, on Yonge and Steeles area, only to find the lady at Tim Horton's packing up and taking out the garbage. If Tim Horton's, of all places, is closing, then there is not much of a chance of anything being open. After all,  it is just a bit after 10 pm. I suppose not too many people are thinking of dinner at this time of the day.
   Thinking that all is hopeless, I stumble upon a Sushi place just beside the Tim Hortons. As I gently lift the door, I shyly wonder whether they are still serving food at the late hour. A kind waitress greets me, though she appears puzzled by the fact that there is only one of me. Seeing that I am not doing take out, she motions me to a curtained booth. I quickly order vegetable yaki noodle, and tea. When the salad and soup arrive, my body feels the relief of fresh food and not the kind of food that is prepared in a rush or processed. My body seems to ease into the seat.
   Soon, I feel grateful for the food and the atmosphere, as I hear the tinkling of jazz piano music streaming through a satellite radio. I decide then and there to treat each bite with care, just as the servers must have put care into the meal itself. I put aside the two books I was simultaneously reading, and I put my mind on the dinner itself.  Even though I felt the solitude of being there by myself, I was able to absorb myself in that moment. I was able to engage with the conversation in the booth ahead of me, and take in the excitement of the two men across from me, who were conversing in a different language from me.
  During the meditation earlier today, one of the participants had explained how interesting it was to sometimes hear a Buddhist talk or guided meditation that suddenly 'clicks', for no other reason than it resonates in the present moment. While listening to the meditation, she was able to finally become present just by hearing the words or phrases, 'be present'. I still don't fully understand how or why it works that way. I think it has to do with the fact that there are certain moments where the mind is able to tune into itself. especially when fully relaxed. Only when the mind is still and receptive can this be done. I can listen to words over and over, but if I cannot access  an experience through the words, I am left just reciting them or hearing them over and over until they sink  in..
    Every daily moment is an opportunity to resonate with the true mind. Even in a restaurant, just receiving the experience is like coming home wherever one is, even if it is a strange place or a lonely place.

Contending with Others vs "Vows"

   During the evening meditation session, I played Master Sheng Yen's video which highlights the notion of contention: competing for scarce resources to achieve certain benefits or results. Master Sheng Yen contrasts contention with 'making a vow', which is a kind of purified striving to benefit all beings in a situation rather than only forward one's own interests. Vows also have the added advantage of broadening the number of possible actions available in a given situation. By not competing for specific roles, I learn not to take a particular role as an enduring indicator of my own value, and there is more flexibility to define what my value is going to be in a given situation.
    The best way I can understand the concept of 'vow' vs contention is that vowing doesn't depend on an idealized role. It happens, rather, in the unfolding present moment. If there is a particular task I am not fully cognizant of at work, for example, I can make a vow to better improve myself in this area so that I can benefit others. Vows aren't initiated by particular, predefined roles for which people compete. In reality,  anyone can be open to learning new things, and the vow is a kind of choice to try to do wholesome and meaningful actions for others. It's also a decision to keep learning, rather than being stuck with a predefined or predetermined sense of what one's capacities are. Of course, people do have limitations on what they have been trained to do. Everyone needs to have a good feeling for that for which they are capable. But thinking in terms of vows can help re-orient me away from trying to act according to a 'perfect self' or 'ideal' role, and explore my real capacities in this present moment.
    I feel that it will take a lot of effort to shift my thinking away from a 'contention' orientation and toward a more vow-based approach toward work and life. The biggest anxiety one can face is letting go of the fear of not having a distinct identity that can be owned or 'developed' over time. If I accept the impermanence of the roles I am currently accepting, I have the humility needed to learn new roles and even let go of pre-existing ones to embrace bigger challenges. It's hard to say where the faith to let go comes from. Part of what helps is to recognize that one's inclinations don't start and end in a certain role. Even if I am doing poorly in one role (for whatever reason), this doesn't disqualify me from excelling in others.  So I don't write myself off as a total failure if I am unable to fulfill all of what I idealize to be 'who I am supposed to be.' That softening of the heart can also give me the flexibility to interact with others without so much fear. I am no longer thinking of others as potential competitors for scare resources, but might even regard others as complimentary or supportive of my unique  skills or calling.



Master Sheng-Yen, "Contention": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fE4oGqBhRhw

Nothing More But to Listen

   I have sometimes thought that listening is not as essential to a conversation as sharing ideas. It seems that the culture I grew up in highly values the exchange of ideas, as well as having the most 'original' idea of all to contribute to the table of discussion. But lately, I have been thinking about how complex listening is as a skill. I have all too often associated listening with only a passive 'absorption' of other people's ideas, as though listening were just 'filler' speaker and listener, or a 'space to hold ideas'. But a lot seems to happen when a person is truly listening with the whole heart.
     One of the things I really need to do in order to listen is to really know and accept the fact that I am 'here' in this place and nowhere else. I don't think this is as easy as it perhaps seems at first glance. Even when I make a determined 'effort' to listen, I am sometimes only waiting for something to add to what the person is saying. On the contrary, to truly listen, I almost need to completely let go of the desire to add anything to what the other is saying. Just as when I am appreciating a work of art, I am not adding my own work to the existing one, so I practice enjoying something for what it is. I am not even there to append my footnotes or commentary to what is being said. Rather, I am getting into the world of the person with whom I am interacting, and creating a shared world in the process.
     In listening, there is often the threat of personal annihilation if one clings to this 'self' that is in a conversation. For example, what happens if I suddenly realize that there is nothing for me to contribute to this discussion---simply no words at all? It's so easy to then go to the fear that I am not perceived as listening at all. Again, this goes back to the common attitude that listening requires an active contribution on the part of the listener: something to 'echo back' to the speaker to assure her that I am truly here in the moment. But as long as I am only listening to 'appear to be listening', I am truly not hearing the other at all. The tricky part about listening is that I have to abandon what I think I 'know' about someone else to really know what they are saying in this moment.
    Another thing I am doing while listening wholeheartedly is suspending my desire to manipulate another person's opinions or viewpoints. I believe that this aspect of listening is perhaps the hardest balancing act of all. It requires both listening to other and listening to the self, to know how I am responding to what another person is saying. Am I responding out of a desire to change the person, to gain something from him or her, or to genuinely understand? Am I listening to strengthen my own perspective, or am I doing so to learn and be open to new learning? It seems important to be self-aware: to know what I intend to do with the listening with which I am engaged. And it's  especially challenging to allow myself the chance to expand or even rupture a few cherished beliefs of mine, in order to accommodate the challenges of knowing another. Paradoxically, I have found moments when I felt most connected to someone, when I had let go of the compulsion to use speech to influence or control the flow of conversation.
    In my last entry from January 11, I wrote about my reading of the Thai monks who are doing environmental activist projects. And lately,I have been thinking that people need to learn how to listen before they can protect the diversity of the planet. Listening seems to be the communicative model that most clues me into what environmentalism is, because listening is also about cherishing wild, open spaces where nothing is predictable and everything is valuable in its own niche. While the eye can enclose or focus on specific targets, listening is more inclusive and less discriminating: it takes in a series of interlocking symbols which require each other in order to be fully understood. While seeing 'isolates' chosen objects of perception, listening tends to operate by integrating a succession of sounds into meanings and networks of associations.
   I can't say that I am a deep listener or even a very thorough listener. But examining the act of listening helps me better appreciate its depths and to  see it as a valuable communicative tool in its own right.

A View of Unknowing

   I am reading Susan M. Darlington's excellent book, Ordination of a Tree: The Thai Buddhist Environmental Movement. This book details an interesting research project that Darlington conducted, where she interviewed and observed communities of engaged Buddhism in Thailand. In particular, Darlington focuses on how Thai Buddhist monks are engaging in 'environmental Buddhism', particularly the struggle to protect nature from the kleshas of human greed, hatred and ignorance. It's interesting to me how controversial the positions of the monks are, and how varied their positions can be. For instance, while some of the monks advocate conserving the forests completely from all human use (including natives to the Thai forests), others favor a more integrated approach which doesn't oppress those who have lived and worked among the forests. Similarly, Buddhist rituals to 'ordain' trees are considered either a symbolic act of respect for all life (acknowledging life's source as mind), or a kind of deviation from the original use of ordaining ceremonies. Even the meaning of these ceremonies can change over time, as they are appropriated into the state ceremonies, or made into 'cosmetic' forms of environmental awareness by corporations.
     I find quite interesting the question of to what extent monastics should engage in political activism. and, if so, how they can do so while maintaining the Middle Path. I don't have any clear answer to it, since my understanding is quite limited. From my limited understanding of the teaching on the Middle Path, for example, it's not so easy to determine whether a particular platform is going to always serve the interests of living beings. It always depends on the context, and whether the ideas happen to follow the function of what is needed by sentient beings in the given moment. If I protect the interests of the forests, what happens to those who make a living in cutting trees or making paper? The answers are not so easy, because there are different interests involved. Perhaps a valid respect for life would have to include a respect for all manner of diverse opinions.
      But, as I reflect on my own personal life: it's extremely difficult to truly feel that all opinions and perspectives have an equal value. It's a real practice, in fact, of daring myself to let go of trying to find a safe and secure answer on how to do things or what decisions to make. This would invite the possibility that we can never fully 'know' what is absolutely true or best for all people, in all situations. Inviting uncertainty is quite dangerous and risky in political situations, where people are often faced with decisions that impact other beings. But trying to do so as best as one can is a quite revolutionary possibility, because it shifts away from a Utopian vision and toward prioritizing the process of dialogue over all else.
      At the very least, I think that individuals can practice this 'view of no view' by letting go of the possibility of the  "ultimate" answer that will resolve all environmental issues. Since the environment depends on diversity for its very existence (as well as interconnection), perhaps the true way to preserve all environments (social, natural, spiritual) is through a process of careful and mindful dialogue, process orientation, and a mind to not create a hegemonic understanding of ideas. From this perspective, it's not the final goal that counts but the process of dismantling or challenging the notion of a 'final goal'. This process would mirror the ecosystem itself by seeing viewpoints as part of a network or 'family' of viewpoints, all enchained together in an intricate and shifting mental space. To try to divorce one idea from the others is to push it out of its embedded context with other views, or to claim an undue supremacy of that view.

Darlington, Susan M., Ordination of a Tree: The Thai Buddhist Environmental Movement. Albany: SUNY Press.

It's Something Else...

    The writer Colin Wilson once described a situation in which he had felt as though he had been terribly lost, only to find later on after asking for directions that he was not as lost as he had originally thought. He coined this experience "St. Neot's Margin" after the town in which he had been situated, to explain the sense of relief that he felt in that moment, after being somewhat disoriented. Wilson describes in his book The Outsider how he tried to find a psychological practice or principle that would allow him to always maintain the sense of 'relief' or even 'gratitude', in situations where such is not even necessarily called for. But I don't think that Wilson had quite found the practice that would do so, even though he studied a lot of Gurdieff's philosophy, as well as Ouspensky. Both of these philosophers seemed to be trying to use meditative practices as ways to further human evolution, or to obtain different kinds of experiences than the 'norm'. And I was even recently informed that psychologists are still very much interested in using meditation to reach 'peak' experiences. I still wonder whether there is any value in an experience that is only fleeting at times. And I wonder, what does it mean if someone simply cannot achieve such an experience?
    From my own experience, the reason that the 'relief' from a problematic experience doesn't last is that..it is soon followed by another problematic experience. It seems to be the nature of things that there will be some difficulties or falling away from expectations. Situations are much too complex and conditioned for something to always run smoothly. From the Chan perspective, students are told not to cling to their meditative experiences, even 'good ones'. I think this is because as soon as I even slightly cling to the feeling of relief, I create vexation by wanting to keep it there forever. It is truly difficult, if not impossible, to keep an experience forever. Even if one gets what she wants in life, does this mean that she will feel the same way all the time? It's hardly the case in most situations. So I have found that it's a good practice not to get too excited when things happen to go well in a given moment. I believe that Master Sheng Yen even compares such a good experience to taking money from one's own bank account. Rejoicing in merits that one happens to have obtained is probably a bit redundant. But of course, people will naturally feel good when things are unexpectedly smooth.
    In spite of its problematic aspects, I still think there is a value in Colin Wilson's writing and observations. It's important that people somehow learn to enjoy the simple fortunes in their life, almost as though it were a free gift or a respite from something that could be potentially worse. It is a pity when people are surrounded by good food and available resources, yet cannot really taste the food or know that it is conveniently there.  Yet, without a sense of simple enjoyment of the present moment, it's hard to enjoy what is there.  On the other hand, reading about the Thailand monks who are engaged in social /environmental activism, I am made aware that it is hard to practice anything if a person is struggling to feed their family or make ends meet. Perhaps the meaning of hardship is that it sensitizes people both to the simple joys and also the precariousness of life: the fact that those joys are fragile and can easily be taken away from someone, can only arouse compassion in someone.

Wilson, Colin (1956), The Outsider. London: Gollancz.

Two Restaurants

During the winter walk yesterday evening, I  saw a strange yet comforting sight indeed. Around the Yonge and St. Clair area, I spotted restaurants with the dim lights and the quiet people eating and socializing. And right beside it,  there was a pizza place where a lone woman was having her pizza with a magazine in front of her. I reflected on the joys of both social life and solitude. And I thought that the images of the two kinds of restaurants represents two different states of living. One is the life of connection, ambiance and environment, while the other represents the bare twenty first century necessities: white walls, fast service and free wi-fi. And a third restaurant beside it featured a sign which read: “Danger: gas zone, no smoking”. I thought, it is very caring and considerate that the restaurant would take care of the patrons in this way. For a moment, I even felt a pang of tenderness: even though perhaps it wasn’t intended to be this way, in that moment I could see that somehow the universe and its beings are striving to care for sentient beings in a loving way.

The two restaurants I witnessed exemplify the cycles of my own life, in some respects. There are times when it seems like I am really connected with others and am in the warmth of others’ company. To me, this is most illustrated in the dark, ambient restaurant. In other situations, I feel the exact opposite. There is a kind of sense that I am by myself, with myself, and left to fend for myself. When I sometimes sense that in other people, both tenderness and fear arise in me. There is tenderness, in the sense that I want to comfort that person, and can relate to their solitude: the sense that somehow the universe has left them behind in some way.   And I want to be able to show this person all the things they have, all the love that surrounds them, and to just be grateful for this moment. At the same time there is that strange fear of not ever fully knowing why anyone feels this way, and not knowing how to remedy that feeling either. I think this fear is none other than the sense that perhaps we truly are left to our own devices in the world.

The other restaurant is about interconnection and reconciliation: coming in from the cold, being reunited with a loved one, and having the courage to continue in life’s path. It is about old friends being friends always, even when they haven’t seen each other for a long time, and it is also about the timeless quality of love: always being there as though resuming the friendship after a brief respite. I have often thought that this ‘togetherness’ is more ideal than solitude, but actually, the two states of being complement each other. They seem to represent the extremes of belonging and ‘being thrown’, and yet  without the polarity, there simply wouldn’t be either one. One cycles into the other. For example, there are moments when I feel so alone, and the sight of an animal or a person’s reassuring greeting will be so strong to me that it will pull me into a sense of grace. Had I not been put into that extreme state of solitude, I would not have known what grace truly feels like. So in that sense, the offering only comes when I have tasted moments when there is no offering, or even a sense of self who offers or is being offered something.

 

 

Cultivating "Weariness"

   January's first week has come and gone, and the weather fluctuates between warm and cold. Holiday songs still seem to linger in mind. It  is as though I didn't get enough of it, or perhaps am still attached to the meaning of it in some way: the sense of settling, appreciating, looking back. In contrast, I tend  to associate the beginning of each new year with ''buckling down" and putting the nose to the grindstone to accomplish the year's tasks. It seems that my life fluctuates between the work that needs doing and the sense of looking back in retrospect to make sense of the work itself and its importance. Without the balance of both, even work loses its meaning.
   While on the subway ride to work, I was continuing my reading of Uncommon Wisdom by Dzigar Konstrul Rinpoche. I came across the following:

Weariness recognizes the cause and conditions and sees the way out. Even though you enjoy relationships, ultimately everything is impermanent. How can you sincerely be attached to something that you know is impermanent and going to change (p.141)

Dzigar Konstrul Rinpoche contrasts 'weariness' with 'depression'. Weariness seems to involve having a clear sense that attachment can lead to all sorts of self-inflicted suffering, coupled with a determination to emerge from attachment. Depression, on the other hand, carries a kind of hopelessness. Once a person has decided that they don't need to suffer from attaching to something, they have more inner power and can free up space for other things in life.

While reading this chapter, I have tried to reflect on when and how I developed a determination to 'let go of' attachment, or even a sense of weariness. I think it's only through meditation that I have believed it even possible to do so. I have also recently been more aware of the pain that comes from craving and desire.

When I was younger, I associated desire with something that 'feels good', such as wanting a piece of cake or sweet food. But in the process of craving something, do people not sometimes notice the pangs or the mounting frustration that comes from 'not having'? For me, frustration is like a tight knot that wraps around my heart and stays there for quite some time. It often brings with it feelings of impatience or even aversion, as I try to avoid obstacles to getting what I desire.

Once I can oversee the entire cycle of desire as a totality, I have become even less fond of the state of 'having' desire in the first place. It is like being on a roller coaster for so many times that one is even afraid to get on the cycle, much less have to endure the after-effects of it. Certainly, it is easy to get hooked on the highs, and this too can become addictive. But when have the 'highs' ever stayed with a person? And is there ever a point where one has truly become satiated from it. Even the desire for approval or close friendship can become a craving that makes one's life feel unfulfilled by comparison.

Interestingly, Dzigar Konstrul Rinpoche does not construe weariness as a 'negation' or a kind of absence of feeling. Instead, he describes it as a determination to end suffering by realizing its impermanence, or the actual nature of desire itself. Sometimes this can be a conscious choice not to participate in the desire itself: to say no to it, or to gently experiment in refraining from it. There are certain kinds of attachments, such as to 'being right' or 'getting one's way', which can only abate when I see that there is no permanent self which is 'to be right'. At that point, I can observe my reactions without giving into the belief that I am those reactions.

I believe that it's best not to force this practice. Having desires is okay, but it's important to simply ask who really has those desires. If I see that there is no single fixed 'me' that is having the desire, it starts to lose its sting when it is left unfulfilled. It is as though I were watching a movie about some character who suffers the pangs of a desire. Though I might temporarily participate in that person's plight, it would be wrong for me to think I am that person on the screen. Yet, we do this all so often, particularly when the practice of meditation is not foremost in mind.

Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche (2009), Uncommon Happiness: The Path of the Compassionate Warrior.. Hong Kong: Rangjung Yeshe Publications