The bus was so crowded today, though luckily it was a stretchy type bus. I decide to enjoy the thrill of the 'stretchy' part of the bus by gripping the handrails in this area and bracing myself for the buses' sharp turns. It's perhaps not the best way to take care of my spine, but may be a good core exercise in its own right. And I stood in front of a girl who was wearing earphones, though I could clearly hear the music coming out of its tiny buds. With not much room to take out a book and read, my mind struggles to find a place to roost. I start to recite Loving Kindness Meditation to calm my mind.
"May I be well, happy and peaceful"
"May my loved one be well, happy and peaceful"
"May my family be well, happy and peaceful"
"May all the people on this bus be well, happy and peaceful"
"May my colleagues be well, happy and peaceful"
"May all the beings in the city be well, happy and peaceful,"
"May all beings in the country be well, happy and peaceful"
"May all beings on the planet be well, happy and peaceful"
"May all beings everywhere be well, happy and peaceful"
And as I recited these lines, I started to see all the people on the bus in an equal way, from the perspective of equanimity. I started to glimpse in some way that everyone is similar in the way that they are all going to a destination, all wanting things to go well and on time, and all have some loved one to whom to come home, or perhaps at least would like as such. I started to realize that universality of being human, of wanting pretty much the same things that all humans want. This reassured me. I suppose it helped me to let go of a nagging sense of dissatisfaction of not wanting to be in that situation. I had a glimpse of where my real problems and challenges lay, which is in a grasping mental attitude.
Why is it hard for me to do this? Just to stop my wheels for a while and contemplate the universality of life, its striving, its mutual suffering? I don't know the reason.. I have a suspicion that it's because of the three poisons: the greed of wanting more, the aversion to having less, and the obliviousness to what's in front of me. But the deeper reason is that I always want to fill spaces with things to be done. What if there is nothing in particular to be done? What would it be like to breathe into that space of 'neither doing nor non-doing', just following the function of the moment without desiring the 'more'? It's just something for me to reflect on. The best love is the love of what's here, regardless of whether it's pleasant or unpleasant. Why? Because the love of the present is indestructible. Nobody can take you away from this moment. So perhaps the meaning of these verses 'well, happy and peaceful' is to wish all sentient beings to stop spinning in their own wheels, slow down, and love exactly what is in this time, without trying to fill every 'time' with new things.
A tough lesson! But it's practice.
Monday, February 29, 2016
Sunday, February 28, 2016
"Created by the Mind"
For a long time, I have been a bit puzzled by the idea in Buddhism that phenomena are 'created by the mind', or all things in the universe are as such. I have wondered: if all things are created by the mind, why doesn't the bus come sooner for me on a rainy day, if I wish for it hard enough and long enough? Why do we often have the experience of being somehow 'thrown' into the world, perhaps even against our wishes? I wondered if perhaps the idea that all phenomena is a creation of the mind might only apply to Chan masters, or others who have cultivated great practice over many lifetimes to manipulate the physical world.
Master Sheng Yen greatly clarifies this subject when he remarks, "we must understand that something in the mind is manifested and then brought into the world. Generally, we begin with a desire for something....It certainly doesn't mean that all you have to do is to wish for something and it will suddenly appear out of thin air. If that were the case, you wouldn't have to work. You'd never have to lift a finger." (p.66). Master Sheng Yen suggests that what happens always manifests as a result of a combination of intentions and conditions. Individuals still need to plant the right intentions into their minds in order to create the right conditions, as well as according to the laws of karma. I believe that the notion of 'creation' that Master Sheng Yen suggests is quite different from a Western notion, which often carries the romanticized legacy that creation is coming from a single being (like Dr. Frankenstein, for example!). Creation is not, at least according to the Buddhist account, something that is done by one person, in one single stretch of time. It is manifest through reaping many conditions, over longer periods of time. Furthermore, intention also requires action and effort. Master Sheng Yen reminds his audience, "if your mind really moves in a particular direction, it will have the tendency to produce action according to the original idea or thought." (p.69) This is quite different from the assumption that one need only manifest the right thoughts to create good results. Thoughts need to lead to specific actions and decisions in order to truly be created by the mind. I find it also interesting that we tend to associate actions as 'external' to the mind, while thoughts are 'inside the mind'. In fact, both are equal parts mind.
Master Sheng Yen elaborates on the importance of forging relationships with a combination of thoughts, intentions and actions, in order for good things to come to fruition. He uses the example of a couple, the husband of whom complains that his wife must love Master Sheng Yen more than he because she scolds her husband and heaps praise on Sheng Yen. Master Sheng Yen reminds the couple that the only reason this is so is that the wife doesn't see Master Sheng Yen on a daily basis, whereas she would see her husband every day. The fact that she sees her husband more means that she would have more for which to scold or criticize. But it also suggests that the husband has more importance in mind, because there's a caring bond that is cultivated there. I found this example wonderful because it shows how compassionate Master Sheng Yen is that he was able to see the husband as more important than the husband himself would imagine. But it also reinforces Master Sheng Yen's idea that 'created by the mind' is not just about idle daydreaming or entertaining thoughts. It is about cultivating relationships with specific beings and projects. I found this to be a different face of Buddhism, one which is more grounded and less 'idealistic' in the classical sense of the term.
Finally, Master Sheng Yen emphasizes the importance of doing good deeds for others, in addition to striving for one's own goals. According to the Buddhist notion of karma, generating good merit is a way to smooth the path toward attaining wholesome goals in life. I think the notion of helping others ties into the theme that we are all interconnected in mysterious and often unknowable ways. The important thing is not to satisfy desire, but to cultivate the right intentions and right reasons for having something. Otherwise, it is just another form of greed, and it doesn't do oneself or others that much good.
Master Sheng Yen, Until We Reach Buddhahood: Lectures on the Surangama Sutra Volume 1, Elmhurst, NY: Dharma Drum Pub
Master Sheng Yen greatly clarifies this subject when he remarks, "we must understand that something in the mind is manifested and then brought into the world. Generally, we begin with a desire for something....It certainly doesn't mean that all you have to do is to wish for something and it will suddenly appear out of thin air. If that were the case, you wouldn't have to work. You'd never have to lift a finger." (p.66). Master Sheng Yen suggests that what happens always manifests as a result of a combination of intentions and conditions. Individuals still need to plant the right intentions into their minds in order to create the right conditions, as well as according to the laws of karma. I believe that the notion of 'creation' that Master Sheng Yen suggests is quite different from a Western notion, which often carries the romanticized legacy that creation is coming from a single being (like Dr. Frankenstein, for example!). Creation is not, at least according to the Buddhist account, something that is done by one person, in one single stretch of time. It is manifest through reaping many conditions, over longer periods of time. Furthermore, intention also requires action and effort. Master Sheng Yen reminds his audience, "if your mind really moves in a particular direction, it will have the tendency to produce action according to the original idea or thought." (p.69) This is quite different from the assumption that one need only manifest the right thoughts to create good results. Thoughts need to lead to specific actions and decisions in order to truly be created by the mind. I find it also interesting that we tend to associate actions as 'external' to the mind, while thoughts are 'inside the mind'. In fact, both are equal parts mind.
Master Sheng Yen elaborates on the importance of forging relationships with a combination of thoughts, intentions and actions, in order for good things to come to fruition. He uses the example of a couple, the husband of whom complains that his wife must love Master Sheng Yen more than he because she scolds her husband and heaps praise on Sheng Yen. Master Sheng Yen reminds the couple that the only reason this is so is that the wife doesn't see Master Sheng Yen on a daily basis, whereas she would see her husband every day. The fact that she sees her husband more means that she would have more for which to scold or criticize. But it also suggests that the husband has more importance in mind, because there's a caring bond that is cultivated there. I found this example wonderful because it shows how compassionate Master Sheng Yen is that he was able to see the husband as more important than the husband himself would imagine. But it also reinforces Master Sheng Yen's idea that 'created by the mind' is not just about idle daydreaming or entertaining thoughts. It is about cultivating relationships with specific beings and projects. I found this to be a different face of Buddhism, one which is more grounded and less 'idealistic' in the classical sense of the term.
Finally, Master Sheng Yen emphasizes the importance of doing good deeds for others, in addition to striving for one's own goals. According to the Buddhist notion of karma, generating good merit is a way to smooth the path toward attaining wholesome goals in life. I think the notion of helping others ties into the theme that we are all interconnected in mysterious and often unknowable ways. The important thing is not to satisfy desire, but to cultivate the right intentions and right reasons for having something. Otherwise, it is just another form of greed, and it doesn't do oneself or others that much good.
Master Sheng Yen, Until We Reach Buddhahood: Lectures on the Surangama Sutra Volume 1, Elmhurst, NY: Dharma Drum Pub
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Moderation
In his commentary on the Surangama Sutra, Master Sheng Yen remarks "With the exception of a few practitioners, people need an emotional life to survive. But we should use our reason to regulate our emotion. Thus, we get consolation from our emotions, yet we do not let our emotions burn us like a consuming flame" (p.44). I was intrigued while reading this passage, because I began to wonder how it is even possible to achieve such a balance in life. Master Sheng Yen uses the following analogy to explain what he means by moderation:
I recently read a poem about rain. The poem suggested that rain conducts a symphony on the roof; throws a party on top of umbrellas; embroiders the streets with beautiful patterns. Rain gives life to all lives; it is life within life. The poem resulted from the poet's feelings. Ordinary people will think of rain as rain; it will be an inconvenience to them. The poet, however, uses his imagination to enliven the rain.
Master Sheng Yen goes on to compare contemplation of the rain with how a person feels love for the beloved. It is not just an act of pure desire but also a kind of ideal that comes from mindfulness of all the rain's qualities. Master Sheng Yen seems to attribute this contemplation of the rain to a combination of emotions and reason. While emotions give a person the understanding of beauty, it's reason that allows those emotions to be articulated in creative and artistic ways. Raw emotion or desire perhaps doesn't have this same quality to it, because it is somewhat crude and overwhelms. But with artful appreciation, many things are possible, and it extends from one thing into other areas of life as well. I am most impressed by the notion that rain starts to become more spiritual as the poet articulates its features. It is as though this poet went beyond the purely sensory notion of rain and its experience is closer to the wisdom that is the universe itself. Rather than simply articulating the rain as a 'thing', this poet managed to find ways to richly contextualize the rain as part of a greater symphony, and breathes life into the metaphor of rain.
Which is more important, emotion or reason? I think both are equally important, but reason tends to be equated with something cold and impersonal, almost scientific. I am almost tempted to replace the word 'reason' with wisdom, to refer to the way things can be seen in ways that illuminate the universe and its interconnection. But without emotion, reason can lose its moorings and start to lose sight of what is most important to humans, or what is most meaningful. The two need to inform each other rather than seem divorced.
Sheng Yen, Until We Reach Buddhahood: :Lectures on the Surangama Sutra Volume 1. Elmhurst NY: Dharma Drum Pub.
I recently read a poem about rain. The poem suggested that rain conducts a symphony on the roof; throws a party on top of umbrellas; embroiders the streets with beautiful patterns. Rain gives life to all lives; it is life within life. The poem resulted from the poet's feelings. Ordinary people will think of rain as rain; it will be an inconvenience to them. The poet, however, uses his imagination to enliven the rain.
Master Sheng Yen goes on to compare contemplation of the rain with how a person feels love for the beloved. It is not just an act of pure desire but also a kind of ideal that comes from mindfulness of all the rain's qualities. Master Sheng Yen seems to attribute this contemplation of the rain to a combination of emotions and reason. While emotions give a person the understanding of beauty, it's reason that allows those emotions to be articulated in creative and artistic ways. Raw emotion or desire perhaps doesn't have this same quality to it, because it is somewhat crude and overwhelms. But with artful appreciation, many things are possible, and it extends from one thing into other areas of life as well. I am most impressed by the notion that rain starts to become more spiritual as the poet articulates its features. It is as though this poet went beyond the purely sensory notion of rain and its experience is closer to the wisdom that is the universe itself. Rather than simply articulating the rain as a 'thing', this poet managed to find ways to richly contextualize the rain as part of a greater symphony, and breathes life into the metaphor of rain.
Which is more important, emotion or reason? I think both are equally important, but reason tends to be equated with something cold and impersonal, almost scientific. I am almost tempted to replace the word 'reason' with wisdom, to refer to the way things can be seen in ways that illuminate the universe and its interconnection. But without emotion, reason can lose its moorings and start to lose sight of what is most important to humans, or what is most meaningful. The two need to inform each other rather than seem divorced.
Sheng Yen, Until We Reach Buddhahood: :Lectures on the Surangama Sutra Volume 1. Elmhurst NY: Dharma Drum Pub.
Friday, February 26, 2016
What does it feel like to be non-attached?
I have been thinking about this question, 'what is the real experience of non-attachment' ever since I had read the Lotus Sutra a couple of weeks ago, especially after hearing the part where Buddha exhorts the arhats not to attach to emptiness. Many interpretations I have heard about non-attachment seem to be related to this idea of not having any emotions, or not caring, or being distant. And according to Lotus Sutra, all of these interpretations are just forms of attachment! Just as a person commonly might attach to sensory objects, personal enjoyments or a strong sense of self-identity, so also a person can attach to non-identity as well. The desire not to attach to anything whatsoever turns out to be a form of attachment.
So how does anyone get out of that dilemma? I believe the answer is something like to reframe non-attachment as being deeply in one's experience rather than trying to escape from it into something extraordinary. In other words, I tend to see non-attachment as the sense of ordinary and the everyday: taking things as they emerge, being aware, harmonizing with others, and not having any particular sense that one is remarkable in the process. It seems then that, contrary to what some might think, non-attachment is not really necessarily achievable in isolation. In fact, it's possible to conceive of non-attachment as something that is done in the society of other beings. I am not referring to being socially gregarious, but I am talking more about the natural way that one is with others, not being strenuous or pretentious but being just so. And the reason that might best be played out with others is that there is no longer the illusory sense that there is a separate "I" that needs to be saved or to save itself.
I also believe that the busy and unpredictable 'normal, everyday thrown-ness' is the best way to shatter the view of the self. As one recognizes this thrown-ness (the state of being thrown into the world) there is also the tendency to let go of the idea that one has special powers. Wonderful to some and dreadful to others, I suppose. But just this morning, I had this insight that perhaps one of the best ways to reflect on the emptiness of self is to look back on one's life and wonder: is this like the Hollywood movie? Is it predictable? Does it have a single coherent narrative or direction? Chances are that a person will sense the bumpiness, the unpredictability, and the lack of a single coherent thread or plot, if one is truly honest with oneself about it. But far from being a curse, this feeling of unpredictability is a gateway to let go of a glamorous view that I have to be an absolute "somebody" in the universe. Perhaps it is okay to be 'happily nobody' and yet still get along with others and do one's best to pitch in an idea or two when asked. Perhaps a non-assuming disposition is the closest I have come to the attitude of non-attachment.
So how does anyone get out of that dilemma? I believe the answer is something like to reframe non-attachment as being deeply in one's experience rather than trying to escape from it into something extraordinary. In other words, I tend to see non-attachment as the sense of ordinary and the everyday: taking things as they emerge, being aware, harmonizing with others, and not having any particular sense that one is remarkable in the process. It seems then that, contrary to what some might think, non-attachment is not really necessarily achievable in isolation. In fact, it's possible to conceive of non-attachment as something that is done in the society of other beings. I am not referring to being socially gregarious, but I am talking more about the natural way that one is with others, not being strenuous or pretentious but being just so. And the reason that might best be played out with others is that there is no longer the illusory sense that there is a separate "I" that needs to be saved or to save itself.
I also believe that the busy and unpredictable 'normal, everyday thrown-ness' is the best way to shatter the view of the self. As one recognizes this thrown-ness (the state of being thrown into the world) there is also the tendency to let go of the idea that one has special powers. Wonderful to some and dreadful to others, I suppose. But just this morning, I had this insight that perhaps one of the best ways to reflect on the emptiness of self is to look back on one's life and wonder: is this like the Hollywood movie? Is it predictable? Does it have a single coherent narrative or direction? Chances are that a person will sense the bumpiness, the unpredictability, and the lack of a single coherent thread or plot, if one is truly honest with oneself about it. But far from being a curse, this feeling of unpredictability is a gateway to let go of a glamorous view that I have to be an absolute "somebody" in the universe. Perhaps it is okay to be 'happily nobody' and yet still get along with others and do one's best to pitch in an idea or two when asked. Perhaps a non-assuming disposition is the closest I have come to the attitude of non-attachment.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
The Party in Your Mind
During the meditation tonight, there was quite a noisy crowd outside celebrating a gathering. I tried to guide the participants by gently reminding them that the mind is neither still nor moving. What this means is that the mind can follow phenomena but in the end, it's not actually moving from one phenomena to the next. It is in this spirit that people can abide in phenomena but not believe that their minds are moving with it.
At the end of the session, one of the participants mentioned that it was actually easier for him to deal with the noise outside than that within. It was then that a thought came to mind. I verbalized it as "were you having a party in your mind while meditating?" The question was a bit ambiguous (not to mention humorous), but it could be looked at on many levels. Where do 'parties' really take place, after all? Are they events that happen between different minds, or is it only the sounds and sights of the (singular) mind? And who enjoys the sights and sounds? Is it a group of people somewhere 'out there', or is it really the mind's felt sense and expression?
Of course, there is a more emotional point to the question. I think the question has to do with how a person learns to enjoy experiences. If a person treats all the enjoyment of life as somehow 'outside' themselves (in the form of food or drinks), then that person will feel deprived or perhaps desiring of those things when they are taken away. If, on the other hand, one's mind is in a kind of repose all the time, then the 'party' is really happening on the inside, and there is no need for the external elements to enjoy life.
The group meditation practice is quite interesting, I am finding. It is sometimes very noisy and sometimes very quiet; sometimes eventful and sometimes routine; sometimes full and sometimes empty. Could all those people outside the room tonight have been fellow practitioners in some form who are there simply to help the practitioners to find some new way of practicing? Perhaps, but only if one sees that their actions are impermanent. I recited Loving Kindness Meditation toward the end of the practice, and I found that the noises peaked and then suddenly died down as quickly as they arose. It is as though all the rowdy energy had exhausted itself, and the party folks decided it was time to go someplace else, and so they all left at once! Now how did that work? It didn't really have anything to do with 'working' or 'not working'. When I was able to recite Loving Kindness Meditation to the point where the sounds no longer affected me that much, the sounds found a way to settle and disappear. It's a mystery, but it seems that whenever a phenomena is gently and unreservedly held in clear, unattached awareness, it has a way of manifesting into impermanence. It is as though the mind has cleared a path for the phenomena to turn to Dharma.
At the end of the session, one of the participants mentioned that it was actually easier for him to deal with the noise outside than that within. It was then that a thought came to mind. I verbalized it as "were you having a party in your mind while meditating?" The question was a bit ambiguous (not to mention humorous), but it could be looked at on many levels. Where do 'parties' really take place, after all? Are they events that happen between different minds, or is it only the sounds and sights of the (singular) mind? And who enjoys the sights and sounds? Is it a group of people somewhere 'out there', or is it really the mind's felt sense and expression?
Of course, there is a more emotional point to the question. I think the question has to do with how a person learns to enjoy experiences. If a person treats all the enjoyment of life as somehow 'outside' themselves (in the form of food or drinks), then that person will feel deprived or perhaps desiring of those things when they are taken away. If, on the other hand, one's mind is in a kind of repose all the time, then the 'party' is really happening on the inside, and there is no need for the external elements to enjoy life.
The group meditation practice is quite interesting, I am finding. It is sometimes very noisy and sometimes very quiet; sometimes eventful and sometimes routine; sometimes full and sometimes empty. Could all those people outside the room tonight have been fellow practitioners in some form who are there simply to help the practitioners to find some new way of practicing? Perhaps, but only if one sees that their actions are impermanent. I recited Loving Kindness Meditation toward the end of the practice, and I found that the noises peaked and then suddenly died down as quickly as they arose. It is as though all the rowdy energy had exhausted itself, and the party folks decided it was time to go someplace else, and so they all left at once! Now how did that work? It didn't really have anything to do with 'working' or 'not working'. When I was able to recite Loving Kindness Meditation to the point where the sounds no longer affected me that much, the sounds found a way to settle and disappear. It's a mystery, but it seems that whenever a phenomena is gently and unreservedly held in clear, unattached awareness, it has a way of manifesting into impermanence. It is as though the mind has cleared a path for the phenomena to turn to Dharma.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
seeing things as dreamlike
I came across the following lines in the Surangama Sutra, as Manjushri is describing to Ananda the method of turning the hearing inward to perceive the sounds. Manjushri remarks,
In perfect purity, the brilliance of awareness shines
Unhindered and in still illumination of all space,
In contemplating worldly things as the events of dreams,
The young Matanga woman was a figure in a dream
Just who was really there with power to entice you? (p.255)
In this passage, Manjushri suggests that when a being has turned all faculties to contemplating one inward sense (such as sound), everything outward appears as though in a dream. Knowing that it's a dream, a person is no longer so enticed by worldly addictions or attractions. It truly opens the possibility of living in a detached way, but I also believe there is a tenderness in this statement. Knowing that things are so dreamlike can open the possibility of love, of tenderness and adventure. It isn't that a person loses those beautiful emotions. Rather, those emotions are supplemented with the awareness that the things are always changing. To behold that in some ways is to see something miraculous, and to ask for the first time: why is all this here and how did it ever come to be? That sense of wonder of not knowing what the world is all about, yet feeling a part of it, is perhaps the essence of the figure in the dream.
Although the joy can be short lived and illusory, isn't hardship also the same? I have come to see that both dimensions of joy and pain belong in this perspective of life. But sometimes the approach has been to assume that Ananda is being advised to suppress or deny the things of the world.. It is perhaps a different perspective to ask, where do these phenomena truly come from? What are they here to show me? Isn't even the craziest energy just a teacher in disguise, waiting for a person to realize where it all comes from? But because of the habitual tendency to assign things to like and dislike and personal gain, the energy remains untransformed, and the dream looks and feels so 'real'. But without that sense of struggle, one can love the totality of the dream in a gentle way and embrace its possibilities.
Surangama Sutra: A New Translation:
In perfect purity, the brilliance of awareness shines
Unhindered and in still illumination of all space,
In contemplating worldly things as the events of dreams,
The young Matanga woman was a figure in a dream
Just who was really there with power to entice you? (p.255)
In this passage, Manjushri suggests that when a being has turned all faculties to contemplating one inward sense (such as sound), everything outward appears as though in a dream. Knowing that it's a dream, a person is no longer so enticed by worldly addictions or attractions. It truly opens the possibility of living in a detached way, but I also believe there is a tenderness in this statement. Knowing that things are so dreamlike can open the possibility of love, of tenderness and adventure. It isn't that a person loses those beautiful emotions. Rather, those emotions are supplemented with the awareness that the things are always changing. To behold that in some ways is to see something miraculous, and to ask for the first time: why is all this here and how did it ever come to be? That sense of wonder of not knowing what the world is all about, yet feeling a part of it, is perhaps the essence of the figure in the dream.
Although the joy can be short lived and illusory, isn't hardship also the same? I have come to see that both dimensions of joy and pain belong in this perspective of life. But sometimes the approach has been to assume that Ananda is being advised to suppress or deny the things of the world.. It is perhaps a different perspective to ask, where do these phenomena truly come from? What are they here to show me? Isn't even the craziest energy just a teacher in disguise, waiting for a person to realize where it all comes from? But because of the habitual tendency to assign things to like and dislike and personal gain, the energy remains untransformed, and the dream looks and feels so 'real'. But without that sense of struggle, one can love the totality of the dream in a gentle way and embrace its possibilities.
Surangama Sutra: A New Translation:
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Pondering Job and Karma
I am reading a book recently, Love: A History by Simon May, which explores the notion of Job in the Bible. This story interests me because it is quite paradoxical. Job is a figure in the Bible who pretty much loses everything: his children, his livelihood and his servants as well. He is also inflicted with illness, and yet he manages to somehow accept his fate rather than rage against God or deviate from his faith. It's interesting to me, because Job is on the one hand very humble and faithful in seeing himself as "naked" from his mother's womb and yet also naked returning there. On the other hand, he rails against his fate and even wishes never to have been born, I somehow wonder, how can this combination of qualities exist in the same person? I suppose my assumption is that faith is stoic in the face of suffering, but Job does in fact feel pain and expresses his pain in a strong way. He cries out to God about his fate even though in the end he accepts his fate fully. And although there are those who believe that Job must have deserved the fate he received to have been given such terrible fate, May interprets the story of Job as a profound lesson on the nature of God and love for God. He remarks "A real relationship with one whom we experience as grounding our being--or even as the source of our being, like God or a parent or a landscape or a nation--demands stubborn acceptance and offers no predictable or calculable benefits." (p.32) In other words, Job's 'lesson' is that love is not something that can be calculated or even known to have a specific benefit. It is just this devotion to the 'unknown' or 'unfathomable' that makes Job's love for God so profound and moving.
As I was reading this part of May's book, I had to wonder how this story line holds up to the notion of karmic retribution in Buddhism. Would a Buddhist perhaps argue that Job's 'punishment' is the result of his previous karma, and would therefore serve as a kind of 'reaping what you sow'? I do wonder what a parable such as Job would sound like if it were made into a Buddhist parable, and what the related lesson might be. But I think the notion of karma is much more complicated that one would expect from the adage of 'reap what you so' or 'to each one her just desserts.' Master Sheng Yen talked about in Chan and Enlightenment how futile it is to look for the causes of why things happen as they do in one's lifetime. It might be that something challenging arises in one's life due to an action that occurred many lifetimes ago. There is simply no way of telling what the 'root cause' of the problem is, since the cycle of birth and death is beginningless. In fact, Buddhist sutras often refer to the expression, "since beginningless time" to refer to an endless cycle of causes and conditions inflicting upon each other in circles. So I would imagine that the Job in a Buddhist parable would also come to the similar conclusion that she or he comes into this world naked and leaves it the same. in other words, there is no trace of past and future, and mind remains the same regardless of the conditions that arise and perish. And in both cases, Job would need to be faithful to the moment, rather than trying to attribute the present to something that might have happened in the distant past.
But the story of Job is obviously nuanced, and there is the added dimension of what life would be like simply devoting oneself wholeheartedly to a higher principle, without calculating the personal gain or loss. The notable aspect of Job is his love that has no known motivation, other than a sense of awe and grounding in the eternal aspect of God. I have a sense that this life of devotion would have similarities to a general life of compassion that is espoused in Buddhism. Both involve a need to see past gain, and a love of something that is much greater than personal gain. But I want to add that committing to that life is also committing to a certain vulnerability. Without the vow to commit to a spiritual life or practice, there would be no danger of falling from practice, since there is nothing from which to fall or falter. If I am not vowing to live peacefully and compassionately, then the principle of losing my temper or struggling to have compassion wouldn't have so much meaning. To live meaningfully would be to live according to an underlying principle, even though that principle takes struggle and practice to actualize. Most importantly, these teachings help people to see beyond the need to calculate their personal benefit from doing something, and to see the sacred value of spiritual action as a joy in itself..
May, Simon (2011), Love: A History. London: Yale University Press
As I was reading this part of May's book, I had to wonder how this story line holds up to the notion of karmic retribution in Buddhism. Would a Buddhist perhaps argue that Job's 'punishment' is the result of his previous karma, and would therefore serve as a kind of 'reaping what you sow'? I do wonder what a parable such as Job would sound like if it were made into a Buddhist parable, and what the related lesson might be. But I think the notion of karma is much more complicated that one would expect from the adage of 'reap what you so' or 'to each one her just desserts.' Master Sheng Yen talked about in Chan and Enlightenment how futile it is to look for the causes of why things happen as they do in one's lifetime. It might be that something challenging arises in one's life due to an action that occurred many lifetimes ago. There is simply no way of telling what the 'root cause' of the problem is, since the cycle of birth and death is beginningless. In fact, Buddhist sutras often refer to the expression, "since beginningless time" to refer to an endless cycle of causes and conditions inflicting upon each other in circles. So I would imagine that the Job in a Buddhist parable would also come to the similar conclusion that she or he comes into this world naked and leaves it the same. in other words, there is no trace of past and future, and mind remains the same regardless of the conditions that arise and perish. And in both cases, Job would need to be faithful to the moment, rather than trying to attribute the present to something that might have happened in the distant past.
But the story of Job is obviously nuanced, and there is the added dimension of what life would be like simply devoting oneself wholeheartedly to a higher principle, without calculating the personal gain or loss. The notable aspect of Job is his love that has no known motivation, other than a sense of awe and grounding in the eternal aspect of God. I have a sense that this life of devotion would have similarities to a general life of compassion that is espoused in Buddhism. Both involve a need to see past gain, and a love of something that is much greater than personal gain. But I want to add that committing to that life is also committing to a certain vulnerability. Without the vow to commit to a spiritual life or practice, there would be no danger of falling from practice, since there is nothing from which to fall or falter. If I am not vowing to live peacefully and compassionately, then the principle of losing my temper or struggling to have compassion wouldn't have so much meaning. To live meaningfully would be to live according to an underlying principle, even though that principle takes struggle and practice to actualize. Most importantly, these teachings help people to see beyond the need to calculate their personal benefit from doing something, and to see the sacred value of spiritual action as a joy in itself..
May, Simon (2011), Love: A History. London: Yale University Press
Monday, February 22, 2016
are mistakes truly mistakes?
During the Lotus Sutra talks on Sunday, Fashi was describing the ways to do repentance in the style of the Lotus Sutra itself. One of the things I learned from that talk is that a person does not need to necessarily think of anything or try to search for a source of harm, to repent. It seems to be a more simpler process of 'repenting' for the attachment one has to thoughts. After all, it's this basic attachment to the stories in one's mind that give rise to a lot (if not all) the problems that happen in daily life, including vexations and anxieties. And I think this is almost diametrically opposite to the cultural portrayal of repentance in the West, which often conjures up images of stern teachers (usually wielding sticks), who yell at people to 'repent!'. The kind of repentance that Fashi was describing is more like a mental cleansing or a reset, where I make a sincere effort to banish this tendency to cling to thoughts and get entangled in them in different ways, especially through the poisons of desire and anger.
I had a different question which gave rise to this entry, and that is: when we repent of our mistakes, are they really 'mistakes' after all, or are they perhaps the reflection of a deeper longing or unmet need? I am reminded of Freud here, because Freud was under the impression that there are no 'mistakes' or 'accidents' after all. When for instance a person makes a slip of the tongue, they are really reflecting some deeper desire that is often unacknowledged. Are these desires said to be bad? My fear is that if a person simply clears those desires from mind, they only end up being repressed again or ignored, only to come up in a different form. So what would repentance really mean if those desires aren't really faced and accepted for what they are?
From what little I understand from Buddhist teachings, it's problematic if people simply bottle up their longings under the belief that longings are a source of painful rebirth. Rather, the longing has to be fully faced and owned before a person can resolve its energy or understand where that energy arises and how it can be resolved. Unless a person can fully face and accept the dreams one has, it will be hard to truly understand those dreams enough to harness them toward a beneficial vision of life. Instead of labelling an emotion as bad or unnecessary, I may need time to be with the emotion for a while before I know how to channel it.
None of this goes against what Fashi is saying, because she is addressing the tendency for thoughts to become attached to a sense of self. By letting go of the strong sense of self, I don't need to disown feelings. Instead, there is an effort not to over-identify with it, which is what repentance represents (the putting down of the sense of self).
I had a different question which gave rise to this entry, and that is: when we repent of our mistakes, are they really 'mistakes' after all, or are they perhaps the reflection of a deeper longing or unmet need? I am reminded of Freud here, because Freud was under the impression that there are no 'mistakes' or 'accidents' after all. When for instance a person makes a slip of the tongue, they are really reflecting some deeper desire that is often unacknowledged. Are these desires said to be bad? My fear is that if a person simply clears those desires from mind, they only end up being repressed again or ignored, only to come up in a different form. So what would repentance really mean if those desires aren't really faced and accepted for what they are?
From what little I understand from Buddhist teachings, it's problematic if people simply bottle up their longings under the belief that longings are a source of painful rebirth. Rather, the longing has to be fully faced and owned before a person can resolve its energy or understand where that energy arises and how it can be resolved. Unless a person can fully face and accept the dreams one has, it will be hard to truly understand those dreams enough to harness them toward a beneficial vision of life. Instead of labelling an emotion as bad or unnecessary, I may need time to be with the emotion for a while before I know how to channel it.
None of this goes against what Fashi is saying, because she is addressing the tendency for thoughts to become attached to a sense of self. By letting go of the strong sense of self, I don't need to disown feelings. Instead, there is an effort not to over-identify with it, which is what repentance represents (the putting down of the sense of self).
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Absorbing
During the discussion period this afternoon on the Lotus Sutra, I had asked Fashi about the relationship between meditation practice and the Lotus Sutra. Is there something in the philosophy of the sutra itself which helps people to meditate? The answer that I received is that meditative practice is one stage in how people read and recite the Lotus Sutra. However, the actual philosophy of the sutra is not meant to be contemplated during meditation practice itself. In fact, it is simply best to let go of words altogether and embrace meditation in itself rather than try to 'read into' the experience of the sutra. One could say that eventually, reading a sutra can sow the seeds for right view, but meditative practice sows the seeds for uncovering the wisdom of mind. In a sense, there is a clear difference between knowledge and wisdom, and meditative practice is intended to uncover the natural wisdom of mind rather than clarify concepts which are necessary to gaining a good perspective on the Buddhist teachings.
As I was reflecting tonight, I realized how impossible it can be to really absorb or even grasp wisdom through any kind of language. It's not that sutra study is useless, but it is that the sutra can only be a map to help practitioners to clarify their experiences. As Fashi had related in her discussion, without the meditative foundations for experience, there is nothing on which to base the conceptual aspects of the sutra. That is why a good attitude toward reading the sutra is not to try to gain wisdom from it at all, but simply to use the concepts to clarify the methods and directions of the teaching. Perhaps an analogy might be: the GPS can show where a car can go, but cannot substitute for the workings of the car itself.
I also begin to respect the fact that the Lotus Sutra can inspire a person to practice, just through reading it and gently reciting parts of it. In other words, it's not so much about grasping the sutra to milk its 'central wisdom' and take that wisdom with me. It's more a matter of allowing the sutra to be a vision or dream, a little bit like having a picture of a loved one in front of their computer at work. The picture is often meant to be a way of inspiring the person to exert their best in their work, rather than providing a specific wisdom for that person to work on. The fact is that there really isn't any wisdom that a person can read, because words simply cannot substitute for a live experience. And it truly can never be that way, even if a person swallowed all the words in the ocean of books.
Over the past week, I was able to read the 'truncated' 1930s version of the Sutra (translated by Mr. Soothill), a commentary by Yoshiro Tamura, and parts of a modern English translation sent by Fashi. I learned to love this sutra, to delight in its metaphors, and to also feel connected to it, even though I can't pretend to understand a lot of it. That is beautiful, because it shows me that I don't need to fully understand something to connect with it in some way. And for that reason, the story can continue into another day.
As I was reflecting tonight, I realized how impossible it can be to really absorb or even grasp wisdom through any kind of language. It's not that sutra study is useless, but it is that the sutra can only be a map to help practitioners to clarify their experiences. As Fashi had related in her discussion, without the meditative foundations for experience, there is nothing on which to base the conceptual aspects of the sutra. That is why a good attitude toward reading the sutra is not to try to gain wisdom from it at all, but simply to use the concepts to clarify the methods and directions of the teaching. Perhaps an analogy might be: the GPS can show where a car can go, but cannot substitute for the workings of the car itself.
I also begin to respect the fact that the Lotus Sutra can inspire a person to practice, just through reading it and gently reciting parts of it. In other words, it's not so much about grasping the sutra to milk its 'central wisdom' and take that wisdom with me. It's more a matter of allowing the sutra to be a vision or dream, a little bit like having a picture of a loved one in front of their computer at work. The picture is often meant to be a way of inspiring the person to exert their best in their work, rather than providing a specific wisdom for that person to work on. The fact is that there really isn't any wisdom that a person can read, because words simply cannot substitute for a live experience. And it truly can never be that way, even if a person swallowed all the words in the ocean of books.
Over the past week, I was able to read the 'truncated' 1930s version of the Sutra (translated by Mr. Soothill), a commentary by Yoshiro Tamura, and parts of a modern English translation sent by Fashi. I learned to love this sutra, to delight in its metaphors, and to also feel connected to it, even though I can't pretend to understand a lot of it. That is beautiful, because it shows me that I don't need to fully understand something to connect with it in some way. And for that reason, the story can continue into another day.
Saturday, February 20, 2016
Uses and Dangers of Technique
I am reading a commentary on the Lotus Sutra called by Yoshiro Tamura called Introduction to the Lotus Sutra. In this commentary, Tamura talks about how too much attachment to essence of things can lead to a kind of 'essentialist' view of life, while too much attachment to non-being can lead to nihilism. I find it interesting that Tamura compares the 'middle view' between these extremes to existentialism (p.30) which is grounded in the phenomenological view of seeing 'things as they are' or at least how they arise in mind. What seems to characterize the two extremes of essentialism and nihilism is that they are conceptual attachments. In other words, they are somehow fixated on the notion that life can be viewed in terms of fixed or static ways of being, or that a person can put a blanket statement on what everything means or is about.
But how does the existential 'middle way' approach avert nihilism? Don't some kinds of thinkers who are associated with existentialism, such as Nietzsche or even Beckett, somehow border on a kind of 'belief in nothing'? And how is it averted? I believe that Tamura puts a good slant on it when he remarks "the aim of existentialism was to rediscover the truly absolute ground, and by so doing, to overcome despair and nihilism." (p.36) The problem is that even with existentialism, this 'absolute ground' is quite different in content from the absolutes of other kinds of philosophies. In fact, I sometimes believe that for existentialists, 'absolute ground' is none other than the present experience of things in their changing ground, nothing more and nothing less. In other words, rather than being an essence, existential thinking is a kind of practice of abiding in a space that is continually moving all the time. The challenge here is that as soon as I try to 'essentialize' what that ground looks like (by describing it, categorizing it, etc.) it starts to lose its real moment-to-moment existence. This is a little bit like the observer effect that is proposed by quantum physics, where the certainty of position and velocity are inversely related. But, the fact that it's impossible to 'essentialize' experience does not mean that existentialism is a futile practice. Rather it means that to existentialize is to know that there is never an end to practice itself.
Lotus Sutra talks about the risks of becoming fixated on a notion of how to escape from the world, rather than seeing the world as part of the mind. That risk might take the form of practicing meditation as a way to escape from existence altogether. The technique becomes a form of distance, or a vicarious way of being. A person might accumulate many ideas about life or techniques on how to live, but this accumulation puts oneself at a distance from phenomena: it's like, 'these are things for me to use, not me', and that leads to a controlling way of looking at the world. But from another perspective, one can see technique as a way of becoming closer to one's experience, as when a person meditates in the midst of ordinary experiences and thoughts. The Lotus Sutra uses the example of being in a small town to rest on one's journey, only to mistaken this stopping point as the final part of the journey. It is restful and certainly a good way to be beyond worldly cravings, but it hasn't yet reached the point of thinking there is nothing to save and nothing to save one from.
What I find I learned from this is to see techniques of spiritual cultivation only as vehicles to help one realize what is already mind, already present. If I think that my learning techniques will get me to that point, a vexation or anxiety will arise from that. But if I don't fixate on concepts in this way, I can use them and gently observe their effect, as though experimenting, without prior expectation. This playful approach allows me to experience the concepts as they truly are in mind rather than attaching an undue importance to them.
Tamura, Yoshiro, (tr. Reeves, G & Shinozaki, M|) (2014 ) Introduction to the Lotus Sutra . Boston: Wisdom Publications
But how does the existential 'middle way' approach avert nihilism? Don't some kinds of thinkers who are associated with existentialism, such as Nietzsche or even Beckett, somehow border on a kind of 'belief in nothing'? And how is it averted? I believe that Tamura puts a good slant on it when he remarks "the aim of existentialism was to rediscover the truly absolute ground, and by so doing, to overcome despair and nihilism." (p.36) The problem is that even with existentialism, this 'absolute ground' is quite different in content from the absolutes of other kinds of philosophies. In fact, I sometimes believe that for existentialists, 'absolute ground' is none other than the present experience of things in their changing ground, nothing more and nothing less. In other words, rather than being an essence, existential thinking is a kind of practice of abiding in a space that is continually moving all the time. The challenge here is that as soon as I try to 'essentialize' what that ground looks like (by describing it, categorizing it, etc.) it starts to lose its real moment-to-moment existence. This is a little bit like the observer effect that is proposed by quantum physics, where the certainty of position and velocity are inversely related. But, the fact that it's impossible to 'essentialize' experience does not mean that existentialism is a futile practice. Rather it means that to existentialize is to know that there is never an end to practice itself.
Lotus Sutra talks about the risks of becoming fixated on a notion of how to escape from the world, rather than seeing the world as part of the mind. That risk might take the form of practicing meditation as a way to escape from existence altogether. The technique becomes a form of distance, or a vicarious way of being. A person might accumulate many ideas about life or techniques on how to live, but this accumulation puts oneself at a distance from phenomena: it's like, 'these are things for me to use, not me', and that leads to a controlling way of looking at the world. But from another perspective, one can see technique as a way of becoming closer to one's experience, as when a person meditates in the midst of ordinary experiences and thoughts. The Lotus Sutra uses the example of being in a small town to rest on one's journey, only to mistaken this stopping point as the final part of the journey. It is restful and certainly a good way to be beyond worldly cravings, but it hasn't yet reached the point of thinking there is nothing to save and nothing to save one from.
What I find I learned from this is to see techniques of spiritual cultivation only as vehicles to help one realize what is already mind, already present. If I think that my learning techniques will get me to that point, a vexation or anxiety will arise from that. But if I don't fixate on concepts in this way, I can use them and gently observe their effect, as though experimenting, without prior expectation. This playful approach allows me to experience the concepts as they truly are in mind rather than attaching an undue importance to them.
Tamura, Yoshiro, (tr. Reeves, G & Shinozaki, M|) (2014 ) Introduction to the Lotus Sutra . Boston: Wisdom Publications
Friday, February 19, 2016
Now is Your Vacation... Not Tomorrow
One of the great things that I found in meditation, particularly in groups, is that there is a way of breaking through habitual tendencies by seeing through them, and by then "stopping" the mind. It is amazing that when meditation arises, one can finally see how many thoughts are arising in mind, and how much disturbance the thoughts tend to create. But it isn't just thoughts. Whole behaviors are also built on the habitual clinging to these thoughts. It can get quite complex, because what people cling to is not just a single thought. Rather, there is a whole heap of different comfort patterns and defense mechanisms that result in fixating on certain thoughts. Unless I am aware of all the habitual patterns, it will be hard to let go of those nagging thoughts that keep coming up.
To give a simple example, I might have a habit that I want to let go of: such as being hooked on coffee or the internet. Whenever I consume these things, a lot of comforting, safe sensations arise: the sensations of being awakened in the morning, or being entertained, or just being enthralled by a compelling story. But then when I try to withhold from these attachments, I am then faced with the things that I would normally use attachments to cover up or avoid. For example, perhaps I have a strong aversion to starting a new project, or can't get any ideas for a proposal. As soon as I try to let go of comforting habits, I am then faced with the wasteland of 'discomforting ones' that come to the surface. It isn't just that withdrawal from the pleasant causes discomfort. It is also that taking away the pleasurable reminds a person of unpleasant thoughts or unwanted situations and sensations.
Of course, one could ask, what comes first: aversion to the unpleasant, or desire for the pleasant? Well, I suppose the two are intertwined, so there may not be any value in looking for a root cause. But according to the Buddhist view of the Twelve Links of Conditioned Arising (or Nidanas), it seems that craving comes after contact, followed by clinging. If there was no desire for specific objects, there likely wouldn't be any aversion either, because one would have the mind to face situations evenly. That is why it's best to look deeply at attachments whenever I am faced with aversion to situations.
The problem, as I see it, is that it is hard to convince people that desires and fixations are a source of suffering. Most people associate pleasant things with 'holidays' or nice vacations from the stresses of work. In fact, this is exactly how people view weekends or vacations, as 'times away' from stress. But if people did not have such a strong craving for vacations or weekends, would there be any reason to flee from certain situations or wish they were better? Here I am reminded of an attitude that the Roman philosopher Marcus Aurelius described, which is that of not waiting for a 'vacation' to be in total relaxation and repose with the mind. If anything, now is the time to relax. To make it a habit to associate relaxation with 'some other day' is to miss the opportunity to simply relax in the present situation, in all its messiness.
Meditation prepares the ground for this 'everyday vacation' mentality in several ways. The first is that it shows the ways we feel attached to certain thoughts or feelings, and allows people to be less identified with these attachments. The second is that it can allow a space for people to be with painful emotions and states of being. The third is that it can help us to connect suffering not just to pain but more importantly to desire. If a person desires less, they can be closer to all their experiences, rather than subconsciously hankering for something that feels better than the current moment.
To give a simple example, I might have a habit that I want to let go of: such as being hooked on coffee or the internet. Whenever I consume these things, a lot of comforting, safe sensations arise: the sensations of being awakened in the morning, or being entertained, or just being enthralled by a compelling story. But then when I try to withhold from these attachments, I am then faced with the things that I would normally use attachments to cover up or avoid. For example, perhaps I have a strong aversion to starting a new project, or can't get any ideas for a proposal. As soon as I try to let go of comforting habits, I am then faced with the wasteland of 'discomforting ones' that come to the surface. It isn't just that withdrawal from the pleasant causes discomfort. It is also that taking away the pleasurable reminds a person of unpleasant thoughts or unwanted situations and sensations.
Of course, one could ask, what comes first: aversion to the unpleasant, or desire for the pleasant? Well, I suppose the two are intertwined, so there may not be any value in looking for a root cause. But according to the Buddhist view of the Twelve Links of Conditioned Arising (or Nidanas), it seems that craving comes after contact, followed by clinging. If there was no desire for specific objects, there likely wouldn't be any aversion either, because one would have the mind to face situations evenly. That is why it's best to look deeply at attachments whenever I am faced with aversion to situations.
The problem, as I see it, is that it is hard to convince people that desires and fixations are a source of suffering. Most people associate pleasant things with 'holidays' or nice vacations from the stresses of work. In fact, this is exactly how people view weekends or vacations, as 'times away' from stress. But if people did not have such a strong craving for vacations or weekends, would there be any reason to flee from certain situations or wish they were better? Here I am reminded of an attitude that the Roman philosopher Marcus Aurelius described, which is that of not waiting for a 'vacation' to be in total relaxation and repose with the mind. If anything, now is the time to relax. To make it a habit to associate relaxation with 'some other day' is to miss the opportunity to simply relax in the present situation, in all its messiness.
Meditation prepares the ground for this 'everyday vacation' mentality in several ways. The first is that it shows the ways we feel attached to certain thoughts or feelings, and allows people to be less identified with these attachments. The second is that it can allow a space for people to be with painful emotions and states of being. The third is that it can help us to connect suffering not just to pain but more importantly to desire. If a person desires less, they can be closer to all their experiences, rather than subconsciously hankering for something that feels better than the current moment.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
"The Fuss in My Mind"
Before the meditation today, I felt a lingering uneasiness about the day's events, especially the stress of work life and the daily criticism that one receives. I even came to a point where I wondered whether the meditation would serve to calm those negative thoughts in any way. Over time, I stayed close to my method, and things naturally settled. And at the end of the session, I came to wonder what the fuss was in my mind.
I am not sure how many psychologists currently do meditation. I have heard that many who are studying psychology end up in a place of exploring contemplative practices. What I suggest is that psychologists could study the phenomena of what happens between ''making a big fuss" and "not making a fuss". Of course, Buddhist psychologies refer to this experience as letting go of attachment. But I would be interested in understanding what is the 'in between process'. What are the individual components of that letting go, and what are the 'in between moments' between being stuck on certain thoughts and then being able to disperse one's attitude toward those thoughts.
I think part of what happens in daily life is that I will think I am inside a thought. It is a little bit like watching a movie and seeing one's own image on the screen, then thinking that the image is really me. If you think in this way, think of all the adrenaline and chemicals that are happening in your body when you worry about that image in front of you. I am sure you have had moments in which you are watching a movie, and you were rooting for one of the main characters (or perhaps the main villain, or the main 'victim') to survive some harrowing event. In those moments, I myself would become so invested in the outcome of the characters I most identify with that I would feel for their plight and worry if they were going to make it or not. But when I finally release from thinking that I am that thought or this aggregate of thoughts, then this already creates a sense of relief. At last, I am not believing that the image I cherish about myself is truly me.
Another scenario that happens in daily life is that people are sometimes presented with a picture of who they are with a few words or through language. How many people have been given names such as "stupid" in their life? I think words can be powerful because they can convince people that they are things that they are not. A person can think she or he is a genius just by being called as such, and then be later told they are 'not so smart' and then believe that. What is the power of these beliefs? It is really that I take the thought to be the true me, and then behave as though I were conscripted to protecting that imaginary self from danger. To be called "stupid" is particularly vulnerable, because it evokes a fear of social ostracism. Nobody wants to hire "stupid" or befriend "stupid", so it can be quite fear-provoking (if not humiliating) to be told this in some form or another.
When I finally rest from identifying myself with all these racing thoughts, I am no longer enchained to them, and I have a much wider surface to work with. I am no longer under this spell of thinking that certain thoughts belong to 'me' while other thoughts belong to other people. And this again allows for a more spacious and relaxed mindset. Then I am free to wonder why I was so invested in all the particular thoughts.
I am not sure how many psychologists currently do meditation. I have heard that many who are studying psychology end up in a place of exploring contemplative practices. What I suggest is that psychologists could study the phenomena of what happens between ''making a big fuss" and "not making a fuss". Of course, Buddhist psychologies refer to this experience as letting go of attachment. But I would be interested in understanding what is the 'in between process'. What are the individual components of that letting go, and what are the 'in between moments' between being stuck on certain thoughts and then being able to disperse one's attitude toward those thoughts.
I think part of what happens in daily life is that I will think I am inside a thought. It is a little bit like watching a movie and seeing one's own image on the screen, then thinking that the image is really me. If you think in this way, think of all the adrenaline and chemicals that are happening in your body when you worry about that image in front of you. I am sure you have had moments in which you are watching a movie, and you were rooting for one of the main characters (or perhaps the main villain, or the main 'victim') to survive some harrowing event. In those moments, I myself would become so invested in the outcome of the characters I most identify with that I would feel for their plight and worry if they were going to make it or not. But when I finally release from thinking that I am that thought or this aggregate of thoughts, then this already creates a sense of relief. At last, I am not believing that the image I cherish about myself is truly me.
Another scenario that happens in daily life is that people are sometimes presented with a picture of who they are with a few words or through language. How many people have been given names such as "stupid" in their life? I think words can be powerful because they can convince people that they are things that they are not. A person can think she or he is a genius just by being called as such, and then be later told they are 'not so smart' and then believe that. What is the power of these beliefs? It is really that I take the thought to be the true me, and then behave as though I were conscripted to protecting that imaginary self from danger. To be called "stupid" is particularly vulnerable, because it evokes a fear of social ostracism. Nobody wants to hire "stupid" or befriend "stupid", so it can be quite fear-provoking (if not humiliating) to be told this in some form or another.
When I finally rest from identifying myself with all these racing thoughts, I am no longer enchained to them, and I have a much wider surface to work with. I am no longer under this spell of thinking that certain thoughts belong to 'me' while other thoughts belong to other people. And this again allows for a more spacious and relaxed mindset. Then I am free to wonder why I was so invested in all the particular thoughts.
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
Loving Kindness Revisited: Faith in Interconnection
I am recently revisiting some of my MA thesis work on Loving Kindness meditation and its effects on teachers. One idea that came to my mind is that reciting loving-kindness to all people can be a source of inner conflict, particularly when a person is governed by fear during the day. What I am trying to articulate is: it's hard to extend genuine love to people when the general mood of one's life is fear. In fact, my research has suggested that the original intention of Loving Kindness practice was as an antidote to fear. It can be a vicious cycle if a person gives up reciting or wishing others loving kindness when she or he is dominated by an incessant anxiety about how to survive in the world.
For this reason, I feel that there needs to be a kind of supplementary practice in order for Loving Kindness Meditation to be consistently practiced. That supplementary practice would be some method of reducing anxiety, such as through a practice of bare awareness of a mantra, or contemplating the breath, or even contemplating the impermanence of thoughts. Of course, even the verses of Loving Kindness meditation themselves can be treated as mantra verses: that is, reciting them with a cool and bare awareness, rather than bringing up memories and associated meanings while reading the words. The important point, however, is maintaining an overall attitude that the reciter is going to be okay, that she or he is secure in her own existence, and that the mantra is not meant to validate her or his existence. If one recites loving kindness verses while tense, what is going to happen? It ends up being a kind of mental chore, where the mentality is, "I am going to do this in order to get good karma" or "merit points", etc. But this attitude is incorrect, because it only creates an anxiety about whether one is doing the practice correctly. This attitude also bolsters a strong sense of an ego that needs to control experience in order to confirm its existence.
So, how does this 'supplementary practice' play out or look? I think the best way to describe it is a kind of faithful and open-ended curiosity about the flow of life, in and around a persons' being. That sounds very vague and mystical, but I am hinting at a faith in the basic, inviolable interconnection of all being. If I lack that faith in that basic interconnection, my mentality becomes like an inward drawing door: I want to protect this energy inside me from potential 'thieves' outside, so I lose trust in other people. Paradoxically, I suspect that this move to protect myself only drains me of energy, since there is nearly no end to the kinds of 'dangers' outside that one can imagine when putting her or his mind to it. But this faith is not so much about 'trying to create connection'. It is more like a trust that a personal connection to the universe and all beings is already and inviolably present, no matter whether one is happy, sad, angry, open or closed. One can be grumpy and cold, for example, yet that grumpiness and coldness does not 'disconnect' the person from the universe. Of course, people tend not to believe that! They believe that only positive states lead to interconnection, and therefore one should suppress all other states of being, including even the desire to withdraw or be shy. But I maintain that if the emotion and the thought is honestly mine, it must be interconnected with other things, since it all arises in the same field of mind.
If one can simply let go of this preconception that one must earn one's salvation in life by doing good things, being good things, acting in certain ways, etc., then one has much more freedom to act as is desirable to the society as a whole. Why is that? It's because one is no longer pressuring oneself, and pressure is the biggest enemy of ethical life. If a person is always giving herself pressure to do more, be more, talk more, serve more, how will that person function ? Unless they are truly happy and feel their deepest and inviolable worth in the universe, they are probably going to feel tense, anxious, and needing the deepest validation to relieve their inner sense of pressure. And that is simply not good for one's life, because it burns out the soul. So it's important that a person recognize that he or she does not need to 'earn' their deep connection to all living things and the universe as a whole.
For this reason, I feel that there needs to be a kind of supplementary practice in order for Loving Kindness Meditation to be consistently practiced. That supplementary practice would be some method of reducing anxiety, such as through a practice of bare awareness of a mantra, or contemplating the breath, or even contemplating the impermanence of thoughts. Of course, even the verses of Loving Kindness meditation themselves can be treated as mantra verses: that is, reciting them with a cool and bare awareness, rather than bringing up memories and associated meanings while reading the words. The important point, however, is maintaining an overall attitude that the reciter is going to be okay, that she or he is secure in her own existence, and that the mantra is not meant to validate her or his existence. If one recites loving kindness verses while tense, what is going to happen? It ends up being a kind of mental chore, where the mentality is, "I am going to do this in order to get good karma" or "merit points", etc. But this attitude is incorrect, because it only creates an anxiety about whether one is doing the practice correctly. This attitude also bolsters a strong sense of an ego that needs to control experience in order to confirm its existence.
So, how does this 'supplementary practice' play out or look? I think the best way to describe it is a kind of faithful and open-ended curiosity about the flow of life, in and around a persons' being. That sounds very vague and mystical, but I am hinting at a faith in the basic, inviolable interconnection of all being. If I lack that faith in that basic interconnection, my mentality becomes like an inward drawing door: I want to protect this energy inside me from potential 'thieves' outside, so I lose trust in other people. Paradoxically, I suspect that this move to protect myself only drains me of energy, since there is nearly no end to the kinds of 'dangers' outside that one can imagine when putting her or his mind to it. But this faith is not so much about 'trying to create connection'. It is more like a trust that a personal connection to the universe and all beings is already and inviolably present, no matter whether one is happy, sad, angry, open or closed. One can be grumpy and cold, for example, yet that grumpiness and coldness does not 'disconnect' the person from the universe. Of course, people tend not to believe that! They believe that only positive states lead to interconnection, and therefore one should suppress all other states of being, including even the desire to withdraw or be shy. But I maintain that if the emotion and the thought is honestly mine, it must be interconnected with other things, since it all arises in the same field of mind.
If one can simply let go of this preconception that one must earn one's salvation in life by doing good things, being good things, acting in certain ways, etc., then one has much more freedom to act as is desirable to the society as a whole. Why is that? It's because one is no longer pressuring oneself, and pressure is the biggest enemy of ethical life. If a person is always giving herself pressure to do more, be more, talk more, serve more, how will that person function ? Unless they are truly happy and feel their deepest and inviolable worth in the universe, they are probably going to feel tense, anxious, and needing the deepest validation to relieve their inner sense of pressure. And that is simply not good for one's life, because it burns out the soul. So it's important that a person recognize that he or she does not need to 'earn' their deep connection to all living things and the universe as a whole.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Staying with Difficulty
I think one of the unfortunate things about popular culture is that it sometimes portrays human relations as based on 'ease' or compatibility. Yet, even in the best cases, there is always going to be some difference and even incompatibility between people's styles and ways of being. Here is an example: I recently saw an advertisement on the subway where it talks about finding the perfect match through a website. I wonder, what is a perfect match? What does it mean? Sometimes, I think it's important to see challenge and even 'incompatibility' as a good sign, because incompatible or dissonant elements of people are sometimes a way to be clear about one's own self and the stumbling blocks that a person experiences.
As I reflect on the obsession with 'perfect match', I begin to wonder if the focus should not be shifted away from this idea, and toward the idea of respecting and embracing the tensions that people can experience. I think meditation can help in these cases, because it can ease the identification a person has with a particular view ('mine') and it can thus help a person relate to others' views in the process. Because meditative practice explores the spaces 'between' thoughts, it can be a way to explore conflict rather than shutting down in front of it or trying to retreat into a safer or more familiar role.
It seems important to abide in the sense of difference rather than rejecting it as something that is 'incompatible' with one's comfort level. Why, though? I think it's because those moments of conflict might be opportunities to re-integrate repressed parts of the self that can get easily projected onto others. By being with a behavior which I might find unpleasant, I can start to see that the sense of unpleasantness is just the boundary I am setting between myself and the unpleasantness.
In an anthology entitled Holistic Learning and Spirituality in Education, Diana Denton refers to the compassionate practice of "relaxing into the heart" as a way to face difficult emotions. She remarks, "Feeling and seeing are unified in the suspended judgement of immediate, embodied perception, and the solidity of emergent visual and linguistic metaphors becomes a prelude to redistributed awareness, an opening and centering of the heart." (p.188). I like this description, because it talks about how emotions don't 'feel' the same from one point to the next: their texture changes as one's awareness lights on them. An example might be the (unfortunate) experience of stubbing one's toe on a metal frame. Initially, there is a sharpness to the pain which is often exacerbated (or sometimes repressed) over one's exclamation about it. But if I stop looking for something to blame and just observe that pain for a moment, I find that it stops feeling sharp after a while and dissolves into a kind of tingling, or even a brief period of numbness. Emotions can go from feeling 'solid' to 'liquid' and even to feeling 'gaseous', much like the states of matter.
If I can stay with one emotion long enough, I see that it changes with new conditions. But what I also find is that the feeling of fear and avoidance I initially had can change into curiosity, because the experience suddenly seems like an adventure or even a way to look into my reactivity without judging it. There is a rich opportunity to see what seems incompatible to my comfort and transform the incompatibility to embrace, or surrender or kindness.
Holistic Learning and Spirituality in Education (ed Miller, J; Karsten S, Denton, D.; Orr, D & Colalillo Kates, I) New York: State University of New York Press.
As I reflect on the obsession with 'perfect match', I begin to wonder if the focus should not be shifted away from this idea, and toward the idea of respecting and embracing the tensions that people can experience. I think meditation can help in these cases, because it can ease the identification a person has with a particular view ('mine') and it can thus help a person relate to others' views in the process. Because meditative practice explores the spaces 'between' thoughts, it can be a way to explore conflict rather than shutting down in front of it or trying to retreat into a safer or more familiar role.
It seems important to abide in the sense of difference rather than rejecting it as something that is 'incompatible' with one's comfort level. Why, though? I think it's because those moments of conflict might be opportunities to re-integrate repressed parts of the self that can get easily projected onto others. By being with a behavior which I might find unpleasant, I can start to see that the sense of unpleasantness is just the boundary I am setting between myself and the unpleasantness.
In an anthology entitled Holistic Learning and Spirituality in Education, Diana Denton refers to the compassionate practice of "relaxing into the heart" as a way to face difficult emotions. She remarks, "Feeling and seeing are unified in the suspended judgement of immediate, embodied perception, and the solidity of emergent visual and linguistic metaphors becomes a prelude to redistributed awareness, an opening and centering of the heart." (p.188). I like this description, because it talks about how emotions don't 'feel' the same from one point to the next: their texture changes as one's awareness lights on them. An example might be the (unfortunate) experience of stubbing one's toe on a metal frame. Initially, there is a sharpness to the pain which is often exacerbated (or sometimes repressed) over one's exclamation about it. But if I stop looking for something to blame and just observe that pain for a moment, I find that it stops feeling sharp after a while and dissolves into a kind of tingling, or even a brief period of numbness. Emotions can go from feeling 'solid' to 'liquid' and even to feeling 'gaseous', much like the states of matter.
If I can stay with one emotion long enough, I see that it changes with new conditions. But what I also find is that the feeling of fear and avoidance I initially had can change into curiosity, because the experience suddenly seems like an adventure or even a way to look into my reactivity without judging it. There is a rich opportunity to see what seems incompatible to my comfort and transform the incompatibility to embrace, or surrender or kindness.
Holistic Learning and Spirituality in Education (ed Miller, J; Karsten S, Denton, D.; Orr, D & Colalillo Kates, I) New York: State University of New York Press.
Monday, February 15, 2016
"Family Stories" in the Lotus Sutra
Today is marked with a combination of snow and rain. It's a family day. Lots of parents with their kids are on the subways, heading to different places to celebrate the meaning and joy of family. Quite a few stores remain closed throughout the day, giving some parts of Mississauga an eerily deserted feel. It certainly feels like a Sunday, but a very sleepy one.
In the Lotus Sutra, there are many stories of family to convey Buddhist concepts, as well as the relationship between humans and Buddha nature. One of the most famous of these stories is the parable of a father who tries to save his children from a burning house. The children are so preoccupied and unable to understand that they are in danger, so the father devises these colorful carts to lure his children out of the fire. In W.E. Soothill's version, I read the following admonishment from Buddha to Sariputra:
Sariputra! Even as that elder, though with strength in body and arms, yet does not use it, but only by diligent tact, resolutely saves his children from the calamity of the burning house, and then gives each of them great carts adorned with precious things, so it is with the Tathagata (p.91)
As I am reading this text, I wonder, what is it that the parable is intended to correct in the way the arhats were practicing? I believe that what Buddha may be suggesting is that all teachings are expedient means which are done in a spirit of wisdom to help awaken beings according to their own causes and conditions. To extend the analogy a bit further, the carts in this parable are never final answers: they are more like tactful ways to awaken the children from their lack of understanding. But no matter how fancy the cart is, it can never 'stand in' for the truth. It is literally an attractive 'vehicle' which leads the children out of danger. As long as I see the teachings as expedient means, I don't confuse them with any absolute truth. So, what Buddha might have been addressing is the confusion between a method and what the method is pointing to. He is admonishing the arhats not to get too attached with their method of seeing into the emptiness of the self, since this is only a skilful means to help free them from attachment to a sense of self. Yet this too is not quite true mind because there is still a subtle discrimination between 'self' and the phenomena around the self.
I can think of other, more commonplace, examples of how this teaching might be useful. In daily life, there seem to be two main types of discrimination that occur. One is between that which we find 'pleasant' and that which is 'unpleasant'. When I like to do something, I engage in it more out of desire, while avoiding what I dislike. Another sort of discrimination is that between what we think is 'good' and 'bad'. I might decide, for example, to go on a special diet because I was told that eating certain foods are good for me, while others are not. Or I might decide to associate with people who 'make me a better person', while avoiding those whom I deem might corrupt my character. But while these distinctions might (supposedly) help me to live a wholesome life and live longer, there is still a discrimination between self and not-self, "me" and "world" embedded in that judgment. That discrimination might lead to all sorts of confusing ideas, such as deciding to go on a fad diet to maintain a desired weight, or deciding to avoid certain experiences for fear that they will 'corrupt' me. It's just another kind of 'self' even though it is packaged as 'pure or wholesome self'.
But what I believe is taught in Buddhism is that all phenomena are created by the mind. There isn't really a good or bad phenomena at all. It is only one's judgments that make it so. While Buddha taught methods to 'still' the mind or 'quiet' the mind, that teaching is a skillful means to help people realize that mind isn't really an object that can be 'calmed'. As long as I get stuck on a fixed or rigid notion of who I need to be, vexations are bound to arise in mind, and that creates a ripple effect into the whole experience of being. As long as there is any kind of discrimination, there is bound to be this vexation, as a person tries to seek 'good' experiences and influences and avoid 'bad' influences. However, if I see that the teachings are only a guideline and not a strict rule, I can relax my tendency to try to control the experience itself. I then have the space to be able to see what is unfolding for me, and not be so quick to say that one way is better than another. One can work within a variety of different settings with different kinds of beings, and not be afraid of 'losing the path' or becoming 'corrupted' by external events.
Soothill. W.E (1987), The Lotus of the Wonderful Law or The Lotus Gospel. London: Curzon Press.
In the Lotus Sutra, there are many stories of family to convey Buddhist concepts, as well as the relationship between humans and Buddha nature. One of the most famous of these stories is the parable of a father who tries to save his children from a burning house. The children are so preoccupied and unable to understand that they are in danger, so the father devises these colorful carts to lure his children out of the fire. In W.E. Soothill's version, I read the following admonishment from Buddha to Sariputra:
Sariputra! Even as that elder, though with strength in body and arms, yet does not use it, but only by diligent tact, resolutely saves his children from the calamity of the burning house, and then gives each of them great carts adorned with precious things, so it is with the Tathagata (p.91)
As I am reading this text, I wonder, what is it that the parable is intended to correct in the way the arhats were practicing? I believe that what Buddha may be suggesting is that all teachings are expedient means which are done in a spirit of wisdom to help awaken beings according to their own causes and conditions. To extend the analogy a bit further, the carts in this parable are never final answers: they are more like tactful ways to awaken the children from their lack of understanding. But no matter how fancy the cart is, it can never 'stand in' for the truth. It is literally an attractive 'vehicle' which leads the children out of danger. As long as I see the teachings as expedient means, I don't confuse them with any absolute truth. So, what Buddha might have been addressing is the confusion between a method and what the method is pointing to. He is admonishing the arhats not to get too attached with their method of seeing into the emptiness of the self, since this is only a skilful means to help free them from attachment to a sense of self. Yet this too is not quite true mind because there is still a subtle discrimination between 'self' and the phenomena around the self.
I can think of other, more commonplace, examples of how this teaching might be useful. In daily life, there seem to be two main types of discrimination that occur. One is between that which we find 'pleasant' and that which is 'unpleasant'. When I like to do something, I engage in it more out of desire, while avoiding what I dislike. Another sort of discrimination is that between what we think is 'good' and 'bad'. I might decide, for example, to go on a special diet because I was told that eating certain foods are good for me, while others are not. Or I might decide to associate with people who 'make me a better person', while avoiding those whom I deem might corrupt my character. But while these distinctions might (supposedly) help me to live a wholesome life and live longer, there is still a discrimination between self and not-self, "me" and "world" embedded in that judgment. That discrimination might lead to all sorts of confusing ideas, such as deciding to go on a fad diet to maintain a desired weight, or deciding to avoid certain experiences for fear that they will 'corrupt' me. It's just another kind of 'self' even though it is packaged as 'pure or wholesome self'.
But what I believe is taught in Buddhism is that all phenomena are created by the mind. There isn't really a good or bad phenomena at all. It is only one's judgments that make it so. While Buddha taught methods to 'still' the mind or 'quiet' the mind, that teaching is a skillful means to help people realize that mind isn't really an object that can be 'calmed'. As long as I get stuck on a fixed or rigid notion of who I need to be, vexations are bound to arise in mind, and that creates a ripple effect into the whole experience of being. As long as there is any kind of discrimination, there is bound to be this vexation, as a person tries to seek 'good' experiences and influences and avoid 'bad' influences. However, if I see that the teachings are only a guideline and not a strict rule, I can relax my tendency to try to control the experience itself. I then have the space to be able to see what is unfolding for me, and not be so quick to say that one way is better than another. One can work within a variety of different settings with different kinds of beings, and not be afraid of 'losing the path' or becoming 'corrupted' by external events.
Soothill. W.E (1987), The Lotus of the Wonderful Law or The Lotus Gospel. London: Curzon Press.
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Sense of Accomplishment in Spiritual Practice
We had a very beautiful ceremony today in the Chan center to commemorate the passing of Master Sheng Yen. The day was cold, but people inside the center kept warm.
I was touched by Master Sheng Yen's Dharma talk, "Laughing and Weeping in a Dream." This was Shifu's first retreat talk in New York, and he shares how the retreat is similar to a dream: people coming and people going, not permanently fixed to the place, and free to travel in the way they wish. And each person takes something different from that retreat experience. In a way, all of our encounters are like this, as we see each other and ourselves through fleeting and impermanent thoughts and impressions. Not only this, but even our evaluations are bound to change through subtle nuances of our experiences. While some might feel that they have accomplished something in their practice, others might not feel as such and lack a sense of grounding. Master Sheng Yen cautions those who feel they have accomplished a lot, by suggesting that perhaps this is only an idea they cherish, or a false view about themselves. On the other hand, those who feel they have accomplished very little are on the path without even realizing it.
As I listened to this part and tried to understand Shifu's works. I wondered: does this mean that one's pride or sense of self gets in the way of accomplishing anything in the Buddha path? Or is there a deeper meaning that makes it impossible to even speak of 'accomplishment' in practice? Why would those who don't think they are doing well turn out to be faring 'well' compared to those who believe they accomplished something?
I believe that there is accomplishment in practice, but it is always a step away. Even the notion of 'accomplishment' is likely just a skilful means to maintain practice, for certain kinds of people. It is a way of reminding a person: there is something you didn't quite get, and it's not graspable by intellectual thinking.. "Accomplishment" or "sense of accomplishment" may not be a real measure of a person's success or even a real, permanent thing. For example, I remember how one of the student's I tutored had a mother was concerned with the Western education system compared to that in China. According to the mom, if a person is told they are doing excellently, that statement will cause the person to become too relaxed, or to loosen their hold on studies. The mom suggested that the education system be more sparing with compliments, and more critical of how the students are doing as a way to motivate them to always improve. For example, if a person is told they are 40%, would this not motivate and inspire them to do better in the future? The method is questionable, and I would have to say that a student would need to see the 40% as just an arbitrary measure and not a measure of themselves. But the point is that this kind of grading might seem to be a way to inspire people to do their best.
In Chan (and with meditation in general) it seems a little different, because the practice is not about accomplishing states of being or even something called "inner peace". I think it's more about letting go of the "I" that's said to accomplish anything. As long as I don't attach a "me" to what I do (or don't do, or do poorly), there isn't all this struggle or effort to save face. It is just going back to make the conditions better to perhaps attain better results, if the conditions are ripe for that to happen. But even 'better' or 'worse' is not related to a self. It is just about changing conditions so that people can function better in community with others. Furthermore, it's with a grain of salt that I can even speak of 'better' or 'worse' actions, since they are relative to shifting perspectives. So while it's okay to work for others benefit, it's also okay to take it with a grain of salt and know that the conditions are bound to change.
I was touched by Master Sheng Yen's Dharma talk, "Laughing and Weeping in a Dream." This was Shifu's first retreat talk in New York, and he shares how the retreat is similar to a dream: people coming and people going, not permanently fixed to the place, and free to travel in the way they wish. And each person takes something different from that retreat experience. In a way, all of our encounters are like this, as we see each other and ourselves through fleeting and impermanent thoughts and impressions. Not only this, but even our evaluations are bound to change through subtle nuances of our experiences. While some might feel that they have accomplished something in their practice, others might not feel as such and lack a sense of grounding. Master Sheng Yen cautions those who feel they have accomplished a lot, by suggesting that perhaps this is only an idea they cherish, or a false view about themselves. On the other hand, those who feel they have accomplished very little are on the path without even realizing it.
As I listened to this part and tried to understand Shifu's works. I wondered: does this mean that one's pride or sense of self gets in the way of accomplishing anything in the Buddha path? Or is there a deeper meaning that makes it impossible to even speak of 'accomplishment' in practice? Why would those who don't think they are doing well turn out to be faring 'well' compared to those who believe they accomplished something?
I believe that there is accomplishment in practice, but it is always a step away. Even the notion of 'accomplishment' is likely just a skilful means to maintain practice, for certain kinds of people. It is a way of reminding a person: there is something you didn't quite get, and it's not graspable by intellectual thinking.. "Accomplishment" or "sense of accomplishment" may not be a real measure of a person's success or even a real, permanent thing. For example, I remember how one of the student's I tutored had a mother was concerned with the Western education system compared to that in China. According to the mom, if a person is told they are doing excellently, that statement will cause the person to become too relaxed, or to loosen their hold on studies. The mom suggested that the education system be more sparing with compliments, and more critical of how the students are doing as a way to motivate them to always improve. For example, if a person is told they are 40%, would this not motivate and inspire them to do better in the future? The method is questionable, and I would have to say that a student would need to see the 40% as just an arbitrary measure and not a measure of themselves. But the point is that this kind of grading might seem to be a way to inspire people to do their best.
In Chan (and with meditation in general) it seems a little different, because the practice is not about accomplishing states of being or even something called "inner peace". I think it's more about letting go of the "I" that's said to accomplish anything. As long as I don't attach a "me" to what I do (or don't do, or do poorly), there isn't all this struggle or effort to save face. It is just going back to make the conditions better to perhaps attain better results, if the conditions are ripe for that to happen. But even 'better' or 'worse' is not related to a self. It is just about changing conditions so that people can function better in community with others. Furthermore, it's with a grain of salt that I can even speak of 'better' or 'worse' actions, since they are relative to shifting perspectives. So while it's okay to work for others benefit, it's also okay to take it with a grain of salt and know that the conditions are bound to change.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Engaged Mind
Whenever I attend the Buddhist study group on the second Friday evening of the month, I come to have very new perspectives on things. The chapter we are reading from Chan and Enlightenment is talking about how the Mahayana schools of Buddhism emphasize engagement in the world of humans, as well as living up to human standards and morals. And as I was describing my sense of puzzlement over the word 'engagement', many new thoughts came to mind. One of the thoughts I had is: why is it that so often I associate the practice of meditation with feelings of being calm and isolated from human experience? And what does it mean to suggest that true Chan is just the opposite-- a very deeply engaged practice that happens in the midst of all situations? I started to reflect on how my understanding of Chan practice fluctuates: at times leaning toward a solitary reflective calm, and other times as 'being in the midst' of life's bustle. Perhaps this reflects more of an inner conflict than anything else--a struggle not to be too loose or too tight in my approach.
Recently, I have been thinking that there is really no need to look for an ideal form of practice, since practice just shapes the present situation. For example, tomorrow, I will MC an event for the meditation center. I am sure to be nervous and not entirely certain on what I will need to do or say in the exact moment. And unless I have a teleprompter to show me what to say, I will likely be improvising on certain things to say. But somehow, I can trust that at least I won't be knitting a sweater or doing something else that's not related to that function. And it's that way with everything as well. When I follow what is needed in the moment or what seems required, my mind can be light, and I needn't add anything weighty to that situation. I can also trust that with a relaxed mind, I will be able to find the appropriate words to say and actions to do, so that the experience can run fairly smoothly.
When I think in this way, I don't limit my understanding of meditative practice to sitting on a cushion or even being silent. For example, whilst talking, one only need to say the words that might suit that current moment. It's not an attached or clinging kind of talk: not the kind of talk that tries to cram everything into five minutes of conversation. And it's not the kind of talk that desperately needs attention or affirmation. In this way, I maintain the relaxed principle of 'doing what is needed'. And that doing does not need to impress, it just ''does with" other things and fits in to the other things of the moment.
My struggle is that I want to be able to cover all the bases by knowing everything there is to know about a certain subject. This is how I understand what it is to 'know' something deeply. Yet, there is something inexhaustible about mind, because it is always this now moment that can't be reproduced. And all one can do is marvel at its inexhaustible nature, keep curious, and never feel that one has known even a tiny percentage of it.
Recently, I have been thinking that there is really no need to look for an ideal form of practice, since practice just shapes the present situation. For example, tomorrow, I will MC an event for the meditation center. I am sure to be nervous and not entirely certain on what I will need to do or say in the exact moment. And unless I have a teleprompter to show me what to say, I will likely be improvising on certain things to say. But somehow, I can trust that at least I won't be knitting a sweater or doing something else that's not related to that function. And it's that way with everything as well. When I follow what is needed in the moment or what seems required, my mind can be light, and I needn't add anything weighty to that situation. I can also trust that with a relaxed mind, I will be able to find the appropriate words to say and actions to do, so that the experience can run fairly smoothly.
When I think in this way, I don't limit my understanding of meditative practice to sitting on a cushion or even being silent. For example, whilst talking, one only need to say the words that might suit that current moment. It's not an attached or clinging kind of talk: not the kind of talk that tries to cram everything into five minutes of conversation. And it's not the kind of talk that desperately needs attention or affirmation. In this way, I maintain the relaxed principle of 'doing what is needed'. And that doing does not need to impress, it just ''does with" other things and fits in to the other things of the moment.
My struggle is that I want to be able to cover all the bases by knowing everything there is to know about a certain subject. This is how I understand what it is to 'know' something deeply. Yet, there is something inexhaustible about mind, because it is always this now moment that can't be reproduced. And all one can do is marvel at its inexhaustible nature, keep curious, and never feel that one has known even a tiny percentage of it.
Thursday, February 11, 2016
No Point of Reference
During meditation tonight, a sense came up to me that I could not really locate where my point of reference is. It's the sense that all things are equal, and there is no central point where they all converge. But whenever the sense of self returned, the question came to mind: who is returning? And from where? As long as there is no clear reference point, all the sensations and thoughts seem to have an equal status. Even the body has no 'central' reference, so it begins to feel soft and light. Could the pain that I sometimes feel perhaps be coming from this excessive investment in a central 'self' that is in the body? I leave this question for anyone to ponder it
Curiously, when I am doing the instructions on how to relax prior to meditation, I seem to rely heavily on a point of reference, particularly the breath and the body. I will say things like 'come back to your breathing', or 'use your body sensation to anchor the mind.' All of these frames of reference are somehow false, and only provisional. For example, is the mind ever 'away' from the body? Is it truly necessary to 'anchor' the mind anywhere when the mind has no location? These kinds of questions lead me to wonder how else to describe meditation except through some language references that often contain an implied self. In particular, many mindfulness practices are focused on using the body as a 'tool' for being present and dealing with pain. But in a subtle sense, this instruction ends up centralizing things to the body. It is no wonder that, at times, the feelings of pain intensify when I give myself this kind of instruction. Whatever my mind instructs becomes my point of reference. And there is always that hidden danger that it becomes an attachment, or that people locate awareness entirely within the body--as though it were dependent on the state of the body.
When I stop attaching to what's happening in my body and transform or channel that attachment into asking "who is reciting Buddha's name?", I stop getting annoyed when the body is not feeling how I want it to feel. And I stop believing that mind begins and ends in the body. But it seems to take this kind of strong questioning to break through my strong sense of 'I', even just for a moment. And after this practice, I am humbled to know that the illusion of being 'in this body' alone is so powerful. In fact, what meditation practice shows is that even the sense of one's body changes from moment to moment, based on state of mind, orientation and attitude. In that way, I stop thinking that the body determines who I am.
Curiously, when I am doing the instructions on how to relax prior to meditation, I seem to rely heavily on a point of reference, particularly the breath and the body. I will say things like 'come back to your breathing', or 'use your body sensation to anchor the mind.' All of these frames of reference are somehow false, and only provisional. For example, is the mind ever 'away' from the body? Is it truly necessary to 'anchor' the mind anywhere when the mind has no location? These kinds of questions lead me to wonder how else to describe meditation except through some language references that often contain an implied self. In particular, many mindfulness practices are focused on using the body as a 'tool' for being present and dealing with pain. But in a subtle sense, this instruction ends up centralizing things to the body. It is no wonder that, at times, the feelings of pain intensify when I give myself this kind of instruction. Whatever my mind instructs becomes my point of reference. And there is always that hidden danger that it becomes an attachment, or that people locate awareness entirely within the body--as though it were dependent on the state of the body.
When I stop attaching to what's happening in my body and transform or channel that attachment into asking "who is reciting Buddha's name?", I stop getting annoyed when the body is not feeling how I want it to feel. And I stop believing that mind begins and ends in the body. But it seems to take this kind of strong questioning to break through my strong sense of 'I', even just for a moment. And after this practice, I am humbled to know that the illusion of being 'in this body' alone is so powerful. In fact, what meditation practice shows is that even the sense of one's body changes from moment to moment, based on state of mind, orientation and attitude. In that way, I stop thinking that the body determines who I am.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Pure Land and Pure Mind
After the meditation session tonight, we had a chance to view Master Sheng Yen's video, "Pure Land is Pure Mind" (www.youtube.com/watch?v=eYlIqjDPO18). And this video talked about the difference between ''quiet"(静) and "pure" ( 淨)., both designated by the Chinese phonetic sound "jing". Sheng Yen explains in this video that while 'quietening' the mind refers to making the mind calmer through meditative or other stilling practices, 'purity' does not necessarily equate with 'quiet'. Shifu uses the example of the Pure Land, which is described in Buddhist traditions as a place where even the leaves on the trees make sounds which remind people of the original pure mind. Thus, no one can say that Pure Land is a completely quiet place. Furthermore, enlightened beings are able to abide in the greatest noise without attaching to those sounds. From the deepest level, the 'pure' mind does not cling to notions of 'quiet' or 'noise', 'pure' or 'impure'.
When I relate this concept to practice, I personally feel that quietening the mind and realizing its inherent purity are two vital parts of the practice. On the one hand, one has to often find a place to allow the mind to settle, and this often requires a quiet and simple environment, such as the quiet of a meditation hall. Over time, however, if one gets too attached to the sense of 'quiet', one generates another self, which becomes a source of vexation. I originally go to a retreat with the intention of 'purifying' my thoughts and life, only to find that I am attaching to the idea of 'quiet' as an ultimate or desirable state of mind. Then, when a disturbance arises in life, I have the desire to get back to the cushion. For this reason, I feel that one cannot assign a particular quality to mind, whether pure/impure, quiet/loud, still/moving. Doing so only creates yet another opposition, and one ends up see sawing between the two poles.
So what to do? I think faith in mind is so important here. Looking for or grasping a specific condition of mind is like jumping off a ship in order to hold onto a stick in the ocean. So while I use the quieting practice (watching the breath, chanting, etc.) to settle the mind, I don't take that practice itself to be 'my mind'. As soon as I confuse the method with the mind, I start to attach to that method and reject all other phenomena. But the method is only there to reveal the presence of mind in all phenomena and situations. There is just no need to run away from the arising phenomena, as long as I am aware that it has the same fundamental source. But if I find that there is no way to be aware in this fashion, I use the method of stilling the thoughts in order to open a space for mind to realize its own inherent nature.
When I relate this concept to practice, I personally feel that quietening the mind and realizing its inherent purity are two vital parts of the practice. On the one hand, one has to often find a place to allow the mind to settle, and this often requires a quiet and simple environment, such as the quiet of a meditation hall. Over time, however, if one gets too attached to the sense of 'quiet', one generates another self, which becomes a source of vexation. I originally go to a retreat with the intention of 'purifying' my thoughts and life, only to find that I am attaching to the idea of 'quiet' as an ultimate or desirable state of mind. Then, when a disturbance arises in life, I have the desire to get back to the cushion. For this reason, I feel that one cannot assign a particular quality to mind, whether pure/impure, quiet/loud, still/moving. Doing so only creates yet another opposition, and one ends up see sawing between the two poles.
So what to do? I think faith in mind is so important here. Looking for or grasping a specific condition of mind is like jumping off a ship in order to hold onto a stick in the ocean. So while I use the quieting practice (watching the breath, chanting, etc.) to settle the mind, I don't take that practice itself to be 'my mind'. As soon as I confuse the method with the mind, I start to attach to that method and reject all other phenomena. But the method is only there to reveal the presence of mind in all phenomena and situations. There is just no need to run away from the arising phenomena, as long as I am aware that it has the same fundamental source. But if I find that there is no way to be aware in this fashion, I use the method of stilling the thoughts in order to open a space for mind to realize its own inherent nature.
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Six Realms
I have been writing many entries lately about Dzogchen Ponlop's wonderful text, Mind Beyond Death. I think part of my fascination with this book initially came from wanting to understand a narrative of death that seems meaningful from the perspective of Buddhist philosophy. Before I can even think about how palliative care is done in Buddhist settings, it seems that I have a lot of reading to do to know all the ways that Buddhists understand death and its stages. But the other driving reason is that Dzogchen Ponlop has given me many reasons to invest my energies more into practice, with a view to what could go on when a person journeys to another life.
I could sit here in front of this screen and relate the stages of death according to Tibetan Buddhist practice, but perhaps this would not be valuable when I die. It might or it might not be, but one can never know what kinds of situations one is going to face in that journey. Although Dzogchen Ponlop has superbly traced out a road map for this journey, many such as Joan Halifax have pointed out that each journey from life to after-life is going to be unique. What I am trying to say is: a map is precious, but it doesn't predict exactly what response will happen when the moment of death arrives. That gives me a certain kind of humility to realize that I may be quite helpless when faced with this situation. However, at least, I would like to describe some things I learned from Dzogchen Ponlop which has had an impact on me.
Dzogchen Ponlop describes how, if consciousness is unable to return back to original mind at the time of death, it incarnates into one of 6 forms: God, Jealous God (asuras), human, animal, hungry ghost and hell being. Each of the realms that these beings inhabit correspond to dazzling circles of light which the being is said to experience at the end of life, each with a different color: white (God realm), pale red (jealous god), blue (human), green (animal), yellow (hungry ghost) and a foggy grey (hell realm) (For further description see p.210-217, Mind Beyond Death). Dzogchen Ponlop describes how each realm corresponds to a particular mental taint: pride, jealousy, attachment, ignorance, greed and hatred respectively. And where consciousness is most attracted via the 'winds of karma' depends on their proclivities in this life. For instance, if I cultivate the seeds of extreme desire, I may be born either in a hungry ghost realm or a human realm, depending on where I place my energies in this life. If I am extremely self-attached and protective, I may be reborn in the Hell realm. If I have achieved high merit, I may be reborn in the heaven realm, etc. But please note that this "I" is not literal, because in fact there is no consistent, permanent identity that is moving between these states of being. Nor is there a strictly linear classification among the different realms. Dzogchen Ponlop notes that one can instantly be transported to a hell realm just by planting seeds of hatred in one's mind.
From what I understand of this text, much of what Dzogchen Ponlop relates is about psychological states more than physically tangible realms. For instance, although I might associate the animal realm with a physical form such as a cat or a snake, the real mind that goes through these forms is the same as Buddha nature. It is just Buddha nature that is hidden behind the form itself.
Reading the descriptions from this text, I have to say that many emotions arise from it. The first initial emotion is a kind of fear: I have no idea where consciousness will go after this life, and what kinds of projections will arise from it. There is a sense that, with all these 6 possibilities, I could potentially enter into any one of them, knowing that all these propensities exist equally inside me. I have pretty much known intimately all the states that Dzogchen Ponlop describes. The other feeling that arises is a strange sort of tenderness, almost like a solicitude. I don't quite know why it is, but when I reflect that I might not have so much control over my birth, I begin to think that all beings undergo the same sort of confusion as they journey across lifetimes. That tenderness is the feeling that even though beings appear to be different, they are all interwoven in a kind of enmeshed place. For example, an animal may have such a consciousness that it lives in continual fear, without much capacity for self awareness (at least, according to Dzogchen Ponlop). Yet, what creates the fear but a kind of shared existential struggle to survive? The sense of death lifts the sense of struggle a bit, for me. It reminds me that even if a creature is spared through the death of another, not one being can escape from death, and very few escape from rebirth in samsara.
I believe the third aspect that comes to mind is that as long as other being suffer in many lifetimes, I too am part of that suffering. It is not enough for me to find a way to know my true nature. In fact, 'my' is only an illusion, and to say "my nature" is already off the mark. When I start to see that all beings suffer equally as part of this inseparable interbeing, it makes sense to me that I would only seek relief in order to train myself better to help all beings. This is really the only way to stop the round of suffering that comes from attachment.
I could sit here in front of this screen and relate the stages of death according to Tibetan Buddhist practice, but perhaps this would not be valuable when I die. It might or it might not be, but one can never know what kinds of situations one is going to face in that journey. Although Dzogchen Ponlop has superbly traced out a road map for this journey, many such as Joan Halifax have pointed out that each journey from life to after-life is going to be unique. What I am trying to say is: a map is precious, but it doesn't predict exactly what response will happen when the moment of death arrives. That gives me a certain kind of humility to realize that I may be quite helpless when faced with this situation. However, at least, I would like to describe some things I learned from Dzogchen Ponlop which has had an impact on me.
Dzogchen Ponlop describes how, if consciousness is unable to return back to original mind at the time of death, it incarnates into one of 6 forms: God, Jealous God (asuras), human, animal, hungry ghost and hell being. Each of the realms that these beings inhabit correspond to dazzling circles of light which the being is said to experience at the end of life, each with a different color: white (God realm), pale red (jealous god), blue (human), green (animal), yellow (hungry ghost) and a foggy grey (hell realm) (For further description see p.210-217, Mind Beyond Death). Dzogchen Ponlop describes how each realm corresponds to a particular mental taint: pride, jealousy, attachment, ignorance, greed and hatred respectively. And where consciousness is most attracted via the 'winds of karma' depends on their proclivities in this life. For instance, if I cultivate the seeds of extreme desire, I may be born either in a hungry ghost realm or a human realm, depending on where I place my energies in this life. If I am extremely self-attached and protective, I may be reborn in the Hell realm. If I have achieved high merit, I may be reborn in the heaven realm, etc. But please note that this "I" is not literal, because in fact there is no consistent, permanent identity that is moving between these states of being. Nor is there a strictly linear classification among the different realms. Dzogchen Ponlop notes that one can instantly be transported to a hell realm just by planting seeds of hatred in one's mind.
From what I understand of this text, much of what Dzogchen Ponlop relates is about psychological states more than physically tangible realms. For instance, although I might associate the animal realm with a physical form such as a cat or a snake, the real mind that goes through these forms is the same as Buddha nature. It is just Buddha nature that is hidden behind the form itself.
Reading the descriptions from this text, I have to say that many emotions arise from it. The first initial emotion is a kind of fear: I have no idea where consciousness will go after this life, and what kinds of projections will arise from it. There is a sense that, with all these 6 possibilities, I could potentially enter into any one of them, knowing that all these propensities exist equally inside me. I have pretty much known intimately all the states that Dzogchen Ponlop describes. The other feeling that arises is a strange sort of tenderness, almost like a solicitude. I don't quite know why it is, but when I reflect that I might not have so much control over my birth, I begin to think that all beings undergo the same sort of confusion as they journey across lifetimes. That tenderness is the feeling that even though beings appear to be different, they are all interwoven in a kind of enmeshed place. For example, an animal may have such a consciousness that it lives in continual fear, without much capacity for self awareness (at least, according to Dzogchen Ponlop). Yet, what creates the fear but a kind of shared existential struggle to survive? The sense of death lifts the sense of struggle a bit, for me. It reminds me that even if a creature is spared through the death of another, not one being can escape from death, and very few escape from rebirth in samsara.
I believe the third aspect that comes to mind is that as long as other being suffer in many lifetimes, I too am part of that suffering. It is not enough for me to find a way to know my true nature. In fact, 'my' is only an illusion, and to say "my nature" is already off the mark. When I start to see that all beings suffer equally as part of this inseparable interbeing, it makes sense to me that I would only seek relief in order to train myself better to help all beings. This is really the only way to stop the round of suffering that comes from attachment.
Monday, February 8, 2016
"Poverty" Mentality
I have heard the expression 'poverty' mentality in many contexts, and recently, I found a very curious example of it while reading Dzogchen Ponlop's Mind Beyond Death. Dzogchen Ponlop observes how easily spiritual practitioners can get caught up in the idea that they have to keep accumulating various levels of experience in order to achieve a certain state in their practice, particularly around the time of death. He remarks, "Poverty mentality results in our mind becoming distracted and neurotic. The whole point of this spiritual journey is to develop a sense of sanity and to have a clear, one-pointed mind as opposed to having a mind that is split into many directions due to our narrow understanding." (p.154-155)
When I read this passage, I am thinking how important it is not to attach a self to what we know. When I believe that some piece of knowledge leads me to 'progress' or to build my understanding, that building already prevents other kinds of understanding from arising. It also inadvertently contributes to the idea that there is something permanent to be striven for in the world. For example, those who believe that the world is slowly 'progressing' toward a more liberal or enlightened viewpoint, have already pre-determined the direction that society must go to get to that point. Though the theory sounds quite good on paper, I wonder if history will reach that static point in the end. And it also somehow contributes to the notion that one's mind and experience needs to be added to in order to reach some perfection in the future. This only makes the present seem to be a stepping stone for something else.
Whenever I feel a negative emotion such as anger, another desire immediately comes up: I want to project it outward or make the feeling more relieving and pleasant. Or I want to change anger into something else. It's possible to do these things, but Dzogchen Ponlop suggests that through meditative practice, one can also become aware that anger is just one of many manifestations of the mind. He remarks, Whether we are elated by happiness or dejected by sadness, we are experiencing mind.(p.171-172), When I realize that fully, I don't reject the anger in favor of a more 'enlightening' feeling. In fact,I don't attach any particular feelings to being enlightened at all. With this mentality, I am no longer seeking some emotions which I favor over others.
It seems that poverty mentality is not just limited to how we view emotions, although Dzogchen Ponlop explores the role of emotion a great deal in his book. In his book Think Better, Tim Hurson notes that the psychological testing industry in North America is a 3 billion dollar industry (as of 2008, the time of his writing, see p. 61). What do psychological tests do? I agree with Hurson that they provide a temporary sense of 'this is who I am', rather than considering that people change their thinking patterns quite frequently , depending on their situation, motivation and interests. The longing for a fixed personality seems also to stem from the desire for security. If I don't have some specific thing that I can be 'known for' that makes me stand out in a group, then I consider myself as having no value. But over the longer view, it seems that people are no so straightforward, and nor do they need to be. But only when I let go of measuring myself in these stringent ways will I see that the mind has a greater pasture in which to roam.
Hurson, Tim (2008), Think Better: Your Company's Future Depends on it..and so does yours. Toronto: McGraw Hill
Ponlop, Dzogchen (2006, 2008), Mind Beyond Death Ithaka: Snow Lion.
When I read this passage, I am thinking how important it is not to attach a self to what we know. When I believe that some piece of knowledge leads me to 'progress' or to build my understanding, that building already prevents other kinds of understanding from arising. It also inadvertently contributes to the idea that there is something permanent to be striven for in the world. For example, those who believe that the world is slowly 'progressing' toward a more liberal or enlightened viewpoint, have already pre-determined the direction that society must go to get to that point. Though the theory sounds quite good on paper, I wonder if history will reach that static point in the end. And it also somehow contributes to the notion that one's mind and experience needs to be added to in order to reach some perfection in the future. This only makes the present seem to be a stepping stone for something else.
Whenever I feel a negative emotion such as anger, another desire immediately comes up: I want to project it outward or make the feeling more relieving and pleasant. Or I want to change anger into something else. It's possible to do these things, but Dzogchen Ponlop suggests that through meditative practice, one can also become aware that anger is just one of many manifestations of the mind. He remarks, Whether we are elated by happiness or dejected by sadness, we are experiencing mind.(p.171-172), When I realize that fully, I don't reject the anger in favor of a more 'enlightening' feeling. In fact,I don't attach any particular feelings to being enlightened at all. With this mentality, I am no longer seeking some emotions which I favor over others.
It seems that poverty mentality is not just limited to how we view emotions, although Dzogchen Ponlop explores the role of emotion a great deal in his book. In his book Think Better, Tim Hurson notes that the psychological testing industry in North America is a 3 billion dollar industry (as of 2008, the time of his writing, see p. 61). What do psychological tests do? I agree with Hurson that they provide a temporary sense of 'this is who I am', rather than considering that people change their thinking patterns quite frequently , depending on their situation, motivation and interests. The longing for a fixed personality seems also to stem from the desire for security. If I don't have some specific thing that I can be 'known for' that makes me stand out in a group, then I consider myself as having no value. But over the longer view, it seems that people are no so straightforward, and nor do they need to be. But only when I let go of measuring myself in these stringent ways will I see that the mind has a greater pasture in which to roam.
Hurson, Tim (2008), Think Better: Your Company's Future Depends on it..and so does yours. Toronto: McGraw Hill
Ponlop, Dzogchen (2006, 2008), Mind Beyond Death Ithaka: Snow Lion.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Pain Has a Hidden Meaning
During the Sunday morning meditation, I practiced using huatou method. Though I had some pain in my spine, I began to probe into the painful body sensations that arose: wondering, where do they come from, and what is their source? What I notice is that there is some special kind of pain that isn't really related to the physical body at all. Rather, this pain relates to the deeper doubt of feeling detached from oneself, or being split into a subject and an object. This is the existential pain that gives rise to all kinds of suffering. I believe that at the heart of all physical pain, there is a deeper perplexity that the physical aches only expose or somehow make 'obvious'. Without this perplexity, the pain is just a kind of phenomena.
The other way to describe the 'hidden' pain is that it is similar to the frustration that arises when one is trying to solve a problem that appears to be unsolvable. No only does the problem itself create some agitation, but in a deeper sense, the problem poses a kind of 'split' that cannot be bridged in the moment. One way to resolve the suffering of that pain is to simply ask the question: in that moment, is there really an actual split between 'me' and 'the problem'? Or is this split just a creation of the mind?
When I write this, I don't mean to suggest that the pain is made up or constructed by mind. Rather, I am suggesting that suffering from pain comes from an artificial boundary that I construct between 'me' and a particular sensation that seems foreign to me (or which I prefer not to have). I then forget that it is I who created this boundary, and then feel terribly split or at odds with the sensation I dislike. Had I been able to see through my tendency to split off from the pain, I may have found a better way to cope with it or to simply acknowledge it as energy of the mind.
Another painful situation is that of being in a null place, or realizing that there may not be a tangible or measurable purpose in what I am doing in the moment. Here, the source of pain is similar; rather than taking in the experience fully as it is, I impose some object upon that experience and then conclude that I have gone astray from the object of my action. But what happens if I choose not to create an artificial goal, and simply let matters be the way they are? In that case, rather than trying to fight pain or objectify it, I can see the pain as a natural part of experience. In that way, I refrain from creating an artificial identity that resists the pain.
After this morning's meditation, I am a little more convinced that 'pain itself' is never the problem in meditation. The problem comes before that, when I create an object and label it as 'pain'. Such a process makes the experience seem more tangible than it really is, which then exacerbates my struggle to rid myself of the pain. The opposite process happens when I have an image in mind of what I want to have. Rather than going back to the source of the image in mind, I objectify the image, treating it as a separate, external reality that I need to 'grasp'. Again, if I am able to see that the suffering arises from splitting of subject and object, neither pain nor pleasure are seen as substantial enough to avoid or pursue.
The other way to describe the 'hidden' pain is that it is similar to the frustration that arises when one is trying to solve a problem that appears to be unsolvable. No only does the problem itself create some agitation, but in a deeper sense, the problem poses a kind of 'split' that cannot be bridged in the moment. One way to resolve the suffering of that pain is to simply ask the question: in that moment, is there really an actual split between 'me' and 'the problem'? Or is this split just a creation of the mind?
When I write this, I don't mean to suggest that the pain is made up or constructed by mind. Rather, I am suggesting that suffering from pain comes from an artificial boundary that I construct between 'me' and a particular sensation that seems foreign to me (or which I prefer not to have). I then forget that it is I who created this boundary, and then feel terribly split or at odds with the sensation I dislike. Had I been able to see through my tendency to split off from the pain, I may have found a better way to cope with it or to simply acknowledge it as energy of the mind.
Another painful situation is that of being in a null place, or realizing that there may not be a tangible or measurable purpose in what I am doing in the moment. Here, the source of pain is similar; rather than taking in the experience fully as it is, I impose some object upon that experience and then conclude that I have gone astray from the object of my action. But what happens if I choose not to create an artificial goal, and simply let matters be the way they are? In that case, rather than trying to fight pain or objectify it, I can see the pain as a natural part of experience. In that way, I refrain from creating an artificial identity that resists the pain.
After this morning's meditation, I am a little more convinced that 'pain itself' is never the problem in meditation. The problem comes before that, when I create an object and label it as 'pain'. Such a process makes the experience seem more tangible than it really is, which then exacerbates my struggle to rid myself of the pain. The opposite process happens when I have an image in mind of what I want to have. Rather than going back to the source of the image in mind, I objectify the image, treating it as a separate, external reality that I need to 'grasp'. Again, if I am able to see that the suffering arises from splitting of subject and object, neither pain nor pleasure are seen as substantial enough to avoid or pursue.
Saturday, February 6, 2016
Thinking about Thinking
February turns out to be milder and even a bit stranger in climate than expected at this time of year. There have been times during this past week when the weather has fluctuated between very warm (like a spring day) to winter chill. In fact, I was quite surprised to see all the green grass on Thursday, after an unexpected winter thaw had taken place that day. With the strange weather, our bodies are bound to feel confused, with a few animals coming out of premature hibernation.
I was thinking today, what is the relationship between spiritual practices (such as meditation) and cognition? Can meditative practices make a person 'think better', and how would that be accomplished? I have heard a variety of answers to this question, the main one being that meditation practice can clear a space where there is non-attachment to thoughts. And this can allow the possibility for more creative opportunities or interesting thoughts. But I would like to step back a bit and ask the question, what does it mean to question and interrogate the quality of one's thinking? Under whose or what standards would a person evaluate the freshness, originality or 'overall quality' of thoughts? And who (or what) does such a venture serve?
The reason I ask this question is that there is something somewhat paradoxical about inquiring into the conditions of a 'good' thought. Many books abound out there (particularly in the business field) which suggest that people can improve their abilities to think productively and generate original or new solutions to existing situations. Rather than trying to mindlessly reproduce the past thoughts. "Productive" or "original" thinking is designed to create new or unexpected solutions. As elegant as this distinction sounds. it makes me wonder a lot of things. Firstly, is there such a clear, black-and-white delineation between 'productive' and 'reproductive', thinking, as Tim Hurson suggests in his book Think Better? While Hurson suggests that the two processes are different, I am almost inclined to think that thinking operates from a mixture of existing habits and new insights. The two seem to interact with one another dialectically, since it's unlikely that thought can spontaneously arise from that which one hasn't experienced in some way or another in previous thoughts or habits.
My second point is that I sense thinking itself to be something that can't be pinned down, because the 'productive' thinking that Hurson describes is a kind of spontaneous process. To try to pin it down would be to change 'production' into a kind of 'reproduction' or a trace of something that can be fixed or made into a measurable formula. But thinking itself is exactly not like that at all. Thinking seems to operate in a liminal space, between pre-formulated notions or hypotheses, and that which is not known or established as known yet. To try to 'figure out' what thinking is (and is not) seems not entirely productive in terms of how to think. Thinking seems to defy technique of any sort.
Because thinking itself is always happening in a spontaneous or fresh moment, perhaps a more productive question might be to ask, what are the conditions or prompts for fresh, moment-to-moment thinking? What motivates such a process to occur, and what inhibits this process? I am afraid that the very pursuit of cognitive 'boundaries' to define thinking is exactly the kind of thinking that inhibits thinking,because it pretends to be able to locate thought in some kind of flex-able muscle in the brain. In other words, the process of thinking becomes a kind of calisthenic exercise that can be commodified and measured in some way. But does thinking actually really operate in this way? Is the effort to 'map' thinking not precisely the form of self-consciousness that actually ends up inhibiting thinking itself?
To put it another way: even if I know the map, does that knowing enable me to become a 'better' or 'fresher' thinker? I believe this is the dream of cognitive science: to map the mind in such a way that people can become naturally better thinkers. But is it ever possible to map in precise detail all the ways that original thoughts arise in mind? I think that project is not only futile, but ends up sabotaging its own effort, because it reinforces the view that the mind is a 'box' with various measurable variables in it.
To go back to the question of what conditions motivate thinking: I believe that curiosity about how one relates to a process is perhaps the best way to stimulate thinking that is one's own. Rather than asking, for instance, 'what is the problem', a better way might be to ask, 'what is my relationship at the present moment to this problem or process?' In this way,I can truly enter into a dialogue with the object of study, rather than trying to subordinate my mental processes in 'awe' of that object. Meditative practice is exactly about engaging this natural curiosity, because it asks that practitioners bracket the kinds of conceptual 'traps' that might inhibit one's ability to relate in the present moment with what is happening. And this is also more motivating than trying to squeeze oneself into the mold of how others think or relate to a situation. It puts the thinker into the proverbial driver's seat, by asking how they specifically relate to the causes and conditions they face.
Hurson, Tim, (2008) Think Better: Your Company's Future Depends on It. Toronto: McGraw Hill
I was thinking today, what is the relationship between spiritual practices (such as meditation) and cognition? Can meditative practices make a person 'think better', and how would that be accomplished? I have heard a variety of answers to this question, the main one being that meditation practice can clear a space where there is non-attachment to thoughts. And this can allow the possibility for more creative opportunities or interesting thoughts. But I would like to step back a bit and ask the question, what does it mean to question and interrogate the quality of one's thinking? Under whose or what standards would a person evaluate the freshness, originality or 'overall quality' of thoughts? And who (or what) does such a venture serve?
The reason I ask this question is that there is something somewhat paradoxical about inquiring into the conditions of a 'good' thought. Many books abound out there (particularly in the business field) which suggest that people can improve their abilities to think productively and generate original or new solutions to existing situations. Rather than trying to mindlessly reproduce the past thoughts. "Productive" or "original" thinking is designed to create new or unexpected solutions. As elegant as this distinction sounds. it makes me wonder a lot of things. Firstly, is there such a clear, black-and-white delineation between 'productive' and 'reproductive', thinking, as Tim Hurson suggests in his book Think Better? While Hurson suggests that the two processes are different, I am almost inclined to think that thinking operates from a mixture of existing habits and new insights. The two seem to interact with one another dialectically, since it's unlikely that thought can spontaneously arise from that which one hasn't experienced in some way or another in previous thoughts or habits.
My second point is that I sense thinking itself to be something that can't be pinned down, because the 'productive' thinking that Hurson describes is a kind of spontaneous process. To try to pin it down would be to change 'production' into a kind of 'reproduction' or a trace of something that can be fixed or made into a measurable formula. But thinking itself is exactly not like that at all. Thinking seems to operate in a liminal space, between pre-formulated notions or hypotheses, and that which is not known or established as known yet. To try to 'figure out' what thinking is (and is not) seems not entirely productive in terms of how to think. Thinking seems to defy technique of any sort.
Because thinking itself is always happening in a spontaneous or fresh moment, perhaps a more productive question might be to ask, what are the conditions or prompts for fresh, moment-to-moment thinking? What motivates such a process to occur, and what inhibits this process? I am afraid that the very pursuit of cognitive 'boundaries' to define thinking is exactly the kind of thinking that inhibits thinking,because it pretends to be able to locate thought in some kind of flex-able muscle in the brain. In other words, the process of thinking becomes a kind of calisthenic exercise that can be commodified and measured in some way. But does thinking actually really operate in this way? Is the effort to 'map' thinking not precisely the form of self-consciousness that actually ends up inhibiting thinking itself?
To put it another way: even if I know the map, does that knowing enable me to become a 'better' or 'fresher' thinker? I believe this is the dream of cognitive science: to map the mind in such a way that people can become naturally better thinkers. But is it ever possible to map in precise detail all the ways that original thoughts arise in mind? I think that project is not only futile, but ends up sabotaging its own effort, because it reinforces the view that the mind is a 'box' with various measurable variables in it.
To go back to the question of what conditions motivate thinking: I believe that curiosity about how one relates to a process is perhaps the best way to stimulate thinking that is one's own. Rather than asking, for instance, 'what is the problem', a better way might be to ask, 'what is my relationship at the present moment to this problem or process?' In this way,I can truly enter into a dialogue with the object of study, rather than trying to subordinate my mental processes in 'awe' of that object. Meditative practice is exactly about engaging this natural curiosity, because it asks that practitioners bracket the kinds of conceptual 'traps' that might inhibit one's ability to relate in the present moment with what is happening. And this is also more motivating than trying to squeeze oneself into the mold of how others think or relate to a situation. It puts the thinker into the proverbial driver's seat, by asking how they specifically relate to the causes and conditions they face.
Hurson, Tim, (2008) Think Better: Your Company's Future Depends on It. Toronto: McGraw Hill
Friday, February 5, 2016
Emotional Energies
In Mind Beyond Death Dzogchen Ponlop describes how emotional energies are embraced and seen for what they are, as part of the original nature of mind. He remarks:
The nature of mind is the same. It arises and it manifests within the space of your awareness in its own natural state. Thus, the genuine state of aggression is not aggression; rather, 'aggression' is a label that we give to a particular experience. Passion is a label that we give to another experience. When you look at the raw, vivid and sharp experience of passion and aggression, you realize that they are inseparable. From the point of view of experience, there are no distinctive labels that identify something as passion and something else as aggression, ignorance or jealousy. (p.105-106)
I think this quote is quite fascinating, because it seems to describe how to work with the energies of emotions without trying to label them or sort them out into good or bad states. To give a simple example, right now, as I am sitting in front of my laptop, there is a tension arising around my forehead which is likely arising from a state of tiredness, or fatigue. Now, I could resist that tension and say, "this is bad; I want to feel something else" or "I want to focus on something good". And I might then find some way to distract myself to force the pain to go away. But rather than counselling people to distract themselves with spiritual practices, Dzogchen Ponlop seems to be suggesting the opposite--to see all these emotional states as one of many forms of mind. To extend to my example, I don't need to create a distinction between 'this state of mind' and 'that state of mind', and then create opposition between those states. By resting mind in this present moment, I can learn to see that all the states of mind are just one seamless totality.
I have to say from my own experience that this practice is not always so easy. It is not to be confused with just following every thought that comes to mind. To give an example, there is a difference between allowing anger to arise in mind, and attaching to one's thoughts about what to do with anger. These two states are different because the former is a more direct investigation of that emotion. It doesn't presume to know what the state of anger is, or how it is meant to be. Instead, the attitude is to face the energy of anger with a full embrace, not giving into fear of one's own aggressive energy. But what typically happens is that I don't give the aggressive emotion its due, and there is a struggle in labeling it and then wanting it to somehow go away. Nobody wants to think themselves to be an anger prone individual, so there is a desire to scuttle the anger or put it under the rug, rather than seeing it as a pure kind of energy.
One of the biggest challenges with this practice is the tendency to identify ourselves with whatever we observe comes to arise in mind. I can see that being more observant of certain emotions can also be a temptation to identify them as 'this is me', rather than to see the emotion as one part of a vast unfolding from moment to moment. While it's helpful to observe the emotion, it's equally helpful to see its impermanence. Without the latter view, an awareness of pent up or disowned energy can lead to an overidentification with those disowned parts. I begin to see this practice as a delicate balancing act between owning emotion and not attaching them to a self.
Ponlop, Dzogchen (2006, 2008), Mind Beyond Death Ithaka: Snow Lion.
The nature of mind is the same. It arises and it manifests within the space of your awareness in its own natural state. Thus, the genuine state of aggression is not aggression; rather, 'aggression' is a label that we give to a particular experience. Passion is a label that we give to another experience. When you look at the raw, vivid and sharp experience of passion and aggression, you realize that they are inseparable. From the point of view of experience, there are no distinctive labels that identify something as passion and something else as aggression, ignorance or jealousy. (p.105-106)
I think this quote is quite fascinating, because it seems to describe how to work with the energies of emotions without trying to label them or sort them out into good or bad states. To give a simple example, right now, as I am sitting in front of my laptop, there is a tension arising around my forehead which is likely arising from a state of tiredness, or fatigue. Now, I could resist that tension and say, "this is bad; I want to feel something else" or "I want to focus on something good". And I might then find some way to distract myself to force the pain to go away. But rather than counselling people to distract themselves with spiritual practices, Dzogchen Ponlop seems to be suggesting the opposite--to see all these emotional states as one of many forms of mind. To extend to my example, I don't need to create a distinction between 'this state of mind' and 'that state of mind', and then create opposition between those states. By resting mind in this present moment, I can learn to see that all the states of mind are just one seamless totality.
I have to say from my own experience that this practice is not always so easy. It is not to be confused with just following every thought that comes to mind. To give an example, there is a difference between allowing anger to arise in mind, and attaching to one's thoughts about what to do with anger. These two states are different because the former is a more direct investigation of that emotion. It doesn't presume to know what the state of anger is, or how it is meant to be. Instead, the attitude is to face the energy of anger with a full embrace, not giving into fear of one's own aggressive energy. But what typically happens is that I don't give the aggressive emotion its due, and there is a struggle in labeling it and then wanting it to somehow go away. Nobody wants to think themselves to be an anger prone individual, so there is a desire to scuttle the anger or put it under the rug, rather than seeing it as a pure kind of energy.
One of the biggest challenges with this practice is the tendency to identify ourselves with whatever we observe comes to arise in mind. I can see that being more observant of certain emotions can also be a temptation to identify them as 'this is me', rather than to see the emotion as one part of a vast unfolding from moment to moment. While it's helpful to observe the emotion, it's equally helpful to see its impermanence. Without the latter view, an awareness of pent up or disowned energy can lead to an overidentification with those disowned parts. I begin to see this practice as a delicate balancing act between owning emotion and not attaching them to a self.
Ponlop, Dzogchen (2006, 2008), Mind Beyond Death Ithaka: Snow Lion.
Thursday, February 4, 2016
The Four Reminders
During the meditation today, I felt my body becoming so light, almost as though light were running through it or it was even a form of light. I must say that this experience was entirely based on my readings and faith, especially in that I was able to have such an experience. It lifted me away from my body concerns. Is this a form of fooling myself'? All I know is that I needed that faith to be able to lift me out of the sensitivity to pain that often happens when I sit for a long time. I felt a vow to help and connect with others sustaining my practice. And it was somehow a pleasure that came from nowhere
One of the paradoxes I have sometimes found in life is that having what I perceive to be 'more' in life can be a source of anxiety. It is one of the forms of suffering that is talked about in the First Noble Truth, the suffering of losing what one cherishes. But what is interesting is that I have often been told to be 'grateful' for what I have. Is it possible for gratitude to end up turning into clinging to what one has?
I think the answer to these questions lies in the practice itself. I see meditative practice as like a raft. The more energy and consistency I put into the practice, the stronger a raft I have to keep me balanced. When I am clinging to things I like and then fearing their loss, I am just swimming with the passing phenomena, and I lose all inner strength or power. On the other hand, if I am sticking steadfastly to something that is not dependent on the outside world, there is no reason for me to feel misfortune to lose something. But because my mind is wavering and my practice is not so strong in daily life, I will tend to seek relief in things around me rather than seeing all things as opportunities to practice being present.
The 'gratitude' that is often described in Buddhist teachings is quite different from what I hear commonly. I recently read in Dzogchen Ponlop's book Mind Beyond Death, where he talks about the four reminders as common preliminary practice. They are "(1) precious human birth, (2) impermanence, (3) karma and (4) the shortcomings of samsara. All of these forms of reminders generate focus but they also grant practitioners a certain kind of gratitude. Rather than being grateful for particular things that are impermanent to begin with, these four reminders seem to focus the mind just a little bit beyond what is present here and now. While we are blessed to be born human, for example, this gratitude also carries with it a certain responsibility to ensure that we are not reborn in a less favorable state for practice. It is also sobering to reflect that humans are fragile beings, subject to impermanence, suffering and cause/condition. The gratitude comes more from discovering teachings that will help one go beyond this suffering. This gratitude seems more engaged than simply being grateful for one's possessions.
Ponlop, Dzogchen (2006, 2008), Mind Beyond Death Ithaka: Snow Lion.
One of the paradoxes I have sometimes found in life is that having what I perceive to be 'more' in life can be a source of anxiety. It is one of the forms of suffering that is talked about in the First Noble Truth, the suffering of losing what one cherishes. But what is interesting is that I have often been told to be 'grateful' for what I have. Is it possible for gratitude to end up turning into clinging to what one has?
I think the answer to these questions lies in the practice itself. I see meditative practice as like a raft. The more energy and consistency I put into the practice, the stronger a raft I have to keep me balanced. When I am clinging to things I like and then fearing their loss, I am just swimming with the passing phenomena, and I lose all inner strength or power. On the other hand, if I am sticking steadfastly to something that is not dependent on the outside world, there is no reason for me to feel misfortune to lose something. But because my mind is wavering and my practice is not so strong in daily life, I will tend to seek relief in things around me rather than seeing all things as opportunities to practice being present.
The 'gratitude' that is often described in Buddhist teachings is quite different from what I hear commonly. I recently read in Dzogchen Ponlop's book Mind Beyond Death, where he talks about the four reminders as common preliminary practice. They are "(1) precious human birth, (2) impermanence, (3) karma and (4) the shortcomings of samsara. All of these forms of reminders generate focus but they also grant practitioners a certain kind of gratitude. Rather than being grateful for particular things that are impermanent to begin with, these four reminders seem to focus the mind just a little bit beyond what is present here and now. While we are blessed to be born human, for example, this gratitude also carries with it a certain responsibility to ensure that we are not reborn in a less favorable state for practice. It is also sobering to reflect that humans are fragile beings, subject to impermanence, suffering and cause/condition. The gratitude comes more from discovering teachings that will help one go beyond this suffering. This gratitude seems more engaged than simply being grateful for one's possessions.
Ponlop, Dzogchen (2006, 2008), Mind Beyond Death Ithaka: Snow Lion.
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Dreaming Awake
Tonight’s meditation was a bit choppy in some places. I was torn between being very strict in my
practice and allowing wandering thoughts to arise, sometimes even observing how
strange or irrelevant the thoughts really are. And over time, when I was able
to see the thoughts for what they are, they had far less power over the
practice. Interestingly, once I could see the impermanent and ‘dead end’ nature
of wandering thoughts, they had much less power than, say, repressing thoughts.
Quite the contrary, ‘repressing’ thoughts tends to make them seem much more powerful
than they are. This is why I relish the middle way when it comes to having
thoughts in meditation. But I also noticed something interesting: the more I
observed my thoughts coming and going, the more it almost seemed like the
thoughts were dreamlike, and not at all connected to anything permanent.
There is an interesting relationship
between ‘dreaming’ and spiritual stories and practices. G.S Kirk devotes a
whole chapter to his Nature of Greek
Myths (1974) to expounding (and challenging) the connection between
mythological stories and dream states. Some thinkers which Kirk mentions, such
as V.W. Turner suggest that myths represent ‘transitional’ or liminal states
between two distinct stages of life’s maturity, similar to how dreams can
mediate between conscious and unconscious life. Quoting Kirk, Turner maintains
that myths function to “interpose a sacred interval in the flux of profane experience
in order to facilitate the sharp transition from one condition to a totally different
one.” (p.88). Kirk also notes the similarity between myths and dreams, when he
mentions that the myth’s story often “depends on the dislocation of normal
sequences and expectations; something that leads beyond paradoxicality to a
kind of dream-like, sometimes nightmarish, other-worldliness.” (p.90)
Kirk contends that myths can be
powerful aspects of spiritual life, precisely because they offer temporal and
spatial ‘disruptions’ from habitual ways of telling a story. “Sacred” and “profane”
elements often intermingle in myths, such as the interaction between gods and
mortals, or between spirits and animals. These in turn can lead people to try
out new possibilities, or experiment with a variety of perspectives on a
situation. Kirk also seems to like the idea hinted by Levi-Strauss that myths
offer ways to mediate between untenable contradictions in human life, by
creating and exposing conflicts in a safe and experimental, multi-levelled way.
I wonder, could this description perhaps equally apply to all art forms, or at
least literary forms?
From a perspective of Buddhist or
meditative practice, do dreams have a value? Dzogchen Ponlop offers a
compelling argument in the book Mind
Beyond Death to suggest that dreams are close to the ‘bardo’ or
transitional states between life and death, and could therefore offer grounds
for practitioners to ‘practice’ equanimity prior to death. He also suggests
that dreaming is an apt metaphor for the impermanence of all things. In one
powerful passage, he reminds us:
One of the ways to
understand the dreamlike quality of our present experience is to look at the
experience of yesterday from the perspective of today. When we do this, we see
that everything that happened yesterday exists now only as a memory. Our
conversations, actions, thoughts and feelings,
even the sights and sounds of yesterday, are no more real than the
images that appeared to us in last night’s dreams. (p.68)
For Dzchoghen Ponlop, dreams can indeed be the way people
can understand, perhaps by analogy, the transitory nature of their experiences.
This way of looking at all one’s experiences can, from a Buddhist perspective,
prepare one for the letting go that comes with the ending of life. This Is
maybe a far cry from traditional ways of trying to divine the symbolic meaning
of dreams. But it tries to look at the similarities between the ‘stream of
consciousness’ offered in dreams and that of waking life itself.
To go back to the experience of meditation: if I can start
to look at thoughts as a form of ‘awake dreaming”, I can learn to place less
emphasis on the content or the ‘dramatic’ pull of thoughts, and more emphasis
on the awareness which has the thought. I am also seeing that the thoughts are
bound to arise and pass away again, there is less attachment to habitual turns
of thought. This way of looking at thoughts
can also provide a healing space for upsetting thoughts to be observed, without
the sense that these thoughts are enduring. At the very least, dreams can offer
analogies for how to see things in
everyday experience with more creative play and less attachment.
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