Letting go of the second moon

  During the meditation practice tonight, a practitioner had shared a particular poem which was endearing to him. It was a Zen poem which described a nun who struggled so hard to carry a pail of water later to find the bucket shatter, along with the water and the moon she had been carrying with her the whole time. I thought this to be a beautiful metaphor for spiritual practice: how we struggle so hard and so long under the impression of having to 'get' somewhere, to sustain a certain modicum of being or practice, only to find the whole thing to be delusion. It seems that the harder one tries to get somewhere, the more one is just using the mind to discriminate between a starting point and a future destination far away. And all too often this emphasis on trying to make something a vehicle only gets a person into the realm of ego.
  It is significantly only when the 'vehicle' is shattered that the illusions cherished by the nun start to fall out along with the moon and the water. At that point, even the moon itself is seen only as a reflection which comes and goes with the water's reflection. At that point, there is no longer even a need to cherish what is only an appearance or a reflection, and one can be freed of burdens altogether.
   I suppose it's not easy to achieve this in real life, because what we see is often only a reflection of how others might or might not be seeing us at the time. The images are not reliable because they are bound to change with perspective. So what, in the midst of all these experiences, is steadfast and reliable? When one returns to the source of the reflections (the mind that sees, that is already awakened), do these images have such a power over the person? The same goes with words and sounds. What are these but impermanent, passing reflections which are bound to arise and fall from one moment to the next?

Blessings in Disguise?

  The first time I had heard the term "blessing in disguise" was a time when a bunch of people were being laid off, and one of my co-workers had reassured the one being laid off that the misfortune may be a blessing of sorts. The expression seemed glib to me, but actually, it opened up a door to new possibilities, especially when it comes to being taken away from a vital role or source  of stability. What kinds of blessings do we receive from disappointment, and what's the hidden 'gift' in there?
    I think one of the most important 'blessings' in unfortunate turn of events is that it often lifts a burden of having to sustain a certain hope or way of being indefinitely. In lifting a certain emotional burden, it is a bit like lifting a rock to see the life that dwells underneath it. Initially, it seems a bit scary--we have no idea what lives in that darkness that we have been hiding for a long time. But once our eyes get accustomed to what lies underneath, we see that there is hidden life, and often a hidden ecosystem living in the stray corners. Similarly, when I lose something that seems so vital to me, I am really sometimes uncovering other things which have lain dormant, which are sources of vitality. It is as though these alternate forms of life are given an opportunity to come to light once we let go of that one source of life that seems so stable and permanent.
    A related blessing is the realization that failure in one part of life does not devastate a person, and nor does the breakdown of a connection or a relationship. Sometimes there can be mini-lessons and things to learn but also one doesn't necessarily need to do something in one way only. I remember years ago when I had first encountered DDM at the Taiwanese festival, someone there had told me that there are many ways to climb a mountain. And I never forget that notion, which helps to keep my mind flexible and open to new ways of seeing.
     Finally, I think that sudden changes in fortune can force a person to let go more and trust the subtle turns of life. If everything were straight and narrow, there would be no grounds for a person to develop faith and trust, and this way would make it difficult for a person to feel interconnected to the world. As well, it seems important to maintain a sense of flexibility in being able to look at things from a variety of different perspectives.

Being There For It All

 In her wonderful book, Being with Dying, Joan Halifax describes the process of being with one's own suffering so that we can be available to the suffering of others.. She remarks:

We need to learn to stay with suffering without trying to change it or fix it. Only when we are able to be present for our own suffering are we able to be present for our own suffering are we able to be present for the suffering of others, and the difficulties they may encounter in dying. The practice of insight meditation, in which we able to be present for the suffering of others, and the difficulties they may encounter in dying. The practice of insight meditation, in which we watch the ebb and flow of mental activity, is a good way to cultivate this ability. (p.157)

When I read Halifax's passage, I am struck with the two main principles she introduces in this chapter on attending to one's suffering. The first is the notion that there is simply no 'right way' of doing so. In fact, the practice of meditation that Halifax describes is not at all about having a right or a wrong way. Rather, it is simply being present with  the experience, and even going so far as to accept the behavior that arises from that experience. By letting go of the notion that there is a right way or a wrong way to experience pain, there is a whole lot that is lifted off a person's shoulders.

The second principle that is introduced in this chapter is the notion of a bare encounter with pain and suffering. I used to think that  this meant a kind of process of letting go of labels and just seeing something the way it is. But it is somewhat different from that, because even labels themselves are part of the experience. It is not even about separating the labels, but simply seeing that everything is a kind of creation of mind. So when there is anger or irritation, is there a need for me to strip away the ideas around that anger or irritation? Sometimes, there is not even necessarily a need to curb that anger. It is more like turning toward the anger and embracing it as part of my whole experience, rather than longing for a neat resolution to the anger itself.

Many years ago, I attended a Dharma talk by Venerable GuoXing from Dharma Drum Mountain, where he had compared experiences and phenomena to gold that is shaped into various pieces. Sometimes the gold is shaped into a beautiful statue, while other times it might be shaped into a toilet. Is shaping the gold into the toilet devaluing the nature of gold? According to Fashi, the gold itself doesn't devalue according to the form. It is rather that we judge certain forms to be more desirable than others. Because anger often feels hot and unfinished (as in a frustrated wish), we might want to change anger into something more desirable, such as happiness. But the practice of meditation encourages us to look to the source of that anger and see that the source of all emotions is already pure. There is no need to transform that desire into something else to get to a more 'authentic' experience of mind.

Another way of looking at it is that the wish to 'resolve' anger is actually based on a kind of delusion. It's like saying that the goose is trapped in the bottle. Who put the goose in the bottle to begin with? Because of my desire to escape from anger and go to a cooler or more comfortable emotion, I get this stigma about anger and want to send it away or throw it from my body onto someone else. Thus arises the expression, "take it all out  on someone else". It is as though one had a hot potato and simply wanted to throw the potato on someone else to resolve the pain. And it sometimes happens that a person might use strong words to steer others away from making them annoyed. But more often, the success of this approach only leads to further alienation: others become afraid to approach us, and we believe that the anger is something we couldn't stand to embody, let alone want to experience. So the vicious cycle of emotional alienation continues indefinitely.

Halifax, Joan,  (2008) Being with Ding: Cultivating Compassion and Fearlessness in the Presence  of Death. Boston: Shambhala

The Value of Others

   In the course of life, I have met many people, among them students, colleagues and friends. I sometimes look back on my friendships with others  and wonder, is there a specific value or purpose to these connections, and can a 'value' be assigned to it? It's important, I think to pause on this, because I am inclined to try to fix a value on everything I have experienced. But do things have such clear-cut values? I was trying to look at this from the perspective of attachment. For example, when I see things, I often look at things from the perspective of personal purpose or gain. I might ask the question: how does this experience help me in my path? This view is quite narrow, because it doesn't consider how much people impact others' paths, and how we often are changed by others if we open up to their viewpoints. If my goals, for instance, were the same goals as those I had when I was 18 or even 15, how valid would those goals be? It seems that our goals are enriched when we widen our circle to include the paths and perspectives of others. It isn't to say that people shouldn't have any goals, but it's to say that goals can change and become something quite different over time. And to do this requires a suspension at times of what a person deeply values: a space where a person might not even know what he or she exactly values.
    Another example: is knowing clearly who one is and what one values at all times always 'a good thing?' I have heard a lot of praise of those who 'have clear values' or 'stand by their beliefs', but there can be a point where this clear set of values can prevent a person from hearing other voices and their beliefs. I sometimes find it helpful to reflect that what I value might not encompass another person's experiences--and rarely does, if at all. When that happens, a person has a choice: either disparage the other's ''values" or be curious about what another person feels passionate about or cares the most about. It doesn't mean that I need to appropriate these values as my own, but it might mean that I can honor and respect that person's way of being through listening and suspending judgments. Most importantly, I acknowledge my own desires (to be a certain way or to have things a certain way) but don't confuse that to be 'the only way' or 'the way'.
    As I am writing this, I also acknowledge that listening needs to be a meditative listening: not a listening that holds onto ideas before investigating others' but a listening that is willing to let go of ideas and let the conversation unfold as it is, without any prediction or anticipation. It is a listening that has to be secure in itself yet willing to let go to embrace all voices. Not an easy listening to achieve, and it's not the same as masochism or a kind of 'joy in feeling pain'. I think it's a confidence and faith in life that sometimes takes years to attain, through many encounters with others.

impermanence of position

I was reflecting today on how attached I have felt toward being a volunteer with the Buddhist organization.  I often worry that if I make a mistake or seem incompetent as a meditation timekeeper that this will mean and end to my connection with the organization. But later, after the study group, I began to think:  my connection to Buddhist teaching is not limited to any particular role I take within the organization. In fact, I began to even come to terms with the fact that I can fail as much as I want, but there is no "I" that lives or dies as a result. The only reason I experience suffering is that I am under the mistaken belief that who I am consists in the roles I play in relation to others.
    None of this should seem a surprise to me, yet it's something I continually need to remind myself. The reason for the suffering is not 'lost dignity' or 'being humiliated', but rather a strong desire for these roles. Sometimes, a person needs to experience isolation from roles altogether, to realize that they are not dependent on any role or sense of dignity. But the journey is so difficult, because so much emphasis is placed on how much power a person has and needs to survive in the world. I often need to remind myself that even being 'low' in status or recognition has a spiritual value or a meaning. In a sense, it is life's way of telling us that we can survive without status and still have things to contribute to others.
    I am not at all suggesting that people should or can live isolated lives. This might be the way of nihilism---the belief that people are all isolated units. What I do believe is that people need some modicum of faith in themselves to realize that their value is not limited to one or two roles. If a person clings to those positions and insists on keeping them for dear life, they will feel such great loss when those roles inevitably are taken away from them. The desire comes from a very limited or narrow view of what people are capable of doing or becoming in the world. I think this also sometimes comes from the mistaken view that all the people I know today are the only people I will ever know or be capable of knowing. This is also a very limited view. Who is to say that the only people I can benefit or contribute to are in this current moment? Again by limiting my view only to what is happening in the present, I may be blinding myself to the future possibilities of benefiting other sentient beings. Sometimes the loss of one role can allow other sentient beings to benefit from one's experiences, now that they have been freed from that position.
     The point I am making is that the impermanence  of one's social life does not necessarily entail bracing oneself for a life of isolation. Instead, the nature of impermanence can get people away from restrictive views of inscribed roles and toward are limitless array of possibilities.

the strengths and limits of humor

  It's funny how I have never really explored the origins of the meaning of humor, let alone understood its importance. In her book, The Way of Woman: Awakening the Perennial Feminine, Helen M. Luke suggests that the original term humor comes from the bodily fluids that are meant to circulate in the body to generate certain kinds of moods (sanguine, phlegmatic, choleric, melancholic), and is therefore said to 'flow' throughout the body (p.72). Since early times, humor has been associated with a kind of balance or harmonizing of elements in the body.  Luke goes on to suggest that many writers see humor in terms of a sense of proportion: being able to see how parts interconnect with the whole, and not being drawn into the dominance of certain kinds of logic.
   Luke rightly suggests that not all humor is necessarily enlightening in this way, though many types can be. She remarks:

There are so many kinds of laughter, and it often conceals a bitterly destructive negation or contempt. When we yield to that, we are cut off altogether from the sense of humor which always strengthens the compassion in which all our pains and joys become whole.  Hurt vanity, our own or another's, personal resentments or anger, humiliations or demands for some change in another...can be accepted with pain and known also as occasions for the laughter that heals. (p.74)

Humor can either serve the ego (or rigid, fixed self-concept) or can open up to an accepting realization that we simply don't have control over everything in our lives. The former often takes the form of barbs, jabs, or insults, while the latter is just looking lightly at the foibles that afflict people.
      I am even thinking that humor can point to the realization that we are not as important as we believe we are. For example, status might be considered a sign that one has worked harder to achieve things, and is therefore somehow 'deserving' to lead others. But as Luke suggests in her chapter on humor, there is no permanent role in life that is set in stone. People only become leaders because there needs to be someone to lead in that particular moment. But it isn't to say that the leader will always lead or attract followers. The role itself is only based on the temporary conditions of the moment, and it's thus best not to be overly attached to the role itself. I found that having a humor about myself helps me to see this more clearly and lighten up my belief that my position in life will be the same forever.
   Luke seems to suggest that the healing element of humor lies in seeing beyond the ego. I remember reading in Schopenhauer the idea that things seem strange and absurd only from the perspective of a self that is always calculating things to be a certain way. Puns are an example of a kind of humor where the expectations of language are thwarted: words which are predicted to mean one thing are suddenly seen in a completely different light when they point to another meaning. To have a sense of humor is to see past the self  that is always in control, and laughter is the relinquishing of the expected outcome in favor of something delightfully off the path.
        Luke also evokes the 'old fool' as an alternate archetype for older people. We typically tend to 'look up' to those who are elderly as people who have a huge modicum of experience and knowledge. But this idea would put a lot of pressure on people to have answers to life, when in fact life just gets more perplexing with experience. So why not embrace the idea that one simply does not know at all? Luke suggests that this latter position would invite more openness and ability to take risks or make mistakes. It takes a person off the pedestal of having to have answers, and toward a greater sense of wonder and spaciousness. I have to admit that I felt a lot of relief while reading this chapter, realizing that one does not need to keep accumulating knowledge to have valid experiences.
       I have yet to really reflect deeply on the phenomenology of realizing the humor in life. Luke does a good job in opening up the discussion, but I like to think about whether or not humor is itself a kind of knowledge. I believe that in order to grasp humor, one has to have an insight into a deep relationship between things. I also wonder whether anyone who has never experienced 'humility' before could experience humor. By humility, I am talking about the everyday kind: the one that splashes mud on your pants when you walk too close to a car on a rainy day. In those moments of suffering, one begins to realize the tension between having to survive and take care of one's body and well-being, and the realization that there is no absolute control over the environment or what could happen to oneself. When the person leans toward one extreme or another (self-protection or self-abandon), suffering is bound to arise. But if I learn to be okay with the tension between these conflicting forces, I can be more resilient to frustrations. I also become more watchful and even embracing toward unexpected troubles that are bound to arise precisely because of our fragility and lack of control over the world.

Luke, Helen M (1995) The way of woman: Awakening the Perennial Feminine. New York: Doubleday

Looking at the Source

   I noticed that when I meditated tonight, there seemed to be two different (yet related) approaches to dealing with phenomena and painful experience. One is sometimes known as 'direct contemplation', where I have looked 'directly' at the pain or the phenomena (whichever it is) without judging or putting any labels on that experience. The other is a more inquiry-based approach of probing into the source of the pain itself, in particular 'looking for the presumed self' that is behind the pain. I find that the second approach is more effective, because it doesn't try to indirectly or directly get rid of the pain. Instead, it focuses on the question of who is suffering from pain. And when I start to realize that I cannot really find any self that is particularly experiencing the pain, I notice that the sense of suffering gradually dissipates, and the pain becomes more manageable. Strangely enough, however, the first method is more heavily advocated in Western approaches to mindfulness. I wonder whether perhaps it's because nobody wants to question the sense of self for fear that it might sap one's individuality.
      Why is the second approach more effective? I have a theory, and that is I think the sense of self is always the illusion that's behind the experience of suffering. As long as there is a sense of a distinct, separate individual that is 'carrying' a painful experience, that becomes a real suffering. Pain is no longer experienced simply as sensation (and nothing more) but there is a meaning attached to the pain when I put an "I" in front of that pain. Without that sense of meaning, the sensations are just background. But the trick is, with the sense of self, everything becomes so heavy, because the self is always picking and choosing, filtering experiences in some way. It's a bit like an observer effect: I can say to myself that I am seeing something freshly, but without investigating the self that is observing, I will easily fall into the trap of expectation, or of wanting something or rejecting something else. But when I try to examine what is doing all that work of creating a unified experience that discriminates, I then see where the source of suffering really lies. It is this knotty kind of experience of liking and not liking, grasping and rejecting, and this perpetuates the sense of feeling trapped in one's own body. If I were only to look at the raw experiences themselves, I might not detect what goes behind the scenes to create that emotional experience.
   

Why Does the Last Always Seem the Best?

  Tonight, the rain had turned to snow very quickly, and I could feel the flakes covering my jacket and face as I got back home. It was certainly a pleasant kind of snow, in the sense that I could feel it almost like feathers covering the body. I even begin to wonder as I write this, how such a delicate thing like this kind of snow could even exist. Looked at under a microscope, snow looks like the bits of paper that make up a kaleidoscope. The symmetry is often striking even when seen from a distance, and I marvel at how nature could even create such things as the crystalline shapes of snowflakes. Of course, however, the tragic thing about the snowflake is that it is gone as soon as it hits the ground. Yet nature seems to keep creating regardless, never feeling sad for the loss of one or two snowflakes.
     I don't think this snowfall will last for very long, even though the weather reports indicate to the contrary.  After all, it's getting close to spring, and the temperatures are already alternating between the somewhat cool and warmer temperatures. So why did tonight's weather feel pleasant? I think the reason is that I am no longer feeling the weight of winter ahead of me, so there is a sense that I can better appreciate things as they are now. In addition, I am not bracing myself for what is supposed to happen next. Now that I had a chance to bear the cold weather in the past few months, a little bit of snow doesn't feel so bad after all. For this  reason, there was a kind of ironic enjoyment of the weather tonight as I was travelling home.
    How might all this talk about weather relate to deeper concepts? In a sense, one could live as though everyday were the 'last snowfall', and thus feel that it is not so bad. But most of the time, the mind is burdened with thoughts of the future, and projections of what is expected to happen. As soon as a person witnesses the first snowfall, she or he begins to imagine what winter will look like in the future. This thought of all the suffering that winter represents is really a kind of attachment to what never really happens. If I take things as they really are from day to day, is it not the same as seeing that this is the last snowfall? After all, this moment is impermanent, and it will not last. The problems that occur today are simply the coming together of very specific conditions which are bound to ebb and flow over time. In this sense, one can simply enjoy the experience and treat it just like the snowflake, which is beautiful one moment and gone the next.

On Working Out

 At first, I can't figure out which one is better for my body: the stair-machine, the rowing machine, the stationary bicycle, or the ski-master (for lack of  a better expression). Or perhaps it's the lonely track at Mitchell Field Community Center that is most conducive to the body after a day sitting at a desk. I decide to try all of them in different capacities to see which one engages me the most. Surprisingly, it seems that the stationary bike has me the most hooked. And how do I know? It seems to give me the most sweat, particularly around my forehead and back. I suddenly swing back into my workout, and things seem less lonely than they were when I first worked out here in 2005.
    The workout is a kind of metaphor for lifting away from thoughts and into a realm of action, of doing and experiencing. It's never easy to get to that place to begin with. Three key reasons (or perhaps alibis), are : never enough time, not achieving much, and 'too many things to do'. And these reasons always relate to the stuff that's in the mind that never gets sorted out, such as the never ending round of worries, of spinning obsessions, of habitual ways of looking at the world, and so on. When I step on the bike, I suddenly realize that simply slipping my feet into the pedal-holds and rolling forward is not as hard as I had imagined. Only when I started on the bike could I find a reason for doing it: not before. The 'reason' if you could call it that, is simply in the acting itself; the process of feeling the body come to life in some way, of connecting with the body in a new way that feels alive. Ironically, the bike also spins endlessly, but unlike the thoughts, the bike induces  a feeling of release.
    I rarely think of exercise as an experience. Instead, I fall upon the usual scientific explanations for why people 'should' exercise--as though all bodies were somehow the same, or had the same requirements. If exercise could be seen more as a kind of experiment with human emotion, I wonder if people would be less intimidated by it. By 'experiment with emotion', I am referring to how exercise is a way to emerge away from thinking all the time and into a more embodied experience, whether it is lifting something or rowing, or simply walking in a circle. The embodiment creates an interesting mood, and that mood can be felt even in the simplest, repetitive motion or action.
    Another metaphor for working out is: not trying to figure things out before they happen. In the midst of the work of doing, the body can change as well as the emotions. But there is no way of predicting or bringing about (much less understanding) the process before it is being done. It seems obvious to say this, but how often do people say they will do something, only to find that they have already played it out in their heads without executing it in action? It's no wonder that thoughts can exhaust people even when their bodies are still!

Meaning of Miracles

     It is interesting to reflect on what kinds of impacts people can have on others. Watching the movie "Miracles from Heaven" made me realize that people's impact is not just felt immediately but has big repercussions from others. Even though this movie is directed and presented from a Christian perspective, I couldn't help but think about how it could have been looked at from the perspective of cause and conditions.
    The movie is based on a true story about a girl who inexplicably develops an illness where part of her intestine cannot digest food properly. The movie shows the pain she has to endure as a result, including having to be tube-fed and suffering severe abdominal pain. None of the doctors can cure this girl, but there comes a point where she is climbing a tree and falls by accident down a trunk, suffering a severe concussion in the process. All the family members decide to pray for her after several fruitless hours of trying to lift her out of the tree. She later recovers--and, as it turns out, her illness is miraculously cured as well. The girl explains to her parents that she had experienced an out-of-body experience at the time of her death, whereupon she had entered a heavenly realm and God had told her that she was not ready to die yet. The mother, who has been a guiding force throughout the movie in caring for her daughter, explains at the end of the movie: it was a miracle from God that allowed the child to live without illness, as there could have been no other explanation for how all her body was recalibrated after falling from the tree. After all, the chances of recovering after such an illness are almost infinitesimally small. Could only a miracle have explained it? The mother goes on to explain that there were other miracles that often go unrecognized, including all the efforts that people had made out of compassion to ensure that the family could help their daughter as much as possible.
      As I was watching this movie, the thought occurred to me: I don't know what the miracle is exactly, but I echo the idea that the different people's intentions are perhaps highly significant miracles. When people intend for good things to happen, they happen, and it seems there is a power in simply loving and caring. I don't know where love and care comes from, but it certainly doesn't seem to arise from reasoning or logic alone. According to the rules of 'logic' or scientific laws, the girl would have likely passed away in a short time. I believe what the movie tries to show is: we should not bind ourselves with what seems inevitable, since that 'inevitable' is only an attachment to a specific view about life. It's kind of like attachment to a purely physical universe, where wishing or intending with sincerity make no difference. But on the contrary, it seems that intention makes all the difference. For example, if people had never intended to protect their descendants, would any civilization have advanced or developed in the first place? Without a basic urge to protect or care for others, it might not have happened in this way. But where does that compassion come from? Again, it's a mystery that goes into how we are interconnected.

On Doing One's Best (And Not Knowing What that Is, Exactly)

   During the 1 day meditation retreat today, Venerable Chang Zhai had shared with the group how the concept of no-self is applied to daily life. She was talking about how people often believe that what happens to them is coming from a single self. If I am very successful in a certain area of life, this success is often imputed to something like one's own hard work or initiative, or genius.  But from the perspectives of impermanence and no self, there isn't really said to be a single self that is responsible for all that  happens. In fact, all that we do is conditioned by many factors, and not all of it is one's own personal responsibility. The upshot of this approach is that although we work hard in the understanding that we can create new conditions, we don't have this idea that working hard will create a 'good person' or a fixed, permanent situation of good. The reality is that things are changing all the time, so the best that people can do is build good habits so that they can benefit others the most in all situations.
    The attitude that Venerable ChangZhai described tonight is certainly one that reduces pride. For me it also illuminates the damage that pride (particularly pride in a sense of self) can do to a person. Just after the retreat, the Venerable was explaining to me some things I was doing incorrectly in the 8 fold moving meditation. At first, I felt a lot of vexation, thinking that I will never get things right, and I am not a good timekeeper for making these kinds of mistakes. But after a while, I have considered: what is the true source of the suffering I am experiencing from this situation? It seems that the suffering doesn't arise from being pointed out a mistake, since people continually make mistakes in different areas of life. I think the source of suffering came from my attachment to the role I am playing within the group. If I continue to think that my sense of self-worth depends on fulfilling a certain role perfectly, where does that attitude land me? It becomes a kind of all-or-nothing mentality, where I think I am either fulfilling my duties perfectly or am not worthy of having a certain role to play within a group.
    From the perspective of cause and conditions, is there ever such a thing as a 'perfected self"? Not really, for two reasons. One is that cause and conditions are always changing. The other reason is that the notion of 'perfection' is never an absolute, but depends on the perspectives of different people. One person's perfection will not look or feel the same as another's perfection. But even if there isn't such a thing (and never could be, for that matter), is  this any reason to throw in the towel and give up on all roles? Not exactly, because fulfilling social roles is a part of one's responsibility to one's community. If I use the notion of impermanence to conclude that I am 'nothing to no one', I am really not acknowledging my connections with the society and community. But once I do acknowledge both the necessity of social interaction and the shifting nature of our roles, I start to adopt a more flexible approach to role play. Rather than becoming one's fixed identity, roles can assume the nature of social functions.
     The scary implication of not having fixed identities in a community is that one never knows exactly what 'doing one's best' could mean, since the concept of 'one's best' becomes amorphous in a pluralistic community. One group's 'best' may clash with the views of another group's 'best', so which 'best' is 'best'? I think there is an opportunity there to question and re-think what we mean when we declare that something is  a 'best practice' and whether there is an ultimate 'best' anywhere. Though I cannot say  what 'my best' is, I can rest in the notion that I am planting good seeds for the future if I act wholeheartedly from a spirit of wisdom and compassion.

Doing One Thing at One Time

  During Chang Zhai Fashi's introduction to the practice of Counting the Breath, she mentioned that the practice of Chan involves walking when we walk, eating when we eat, sleeping when we sleep, sitting when we sit. In other words, Chan is about being present with the mind in this moment. And as I was setting up for the following day, it struck me how challenging it is to truly be present in the moment and do one thing at a time. I might be placing the towel on the cushion and cleaning the sitting mats, but, truly, where is my mind at that point? Is it really on the activity that needs doing, or is it perhaps somewhere else? It challenged me to realize that my mind is often jumping across many situations and scenarios. To live in the moment is to let go of these extraneous thoughts and emotions.
     What's the motivation, then? If it's all just sitting when we sit, eating when we eat, etc., how is this different from an animal or a plant, which might be inclined to do much the same? From what I heard in the teachings today, I believe that the answer is: being present with what we do is the source of bliss and joy, because it is reflecting the way mind really is. It's not about 'here is something I need to do in order to become this'. That is more like a striving which is based on a view that the self is an enduring and fixed thing. It's more about: in this moment, the mind is already clear, already perfect nature, and already whole. There is no action in the world that needs doing to 'fill' the mind, just as there are no forms that define the mind's existence. Tending wholly to the present task is a kind of reflection of the mind's nature. When I do something wholeheartedly without wanting something else to happen, I am reflecting and expressing mind's true nature, which is never lacking in anything.
     An example: have you ever had to do something that felt gruelling or painful (like a chore) and then found yourself enjoying it in spite of yourself? What happens between finding something painful to do and enjoying it? Scientists have studied this experience and they define  it as 'flow', after the findings of Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. In flow experiences, the sense of self and time are no longer distinct: I am no longer projecting myself into a fictitious stream of past/present/future and looking for the fruition of my efforts. Instead, I do something for the sake of the experience of unity that the doing provides.  If even for a moment I let go of the concept of existing in time, and see the present experience as it is, the present no longer seems a burden. It is no longer just 'adding to the future' or subservient to a future state of being or result. The action just is, and it unfolds according to an internal necessity of the doing itself. It's self-evident why we eat (to sustain the body), why we rest (to repair body and mind) and why we even read. But if I am operating from a strong attachment to self, everything will seem burdensome and unreal, because it often has no direct impact on the sense of self. But when I let  go of all the planning I do for the sake of upholding a false sense of self, I am suddenly free to engage the environment naturally. I don't think of what needs doing as an obstacle to self. Conversely, I don't do things to uphold the self (which ends up in disappointment)

Changing the Subject

 I overheard a freelance music teacher today discussing how her younger students are often pressured to take on many classes and tutorials. And she added that very often, the parents will be on the lookout for comments that allude to the child's natural gifts: "someday she/he is going to be a famous actor/actress/football player". And the parents are often quite frantic to bring out the potential in their children, thinking that it's their duty as parents to do so. It reminds me of a time when I was growing up, when I had gone through a phase of wondering where my path is and what talents I am born with. Sometimes, because I only had distant role models upon which to base my self-understanding, I would confuse what it means to be grown up with something very serious. Actually, when I look at my life, there is no time in which one's role is ever carved in stone. A person can change their interests and pursuits over time, and there is no  single path that overarches and defines someone.
    Sometimes, if a person believes that they are only put in the world to do 'one thing', they can become quite single-minded, or even obsessed with embodying that particular role. Later, one begins to see that these roles are often just self-created for the moment. A person might tentatively look into pursuing an education to take on a certain role that feels right for the person's current interest. But later, as they start to go deeper into the subject matter, they might find that it is not of such great interest. Sometimes they might even start to discern what set of ideas brought them to that subject and then start to disillusion themselves, realizing that the actual study itself wasn't anything like what they thought it would be. I noticed that this happened with many people as they graduated from university and decided to pursue careers in completely opposite directions. It is as though the career was a reaction to a subject they came to find fault with or dislike.
     Is it inevitable that the thing one feels passionate about can leave a person feeling disillusioned? Sometimes, but only if a person's mind is not flexible to see new potentials in that subject area. Just as in any kind of relationship, the things people study have many different sides and facets. In order to see those facets, one needs to free one's mind and not attach to only one side of it. I am reminded here of the metaphor of the Jewel Net in the Buddhist Huayen Sutra. In this sutra, reality is envisioned almost like a holographic reflection which stretches infinitely across all phenomena. To explore one thing thoroughly is to see the universe reflected in that thing. It's hard to comprehend, but one can bring any particular subject to life by having the view that it will eventually bottom out into a view of emptiness and co-dependent arising.
    When I was very young, I remember receiving birthday money from my grandmother and deciding to use that money to buy a pocket book on beetles. When my dad saw my purchase, he expressed a strong surprise, and wondered: what possessed me to spend all that money on a single book? At the time, I had no way to explain to my dad the feeling I had. Perhaps he had thought that I was being a bit obsessive about beetles. But now that I look back on it, it could be that I was groping to appreciate the diversity of created things, and part of me was attracted to the many forms of beetles as well as the ways they adapt in size and color to different situations and climates. It wasn't that I was training to be an entomologist, but it was more that I was learning to respect the diversity of the natural world, which always reveals infinite possibility. Had I been able to connect this feeling I had to a Buddhist teaching at the time, I might have seen that the fascination has to do with tapping into the way things depend on each other for a full understanding, and how they reflect the way the world works.
    For example, think of how beetles are classified. Scientists take great pains to classify beetles by their similar characteristics and morphology. But they also need to respect the differences in form, which are based on the environments and surroundings to which the beetles have been selected to adapt. The more I contemplate the diversity and simultaneous 'similarity' of characteristics, the more I realize that things can be both different and 'identical', and how it's a function of the mind itself to be able to see difference in similarity and similarity in difference. If all things are completely 'undifferentiated', there would be no classification of anything whatsoever, and no way of seeing interconnectedness. Beetles, environment, observer would be one jumbled and indescribable mess. On the other hand, too much uniqueness means no comparison and no co-existence across species. Then there would be no common shared universe in which things interact. But the fact that there is both similarity and difference is a characteristic of mind, through which phenomena are both co-existing and distinguished.
    All of this somewhat diverts from my original topic, but the point I am making is that all subjects can reveal the depth of the universe and mind, as well as the wonder, if one sees its nuances. If I am too attached to one impression of a subject area, that is bound to change according to whims or my subjective tastes at the moment. But if I go a bit deeper and see how the subject comes to be formed in mind, it can be a reflection of mind itself. Then one sees the subject not as an alien thing that needs to be appropriated (or rejected) but as a reflection of mind nature.

Knowing Who We Are

   We had the honor of having Venerable Chang Zhai attending the Thursday evening meditation practice tonight. Chang Zhai is a wonderful nun whose soothing and quiet voice had an immediately calming effect on the group today. Her guidance had a lot of presence to it, and what I liked the most was the walking meditation. We had a slow walking session that was long enough to be like a sitting meditation. I enjoyed the fact that all I needed to do was settle the mind into walking, much the same way one would do on the cushion. I definitely enjoyed this process, and Venerable had remarked that it is best not to see the walking meditation only as a 'break' from sitting meditation. I certainly emotionally resonated from this practice today.
    One of the participants had asked the question: between negative experiences and deeply positive ones, what experiences are more important to meditation practice?  The Venerable's answer was simply that they are all equal. Whether the experience is deemed as positive or difficult, each experience one has while meditating can provide a portal into one's being and see how a person responds to situations. When I asked Venerable to clarify what a person can do with this kind of knowledge, she remarked that there are times,for instance, when serious pain might elicit seeing a doctor. However, most of the time, one's reaction to pain is based on attachment to the body. There are certain states of feeling that one deems as undesirable, because they compare that state of mind to something better. Perhaps the memory of some pleasant feeling arises and gives a person the impression that this peaceful feeling is what is needed to arise. So they use that pleasant sensation as the 'benchmark' through which to measure subsequent sensations. But meditation is not really about this. Rather, it is really about learning to abide in all the states of being. I liked Venerable Chang Zhai's point that meditation is a window to know who we are. If a person uses this attitude to discover oneself rather than just trying to populate one's mind with pleasant experiences, then the meditation becomes a sort of welcome adventure.
   I think that the key defining characteristic in this practice is clarity, rather than focusing on one emotional state. As long as I am very clear about emotional states in particular and accept them, I am not attaching to them. Is this not a paradox? It is, but in a way, attachment always comes from the illusion that these states are permanent fixtures rather than just states of being that come and go. As soon as I fix on even one, that 'becomes' who I think I am, and that view colors the way I see the world. To take a simple example: if I suddenly get fixated on the number of tasks I can do at work, I then measure myself (or sense of self) based on the number of things I can do. If I cannot succeed, due to whatever causes and conditions arise, I then start to feel panic for not achieving the basic sense of self-hood I am creating. But if I relax into the situation, I then start to see that all the things I do are not set in stone, and do not determine who I am, They are based on many conditions.
     Does it make sense to say that everything that happens to a person is based on free, personal will? Some philosophers would say so. But it is perhaps not the most practical thing to think. While it's important to be determined and diligent in what one sets out to do, it makes no sense to do it with at tense, win/lose mentality. Otherwise, one will start to miss out on the fact that a lot of cause and conditions determine the outcomes of situations. I am not in total control over what I think or feel at any given point in time. But if I open a space to be very clear about what's happening inside me and accept it fully, I may not need to operate from a win/lose mentality. In this way, there is an opportunity to learn about myself rather than set up impossible standards to fulfill.

Let Go, With Only A Question

  During the meditation tonight, I had been struggling in the first part to fully relax. It was almost as if I had a whole bunch of ideas in my mind about how I should relax, where to start, and where to settle the mind and body. When I finally engaged in huatou practice, I had to fully focus on the question by first of all realizing that the body is illusion. There is no compromising about this, because any concept I attach to the body ends up becoming a self. "Whose body is it anyway?" This is the most basic question. Then the question of 'what self feels pain' is the next? These questions are very important, because by going deeply into them, I shortcut an attachment to the body sensation. I am no longer trying to get the body to feel a certain way, once I determine that the body is empty of a sense of self. The third aspect is posing the question sincerely and waiting for the answer in a space of doubt.
     Really, the main part of my practice was consisting of these three parts: a) not attaching to the body (whose body); b) not attaching to the self ; c) posing the question/waiting for an answer. I recall that when I was doing this practice today, there came a point where the pains arising in the body did not have any distinct 'character' to them. There was no sense of burden, no sense of heaviness or 'this is terrible'. There was simply a felt facticity about the pain: it's just there, among all the other phenomena. And the more I asked the question "who has this pain?" the more spacious I felt in accommodating the pain experience.
     In the second part of the meditation, I started to generate a slight doubt about what I was experiencing in the phenomena itself. If I can't see any 'self' in this experience, or bounded personality that I can point to as 'me', then who is having this experience anyway? This is where the huatou really comes into play. All huatous are questions that point to an unnameable mind. They pose questions that simply cannot be resolved using discursive thinking. And what's interesting is that I am able to apply this doubt to all the phenomena. Normally, in daily life, my observation of something comes with a sense of a name, a definition, and a sense of solidity. We identify what we see with solid labels, as if to say that they have a substantial and firm reality independent of our observations and interactions with them.  But if I go into huatou, it no longer seems clear how these objects really come about in awareness. It's like watching a movie and suddenly beginning to think that what we see is part of a moving montage of images. In daily life, we 'think' we know what is bounded and seemingly solid around us, and that's where the problems arise. These bounded and solid things soon become habitual ways of being in the world, and reinforce the sense that we can play out life in automatic, without having to examine the sources of our impressions.
    In the last part of the meditation, I did have this sense of stopping and waiting for the answer to the huatou to naturally arise. Did the answer arise? If it did arise, it was certainly not the way I had expected or imagined. But by giving myself the space to behold the possible answer without grasping on a language answer, I became naturally calmer and clearer. I realized that the 'full' mind (full of its own sense of solidity and habits) is often the real source of anxiety.

tolerance

  I was reading Thich Nhat Hanh's commentary on the Lotus Sutra, called Peaceful Action, Open Heart, and he talks about the theme of tolerance in one of the chapters which is referred to in the sutra as "dwelling in the place of Action" (p.90). Hanh remarks: "'Dwelling in the place of action'  means practicing patience and seeking harmony with others in everything that you do. If you are patient and tolerant of others, then you can create peace and joy for yourself, and thanks to that, those around you will also feel  peaceful and joyful." (ibid). I was thinking, where does this view of tolerance begin? Does it start, for instance, from the view of passively accepting everything that people say or do at face value? Or is there a deeper meaning to tolerance that Hanh describes?
     Certainly in the Lotus Sutra, tolerance is not portrayed as a passive quality but as something that actively meets people where they are, comparable to the rain falling on all plants. Just as each plant has a certain form which allows it to take a unique place of sustenance from the rain, so all beings have different requirements in order to receive wisdom. I would have to say that tolerance would need to begin with a basic faith that all beings are able to act from the deepest wisdom, even if wisdom is not fully known or revealed. For instance, if I 'tolerate' someone only for the sake of keeping the peace, this kind of tolerance only gets me in the door...it doesn't quite help me to fully understand and honor the wisdom of all beings. But if my tolerance means that I see the highest and deepest qualities in a person, that seeing is no longer limited to appearances. It is actually peering into the deep potentialities that are already there in a person waiting to be seen and revealed.
    There is a wonderful scene in the movie Waiting for Guffman, where the actors are putting on this amateur performance and really giving it their best, because they believe that someone in the audience is a famous critic. At the end of their performance, the actors gather around this one man who is sitting in the front of the room and start showering him with questions: what did he think? Was it a pass? Did he like the performance? And the man meekly nods his head and says yes, it was great. The actors start to become super ecstatic, thinking they are going to get a positive review in the newspaper by this famous critic. But then, so it turns out, the person in the audience wasn't a critic after all. The critic who was slated to come was unable to show up, so the reserved spot had become vacant for another audience member. The humor of this movie is quite obvious, if not familiar: the way we treat people according to our preconceptions of them can make a vast difference in who they 'are' to us.  Perhaps the movie also cynically hints that people construct perceptions about others that have no correspondence in actual reality.
     According to the Lotus Sutra, this seeing the ultimate in someone else is not just an intellectual exercise. It is reality. If as Buddha suggests, all beings (down to a blade of grass) possess Buddha nature,  or the deepest wisdom nature of the mind, then all things are worthy of the highest idealization. But of course, ordinary human beings will find it difficult to believe this, so they do need to start with those with whom they have close affinities and to whom they find endearment. Otherwise, it is like trying to see the Sistine Chapel in a blade of grass. It would seem a stretch of the imagination. Perhaps even when a person is in love, they are getting glimpses of that true nature in someone else. But of course, the key is not to idolize or try to make a person all-powerful while diminishing oneself. It should be more similar to a mirror, where mind is reflected in all things, and there is no attachment to one reflection or the other.
   

Six Realms

          I have always been quite fascinated with what are called the 6 realms in Buddhism: the heavenly, asuras, human, animals, pretas (ghosts) and hell beings. Part of me resonates with the notion of a hierarchical structure, very much similar to the heavenly and hell realms in Christian philosophy. It makes me realize how much choice there is in terms of what kinds of states of mind people can cultivate.

                On the other hand, I often do wonder: what does it mean to look at life in this way? Some people might interpret the six realms of existence to mean that some realms are more favorable than others. Certainly, having a rebirth in heaven would seem more favorable than an animal or ghost realm. But, the problem is that this mentality in itself creates a certain kind of suffering. I am tempted to say that the suffering relates in some ways to the fear that people have of ‘falling down’ on a ladder, or being in a less favorable condition than they are in now. Somehow, contemplating the six realms reminds me of a game we used to play as children in Kindergarten called Snakes and Ladders. The idea behind this game was trying to traverse a board and land on special spaces where a person can advance up a ladder or conversely, slide down one. The sense of exhilaration hat this game elicits is quite fascinating. It makes me wonder, aren’t all hierarchical visions of the universe somehow fear-driven? For example, if I contemplate that the universe is based on inescapable laws of cause and effect, I might start to fear my death, and wonder which realm I am going to land in. It can be a healthy and motivating fear, yes, but if it is all-consuming, I think it might give rise to a very anxious thought indeed. Nobody really knows, in the end, where they are going after they die. And even given the right kinds of instructions, there may be no way to know if a person can really and truly influence their future existence or life.

                A different way to approach the six realms, I believe, would be to take it as an opportunity to practice compassion for all beings. Instead of fearing which realm I am going to be in, it might be helpful to consider, from a Buddhist perspective, how often sentient beings cycle through these realms, since beginningless time. It’s not that one being is more virtuous and therefore spends less time in suffering than another. For example, even those who are in a heavenly realm will eventually exhaust their karma over time. In this way, all beings go through the same struggles in wanting to gain protection from bad karma and wanting to avoid suffering. If a person realizes this, they will naturally feel compassion for all beings on the wheel, rather than struggle over whether or not they will have a more favorable rebirth. This is because even if someone happens to receive a favorable rebirth from past merits, they are still  on a wheel of suffering that never stops spinning. But if I truly realize this for myself, then the wheel can stop spinning for me, because I am no longer caught in the desire to be on the ‘favorable’ side of it. I have truly accepted the fact that the wheel of life is a suffering one, and I must transcend it through a compassionate understanding and embrace of the true meaning of suffering.

Looking at Struggles

  During the meditation practice this morning, all four of us had experienced the gamut of sounds and bustling about in the center. There was a chanting ceremony upstairs, and we were in the small room downstairs, close to the impending traffic. Volunteers were also busily preparing lunch just outside our quiet room, and the meditation was punctuated by the sounds of human presence: whispers, the stacking of books, the shuffle of slippers against the hardwood floors.
      One of the participants remarked during the sharing that, initially, he had been disturbed by the sound of the cars outside when he had first practiced in this particular room. Now, however, he is much calmer when hearing the traffic noise during meditation. I had remarked on how good it is that we can continue to practice when there is so much going on in daily life.
      I used to feel that meditation is about somehow eliminating struggle from one's life. It's tempting to think this way, because according to Buddhist teachings (for example), dualistic thinking is one source of suffering and vexation. And the 'goal', if there is one, in meditative practice, is to somehow overcome duality. In this way, it's tempting to say that meditation involves stilling and quieting the mind so that it is no longer even aware of struggles. But if one is really seeing without dualism, they likely would not distinguish even 'struggle' from 'non-struggle'. In fact, they would be able to see that the two are phenomena of the same mind, and are thus not opposing each other.
    Why is it important to somehow embrace struggle, even when on the sitting cushion? I suppose there are different ways to look at it. One is that struggle is an inevitable part of being human, from the struggle to work, to the struggle to educate oneself, even to the struggle to communicate or relate to others. I don't know anyone in this world who has not somehow had to work to obtain something, whether it be an income, an education or even a life in a new country. Even in an ideal world where all resources were equally accessible to all beings, one still needs to struggle somewhat to get out of bed, maintain one's health, and get on with the necessities of life. To try to eliminate struggle would be quite counter to how the world of samsara is, where even humans have to struggle to survive and even find work.
    I think that what meditation and Buddhist teachings offer isn't necessarily an 'end' to struggle, but a way of looking at it that does not personalize struggle or 'internalize' it. That is, a person recognizes daily struggle without thinking there is a concrete 'self' that struggles. There are people, for example, who dream about winning the lottery so they can get out of struggle, or be one of those lucky people who watches other people go to work or school, etc. On the other hand, there are those who lament their suffering of hardship, and even feel they are the worst of the lot. In both cases, there is a strong feeling of "I" who is struggling. In fact, if I internalize the sense of "I struggle and that is terrible", it isn't long before I start to identify with the struggle and even create a 'struggle identity'. Then when things are really going smoothly, I suffer because my  'struggle identity' is no longer being fed! Then I don't know where to go from there!
    On the other hand, if I am not taking struggle personally, I can start to see it more as a phenomena that doesn't reference a self. Things need to be done and there is no end to these things that need doing, but the difference is that I am not stopping to figure out who is gaining or losing from it. I don't keep checking to see if I have had enough, or how well I am doing, or what I am gaining or losing from struggle. Without self-identifying with struggle, I can start to see it in a less disastrous way. If I lose struggle or win, it's no longer about 'me' being a failure or a success. Rather, I accept the struggle simply as a challenge and exert whatever efforts I can to meet it. In this way, struggle never 'ends' but my attachment to its outcome does.

Curiosity for Its Own Sake

 I was thinking about how my views of education have changed somewhat. When I was very young, learning was just taking a natural delight in things, without considering whether it's beneficial to me or not. I am not sure when that changed, but it might have been in early adulthood, when I started to consider how learning is based on application. When I first started to work, I appreciated how learning is not based on looking at something once, but doing something many times. I truly believe that one has to perform an action at least 400 times before one really understands the nuances of that  action.
   It's understandable that people would want to focus on learning what is directly applicable to their lives, their social roles and occupations. I remember reading an article where a student was interviewed in a local college. He explained that he chose the particular college because it only focused on courses that are directly applicable to one's job, without so many of what he referred to as 'poetry' or 'liberal arts' courses. In other  words: cut to the chase, focus only on 'what matters' to survive and thrive in the world. Many educational institutions focus on this pragmatic mentality, focusing only on what needs doing.
    To a certain degree, I agree with some of what is said here. If courses in high school focused more on concrete experiences such as human relating and communication, this would perhaps have been more useful than mathematical knowledge, which is often stressed in schools. But on the other hand, I am starting to think that something is lost when education only focuses on applied learning. For instance, if a person's schooling is only related to application, what happens when we are not applying ourselves to learning a specific task at work? Does the mind simply turn off? I wonder what happens if people start to believe that education is only about doing practical things. Does the curiosity to explore things in the immediate moment start to atrophy? Perhaps people start to conclude that it's pointless to learn anything unless there is a specific enhancement to one's self, or one's profession. In that case, the learning process becomes narrowed.
       Another consequence of a pragmatic view of learning is that it often fosters a competitive attitude toward learning. Students internalize the perspective that there is one goal of learning, and all classes have only a single objective which needs to be met with a certain degree of success. How is successful learning measured? Similar to the way we are graded in schools, learning is often measured by how well we can articulate our learning compared with others, immediate application, or 'getting the main point' (which often relies on memorization). But somehow, this view takes a little bit of the fun out of learning. It also assumes that learning is a finished product which happens over a transcribed or limited period of time, rather than unfolding over many time periods.
   An alternate way of looking at learning might be to view things from the perspective of 'being curious for its own sake'. I might look at a subject area and conclude that the subject is too far away, or not accessible to my daily life. But if I am open to learning for the sake of being open to the process, something might shift in me. I might become more sensitive to the things that perk my interest as well as the things which simply don't do so. A lot of this process requires an active reflection on how I connect to the world and how unique that connection happens to be. If several people are in a room listening to a lecture, is every person going to hear the lecture in the same way? Are people going to internalize the lecture in the same form or manner? If this were the case, things would be quite boring, and people wouldn't necessarily need to learn together. The uniqueness of how people see and process learning makes for a more interesting dynamic, where no single view is considered 'better' or more accurate than other views.
    How we engage in this curiosity is going to differ from one person to the next. But I think the point is to develop an awareness of where we resonate with a certain subject and to  gently inquire into that resonance, similar to following a lead. This also requires a gentler and lighter approach, almost like  a dilettantism: I entertain an interest and gently follow what it says to me, rather than pre-judging whether the learning will be 'useful' to me or not. In this way, my experience isn't depending on the external surroundings, conditions, or how others are seeing the subject matter. I am rather exploring my own interiority in all the courses I am taking or interests I pursue. From this perspective, one can find something in everything, as long as one is not narrowing their perspective to an official 'learning objective' supposedly shared by all people in a class, or a 'required learning experience.' I just wonder how, then, this interior exploration can be honored in a classroom, and even fostered.

What Can't Be Taken Away

 I am often fond of reading the writings of Epictetus, one of the founders of the teachings in Stoicism. I am not too sure when I started to read Stoicism or under what circumstances, but I believe I had initially discovered Seneca and Marcus Aurelius. Epictetus' "Golden Sayings" was one of the last Stoic texts I had read, unless Boethius' "Consolations" could be called "Stoic". I seem to turn to this philosophy the most when I am feeling socially insecure, and not sure where to turn when doubting the social infrastructure where I live. I'd like to share about one of the chapters in Epictetus' "Discourses".
     In the first chapter, Epictetus starts by asking his audience what is used to comprehend subject areas like grammar, music, literature, and so on. His argument is something like: there must be some ability to discern the nature of things that is independent of the things themselves. While we sometimes believe that music is what makes us 'musical'  and grammar makes us 'grammatical', Epictetus suggests that these areas cannot determine whether something is musical, grammatical or even good. He pinpoints the reasoning faculty as the only thing that can truly discern the true value of things. Epictetus even goes so far as to suggest that reason is the only faculty that the gods cannot take away from human beings, and describes reason as "the power to deal rightly with our impressions" (p.5)
      Epictetus then introduces an interesting metaphor of the 'borrowed body'. He describes how Zeus, the king of gods, had given human beings this temporary body, through which Zeus has granted humans "a portion of myself": "this faculty of exerting the impulse to act  and not to act, and desire and aversion, and, in a word, making proper use of impressions." (p.6) But, as Zeus later goes on to explain: even though humans only need to take care of their reasoning, they choose instead to take care of a great many things which are not within their power or are impermanent, Rather than taking care of the one thing that is within one's power, people tend to spread their concerns over a multitude of areas, including "body, property, brother, friend, child, and slave" (ibid). Zeus proposes the solution, "make the best of what is in your power, and take the rest as it naturally happens." The chapter ends with many examples of what people could do in extreme situations, knowing that they only have the reasoning mind and letting go of their attachment to the body. One of them even mentions that if they should be beheaded, there is one head which cannot be removed! Wow, it's a powerful metaphor.
   It might be said that Epictetus writes from the perspective of 'salvation through reason alone'. But there is a deeper concept at work in his writings, and it has to do with a mind that is impervious to the ups and downs of the body. According to the Stoic philosophy, since my body is only temporarily 'on loan' by gods, I don't need to identify the body as me. I can simply let go of it when the need arises, knowing that it was never 'mine' to begin with. I see certain kinds of parallels with levels of meditative practice, in which a person no longer feels her or his body as an impediment, because she is beyond identifying with it.
    Is this philosophy identical with Buddhist ideas about the body? In a way, but I also believe that Buddhism takes a broader and more nuanced view of the body. For instance, to be born in a human body is a precious gift, and it's a rare one at that. To have a body is to have the capacity to cultivate a spiritual practice and to have good karmic  conditions to practice. Having a body is not something to be taken lightly, in other words. As well, without a material base in health, it's harder to have a spiritual life--not impossible, but perhaps hard. In this way, the mental and physical elements are connected in Buddhism. It isn't that I have a mind that travels from one body to the next, based on the biddings of a higher being, but that the body itself  is part of the conditions of being and often contains the results of previous effects. There isn't such a notion that the mind is separate from the body.
   Stoicism is attractive for the sense that it offers a sanctuary in reason against the turmoil of emotional situations. But I also consider: in my experience with meditating, it's slowly dawning on me that the resistance to emotion and 'the unexpected' moments is actually a form of suffering in itself. It's suffering because it creates a pristine oasis in reason, without considering the pain and repression of denying emotions. It's also suffering because trying to go against emotions by posing 'reason' is like trying to replace one thought with another. It's neither quite possible nor desirable. Every now and then, I glimpse a possibility of beholding a situation as it is without trying to fix it. Does it mean there is nothing to be done? In a way, it means doing from necessity rather than doing from a compulsion to perfect the moment.

Epicteus, (1995) The Discourses. Everyman

eternal recurrence

   During the meditation session, one of the participants had described the situation of coming back to something with completely new eyes, but realizing that there is a new view from 'nowhere'. It is something like this: have you ever had a situation where your mind either drifted or simply went into a different state of being, and then found that what was familiar before now looks 'unfamiliar'? The way this practitioner described it is something like: hearing the sound of my voice doing the guided facilitation, then starting to fall away from that voice, only to hear it again and ask the question: where was I between hearing the sound, then not hearing it, then hearing it again? This is not about just letting the mind wander. I think it's more about forgetting the self's existence for a brief moment, and seeing a situation anew without any solid sense of self. At that point, we catch ourselves wondering: what happened to this secure sense of being that binds the past, present and future? Is it really there all the time or does it in fact go in and out, like the tides?
     I think that every so often, people need to challenge the sense of who is the self that is having an experience, before they can see the experience with 'new eyes'. This is the meaning of huatou practice: to keep questioning the subject-object duality until it dissolves somehow. But there is another aspect to this experience which somehow reminds me of Nietzsche's notion of the 'eternal recurrence'. It is the notion of continuing to revisit the same place until one fully embraces living it and wishes to fully relive it in the same way.  From a Buddhist perspective, I think perhaps it means visiting things without an entrenched sense of self dragging one down.
    I think as soon as I even imagine what this eternal recurrence looks like, I have already gone afar from accepting this present moment without attachment. Why? It's because whatever I envision for myself is only going to be an image that is divorced from present awareness. It certainly doesn't mean that  one has no suffering to bear. I think what it entails is acceptance even of non-acceptance. Now how is this possible? Quite simply it is about so radically accepting one's present conditions that there is simply no need to envision something better, more positive, more relaxed, and so on. This 'more' is actually the source of suffering, because it is always displacing awareness to some thought that has no awareness at all. There is even a sense that trying to 'give rise to something more spiritual' is equally off the mark, because it is desiring something that just isn't present.
    Of course, there is a mystery to all this, particularly around the question of what makes eternal recurrence something that one can embrace. Sometimes I think that people start to have the experience when they have suffered a situation so much that all their alternatives to framing the experience have exhausted. At that point, there is no other choice but to embrace the situation as it is in its entirety, wholeheartedly. But all the ways we use to evade our current moment are really just preparations for that final embrace or surrender. Once I had finally figured out the futility of willing or wanting something different (especially its impermanence), I am back to the original awareness that is unchanging.

Envisioning Supportive Time

If space and time are relative, what does this mean for daily life? I think that it entails making space for alternative framings of time. If I am stuck in the idea that I do things to meet required deadlines and treat my life as a series of time blocks, I will quickly realize how vexing this kind of life can be. Overscheduling is already a common phenomena with many people. It seems that the convenience of modern scheduling technology such as texting and blackberry makes it easier to cram more things into a given day. But the result is a less clear or at least 'organic' sense of what the body can or cannot take, or even what could be fulfilling about life.
   An example might be what happened to me as I was riding on the subway today. As I was standing and leaning against the glass plate of the door frame (for lack of any available seat), I seemed to feel a sense of time stretching, compounded with the desire to be at home. It was then that I realized that the sense of 'time stretching' was not about the slowness of the train or the long stretches between the stops. Rather, it was more about my desire to be 'somewhere else', which came from a thought about the future. I then contemplated why this desire was so strong in me, and reflected on past times when I was able to enjoy the subway ride as an opportunity to read a stimulating book. Then I adjusted my attitude by giving myself a chance to enjoy the book in my bag. Gradually, I started to learn that the suffering of time was caused by my fixed understanding of time: "I should be home by this time; I should have accomplished x by that time", and so on. Had I let go of attachment to time and realized that there is no moment as valuable as the current one, I would not have generated such a vexation in mind.
     Therapists often talk about creating 'supportive space', such as through a sharing circle or a team of health professionals. But I wonder, could there be such a thing as 'supportive time'? Is it possible to create a therapeutic and healing relationship with time, so that a person can spontaneously adjust their sense of time when they feel 'squeezed' or pressured? I believe that such a 'time therapy' is possible. Of course, the obvious answer would be to meditate. For one thing, meditation can reduce one's attachment to past, present and future, thus allowing one's mind to rest in a timeless awareness that is always here. But a somewhat more analytic approach would be to consider what is in the 'future' that is blocking me from embracing what is happening now. Is the future real? Is it so desirable for me to cherish this concept of 'the future' or is it only an impediment that creates present suffering? Is it  a reality, or only a fictitious sort  of ideal? Sometimes when we finally reach the terminal destination, we might realize how empty it is, because we weren't able to enjoy the process of getting there.
    There is another aspect to this respect for time, and I believe it has to do with an ability to skilfully use the mind to appreciate life's aspects. I say 'skilfully' because I sometimes think appreciation is presented as something that is passive, rather than as something actively chosen. It's not that I simply open my eyes and appreciation naturally arises. It  is more like a kind of appraisal, where I become curious about certain elements like the book I am reading or something funny I saw, or a simple observation. This selective appreciation can allow me to creatively choose what might be good or valuable about what I am doing or have done, rather than concluding that things are a waste of time if they don't relate to a certain chosen goal or desire. In this way, I adopt a more flexible and curious approach to life which often ends up bringing me closer to enjoying my goals and priorities. And it also shifts away from a metaphor of seeing time as a 'race' to get home, to score a goal, to establish oneself in a certain area, and so on.

space, time and Buddhism

 I have read the first half of the chapter in Chan and Enlightenment called "Transcending Time, Space and Life" and it has been quite a complex chapter. I want to share more informally on what the view of space and time might mean for a Buddhist practitioner.
    There has been an awful lot recently in physics about confirming the theory of relativity through gravitational waves. I wonder what relativity means from the perspective of Buddhist practice, however? From my own view,  I think there are both correct and troublesome views about time, and I am subject to both kinds of views.
   Perhaps most 'troublesome' is the linear notion of time: the time that is often based on the modern concept of schedules and clocks, as well as 'beginnings and ends'. Many people, including myself, have been brought up to believe that time is a spatial progression that is often thought to be linear. When you look at a typical wall calendar or event planner, you will probably see a visual embodiment of the linear model of space/time. It suggests that time is a clear progression from beginning (the top of the calendar, typically) to the bottom. Sometimes this spatial model of linear time can come out in language, such as when we say "clocks spring forward" to mean setting the clock an hour in advance of the present time. We also say "look forward to seeing you" (where forward is said to be the future) while "looking back" refers to reminiscing about the past. All of this suggests that time literally moves a person through a stream of related or connected events, and there is a single thread that binds them together. It also assumes that time exists independently of objects.
    From a Buddhist perspective (and often from a philosophical one), time cannot truly exist without objects or unfolding phenomena. For example, if there is a static object that never moves and a subject that doesn't move, how could there be time? How would it even be measured if nothing changes in that picture? In order for time to exist, there needs to be changing phenomena. But it gets more complicated than this. From a relative perspective, past-present-future must exist because there needs to be conditions for something to happen. We don't just magically arrive at work: there needs to be a way to transport ourselves to work, as well as the right conditions for the transportation to go unimpeded. If I ignore those conditions, I would never get to work on time, much less even get to work. The fact that we even speak of conditions affecting things means there needs to be a sense of space and time for these to occur. More so, there needs to be a sense of a subject bearing witness to the conditions and their configurations Otherwise, how can we say that something is conditioned if it hasn't been observed in that condition or set of conditions?
   But from an absolute perspective, time cannot exist. Why not? If a person examines it in a minute level: if conditions are continually subject to change all the time, there isn't a single unchanging reference point to say that past 'was there', present 'is here', future 'is over there'. Such things are only relative to individual reference points. But even those reference points cannot be said to have a past or future (or present) because time is not really 'connecting' anything at all. For example, you might say that the acorn 'causes' the tree to happen, so the acorn is 'in the past' and the tree is 'in the future'. But actually, the very idea of past present and future is only conceptually derived from unfolding causes and conditions, which are constantly subject to change. It isn't even that a tree 'necessarily' must come from an acorn. A tree's growth is subject to many conditions, in fact, not just necessarily coming from a temporal law of 'this must happen from this.'
     What does the Buddhist view of time do for practitioners, I wonder? I think the idea that there isn't a 'concrete' space and time upon which to fall back can be frightening as well as exciting. One thing is that it frees a person from seeing that things necessarily need to proceed in a linear progression. Sometimes, too much attachment to a linear sense of time can create a perfectionist attitude and attachment to the notion of something progressing, as though through a blueprint. It overlooks the way that things are arising from a configuration of unique conditions which often can't be replicated. Sometimes it also means that we don't necessarily know what conditions will lead to a 'good outcome', especially when even outcomes are not guaranteed, and there is no one single 'good' out there that suits all occasions. So when I loosen my sense of space/time as a linear progression, I start to see new possibilities and combinations of things that perhaps never appeared before. Rather than seeing success as conditional upon achieving a certain series of steps, I can stop and see that there are many possible steps from which to proceed and choose. This also means that one can open up to what's unfolding and see different potentials without feeling that all of them need to ripen in that moment. This can also help with creative thinking and planning.

Doing and Thinking

  Lately, I have been learning the importance of doing things, not just getting caught up in thoughts.  I have often fallen into the chosen trap of using my thoughts to gauge actions. But I realize that this way of doing things is really limiting. For one thing, it makes 'thoughts' the measure of a person's values and actions rather than looking at behaviors. For another it lets the action be the key way to look at the behavior rather than how we feel prior to doing the actions. This is a hard lesson to learn, and I wanted to explore it from two perspectives. One of them is something I just learned about recently called Morita Therapy, while the other is a Buddhist perspective.
    I learned about Morita Therapy through Caroline Brazier's book Buddhist Psychology. I believe the principal behind this practice is using journals to document actions that need to be done, rather than looking only at feelings. I have found a lot of times in the past, I have relied on my present emotion (whether fear or anxiety or desire) to determine how and when I do something. But the interesting thing about Morita therapy is that it asks that clients (or practitioners) focus on the details of the actions themselves rather than on our initial feelings about those actions. Brazier remarks:

In particular, Moritist method focuses on moving a person into purposeful action and away from a state where they are at the mercy of crippling emotions. It places a lot of emphasis on the distinction between action, which is under the control of the person, and feelings, which are not. Unlike many western approaches which emphasize waiting until something feels right before acting, the Morita approach emphasizes putting the attention into whatever activity needs to be done and allowing feelings to flow in their own way. The aim is not to eliminate feelings, but to accept that they are just part of our experience. We do not need to become fixated on them. (p.265)

I found this account of Morita therapy quite interesting, and would consider trying Morita journaling technique for a while to see how it unfolds for me. I think it's especially interesting when it comes to doing things I am not used to doing or might not yet have embarked upon. I recall also reading in David Burns' book Feeling Good a similar exercise, where he gets participants to write down what they do on a daily basis and rate their feelings about the action before and after doing it. Burns focuses on the feelings and how they change from 'thinking about' doing something to actually doing it. But nonetheless the key catalyst seems to be getting depressed people to see what they can do and how good they feel once they finally get to doing it.
   I am especially prone to getting more caught up in thoughts (and attendant fears) rather than just buckling down to do something. And it happens all so often that if I get stuck in a thought, I will not see the possibility of action. In Buddhism, I think this has to do with habit energy. When I am in the habit of taking my thoughts to be what is happening in the present, I will fail to really act spontaneously from the heart, because my thoughts are all I can see in the moment. And those thoughts are the result of previous clinging to objects and comfortable ways of seeing the world. For example, if I am going to a movie theatre and I only want to see certain kinds of movies, that becomes an expectation which prevents me from venturing to enjoy other movies. It's not that I am attached necessarily to the actual movie, but it's more a general feeling of familiarity that constellates around my memories of similar movies from the past.
    What Morita or similar therapies try to do, it would appear, is put action first so that people don't fixate on feelings so much. In this way, I am not letting my previous impressions or emotions around something get in the way of the present experience of the actions. By emphasizing action over emotions, it can allow people to stop attaching their identity to emotions, and toward a more action-based approach to being and living. But it also gets away from the 'mystique' of believing that emotions are signs of divine fate or providence. Actually, such is not the case, because how a person feels does not often determine whether things are actually accomplished or not. Though I might believe that some job was 'meant for me', I cannot really tell whether it's going to work or not unless I put my full efforts into the job itself and plan to succeed in it as much as I can.
        

Brazier, Caroline (2003) Buddhist Psychology: Liberate your mind, embrace life. London: Constable

Letting Go of Self-Importance

   After the meditation this morning, I had a feeling of insignificance. In a sense, it was a good feeling. I thought: who am I to facilitate the meditation when I am so fragile and often worthless?  Even though it was harsh, the thought opened up a space for myself to reflect. I was able to understand, at least for a moment, that I didn't need to be or even feel significant to survive and function in the world.
   All human beings have some kind of responsibility to others, coming from previous lifetimes and seeds. To fulfill those duties, people need to work and serve others. But this doesn't necessarily mean that a person will be significant to others. In Master Sheng Yen's commentary on the Surangama Sutra, Until We Reach Buddhahood, he describes the way one of his practitioners felt he could never raise a family or marry, because he felt that he couldn't do anything right. Master Sheng Yen suggests that the practitioner take responsibility precisely because he feels worthless, rather than withdraw from it altogether. Afterward, the practitioner comes back to Master Sheng Yen and reports that he feels much better, having decided to commit to a marriage. The practitioner reports that he still considers himself useless but he nonetheless is able to feel a sense of  responsibility in a committed life (see pages 134 to 145 for the full story).
   Master Sheng Yen's point is to suggest that what a person can contribute to a greater community shapes the way she or he sees the world. When I do something for the volunteer organization at DDM, my view of the world changes, because there is no longer just an isolated "I". I am part of the greater world, and what I can contribute in a small way makes a difference to that community. However, it's notable that none of this changes how I see myself. I am still insignificant, in the sense that there is nothing outstanding about me. But even if I  am not who I wish I could be, I am still part of something bigger than me, and that motivates me to contribute to society.
    I think that this lesson is important for me because it teaches me to try to let go of the sense of self,  or at least the self  I wish I could be in others' eyes. I might evaluate myself as a good student, a good writer, a good friend or person, but this self-evaluation can be so deceiving. I can never know who I am or how I am doing to others, because I cannot see through their eyes. And even if I could, it is bound to change from one moment to the next. If that is the case, I should not look to anyone else to motivate me. I need to look to a more general sense of what needs doing, and volunteer myself as much as possible. Otherwise, I will only deceive myself into thinking I am doing well, when maybe my contribution is insignificant to others. In other words, I have to keep in the present and work hard, and not rely on what was done in the past.
    But another aspect of this teaching, is that I think I can relate to the person who sees himself as useless. I have struggled with those feelings all my life: not doing enough, not being enough, not going far enough. It is was keeps pushing me to do more and more. Maybe it is the way that humans are motivated to do their best in society. But if I keep worrying about how I am seen to others, this is also missing the point. Even if everyone disliked me or didn't think I have a value, I still need to contribute. So there is a sense that even if I am not valued to others, I still need to contribute in as best a way as I can. This means that I need to learn to be comfortable with being useless in other people's eyes, so that I can still function with others and get along with them. Otherwise, I will feel depressed and unable to function. This insight is also about letting go of attachment to self, and realizing impermanence.

Master Sheng Yen, Until We Reach Buddhahood: Lectures on the Surangama Sutra Volume One. Elmhurst: Dharma Drum Publications

Self and The Impossible Goal

   I want to elaborate a bit on the theme of trying to perfect the self as an impediment to living. In my previous entry, I had explored the idea of attachment to emptiness, and how it can often create an isolating situation. This is especially so if a practitioner tries to use meditation to isolate themselves from the chaotic and often messy world. I want to elaborate on some ways of looking at this situation or reframing it in helpful ways so that practitioners can engage in a world that is fraught with impermanence.
    I think it's important to realize that there is no permanent self to perfect. Conditions are constantly changing, goals are changing, and there are  always new problems to solve. When I look at my own life so far, it often seems like a shifting array of challenges and problems, almost like waves in an ocean. I might have a problem that I think it unsurmountable and so difficult, only to realize later that this is not the case at all. It's just that conditions were not ripe yet for a solution to arise. This happened to me in my last semester in my degree program, where I struggled with trying to come up with a good assignment for my teaching writing course. There was a point where the professor suggested that I completely reframe my assignment, and I remember feeling the frustration of simply being up against a brick wall--not knowing what to do. And I generalized it to mean that "I" was simply not able to surmount that problem. This created quite a bit of despair for me. But in reality, there is no static 'container' that has all the answers. There isn't this static 'self' who is an expert at everything all the time. Sometimes, I might actually get stuck on a problem, then abandon it for a while (at least consciously) only to find later that a solution will arrive in mind. But there are other times when I might discover something from someone else or from a book that might reframe how I see a problem. Sometimes it just takes re-orientation to allow me to reframe the problem in a different way.
      Sometimes it's important to persist in trying to find resources and ideas, while waiting for solutions to arise or plans to develop. This waiting is not necessarily about doing nothing, but it might involve stopping for a while and, as Joan Halifax is fond of saying, 'just showing up' for an experience and all its complexity. There is nothing wrong with stopping and observing what is, even if it means seeing that one is in a painful and unknowable transition. And again, I emphasize that this does not mean stagnating. But it might mean taking a break from routine to gather new information or learn something from others that is different from what one knows. It might involve taking a break from a familiar pattern of learning to integrate some new learning or insight in a different field.
    Sometimes, when I try very hard to do well in one thing (such as a spiritual practice), I only end up reinforcing the self that wants to perfect itself. As Caroline Brazier remarks in Buddhist Psychology:

Buddhism encourages us to aspire higher. The object of aspiration may be far beyond our grasp. In accepting this, we experience the failure of effort. We recognize how impotent we really are to effect what we set ourselves to do. This experience is an important part of preparing ourselves for the inspirational encounter. We have to recognize the limitations of the self....Secretly, the self wants perfection; so, in making perfection our aim, we test ourselves. There is always a part of us that believes itself to be omnipotent. This primitive self is constantly ambitious and seeking aggrandizement. In setting impossible targets, this self strives to accomplish the impossible and inevitably fails (p.202-303).

Brazier distinguishes between 'aspiration' and 'inspiration' in spiritual practice. Aspiration means trying to use self-power (such as through meditation or reading sutras) to attain a personal awakening and fulfill the potentials to discover one's own enlightened nature. "Inspiration", on the other hand, entails finding spiritual insight in an encounter with others (such as relationships, teachers or Dharma friends) which helps people along the way. I believe Brazier is suggesting that both are in balance with each other. If I am only relying on self-power, I end up feeding the delusion that the self is the true mind, and is all that is needed for enlightenment. This inevitably ends up in failure. But, as Brazier intimates, this failure is valuable because it opens people up to two insights. The first is that the self is a temporary  illusion that has no permanence or power of its very own. The second is that all being is interconnected, and that life is the balance of this interconnection. To be enlightened is to fully be with this interconnection and to know that the interconnection is true mind, not something that only exists in this body. When  I act in this  understanding, I don't need to cling to concepts of self or other, as though these were static and unchanging givens. But making an 'impossible vow' is an important part of realizing the reality of no-self. Without impossible vows, it would be hard to shatter the sense of self.

Brazier, Caroline (2003),Buddhist Psychology: Liberate your mind, embrace life. London: Robinson.