A Great "Betrayal"

I was recently perusing through Bertrand Russell's History of Philosophy, and I came across the chapter on Pythagoras. According to Russell, Pythagoras seemed to be somewhere between a rationalist and a kind of mystic.. While he is certainly best known as the originator of the formula for the hypoteneuse of a triangle, Pythagoras was also known for edicts such as "abstain from eating beans". What kind of a person would combine what appear to be mathematical thinking with superstitious views about plants and other things? But as  I continued to read the chapter, I also realized that Pythagoras was struggling against very common convictions and desires that people tend to have: that of mathematical certainty and that of mastery over the mysteries of life. I think in this sense, Pythagoras was fighting against some of the biggest betrayals of life: learning that life cannot be rendered into a more perfect realm of mathematical precision, any more than we can conclude with any certainty that beans are 'bad' for us.
   I can't think of any particular experiences where I had felt truly betrayed, but I am using 'betrayal' to describe two kinds of experiences. One is the experience of disillusionment, or revealing that things aren't what  they appear to be. This disillusionment is often what might lead people to become scientists, who insist on finding proof that things are real through repeated confirmation and experience.  The other is a more subtle experience: the betrayal a person feels when they realize that reality cannot be conquered by any theories or pat answers. This latter 'betrayal' seems to come after the betrayal of the senses, when people are initially disillusioned of appearances. After the quest to move away from a appearances, I would say a person tries to go the opposite direction: to find an order or a predictable way of knowing the difference between appearance and 'true reality'. But this belief  in  a 'true' reality is also met with betrayal, because anything we see and experience  is conditioned in some way.
   Where is one to go when they realize that there is neither 'truth' in the sensory appearances or the principles/philosophies we might construct to deal with those appearances?  Sometimes this impasse can lead to madness, but other times, it can lead to a very  different way of trying to understand what could be true. I would have to characterize it as a truth in letting go of grasping at truth: what happens when I see the world and am not taken by appearances , but am not afraid of those appearances either. This seems to be closer to a middle  way between reviling forms and craving them.

Serving and Receiving

What does it mean to be on the receiving end of someone's service or skills? I am reflecting on how I struggle with receiving something as opposed to giving, and how over the years I have tended to favor giving over receiving. This is especially true with one on one tutoring, where I often feel that there is  a kind of dynamic which involves one teacher serving a student..
      I think the situation is a complex one, but from the perspective of giving/receiving as espoused in the bodhisattva idea, it's interesting to reflect on the difference between giving and receiving. Master Sheng Yen, I believe, once compared the idea to money going from one hand to the next. It's never that one person is the absolute final recipient of another person's 'gift'. Rather, what one person receives from another is often invariably passed down to someone else, to the point where there is no absolute giver and receiver. An example might be that of a medical student. In the beginning of her semester, the student may know only the preliminary aspects of being a skilled physician. Later on, as the knowledge from an instructor is transferred to her and transformed into her own knowledge, the student can take that knowledge and give it to others. In that sense, the function of 'receiving' knowledge is to eventually give it back in some form or another. This example is straightforward, but what about situations where the recipient does not intend to teach or donate her or his knowledge to others? Again, I think one must understand that there is always a potential benefit that can be transferred when a person mindfully receives information from another. Sometimes the information is subtle. It's not the content that is so important as the manner of the teacher or the special way that a student can inform the teacher's way of  being.
        But I think that for the receiver, I wonder if 'receiving' might be seen as a practice of humility, similar to the way a beggar asks for alms. By giving someone else the opportunity to donate her time and skills, receiving can be a way of benefitting someone else, even though it may appear as though the giver doesn't have a direct benefit.
         In actuality, though, I think that at the end of the day, both parties benefit the most when they are mutually giving and receiving. This kind of exchange of knowledge is truly the most optimal condition, because it empowers two or more people to impart what they know in that experience, while enjoying the experiences of others. Mutual empowerment can be such a wonderful way to learn, and I get a sense that it's the best form of education for everyone to become teachers to others, rather than having only one person as the teacher. But most importantly, this kind of arrangement can allow people to see their interdependence when it comes to teaching and learning.

Ceremony and Ritual

 

 

Reading the chapter in Surangama Sutra  'Establishing a Place for Awakening", I am struck by the way the passage describes the kinds of preparations that practitioners need to make to purify their minds, particularly in what is known as "Dharma Ending Age". Here is one particular passage:

 

A lotus made of gold, silver, copper, or wood should be placed in the center of the place for awakening, and a bowl filled with dew collected during the eighth lunar month should be placed in the center of the flower. An abundance of flower petals should be made to float upon the water in the bowl. Eight round mirrors should be arranged around the flower and bowl so that the mirrors face outward in each of the eight directions. (p.283)

 

This passage goes on to suggest the kinds of rituals that would be used in a Buddhist style ceremony to establish a 'place for awakening'. As I was reading the passage, I started to wonder, why are these complex procedures done, and how might they be sustained over time? Is there a particular value or significance in the eight round mirrors, eighth lunar month, and so on?

 

 From my own experiences in reading Buddhist texts, I notice how numbers often signify and remind people of specific levels of awareness: eight consciousnesses, six forms of giving, six senses, eighteen constituents, and so on. I wonder if the procedure that Buddha is describing is meant as a codified way of reminding a spiritual practitioner to be mindful of specific layers of the mind or teachings. There is really no accident that certain numbers are used in the services, because they relate to specific doctrines in Buddhism that are meaningful. I wonder if the visual effect is to trigger memories of previous teachings, or at least to trigger an unconscious awareness.

 

But another point is the actual procedure itself. I am not well-versed in putting together ceremonies, but I do notice the calming effects of observing a ceremony. Just yesterday, during the Buddha Bathing Ceremony, I had observed how the meticulous design of the altar and bathing stations had a calming and dignified effect on the mind. I could almost detect the state of mind that went into designing the ceremony details. Each part did not point to itself, but was meant to point to a deeper layer of mind that is often lost in the everyday, mundane details of life. 

 

The simplicity of the ceremony often helps people to focus on specific meaningful details, which is also settling to the mind.  In this way, the actual details of the ritual are not accidental, and nor do they have magical powers in and of themselves. Rather, I think the detail that goes into the ceremony relates more to the state of reverence of the practitioner, and how it helps the practitioner to go outside her or himself to respect the mind. If Buddha had merely said, "just worship in whatever way you wish", there wouldn't be that sense of humility and reverence which is often required to get out of one's self or desires.

 

Surangama Sutra: A New Translation (2009), Buddhist Text Translation Society.

Your Job Is to Relax

  This morning, we had a wonderful Buddha Bathing Ceremony. Though the day was extremely hot, many people managed to fit into the room to hear the ceremony and partake in festivities afterward. I had arrived at the center early  to see what I could do to help, only to find that much of it had already been organized. It turned out that I had a lot of free time on my hand to 'make myself useful'. I sauntered outside to find what I needed to do.
    In situations like these, where I offer to help but am not required to do so, I can do any number  of things. One is to simply go home! Another is to grumble inwardly about how 'useless' I feel. There is a third option which came to mind this morning and it is to say: my job is to relax. That is, if there is one role I can do in this moment, I can relax into being present with whatever is happening. And I found that when I took this approach, I got right back into my own skin rather than seeing how I might be to others in that situation. I started to do mindful walking around the center, and started to let go of this image of always having to do something in order  to appear 'useful' or at least measure up to the invisible standards of myself or others.
     Does it make sense to see relaxation as a 'job'? I would have to say so, because relaxing the mind is not something that is natural to myself. But in a sense, when I am fully relaxed, it's possible to see that it benefits others as well. For instance, think about the difference that a relaxed demeanor makes in the eyes of others. It can help others to feel more at ease, but more importantly, it can change the  way I see others. In that sense, relaxation is vital to creating the kind of experience that people would want to have in that situation. People don't just want efficiency, but they also tend to want to feel at ease and taken care of. When  I am able to take care of my mind by relaxing into meditative practice, I am in effect also taking care of others in the process.
    But this kind of relaxation is not just like showing up at the door and having any number of wandering thoughts. There is a kind of 'effort' to relax, which is why I refer to it as a kind of 'job'. Just as any process requires certain steps, I believe that relaxation requires a process of becoming aware and present to all the things happening without chasing after individual thoughts. So, relaxing is also an effort, and when I am able to accord significance to that effort, I needn't feel useless anymore. Even when there is no job assigned to me, I can always undertake the 'job' of relaxing.   And that task is something that can ease the pressure to try to fulfill hidden agendas of the ego.
     One of the easiest ways I found this morning to really relax is to go back to the analogy of the City of Gold I had talked about in a previous entry. If we can at least intellectually reflect on all things as having perfected nature, there  is no need to add anything new to the perfection of the moment. If I have something to do for others, that is great; but if not, that is also great. In both cases, the important thing is to know the true mind rather than attaching to the notion of 'achieving/not achieving' through actions. The other technique I found helpful is to remind myself that the mind does not move from A to B, but is present in all moments. That being the case, it would be incorrect to think that the mind goes from stillness to action, action to stillness. In the same way, I stop thinking the mind inhabits a moving body which is subject to conditions. In this situation, does my nature depend on what I do? No, because mind doesn't arise as a result of doing and non-doing. Knowing this allows me to face situations of both doing and non-doing with equanimity.

Needed Coincidence

 Every so often, I have experienced the unexpected turn or coincidence, such as when a song plays on the radio that resonates with what I am going through or a decision I have to make. For a long time, I have reflected on how to interpret those 'fitting' experiences which somehow enrich the meaning of one's experiences. It's easy to suggest that perhaps the coincidence was planted by a divine being, or suggests that the universe is 'rooting' for one's being and inner journey. But if this is the case, why is it that these coincidences often take place when we least expect it or know it's going to happen?
   Lately, I have had the impression that synchronicity and coincidence are not signs of the universe favoring one's spiritual journey. Rather, I think they are just byproducts of a sincere effort to balance oneself without expecting anything at all. I have observed in my own life that when I am really focused  on what is really my business (and not trying to do something to please others), I will find help in unexpected places. But when the unexpected turns into a 'goal', that turn itself just ruins the experience. Trying too hard to find meaning misses the point, which is to point to how all experiences are interconnected. It's the interconnection that's important, because once one has enough of those experiences, one will stop thinking there are separate beings to whom one appeals for one's own safety or security. I suppose that is the point where one really starts to trust the mind as the source of all experiences, rather than splitting the world into 'me' and 'not me'. But again, it seems best not to create doctrines around this kind of thing, but just to acknowledge situations as signs pointing to an interconnected universe.
     So what attitude is most fitting to receiving synchronous or coincidental experiences? I truly believe that these experiences can help a person refine their beliefs, by dissolving the hard boundaries between self and others. Others help us to reflect on who we are, and in fact everything is a reflection of everything else. But if I take this coincidence to be a sign of some special design, I am then starting to delude myself again: creating a 'me' that is separate from 'everything else', and then suggesting myself as the 'hero' (or antihero) of my own story. Perhaps another way of looking at it would be to say that there is no one helping and no one being helped. In any situation, we are just being given pointers from mind to mind. If one sees where it's pointing to, one will stop relying on the experience of the uncanny to validate or give meaning to one's life and experience. Then there is no regret, no turning back, and only pushing forward in simple faith.

A City of Gold

  Prior to the group meditation during the setup, a feeling of loneliness hung over me. I started to realize how much in my life I have let the past guide what I expect to happen in the future. I have also used the past as a way to deal with the anxiety of the uncertain present, never realizing that this same 'past' is just generating more thoughts and anxieties in itself. Even the past is unfolding in this very moment of time. What happens when I get entangled in these many thoughts? Soon enough, the thoughts turn into these expectations and demands from within. They are 'projected outward' in the form of what I imagine others to expect from me. This is crazy thinking:  I am only bound to expectations (whether my own or others) when I choose to be. The mind itself is not actually bound by anything, much less any arrangement
    Our group facilitator used a very wonderful comparison. He remarked about how an unattached existence consists precisely in the attitude that a person has essentially finished everything and has nothing more to complete in their life. From this attitude flows the compassion to treat others in a way that suits their needs. And how does one carry such an attitude from moment to moment? One participant in the meditation referred to this attitude as one of pure faith, but also a faith that doesn't attach to a particular object or image. It might also be the faith of letting go: letting go, I don't lose the true nature of who I am.
      Yet another analogy that the facilitator used was that of a city made of gold. If everything in every place is made of gold, there would be nothing wanting in any situation. It wouldn't be about 'getting the next thing' to build oneself up, or trying to save one's self from 'losing'  value. Value is essentially everywhere in everything, even in one's deepest and darkest depression. Is this an easy attitude to develop, much less maintain? Again, I would  have to say it requires the fearless attitude of knowing that there is simply nothing new to gain or to lose. There is no special thing just around the corner, and there is no terrible punishment around the corner either. So long as I am not attaching to an outcome, how can there be reward or punishment? If the moment in itself is treated as precious and with gratitude, is there a need for a reward in the next moment?  
    With this attitude, I think that one can learn to focus on the joys of the moment, and let go of trying to make an impression or do something special to win favors. Part of why this is so is that even if I make someone happy one moment, that moment is going to change to something else. Can I ever please someone all the time? This would be like trying to suit a particular image, a little bit like those cutouts you see in carnivals where you stick your head in the hole to look like you are someone else. How is this possible much less tenable? The alternative is to say that every moment is the perfect moment: not something to be embellished upon or 'decorated' nicely, but just this moment as it is. All it takes is an attitude change to see that the present moment is fine as it is and has a lot of potential to become many different things, if one is willing to stay with it joyfully.
     Is this attitude possible? I am writing this blog not because I embody these attitudes perfectly (I hardly do, in fact), but because these attitudes represent for me the best that life has to offer. And they are reminders for me whenever I become overwhelmed with thoughts of what I should be, or think I should be, those inner 'oughts' that create anxiety for me.
   

Subjective and Objective

  What does 'subjective' and 'objective' really mean? When I was meditating tonight in the group practice, I started to see there are  no clear boundaries between a subject and an object. It's only when I pre-define an experience as separate from my seeing it that I declare myself to be the subject and the thing 'out there' to be the object. And the resulting categories include subjective (meaning coming from my own mind) and objective (an external thing which somehow exists out there to be viewed).
   If Buddhism sees all phenomena as creations of mind, does this imply that there is no objective existence? In one particular Dharma talk called "Subjectivity and Objectivity", Master Sheng Yen suggests that what we call objective is not an independent object, but is rather a collective subjectivity that is agreed upon by the collective wisdom of many people. For instance, when we decide to drive on the right side of the road instead of the left, this is often considered  objectively correct, but  it only applies in specific countries or cultures where this convention happens to have been settled upon. Information is organized in this way because communities have somehow worked upon it to be perceived in a fairly predictable way. Even the statement "the sun rises in the morning" may seem objective, but the words 'sun' and 'rise' are conventions that refer to discrete bundles of information. When a person analyses what the sun is, they will find that the sun consists of many instances of changing information (particles and energy  transfers constantly taking place). We use the term 'sun' (or in France, "soleil", etc) as a way to conveniently understand and communicate information, not as an absolute reference point for something that is fixed and unchanging.
     But at the same time, knowing that knowledge consists of agreed or collective subjectivities does not mean that people should only follow the whims of their perceptions or feelings. On the contrary, it suggests that truths are always negotiated across people's interests, and is subject to change based on shifting needs. I  am thinking of the case of medicine. It seems that models of medicine change according to the needs of societies, and what was once a fashionable mechanistic approach to medicine (treating the illness as an invader and the body as a machine) is not so much in fashion these days. What I get from Master Sheng Yen's talk in particular is that truth is something that depends upon relationships and how they are played out between people. If I subordinate those relationships to an obsessive search for 'the truth', I may end up isolating myself in a fantasy. It is a bit like Captain Ahab in Moby Dick, who obsessively learns whatever he can learn to conquer a whale, only to succumb to the unpredictability of nature.
    Another consequence of this view is that I am neither stuck on 'my own belief' nor trying to prove that my belief is objectively true. When I understand that knowledge  is an inter-subjective and need-based process, I am seeing that what is 'true' really depends on the needs of that moment, which are conditioned by many different perspectives. Rather than seeing this as a weakness, I can celebrate the beauty of shifting , changing perspectives around me.



Master Sheng Yen, "Subjectivity and Objectivity" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rmCX2yrEE5E

Being in Emotions

  One of the things I appreciate about Dzogchen Ponlop's book Emotional Rescue is that it characterizes emotions not as bad things to be transcended, but as the material that people can use to be anchored in the present moment. In other words, rather than seeing emotions as 'curses', Ponlop sees the emotional life as a gift. Here he remarks:\

According to the Buddha, our emotions are playing within a great field of energy, an expanse of vividness, beautifully bright and full of sparks. And that energy field is like pure water that has no fixed color or shape of its own. It's clear, transparent, and refreshing. Then thought comes in and colors this clear energy with its labels, judgments, and stories. Each thought is like a drop of pigment that releases its color when mixed into water.  (p.203)

I believe that what Ponlop suggests is that emotions are neither good nor bad. The energy of emotions is like a kind of enormous field within mind. It's only when I start to add  thoughts and words to these emotions that we might start to develop likes, dislikes, preferences and boundaries around the emotions. Sooner or later, these preferences evolve into story lines, such as when a person starts to view emotions as obstacles to achieving an optimal state of being. But if I go back to the original emotional energy itself, no such 'obstacles' really exist. It is as though I have just created a lot of conflict due to avoiding the original energy of the emotion.

To take a simple example, a person might experience an emptiness or disconnection at a certain moment during the day. Rather than accepting this emotion as a naturally arising state, someone might go to the other extreme of making the emotion seem like a deficiency, or the sign of something missing. It often happens that the first question one might have when feeling this emptiness  is 'what am I missing to fill that void'? Rather than seeing it only as a kind of energy, we make a conclusion that the emotion is a sign of something gone wrong. But has anything gone wrong in that moment? It perhaps depends on how we view the emotion itself. Perhaps all the views of that emotion are only relative ways of looking at it, or locating it in terms of a self. While one person might see that emotion as 'the universal condition of humans', others might see it as 'something unfulfilled', while a third party might say, 'be grateful for what you have." Which one is correct? There is no real way to know, since all these are interpretations that are based on relative views.

If I see emotion as a manifestation of the true mind, there is no need to revert to relative views. In that case, I am simply seeing the emotion as a part of the mind that is already luminous and perfect, instead of seeing this emotion as an aberration or an illness. This means that even if I do inquire into the emotion's source, nothing I do with the emotion is making it either better or worse. The emotion already exists perfectly due to causes and conditions, which are also perfectly where they are. Rather than seeing the emotion as something bad that I need to remove, can I gently relax with this emotion and see it as equally part of mind pleasure and fulfillment is? I think this is the challenge that practice poses.

Ponlop, Dzoghen, Emotional Rescue. New York: Tarcher Perigee,

The Troubles with Age

      There are certain ideas in science fiction which strike a chord in the popular imagination, and I believe the promise of immortality and prolonged life  is one of the dominant themes in many science fiction books. I am thinking in particular of Pamela Sargent's The Golden Space and my more recently read book by John Wyndham, The Trouble with Lichens. Both books are interesting in that they explore the social implications  of prolonged  life. Wyndham's book chronicles the accidental discovery of an anti-aging element found in a certain rare species of lichen, and how the scientists involved try to cope with the implications of a scarce antidote to aging. While Sargent's book proposes a technology that can reverse aging altogether, Wyndham offers a way to merely prolong life to 200 years. According to one of the central characters, Diana, this would mean giving people more time to mature socially and free themselves from the pressure to do things quickly without wisdom and experience, such as marry or raise a family. I think an interesting implication which Wyndham hints at is how prolonging life would potentially free both sexes to marry for companionship rather than simply to conform to social and biological pressures to marry while still young.

     I am personally not so optimistic that merely prolonging human life is going to solve the problems of existence or create a more enlightened or liberated society. I am reminded, for instance, of Arthur Clarke's prediction that satellite television would be a great educational tool that would help people learn and connect globally by the 2000s.  While part of this is true, I also notice how television is used to 'fill emptiness' or simply to take up leisure time that could be used more creatively. In a sense, technology can sometimes create huge amounts of space and time (whether air time or real time), leaving people with a void which they might tend to fill. And I see the same sort of thing happening with greater longevity. It's not that greater longevity automatically grants people more freedom. Rather, it simply creates more leisure time for people to contrive new ways of existence. And this in itself is not a guarantee that people will use the time for their benefit or for others’. The idea that a particular technology or scientific discovery could cure all root ills would seem a bit like wishful thinking.

From another perspective, I have to wonder as well what role illness and death can play in spiritual life. Would people be ready to accept the notion that death is not imminent, and may even be reversible? It sounds strange to say it, but it would be quite an adjustment for people to realize that the end of their life is not so near as they  had imagined. I believe this is so because people often identify with the finitude of their life, and tend to see life as a story which completes in some way. What would happen if the life story were not so completed so quickly? To me, people would need to stretch their own sense of what it means to be someone, especially when a prolonged life would mean more potential changes in one’s career, education, and so on. Identity would be seen more as something that is vulnerable to change rather than fixed into a certain prescribed social role for 30 some years.

      From a Buddhist view, suffering is not rooted in death itself, but rather in attachment to existence.  When a person overcomes such an attachment, there is neither birth nor death. I think in that way, greater lifespan would not necessarily reduce suffering, but might even prolong suffering, depending on how people might choose to live or treat themselves.

Does Suffering Ennoble One's Character?

I recall reading Somerset Maugham’s The Summing Up many years ago, almost like a kind of “Bible” of wisdom and life experience. To this day, I still think it’s one of the sanest books, from an extremely interesting and wise writer who seemed to have observed human beings very closely. In one of the chapters, he relates how the idea of suffering ‘ennobling’ one’s character is something that is inherited from a Romantic tradition. In his own observation as a medical student and general ‘student of people’, Maughan reflects that suffering tends to do quite the opposite, namely to make a person more narrowly attached to comfort and their bodies, to the point where it can embitter a person, and make them depressed. I believe that in her book A Season in Hell, Marilyn French comes  to a similar disillusioned perspective on suffering.  Today, I reflected on the way home from a gathering, what view of suffering is correct?

First of all, I don’t think that I am referring to a specifically Buddhist notion of suffering, which tends to be equated with emotional attachment of some kind. I am talking more about the suffering of daily life, such as the stress of uncertainty or the reality of impermanence. And I think a classic Buddhist answer would be to say that events or situations never ‘make’ a person either happy or sad. Rather, it’s one’s attitude toward these states that is the real deciding factor to whether suffering can make a person stronger or simply unable to cope with the situations at hand.

I tend to think that there are times when physical suffering can encourage a person to cultivate joy with others, even though it is still a physical suffering. There is an interesting dynamic here, and I believe part of it is compensation while another part is about gratitude. If a person is too comfortable in themselves and in their bodies, there is a tendency to overstep oneself or even to feel a little disengaged or discomfort. It is almost as though they are so comfortable yet there is still a vague kind of dis-ease or anxiety floating somewhere, the sense of ‘what’s next’ or perhaps everyday ennui. For this reason, I don’t think that we ever want to not have any pain or suffering, since these latter are often what give life a sense of proportion and struggle. From Buddhist perspectives I have read, there is even a sense that having a human body which is subject to frustrations and struggles is actually an ideal condition to practice spiritually, since it provides just the right kind of edge for a person to investigate themselves and to go beyond comforts and seeking pleasures.

But that having been said, I think that suffering needs to contain some seed of hope; otherwise, it can be a kind of prison for someone, particularly if one is suffering a chronic pain in the body. As long as a person has a hope for care, their sights are not so narrowed at trying to find self-induced cures or solutions, and they then have the energy to be available to others.  I think one of the roles of health care  is not necessarily to provide direct cures, but to give people’s minds a wide enough space that they can find their own resilience in the midst  of pain. There is a great supportive element in coping with illness and suffering, and the art of this support is never to make a person feel isolated  or left to their own devices to try to ‘figure out’ what’s ‘wrong’ with them. In this way, suffering itself doesn’t need to be seen as something that a person needs to wrestle with like a kind of bear or evil adversary. Perhaps this itself is what lends suffering nobility rather than suffering automatically conferring nobility on a person.

Rejoicing in Others

   It is not so easy to practice rejoicing in the success of other beings, unless one feels secure and confident in one's own nature. I was thinking about this today, and I realized that rejoicing in others requires a grounding in one's own being, a kind of inner confidence that doesn't necessarily come from external things. In order to really see the value and meaning of celebrating others' success, one needs to also view the celebration itself as one's own success. How is it successful to be able to celebrate others just as we would celebrate our own goals? I recall Venerable Guo Xing sharing that the real 'success' in work is not to succeed over others, but rather to succeed in overcoming one's dualistic thinking, or tendency to divide oneself from others. If one accepts that all the beings are really part of one's mind, then there is always rejoicing in others, and no need to separate.
    Of course, there are different examples out there, especially in Chan, which suggest metaphorically what true mind is, and how it includes all phenomena. Perhaps my favorite of all is the metaphor of water and waves, where 'waves' represent the rising and falling of phenomena, while water represents the essence of all phenomena. It's somewhat like what I observed momentarily on the bus this morning. While I was gazing around at others in the morning ride to work, I reflected that whatever I am feeling about the people around me, that very thought is coming from the immediate and direct awareness. The feeling does not 'belong' to the other person. How can that person 'give' me that feeling? All the feelings come from the same source, and are in a constant state of change or flux. If one realizes this, there is no room to say, 'this is mine' and 'that is yours'. If someone scores a promotion or a special role that you had hoped for, you can contemplate: where exactly is 'you' and where is the other person? Both the sense of my bounded self (this body) and the other are beheld in the same field of witnessing. Can this 'witness' be said  to be 'this body' and not 'that person'? Actually, both in fact are arising within the same field of mind. If I extend this way of seeing, I can no longer really say that 'this body' doesn't receive the reward, and therefore 'I" lost to someone else. That decision to see things as separate is entirely my decision, and it's what sets in motion the insecurity of struggling in this body for certain desired states of being, including fame or status, or security.
    When I say these things, do I suggest that people should never feel insecure about their jobs or livelihoods? I still believe that what people do has consequences, and in that sense, there is something acting upon the environment to achieve desired or needed ends. But when a person mistakes this desired result with the body being a separate entity, that's when a lot of anxiety arises.  If a person can relax into the understanding that they are simply never separate entities (and never were, for that matter), this kind of self would be more flexible to seek resolutions not by isolating themselves but by seeing their  interconnection to others. There could also be an understanding that even if one has to suffer momentarily, it doesn't mean that one is condemned to isolation, and there are always supports on one's path. Most importantly, by not trying to compare what I have or don't have with others, I can find a deeper source of confidence which goes beyond gaining worldly things such as money and status. This deep confidence ironically arises from an insight into the always changing and shifting nature of the self, and how it is so connected with other beings.

Kindness and meditation

       Does meditation in and by itself make a person kinder? I had posed this question to the group practice today after learning that one of the newer practitioners was taking a course in Loving Kindness Meditation. Loving Kindness Meditation uses the boundless sense of metta (wishing others well being) as its focal point, while other kinds of meditation can use other objects, which are perhaps considered more neutral (such as the breath, for instance). In my own study on Loving Kindness Meditation in teachers, I had also noticed that some elements of compassion seemed to arise from reciting the loving kindness lines themselves, while other aspects were more arising from the sense of  calmness in meditation. It's sometimes said that in order to arouse any particular state of being, there needs to be more than grounding: the mind needs to contemplate the quality which they want to cultivate. But I also suggest that without embodying the words in a distinctly meditative way, it's difficult to internalize  loving kindness, because the words don't touch a genuine sense of open-heartedness that is at the seat of the soul.
       I think that it's a good idea to cultivate the intention  of kindness, in order to meditatively internalize it, provided  that this is a goal that one would want to have. The reason I suggest this is that any number of patterns can be reinforced in meditation practice, as one practitioner had suggested this evening. Meditation can reinforce introversion, the craving to be alone, or the desire to cultivate special states of mind. There have even been cases where meditative practice has caused  a person to withdraw from others or from the world of social responsibilities. On the other hand, if a person reflects deeply on what they would like to cultivate, meditation can certainly help them cultivate  those qualities. People in general don't just want to have peace of mind. What I believe people want deep down inside is a sense of connection through peace of mind, which is quite different from deliberately trying to isolate oneself on an island. And I do believe that if one is  sincere in learning a spiritual  practice and teachings, they can use those teachings to better harmonize with others and deal  with harmful applications of emotions. But it's just as  easy for a person to become  attached to particular meditative states that they may mistaken this to be the true meaning of meditation. In reality, without an ability to navigate difficult and complex challenges (both internal and external), meditative practice can never  have a root and context. This is why it's best, in my opinion, not to lose  sight of the kind of person one really wants to be. It is only  in being clear about this that one's meditation can help them to cultivate harmonious qualities in themselves.

Situations Equal Questions

   The more that I spend time in the group meditation, the more convinced I am that all phenomena are veiled spiritual questions. They are 'questions' in the sense that there is a problem  lurking beneath all phenomena: a sense of split, of not knowing where it comes from, how it got here,  or even why it is here. I am reminded of a philosophy class in which the question was posed "why is there anything to begin with?" This question seems ludicrous because we always implicitly assume that either 'of course' there is a reason for everything, or 'everything' is simply random material. Again, this too reveals a question of why or where it all came to be and how we know it came to be.
    The habit of turning situations into questions is not so easy to practice. I have found, for example, that when I try to first practice a question or huatou method in meditation, I am almost struggling to generate a state of wonder. It is as though I had already made conclusions and my mind isn't open to seeing new things in situations. I think what allows me to take the question seriously is realizing there is nothing in phenomena to cling to, and everything everywhere is a potential source of pain and suffering. Instead of taking the phenomena as given, I can take all the energy I am investing in sustaining the reality of phenomena and turn it upside down. Then the problem is no longer a biological one, a social one, a 'personal' one, and so on. Rather, all situations become existential questions about what it means to be in this situation, and who is contemplating it.
       Soon, I begin to see that phenomena are not just floating entities; there is something 'behind' them or in them that allows them to be seen, and it isn't separate nor conjoined with the object itself. So I start to question: where are these phenomena truly arising? Does that arising have a specific location? I start to see that phenomena are prompts for me to go further into asking their source, similar to the way animal tracks are often leading us to further clues into who is walking through the forest. When I seriously question the source of phenomena  in mind, I then subvert all these categories that fixate me on one particular way of seeing things, including the self and others.
      This period of constant questioning is necessary, because it tries to redirect one's efforts to finding what the real mind is, before 'subject and object' divisions are being made continually. And when you get to that stage where everything is a question, there is a sudden relaxing where I am no longer identified with these hard boundaries that I create with thoughts. It's as though I am giving myself a bit of a wider pasture in which to move, and that also helps me to not differentiate between the self and situations.. It seems that when I can question the assumptions that phenomena are separate from mind, I become more relaxed, less resistant to what is happening to me, and having fewer thoughts during meditation.

'becoming oneself"

I remember recalling reading a book by Shunryu Suzuki, Not Necessarily So, I believe, where he talks about a time when someone expressed a sense of failure in achieving enlightenment. Suzuki  replied to this practitioner that the function of practice is not necessarily to become something great, but rather to become oneself. I am puzzled by this statement 'becoming oneself', and I think that it's quite a precarious balance, much more than what is often described in self-help books. What I can understand from it is that becoming oneself seems to require a combination of cultivation and using that cultivation to illuminate one's nature, rather than trying to cover it up.
    An example, I think, would be the case of going to university . When I was an undergraduate at York, I have to say there were a lot of subconscious fantasies  in my mind about what I expected to be or wanted to be. And quite often, I would let these possibilities run wild within me without rationally exploring them or measuring them up to actions and experiences. It's  one thing for sure to have a lot of ideas running around in mind, but it's quite a different thing to put those ideas to use and give them form and structure. I would have to say that at that stage of life, I had a lot  of unharnessed desires and ambitions, much of which ended up not  being so real. When I started to work for a company, things changed in me, and I begun to realize that I am not an isolated individual who is just serving myself. Instead, I had to find a way to adapt myself to the needs of a large and diverse group of people, as well as serve a large customer base. That is when I started to put aside the wild notions about becoming this or that, writing this or that book, or doing something 'beyond my wildest fantasy'. Of course, I often went in the opposite direction of letting my life become too subsumed in work, but this contrast allowed me to be a bit more grounded in my wishes. I even begun to ask myself whether the thoughts I am entertaining have real value or are just fancies that come and go.
     Where does the topic of 'becoming oneself' fall into this? I think that becoming oneself requires cultivation:  an immersion in other people's thoughts, books, teachers and work. If I don't nurture myself on the teachings of others, my own nature is kind of like uncooked rice. It is sort of raw and not exactly edible. But when I add the challenge of being with others and accommodating new viewpoints to my being, something does change, and I begin to work with the material that's in me. I start to learn that I am not so patient or thoughtful as I had imagined  in certain areas, and that there are many parts of me that are very rough at this point. But as long as I am not mistaking this cultivation to be an absolute goal, I can use it to  illuminate or see into how I am relating to others. This model of looking at self seems to fly in the face  of another, more romantic view, which suggests that we know the self by 'turning inward' to view the contents of one's subconscious. Though I don't think this latter view is as fashionable as it used to be, I think it's still dominating a lot of areas including the model of what artists and writers do. And it can be misleading in the sense  that we  often don't know  what we are capable of embodying unless there is  a real context to work with that is outside the body and emotions.
  
     

Learning from Everything

 My reflection today is that if anyone knew exactly what happened outside the home, nobody would ever need to leave home. The mind and all its contents would be completely predetermined. Think of it this way: education would be about simply recollecting what a person already knows. This would be very much like Plato's dialogue Meno, where a servant boy learns how to 'recollect' the shape and dimensions of a triangle using a mysterious and innate pre-knowledge. But in actuality, there is so much that a person cannot know unless they venture to learn from other beings and even risk the uncertainty of new and unexpected moments.
    Even the case of education is an interesting example, If all education is were simply a kind of reading of specific manuals, then eventually there could be a pill that you would swallow that would contain the information. You wouldn't need to digest the information, if that is the case. But what happens is that people integrate information in very different ways, and there is something surprising and infinite in all of that. Another way of looking  at it is to say that learning takes place on a complex matrix of hybrid possibilities. If I approach each situation with a very fixed view of what I am going to learn, I will be chained to that particular agenda, and not open to learning from the unexpected event.
    I recall reading years ago from a book by Samuel Delaney called Motion of Light in Water that as young man, Delaney would look at books and think of what they could be about, only to find that upon reading them, they turned out to be the opposite. Delaney's conclusion from this is quite contrary to what we would expect: he felt that the original feeling one has about what the book might be about is more important than what it 'is' about. Why is that? I think it's because the more we spend time with a book, the more we are inclined to try to understand its totality or its single underlying meaning, rather than seeing the book's possibility: where it could have been different, what sub-themes or detours could have been explored from a different lens, etc. It is as though there is a tendency to try to cover over one's curiosity as the book reaches its completion and forget the original intrigue of the book itself. Another way of saying this is that the promise of a situation (or a text) can often be more revealing of oneself and one's desires than the actual 'delivery' of such a situation or text.
   If I become fixated on 'conclusions' rather than possibilities, I lose the sense of wonder that a book or a chance meeting can offer. But most of the time, schools teach people to make conclusions rather than to notice their own curiosities. The whole process of essay writing seems to encourage 'wrapping up', 'distilling' , packaging and organizing information into neat bundles, rather than seeing the loose ends that make life an endless (pardon the pun) puzzle. So in this way, I think sometimes one needs to go back to being a child who explores rather than concludes and distills, or who picks up something without having to finish or end it in some way. Perhaps this creates a different possibility for learning in general.

It Takes Compassion to Face Our Dilemmas

  During our Sunday meditation sharing, we explored what it means when some sitting meditation goes smoothly whereas other periods do not. In no other practice am I more aware of the fickleness of conditions.  Just when I think I have figured out what ails me or what conditions make for a 'good practice', those same conditions elude my grasp in the next sitting. In a sense, it is similar to what Buddha said about the skeptic philosophers during his day, namely that they were 'eel wrigglers' (see Ling, p.101) always evading a final answer or position. I suppose that the experience of always losing the 'ideal conditions' in practice can foster a kind of humility.
   At the same time, I have been noticing recently that there is a certain kind of acceptance in myself that can lead to resignation or passivity. I think it's sometimes important not to confuse accepting our conditions with passive resignation, because the latter is almost like putting distance between oneself and one's personal issues or challenges. Just because conditions are always changing, doesn't mean that we don't take our challenges seriously. For instance, it would be nihilistic to say, "well, things are always changing and we are going to suffer anyway, so there is no point trying to improve our conditions." This way is too resigned, even though it may contain a seed of wisdom.
   If causes and conditions are always changing, what attitude can I adopt to face challenges? I think one can embrace challenges and suffering with compassion, a mind that truly does take suffering seriously and addresses issues. But it would be a compassion without any object. For example, if I had a child whom I cared about, my care doesn't need to get fixated on the idea that the child can only be well by going to a specific school or pursuing a certain kind of career. This kind of attitude would lead both the parent and the child to feel a certain kind of vexation, because they would no longer be examining closely what the child really needs in the moment. An alternative attitude would be to be always curious about what is going on with the child from moment to moment, to see what they need. This moment-to-moment attention is more constructive, because it responds to conditions in a caring way rather than trying to fix a person to a specific line of action. But at the same time, this open attitude is not to be confused with  a resigned approach of just letting the child do what she or he wants and not being concerned for the child's welfare. It's a tricky balance, I think, to have a concern which doesn't have a specific objective in mind. But I do think that meditation can help foster that gentle care, by allowing a person to inhabit their body with gentle awareness.
      Another way of looking at this might be to say that one has to be honest about one's conditions and reactions to those conditions, rather than trying to sidestep them. Since forms aren't separate from emptiness, we can say that all these emotions and situations are the material we need to work with to learn and grow, so there is no accident that we suffer one ailment and not another. But even if this approach does not help me solve difficulties, it can change the way I look at them and allow me to adopt a variety of perspectives and approaches to dealing with it. Again, it is like a relationship with a loved one: it is multidimensional, and we can never reduce a loved one to a set of factors or fixed qualities. So in a sense, we need to keep experimenting with different ways of seeing the same person or situation. Pain and suffering are calls to look at situations and dilemmas with an open heart that explores, without getting attached to a single method or solution.

Full Acceptance

 During the meditation retreat today, I noticed how the anxiety I had toward pain in my body was far more excessive than the sensation itself. And I wonder, from where does this anxiety arise? I think this anxiety has a lot to do with wanting to control something that may not necessarily be controllable in that moment. It might even be what Ernest Becker has described as the anxiety around the 'facticity' of the body. It seems that embodiment is something that is so unpredictable at times. According to Becker, maturity comes from being able to master certain kinds of situations which can make us feel more as individuals who have some power over their bodies and destinies. To be 'thrown' into a situation where the body is doing what we don't like is often a place of deep-seated anxiety. It is the anxiety of having something forced upon you which you may not necessarily have anticipated or hoped for.
   From the perspective of practice, I do find it helpful to see the anxiety as something quite different from the sensation itself. The anxiety has an emotional feel to it, a quality of comparing the present situation to something that is more ideal or less confining.  I also notice that anxiety has a cultural flavor to it--a sense that it is abnormal to experience certain kinds of sensations, and a way of stigmatizing these as bad. But much of what we consider unpleasant or pleasant is culturally based and defined. Here I am reminded of a video which shows babies tasting different kinds of foods. The looks on their faces is incredible and priceless. For one thing, babies don't have the cultural associations attached with ''trying something new" or 'getting out of the comfort zone'. Without these labels, a baby is somehow left with her or his own devices. It can be frightening to look at from an adult's perspective of wanting to somehow 'know' what one is going to experience. But I suppose that there are other ways to frame the experience of pain, not just as a harrowing one but an exciting exploration.
     I don't give up on this particular subject, because I do believe that pain has a unique spiritual presence. There is always a soulful reason for pain coming into one's life, and to think of pain in this way often leads to a more nuanced understanding of what it can do for people, which is to allow them to explore what full acceptance is about. When encountering pain, is there nothing to be done, or something that truly can be done? Answering these questions requires a kind of thick exploration of the emotional judgments around pain.


Ling, Trevor (1976), The Buddha: Buddhist Civilization in India and Ceylon. London: Penguin Books.

For Goodness' Sake

     It's not so easy to get a glimpse of what real 'good' is like, in my opinion. As one of the study group practitioners had mentioned in tonight's Buddhist discussion group, we sometimes naturally end up experiencing goodness without necessarily striving to be good. I think the closest approximation to what is 'good' is something to do with interconnection and the analogy of the human body. As a totality, cells in the body never work in isolation but work in tandem to meet the needs of the whole.
       This view of interconnection and harmony is the closest I have ever understood to what good is about. But beyond that, there isn't much that can be said about an absolute good. For instance, even if I am convinced that my view is correct, my being convinced is bound to change the circumstances around me and make me perhaps less tolerant of what others consider as good. So another aspect of goodness is a kind of openness to not being drawn into thoughts. Thoughts are just thoughts. We needn't take them to be so real that we would die for those thoughts. And not only this, but thoughts are subject to change constantly over time.
     It's a paradox of sorts to contemplate that perhaps there isn't a solid, grounded 'idea' of good that somehow exists in a pristine form, as Plato had sometimes intimated in his philosophy. But does that commit a person to a life of relativism, or never knowing what is truly good? I believe that even if there are no absolute good and bad, there is still a direction of mind that is favorable and conducive to benefitting others. These directions are not hard and true absolutes of good and bad, but are rather general guidelines on how to maintain an open space for new ideas and new personalities. If we didn't have this direction, we would have stopped trying to harmonize many centuries ago. But with this mental space come the space of love and wisdom. It's a paradoxical space where things may not be what they appear, and they certainly aren't how I see them from one moment to the next.
       But by suspending my judgment on the nature of things and not categorizing them, I begin to see that things are already in harmony in their deepest sense. The reason it is hard to see this is that so often, we place our ideas of 'good and bad' in front of what is actually happening. As a result, the categories we use to separate beings into good, bad, neutral etc. end up imprisoning ourselves. The more habitual my reaction to things are in daily life, the less I am able to really emerge from emotional reactions to things. If I accept fully what is happening before me and around me, I wouldn't be so caught in my ideas of good, and this would make me more likely able to harmonize with a wide range  of experiences. For this reason, I think that goodness begins with opening a mental space to allow different perspectives to be entertained.

An Awake Dream

  During the Thursday evening meditation tonight, we talked about the question of how practitioners can be aware of the mind even when they are sleeping or dreaming. And the theme came up that everything we do is part of a waking dream. No matter how well a person can read the signs within a dream or come up with brilliant interpretations, the dream is still a dream nonetheless. Knowing that the worlds we create are dreams, we can loosen our grip on wanting to 'get the dream right' or have a kind of brilliant interpretation on what is happening within that dream. In fact, there are no absolutes, from this perspective.
    I find that when my mind is tense or focussed excessively on getting what it wants, there is a tendency to get caught up in a particular want or desire. It almost becomes as though that 'thing' is going to complete my being. I use the example of wanting to read a particular book because I read a good review of it. Sometimes, I will see the book in the library or book store, and a thought will emerge in my mind. I will think, "this book is going to help me with x", or "I am so fascinated to learn about this subject". Later on, when I actually do pick up the book and start to read it, a completely different set of impressions arises: sometimes boredom, sometimes fascination, sometimes the completely unexpected. I might find myself having satisfied my curiosity long before the actual book is finished. Why does the actual 'reading' of the book differ from my initial feelings regarding the book? It's because my first impression of the book was only a thought in mind. If I idealize or over-romanticize that impression, I can gently remind myself that it is really just that: an impression.
   Without this understanding that experiences are passing, I will get caught up in this illusory idea that there is something out there  that magically 'completes' me-whether it be a way to enlightenment, or a formula, or a book. It is as though I am continually trying to look for an underlying 'real' world that vindicates the present messy world in which I inhabit. But actually, the true world and the inhabited mess are one and the same. The only difference is that I am seeing it as a mess because I am connecting the thought with another thought that projects an ideal onto the previous thought. And I keep doing this until tension and frustration arise in mind and create all sorts of tensions in the body.
   Truly, if I am emerging from meditation practice with the idea that I didn't do well enough, am I not thereby feeding into this illusory idea that there is a 'second' world to awaken to? In fact, all worlds are just endless dreams enfolded within each other and intermingling.

On GIving

 After the meditation tonight, the group members got to talking about the Buddhist concept of giving. Master Sheng Yen suggests that there are two kinds of giving. One might be described as the giving humans and gods, while the other is the bodhisattva concept of giving. The first includes the kind of giving where there is a distinct sense of self: a 'me' that gives or which stands to benefit from an act of giving. In contrast, the bodhisattva spirit of giving is predicated on the idea that there is really no distinct 'giver' and receiver after all. This is a kind of giving that arises from practice, and it's not centered around affirming the role of the giver. Sheng Yen points out that many people approach spirituality initially as helping them to heighten their reputation as givers, rather than as a sincere interest in giving to others. It's only after people study Buddhism that they may start to see that there is no specific personal gain in giving. But I feel that perhaps this doesn't really happen until people can begin to investigate what is the self and mind. Without the curiosity to investigate, I am sometimes afraid that spiritual practitioners keep a deeply entrenched spiritual identity as 'givers'. This identity only reinforces an "I"/"you" distinction, and can even play into a sense of personal power over others. The bodhisattva ways of giving need to transcend this kind of division.
   I personally think that it's not so easy to practice 'giving without a self', and I truly don't think that people should set themselves up for such a goal. Rather, it seems to make more sense to start with where and who a person happens to be in the moment. For example, volunteering to teach a skill that one has learned or knows, no matter how simple, is a way of giving that is natural to the giver. It is not necessarily requiring an extra degree but it comes from the heart and soul of the person who is giving. While it might not be completely altruistic, it would seem that this kind of giving could focus on a soulful interconnection with someone, and this is a good practice in letting go of doing things for personal gain.
     But even more crucial is that, I think that people who truly want to give without a strong sense of self probably need to give up the idea of being a giver. What I am referring to is the tendency to surround an action with a permanent sense of self, not relating how that action is based on many causes and conditions. Today I might have given my all to work, but this doesn't mean that I will be at my best tomorrow. It seems best not to burden oneself with the idea that they are going to be a 'giver' in all areas of life from now on (a very auspicious goal) but to let giving itself flow naturally from the spiritual insights of no-self. For instance, if I am really investigating the sutras and practicing diligently, I will likely feel less inclined to put 'my' view before others, since I am at a stage where I am seeing beyond a rigid sense of self. This spirit of giving does not need to be forced, but it can come from a growing fascination with the process of practice and letting go of self.

There's Always Tomorrow

  I have been observing an interesting tendency in myself lately, and that is, that I am afraid of procrastination. And I have a feeling that perhaps this fear is simply a reaction to earlier times in life when I had engaged in procrastination of some kind or another. But I often have had fears in the past of falling behind, taking a course and then realizing too late that I have not been attending any of the classes prior to the exam.  I think that this fear is quite interesting to examine, and I am quite sure that many would attribute it to an issue of wanting to control time. But I think that a lot of it comes from the fear of falling behind or losing control of one's life, which is a kind of existential anxiety.
     I have often read in Chan books that time is just a creation of the mind, but what does it mean in terms of time? One approach to life might be to say, "I have all the time in the world, and time is an illusion anyway, so I can do what I want with it." Under this view, there is no waste of time, since all of time is just part of a big dream of the mind. But does this work? If I were to act in this way, I would likely suffer a lot. There is a documentary movie I saw recently, A Dog's Life, where they interview homeless people who have attachments to their dogs. Many of the people prefer to live on the streets in order to preserve their companionship with their pets, rather than live in places where pets aren't allowed. One of the touching aspects of the homeless people interviewed in the movie is that many of them were simply living in a present moment--not attached to the weather, or having a full time job, or even having a stable place to live. As long as they had the love and companionship of their pets, they felt that things were fine for them. But even for the homeless people, shelter became a necessity, whether it's under a bridge or in a temporary home or in the backseat of a car. And as winter approached, the homeless people had to decide for themselves how they were going to prepare for their own survival. Time wins out in this case, and the ones who survive are the ones who accommodate the changing seasons.
     The other, opposite extreme is to make a fetish out of the sense of time. I think that Protestant society has become quite interested in time, particularly at the start of the Industrial Revolution when many pioneer managers were trying to measure output using time engineering. Time seems to equal productivity in the market economy of today, and I think the metaphor of 'time as money' has extended well into people's personal lives. We say things like "make the most of one's time", and even Master Sheng Yen writes, "The busy make the most of time." But an over-emphasis on time can lead to a sense of hurriedness, and this can take the form of feeling out of touch with the moment. I am reminded of a funny scene in a movie where the girl is dreaming of all these wonderful dishes she will taste when she is in Europe. The dream turns into a nightmare because the waiters in her dream keep taking away the dishes she is eating and replacing them with new dishes, faster than she can finish the previous. She ends up not enjoying the feast at all, or at least not being given the opportunity to do so. In that sense, the hurried sense of time has a way of deadening existence.
     I think, to go back to the Chan concept of time being illusory, the 'illusory' aspect of time is that it is referring to things that are changing continuously. In order to really be with our moments, we have to see things in a state of flux. But at the same time, this doesn't obviate the need for a sense of time, since we do have our obligations to meet expectations and responsibilities. Time is a useful tool to fulfill these obligations, but the difference is that time doesn't necessarily ever dictate how those responsibilities are fulfilled. If I am always trying to cram everything into one day, this will only leave me unable to put my whole heart and attention into anything.. At that point, everything I do becomes really superfluous, because I am not really and fully inhabiting the moment. But time is still a useful mental tool that can help to organize experiences. As long as I can understand the practical use of time and not see it as something imposed on me, I can use time to my advantage without imposing a dogmatic sense of time into my daily life.

keep going

     My favorite resting places are home and the library. I find quite a few really good ideas in books and in thinking about new ideas. But I am also reminded about how there is really no final resting place for mind. There isn't a place to which we can point and say, "this is the mind". I guess you can say that mind doesn't have an object. So I can also analogously say that the library and the study are stopping places. They are resting places for mind to rejuvenate and cultivate itself, but they are not final resting or staying places. When I stop to think about it, even academia is just a temporary place to incubate knowledge and form one's own ideas. It is never a final resting place where the mind can fully disclose or define itself.
    How does my current process of thinking about ideas differ from the past? I believe that when I was an undergraduate in university, I sought ideas to paint a grand picture of life--almost like a unifying metaphysics. I am pretty sure that a lot of people were doing the same thing as myself, sort of looking for answers to fundamental questions such as whether human nature is inherently good, whether people have free-will, what is the best kind of life, etc. But recently, I have come to feel that the quest for certainty is almost like avoiding dissolution and impermanence. Certainly my recent readings of Ernest Becker only confirms my feeling there. It's true that people can get enraptured in books and in thinking about the self, because they have been socialized to see that they need to build a solid wall around themselves and cultivate an ideology. It's like saying, "I don't know too much about the future, but I do know I am this or this is me". But over time, people start to realize that even the most effective beliefs only apply to some situations, and not to all.
    Some people might say the same about Zen or Chan, that it is a kind of unified system of beliefs. I tend to feel that Chan practice is different because it is looking at the way thoughts are formed and how people relate to thoughts. It doesn't necessarily matter too much what the content of the thoughts are, but Chan explores how mind approaches thoughts--with attachment, with rejection or with a neutral state. In other words, I think Chan practice looks at the process of experiencing and thinking itself, rather than saying 'this is true', or 'this is not true'. That's because as soon as I say something is 'true', I reject anything that goes against it, and it then becomes a kind of dogma from which I refuse to budge. So Chan doesn't say anything absolute: it doesn't say, 'this is true', 'this is right' or 'that is wrong.' I think it's quite process oriented in that it explores the workings and reflections of mind itself.
    The practical implication for me is that it's not so important to find out what is 'true', because most things we call true are in a continual state of flux. They are conditioned experiences. Is 'the grass is green' true? Well, only if we happen to have the right conditions can it be seen as true, such as sunlight, eyes, conscious recognition of this as 'grass', etc. What is grass without the label of 'grass' from previous memory? I think the important thing is to see that all phenomena are conditioned, so saying that something is true is really only saying something in a particular instant of time, education and circumstances. Even what we see and don't see is conditioned by previous experiences. I might discover later that what I thought would absolutely always apply to every situation turns out to have only specific contexts. I don't consider myself as wise, but I suspect that a big part of wisdom is having insight into the tentativeness of views.
     After reading Ernest Becker, I am reminded of the question: is the 'fundamental' existential condition of human beings the terror of death? I think that it depends, and it seems that Becker is suggesting that the awareness of death is the cornerstone of how people form personality defenses. Nobody wants to be overwhelmed by the knowledge that things are continually in flux, passing from life to death, so they start to form categories and perceptions of fixed selves. But my question is: if one psychologist says that death is the basis for all personality, then another says instincts, then another says social adjustment, which one is 'true'? What is 'fundamental'? I think it depends on our understanding of what is undeniably true of all sentient life forms. But I am not too sure if 'death' of the body  is the fundamental end of sentient being.  I am also not too sure if death is the only kind of suffering we have. I suspect that it's a big part of human suffering to be aware of death, but is it the only suffering there is? If people could live forever, would they simply stop suffering? Here again...I am inclined to say that as long as people are looking for any kind of certainty to protect themselves from being overwhelmed by experience, there is going to be the suffering of attachment.
      No answers in this blog...only questions. Keep going!

Looking at Death

     While reading Ernest Becker's very influential book, Denial of Death, I was reflecting on my own attitudes toward dying. According to Becker, the child's personality defenses are entirely constructed based on a fear of death and what Becker refers to as 'contingency'-the sense of being imprisoned in a body that is destined to decay or be conditioned. All defenses are a way of warding off the insanity of contingency and accidental nature, in favor of an ideal and potentially immortal sense of self. Referencing Erich Fromm and Kierkegaard, Becker describes the dilemma of the child as 'between angel and beast'-- and how the early experience of personality is shaped by the tension between these polarities.
    Becker's book offers interesting perspectives that I have encountered especially in reading existentialist philosophers. I have rarely seen this kind of perspective in Buddhist writers and teachers, or in Eastern philosophies. What I find slightly challenging about Becker's approach is that I wonder whether a child is able to comprehend 'contingent' or 'accidental' nature, and I wonder why anyone associates the body in particular with 'accident' and 'death' unless they have a direct encounter or grasp of death. I think perhaps the closest I can think of to an analogous story in Buddhism is how Gautama Buddha came to learn about suffering, in watching the sick, the elderly, the dead and the monk on the streets. Suffering is exactly how his young prince finds these phenomena: not something that can be controlled, not something comfortable, not something that stays the same. These kinds of things are not limited to death or the death of the body, but are the kinds of sufferings that simply happen every day.  So, even if a young person never experiences death, certainly everyone experiences not getting what they want, and the betrayal that sometimes arises when our needs or wishes are frustrated. To me, this is a much more universal experience than death, since it's happening constantly at every moment.
   To use a simple example, when I get up in the morning to go to work, there are times when I simply don't even feel motivated to move my body. And in those instances it seems, my body is 'separate' from me, because the thought comes to mind, "I really need to get up and go to work". The second thought will no sooner emerge: "Maybe five more minutes!" And finally I will reconcile these two attitudes and get out of bed, from necessity. But the contradiction between my wish to get up and feel a certain way and the state of sensation in the body creates a state of tension, a suffering. Only when I start to use a practice of being present and accepting my body can I reconcile with my situation. According to what I know of Buddhist teachings, the reason we suffer is that we are subject to a life that is never what we think it's going to be, and this creates a great tension in the mind. Buddhist practices help people to better harmonize with their experiences, by showing how they originate in mind, and are not something that is out there, standing in opposition to mind itself. Even though things are never entirely in control of a fixed self, we can still plant good conditions for future outcomes. So, things are never entirely out of hand, and nor are things within the control of a permanent, central self.
         There is a lot in Becker that I quite enjoy, but I think that the notion of an idealized 'cultured self' as a defense against the insanity of death is a little extreme. I wonder whether all cultures view death in the same way, or if this is perhaps a kind of extreme dualism that is unique to Western cultures. Why is the body so associated with 'decay' as Becker suggests, and are there not ways to celebrate embodiment as a vehicle to spiritual life? Is body a terrible thing, or is it only a certain attachment or relationship to the body that leads to suffering? Again, I would be careful not to so hastily categorize what might be happening to children when they are negotiating the various stages of embodiment and selfhood. I also tend to think that looking at personality as merely a defense overlooks the value of personality in spiritual development. Without a sense of who we are, what we enjoy, and what skills we have, it could  perhaps be quite difficult to embark on a spiritual practice.

Becker, Ernest (1973), The Denial of Death. New York: Free Press.
    

Life's Initiations

   Many spiritual perspectives I am reading about recently focus on the notion of mystery and initiation. Rather than seeing suffering and hardship as an isolated event which begins and ends with this body, these spiritual thinkers have a way of contextualizing suffering in terms of a never-ending process of learning and growth. Here, there is no way to 'contain' learning into a single life experience or even a single memory. This process of learning is not about trying to gain a vital piece of knowledge for one's own profit but about yielding to something that is mysterious and can never be completely known or captured. Mircea Eliade relates:


Death signifies the surpassing of the profane non-sanctified condition, the condition of the 'natural man', ignorant of religion and blind to the spiritual. The mystery of initiation discloses to the neophyte, little by little, the true dimensions of existence; by introducing him to the sacred, the mystery obliges him to assume the responsibilities of a man (quoted in Moore,  1994, p. 196)


This view is interesting to me because it doesn't see death as a total ending, but as some introduction to a deeper way of existence and thinking. In a sense, Eliade is confirming to me that there is no such thing as a 'real' death. For instance, when I meditate, thoughts might seem to arise and disappear, but something still remains that cannot be thought. It is a kind of nameless and colorless basis for every other phenomena. Loss of any kind can educate a person in not relying on the phenomena or taking it to be so real. In fact, there is simply no essence to things that is so fixed and permanent that we can say it is truly 'me'. So what we lose is only the illusion that identifies us with the things we own or love. But in the midst of losing and gaining, there is an alternate way of being: to yield to the mystery of impermanence and the comings and goings of form.
  
In his book Denial of Death, Ernest Becker roots most human activity to the wish to fulfill a heroic struggle or opportunity. In fact, Becker goes so far as to trace all symbolic activity (including language) to a conscious effort to immortalize the self. He remarks, "to become conscious of what one is doing to earn his feelings of heroism is the main self-analytic problem of life." (p.6) But if all heroic efforts are bound to end in some kind of dissolution or 'failure', what's the alternative way of living?


Thomas Moore talks about honoring the mystery of soul as a way of dealing with loss and failures, including the failures to fulfill personal expectations. He also sees loss as an initiation into a more soulful way of living which goes beyond individual existence, and he compares this realization to the 'dialogue between humans and the divine'. All this is wonderful, but it makes me wonder, how do I take this kind of soul learning into practice, or into daily life?


I think Eliade, Moore and Becker remind me that life's journey is not building an edifice around the self. Even when I learn something, the learning is incomplete and is bound to change over time. From the Buddhist perspective, consciousness continues into different lifetimes. To think that one life will ever 'complete' the learning cycle is illusory and somehow carries with it a feeling of having to do everything in one life cycle. But if you walk into any bookstore or library, you begin to realize that learning is limitless. There is no way for a single person to learn everything there is to know of all people's thoughts or insights. It would be like trying to pour all the oceans of the world into a thimble. There is simply not enough time or space to know or appreciate everything, or to taste all the different wines in all cups. So why not simply take a more playful approach to these philosophies and 'entertain' their possibilities, rather than thinking they are pieces of a puzzle that need 'completion' in a single lifetime? This way of looking might ease the need to perfect one's learning or one's self.


The scary thing about all this for me is realizing that knowledge is a kind of desire that can never be satiated. And the yielding to mystery that these authors describe is about renouncing the desire to satisfy one's craving to know, to experience everything in the mind, or to 'contain' it in a single self.


Becker, Ernest (1973), The Denial of Death. New York: Simon and Shuster


Moore, Thomas (1994), Soul Mates: Honoring the Mysteries of Love and Relationship. New York: Harper Perennial

Authenticity and Cynicism

   I was thinking tonight about the relationship between being 'authentic' and being cynical. And I put one of these words in quotations because it can be hard to tell what is really authentic and what is not so much. Quite often a person might think they know who they are and how they feel, but then what they are feeling might only be a reaction to some deeper pain that they haven't recognized or fully acknowledged. It's also possible that a person's entire makeup and way of being is a reaction to an unacknowledged, deep pain. So in that case, is a person who is reacting against her or his own repressed pain being 'authentic'? I think that care must be taken when using this word. Yet, many people use the term authenticity or its related expression of 'being oneself'  to justify a life of reacting to pain rather than embracing pain fully.
     How does a person avoid the situation of confusing authentic being with a kind of 'cynicism' that tries to skim over pain? This is something I am trying to practice in myself.. I find that in the mornings when my mind is fairly clear, I can do some meditation, and this can help me to be calm and not react to situations with like or dislikes. But over the course of the day, the more subtle reactions can start to take shape, such as emotional responses to work or the reactions we might feel to the body. Cynicism is a kind of short cut to dealing with the pain: it tends to generalize that things are 'terrible' when actually things are complex and nuanced, neither black or white. A cynical way of looking at a situation might be to dismiss oneself as not good enough to embrace a situation completely: "this is way too much for me to handle, I am not spiritual enough", a person might say, and doing so would lose their practice of being present. In this situation, I find it's important to remind myself of a pure intention to be lovingly present and accept every moment as it is. Even 'pain' can be embraced in this way, not looked upon as a fault in one's character, but as something that can be enjoyed fully as a conscious practice of 'being with'.
    Another misunderstanding that sometimes leads to a cynical or 'burned out' view is  the confusion between a doubting, outsider's perspective and genuine non-attachment. For instance, a person might say: "All my troubles come from the fact that I care too much,  so I should stop trying to care, and then I will have fewer problems." But this kind of attitude only leads to complete, defensive disengagement, as well as fear of getting too involved in the details of life.  And it also leads to a tired, almost rudderless approach to life. But this attitude does not need to be the only response to emotional challenges. An alternative would be to respect the kinds of polarities and tension of opposites that are contained in a challenge: the tension between going in confidently and running away, embracing change and upholding stability, solitude and support.
    I find that a good practice for me is to look at the way I am thinking and to ask myself: from which attitude does this thought arise? If I am thinking I cannot handle a situation, is it coming from an accurate view of myself, or is it a form of trying to disengage from what I dislike or don't fully understand? When I find myself slipping into a detachment or self-deprecating view, I can adjust to ask myself what good it does me to harbor inferior views of who I am. In this way, I re-calibrate myself so that I am able to confidently behold mystery and delve deeper into a spiritual life.

Sending out good, taking in bad

  Pema Chodron writes about a  particular practice called tonglen, where one is visualizing the process of taking in the pain of the world into one's body, while exhaling goodness toward other beings. While many meditation practices tend to focus on relaxing the body  or getting oneself into a certain state, tonglen would work for those who suffer chronic pain, because it asks that a person makes use of her or his pain to extend compassion toward other beings.  I think the fundamental part of tonglen that interests me is that it is not about self-blaming, self-victimization or even self-pity. Rather, it's the acknowledgement that suffering is a universal part of being human, and that my suffering can powerfully connect with all others. In fact, this dissatisfaction that is at the heart of human life is the way to open up to all life, a kind of universal compassion. Writes Chodron:


You breathe in so that you can really understand what the Buddha meant when he said that the first noble truth is that life is suffering. What does that mean? With every in-breath, you try to find out by acknowledging the truth of suffering, not as a mistake you made, not as a punishment,  but as part of the human condition. (p.80-81)


I think that tonglen is a useful practice in the sense that it does something with suffering rather than scapegoating it or consigning it to something that is not desirable. All too often, when I am sitting in meditation and feel pains in my body, I pathologize the pain. In my mind, I am thinking, "this shouldn't be happening", and I even go to the place of thinking that the pain is punishment. But what is interesting about this practice is that it makes suffering of pain ontologically  meaningful. Rather than viewing pain as some kind of mistake or a sign that something is deeply amiss, pain can become the signal to awaken to connection with others. It is this attaching meaning to pain that can allow the practice to have a purpose, and it also allows people to practice even in the midst of pain, rather than seeing it as a distraction.


I have often heard the argument in Chan that one should let go of the body in order to fully practice. It's interesting because at certain times in my practice, I am ready to do so, because I am seeing the changing nature of the body. Here, there is no sensation to cling to that is mine, 'my' body, or 'mine forever'. But there are other times when pain is so strong that it calls out to one's inner being, needing to be received in some way. It's not something I can simply label as 'impermanent' in those situations. I think tonglen is an effort to transform the real experience of pain into something inherently meaningful, rather than trying to bypass pain through a rational or intellectual distance. In fact, while the rationalizing might work in the short run, I have found that it simply falls apart during meditation. Most 'reasons' do fall apart, unless they connect to real experiences, such as concrete perceptions or sensations.


I think the important thing when meditating is not to see some experiences as 'distractions' while others are 'extra important'. All of this is mind, so it makes no sense in that moment to discriminate between something that is useful and something that is simply unimportant. Pain is also something that often gets labeled as a distraction, when in fact it is material we can use to practice inquiry into the source of the pain as well as how pain interconnects us to others. In that regard, pain can be a real friend to practice as well as a transforming agent.


Chodron, Pema (2010) Wisdom of No Escape. Boston: Shambhala

Illusions of Grandeur

  Before hopping on the bus this morning, I looked toward the east as the sun was just rising. On the side of a skyscraper in the distance, there was an eerie reflective glow, looking almost as though there was a banner displayed against the building's edifice. It made me realize that from a distance, it's so easy to make things more than what they are, or to have illusions of grandeur. Saying that we will do something big for ourselves sets a good benchmark, but one should never confuse the benchmark for the reality.
   The same, I found, is true about most things, including work. I usually have very optimistic ambitions coming into work. But I was just familiarizing myself with a relatively new process today, and thinking that somehow doing it repeatedly would get me 'in the groove' of the process. In reality, I was about halfway through my day when I started to think: man, this is so much harder than what I thought it would be, and I don't sense any progress in my numbers.. As soon as I finish processing one claim, a totally new one comes in, and I can only break even in terms of the numbers completed. So by the end of the day, I had to accept the fact that what I thought I was going to feel and experience wasn't the actual experience. And instead of comparing my outputs to the inputs, I had to focus on what I had achieved personally, compared to what I did yesterday. It's a modest comparison, but I suppose it's the best I can do.
    In meditative practice, I believe that the mentality has to shift away from a quantitative one, and even an experiential one. This is so because meditation is not an experience to be collected. It's more like a space of pure being where there are no judges, no winners or losers. If I can simply be with the experience as a totality without judging the outcome. If I put a fence around that experience, I know that the fence is not meant to stick or protect anything, because the next moment the 'boundaries' simply won't apply. Even what I wrote yesterday about 'pure motivation' does not mean that my experience today is going to feel particularly good or bad. It's a matter of being able to see things through the eyes of equanimity. I just need to be aware that expectations I might harbor are bound to be disappointed, because things always change and nothing is what we think it's going to be.
     Now, in light of this, I wonder what it means in terms of setting personal benchmarks at work. My thinking these days is that setting a benchmark in terms of numbers completed is necessary, but it's not sufficient. I say this because not everything can be quantified in a precise way (learning is one thing certainly that cannot be quantified). But the other thing is that if I am only quantifying my work, I am only learning how to have a strategic survival based mentality. I won't be able to develop other qualities if I continue to have this approach to life, including compassion. To put it in another way, if I only quantify what I do in terms of neat strict categories (numbers of things processed, completed, checked off, etc.) then soon I will be attached to the feelings of security that arise from it, and I will feel insecure if I am not meeting those targets. Even if I am not meeting them due to other commitments, I will feel that insecurity around numbers, not trusting that I am where I am for very specific reasons. When I contemplate those specific reasons instead of condemning myself for not meeting my quotas, I might find a space of compassion opening up. The compassion is not about having some sentimental attachment or pity, but more like seeing things as fraught with conditions, and respecting the conditions rather than trying to remake people into what we think they should be.