Pure Emotion

      I spent much of the day writing a bit of a fun play I had been inspired to write over the past week, in addition to reading in the sun. Outside, at the North York Central  Library, there was an interesting festival going on. I got lost in the music of the festival as well as reading Garma C.C. Chang's The Buddhist Teaching of Totality a second time. For a while, I had lost the perspective of self and others because there were no longer any voices 'overstanding' my experience.
     There is nothing particularly alarming about emotion, I realize, until there are "selves" attached to those emotions. What I mean by this is that too much of our interchanges have a strong distinction of self and others. We hear conversations like "I, unlike you, do this", and the idea is that one person is somehow superior to another in some way. And then the whole thing becomes a process of negotiating between what is mine and what is someone else's. This is where people start to blame others or take the blame themselves for things undone or not done up to standard. And this process only perpetuates strong sense of self. And notice that "self" here means multiple selves.
    But if one is not so hung up on the sense of self, what happens to emotional life? I find that it becomes somehow more clear. That is, emotions are no longer assigned to specific events or people. Instead, the emotion becomes something that is simply passing through and not being enmeshed in the concept of self and others. Direct experience of emotions is not so easy to achieve, however, because in daily life, there  is always a craving for a situation that is smoother and more pleasant. The result of this desire for something better is the growing sense that life is an obstacle to be overcome, or even an obstacle course. I wonder if you have ever had such an experience before, where you were rushing to get home to do something and started to perceive that the whole world were an obstacle to you reaching that goal. It's not that the world 'became' an obstacle. Rather, it is one's own desire for something in the future that makes the world into a sort of obstacle, or a heavy burden.
    I have encountered a similar kind of situation when I am in a rush to get somewhere. I notice that everything becomes an obstacle to me getting to my destination, rather than being a natural circumstance. When one is late for an appointment, every minute seems so critical, and even the stoplights seem like a punishment. But if I were not late for an appointment, would any of these things feel that way--as obstacles or punishments, or even objects of blame? This is to say that our attitude often depends on the kinds of ways we frame the circumstances.
    Chang himself offers a wonderful analogy to this relativity of things when he remarks:

To a man water is something tangible and definitely existent, but a fish living in the water may never feel its existence at all, just as men do not feel the existence of still air. The Buddhist tradition asserts that when a deva or god sees the water contained in a lake, he sees it as nectar not water; the same will become pus and blood when a hungry ghost sees it, and it becomes a poisonous liquid or fire when a denizen of hell sees it. This again testifies to the fact that water has no Selfhood. Conditioned by different common karmas, it appears as different things to different sentient beings. (p.87)

The point here is to suggest that things only seem terrible when there is an attachment to an essential thing that is behind that thing. If I am able to see that emotions aren't attached to any specific thing but are actually related to a whole set of emerging conditions, will I feel bad about that emotion? I probably won't feel so bad, because I would know that the emotion is not related to a specific object that is set against 'me' but is rather just arising from the conditions.

Chang, Garma C. C. (1977) The Buddhist Teaching of Totality: The Philosophy of Hwa Yen Buddhism. Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press.

Not Glued to Meaning

    In The Buddhist Teaching of Totality, Garma C.C. Chang remarks "Existence or non-existence is only meaningful when a definite realm is predetermined or implied. This very act of confining oneself to a particular realm in order to make something meaningful is the fundamental difference between the orientation of men and that of Hwa Yen. Men (sic) judge and view things from a definite, thus limiting, realm, but Hwa Yen views things from the standpoint of Totality--thus repudiating the very essence of 'defining' or building of any kind." (p.17) Some of this kind of discussion leads me to wonder, how does Buddhism compare with this attitude of finding meaning in specific things? One writer, Victor Frankl,talked about how those who lived in a concentration camp became resilient when they were able to story their lives or add something meaningful and hopeful to the situations. For instance, one of the concentration camp members had kept a picture of his wife with him as a reminder of the power of love in his life. Is Hwa Yen suggesting that all meaning is repudiated altogether? Why would it be insistent on, as Chang suggests, "repudiating the very essence of 'defining' or building of any kind"?
    I think the point of Hwa Yen school is not to repudiate meaning but to realize the endless, shifting multiplicity of realms of interconnected meaning., and how they don't interfere with each other. In fact, one can think of the whole of totality in this way. If  I am clinging to one particular view of things and the situation no longer allows my perspective to feel meaningful, then I am free to let go of it and experiment with other ways of seeing. In fact, it more often happens in meditation that my clinging to one particular experience causes me great suffering. Temporarily, it may seem that clinging to a good experience is a great energy boost-- and it certainly can be in some situations. But in the long run, I have never encountered a single instance in meditation practice that has been universally meaningful to me, or even serves as the 'model' for my other experiences. According to Hwa Yen school, the universe is simply too vast, intricate and infinitely complex to be able to be simplified into one equation or way of seeing. To put it in a more mundane sense: my understanding of water as a chemical compound might help me to develop a new water treatment system, but it won't help me to enjoy swimming. The two processes have to do with water, but mastering them requires completely different ways of seeing water.
     The view of 'no view' is not a nihilistic one, but it seems intended to show how mind can switch between realms and is never tied to a single perspective. It requires a bit of strength to see this, because for me, I have always wanted to be able to reduce experience to a single unified 'meaning' which I could write down or somehow memorize. Ironically, I almost feel like letting go of attachment to single meaning is perhaps the most (paradoxically) meaningful life because it allows each moment to reveal itself and alert us to life's inexhaustible mysteries.

Chang, Garma C.C.. The Buddhist Teaching of Totality. Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania University Press.

The Painful Friend

   I read a post on Facebook today which read something like, "pain is the great educator". I think this remark is interesting. What makes pain so educative in the first place? Is it just an age old idea that one grows one's character through painful experiences? If so, what's the dynamic behind it? And why does pain shut people down in some cases, while opening people's hearts in others?  I think the key to it is being able to maintain a spacious attitude toward pain without feeling that the pain is the main aspect of one's experience.
    During meditation tonight, the thought arose: even the label of 'pain' is just a sort of mental filter or concept. Without that concept, it doesn't really exist, since the bare sensations behind it could be read and understood in completely different ways. While Western medical models tend to see pain as something neurologically based, Chinese approaches tend to look at pain as the passage of energies through blocked or obstructed areas. I find this latter approach to be more conducive to a relaxed attitude toward pain, because there is some hope in it that pain passes from one state to another, just as energy passes through a blocked passage or channel. The drawback of Western approaches or models of pain is that they tend to operate under this idea of a malfunctioning electric signal or feedback. Here there is not too much hope of 'fixing' a problem unless there is some adjustment (whether through surgery or otherwise). The point is that both models suggest how 'empty' the concept of pain is, and how it can lend itself to endless experiences and interpretations. Pain is never a 'thing' one is saddled with, because there are always layers of interpretative possibilities to understand it.
      Can pain be a friend? I think that what pain can do is offer an invitation to approach things non-dualistically. The more I react to and label something as 'painful', the more there is a distance from it: a subject emerges from all this and says, "this is no good-my body should not be acting this way in meditation." But over time, it's no so productive to think this way, and the meditator starts to find alternate ways to make an open, inviting space to see that pain in new ways. It is hard to look into this, but the more one does not make pain into an object or obstacle the harder it is to be with it or to inhabit that pain. From a perhaps Huayen perspective, it is taking a part and exaggerating it into a whole, without considering it as an equal among many parts.

Meditation and Self Discipline

   During the first part of the group meditation tonight, I had been experiencing my share of scattered thoughts and pains in the spine. It was only during the second sitting that I started to develop a sense of continuity in my practice. I did this by adopting a kind of 'devotional' approach to my method. I told myself to have so much faith in the huatou method that it would literally cut through all the pain and thoughts. Indeed, it did do this eventually, but at the same time, it allowed me to truly pull away from my subconscious attachment to pain and thinking.
   Of course, meditation practice and methodology tends to emphasize relaxation, but I wondered in retrospect, what is the relationship between this devotional attitude I had adopted toward my practice tonight, and 'letting go'? It would almost seem that they are diametrically opposite, but actually not exactly: there are times when being devoted is the only way to let go of attachment to pain and body sensations. I think that part of it is that if one is relying only on one's own thoughts to make the practice work, it just becomes more wandering thoughts and distractions. I almost feel that I need to embrace the method in a fully committed way before it really starts to become a part of me. In a sense, this is because it's not the method that is working to change the mind: rather, it's the method that is the tool for mind to reveal it's own nature.
   The important thing however is to see one's relationship to the method as a real relationship. Like any relationship, it requires nurturing and patience, as well as a conscious effort to keep trying even if it doesn't seem to work in some situations. Meditation is not magic; it is a kind of consistent application of a principle of awareness and letting go. But if it is not working, it is not to blame the method, but rather to reinvigorate one's notion of what the method can do with an applied mind.

What is this really "letting go"?

 Actually, I don't have a single answer to the question: What is this really "letting go"? But the topic is something I am continuing to explore and want to be able to articulate for myself.
   The problem is, I think, how to approach the question. If the mentality is something like, "I want to make sure that I am always letting go of attachments all the time," then this is already an attachment. It's like saying, "I want to be hyper-vigilant in everything I do and say, so that I can finally let go of everything." In fact, what it leads to is a kind of subtle attempt to control every situation and give rise to certain kinds of thoughts. To truly let go seems quite the opposite: it is to fully acknowledge and even to accept every single mind-state one is in, with the fullest possible acceptance. How is this arrived at? What is the real key to this letting go? I think it's not identifying any thoughts with an enduring sense of self. It is being able to see the thoughts arise and disappear, but never getting fooled into thinking any of that is 'me'. But this is not easy to do, because most of the time a person thinks the 'I' in their thoughts is actually their real self.
    To give an example: when there is a potential layoff in the company or shortage of work, I have a tendency to go to: "what happen to me if I lose my job?" "Where will I find a steady income?" "Where will I live?" and so on. But when I really begin to analyse it, is this "I" that I refer to really the true me? Often, the "I" refers to an image of my body, or a future projected scene where "I" am in a dire situation or even wandering around destitute. But even if this is the body and how it looks to me, is this body "I"? As long as I remain tied to the idea that the "I" in my sentences is really me, my thinking is limited as well. It is as though I were staring at something all day to the point where I am hypnotized into believing that the body is my self.
     A little while back, our Chan group did a Living Chan presentation with Venerable Guo Xing, and one of the experiments we did was to take a rubber arm and place it parallel to one's real arm. The purpose of the experiment is to lead people to believe that the rubber arm is their real arm--to the point where hurling a large weight onto the rubber hand would 'feel' painful. (You can probably go on YouTube and keyword "Phantom Arm Experiment" to see how this experiment works). The point is that as long as a person is lulled into believing that the fake arm is the real one, one behaves as though their life depended on protecting the fake arm.
      The physical body seems to be a bit different from a simulacra like a rubber arm. But the principle is much the same. We are conditioned to take the body be us, so everything that threatens the integrity of that body appears to diminish the mind. But is the mind ever really diminished by anything?
       This practise is not about suppressing, altering or changing the way a person feels. It's not really so plausible to do that anyway, and nor is it necessarily an achievement to be able to change how one feels. The practice is actually the awareness that we are never how we feel, and we are not our thoughts of "I" or "me". To know this deeply is to naturally loosen the hold we have on both emotional states and that effort to present what we consider 'right' or 'wrong' emotions. That is really and deeply to relax. But if I am still stuck on who this 'me' is and how to present it to the world , I am always going to feel tense and anxious, no matter what I do. Something for "me" to ponder!

A Cloud in the Sky

   Garma C.C. Chang makes a distinction between "Mind as Suchness" (Li) and "Mind as Changing" (shih), where he suggests that the former is related to the mind as emptiness, while the latter relates to forms. He remarks, "both the view of existence and the view of non-existence become completely merged in a perfectly harmonious manner; thus, although [from a certain standpoint] either one may be hidden or revealed, there is no obstruction whatsoever between the two." (p.137) As I was reading this paragraph, I started to think about the analogy of the cloud in the sky. When one is in a cloud, really immersed in it, it seems as though the sky is in the background. It's sometimes as though one is literally living inside a certain mood which surrounds a person. Sky seems hidden, even though the cloud is always abiding in the sky. On the other hand, if one is able to glimpse the totality of all the clouds in the sky, there is a sense that none of the clouds 'blocks' the sky at all. It is rather the case that one has simply forgotten the context of the cloud: where it exists, how it comes to be, and how it changes over time. Has anyone ever seen a cloud in one spot for a long period of time? In fact, the cloud does not block the view of the sky, because the changing nature of the sky is always penetrating the cloud. There is simply no permanent cloud whatsoever, and nor will there ever be as such. It's only when I get really attached and worked up about that cloud that I will confuse it as some permanent essence or reality.
     I can extend a similar analogy to all sorts of weather conditions such as the sun. A cloudless day can be so enjoyable that we even tend to look at the cloudless sky and say: "This is the real sky!" But in fact, the real sky is always there all the time, even when something seems to be obstructing it. Because I am attached to the look of clarity that the sun creates, I tend to think that lack of clarity is an obstruction. But do clouds really block the sky? How can they when the cloud is actually revealed through the background of sky itself? So being in a cloudy state does not actually move away from the view of the sky, since sky pervades its nature.
    Chang remarks, in the same paragraph as above, "When the idea of duality dies out, there is no obstruction between the Void and the existing. Why? Because the true and the illusory mutually reflect, penetrate and embrace each other." (ibid) How does this apply to the example of the cloud? If you ever sit quietly with a particular cloud and gaze up at it with undistracted eyes, you will likely notice that the cloud is shifting in physical space. A plane may pass it by, and one's image of the cloud can have all kinds of associations attached to it. I see an elephant, or I am reminded of some other shape. Does this 'original image' of the cloud remain the same? The view is continually changing. I can see this if  my mind is intent on pure seeing, not sullied by other distractions. But even if I am distracted, is this not also confirming that the cloud is not permanent? If the cloud were a permanent fixed image, there wouldn't even be an opportunity to be distracted. I would be like an immovable blot on a screen which prevents other images from intruding. Yet, there isn't any image that stays this way in mind. So in this way, the cloud's image is permeated with the view of Void (emptiness, and totality).
    But there is another aspect to this, and that is the cloud is not something we need to bypass to see empty sky. There is no separation of these two things. Chang remarks, "Since the Void and existing are completely merged, they become on-dual; therefore no obstruction whatsoever exists between them. Since they both annul each other, they are both free from the two extremes." (ibid) Suppose I am in a negative mood, such as a depression or feeling of emptiness. Does this mean that dwelling on that feeling will eventually take me to a view of emptiness? I don't think so, because dwelling is already a form of attachment: taking the mood to be 'me' and feeling 'trapped' in that mood. There needs to be a practice here: asking "who is having this feeling?" is a good way to point to the view of the sky. When I ask this question in a sincere way, a space opens for me to question whether there is really a feeling that has an inherent awareness. Does sadness have awareness? Does depression have awareness? Or are they just phenomena that arises in awareness? Even if the feeling were to last a lifetime, do we become the feeling? Or are we only travellers in the realm of that feeling?
    If I am in the Hell realm, am I taking Hell with me? Do I ingest it until it 'becomes me'? If this were the case, there would be no awareness, since there would only be a sensation (such as a pain). How could there be a cloud without a sky, you could then ask? Reflecting on this analogy might sometimes help to question the assumption of self that is in that emotion. There is this assumption that the emotion is so powerful that it has to be 'me'. But the nature of cloud is also the nature of sky. It's something that is always shifting and changing, and it has a background.

Chang, Garma C.C. (1977), The Buddhist Teaching of Totality: The Philosophy of Hwa Yen Buddhism  Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University.

Higher Truth?

In his account of the Buddhist teachings of totality, Garma C.C. Chang describes a distinction between the practical truths of daily life and a 'higher truth'. While practical truths refer to the everyday conventions we ascribe to (such as names of things, habitual ways of seeing), Chang describes higher truth as "an observation that is not bound by any particular realm or frame of reference; it rises above all frames of reference and all positions." (p.83) Does this higher truth refer to a neutral experience, or some kind of theoretical objective position? I don't think this is what the chapter is referring to. In fact, I tend to think that the higher truth that Chang refers to is direct experience itself, which somehow goes beyond categorizing. With emptiness (shunyata), the idea is not about trying to drain all experiences of their meaning or arrive at a kind of proposed 'neutral' position. In fact, it is the way of seeing that suggests that there is no final position, and that any reference point is only relative to the way an experience is framed.
   I have a feeling after reading this chapter in The Buddhist Teaching of Totality, that it's simply impossible to know emptiness only through a book, or even from reflecting on a concept. The reason is that emptiness, paradoxically, is about the fullness of experience itself. It is a kind of deeply lived, moment-to-moment appreciation of experience as it is lived in community with other beings. If emptiness were about 'null' then it would simply be opposed to anything that has ever been. On the other hand, if emptiness were about fixed essences, there would be no change in the universe, and no novelty. Both views are incorrect because they try to reduce lived, impermanent experience into something static, fixed and abstract. It is as though one were to try to funnel all of experience into a tiny paper cup. And the reason is quite understandable: after all, experience can be incredibly unrewarding and overwhelming at times. And during those times, a tendency that many people have is to try to simplify and even eliminate complexity.
    This true emptiness, on the other hand, is more like seeing all the turmoil of life with very open and courageous eyes. It's not so easy to realize this, and very easy to confuse it with a kind of apathy. But when a person is really embracing emptiness, she or he is able to entertain every possibility that arises in mind without becoming attached to it or giving into the tendency to want to reduce it to something else. This is a very different view of emptiness from simply reading in a book that emptiness is about no-self or 'not having attachments'. The nature of emptiness is so inclusive that even talking about it is somehow conceptually limiting it. Even thinking of emptiness as a 'thing' is limiting as well!
     What is the outcome of all this reading? I think it means that one could try to practice refraining from reducing one's life to a set of predefined problems/solutions. It is best achieved by getting out of one's head and working in a community or just helping others in some way. I have found that tutoring is one way to get out of attachment to thoughts, because it gives me room to focus on something besides categories or habitual patterns of thinking. When I am tutoring or working in some community, the world no longer revolves around having to resolve or eliminate what I consider to be problematic. Rather, those problems are seen as one way of seeing among many others, where some things get pushed to the foreground and others to the background. It's then that I can also observe how these same pictures can be reconfigured into completely new foregrounds/backgrounds. In other words, there is a three dimensional space I am working with that allows for the objects to turn and reveal new facets to them.
    When I think in this three dimensional space, I find that life is less about problem solving and more about teasing out the complex threads that makes up one's story and connections with others. Isn't life much more interesting when a person can drop their idea that life is something that needs to be 'solved'? Would it not lead to the higher truth that life is complex and never-ending interconnection?

Chang, Garma C.C (1977). The Buddhist Teaching of Totality: The Philosophy of Hwa Yen Buddhism. Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University

Valuing People for Themselves

  During the meditation team meeting today, we explored this ongoing question of what it means to use meditation to coordinate and lead. I think one of the interesting disconnects I observe in this matter is how meditation is viewed as something passive that is done completely in solitude, while coordinating group activities is considered social and somehow related to achieving a goal. It is interesting because people (including myself ) tend to feel more comfortable when they are actively contributing in an obvious way to a particular activity. But I sometimes wonder whether it's possible for a person to feel they are contributing with just being present and using a method of practice at every moment. I believe it's possible, but it is hard to do in social situations.
    From a theoretical perspective, I would have to say that 'being able to contribute' and feel useful is based on a sense of self. Perhaps it even has to do with the idea of the body having a certain reach and being able to extend itself to do valuable things--or at least what is deemed 'important' by the society. But I wonder, why is 'just being' not equally celebrated? I think the reason is that contributing somehow in a positive way that gets feedback is sometimes seen as having a greater purpose than simply being a participant. In fact, however, one can never contribute all the time, and there are moments when people are neither giving nor receiving in an obvious way.
    Meditation offers a unique opportunity to reverse the tendency to overvalue productivity and undervalue being present. It allows people to arouse a natural and steady gratitude to all that is happening in their lives. But group meditation practice can foster that through a mutual appreciation of people's being. Well, to use an example: have you ever noticed that people are often valued not for who they are but for whether they provide some service for others? What would the world be like if people truly valued each other or took the time to see people on their own terms--rather than valuing them for what they are perceived as doing? It's interesting that this shifts things away from measuring people according to external results. Instead, a person's unique soul and being are valued in that moment. Instead of valuing an externally produced commodity that is produced by people, it's the person's uniqueness that is valued. Could meditation and the culture of mutual presence and interbeing create a shift in the way that people are viewed? And I wonder, what would that mean for the greater society--to be valued for one's own sake and being rather than for what one produces?

Simultaneous Arising

  A few years ago, I was in a study group which explored Huayen Buddhism. One of the topics that we had explored in our readings was that of simultaneous arising--the idea that many realms (or distinct reference points) can co-exist together without contradicting or even colliding with each other. Garma C. C. Chang uses a pretty good example of the micro-organisms that live inside a glass of water, and how they don't interfere with the act of drinking:

     Converging within this simple object- a cup of water- are numerous realms: they co-exist with one another in very mysterious manner. On the one hand, they 'live quietly', each within its own sphere, without jumping out of bounds; and on the other hand, they 'live harmoniously together' without creating the slightest hindrance or interference with other realms. (p.18)

Chang is suggesting that things don't necessarily interfere with other things. It would be presumptuous to think that the actions of microorganisms have any affect on how we drink water, because the two operate in different realms. But it's interesting that throughout history of ideas, there is a tendency to want to reduce one realm to another. For example, some thinkers say that human beings are a very advanced type of animal, but not much more than that. It makes me wonder, when is it a good idea to resort to one realm to enrich one's understanding of another realm? And when is it best not to confuse the realms?

    I think that this question hinges on the role that exploring different realms can play, and how tricky it is to try to understand different realms without trying to reduce them to others. An example might be something like psychoanalysis. I remember reading a book called the Spiritual Life of Children by Robert Coles, and it talks about how children explore their spirituality and what it looks like. The author used a lot of interviews with the children to understand their perspectives, and he seemed to respectfully refrain from adding his own interpretation to what the children were doing or saying. But the project then made me wonder: is this act of compiling children's stories a subtle way of trying to classify things according to their similarities? Does it sometimes potentially (though unintentionally) lead to the view that spiritual life is but a kind of "stage" in psychological development that all people go through at a certain age? At times, the attempt to find commonalities across stories has a way of flattening them, even though there is much to say about the psychological perspective. I mean to suggest that one should not be lulled into thinking that everything can be reduced to neat stages or biologically timed developments. But models have a way of sometimes doing this, inadvertently.

   Perhaps a different way of looking at realms is to see that one particular realm can never fully explain all the others. At best, realms can cross with other realms or briefly interact with others so that they can create new combinations or enrich each other. But they are not meant to dominate or limit the perspective of others. A person in education can try to look toward psychology or sociology to enrich their understanding of what goes on in her or his classroom. But if that becomes the center, it sometimes takes away from other insights gained when someone is in the classroom, not using these different lenses.

    Taking a non-confrontational approach toward realms seems to be the best way to get the most from them. If I try to say that a social way of looking is superior to a psychological or literary way, I am limiting possibilities. I am also limiting the ability to partner different realms, such as when an academic uses art to illustrate a science based theory. It isn't that realms exist in a hierarchy but perhaps more that they co-exist, and can create very new dynamics if they are combined in a skilful way. I don't need to see one function of being as threatening the other or 'superior' to another. In this way, it's possible not to see the contradictions between realms as in need of correction.

Chang, Garma C. C. (1971) The Buddhist Teaching of Totality: The Philosophy of Hwa Yen Buddhism. Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press

Coles, Robert (1990), The Spiritual Life of Children. New York, NY: Houghton Mifflin.

Why Does Gratitude Seem So Foreign?

  Every now and then, the feeling of gratitude arises. It's not so easy to grasp, because there is a special stance one has which allows gratitude to feel natural. It's realizing that the things that sometimes seem difficult are actually gifts. It's also realizing the particulars of people and experience which make them so unique and special in life.
   Usually, I am now making it a habit after the group meditation practice to join palms together and remind people of gratitude for the group practice and each other. In that moment when I join palms and am very aware of myself and the others, that gratitude feels quite sincere. And why does it especially feel sincere to be grateful after meditation? I sense that it has to do with the fact that one's body and mind are especially clear at that moment. But even if one didn't have a particularly relaxed sitting, there is a sense that just sitting in one place with others creates an emotion of thankfulness. We are thankful even when the gifts don't seem so meaningful at first glance: the gift of leg pain, or scattered thoughts, etc.
    On the other hand, if one's body and mind are not relaxed in daily life, gratitude seems so 'foreign' in a sense. It's as though one were driving down the highway at 80 or so miles an hour, and were suddenly told to look at the moon or a bed of roses and admire them. The problem is that the mind seems to be moving in the daily moments of life: flitting from one thought to the next, or from one anxiety to the next. Because the mind is moving a lot in those cases, it's hard to sincerely or genuinely receive what has already been given to oneself. For instance, parents might be so caught up in their roles as providers to children that they fail to really receive the children as they are, in their unique ways. The 'terror' of receiving is a kind of Puritanical terror of 'lagging behind' or under-producing. At that point, nothing is really ingested, because one doesn't take the time to appreciate what is already given to one's life.
    I have had occasional surprise moments of gratitude in places where I had least expected to feel as such. When I was an undergrad at York, I remember times when I had to print my essays from floppy disks (yes: those) and was at the computer lab for much of the time. During my stay in the lab, I learned the basics of life in computers: how to save things, how to protect my disks from being erased, how to back up my work, how to do a spell check, how to fill up my print card, etc. I came to appreciate those moments where I realized that the computer lab was connecting to me and ensuring that I have what I need to submit my term papers on time. It sounds a bit silly and quaint now, but those moments of struggle and support were portals to learning about the simple gratitude of daily life.
     Another example has to do with packing things in my knapsack. There have been times when I over-pack my bag to the point where I can hurt my back. Lately, I have been more conscious about this, and I don't pretend that I am so superhumanly strong that I can handle any amount of weight on my body. Prior to leaving my apartment, I consider exactly what book I want to take, whether I need an umbrella, and whether I need a sweater or not. And when I look in the bag, there are times when I feel an actual gratitude for what I have. I am grateful when the bag takes my things from A to B without losing anything! Do you think that's crazy? Well, consider the times in my life when I had knapsacks with no zippers (only those latch-type things), or even had holes in them. The bag I own is supporting me, and thus allowing me to take the things I need from one place to the next without losing things or hurting myself. Is this not reason to feel grateful?
      It really does seem silly to be grateful for things one has, but it's only silly because the society we live in does not respect the inanimate world. At one time, even trees had individual spirits or avatars associated with them, but recent thinking tends to treat 'things' as inert and unthinking, and therefore not worthy of too much respect. As a result, we are often not really grateful for having things. But my examples above suggest that gratitude can extend to the simple things one has to survive and be reasonably successful in the world. Could this gratitude be something that changes the way we relate to the physical world?

Prayerful Attitude

  It seems that the way to all spiritual practice is toward surrender: surrender of what we think we are and even where we think we are going. It is losing even the sense of 'being lost', since to 'feel lost' assumes a kind of fixed reference point which tells us we are lost. This kind of spiritual surrender knows no pride. It admits to its own foolishness. It is none other than the process of losing the authority within that thinks it somehow knows better, in favor of an unknowing and infinitely yielding kind of stance toward life.
    During the group meditation tonight, I was suffering from all kinds of anxieties, particularly reflecting all the changes happening in work. It was sometime during the second half of the sitting that a desperation set in of not being able to let go of anxiety. And at that point, I just surrendered. Surrendered to what? I think I surrendered to my own fallibility--my inability to let go on my own. And when I finally gave up trying to let go, that was when I was really able to let go and keep coming back to the present. And what arose was a kind of sadness. It's as though throughout my life, I have kept the illusion up that I could have this ability to let go anytime and anywhere. In fact, no such ability comes from any self. And this is quite painful to know, because it means that I am not really 'belonging to me'. I am not in charge of what is happening or unfolding in life. But in another sense, life's changes force a person to shed this armored illusion that one is always prepared for anything. This is a kind of false feeling of independence that often doesn't bear out in daily life.
    The positive side of it is that there can be a liberating feeling that arises when a person realizes that there is nothing they need to control in their life. It's the freedom of not trying to seek out any mind trick to feel more confident than one is or more 'knowing' than one is. But what I experienced tonight was a kind of mini-grieving. It is so hard to give up the 'self that prepares for everything': this kind of imaginary complex that has arisen after many years of conditioning myself to think I am preparing for every contingency, every emotion and every nuance that arises. This self is actually illusory and based on habits. And one has to trust in something that is much vaster than these habits. I think that regardless of what practice one uses, trusting something bigger than oneself is so crucial.
    In a sense, I think that prayer is very much in line with this idea. But it's easy to distort prayer into a kind of 'getting what one wants' or trying to strike a bargain with the universe. Can prayer not be about that at all? Prayer is more about a relationship with something greater than oneself which cannot be controlled. I am not sure what that higher thing is and I am hesitant to call it anything but the orientation of prayer is similar across different faiths. But again, I think the stance is more important than the 'object' of prayer. It is not about praying 'for something to happen' (or not to happen) but more the way one prays: the aspect of no longer asking for any result in particular, but letting some greater principle guide us and not relying on our previous memories and habits to make decisions or react to things.

"Answering the Call"

  I am pondering Martin Buber's chapter, "The Question to the Single One", in his book Between Man and Man. Buber critiques a philosophical style which tries to reduce the notion of responsibility to "an idea, a nature, an institution...all that in essence is not a person." (p.45) Buber seems to suggest that most modern philosophers of his time were simply out of touch with what he refers to as "what of elemental reality happens between life and life...the mysteries of address and answer, claim and disclaim, word and response." (ibid) I think what Buber is suggesting is that if a person tries to look at their life only in terms of who they are as separate beings, they lose the importance of being answerable to the calls of other beings. To live, according to Buber, is to answer a particular call toward otherness, rather than being enveloped in a narrow view of oneself. I wonder if perhaps Buber is even hinting at the possibility that duty lacks meaning unless it is grounded in real relatedness.
        Buber roots ontology not in the self but in the calls that other beings claim upon us in our daily lives. Yet, throughout my reading of this text, I am left puzzled as to how to practice this view in daily life. In fact, Buber refuses to reduce such a call to a technique, and he even compares it to a kind of revelation. It leaves me wondering, is even the act of reading Buber going to bring a person closer to this revealed interconnection with others?
      I tend to go back to my limited experiences of meditation to understand how it applies to the examples that Buber is describing. If mind is really letting go of self-attachment and not using discrimination to separate 'my body' from 'others', there wouldn't be any real obstacle in interacting. We wouldn't be putting up any personal obstacles, such as "I need to be this way, to relate to this person." But so far, Buber does not offer the unique consolations of technique to offer an explanation on what is happening between people. He doesn't say, 'just think that everything is phenomena', because Buber wants his audience to know and feel what it is to be called by something other than the consciousness with which one is familiar. This call is a mystery because it takes people into something that can never be possessed. Buber remarks "You cannot devour the truth, it is not served up anywhere in the world, you cannot even gape at it, for it is not an object." (p.47) So with Buber, even the assurance that a spiritual journey is getting one 'somewhere' is lost. The real plunge is to get outside of one's self-assurance, and it is quite hard to even conceptualize how this is done. In fact, Buber is resisting reducing the process to a concept, because concepts are what reduce things into 'its', or objects to be consumed or 'gaped at'. And he is insisting that reality is not reducible to neat parts.
     There are certainly parallels in Buddhism, but they are not so easy or apparent to see. When I read the Vows of Samantabhadra, for instance, I am seeing that the vow to honor Buddhas includes respecting and honoring all living beings. If one does not experience awe and wonder in seeing another sentient being, then this is also the same as failing to see the awe of a Buddha. The two realms are in fact inseparable. But too often people take a spiritual teaching and try to strip it of its genuine otherness: it is like trying to cocoon oneself in the comfort of a conceptual framework or predictable practice. But this is also cutting off a genuine experience of no-self, yielding to a world where there are others who have just as much viable claim to existence and purpose as oneself.
     I don't think there is any way to 'grasp' or practice this teaching other than to simply let go of 'teaching' a little bit, and allow a space for others to simply lay their demands (or their wishes, their claims to being) into one's psychic space. Ialso don't think this entails having to meet those demands, like a kind of gopher or 'servant'. Rather, I think it means simply allowing the infinite possibilities of others' wishes and demands to fill our being. It also means allowing the guilt that arises when one realizes that not every claim can be answered or met, even though all claims have an equal value in the world. There will always be a kind of guilt that comes from having to choose some claims over others, and the messiness of that process. But the challenge is to relax into full awareness of the claims of others, without having to go into a defensive posture or even fix all those claims. Listening is key, because it is through listening that one's sense of humility can lead them to a loosening of self-clinging. But this too is a delicate process, and it takes time to arrive at a genuine awe and humility that is not tainted with self-pity or punishment.

Buber, Martin (1965), Between Man and Man. New York: Macmillan

Direct Encounters

What I most enjoy about Martin Buber's writings is that he emphasizes relationships as the most direct and unencumbered way to have a spiritual encounter. This is in contrast to an over reliance on techniques and abstract rules, which tends to inform a lot of Western philosophy. In fact, there are times when I am reading Buber where I start to feel that spiritual encounters cannot be reduced to labels or 'things'. He at one point remarks in Between Man and Man: "he who practices real responsibility in the life of dialogue does not need to name the speaker of the word to which he is responding--he knows him in the word's substance which presses on and in, assuming the cadence of an inwardness, and stirs him in his heart of hearts." (p.17) I think the point of this passage is to relate to the world in a very different way from what most people are accustomed to. Rather than trying to use present situations to validate one's past judgments or labels, there is simply a discarding of the labeling process in favor of a direct encounter with other beings.
    Now just what is this 'direct encounter' all about? Buber quite wisely resorts to a concrete example to illustrate, when he talks about a horse he had befriended at his grandparents' estate when he was eleven years old. Buber describes how he formed a connection with the horse, and how his initial experience was one of beholding the horse as a kind of "Other":

If I am to explain it now, beginning from the still very fresh memory of my hand, I must say that what I experienced in touch with the animal was the Other, the immense otherness of the Other, which, however, did not remain strange like the otherness of the ox and the ram, but rather let me draw near and touch it. (p.23)

Buber beautifully describes what I think is such an interesting possibility: the balance between beholding the Other as an Other without being disconnected from 'otherness'. Buber's encounter with the horse allowed him to feel in awe of this other living creature, yet the act of 'being allowed' to pet the horse allowed him to connect with the horse. This is quite unlike some spiritual philosophies which emphasize 'oneness' (p.24-25), and only end up reducing "Others" to functions of the self. In the latter case, I am able to fully relax with all beings, but they end up becoming functions of my experience rather than beings in their own right. If I do the latter, I end up making the encounter a kind of blasé one: it's devoid of the edge that comes when two separate lives come together, and even denies distinctions. In contrast, Buber is celebrating the encounter as something fresh that always arises through the intersection of two or more very distinct beings who are continually allowing a space for connection.
     In order to really appreciate Buber's writings and style, I would have to think that one would need to really believe in and practice seeing the universe itself as a living totality. But by 'living totality', this doesn't mean that a rock is equal to a plant. Rather, it means that a rock can still be a rock and a plant a plant, in a continually changing set of interactions. This is quite different from someone who wakes up in the morning and says, "In order to get through the day, I am going to see everything as the same thing, made of the same substance, and this will guarantee me equanimity." In Buber's case, I think the totality would come more from not labeling or trying to equalize any experience, but rather immersing oneself in the unfolding moment as something new. This latter way of being is scary because it opens the possibility of having to acknowledge other beings as others, rather than as instruments for self gain.

Buber, Martin (1967), Between Man and Man. New York: MacMillan

Buber's Notion of Signs

   In the book Between Man and Man, Martin Buber begins his section entitled 'The Signs' with the following statement: ''Each of us s encased in an armour whose task is to ward off signs" (p.10) Buber suggests that people often try to reduce their interactions with others into something predictable that can be packaged or symbolized in some way, rather than simply lived head-on for its own sake. It's interesting that Buber would have us believe that signs can threaten a person with annihilation; hence, at one point, he remarks, "the risk is too dangerous for us, the soundless thunderings seem to threaten us with annihilation" (ibid). It's interesting because I would think that a universe without signs would threaten a person with annihilation. After all, one could argue that signs are what give meaning to a person's life. But I suggest that Buber has a specific meaning attached to a universe of signs. While certain kinds of signs, such as augurs, are things which confer status of 'knower' on the sign reader (p.11-120), the signs Buber is referring to relate more to something which addresses me (or you) uniquely and specifically as an individual. Whereas traditional forms of knowing tend to stress being able to objectify and predict relationships, the signs that Buber describes are the kinds of personal calling which speak specifically to one person, in one situated event in time. Signs become so special to the person that they can strangely enough seem overwhelming, often creating a demand for a response. I am almost thinking that perhaps these 'signs' that Buber is referring to are more about fate, destiny or personal calling: the kinds of things that people often back out of because they fear the responsibility they shoulder for fulfilling a personal calling. While the more mundane examples of signs (such as dream dictionaries) tend to operate from the opposite principle of trying to fix situations according to a specific map of symbols, the signs Buber refers to point to a person's freedom to choose and her ultimate responsibility. About these signs, Buber remarks, "it is no experience that can be remembered independently of the situation, it remains the address of that moment and cannot be isolated, it remains the question of the questioner and will have its answer." (p.12)
     One thing I find interesting about Buber's notion of signs is that it leaves room for the wild unpredictability of how people are 'called' to be in the world. Think back, for instance, to the days when you were  a student and you had to fill out those very long aptitude questionnaires to determine what you are most suited to do for a living. While these kinds of tests have a value in pointing people in the direction of their skills and interests, there is something that happens when one graduates from university and enters into the working world. I believe that what happens is one realizes that what one is called to do in life cannot be reduced to aptitude tests or questionnaires. Often, what a  person is 'called' to do in the depths of experience could never be predicated or quantified. This is because being 'called' to do something means that only I and I alone am being called at that time and place, to do a specific job or task. Although I may have been able to predict in general outline what I would be doing for a living, it's only the specific call to do so which allows one to really rise to the situation. And this calling takes one into the depths of their own mystery, which can never be reduced to a statistic.

Buber, Martin, (1967), Between Man and Man.     New York, NY: Macmillan

Dedicating One's Actions

Before going to tutoring in the morning, I decided to dedicate the tutoring practice to all the Buddhas and Dharma. It was not anything elaborate: I just directed my intention outward to include all living beings. In the Ten Vows of Samantabhadra, Samantabhadra links dedication to others to dedication to serving all Buddhas, when he remarks:

I would be a good physician to the sick, a guide to those who have wandered from the path, setting their feet in the right way. I would be a light to those who wander in darkness. I would enable the people in poverty to discover the vaults of treasure. A Bodhisattva should thus benefit beings inn equal treatment, and bestow his loving care on all beings alike. And why? because if a Bodhisattva serves all beings that is equal to serving Buddhas dutifully. (p.14-16)

I don’t consider myself to be a Bodhisattva, but I find that this principle is useful to anyone from any walk of life. I think it has to do with silently dedicating anything one does to the well being of many, if not all. There are times when this is hard to do, because we tend to be limited by time constraints and even physical needs. But on the other hand, I have learned that simply having this attitude of dedication goes a long way. I almost have this sensation of being able to get through my work more smoothly, because I am not limiting the meaning of work to a personal sense of accomplishment or finality. The dedication itself allows me to approach the job with a wider perspective which is linked to all sentient beings.

It sounds almost incredible to believe that anything one does can be linked to all beings. What does this mean? As long as I am caught up with attachment to self-importance or pleasure, work will feel like either drudgery or a system of rewards. I will try to do the work quickly, in the secret hopes of experiencing relief after it is fully completed. But if I really and fully believe that my intentions and wholeheartedness can benefit all beings, would this not make the work itself more meaningful and enjoyable? I certainly believe so, and it also counteracts the tendency to think that we are only tiny cogs in a machine. It seems that the modern workplace almost encourages the mentality of thinking that one is only a small part in a whole. But does being a ‘part’ make a person any less than the whole? In fact, each part is indispensable to the whole. In this way, what I do and how I do it always reflects everything else in some way.

I think it’s important to think this way, because I am convinced from my own experience that many people often feel unimportant in the modern world. They internalize the message that they are parts of a machine—and dispensable ones, at that. But this view is quite negative and can lead to a dreary and reluctant approach to one’s working life. If there is some way that one can dedicate what one does to the deeper interconnection of all beings, this itself can create the very best society. It counteracts the despair of thinking that one is replaceable. In fact, the awareness one uses to work is priceless and irreplaceable.

World of Strife

  There is all kinds of conflict going on in the world today, and I do wonder what is a good strategy to deal with conflict. I have come to a certain observation in myself that conflict doesn't really come from two or more people. It is always coming from the thoughts and how one interacts with them. To give a simple example which I had recalled in the study group tonight: if I see someone coming toward me and I am reminded of a similar person who might have bullied me in the past, I am no longer interacting with that person in the moment. The strife comes from what I do to that person internally: the kinds of labels and attributes I assign to him or her. And more importantly, all this attribution belongs to thought. It's not something that has awareness or consciousness. Knowing this, I may start to let go of engaging in a struggle with that thought.
    Is it possible to know that the disturbing thought has no awareness? I think about how one of our Fashis(Venerable) has often used the example of a puppet. If you dress up a puppet in all the goriest accoutrements, you will be afraid of it, but it's only inanimate. In order for me to truly fear the puppet, I must believe it has its own self-organizing awareness and existence. Otherwise, the puppet is inanimate, and there is no literal life in it. Is there life in anything we see, feel, hear? Of course there is life there, but when I think of someone, that thinking is not alive or aware. Yet most of the time, I treat the thought as though it were alive and aware and become frightened by my very own thought.
    What I can tell is that whatever I experience about a person is based on a whole lot of aggregated filtering. I pile meaning upon meaning, without ever really touching the other person in any significant way. But if I am aware that the thought is not aware, what happens is that I am no longer struggling. Try this then: whenever you feel discomfort with someone, just realize that the comfort is simply your thought about that person. It is never that person. It's a trace of what we experienced in the past, now come back to link to the present moment of the person. When I interact with the memory, I am really interacting with something that is not alive, and can't even respond to me.  Yet, that is often what happens: one treats the memory as an actual living person with whom one can converse and respond. In fact, that memory refers to nothing that is alive today. So why should I be overly upset with the memory? It's only tangentially related to what is happening now, almost by a sort of coincidence.
     To go back to the topic, can strife be overcome through this view? I think it can be, but it takes a lot of practice. It takes practice to stop connecting one's feeling with another person, and to see that it is a reaction to a memory that has already past.

Not Excited, Not Bored

    I have been reflecting after meditation today: why is it so important for a practitioner to keep a simple lifestyle, with relatively few attractions or stimulation? From a perspective of meditation, the obvious answer is that it helps to calm the mind and body at all times. But I am sure that there are those who live by the belief that life should be lived in extremes. For instance, William Blake once said, one who persists in one's foolishness will become wise. So what is wrong with simply living life according to one's passions?
      I have noticed that when there is too much stimulation happening around me, I get swept away in it, and the mind doesn't really feel grounded in anything. Soon, I become so overwhelmed that mind switches into a kind of spectator mode, just taking in things without really processing or understanding them with any depth or fullness. It's like having too many courses for dinner: there is simply no chance to enjoy or savor that one thing. I found that this is especially the case with books. Going to a bookstore is a kind of blessing and curse all at once, since it opens me up to so many possibilities, yet not enough time to go into anything with depth. Sometimes, it's better to commit to one book deeply for a long time, with the faith that one can understand all books through that one book. This is a tricky practice, because we are conditioned to think that everything has its own distinct subject area with no overlaps. But one does have to stick deeply to something to see the depth and complexity of all things.
    The problem, then, is not 'having too much to do', but it is more to do with the quality of awareness. I have observed that if I am too caught up in many things, I won't have time to really sink into something and immerse myself in it deeply. This puts consciousness almost in the position of grabbing at whatever bits of meaning it can find. And I feel that at times the Internet can also be a kind of source of stimulation, because it is always determined to attract people to sensations, gossip and other kinds of entertainment.
    When one really cultivates enjoying one thing, the mind finds that it has its own inherent way of stimulating itself. When I am really calm and my mind is settled, even breath is interesting. It has nothing to do with the special attributes of the breath itself; it is more the quality of mind when it is not being lead about by objects or stimulating things. What one can learn in meditation is that joy doesn't require having so many entertainments, but that when left to itself, the mind actually 'entertains' itself through a relaxed engagement. But it takes practice to really do this. And I am thankful to have a group practice with fellow practitioners who allow me to find the joy in mind.

A Sense of Awe

  Reading the vows of Samantabadra, I am reminded of what it means to practice and why. There are times in my meditation when I am so aware of my confused and perplexed mind, that I wonder what the motivation is to calm the mind. But one of the key aspects of Samantabadhra's vows is how it consolidates many of the factors that make for a strong practice. I want to share a little bit how I understand each of the vows.
    Veneration for all Buddhas is the first vow described in the text (p.5). What is meant by it? Is it mean worshipping Buddhas as though they were separate beings from ourselves? The more I look into it, the more I realize that the veneration is not about trying to reach a remote or distant being. It is actually seeming to be the opposite: that is, it is touching upon the parts of one's very own mind which inspire veneration and awe. Samantabadhra gives many examples which inspire a sense of limitless transformation of mind, when he remarks: "I...have profound faith and deep understanding, as though  were face to face simultaneously with all the Buddhas of all the Buddha worlds, (such Buddhas) are equal to the (flying) smallest dust-motes in number, throughout the worlds of Dharma and the cosmic void of the ten quarters and the three ages." (p.6)  
    As I mentioned in my previous entry, this kind of awe evokes images of the fertility of mind: it is always expanding to fill all the spaces, and filling in every crevice and crack. Such a view is not about seeing the mind as a fixed object of worship. Rather, it suggests the ability for liberated mind to reach into every aspect of living beings' lives and reveal the sources of suffering, as well as remedy suffering.  I am quite amazed at how much cosmic imagery is used to convey the boundless energies of mind: Samantabadra's vows are described as ending only when "infinite space is ended" (p.7); he also mentions "spheres of being" and "boundless ocean of all forms of speech". These images evoke how limitless mind truly is when it is not attached to forms or hooked by afflictions.
   The kind of veneration that Samantabadra describes is quite different from others I have encountered in, say, Western literature. I tend to associate veneration with obedience to a set of commands, particularly through faith or through strict observance of special days. I think one of the key elements is that in this part of the sutra, the emphasis is on the vow power of Samantabadra. It is only in making endless praises that Samantabadra is able to expand his perspective, not limiting himself to any particular view of where Buddha nature is. After all, if buddhas are found even in the grains of sand, it makes one realize that every experience in life can be held with an equal amount of care or respect. It is not limited to going to a temple and bowing to a statue. Since all the phenomena originate in mind, how can we not also treat those phenomena with the care and respect of coming from original mind?
    I don't think I am reading these vows as a way of obeying some law; rather, it is to enjoy and to expand my view of what it means to cultivate practice. It's hard to do this in daily life because the meanings we assign to our experiences are often mediated by cultural interpretations. It's hard to think of work as a place where one is serving other beings, when the dominant narrative at work is about meeting deadlines and increasing earnings. I like to think that reading texts in Buddhist canon expands my view so that I am not just looking at things through a cultural lens, but through one of curiosity and exploration. At the very least, this kind of exploration can make life interesting all the time.
     Even writing this paragraph is explorative. Did I know what I was going to write when I started it? I maybe have had an idea but it was like an acorn: a tiny bud that germinated into something fairly natural, though not altogether planned. It is precisely this balance between respect and improvisation that spiritual practice seems to flourish. Respect is necessary to motivate beings to serve other beings, even in such small ways as trying to connect or entertain others in some way. Improvisation is necessary when we feel weighed down by the unknown or uncertain. When there are no rules to guide one in action, it is best to trust that the mind will find a way, since it encompasses pretty much everything.

The Two Buddhist Books in Mahayana (Translated and compiled by Upasika Chihmann),

Boundless, Never ending

After listening to Guo Kai Fashi's talk yesterday, I was inspired to find some verse that I could read on the bus as a way of cultivating the vow power, as well as calming the mind. The only thing I could find on my bookshelf, besides Surangama Sutra (which is quite long) is a small copy of Upasika Chihmann's Two Buddhist Books in Mahayana.  I found a very delightful verse in this quite used book, the Vows of Samantabhadra, which contains some very powerful words about the aspiration to practice and where it comes from. Of the ten vows (or tenfold paramita) that  Smantabhadra mentions, I found quite a few relating to honoring the Tathagathas. In fact, first and foremost is "to pay the highest homage and veneration to all Buddhas." I find it interesting that the first three vows relate to homage and veneration, while the fourth relates to repentance of personal ills; fifth is to rejoice in other's merits (which parallels the veneration for Buddhas and Tathagathas);  and the last three relate to following Dharma and requesting that Buddhas continue to be present to teach the   I find that the sequence of the ten vows is quite vital to how it reads. While reading these passages, I found myself contemplating the vastness of Buddha's teachings and almost wanting to surrender my sense of ego attachment to this totality of what the Tathagathas are revealing to sentient beings.
   Is it necessary to see the Buddhas as somehow portrayed as vast and infinite? In several passages of the vows, infinity and endlessness are evoked. We read about "the (infinite) merits and virtues of the Tathagatha" as being "ineffable" (p.5). As well, it is written that "in the smallest dust-motes of a ll the worlds of the ten quarters...there the Buddhas are dwelling equal in number to the smallest specks of dust in all the worlds." (p.7) What does this mean, I wonder? I think the boundlessness, for me, suggests the tireleness efforts of Buddhas and bodhisattvas.  And how could it be otherwise--since the nature of mind is found in all things, even the very smallest dust motes. There is a sense that even if suffering endured for endless eons (as claimed in this passage), Samantabhadra would continue to hold his vow to make offerings to the Buddhas: "thought succeeding thought without interruption, in bodily, oral, and mental deeds without weariness." (p.9) In a sense, there can be no weariness as long as one realizes that the 'thoughts succeeding thoughts' are a function of the true mind. In this sense, there is no need to feel weary, as one does when climbing a steep mountain or trying to reach something that is barely attainable. The infinity is not just stretching outward into the sky but is also infinitely in the palm of one's hand, the tip of one's nose, and in the intimacy of one's very own embodied being. Is there any place where buddhas do not dwell? Samantabhadra, I believe, is challenging us to wonder as such. And if the mountain I am trying to climb is in every cell of my body, how can I ever be weary or exhausted? The climb becomes a joyful journey that is always spun out from the cloth of mind.
  "Tiny" infinity is such a precious and marvelous trope in this passage, and it makes me want to study physics and chemistry again! Why do these two things evoke such a sense of wonder? It is perhaps a similar realization which struck Leewenhoek, the inventor of the microscope, when he discovered that there were living creatures thriving in a single drop of water. I think it was around that time that people started to imagine that this universe is not the only universe, and that 'universes' could extend downward, inward and outward into infinity. This 'without end' is not an exhausting travel from one continent to another by foot. It is discovering the very infinity of the everyday, and being enthralled with it. How much have we already travelled to get to where we are now? Do we ever think that, or are we only focused on our current goal, or destination?
     This isn't to say that one should throw up one's hands and stop practicing a path. Rather, it is about rediscovering what is already present in different forms; seeing the nature of all beings in a single being.

The Two Buddhist Books in Mahayana (Translated and compiled by Upasika Chihmann),

Making Vows For all Beings

   Venerable Guo Kai had presented at talk at the center tonight, about the Diamond Sutra. The theme was "A Life of No Regrets", and I did find the talk to be quite uplifting. It has made me want to go deeper into my practice and to even change the way I think about practice in general.
    My understanding from the talk is that the goal of Buddhist practice should never be about learning just for its own sake or acquiring wisdom just for oneself. If one is only going to a temple or following religion to uplift one's own spirit, then this is not going to go very far. In fact, if Buddhist practice isn't helping a person to feel interconnected with all sentient beings, how can it be in accord with the Dharma Seals? Not only this, but the point of practice is not just about sitting for long periods of time in meditation. Fashi asked us: what is the use of sitting for two hours, when in fact a rock can do this as well? The point she is pressing throughout the talk is that all beings are connected in mind, and there is no value in practice if I am still thinking of myself as an isolated practitioner who stands to gain from it.
   How, then, to practice? Fashi recommended reciting certain mantras to arouse compassion for all the sentient beings. She also suggested to use the method of practice in daily life, always approaching a person with the question: how can they benefit from me? I think the important point here is not necessarily giving a person exactly what they need, but having the intention that another person be well. So here is where the importance of prayer comes in as a way of connecting the intention to liberate all beings in all directions.
   I think the most important thing is to have the intention. What will I do for myself to create that intention? Here are some ideas that I am brainstorming:

1) chanting a vow or mantra daily before bed, as a way of arousing bodhichitta
2) always using Transfer of Merit prayer to others I am with
3) learning the Dharma and continuing to read Buddhist texts as a way of helping others
4)  Being less worried about competing with others in society and having faith in one's interconnection with sentient beings;  faith and trust in others.
5) Continue to help others (or aspire to help) in whatever way I possibly can

This is a tall order, for sure, and I don't think that change can happen overnight. But I am hoping that this talk puts me in a direction to see the broader picture of why I practice in the first place.

Saying and Doing

 I consider the purpose of a blog to be a kind of mental diary; a reminder of what I have read or reflected upon. I also consider it to be useful to collect my thoughts in written form, since all too often thoughts tend to float around, disconnected at times. I am under no illusion that a blog can possibly reflect an entire person. In fact, I go so far as to suggest that writing can stray from a person's lived experience, by providing an idealized self. But lived experience is really quite messy. Can there ever be a reliable narrative that can speak the truth about an entire person? Somehow, reflecting on this makes me realize how writing can only really be 1% of who a person is.
   What is the function of a narrative if it cannot reveal all of who a person is? I have recently been reading Julian Baggini's book The Ego Trick: What Does it Mean to Be You? and this book has made me ever more skeptical that one can really pin down a unified 'identity', particularly through biography. What struck me the most about this book was the mention of Gilbert Ryle's theory of mind and 'performance'. Ryle is critiquing the idea that one's mental life can be reduced to a kind of 'thing' like a substance. Instead of trying to locate the mind in a separate mental domain, Ryle suggests that thoughts are what brains and bodies do; that is almost to say that bodies and brains are nouns, thoughts are actions (p.63). But under the same token, one can also suggest that one's personal identity can never be reduced to a single 'thing' or even a set of memories. Rather, identity is something that is performed in some community with other beings. There just isn't any way to even begin to elaborate on the endless possibilities that come from this network of beings. At that point, one can give up trying to 'find' the self, and yield to a wider view that 'self' is exactly what is happening now in one's experience with other selves.
   What's the implication of this view? I think it means lessening the illusion that one can represent their full self in any form, be it through social media or writing. It also means appreciating silence as much as words. But more importantly it might entail not trying to search for the self 'in one's own thoughts', but to allow one's actions and feelings to naturally connect with others and to allow for unpredictability in the process.

Baggini, Julian (2011), The Ego Trick: What Does it Mean to You? London, UK: Granta

Accepting Karma

    The term "karma" has become quite popular recently. I have particularly heard expressions like "it's just your karma" or "bad karma", as though karma were meted out based on whether people have done good things or not. From what I have read in the teachings, the concept is complex, because karma (like nature itself) is not something that is personified as a god. In other words, it's not that karma 'rewards' or 'punishes' people based on what they do, or whether the gods are pleased with one's behavior. Rather, karma seems to be described in commentaries more as a natural force than as a personalized one. In other words, it's something like one's diet. We can say that eating foods high in sugar can make us sick, but there are mitigating circumstances, including genetics, level of physical activity, metabolism, and so on. In modern science, there isn't too much talk about one single cause for a phenomena. Rather, there are factors, and when these factors happen to come together at a given time, a result naturally arises.
   I think this concept is really important in helping me understand the concept of karma and incorporate it into my life practice. In Chan and Enlightenment, Master Sheng Yen elaborates on this point:
 
According to the Buddhist concept of karma, all our troubles and difficulties are the present results that come from past causes. With such a concept in mind, we would feel less afflicted, or we don't even need to feel afflicted at all. Nevertheless, karmic causality does not mean we should not change our environment or solve our problems. Rather, we should create positive causes and conditions to facilitate the change of environment and the solution of problems. (p.79-80)


When I first read this passage, I was inclined to think, "wow, everything I am challenged with is no accident." And I even begin to think that I am responsible for all the emotional afflictions I experience. What does this mean, though? I don't think it means that we should try to control everything that happens to us. For example, if I tried to prevent all negative or aversive situations from happening, I would only make myself anxious and paranoid. I would also end up attributing everything that happens to me to some wrong I had committed in the past. But is this a healthy view? I think a different perspective might be to accept that things happen due to past causes, and to see what we can do to contribute positive or constructive conditions to the present situation. There is no sense in thinking we are being punished by the present circumstances. Rather, we accept that the previous causes have already ripened into the present, and work on what we can do now to better the situation.
     In the paragraph from Master Sheng Yen, the term "facilitate the change of environment" is used. I like this term, because it seems to underline the sense that there is no direct way to control anything. Conditions need to be present, and even these conditions will change. But this doesn't mean that one should only 'do nothing', since there are still beings like ourselves who require help to be liberated.  I think that it means the opposite: that when I am not worried that one thing is causing something else, I have more space to look for other ways to make the situation better for everyone. It's a kind of constructive approach which is not aimed at necessarily perfecting conditions. But it's also about making the best of the present with a mind that looks for creating good conditions.
   
 

Going Beyond "Impossible"

Today, I was required to do user testing for a new system at work.  The process has been a long one, with a lot of glitches along the way as well as unpredictability. I started to realize lately, however, that there really is no such thing as an 'impossible' challenge. Even the very word 'impossible' refers to an experience that is actually happening in that very moment when one utters, 'this is impossible'.  When you think of it, consider: if something is 'impossible', then why is one experiencing the 'impossible' in that moment? Could it be that the impossible is indeed possible, and even 'passable' in the sense that it too passes?
   To extend this analogy a little bit further: is there anything that is so impenetrable that it cannot be surmounted, even given a bit of time? So far, I cannot think of any situation that has lasted so long that it would be considered insurmountable. There is a wonderful story by H.G. Wells, "War of the |Worlds", in which these seemingly indestructible beings invade the earth in giant metal pods, only to later find that they could not adapt to the viruses in the earth's atmosphere. While these beings seemed impassible, they later also proved to be subject to numerous conditions that humans have only recently been able to surmount. In a sense, it is only the mind that imagines that there are 'impossible' situations, simply because in that moment, possibilities seem to have exhausted in some way.
   So when I think about the challenges I face at work, I wonder, what is the best approach? Well, the first thing is to let go of the fear of failing. This seems to be a paradox, in a way, because striving tends to be driven by some kind of fear of a negative consequence or failure. But I have found that when I allow myself the breadth to make mistakes, my thinking becomes somewhat more flexible, and I am able to breathe more freely into the new situations. I start to see the task less as a linear series of steps, and more as an improvised connecting of body and movement. After all,, in all of this, there is no real 'inevitable' conclusion, as things naturally are going to come up that are unexpected. In this way, what seems impossible is revealed to be just another thought which is based on a fear of failing or getting stuck. Really, is there any point in life where things are so stuck that they don't move? Even thoughts are constantly moving and changing.
    The second approach is to see  that the process is really a series of flowing movements and steps. As long as I am maintaining a present awareness of the body and am relaxed, there is no need to lump all the moments together into one conceptual judgment: this is 'terrible' and 'impossible' are just labels that are being assigned to very complex processes which are really always changing. When one is able to contemplate the process with awareness, then it starts to look simpler and more flowing, rather than conceptually imposing. I think this is why the practice of meditative awareness can break down these barriers that seem real but actually are concepts that are changing.
   When one is feeling overwhelmed by sudden changes in schedule and work, is it possible to try this practice: let go of the fear of failure, as well as the concept of the impossible?

Balance in Meditation

   During the meditation practice today, I was having the experience of just allowing pain to arise and subside. What kinds of pain? I somehow experienced both my usual physical aches here and there, and the pain that is underneath wandering thoughts. It's often the case that scattered thoughts themselves create a unique psychological pain, which is that of being not so grounded in the present experience. During those times , I really push huatou, even if it feels a bit constricting in the beginning. Later, when I am more relaxed, I am more naturally allowing phenomena to arise, only trying to see the original source of the phenomena.
    What is this 'balance' in meditation, and how does one really achieve it? During my practice in facilitating meditation, I often struggle to articulate it, much less discover it in myself. Throughout his books, Master Sheng Yen emphasizes being determined to be with one's method regardless of the situation that arises in mind. Faith in method is so important, because it simplifies the process of meditation and provides a way to calm the mind through a kind of relaxed focus. On the other hand, once the mind is calm, trying to focus almost has the opposite effect of creating an agitated state, which is at odds with arising thoughts. In those situations, one must be completely at ease with anything that is arising.
   What allows that balance to take place? I think that over time, when I am sticking closely to a method of huatou, I start to develop a kind of confidence. The confidence is coming from the way the mind is. Mind itself is not an object, yet it's capable of accommodating every object. In this way, the mind cannot be grasped, but at the same time, there is nothing 'graspable' that can obstruct the mind. When I point to the mind, it's not to get rid of the phenomena or treat them as obstacles. Rather, there is a confidence that the phenomena are part of mind, and always part of that mind. But in order to really feel that confidence to 'relax in the midst of phenomena', there has to be a focus to settle the mind first.
   Is this 'confidence' I am describing innate? Is it learned? I think that it is coming from the awareness itself, and letting go of looking for awareness by seeking and rejecting phenomena. It is a kind of perhaps natural awareness that is always letting go at every moment, never really clinging to anything by nature. But in order to arrive at it, one somehow has to let go of all the ways one tries to grasp at one's identity as though it were something out there that needs to be gained or achieved. This is a balance that forms a kind of adventure in meditation.

Confronting Shadows

  Rob Preece's book, Psychology of Buddhist Tantra (2006) has done a lot to introduce me to the concept and notion of Tantra. Although much of what he talks about is more a summary of what tantra is intended to explore, I get a sense of the flavor of why Tantric practitioners are engaged in complex visualizations. I definitely get a good sense of why these practices are used. I am especially interested in Preece's description of  the Shadow and how Tantric practices often reconnect us with parts of our experiences that have often been disowned or overshadowed in the social world.
   I am not sure how far or deep I can go to explore Tantra, since it is a practice which requires a deep commitment and risk. What interests me is how everything in life is really a reflection of the shadowy nature that Preece describes, and we needn't necessarily look to art forms to find manifestations of the shadow. I think shadow is just the kinds of things that people habitually reject, even in daily life. For instance, if I reject being in a crowd or having to wait in a long line, that impatience within me is a kind of shadow. It is the part of me that I don't  like  and don't even want others to see around me, so I would rather repress it and be patient. I also think that we see shadows in the media: the way celebrity gossip circulates to try to bring down famous people in their prime, is a good example of something that nobody wants to admit but is happening a lot. The tendency is to take this energy and deflect it onto someone else, without owning the energies that the shadow harnesses. Preece attributes this tendency to the lack of skill that a person has in handling emotions such as anger (p. 188-189). If a person is able to take the same 'negative' states of being and channel them into meaningful ways (such as healing ritual, prayer or embodiments), then this same rich and raw energy can be used to suit better and wiser ends. Yet, Preece also cautions that "The primary cause of suffering in the world is ego-grasping" (p.189), and he applauds the ability for wrathful beings to challenge the frivolous or lighthearted nature of ego grasping, which prefers comfort over challenge.
    What I wrestle with in looking at these words is how to distinguish between anger that can be used constructively and that which arises from ego clinging. I would have to say that the anger of being inconvenienced would come from an attachment to ego and body. On the other hand, the outrage we feel when human rights are violated and racial discrimination abounds in our communities would be considered transformative and even healing. So my question then becomes, how can anyone take the 'anger of frustrated ego' and channel it into the more constructive and useful anger of acknowledging social injustice? Are these two sorts of anger not somehow very different things, having different causes and conditions? The problem I am seeing is that everything we dislike or find uncomfortable about our being can get consigned to this blanket "Shadow" archetype. But is everything about the Shadow worthy of what Preece and Jungians call 'integration'? This is still something that challenges me, since I tend to see most of the anger I might feel as stemming from a frustrated and clinging sense of self. Even when my anger narrates a story about 'unfairness', the unfairness still tends to have an air of self-attachment to it. I haven't come across a truly pure or transformative anger in me, and I think it would be quite challenging for me to transform anger into something that is more socially useful.
      If people can channel their anger creatively, I think that's wonderful, but I still feel somewhat unconvinced that I would qualify as a Tantric practitioner. Trying to figure out how to use emotions constructively is very difficult without specific processes of relaxing into mind. Chan has offered many methods of relaxing into difficult emotions and situations without necessarily delving into the muddier waters of wind energies and the psyche. So as I end this entry, I do wonder, what price does one pay to go into these unconscious forces? Preece gives an overview that is comprehensive, but he leaves me to wonder whether I could handle the complex rituals and long visualizations required to undertake Tantra practice.

Preece, Rob (2006), Psychology of Buddhist Tantra,. Ithaca, New York:  Snow Lion.
  

Questions about Tantra

 I am reading a very interesting and well-written book by Rob Preece called Psychology of Buddhist Tantra. I started to read this book due to an emerging curiosity about the differences between 'esoteric' and 'exoteric' Buddhism, the former of which includes many Tibetan, ritual-based practices which are aimed at redirecting archetypal energies to transform consciousness.
    As I was reading this book, I started to realize the uniqueness of tantra, even though I am not really well-versed in any of its intricate practices. I think one thing that is interesting about the practice is how much it taps into the images and archetypes that are common in Buddhist art and iconography. As I started to read this book, I realized how much my own practice is simply lacking in the power of imagery, and how it might benefit me to simply be inspired by Buddhist art. After all, one of the things that some spiritual practitioners neglect is the power of forms to inspire the heart and integrate disowned aspects of one's being. A person, as Preece points out in his text, may be doing all his spiritual practice ' in the head' rather than being fully aware of the hidden complexes stored in one's memory that get translated into painful emotional experiences.
   In other words, it's very easy to become idealistic and fantasize that one has 'overcome' one's emotional states when one has shifted her focus away from body /emotions and toward the intellect. But Chan(and Buddhism in general) isn't really about the intellect at all. In fact, Chan in particular is most emphasizing a non-dualistic facing and embracing of all emotional states, particularly emphasizing seeing the totality of phenomena as functions of the true mind. Thus, if one tries to reject emotions that are painful, one ends up reinforcing a distorted view of reality which does not consider all mind states with equanimity. But I am also aware, as Preece remarks, that it's very easy for the view of non-duality to be mistaken for a view which emphasizes replacing emotions with other emotions. As Preece suggests, trying to replace a sad though with an 'equanimity' thought is only furthering a dualistic mindset, which consigns certain emotions to the 'other' or to a buried Shadow side.
    From a Chan perspective, it is simply impossible to replace one thought with another to begin with.
Tantric Buddhism tends to focus on using practices to bring out unresolved conflicts and complexes, in order to re-integrate them into a seamless spiritual direction. What is interesting with Tantra is that there is no illusion that the deep emotional complexes we have can easily be 'resolved' through a disciplined effort. Rather, it takes very specific skillful means (such as mantra recitation, visualization and secret practices established by a guru) to allow these complexes to surface and integrate.
    I think that Tantra is an excellent reminder that spiritual practice cannot abandon the body or the complex developmental psychology that goes into one's personal makeup prior to embarking on a spiritual practice. I also think that this approach does not negate or contradict with the efforts of other Buddhist schools, such as Chan. I agree with Preece that for many people, embarking on a spiritual practice often requires complex ground-work which begins with examining subconscious tendencies.
      My main concern and questions about Tantric practice:

1) if we shift our focus away from spiritual principles and theories and toward transforming emotional complexes, does this shift tend to blur lines between spirituality and acting out the emotional complexes?
2) How can an individual or practitioner really ever know whether they have balanced and harmonized all their emotions (hidden and latent)? Does Tantra sometimes encourage a hyper-vigilance and an unattainable ideal of the 'fully balanced' person?
3) Can emotions be transformed simply through bare awareness, or do they require conscious intervention and manipulation to be 'transformed'? What does 'emotional transformation' really mean from the perspective of Tantra?
4) Is it even necessary to re-integrate emotions if one practices full acceptance of all states of being? For instance, does anger need to be transformed into compassion when one fully accepts anger as a phenomena?
5) Are there ways to integrate some of the lessons of Tantra into other streams of Buddhism, such as Chan?

Extraordinary Nature

Today, just outside Alan Gardens, a small butterfly had landed on my sleeve. I didn't expect such a natural presence to be so close to me, and I had to stop to reflect on its beauty. It landed not once but twice on the same sleeve, as though that particular arm were especially appealing to it. And what I felt was a kind of marvel in the presence of nature and its ability to connect humans in subtle ways that I can only describe as spiritual.
   I find that when I am too impatient to be in control of my mind, my thoughts, and even my journey, I get a kind of 'desert' mentality. Everything feels like scarcity, and I am only reflecting on what isn't there instead of what is there before me. This desire to control how I see things (call it ego, if you will) is what seems to block the ability to simply marvel at miracles of living things. I believe that these simple moments of nature touch me while also reminding me that "I" am never in charge of my experience, and that this self is what sabotages the beauty that is already of the world.
   Back in the day, people used to use the natural world as evidence of a creator being. Paley was one philosopher who used the watch analogy: that is, if a person were to discover a watch on the road, she or he would naturally trace it back to a watchmaker. Under the same argument, all the natural world can be thought to be coming from a creator. While I admire this argument, I wonder, is the creator some being that is separate from the universe, standing apart from it somehow? This leads me to my next question: is it possible that maybe the whole natural world is filled with wisdom? Why try to imagine a being separate from the natural world, when nature is suffused with signs of wisdom and compassion?
  
   

Not "Identifying"

  Some people might characterize meditative practice as a kind of immersion in the everyday present. I have sometimes heard people use the expression "Go with the flow" to characterize the attitude of accepting everything which they gain from meditative practices, including sitting meditation, and yoga. I tend to feel that this approach works for a little while, until a person reaches a stumbling block. The particular stumbling block that I tend to have in meditative practice is a kind of dullness of mind that feels like emptiness or despair. In those moments when I feel the despair setting in, I tend to either zone out or complain inwardly about the situation, hoping that I can somehow get back to some idealize state in meditation.
    The way of this practice is not trying to get to a special relaxed state. In fact, there are definitely situations I have encountered in practice where I totally 'poop out' and find myself incapable of trying to sustain a particular desired way of being or state of mind. It is as though the practice literally takes me to a corner and forces me to somehow confront that sense of heaviness. In those times, I really need to generate the question who is having this emotion. The reason is that it isn't the emotion itself that is creating the distress, but rather the sense of creating a self out of those emotions.
    The method here is quite simply to ask "who is having this emotion?" And when I am serious to gently explore this area, I realize that there is no need to even exalt or degrade one emotional state over the other. In fact, the whole struggle to 'transcend' emotions seems to be rooted in this misunderstanding of taking an emotional state to be my true mind and awareness in much the same way one typically relates to the body as oneself. It is also rooted in trying to idealize or make permanent certain specific emotions which seem pleasant.
   An example I recently read about regarding exalting the emotions is that of the 'fins d'amour' troubadours. Troubadours were the originators of romantic poetry, and they have been described as people who have tried to make the feeling of love into a kind of spiritual goal. If I exalt a particular person and praise all his or her qualities, however, is this a good thing? I would have to say that it seems okay in the beginning. But like most patterns of thought, it soon bumps up against the reality that these emotions are always coming and going. To try to hold onto an idealized state of anyone is bound to lead to conflict, as one begins to understand that the thought of the person isn't the same as the actual person. For this reason, I think that the troubadours might have been setting themselves up for disappointment by exalting their beloved.
  There is also a danger that over-idealizing people or emotions creates an untenable fantasy about how a person should behave or act. Sometimes, when a person finds herself doing this kind of thing, she can just choose the actual moment as it is rather than hanging onto the ideal. The practice is to go back to the origin of all the emotions and continue to question the source.