Buddhist View of Creation?

 When I am in class, am I really doing something or contributing to society? I thought about this tonight on the way home, and I am afraid that answer that I came up with is that I am not doing very much. Taking a class is one thing, but then I think about all the sentient beings who made that class what it is, and I realize that my contribution is just one minor piece in a very large puzzle. In that sense, I need to revise my understanding of what it means to 'meaningfully contribute' to such a collective.
   In Buddhism, there isn't very much about an original creator. We were talking today about the Abidharma school, and how it suggests that there are 'dharmas' that form the basis of all things, in much the same way that particles form wholes according to the modern theory of atomic physics. Madhyamika school shattered this idea by suggesting that these individual particles could be infinitely divided, since everything exists only as a relationship to something else. In that sense, the notion that there is some underlying substance that 'creates' or forms the universe starts to become quite suspect. So, I wonder how the notion of emptiness in Buddhism relates to the act of creation (particularly one's creative contributions to society) when in fact there is no sole creator or originator in anything?
   I think that of course, all of this challenges and perhaps even shatters the notion that anything can exist in isolation. And, contrary to the annihilationists who suggest that nothing exists at all, one must have some faith that their way of contributing to the world is useful and valuable. Otherwise, a person might not have the heart to continue. In fact, it seems imperative that people contribute as a way of awakening their inherent caring abilities. But here again, one must believe and have faith that one has such an ability already built into them. This is where I believe that the Buddhist faith becomes very crucial.
   Without faith in one's own compassionate nature, it's hard to sustain creative effort in a world that is seeming less and less permanent, and is accelerating at a huge pace. But it's important not to lose heart and to always feel that even being present somewhere can have a good impact on someone else. I am hoping to be able to design exercises and techniques that will help others (and myself) to cultivate sustainable efforts in compassion, especially through journal writing and an emphasis on gratitude. I am not sure how it will work, but it's a work in progress. Even when I don't feel that it will make much of a difference, in my heart I believe that it will help me a lot to be more optimistic and uplifted. I think that must count for something in this vast universe, even if it is quite small in the end.

language and mindfulness

  I am continuing today to reflect on language learning as specifically a mindful practice. I thought about quite a few things during my readings of the Buddhist psychology assigned readings. One such thing is how language learning must have very different phases of being. In the beginning of learning Mandarin, for example, I found it very difficult to retain my memory of the words and their meaning, since there is hardly an equivalent of many of the sounds and pronunciations in English. As I became more familiar with the context of certain words, I was able to retain more, and the way the language is structured helped me remember individual words. And still later, there was a kind of delight in remembering certain words, akin to scoring points in a video game.
   All good and well, you might think, but how is this tying in with mindfulness? My answer is that learning a new language forces a person to really be reflective on what the word is and what it means. It is not an automatic process but is a deeply conscious one, and it doesn't take for granted what I might think a word would mean. Whereas a familiar language can be built up from many random associations of words, a new language takes a person to a beginner's mind. In that sense, it is truly a discovery to deal with every word and its meaning. More importantly, learning a new language can be a way of thinking without the baggage of the self, which is often constructed from one's native language around many associations.
     I would like to explore a more intermediate experience of language--such as that of learning and reading French. Though I take French to be my second language, my fluency in this language would be moderate and not 100% at all. This kind of language learning would be somewhere in between the familiarity of a native language and the unfamiliarity of something completely new to me.

Learning a Language and Anxiety

In many of the articles I have read on Second Language Learning and anxiety, I have come across the premise that most second language learners may feel afraid to make mistakes with others when using a new language, and this is quite visceral to them. According to this common view, the more we tend to anticipate making mistakes or even feeling embarrassed about those mistakes, the more inhibited one will be with practicing the language. And this kind of thing would prevent a person from practicing language itself.
    I sometimes wonder if perhaps a deeper or more subtle anxiety might relate to the fear of  'starting over', perhaps even akin to being born again. I am again thinking 'archetypically', trying to understand what parts of the collective psyche really speak to second language learners. And I do have a sense, from my own very minor exposure to Mandarin and French (my two 'second languages') that there is an anxiety related to having to start a new language from 'scratch'. In fact, it's not quite true to say that any second language is learned from scratch, because there is actually an entire grammar that one learns from one's first language whose principles could (at least in theory) apply to second language learning. But again, the starting over theme---that is quite hard to take for those who have developed through many experiences and forms of education in one language, only to have to transition to another. There is something bewildering about it, and it might even put a person in a vulnerable position of having to ask fellow adults for help. And on the positive side, there is a sense that this very vulnerability could be a way of opening up to other beings, similar to the path of the bodhisattva.
    This comes to another question that I had. That is, is the bodhisattva always someone who 'has something to give' or teach others, or are there some bodhisattvas whose journey is in receiving others? I believe that a second language learner might be temporarily in that latter category, because a person who is exposed to a language for the first time might feel that they have to reach out to everyone around them for help in a language. And this 'asking for help' can also be a way of allowing others to show their own skills while doing something compassionate toward another.

Missed Arrows

  There is this scene in the Tim Burton movie Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children which struck out at me: the scene where the villain, Mr. Barron, played by Samuel Jackson, is pursuing the lead character, Jake, and the latter keeps trying to shoot him with arrows and missing every time. Mr. Barron finally gets exasperated and says, "Jake, when are you going to realize that shooting arrows is not your peculiar talent?" The premise of the movie is that each child has a special talent or skill that makes them supernormal: one child is able to make inanimate objects come to life, while another can set fire to things simply by touch, and still another can lift very heavy objects with her bare hands. It's only later that Jake is able to use his own special seeing abilities to avoid the dangers of the monsters in the movie and save himself in the process. But in the beginning, like most mortal humans, Jake doesn't know what his talent is that makes him 'peculiar' or different from everyone else. He is even told at one point by one of the older boys, Enoch, that perhaps he doesn't have any talent at all, and doesn't belong to the 'gifted' others. This movie, in its own magical way, speaks to the faith that we wish we had in our own unfolding character or fate, and even to know that we have special abilities that others don't possess.
   I recall when I was a teenager, I went through a phase where I was quite fascinated with stories about beings who have supernatural abilities, which set them out from other humans. I at one point wanted to be part of my high school's 'gifted' program, and even became despondent when I wasn't identified as gifted in that way. Meanwhile, I became quite interested in science fiction stories and novels which spoke about these special out-of-the-norm abilities. A.E. Van Vogt was one such writer, and so was Olaf Stapleton,who wrote a book called Odd John, as well as Arthur Clarke's Childhood's End. Most of these books tried to show how human prejudice tends to react to exceptional abilities with fear and even persecution, as though there were a hidden moral 'economy' in which one mustn't be 'too' good for one's good.
       And somehow these books carried with them the hope that these exceptional powers would redeem the world: they had a religious, eschatological feel to them. In recent years, I have wondered if perhaps all of these books are simply showing a very similar archetype of what Jung has called the 'puer' or the magic, eternal child who is forever young. We all admire this kind of figure because, in her or his youth and inquisitiveness, they are able to see what others don't see due to their ingrained habits, responsibilities and customs. When a person gets older and faces illness or simply the hassles of daily existence, this puer being sometimes seems farther away from reality and very difficult to relate with indeed. I sometimes wonder how these magical books would be written from the perspective of the older figure who has gone beyond the eternal innocence of such a magic child. Are they jealous of the child for having so much vitality or life in her or him still? Or do they have something to contribute to the puer's eternity: a kind of grounding in the magic of everyday existence that the puer desperately needs?
     Somehow, I think more work needs to be done to reconcile these different views. I almost feel that societies have a special responsibility to bring these soulful qualities of the puer spirit into everyone's life, no matter what their abilities are. At the same time, the puer soul needs to find a ground to stand upon. Otherwise, it will have many missed arrows, and many of the dreams we have about who we are never quite come to fruition.
      As I get older, I am not so enthralled by the odd-john stories, because it becomes harder for me to believe that the child-genius will redeem all of the world, no matter how great their powers are. It is not possible for any single person to do that, actually: it seems that it takes everyone to be able to create a better world, and this means having a very clear mind about people's strengths and weaknesses. When I see a strength, I can celebrate it for sure, but I should also be willing to carry the burden of another's weaknesses, to help them and support them to improve in those disowned parts of themselves. And I should always feel that everyone has a special, peculiar ability of their very own, and there is no special, exclusive club for that.

Choosing Positive Ways

  One thing I am reading in the Surangama Sutra is a very beautiful verse called the 10 profound analogies. Number 3 reads, "All physical bodies are like the moon on water" (p.342), while 7 reads "All deeds of the Buddhas are like dreams" (p.343). With all these dreamlike analogies, you would then start to wonder, why are people often so sad in life? I think that the Buddha is in some ways trying to compassionately demonstrate that life needn't be a chore at all, and one can simply see it as impermanent, changing.
    It is hard to do this without some practice in observing the mind. For instance, when a person is extremely angry at someone else, what are they key constituents of that 'anger'? I would have to say that within myself, I tend to think that my impression of someone else were somehow tangible and unchanging. In fact, however, most of the time one gets angry only at a few moments which are not even a fraction of another person's life and behavior. But because I cling to that one view of a person so tenaciously, it seems so hard solid. Then another thing happens: a word comes to my mind which then is supposed to sum that person up! Really! But actually, the point is that there is nothing in my experience that corresponds to an enduring self or being. If I am able to anatomize my experience into individual moments in time, there no longer seems to be an enduring substance. Perhaps this is what the sutra means by 'dreamlike'.
   There are times when this kind of thinking most likely needs to be supplemented with positive words and actions. It's not that there are any specific positive things in a dream, but sometimes we need to find ways to detach ourselves from negative thoughts and embrace more lively and certainly more balanced ones. One thing that seems helpful is to keep track of moments when one's thoughts are fixated on a self/other distinction. We hear this a lot when there is a voice like , "oh, he's just so.." or "that person is such a..." as though one could really understand a person in this way. When one has these kinds of thoughts, it might be helpful to slow down and ask the question, can anything I am experiencing now be so simplistic? Can it be reduced so easily to a formulaic argument or a label? In this way, one can detach from those negative judgments and start to see that they don't have too much value for anyone.

Acceptance and Change

I am reading about two kinds of therapeutic approaches which have been combined recently. One is simply called "Cognitive Behavior Therapy", and what it tries to do is show how we can change our habits by framing our thoughts and experiences in different ways. One of these kinds of therapies actually consists in identifying painful thoughts and then rationally discovering the distortions in those thoughts. I believe that quite some time ago, I had blogged about Albert Ellis, who was something of a pioneer in this area. The point is that this model takes the view that it's our thoughts that create our pathologies. If we could only find ways to balance our thoughts by substituting new ones, we would be happier, or even develop healthier ways of responding to challenges.
    The second kind of therapeutic approach is more 'acceptance based', and one example is precisely called Acceptance Commitment Therapy (ACT). Under this 'more recent' model, the aim is not to alter one's thoughts or even deal with the content of thoughts at all. Rather, it is to simply realize the space in which those thoughts arise and not to be identified with the thoughts at all. ACT has a lot in common with meditation! This approach suggests that the source of suffering often arises precisely because one gets caught up in the content of one's thoughts, rather than seeing that one does not need to relate to one's thoughts in any specific way. Even so-called "constructive thoughts" are considered tools to gain valued ends, rather than things to ruminate on. You can probably tell that ACT is close to the strategy of mindful, non-judgmental awareness, where the concern is more about how mind is relating to thoughts than the content of the thoughts.
   The question that came to my mind is: how does one know what to accept and what can be altered or changed? I think that only when one has cultivated calmness of mind that they can decide for themselves how to use their thoughts. CBT is still valuable in the sense that it seems to encourage people to actually write out their thoughts and see how they look on paper. I have yet to see an article which explores why 'writing something down' is so powerful, but in this case I suspect it's because it gives me the space to contemplate the value of that thought overall, rather than the content per se. Just like with any kind of writing, there is a maturing process where one starts to develop an ideal narrative of how one could respond to life. To go back to my earlier question: this way of changing one's outlook through examining thoughts can be powerful. But on the other hand, it's also useful to accept whatever comes to mind as is, because those thoughts are somewhat immaterial. It especially happens when we come across situations where nothing can change how saddening something is, like the loss of a loved one. In those cases, there is no way to 'rationally dispute' that the situation is distressing. But by looking at the thoughts themselves with acceptance, it turns out that every thought is a perfect thought: perfect in its own causal conditions and in its present state, and perfect in a state of impermanence.

Life a Dance

  I have been thinking lately that life is so much like a dance. It is so amazing how it works, its ups and downs. And tonight I feel grateful for the people I have encountered in my life. There is just such a great gratitude that beings can connect with me. I believe that over a course of many lifetimes, there will come a point where I can be skilful with all the beings. It won't happen in this lifetime for sure, but then I do see life as a kind of training process which, even in itself, is so magical and cosmic. Can you imagine, indeed, if the universe were just already perfected as soon as we opened our eyes? It wouldn't make sense, because for every perfection there is an assumption of imperfection. But if I am able to behold the different forces as part of a total dance, then there is no more perfection vs. imperfection. The pieces somehow fit together.
    I am also amazed that I have been able to do what I set out to do in these past couple of months: going to do a new degree in a program dedicated to Buddhist pastoral care, as well as maintaining my work life. And these things have a meaning, even if they don't lead to anything in particular. I think that as long as I get a deeper insight into the deeply conditioned nature of every moment, it need not matter whether this process I go through accomplishes anything. It is more a kind of meditation that allows me to see things as impermanent and always leading to some new and unexpected turns and twists.
    I think that the best way to embark on this journey of sorts is never to ignore the role and place of people and all sentient beings in general. It's helpful to take a moment to thank every sentient being, even those who have challenged me a lot. To see this dance of creation is so essentially important, and I hope others can also see their lives as a cosmic dance as well.

Term Papers Are Like Giving Birth

   The act of creating in writing can be quite agonizing, particularly when it involves a) an audience; and b) a deadline. Oh well, it is all very smooth and good when I am writing "for myself" (whatever this means-perhaps "future self" is more accurate). But when it comes to writing with a particular goal in mind, it can be difficult. I think part of the reason why it is particularly tough in academia is that there is always a push to say something that hasn't been said before. In my blogs, what I write is usually stuff that has been said in some other way or context, and I don't pretend that any of it only comes from me. But when it comes to academia, it's a different story. Just when one thinks that they have found something 'original' or new to say, they will end up finding somewhere else that someone has already thought of it. But the tricky thing with academic writing is that it's very hard to strive for originality without losing the essence of what you are writing about. It's possible to go so far off field that what you write might have no relation to the original topic. I suppose this is a necessary hazard of any kind of writing.
    I have a sense that true 'originality' in research and writing strikes  a delicate balance between building on what has already been said and being 'creative' as they say. I have sometimes found myself deliberately trying to write something 'different' only to find that it bears no relation to what my original research questions were. The theory might sound exciting, but all theories need to be able to address or relate to a question, at the end of the day. Otherwise, the theory is something like "the world is supported by a million turtles". Nobody can dispute it, perhaps, but then the idea is so obscure and unprovable that not too many people are interested in proving or disproving it, much less building upon it.
     It tends to be that writing is more exciting when it speaks to someone else, even if it is an imaginary stranger of sorts. No matter how original I can be in my head, it doesn't seem to become exciting at all until it starts to get framed in a way that I imagine someone else being interested. I suppose this makes me a bit inauthentic, but maybe that is the part of me that wants to use writing to connect with people, or even to feel less alone. In a sense, we can always be our own audiences, and that's going to be true for all time. But it is also interesting when an original idea is truly relevant to someone else.

Hatred of Hate?

Santideva remarks on Line 41 of "The Perfection of Patience":

  "Disregarding the principal cause, such as a stick and the like, if I become angry with the one who impels it, then it is better if I hate hatred, because that person is also impelled by hatred" (p.66)

This line made me wonder: can we ever say that there is even such a thing as hatred? What I am talking about is that, according to this writing, all phenomena are conditioned. If I try to take any of these dependent conditions and assign a label to it, I should be aware that the label is already one abstraction above the actual phenomena. As such, it is liable to get distorted in some way, or to distort what is actually happening in the moment.
    Let me give you an example of what I mean. When I was crammed on the shuttle bus today on the way back home from the evening walk, I could very well have made the statement in my mind: "I hate this!" And that statement would seem true, but it is actually only a blanket label for what is otherwise a complex unfolding. If I hate something, do I hate all of it or just some of it? Is it so unbearable to stand on the bus that it is like standing on hot coals, or is it not so bad? By inquiring into the origins of this statement, I start to realize that hatred is not necessarily a state of mind as it is a label which exaggerates one's intolerance for certain environments or situations.
     What I notice, in fact, is that most of the things I state are only interjections, and not true descriptions of an unfolding experience.  Anyone who listens to conversations in public places will probably know this by heart: "Damn these French fries are terrible!" "This is unbearable!" "It sucks to be a student!" And so on. The words "terrible", "damn", "unbearable" and "sucks" are not necessarily descriptive at all but seem to be expressions of an emotional state that can't even be labelled or described, other than as vexation or frustration. So it seems that the more extreme the emotion is, the more I begin to wonder whether it can be described or not. Is 'hatred', after all, really an emotion or even a quality of experience, or is it nothing more than a very extreme form of anger or agitation? One thing I can be clear about is that hatred is not always what a person truly means when they say "I hate". A lot of times, what they are really saying is that in that moment, anger is arising of a very extreme kind.
       Conversely, if I don't connect the word 'hatred' to an experience, it begins to unfold much more naturally. This is because the word 'hatred' creates an emotional distance of disgust or rejection around an object: saying "I hate--" can simply be a way of putting up a screen word to dissociate from one's real feelings, which often include feelings of unhappiness, vulnerability and fear.
     To go back to Santideva: I don't think he is even necessarily urging his audience to 'hate hatred' so much as he is pointing out the relativity of all phenomena. No single phenomena can be said to be the sole cause of others, so in a sense there is no object of hatred out there whatsoever. Even when someone seems to get on our nerves, that person never exists in her or his own right, but is always in part the result of interactive conditions. So, if one gets this idea, one does not need to root out hatred and (ironically), "hate hatred". Rather, it could be a matter of just realizing the empty nature of language, seeing in particular that our words never determine situations at all. At best, words point to determinants in an outcome, but they can never assign full blame to one single cause.

Why Believe in Human Goodness?

 The title of my topic is what is the reason for thinking that all beings are good? And I came up with this topic while reading Santideva's chapter "The Perfection of Patience": "if sentient beings are good by nature, then anger toward them is inappropriate as it would be toward pungent smoke in the sky." (Line 40, p.66). Santideva uses the analogy of fire in the previous two sections, to show how a deep understanding of something lessens one's anger or vexations toward it. This analogy is interesting to explore, as I have done in the previous blog. But in this Line 40, Santideva uses the analogy of the pungent smoke, a kind of 'byproduct' of the fire. Santideva's point is to say: if deep down inside the nature of human beings is 'naturally good', then getting annoyed at one's less savory qualities is a bit like getting caught up in the smoke. If, on the other hand, I can keep in mind that what I am seeing is only an appearance, then one can remember that everyone deep down inside is good, and the appearance of 'the bad' is adventitious and short lived.
   I wonder, why should one believe that others are good, even strangers? I think the answer is fairly obvious, but not so easy to practice in daily life. Santideva's suggestion is to say that for the most part, people are like jewels which may have been covered in a film of dust. I also have a similar dust on my eyes which prevents me from seeing and trusting in that inherent goodness that is in people. For the most part, what we experience of others is only like a thin and filmy surface, where thoughts might easily lead to knee-jerk reactions. But given the right conditions, it's possible to uncover that inherent goodness, particularly when the mind is very clear, still and calm. It's a little bit like those moments when a person is panicking over something that hasn't happened yet, such as an exam or some other major life event.. Finally, when that moment arises, a person wonders what it was all about, and why they were feeling the way they were. The thoughts are all just film which is covering up the actual experience.
    A similar thing may be the case with people. For the most part, what I truly experience isn't the actual mind of a person, but it's only the thoughts and impressions coming from the subconscious and previous experiences. To really know someone, it's almost as though I have to stop projecting my likes and dislikes onto that person. I have to realize that nothing I like or dislike is relevant to that person's being. This is a little bit more than simple camaraderie: it is a kind of deeper realization of what is common to all beings.
     I don't think this means that one will not have judgments about others. Chances are that one will have judgments arising in mind: but it's possible to have this space to know that the judgments don't refer to real things or situations at all. With that space, one can learn not to react so strongly to judgments about others, and to contemplate instead the commonality that exists in people.

Unafraid of Failure

  Ever since reading about Naikan therapy in the Buddhist mental health class, I have been thinking about what the essence of repentance really is. One thing I came up with is that a repentant attitude is remorseful but not afraid of past failures. In fact, in order to be repentant, it almost seems that a person would have to have no attachment to what they've already done. Instead, repentance entails simply resolving to learn from the past and gather energy to focus on the current and future goals.
   The point I am making is: without a proper perspective on the self, repentance can easily become a kind of self-attachment. I am reminded of that famous scene in Flaubert's Madame Bovary, when the character Emma Bovary's childhood is described. As a child, Emma was apparently so enthralled with the church that she 'made up' stories in order to have something to say in confession. There is a subtle attachment in cases like this: that is, attachment to the 'purification' that one hopes to achieve when they do repentance. But if a person lacks any attachment to self, then there is nobody who repents. Repentance only becomes a kind of gathering together of past lessons and an active resolve to change them. It in fact has no relation to an enduring sense of identity.
   I am also reminded of this other, slightly different potential strategy, and that is not being afraid of failure. I like this second strategy because fear of failure also arises from an attachment to self. We are so afraid of losing what we have worked so hard to gain in the past. But nothing ever stays the same, so there is no way that any amount of hard work will guarantee that something will continue to exist forever. "Failure" in this case may well be part of the journey to understanding.
   Now what would happen if a person were accepted as much for their failures as for their successes? What would happen if we had classrooms where people who 'fail' academically are actually honored in some way, either through a caring circle or through a supportive structure? These sound like silly ideas, but until one is able to be comfortable with the inevitability of some kind of setback or failure in life, then failure itself gets banished into the nether regions of the mind--where it is never admitted by anyone!

Seeing Things As They Are

    In Line 41 of "Perfection of Patience", Santideva remarks, "If inflicting harm on others is the nature of the foolish, then my anger toward them is as inappropriate as it would be toward fire, which has the nature of burning" (p.66) This passage interests me because it suggests that there is always an underlying wavelength from which a person operates. If I am not in tune with that wavelength, I end up imposing my own standards onto others, which can lead to inappropriate anger and even harm. It is sometimes a good practice for me to reflect: when someone is speaking, what register are they using, and what wavelength are they operating from? It seems that when a person can really understand that wavelength, then fire becomes fire, and water is water. In other words, I am not trying to make fire appear to be like water, or water to appear as earth simply because I want them to do so. It is rather that I truly understand the vibrations of a person or thing in that present moment. It's then that I can accept that person and maybe even "speak their language".
    I do think that Santideva here is likely referring to affinity. Even chemical substances have affinity, in the sense that they react to some things and not to others. By knowing affinity, it's easier to work with different things in harmony rather than trying to convert one thing to another. I suppose this is the difference between alchemy and chemistry. Whereas "alchemy" refers to the magical process of turning lead into gold, "chemistry" is about learning the way things are with something and seeing how it can be harmonized with other things. We all desire to change one thing into something more favorable or comfortable, but what would it be like not to have to change anything at all--to just let things be as they are and not expect them to be otherwise. This is a hard practice, but one thing that helps me is never to take what people say as commandments. While fire crackles and roars, it never has the power to make water into fire. Similarly, when someone is angry, I am not thereby commanded to be angry. Or if someone is self-righteous and wanting others to be a certain way, I don't need to be the way they want me to be. But I can try to listen to the underlying wavelength of the person to discern where the voice is coming from: what that person might be needing in that moment.

Not Being Drawn By Appearances

 I notice that in many of Santideva's verses, he is exhorting his audience to live a life of solitary virtue. In fact, one of the key messages in his texts is that the practice of achieving merit is based one's own diligence and virtue, rather than the approval and likes of others. What Santideva says effectively is: one can only walk the path themselves. This path requires tremendous work and dedication. I am also starting to respect the fact that one must form one's own convictions about life and suffering, as well as the need to practice in a spiritual way. If that conviction is not deeply grounded in one's being, it can easily become just passively admiring the power of others in the practice.
    This whole point reminds me a bit about Ananda, in Surangama Sutra, where he explains his reasons for following the Buddha. In the first part, after Ananda is seduced and then rescued by the Buddha, Buddha asks Ananda why he wishes to follow him. Ananda remarks on his admiration for the Buddha on every point: beautiful face, golden aura, handsome complexion, etc. But the Buddha points out to Ananda that none of these are genuine reasons for practice. They are like being attracted to a beautiful dress in a store, or one of those flashy Air Force advertisements which are designed to recruit people into the army. In both cases, one is not really attracted to something deep, but is rather interested in the superficial aspect of it. It's like an easy way, I suppose, and it doesn't require too much stability of mind and emotions, to be attracted to a spiritual practice in this way.
   

On Accepting Others

  In Line 35 of "The Perfection of Patience", Santideva remarks, "People hurt themselves with thorns and the like out of negligence, with fasting and so on out of anger, and by desiring to obtain inaccessible women and so forth" (Line 35, p.66) This argument is part one of three parts, where Santideva is expressing the self-destructive tendencies of people. He remarks on Line 36 about how people kill themselves: "by hanging, by jumping from cliffs, by eating poison or unknown substances, and by non-virtuous conduct." (ibid) Santideva then asks, given this self-destructive nature in people, "how could they have restraint toward the bodies of others?" (Line 37). Santideva's point is to suggest that those who do harmful things toward others are very likely to be self-destructive. One could then say that what one does to others could be seen as reflecting how they treat themselves.
   I think that this series of lines forces a reader to look at others with compassion. Often times, people really don't know why others are doing the things they do. When a person is angry with someone else, the tendency is to "root" the behavior in the other person rather than seeing that this person is subject to conditions. It often isn't really one person's 'evil plan' to make another person miserable. Rather, people are often subject to very complex forces which cannot be reduced to the intentions or designs of one single person in the universe.
    Is it safe to say that people are all deep down inside good beings? I am not sure, but I think Santideva is arguing that one should at least have compassion for the "deluded" nature of self-destructive or unhealthy tendencies. As I am reading these lines, I have to wonder whether this is compassion or if it is perhaps a kind of condescending pity. If someone stands back and laments at how destructive the habits of those around them are, there is perhaps a tendency there to look down on others. But I think the next line reveals Santideva's true intention, which is to arouse the genuine compassion of his audience, or at the very least a kind of letting go of angry emotions toward others. He remarks, "If you do not even have compassion toward those who, intoxicated by mental afflictions, commit suicide, then why does anger arise?" (Line 38).
   Santideva seems to be saying, even if you can't be compassionate toward those who are "intoxicated by mental afflictions", at least you can drop your anger, since anger isn't even necessary or beneficial in these kinds of situations. If, for instance, a person can be reasoned out of unreasonable behavior, then we can have a conversation with them to see what can be done. If not, then there is simply no sense fretting about it; we do what we can in the situation and carry on without feeling anger at the person.
     I believe this last line is about realizing that a lot of anger simply doesn't accomplish very much. We often see these movies where the hero or heroine is portrayed as someone who, through the force of anger alone, is able to fight off the 'villains' and restore justice to the world. But in a sense, this isn't often how anger is played out. Anger, when used unskilfully, most often leads to a reciprocal effect of resistance, rebellion or retaliation.

Buddhism as a Humanism

  I went to a couple of free talks during the Buddhist conference this afternoon hosted by Emmanuel College. One of the key themes that seemed to mark out a lot of the discussions was that of "humanistic Buddhism", or "Buddhism as a form of humanism". I found the topic and its wording both intriguing and problematic at the same time. It's intriguing because the rhetoric of humanism somehow reminds me of Jean-Paul Sartre's essay "Existentialism is a Humanism", as well as the ideas of humanism promoted in the early 20th century by people like T.H. Huxley and Aldous Huxley. There is a certain ring of optimism to it, although in earlier presentations, Sartre had mocked the 'library humanist' in his book Nausea. According to Roquentin, the early 'mouthpiece' for Sartre who appears in this latter novel, the humanist is not sincere in his love for humanity, but is only constructing an inauthentic humanism out of excessive book reading. In spite of that, somehow, I think the function of calling something 'humanist' is to somehow revive it from potentially dour or pessimistic interpretations. Just as existentialism must have been accused of being somehow too overwrought, too pessimistic, or too starkly honest about the human condition, so it would also need the banner of 'humanism' to show that it indeed has a human touch. And so I wonder, from what is the "Humanist" label meant to "salvage" or rescue Buddhism?
    As a couple of the guest Fashis had noted today, Buddhist humanism goes against the prevailing tendency to use Buddhist rituals to honor the "dead" rather than the living. Many have seen mainstream Buddhism as pandering to ancestor worship (perhaps coming from local Chinese customs, Taoism or Confucianism), rather than genuinely serving the needs of living beings. While I agree with this sentiment and even admire it, I have to wonder: if Buddhism can only really cater to living, sentient beings, then why are so many of these sentient beings attracted to Buddhist funerals for the dead? What is it about the dead that gives life to the living? I am suggesting that a religious sociologist might have a field day working through this kind of question,  particularly how cultural notions of death are played out in ritual ceremonies, and what it means to the living.
    One thing that struck me is how obvious it seems that Buddhism could only cater to living beings. But if I am performing a ceremony to honor a relative who is passed away from this life, am I truly doing the ceremony for that "deceased" person? Or is it in fact just mind interacting with itself? To whom do these ceremonies really get directed? Is it really a 'dead person' or is it simply the idea I hold of a person? Even if the ceremony doesn't relate to a person who has died, it has to have meaning to someone who is alive. Otherwise there would simply be no reason to perform death-related ceremonies, and monks would have surely moved on to other, more 'lively' themes. The point I am making is: why not find out what makes people want to celebrate in honor of those who have left the world? If there were research to describe this question of why 'celebrate the dead', this would help clarify what it is that humans want.
   And you will notice that I mention 'deceased' in quotation marks above. Does anything really suffer death, ultimately? With this question in mind, perhaps it would be interesting to explore why minds gravitate so much to the idea of death.

Nobody Wants Suffering

  I came across the line in Santideva which reads, "If all beings find fulfillment according to their own wishes, then no one would suffer, for no one wishes to suffer." (Line 34, p. 65). This line precedes a line that is typical of Santideva's reasoning: "upon seeing a friend or an enemy committing a wrong deed, one should reflect, 'Such are his conditions' and be at ease" (Line 33, p.65). I think that what unifies these two verses is that idea that deep down inside, all people want to be happy and not to endure any painful states of being. Even someone who commits a crime or a wrong deed (as Santideva puts it) is really only trying to find happiness in their own way, even if it happens to be misguided. Much of this argument is somehow reminiscent of St Augustine, who had a similar understanding of the roots of evil. According to St. Augustine, one never wishes to do evil. Instead, one is simply trying to fulfill their deepest wishes through a purpose that is less than God's, or is off the direction toward God. One can see this as an instance of having the right intention and desire, but not having an adequate object to express or fulfil that desire. Similarly, with Santideva, there is always a wish to be relieved of suffering, but due to cause and conditions, people don't always understand how to do so. They end up attaching themselves to things which they sincerely believe will relieve suffering, even if it only creates short-term gains and might harm them in the long run. What's interesting is that Santideva exhorts his audience not to blame a person for having the wrong sorts of desires and fears. Rather, 'be at ease' is what Santideva exhorts us to do, and to not be disturbed by the other's conditions.
    I think that it can be a helpful practice to deeply meditate on the fact that all sentient beings have this one thing in common: none of us wants to suffer. Although there are variations in how we avoid suffering and seek after what we think is fulfilling, this common thread of avoiding suffering runs through all sentient beings. The only differences that separate beings are conditions that arise from cherishing certain chosen views and preferences in life. And what really separates each of us is clinging to our views and preferences, as though it were life and death to hold onto them. Once I start identifying with those views and preferences, it is as though the sense of who I am would disappear if they were supplanted in any way.
     When I reset back to the notion that all beings crave not to suffer, a feeling arises that I am not sure how to describe. That feeling is a kind of simplicity. As long as I know that nobody wants to suffer, I needn't get caught up in the details on how each individual in his or her own way attempts to avoid suffering. Rather, I see that it's really all the same, and preferences mark the only differences. I believe that this can be an expedient way to stop viewing ourselves as isolated individuals, and to start to see the entire universe as having the same wish: to go beyond suffering and embrace liberation.
   

Content with Conditions

 One theme I encounter several times throughout Santideva's chapter on "Perfection of Patience" is 'conditioning' and its relation to the human condition. At one point, Santideva remarks on Line 31, "everything is dependent on something else, and even that on which something is dependent is not autonomous. Hence, why would one get angry at things which are inactive, like apparitions?" (p.65) It's quite interesting to reflect on this, because I believe that many people cherish the idea of an autonomous self that underlies conditions. But in a way, looking for that single, active, autonomous self seems to be a bit like peeling an onion. The more I look for some root underlying cause that is located in a single self, the more it evades me.
     How do we apply this idea to daily life? Well, Santideva remarks on line 33, "Therefore, upon seeing a friend or an enemy committing a wrong deed, one should reflect, 'Such are his conditions' and be at ease." (ibid). This is to say, we never see the person in front of us as a single agent who is completely or utterly 'in control' of what she or he is doing. Well, think of it this way: even if you take the very things that you feel in charge of, such as your favorite ice cream flavor, is that the result of choice? A person might argue that they have a choice to go to an ice cream store and order chocolate ice cream, but does one have a choice to see that as her favorite flavor? The more I try to stretch back to see the original inspiration behind what I prefer or dislike, the more the notion of "I chose to be this way" starts to become blurry. Can one really be the sole agent of one's outlooks, one's attitudes and one's ways of being in the world? Even for a person who is convinced that she or he is really making their own decisions, there are a lot of things that we do that are not really within our control. Even the subtle or unconscious ways we behave or treat others can fall far below the radar of seeing and recognition. So in a sense, one needn't worry about whether an action was done intentionally or not, but should see it as the result of specific conditions coming together at the moment.
     Does this argument absolve a person from responsibility for their actions? It doesn't, because there are still consequences to how I behave in the world, regardless of what triggers that behavior. If I recognize the habitual patterns of thinking that have made me how I behave today, then I do have the capacity to generate new conditions, even if not simply in clearly knowing how I behave today. In other words, conditions are constantly changing based on new information and inputs. It makes no sense to say that because I am conditioned, I would therefore have no ability to add new conditions or generate different states of mind. All these things are possible, but of course it takes a long time to change what are often considered deeply entrenched aspects of our habitual ways of being.
S
antideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997.  .

The Joy of an Open Question

    Ever since Gilbert's sharing on this past Sunday, I no longer feel that Chan is something that is profoundly separate from the present and what's happening in the now. And one thing I am finding especially is that the sharing of Chan is not necessarily articulating some profound words. Although the study of Chan commentaries and sutras is important, I sense that the real profundity is in the simple and everyday seeing that it promulgates. And this seeing can itself be a kind of mutual learning and discovery.
    What I am saying is: one needn't necessarily explain or describe the concepts to fully experience the concepts and share them. In fact, it seems that the most important aspect is not how one explains the concept, but how one embodies it. This can be as simple as cultivating a simple contentment and acknowledgement of the silent joy that exists between two or more people in conversation. It could also mean following the necessity of the moment, without adding more ambitious thoughts to that situation.
    What is the 'joy of an open question' I therefore describe? I am talking about how sometimes life can be approached as a kind of unresolved question, and this is one way not to try to plaster one's being with these presumed answers which one has read about or half-digested. Everything in life,  no matter how mundane or ordinary, can turn into a question; namely, 'who is experiencing this'? Is 'this' separate from the seeing? And this questioning attitude slowly starts to erode the opposite tendency of trying to impose a map onto what one sees, feels and experiences in daily life. But even the question itself is not something that one can even label as 'shallow' or 'profound', because it just keeps things open, and it isn't about comparing one thing to another. Can one appreciate this notion that life itself is a very open-ended kind of question?
    It's interesting how spirituality sometimes creates what I might refer to as the "hierarchy of depth". Rather than trying to strive toward the heights of achievement, spiritual practitioners tend to set up an opposite but equally pervasive hierarchy where they are always looking for 'depth', after establishing what they think depth happens to mean. The problem with this is that it creates a discrimination between deep and shallow experiences, thus turning meditation into a kind of inner striving for something that is considered profound or mind-shattering. But in my view, practice is not about aiming for anything: it is precisely in seeing through these categories that one creates that a true reality or suchness can be seen.
  

"Solutioning"

 Recently at my work place, I learned the term "solutioning", and it's a very interesting term. In fact, it sounds as though it's a noun, "solution" which has now become a verb in popular parlance, perhaps inspired by the store called "Solutions". And the interesting thing is that it's had a bit of a negative connotation, at least judging by the way it's been used at work. For instance, we say that solutioning is a 'short cut' to a process that should be done slowly and in a quality way, and we often say that solutions can cut short a necessary dialogue that needs to take place for things to happen. Another implication of solutioning is that it often takes the form of a narrow line of thought: I try to reduce a problem to one particular outcome or line of action, rather than trying to look deeply at the complex nature of it. In a sense, solutioning tries to reduce a complex situation to an easy formula, rather than seeing the co-dependent arising of different factors.
    Now, what would Santideva have said about this notion of solutioning? He certainly doesn't write about this term, but he does have a lot to say about "attribution" errors: that is, attributing qualities to something which lacks these qualities. The biggest mistaken attributions, according to Santideva, are sentience and awareness. In other words, people are quick to think that there are things in the world which have awareness which actually don't. The example that Santideva uses is as follows:

29. If the permanent Self is not sentient, it is obviously inactive like space. Even in conjunction with conditions, what activity does the immutable have?

Here, Santideva seems to be saying: one cannot possibly imagine a 'permanent' being that has the qualities we associate with sentience. Why is that? Perhaps it's because the nature of sentience is such that there is this constant arising of new conditions and responding to them through ceaseless change. To say that there is something core or immutable about that self would be to deny the dynamic nature of existence. So, already, Santideva is suggesting that the world is much too dynamic and changing to allow for the idea of static and changeless things. Hence he also remarks on Line 30, "What is the use of action to the Self which at the time of action is the same as it was before? If the relationship is that it has action, then which of the two is the cause of the other?"  This statement suggests that there isn't a self that is "doing the acting" at all, since all the parts of a situation are influencing each other at the same time. It gets to the point where one cannot separate the causal agent from the effect.
    All of this is to suggest that the problem with solutioning is in how it overlooks the complex interconnections of things.
   
Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997.  .

Random Notes on a Chan talk

   Listening to Chan teacher Gilbert Gutierrez's Dharma talk tonight, I felt a strange sense of coming home. In a way, this style of teaching he develops is so much related to why I wanted to practice meditation in the first place. But I can't quite pin down that state of mind. It's wonderful, but then how do I express it? Well, that's a challenge that Gilbert faces all the time in his coming to different cities to teach.
   Gilbert talked about how, in the Theravadin Buddhist tradition, there are these four "pillars" called the Noble Truths, and they are considered "realities" in Theravadin's view. This idea of 'reality' is quite interesting, because in a sense it subtly sets up something in the mind. For me, I experience reality as a kind of 'impassable' mountain: something that is so solid, so concrete, and so 'there' that it cannot be surmounted. And this hardness also seems to characterize the teachings of the Four Noble Truths. It's almost as though a person is told "this is the way things are, and we have a cure for it, and all you have to do is stop craving this and take this noble path out."
   The Four Noble Truths might be analyzed as a kind of prescription, in much the same way a doctor diagnosis an illness and then prescribes a cure. There is something so solid about this. But as Gilbert mentions, in the Heart Sutra, Avalokiteshvara is telling Sariputra that there is no wisdom and no ignorance! Gilbert referred to Heart Sutra as a "manifesto" of sorts, for two reasons. Firstly, by having Avalokiteshvara (the Bodhisattva of compassion) deliver a discourse on wisdom to Sariputra, it is shown that compassion is the highest form of wisdom. Second is that this sutra declares wisdom to be just an 'unreal' or non-existent as ignorance. But why or how is that? I believe it is that as soon as a person tries to crystallize a notion of wisdom, it is not actually wisdom at all. In fact, all polarities are just creations of the mind: divisions which discriminate between 'two' things when there are really no 'two things'. Everything operates within the same matrix of dependent origination (pratekya-sammapadda), to the point where even wisdom is conditioned. And for ignorance: if ignorance is only based on cause and conditions of the moment, is it truly self-existent? Why treat it as something that is enduring or substantial? It would be like calling myself a name and then forgetting that it's I who gave myself that name, not anybody else.
    Another interesting point is that of 'wholesome'. Gilbert suggested that 'wholesome' in Buddhist teachings does not refer to some 'good' or 'bad' thought: rather, it refers more to a specific relationship that we engage in with thoughts themselves. I thought this was an interesting point, because often we blame a thought by referring to it as wholesome or unwholesome. In fact, there is no good or bad thought, but only the way we relate to those thoughts causes positive or negative consequences for ourselves and others. It again goes back to this notion that the practice is not about trying to 'arrange' things in mind to look nice ...rather, it is being clear about what's there and not allowing those things in mind to dominate one's energies. Gilbert suggested that once a person learns to clearly illuminate thoughts and not be drawn by them, they can choose which thoughts are necessary and which are not important to the moment. And this is where the practice of clear mind is of such importance.

Making Assumptions

 After our Thursday meditation tonight, I started to reflect a bit on the meaning of repentance, and how it can really be incorporated into a person's life. I still haven't quite understood it, but I think it has something to do with never assume, and never stick to the previous thought. Perhaps these two points are interconnected, but maybe I can elaborate a bit.
    "Never assume" is actually an extremely difficult practice. Any time I even make an utterance, there is an assumed audience. It may not be a clear audience, but nonetheless there is an assumed person to whom you are communicating. And that is already a risky assumption. One can never know whether the audience will get your message, how it will be received, or how deeply it will be understood. And as long as I am stuck to my assumptions, reality will likely hit me like a bag of bricks; we all should know somehow that reality never quite meets assumptions. The reason for this is that assumptions can easily lead to a stubborn refusal to entertain other possibilities that are undreamt of in the assumption. Another reason is that underneath assumptions there are often invisible polarities. If I believe that Idea A is the best idea, and don't bother to step out to see other ideas, then Idea B and C get overshadowed. In addition, it's often the case that fruitful collaboration across ideas might get lost in the shuffle.
    "Never sick to the previous thought" sort of ties in with "never assume", because it relates to how I get caught up in an idea I like the most, to the point where I settle into it. That can be quite dangerous, because when I truly get comfortable in a particular groove, an accompanying self arises. It's really starting with this vague tendency to grasp at the comfortable place I create: this place of "I like this, I want more of this, I feel most comfortable with this." A grasping self emerges from this, and that is a painful thing to hold onto. That's why it's best to entertain all the thoughts with equanimity. Even if some thoughts can't be implemented at a given time (perhaps 99% of all thoughts cannot), we sometimes can say "hold that thought" to mean that perhaps the thought can be entertained at a later time or made practical then. Another way to say this is to be open to all views, cultivating a mind that considers all thoughts to be possibilities that can be picked up or put down anytime when the situation calls for it.
   How does all this relate to repentance? I think repentance is really about cultivating an open mind that allows me to understand that I am not my thoughts and I am not who I think I am. By clinging to a notion of how I think I should be, I close myself to other possibilities, not realizing that this self I create is just a comfortable habit.
   

The Relief of the Unintended

The interesting thing about Santideva is how relieving it is to read, in “The Perfection of Patience” that there are no ‘intentional’ conditions to reckon with. For instance, Santideva remarks, on Line 26:

An assemblage of conditions does not have the intention, “I shall produce,” nor does that which is produced have the intention, ‘I shall be produced’ (p.64, italics mine)

The point is that we normally regard conditions as something that arise as one thing. Has this ever happened to you before, where a whole bunch of things seem to go wrong in the morning, after which you conclude, "The whole world is out to get me?" or "I am having a bad day?" It is as though one's mind were programmed to take all those micro-moments and rack them up to a kind of quality such as having a "bad" or a "good" day. Rather than seeing these conditions as relatively coincidental, one tends to think of them as coming from a single agent, who is likely either 'rewarding' or 'punishing' us on purpose, depending on previous experiences or causes.

 In this passage, on the other hand, Santideva seems to be suggesting the opposite, which is that conditions are never intentional in and of themselves. Conditions themselves are in fact subject to their own unique conditioning, ad infinitum. It even comes to the point where Santideva is questioning the origination of a "Primal" being or substance. He remarks, on Line 27:

That which is regarded as the Primal Substance and that which is construed as the Self do not originate, thinking, "I shall come into being. (ibid, italics mine)

Even when we speak of "I" or a creator, that too is subject to previous conditioning. The person I think of as this complete, whole I is really derived from the traces of previous experiences and arising. The further implication of this is that Self has no 'power' to come to be just through desire itself. Santideva remarks, "Since I has not arisen, how could It wish to come into existence? Since it engages with objects, it cannot strive to cease either." (ibid, Line 28, italics mine)

This is interesting because one ceases to be under the illusion of magically thinking one can endure because one wishes to. How often have you had this experience where you feel strongly passionate about doing something, only to find out hours later that the feeling has faded? Perhaps  Santideva would explain such a phenomenon by suggesting that the self I think I was at that time had no power to keep willing itself across many moments. Even though there may be a strong feeling, is there really a "self" that transports that feeling over many times and keeps it alive? Many people suggest that this is possible through will power or a kind of intention. But it's rare to find that one can keep an intended way of action unless the conditions are remaining ripe for that person to continue. To imagine an autonomous self with a uniform set of intentions is to ignore that all intentions are conditioned by many factors in a given moment.

Pain is Unintentional

 In Lines 23-25 of "The Perfection of Patience" (p.64), Santideva is remarking about the unintended nature of pain, particularly when he remarks:

23. Just as sharp pain arises although one does not desire it, so anger forcibly arises although one does not desire it.

Why is Santideva pointing to what seems to be very obvious? Most people don't desire to bring about their own pain, so why would Santideva want to make this point? The next line elaborates on this point when Santideva continues:

24. A person does not intentionally become angry, thinking, 'I shall get angry', nor does anger originate, thinking, 'I shall arise'.

Line 24 seems to more clearly indicate where Santideva is going with this, because it describes how both people and emotions themselves don't have a core agency. I never get up in the morning and intend to have a certain mood, a certain kind of thought, or a certain plan of action. All these things are conditioned by what has happened before, as well as a myriad number of tiny factors that make the present what it is. To imagine a single being who is 'behind' these machinations amounts to a kind of superstition, according to Santideva. Nobody ever chooses to be angry, and there really isn't a self-originating anger either. To try to point to anything as a true origin is to fall away from the fact that things are deeply conditioned. Hence, Santideva's next argument:

25. All offences and vices of various kinds arise under the influence of conditions, and they do not arise independently.

The point of this discussion is to shift away from the notion that selves have definite characters, with distinct, self-originating intentions. What it hints at is that a person's outlook and behavior are often intermeshed with many environmental and mental factors in the present, in addition to past habits. Not only that, but the views are continually changing or are subject to change over time.

What all this relates to is how we can start adopting a more forgiving attitude, by seeing that people are often acting from conditions that are beyond their control or agency. There really isn't even a core self there which is 'behind' all these things arising. So one can relax a bit, and stop demanding that one perform according to a preconceived thought, much less demand it from others. After all, life is much more complex and multilayered than any single human being could ever possibly imagine. At best, one can plant good seeds by cultivating good intentions and planning as much as one can for unforeseeable situations. But this is only meant to help enhance alertness and concentration when one has to execute an action. It is never a way to guarantee that things will turn out a certain way as desired.

Santideva's chapter addresses 'patience', and I think one key point is that one is best not to mistaken condition for something that is aware and has a distinct, separate agency. It's more often than not that a person will narrate sentience and intentionality to a scene where there may be neither arising. Just as a person feels silly after getting mad at an empty boat that crashed into theirs, so it seems less important to be annoyed when we realize how conditioned people are, as well as their states of being.

Being Provoked by Conditions

    I am bringing up Santideva a lot in my recent blog entries, partly because this is assigned writing book for a course in mindfulness and mental health. But there is another reason for this, and that is Santideva has an excellent style that put things very pithily. His writings are the kinds of things I can reflect on a great deal, even though the individual entries are quite small.   Reading each entry on a daily basis has been a kind of 'fortune cookie' experience for me, in the sense that each daily entry is a new thing for me to explore. I somehow wish that there were more books out there like this: small passages, no longer than 1-2 sentences per passage, which allow the reader to participate in the text by adding their own commentary and experiences. So far, the only similar texts I have come across with this format are Pascal's Pensees, Marcus Aurelius's Meditations, Dhammapada, and Master Sheng Yen's 108 Adages of Wisdom. Perhaps they are enough after all! 
   Santideva raises a very interesting theme on Line 22 of "The Perfection of Patience", and that is the theme of not taking 'unaware' things as having awareness. He remarks:

I am not angered at bile and the like even though they cause great suffering. Why be angry at sentient beings, who are also provoked to anger by conditions? (p.64)

The idea behind this small passage seems multilayered. One thing Santedeva suggests is that we hardly get angry at what we think of as inanimate. How many times has a person stubbed their toe on the bedpost and then tried to be angry with the bedpost all day? It's not so possible, is it? Yet, if a person is called a bad name by their neighbor, she or he is likely to be angry all day. What's the difference between these two situations? I think that in the first situation, we can easily see that the bedpost is a 'condition' that provokes the emotion. If I had been in a different location relative to the bedpost, it would not have harmed me. I reason, then, that a combination of different preconditions allowed the bedpost to hurt my body: proximity, relative light in the room, my own sleepy state of mind, etc.
    In the second situation where a person calls me a name, it's often harder for me to understand that that too is conditioned. I think : "well that person did it to me, because they hate me!" In this sentence, there is a strong sense of someone else who has awareness telling my awareness how bad I am. There is this assumption, then, that there are two different aware beings fighting with each other. Now, if I suddenly realized that the person talking to me were a puppet or a robot, I probably wouldn't be annoyed, because I am not feeling that the other were intentionally trying to harm me. But what if even a so-called intentional action by a person was also conditioned? If we even think about the case of a cold-blooded killer, even she or he is behaving from conditions of the mind: past memories, traumatic feelings, hatreds, assumptions, and beliefs. Aren't these all conditioned as well?
    I think Santideva's point is to say: if we could treat others as subject to conditions, we wouldn't have much reason to be angry with them. To use a biochemical model, all the bile in one's body creates certain conditions which affect emotions and overall outlook. If I don't attach that bile to a specific self who is deliberately trying to 'harm me' (another illusion), then I won't harbor any grudge toward another. The point is not to think that there is a single 'person' who is deliberately trying to thwart this 'person' called 'me'--but rather, to perhaps consider, what are the conditions impinging upon the situation? From a global, overarching perspective, what are the factors that make things as they are? This attitude is completely opposite to one of blame.


Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997.  .

Arrogance and Despair

   What does suffering do for people? Now an interesting point is that from a Buddhist perspective, suffering is the First Noble Truth, and the word is out on whether or not it's meant to be noble or not. After all, we think of suffering as something to be 'overcome', not as something to be quietly endured. But Santideva, on the other hand, will go so far as to say that there is a benefit to suffering, and that is, it reduces what he refers to as "arrogance":

21. Suffering has another quality since arrogance diminishes because of despair, and one feels compassion for beings in the cycle of existence, fear of sin, and a yearning for the Jina. (p.64).

The interesting thing about this line is that is almost feels like a reversal of the Four Noble Truths, at least insofar as it switches the classic notion of trying to overcome suffering through the Eightfold Path. What this passage suggests, instead, is that even suffering itself can become a kind of leveler of the ego. By seeing suffering as it is, one stops attaching to the view that there is a self who is in charge. When I stop trying to think I am in 'charge' of my life (whatever that might mean), some real connection might potentially form between myself and my world. I start to experience compassion as well as "fear of sin", perhaps here referring to the fear of wrongdoing. After all, with suffering, actions have a lot of weighted consequences, and life starts to look more and more fragile and interdependent. Finally, "yearning for the Jina" perhaps refers to a kind of yearning to live a moral life, or at least a spiritual teaching.
   A question I have here is that, is there a specific kind of suffering that Santideva is referring to in this passage, or is it any kind of suffering? The word "despair" perhaps gives it away, because all suffering eventually leads to a point where one no longer really feels in control of their life. Even a suffering like the desire for a cup of coffee seems innocuous, but it also reminds a person of their dependence on something external for their sense of happiness. (Think about what happens when a coffee-lover doesn't have their cup in the morning!) It's interesting how some of the worst addictions seem to lead people to a similar epiphany, where they understand that suffering of craving takes them to the very end of self. It's precisely when I realize how little "I" am in control of craving that I stop believing in my own lies about who I am and how much influence I have over my everyday life. That is also when, paradoxically, my mind can become more open to a fundamental reality of interconnection.



Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997.  .

Value of Adversity

  Throughout Santideva's writings on patience, there is an emphasis on embracing struggle rather than trying to transcend it in a simplified way. In line 19 of "The Perfection of Patience", Santideva continues this theme when eh remarks, "Not even in suffering should a wise person disrupt his mental serenity, for the battle is with the mental afflictions; and in battle pain is easily obtained." (p.63) There are two points that stand out for me in this passage. The first is that Santideva characterizes the 'site' of battle as "mental afflictions", meaning that we are really only dealing with states of mind. In an earlier passage, Santideva uses the analogy of not having enough leather to cover the world, and thus using leather sandals instead (Chapter V, line 13). When I stop thinking that I need to conquer the world 'out there', and see the real enemy as the states of mind or attitudes, I no longer bite off more than I can proverbially chew. I am not trying to change the world to suit my own whims, but am rather working on adjusting unhelpful mental attitudes that might be causing me to suffer in that situation.
    The second part that interests me in this line is seeing that one should expect to feel pain in battle: hence, "in battle pain is easily obtained." I believe that this attitude applies especially to meditation practice, where a person literally experiences a whole gamut of struggles in trying to adopt the middle path between different extremes. I think a mistake I commonly make is to assume that struggle reflects a failure in meditation. In fact, as Santideva emphasizes in Part V especially, the mind is something that can be quite chaotic, and it's expected that one can never control what the mind does. By harboring the expectation of struggle, a person learns not to reject it but to abide peacefully in it, knowing that pain is an unavoidable part of a worthwhile battle or struggle.
    Line 20 has something similar to say to us about the relationship between pain, struggle and spiritual practice. Here, again, Santideva resorts of militaristic imagery to get his point across, when he remarks, "Those who conquer the enemy while receiving the enemies blows on the chest are the victorious heroes. The rest just kill the dead." (ibid). In other words, the most worthwhile things one can do are based on a problematic relationship with something else. Unless one is getting the enemies' blows directly while conquering them, there is not too much learning taking place: it is like, as Santideva suggests, killing people who are already dead! Santideva seems to advocate an ethics of embracing struggle in order to transform struggle, rather than being content with imaginary problems that have no substance or reality. In the midst of this theory of struggle is a faith that difficulties can help a person cultivate a clear and spacious mind, by giving the person a training space to cultivate the bigger mind.

Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997.  .