Life's Momentum

"As long as the conditions of life are not brought to an end, just so long does life exist and proceed. Therefore, there is no escape in any particular form." ( Khun Sobhana Dhammasudi., from Secrets of the Lotus, Swearer, 1971)p.14)


It's interesting to reflect on the idea that life is compounded, not singular or "a thing in itself". I see at least two implications of this view. The first is that every moment is a little bit uncertain; it's subject to all sorts of arising conditions that are changing and combining in so many different ways. The second implication seems quite opposite, and that is there is "no escape in any particular form" as long as life continues. I think this means that because life is made of intermeshing factors, the whole of life continues to exist and cannot be easily curbed. I think this might be considered a kind of "momentum" of life.
    Because all the elements of life are co-mingling in a structure of mutual support, the continuity of life is preserved. I remember seeing a movie recently, Hologram for the King, where the protagonist ends up in the hospital due to a tumorous growth on his back, and is told that he is not in any terminal condition. The term the doctor uses to describe the protagonist's situation is something like "stubborn human life", or something to the effect that human life has this self-sustaining momentum which allows it to exist continuously over a long time, enduring every kind of hardship. In a sense, it would be a disaster if this were not so, because the human body is subject to all kinds of ailments, environmental conditions and other challenges. None of these things are completely controllable, but at the same time, the body seems to have evolved in ways that it faces these challenges quite effortlessly. Without the ability to adapt to change, life forms would not be able to improve their chances for survival. In this way, life is not as fragile as the idea of impermanence might suggest.
    I have found that many Buddhist teachings stress impermanence, because most people struggle with attachment and are unable to accept the reality of change. However, the opposite is also true: because life is compounded and diverse, there is more chance for resilience and adaptation. I saw a nature documentary recently which illustrates this principle: a frog accidentally stumbled into a spider's nest, where a poisonous mother spider was stalking prey to feed her brood. Rather than kill the frog as one would expect, the spider uses her delicate hairs to discern that this frog is poisonous, and would therefore not be a palatable choice for her or her offspring. Rather than reject the frog or chase it out of its den, however, the mother spider leaves it to roam around, perhaps aware on some level that the frog can help control the population of ants, or other threats to the mother spider's eggs. This spider has clearly evolved the ability to separate threats and benefits, and in this manner it survives and helps the frog to survive as well. This is one example where sentient beings benefit from the ability to adapt new ways of facing diverse elements.
   What I am observing in these examples is that 'impermanence' or aggregated life does not mean that life will fall apart. The compounded nature of existence suggests, to the contrary, that life is better able to regulate itself when it consists of intermingling parts that adapt or change over time.


Swearer, Donald K. ed. (1971). Secrets of the Lotus. New York: Macmillan

Compound Life

"Whatever one sows and accumulates in life, one reaps as a result. Life is not a thing by itself but a compound of things. It depends upon conditions which form its existence. When certain conditions come into combination, life is formed." (p.14, Chao Khun Sobhana Dhammasudi., from Secrets of the Lotus, Swearer, 1971)


Most religious beliefs have some idea that is similar to the notion of "you reap what you sow." I was reflecting today about how the Christian church I had once attended for a while had emphasized the idea that one should 'give 'til it hurts', and this is somewhat related to the idea that merit comes from personal sacrifice or devotion to God. What's interesting about the above quote is that it is then followed by an account of the aggregated nature of life, which is characteristic of Buddhist teachings especially. "Life is not a thing by itself but a compound of things." If such is the case, does this invalidate the notion of a permanent soul? More than anything, it seems to suggest that because life is a compound of different factors, it is impossible to make a one to one correlation between the action and the result, since multiple conditions can affect the future results. This is where the second and third statements tend to complicate the first statement, by problematizing the clear-cut idea of 'good cause makes good result.' It suggests that there can be a multitude of changing conditions that affect a result, so one should not expect a given result.
   Perhaps the most apt metaphor that is used in Buddhism is that of planting vegetables. When I plant carrot seeds, it's not possible for me to get corn, and vice versa. However, the fact that I do plant carrot seeds is not a clear cut guarantee or indicator that the seeds will grow into fully-fledged carrots at any specific time. This seems to be because many factors are out there that can affect the possibility of having carrots, including soil, air quality, sunlight, temperature, and so on. Life is always, as this quote suggests, completely dependent upon other conditions to shape its existence, even when it has potentials to be a certain way. This is why we talk about karma 'ripening' or 'maturing' rather than 'resulting'.
     The attitude that arises from this philosophy is likely to be not so emboldened as a religion which might valorize suffering or generosity as a kind of heroic quality. Even if I feel confident in my intentions and abilities to create a certain situation, I can never be certain that it will mature when I most want or need it to, since other factors might interfere in the most inopportune or inconvenient moments. This is why one can never say that a result has an inherent value, because that result is only the temporary agglomeration of ripening causes, which can change to something else at a later time. There is never really a time to rest on one's laurels, as it were.
   But doesn't this also mean that life on earth is somewhat miraculous? It is most certainly something to appreciate, because what we have is always the result of many other factors working together in harmony.


Swearer, Donald K. ed. (1971). Secrets of the Lotus. New York: Macmillan

Not Escaping from Life

"Many people misunderstand meditation as an escape from life or as mysticism. In reality, however, meditation is mental development and not an escape from life at all. In fact, one cannot escape from one's own life even if one tried to do so."- Chao Khun Sobhana Dhammasudi., from Secrets of the Lotus (Swearer, 1971)


As I am reading the quote from the above text, I am reflecting on how most of the time, many people are looking for some truth that will unlock the mysteries of their life, and this 'truth' often takes the form of a sense of relief or release. Maybe it's not necessarily an escape into the mountains, but it could be the longing for a sense of home or 'security'-- a place where people can truly relax and be themselves, rather than trying to please other people or play a certain part in an uncertain drama. While I resonate with what Chao Khun is remarking, I also respect that people come to meditation to know their deepest wishes and heart. Is it an escape to do so? I think that depends on where a person goes with the longing for home.
   It also reminds me of what Master Sheng Yen has said, namely, that wherever he happens to be is his home-- and this is the way monastics view the world. There isn't any place to escape in the busy hustle of life, but the letting go of attachments can lead to a sense that everywhere is the mind's abode. To finally turn toward life wholeheartedly and not try to escape from it is, as Chao Khun suggests, the kind of direction of meditation. When I am finally able to give up escaping, my home widens and expands to include a variety of different situations, rather than trying to fasten onto a distant hope and then make my mind conform to that hope.
   This passage also alludes to the way past karma cannot be reversed: it has already come to pass. Trying to make myself into a better 'something' is also delusory, because the past has already slipped away: it's like trying to build a tower out of smoke. If I spend time trying to envy or admire others, none of that will change the way things are now, and all that can be done is to create favorable conditions for the future time, as well as adjust one's attitudes in the present.
   It's wonderful to realize, however, that the present conditions are already ripe for meditation. No matter how deep one's dilemmas are, that too is something that can be a practice--in other words, meditation never waits for things to be a certain way, since everything that is, is the material for practice. Perhaps it reminds me of the alchemists of the distant past, who could change any material into gold. The gold is the mind-nature of all things, and is the true nature of mind.


 Swearer, Donald K, ed.. (1971). Secrets of the Lotus. New York: Macmillan

Losing and Finding Again

 Have you ever lost something rather trivial, such as a piece of paper, and drove yourself crazy trying to find it? When I think about this scenario, I think of the story of the man who loses his keys, but instead of going . where he would most suspect they are lost, he stays in the light instead. Even when I am trying to find something, do I really have any idea what I am truly looking for? Suppose I then find that missing item--did I really find it, or was the missing item only symbolic of something more fundamental?
   A lot of this reminds me of the Augustinian model of good/evil which I read mainly from Anders Nygren's book Eros and Agape: namely, that evil is not a substantial thing in and of itself, but is only a misguided or 'perverse' search for the good. Things that we think we should not waste our time looking for can sometimes contain hidden meanings, such as the search for awe and wonder or a renewal of trust in oneself. According to Augustine, even the most profane longings are really sacred ones in disguise: I turn to them only when I don't have the resources to pursue a much purer form. This is to say: we should never dismiss our longings, however senseless and futile they may be, but at the same time, we should always keep an eye out for their lasting significance. Without this sense of the sublime meaning, one's searches turn out to be chimeric, only pointing to things that are subject to changing and shifting conditions. This is quite paper thin, when you think about it, but maybe by tracing one's longing back to the original and true inspiration, the search for the missing paper can become the search for one's life and purpose.

A Moving Wheel

 After the meditation practice tonight, we had a long sharing. In most situations where the sharing is long, I may start to fidget or get restless after a while, but this time, I just practiced being still and present. What I felt is a bit like the mind is a very vast and wide space, and even when there is movement, the movement is taking place in the midst of this vastness. One could think of it in this way: if you had a very small aquarium with fish that are moving quickly within it, you are bound to think that the fish are darting frantically in a small space, whereas a much bigger space registers less movement even when the fish are moving at the same rate. Why is that? I think it's because the mind registers all the phenomena as a totality and there isn't a single location you could point to and say, 'that's my mind'. Without a reference point to compare one position to another, everything is moving, but nothing is reacting to the moving. There is a kind of observation around everything, in which emotions arise but there are no accompanying reactions or frantic counter-movements. Essentially, things start to look harmonizing with each other, even when different emotions arise.
   It's hard to describe this intellectually, and I am afraid that I can only really have this experience after a period of meditation! But at least this kind of experience forms a template, and the more one can practice it, the more faith and confidence one has that it's possible. Another analogy is that of a wheel that continues to move even after a bicycle has tipped over on its side. The wheel represents all the karma from the past, whereas the unmoving bicycle represents the still awareness. While the wheel moves according to conditions, the mind doesn't.

The Temptations of Story

    If you have ever watched life history movies, you will notice that they follow very similar patterns: stories of early adversity followed by a struggle, periods of learning, and finally maturity, where a person's demons are confronted and surmounted. Of course, I am generalizing a lot here, but it seems that biographical narratives seek to follow mythical patterns of birth, trial, conquest and return. Many people, including myself, have longed for this pattern to occur at certain periods in their lives, especially when they are confronted with a very long journey that may or may not end in success. There is a craving for a guarantee that one's efforts will make a difference to others, in some big or small way. Even the great religions in the world tend to follow the life trajectory of one great, heroic or powerful being, to the point where life is meant to imitate this person. I find it touching to reflect on these religions, to know that there is a being whose love is so great that they were able to lay down a pattern for all humanity to embody and imitate.
   I have to admit, however, that I am observing in myself an opposite tendency, and that is to slow down awareness to the point where it is not looking for grand narratives in life. This part realizes that narratives can create all kinds of cravings and suffering, especially when a person wants her or his life to conform to one of their favorite stories, only to realize that it simply fails to do so. Emma Bovary is one example of a character in fiction whose life is so steeped in the grand narratives of romantic sacrifice that the life she actually has pales in comparison. This, along with a strange liaison , leads her eventually to despair and death. The problem I see in Madame Bovary is not, as some have suggested, that she lives in a kind of bourgeoisie prison, but rather that perhaps she has too many stories filtering out her experiences. Her mind becomes a kind of trap of its own.
   It leads me to wonder, is there a way to read stories that does not create the concomitant desire to live as though one were in an unfolding story? I guess my question hinges upon the related question of whether or not it's good and necessary to try to structure one's life in terms of story. Schopenhauer has said that toward the end of one's life, one is particularly inclined to do so because one has much more perspective on what has happened in the decades before, as well as the wisdom to be able to properly narrative and interpret those experiences. But note that Schopenhauer suggests this to happen in the advent of old age, and not as an unfolding process that happens in one's day to day experiences. Schopenhauer seems to be skeptical of the ability for one to find a fitting life story when the will to live (or life craving) is particularly strong.
     Overall, while I think that narratives are thought provoking tools to connect communities, I still feel deep inside that there are also destructive or shadowy aspects to narrative, including the expectations of heroic endings in one's own life. In today's academic world, we are going through a period where narrative research has become trendy, but I wonder if anyone has ever worked out theories regarding when narrative truly expands to enfold and embrace community, and when it might collapse identity by creating all sorts of attachments or internal projections.




   

Bare Awareness

   "Bare awareness" is a term that I first encountered when I read Jon Kabat-Zinn's writings, and I have more recently read about it in a book by Donald K Swearer called Secrets of the Lotus. One of the tricky things about the notion of bare awareness is that it's about seeing non-judgmentally, or seeing past the sense of self or "I". The problem is that the "I" is often so deeply ingrained in seeing that the act of seeing is already presupposing a self. Even something as innocent as taking notice of a sweet food in a candy store is tinged by the lens of desire, which is often used to select what we want to pursue.  I have often caught myself realizing how consciousness seems to 'pre-select' objects of desire, thus defining the scene in front of me before I can take in everything in the picture.
   It's not enough to try to suppress the thoughts of desiring something in particular, since that thought has already arisen in mind at that point, and there is no sense in fighting off the thought: it's just a puff of smoke that will be replaced by other thoughts. I have found that what most helps for me is to understand that the thought itself is not my mind; it is only coming from the previous karma which has accumulated as the result of habits. I have also noticed how trying to fight a particular thought only makes that thought seem more real than it is, only because I am adding to that same thought.
   Just now, as I am writing this, I am thinking about the difference between bare awareness and asceticism. I think that ascetics try to cut off all desires through a strenuous exercise of mind or will, whereas bare awareness is somewhat softer than this: it sees past the desire or thought to get a sense of what supports the thoughts. In this way, there isn't an effort to engage content, only to look deeply at the process that gives rise to the thoughts themselves.

Technique vs Technology

  I am reading a book called Mediating Piety: Technology and Religion in Contemporary Asia (2009), and I am inspired to reflect on the differences between technology and technique. One of the philosophers who is mentioned in this anthology is Felix Guattari, who argues that "engagement with machines makes possible new ways of existing" (Lim, p.2). This quote struck me because it makes me realize that technology doesn't necessarily get equated with mechanical 'techniques'. There is an orientation toward technology which tends to reduce it to a kind of crutch which prevents people from becoming actively involved in a process: an assembly line is one such stereotypical example. On the other hand, there is a whole spectrum of orientations which allow people to see technology not as 'technique' but as windows to allow people to create and enhance their abilities to reflect and contemplate.
   One example I am thinking about recently is the act of taking videos and sound clips of natural scenery--something I have been inclined to do recently with the change in the weather and the coming of spring. I have been trying to find ways to essentially 'capture' the sounds and sights of spring in Toronto and incorporate them into contemplative videos where nature becomes an object of meditation. Some may suggest that I am engaging in what Heidegger would refer to as "challenging" which "puts to nature the unreasonable demand that it supply energy which can be extracted and stored as such" (Heidegger 1977: 296). The act of creating a video, replicating and editing it to suit a particular message, and allowing users to view it or stream it infinitely, is something akin to trying to tap into the resources of nature and capture its beauty or spiritual values. I wouldn't necessarily say it is a form of "challenging" nature in the sense that Heidegger refers to it, since streaming a video doesn't stretch natural resources too much. On the other hand, the idea of trying to take natural images and convert them to audio-visual meditations might suggest a form of trying to capture or replicate spiritual experience itself. I am even wondering if creating 'meditations' for others might reduce them to passive spectators of technology rather than giving them space to meditate using their own method.
    If technology can inspire others to be their own creators of media, this is perhaps a very great boon to society, and it empowers others to contemplatively explore using media. But I am interested in learning what kinds of images and sounds can inspire the mood to create, and which combinations are only meant to entertain. Perhaps the most inspiring forms of media are ones which leave many questions for viewers to answer through their own creations and reflections. By hinting at something that remains unanswered or inexhaustible, contemplative media might even provide inspiration for artists in their own paths. I would be interested in learning about how one kind of media object can spark or inspire many others.


Lim, F.K.G (ed) (2009). Mediating Piety: Technology and Religion in Contemporary Asia. Boston: Brill.

Nouwen's Discernment

   Theologian Henri Nouwen wrote a very interesting book called On Discernment, which I read while I was in the library today. This book describes how all of a person's interactions with other beings have special significance, albeit often hidden underneath the surface appearances that people might happen to present. From a Christian perspective, this book explores the ways in which our interactions are refracting different elements of a more divine, spiritual relationship with a creator being, and thus it is best to cherish other beings in certain ways to reveal the hidden wisdom in those interactions. I certainly think that this kind of perspective also resonates in a Buddhist sense, because it essentially shows how interconnected beings really are.
   In a sense, one cannot fully know her or himself unless they can see these different aspects of themselves as revealed by others. I guess the attitude that best describes it in a Chan way is that we treat all beings as mind communicating with mind. It's not two different 'minds' conferring with each other, but its mind in a kind of iterative communication which mirrors its own nature. This process of  repeating 'mirroring' seems to serve the important function of allowing the mind to soften its grasp of phenomena and self, by encountering situations which continually challenge that identification with a conscious self. Maybe in the Christian context, this might be similar to encountering divinity within, through a sometimes painful process of letting go of what one cherishes to be 'oneself', whether it's the sense of control one has over things, or the sense of confident knowing, or even the sense of family or group affiliation. All these things continually need to be challenged before a person can truly 'know' this deeply mysterious and ungraspable presence in the universe--and to even know that they can't possibly ever fully 'know'.

Human Humility

 It's interesting to reflect on previous mistakes, in a way that doesn't make them seem awful or overpowering. As I reflected in my prior entry, it seems important to add a sense of nurturing to one's reflections, lest they become exercises in self-attack. This isn't to say that a person should exalt her or himself to the point of seeming to be 'all powerful' or omnipotent. It might be more accurate to describe self-nurturing as having the courage to highlight one's mistakes while not shying away from their impact.
   I am not sure what Eastern cultures think about this idea of repentance, but it is certainly to me one of the hardest things to do, to embrace one's own weaknesses and still work to improve or overcome them. It seems to me that a person needs to have some degree of security in themselves to be able to handle criticism or previous mistakes without identifying oneself as 'someone who gets nothing right.' When the scale is tipped to the point of downing oneself for failing personal expectations, this is a sign to let go of taking the self as something that is enduring or even substantial. It's also a sign that things one has done wholesomely are being stowed away or discredited, and one can no longer have a clear awareness or perspective on their being and previous actions.
    If humility arises without going into despair, it can be a very good way to ground the mind and allow scattered thoughts to dissipate. This is perhaps because humility can slow a person's processes and allow them to think about what they can improve, rather than rushing from one task to another in a frantic way. Humility toward one's own previous actions and work can be a way to take stock of what has been done successfully and unsuccessfully, as well as to develop a future plan for improvement. But, in my opinion, none of this works when there is a strong grasping to self, because in those moments, the self perverts this natural movement into something resembling pity or blame.

On Being Nurtured

  I have been reflecting on Ian Suttie's book Origin of Love and Hate, for quite some time, and it touches upon ambivalence I feel toward the role of nurturing and maturity. Most cultures have what are called 'initiation' ceremonies, where young people are separated from what's familiar and 'nurturing' to them in favor of some wild experience which is meant to teach them growth and self-reliance. It's sometimes known informally as 'tough love', but I am also reflecting on how much this kind of initiation gets internalized into one's views of spirituality. There is almost a sense that spiritual initiations are meant to make people more self-reliant, as though there were these independent beings in the world who are meant to become isolated. But I have to say, this can lead to attaching to the self as something that is impervious to environment or emotions, which can be an even greater error than assuming that others will always take care of us in all situations. This can also lead a person to prematurely deny their own feelings or wishes, rather than facing up to vulnerability which is shared with all beings.
   I wonder if perhaps a more balanced view is to acknowledge the desire to be nurtured or acknowledged by others in some way or another as a form of social sustenance. I may not have the means to find nurturance or understanding among those around me, but this does not mean that I need necessarily deny those emotions altogether. It's more just a matter of looking closely at contradictory forces within us that act as the conditions for very unique states of mind. For example, I might have a wish to be loved alongside a somewhat conflicting wish to be left alone at times, as well as a desire to surrender alongside a desire to control. Actually, none of these qualities 'negates' the other at all, especially when one is very clear that they are thoughts arising in mind and have no direct connection with each other. It's only when I insist that I behave in a single consistent way that I try to 'make sense' of these inner contradictions by trying to resolve them into one neat answer. While this is my tendency, I may also want to be aware that it's okay to have these contradictions, and I needn't make it my mission to resolve them in a neat way.
   I also wonder if perhaps the highest form of nurturing is to embrace the contradictions that are in us and around us, as opposed to avoiding them or attempting to suppress them.

Unbounded

   Tonight, as with many group meditation practices, I had to practice a strong determination to relax my body, in order to overcome tensions and strains in the spine. After a while, there were moments when I felt such a release and lightness that it felt 'normal' for the first time in a long time. Those brief moments would come and go, and I would later realize that they are only temporary experiences. However, it's interesting how I was still trying to evaluate these experiences in terms of some fictitious standard of 'normal' which I had established in myself.
   When we come to think about spiritual or religious practice, there is a tendency to think of it as a blueprint for how to live and have the best possible experiences. I am beginning to wonder, though, is it conceivable that the direction of spiritual practice is always one step away--never quite within grasp, and not enclosing the universe in any way? For instance, the example of meditation suggests that the process never really quite takes a person to an 'optimal state' or make them into these fixed, 'self-actualized' beings. Rather, it seems more the case that meditation prepares a person to simply be in an unfolding uncertainty, without trying to add a concept of 'going somewhere'. As the Diamond Sutra suggests in particular, the words 'me' and 'enlightenment' only mar that journey by assuming that the world is bounded and transcribed into these easy-to-read lesson plans, whereas in fact there isn't a 'self' learning or growing. In this way, I can slowly let go of the illusory release from tightness or pain, knowing that these releases are never what meditation is aiming to do. They may be side effects of calming the mind, but they are not necessarily states of being to try to achieve.

The Optimistic Pessimist?

  On the way to work this morning, I was reflecting on whether Arthur Schopenhauer could be considered a pessimist (as many have suggested) or an optimist. Most would argue that he is pessimistic based on such pithy lines in Counsels and Maxims as "life is given us not to be engaged but to be overcome..to be got over." (p.8) While these kinds of remarks suggest an attitude of resignation, I have to wonder if in fact it is only a strategy to allow life to be fully lived, in spite of its hardships. What Schopenhauer seems to be doing is creating a rhetoric of despair, not so that people can wallow in self-pity, but so that they can overcome their attachments to certain desires in life, including the longing to be loved and admired by everyone around us, or even the longing for human comfort.
  What I gather from Schopenhauer's philosophy is that life is so much more livable when (perhaps paradoxically) there is not so much attachment to living itself. It's perhaps not a coincidence that Schopenhauer later inspired Nietzsche, since the two philosophers seem closely associated with a heroic romanticism, or a kind of exalting of a melancholy but defiant individual in the face of difficulty and challenge. It later leads to existentialism which, in my opinion, epitomizes the paradoxical embrace of choice over and above life itself. By valorizing the sense of choice or human will over and above the despair of life, these philosophies suggest that there is still a great deal that one can choose to be even given the very tight and limited controls that are thought to hem in a life.
   Buddhism seems to depart from these philosophies in the sense that its practices challenge the notion of an individual who chooses from a certain vantage point, such as a particular body or 'attitude'. In doing so, there is no sense of the world as a thing that is to be controlled or controlling me in turn, and there isn't any of this negotiating of the 'terms' of a person's life which is often found in Schopenhauer--that is, trying to size up or assess the opportunities given to life after all suffering has been accounted for. Rather, the sense is that all experiences, including suffering, lead to mind, and this leads to a notion of phenomena as being constructions of the mind.
     This doesn't mean that one necessarily has to change negatives to positives. Instead, the practice is to investigate what 'mind' is that undergirds these changing and shifting experiences. To put it in a different way, as soon as I set up the notion of 'I decide this', I already create a prison for myself, because I attach to this 'I" that is only a fleeting moment in time. The same goes with attaching to the notion of worth, value or 'the good'. In The Diamond Sutra, for example, we read: "the minds of all Bodhisattvas should be purified of all such conceptions as relate to seeing, hearing, tasting , smelling, touching and discriminating. They should use the mental faculties spontaneously and naturally, but unconstrained by any preconceptions arising from the senses" (In Goddard, 1994, p.94).
   It's interesting to reflect on these sentences, because they suggest that suffering does not arise from attitude or 'frame of mind' so much as it arises from this mistaken illusion of a self that lives only in this body and are bounded by specific senses. It's not long before the view of the 'mind' bounded by senses becomes a living prison.
      Think of the example of a driver cutting you off while you are driving or crossing the street on a busy day. If none of my stories or explanations of that story contain an "I", would there be so much suffering in it? Instead of "she/he cut me off!", how would the story be to say that this total and present moment is just happening as the result of previous conditions coming to fruition, and there is no individual actually suffering the outcome? Maybe it is just what it is, and there is no 'self' that is accumulating anything from the experience. In this way, I don't necessarily need to monitor myself to deal with situations, so much as recollecting that none of the elements of the experience constitute an enduring sense of self.


Goddard, D. (ed) (1994). A Buddhist Bible. Boston: Beacon Press
Schopenhauer, A. (Saunders, T.B trans). (1995). The Wisdom of Life and Counsels and Maxims. Amherst: Prometheus Books

Curiosity that Extends Everywhere

   I have been reflecting today about the importance of having an open curiosity to learn from others. It's not so easy to cultivate this curiosity, but I believe that it's possible to do so intentionally, just as one practices loving kindness with intention. What would be the ingredients in this curiosity, however?
  When I think about what it means to be curious about anything, I think about the leap of faith that is required. If a person doesn't have faith that there is a fundamental common ground that connects all sentient life, it's hard to make that leap of faith: how easy, in fact, it can be to go the opposite direction and think that there are enormous and insurmountable 'gulf' of difference between people. But without that basic faith, it can be quite difficult to try to be curious about others. Christian faith sees the life and death of Jesus as the bridging between all people, while Buddhist faith will tend to look at Buddha nature as a universal potential that links all living forms. In both cases, there is the cultivation of a belief in what life shares in common, which far surmounts the elements that make people different.
   I am also aware that curiosity needs to be tentative and not connected with a pretentious aspect of self-advancement. To be curious seems to involve a kind of tentative grasping that is somewhat playful and not overly ambitious to fulfill an agenda. From a spiritual view, this is perhaps because we again are imbued with a faith that things are already deeply fulfilled within us, and there isn't anything to 'join' since the joined bond already exists. To be really convinced of this (grace or forgiveness?) is to have the liberty to participate in a communion with others without having the burden of self-judgment and self-condemnation around or within us.

Freedom from Pain

 I am re-reading Arthur Schopenhauer's "Counsels and Maxims", as I have found quite a few interesting things about this book which seem to relate to living ethically according to the Four Noble Truths. Schopenhauer was by no means a Buddhist, but he was inspired by Buddhism at the time when he was writing in the 19th century. I don't agree with all of Schopenhauer's philosophy at this stage in my life, though I quite resonated with his ideas when I was in my 20s. Recently, I found that I am sometimes embarrassed to say that I like this philosopher because he has quite a few antiquated and questionable attitudes about people. Part of my embarrassment comes from the fact that his attitudes seem to be aristocratic at times and he is certainly relating to the prejudices of the time in which he is writing. However, one thing I do like about him is how clearly he articulates the First Noble Truth of suffering, in a clear way that convinces his readers of the universality of suffering. There are many times when I feel that he has a very lucid and direct understanding of how people suffer, and there is a certain genuine profundity in his writings which I took to even prior to having any spiritual path.
    Schopenhauer's first 'maxim' is something he proclaims to borrow from Aristotle, namely the idea that "not pleasure, but freedom from pain, is what the wise man will aim at." (p.7) Schopenhauer proceeds to describe the vanity of using life to seek after pleasure or fame. His first argument is that the removal of something painful is more substantial than getting what one supposedly wants, because the former involves removing an obstruction to a person's will.
  Actually, even if one doesn't agree with the logic of this argument, it's clear that relief from pain is often much more rewarding than finding what is pleasurable in life. I can think of two examples off the top of my head. The first is when I was in ninth grade, when I had looked forward to having summer vacation to read, only to find myself catching a cold as the time arrived and also not really getting into the books that I thought I had wanted to read. The 'pursuit' of the pleasurable experience turned out to be what Schopenhauer refers to as a 'chimera', and one which even risks a great deal of loss. In contrast, when I recently had a problem of my right ear feeling clogged for no apparent reason, it was such a relief for me when it had finally cleared up. This substantiates the claim by Schopenhauer that the 'freedom from pain' is so much more substantial and satisfying than the pursuit of pleasure.
   The problem is that no sooner is a person relieved of pain that they will start to take it for granted again. Schopenhauer suggests a few exercises, such as reflecting on worse conditions than what one is in today, as a way of making them feel grateful for not being in a worse state of suffering. But perhaps his most compelling argument is that living simply, with few desires, is the best way to enjoy the things one has. I think this is also the aspect which comes closest to what I have read in Buddhist teachings. This isn't to say that the practice is only about meditation. I think Schopenhauer offers a more reflective balance by getting his readers to consider: are the pleasures they hope to gain from what they don't have equal to the pains of losing what they do have? This is a very interesting reflection which I would definitely encourage as a daily practice.




Schopenhauer, Arthur (tr. T. B. Saunders) (1995). The Wisdom of Life and Counsels and Maxims. New York: Prometheus Books
  

The "Call and Answer" of Creation

 Today, on a lovely Good Friday, I found a nature trail close to my home, and the sights I beheld were quite lovely. I started to take pictures and videos in the hopes of creating something out of it, but it turns out that the process was a bit frustrating. Part of the problem was that I was enjoying the scenery, and yet somehow I was not able to communicate something that is interesting or sharable about that experience. Although the experience felt meaningful to me, it seems that I had been forcing myself to communicate a narrative on top of it that conforms to certain ideas. When I do this kind of thing, I find that the experience takes time to sink in. A story hasn't yet formed around the pictures and videos.
    Is there a meaning to all of this from a Buddhist perspective? Well, I suppose that in Buddhism, there is never a sole creator of anything, but rather things come about through many interlocking conditions. Sometimes, an idea needs to take a lot of time to come to fruition, and I find that in these moments, it's best to wait for a story or narrative to emerge as the mind starts to clear. Another way of looking at this might be to say that creation is not a one-time event that is done by a single agent, but it rather involves a complex 'call and answer' dynamic. I call out to the world, and hope that the world will come back to me in dialogue, provided that the conditions are there. But if nothing happens whatsoever, then I need to be happy with that as well. If I am trying too hard to 'control' what the story will reveal, then I am not open to the kinds  of surprises that make stories satisfying and interesting to people. It is as though there is a fixed script in mind and I am not even open to the possibility of changing that script at some later point in time.
   Perhaps all the things we make are the result of a combination of initiative and humility: though my intention and effort might be strong, there needs to be a certain surrender to something else that completes the story.

No Place to Go

 During the group meditation facilitation tonight, I guided the participants through the usual walking meditation practice. I mentioned that there is simply no destination when walking: even when one's body is moving, the mind has no place to go.  As I said these words, an interesting thing happened: there was a sense of excitement, as though one had been nibbling through a coffin for many years, only to realize that there is neither a coffin nor a person trying to get out of the coffin.
  In daily life, it's not so easy to realize that there is no place for the mind to go: I am constantly assuming that the mind is inside this body, lodged deeply inside, like its own prisoner. Everything I do is a reaction based on the underlying belief that I begin and end with this body. If I didn't have such a strong and powerful belief, then I wouldn't be identifying this or that thing with my body as though I end with the body itself. Even the very act of rushing from place to place is part of the belief that the body needs to be 'filled' in order for the mind to survive. Gaining and losing is part of this dynamic, and it gets replicated in every social institution: even the idea of being a person with a viable social identity in Canada starts from having a series of numbers: social insurance, health card, student number, etc. It's not long before one goes from identifying the number to a fixed body that I call myself, as distinguished from others who may or may not possess a valid 'number' to be a citizen or function in the society.
   Perhaps the laws that we live by are predicated on the fear of losing the body, either through punishment, death, or incarceration. But if we only abide by this kind of ethic, then there wouldn't be any reason to help others, or to try to work for the greater communities of which one is a part. Perhaps this greater community sense starts with acknowledging that the mind has nowhere to go or hide--it is deeply and already 'in' this world and yet also beyond all the parts of the world at the same time.

Why Express The Unexplainable?

  I sometimes wonder what it is that makes journal writing a kind of spiritual practice. I have sometimes subscribed to the view that journaling is only meant to be a form of representation. Just as a picture is a direct reflection of whatever is in front of it, the journal is meant to be a kind of reflection of a person's direct thoughts and moments. But then there is the other view, which states that writing is only a construction of an identity, and therefore it has no correspondence with an objective or mutually observable world.
  In a way, I consider writing to be the practice of knowing that there is something which cannot be written at all: something that is beyond the constructed self, as well as beyond the sensory inputs. In Liberated in Stillness and Motion, Master Sheng Yen relates that "The true Chan is without language and words" (p.1). Yet, at the same time, he alludes to the fact that language is like the finger pointing to the moon. While words serve a purpose, the point is not to get enthralled by the tip of the finger, but to know that it is always intimating something that is unspeakable.
     Language is sometimes a kind of play. I may not have anything in particular to say in the moment, but if my heart is open enough, I know that the words are just the backdrop through which connections are formed in often 'still' and 'silent' mutual interchange and presence. I suppose this can be best explained using the example of introducing people at a party. If I am in that situation wondering what the introductions will 'accomplish', I will end up not really enjoying the interchange, because there really isn't a literal purpose to the conversation: it only sets the tone for the sense of connection that may be developing on different levels between people over time.
   The problem is that as a culture, I don't think that we have developed or even fully understood this hidden 'language', or 'meta-language' that happens between words and language: establishing the tone of inter-being that ends up making connections seem meaningful. I wonder if developing at least an awareness of the hidden 'language' of interconnection might help people appreciate daily interchanges more. I suppose another way of putting it is: where can we find the phenomenological study of the way meaning is formed or experienced through everyday communication?


Shengyen (2016). Liberated in Stillness and Motion. New York: Dharma Drum Publishing

Learning to "Enjoy" Pressure

  This week is a big cut-off deadline at my work, and yet it is also a short work week due to the impending long weekend. I think about all the things that are possible for me to do, yet realize that there is simply not enough time to do everything I want to do in this short time, at least before the quarterly take off. While it's difficult to accept the latter, there is also a kind of joy or excitement that can come with pressure, if one understands it in a certain way. From one perspective, the fact that things cannot be completed in a short time suggests impermanence, or the sense that things are invariably bound to change. Knowing that the ways one engages and the factors that come into play are always shifting, perhaps that's also a time to reflect on whether it's necessary to grasp onto any arrangement as though it were going to be there forever.
    Times of pressure are often just moments of transition. An example may be that of finding a new place to live. The steps that one has to take to ease into the transformation to a new place can be daunting and even burdensome at times, but this is only because the old foundations (or tent pegs, as it were) are being relocated to a completely new space. Once the new location is established, then one starts to become more settled in rhythms of life or patterns, but these too are followed by other kinds of transitions. The 'pressure' one experiences from being uprooted is only compounded by two ideas: one is the idea of wanting to hold onto a previous arrangement that no longer can exist, and the other is believing that there can never be another rhythm established again, or that one is in 'utter chaos' after the new change. These show very extreme views: one is attachment to something that is thought to be ideal or permanent, while the other is a more nihilistic view that there is a constant state of instability everywhere, in all things.
  In reality, the way the mind works is somewhere in between these two. On the one hand, we need our memories and experiences to navigate new situations, and these previous experiences often provide the context to understand newness and work with it. Newness, in other words, is never 'absolute' newness because we are using our existing languages and experiences to make some sense of where we are with the new thing. But even languages are bound to break down in the face of change, and it requires a certain kind of faith to know that we exist in the middle, where language and 'non-language' intersect.

Watching Arising Thoughts

 One of the things I noticed this morning is how easy it is to let go of thoughts just as they arise in mind--and how hard it is, once the thought leads to another thought. It seems as though thoughts seem to take on a 'life and energy' of their own once a person allows them to follow their tendency. Interestingly, even the attempt to suppress thought requires just as great an energy: it's as though a ball has already started rolling down a mountain and it grows in speed and momentum, to the point where other thoughts stick to it and it becomes harder to stop.
 My guess is that when a person lets go of the thought (or chooses to do so) right as the thought is arising, one has no time to really make meaning out of it; at that point it is still a very young thought and doesn't really have the necessary build-up of time and habit to be powerful. But still another reason may have to do with a certain commitment one starts to have toward not just focusing on any thought that arises but choosing only those thoughts which might need attention.
  Of course another factor is that slowly one begins to realize where thoughts come from, so long as they are really in the present moment. Knowing this, the thoughts are no longer seen as having a self-existence. The thought is not 'this person' or 'that person' but rather just a manifestation of energy and impressions from the mind. It's truly hard to stay on this practice at first, but even after only a few hours of trying it, I realize that I am not that stressed, and the challenges I face don't seem as overwhelming as I had thought before, and there are hardly any stories or narratives left behind about 'why' a person behaves the way they do. In this way, my mind remains much less complicated.

What to "Learn" from Karma

 Yesterday, after the retreat, we had repentance prostration practice. I was thinking a lot afterward about the meaning of repentance and karma, and how the two connect.
   I find that I am the kind of person who feels repentant about things that may or may not have happened, but for which I have little substantial evidence. I facilitate guided meditation sessions, and I notice that people might attend once or twice, but then stop attending these sessions. They might come to other events, but I see that they are not at the regular meditation. In those moments, I wonder what I am doing wrong, or what I can do better to serve that person's needs. I feel that there is something for which to repent, but I can never be sure what, because there are often a number of reasons why there may be no affinity with that person, and little opportunity to engage the people who aren't coming. I am also aware that from the Buddhist perspective, there may be an endless number of reasons for why people lack affinity for each other. All we can do is 'try our best' and be open to new ways of connecting with diverse kinds of people. But even this openness is no guarantee that I will be able to connect with specific people.
  There are two ways (at least) of looking at this, in my opinion. One is what I have just mentioned above: the karma we 'receive' in our life is an opportunity to look deeply into ourselves and repent of unskilful behavior and actions--that is, to always ask ourselves what we can improve, and to know that there is always something we can improve. But there is another way of looking at this, and that is not to attach to karmic outcomes. If there is someone in the Chan group who simply does not attend the sessions, I also need to ask myself: why am I so attached to this fact, and what can I do with the sense of attachment that I have? Not only does the person's absence teach me what I can improve, but it also teaches me where I need to let go.
   While a repentant attitude is certainly important, it becomes difficult and challenging when we are dealing with our attachments. If I live my life wanting to be admired or liked by so-and-so, or wondering why another doesn't talk to me, this makes it very difficult to repent because it is complicated by self-attachment. It is as though I am 'repenting' but with the primary motivation of wanting to be liked or admired, rather than repenting because there is something that can be done better to help others. I would say that the 'desire' might be sincere, but the motivation in these cases is not pure, because there is a sense of wanting the feeling of admiration or 'stroking'. I am aware that one needs to let go of this in the end, and go to a deeper view of life and practice.

"Luminous" Thinking

 Today, we had a very long one day retreat at the centre, and I stayed with the huatou throughout. I kept remembering Gilbert's words: stay with the method, stay in the present moment. When we got to the repentance part of the retreat, I was still on the meditation method, because in my heart I believe that the main thing to repent of is the belief in a subject/object.
  I think in the afternoon, I started to lose a bit of energy, and I practiced Silent Illumination for a while. In the afternoon practice, I started with the sensation of the body, and then I connected all the phenomena to this idea of 'just sitting'. I found that overall, this practice was quite effective because it can often lead to a kind of vividness or brightness in thinking. I am not attaching to thoughts but at the same time, I am not sitting in a dark cave either. This brightness doesn't come from any particular color or object, but it seems to come from a way of being that takes everything to be part of one's being. This is simply the practice of mindfulness, looking at the things around me with the brightness of unattached awareness and attention.
    One of the things I learned from this retreat is that one doesn't need to 'zone out' from thinking when one meditates. At the same time, the 'thinking' that happens in meditation is different in nature from consciousness. With consciousness, there is a function which continues to join thoughts together in space and time, which then creates a subject. When there is no subject or object duality, the thoughts seem crisper and more luminous because I am not adding new thoughts to them.  I have to admit that I don't experience this very often, but every now and then I will get a glimpse of what this is, and I sense the beauty of it. The thoughts cease to cause suffering because they are not being constantly ground into previous memories or other thoughts. They are seen just as they are arising and if not needed they can be put down.

Burdens of Expertise

   People tend to think that being an expert is something to be desired, and I am even inclined to say that it's essential to acquire a deep knowledge in one's chosen subject areas. It may not be something one has to do, but deeper learning tends to ground a person in something, much like what we see when we observe someone learning a certain trade, such as baking bread. Sometimes, it's not the skill itself that matters so much as the acquisition of a certain grounded relationship to the world, where a person needs to carefully examine different options in resolving problems in the field.

  This having been said, I sometimes wonder if the notion of being grounded in a subject has been gradually supplanted by a competitive orientation toward expertise. It's as though only one person can be an expert, and this creates a kind of elitism around having knowledge to share. In fact, this 'cult' of knowing has the effect, it seems, of mystifying the knower, rather than serving to clarify who knows, and what. More so, such a cult of expertise can sometimes lead to the insecure fear that someone will come along who has even greater expert knowledge than you do--as though this were a death knell to one's status or power!

   What would knowledge authorities think or feel if they could reflect that it is not necessary for them to be 'perfectly knowing' as a means of holding onto their position in the community? I think this less burdened space might help them realize that they can be both learners and knowers, in equal parts, within different contexts. There would also be a diminished fear around being found out as not necessarily knowing all the answers. In my tutoring of ESL learners, I have lately noticed the sense of shame I felt in not knowing how to interpret a quote from a Shakespeare play, only to find that my student became more engaged when I was able to admit to my sense of loss. It is as though, in abdicating my sense of authority in knowing, I was able to provide a space where I could co-discover with my learner, and this seemed to make the learner much more engaged.

 

A Relationship to Present Life

  During the group meditation tonight, I was experimenting with the idea that meditation is a kind of relationship. With what, you might wonder? Well, that is the challenge, because meditation is bringing one back to the original mind that exists prior to subject and object, and yet there is still a relationship that is unfolding. Perhaps one can describe this experience as the 'ultimate' relationship with life, in the sense that there are naturally bound to be surprises there. This is in direct contrast to the idea that meditation is one single ladder that ascends to one particular goal, which is often referred to as 'enlightenment' or some other term.
   When we meditate, is it meant to be a kind of 'recipe' to attain some state of being that is fixed? Or is it discovering that nothing is fixed, and nothing needs to be fixed in one place or another? I tend to think the latter, if not simply because I don't think there is any meaning to this practice unless it somehow allows a practitioner to let go of these fixed concepts of what they believe their life should look like. More so, there are moments when one truly sees that there is this continual process of discovering, revealing and rediscovery that happens in meditating. In a sense, nothing is new about it, but then everything is revealed to be brand new, and we keep approaching that newness with fresh vitality. No longer working only with dead or broken concepts, one can approach experience in this way, even when there are parts to that experience which seem dreary or negative.
   What makes this way of looking at meditation practice so refreshing to me is that there is no time line imposed upon it where I am made to feel that I have to be a certain way as a result of practice. Sometimes one has to let go of all pretentions before a genuine change can arise in mind and heart.

Letting Go of Self in Equanimity

 I am reflecting on both recent Chan talks in Toronto, the first by Gilbert and the second by Venerable Guo Shang, and how they both emphasized in their own way that practice is not only stillness. When stillness (samatha) is practiced without an accompanying insight or investigation into experience, it can only become a dead sort of practice which lacks vitality, because it ends up seeking silence. The opposite of this is a mindset that is so pliable that it welcomes every guest, without becoming enamored with any of the guests.
   During the meditation practice today, I tried to adopt Silent Illumination by taking a yielding stance toward the scattered thoughts arising. While investigating the source of thoughts, I was seeing the thought itself without desire for the thought. I did reach a kind of glimpse into seeing thoughts as bubbles that have no substantial existence, but then this thought of glimpsing threw me off by creating a self concept around the seer. This practice of Silent Illumination is, at least for me, quite difficult, because I have a habit of confusing the thought of still contemplation for the experience. In desiring to reach this state, this anxious self emerges that wants to direct the experience toward its own benefit, almost like a movie director who is determined to scrape up an Oscar for meditative practice. Even that tiny desire for personal gain somehow becomes an obstacle to seeing with equanimity because it treats the latter as an agenda rather than as a natural outcome of a clear and still mind. There is still a desire there and still strong self-attachment there, it seems.
   I have found that this practice requires going beyond the sense of self and gain, but it seems like there is going to be a time when in doing so, one feels that there is no purpose or value to practice and one is not getting anywhere. I believe that Master Sheng Yen once compared this state to being on a mist-covered mountain, where one does not know one's 'stage' relative to the top, or how many steps they have left to get to the summit. But by letting go of the need to achieve anything from practice, there is already this space to move freely, because one is not afraid of failing the self's expectations or desires. At this point, the only thing left to do is just walk, and one learns that there doesn't need to be a self to walk anymore, or even a measure of the ability to walk.

The Logic of Running Water

    In her book Longing for Running Water (1999), Ivone Gabara remarks, "we cannot absolutize our present way of knowing; rather, we need to admit its historical and provisional character and the importance of always being open to new referents that history--and life in general--will propose." (p.61). In a sense, I view this statement as 'turning the view of truth' upside down, by exposing and questioning the view that life unfolds according to a truth 'blueprint'. Rather than seeing the truth as something that stands over and above experience, Gabara is viewing the truth of our lives as something that is always unfolding through an openness to direct encounter. To embrace this truth is almost to let go of the existing quest for a unified 'reference point' where truth can be found. However, paradoxically, it's through the reiteration of these immanent experiences that a person can discern the patterns of life, and learn to sail along those patterns rather than trying to resist them or go against them. It's not that, under this historicist view, the world becomes a rudderless place to be in. Rather, there is almost a sense that wisdom goes along the grain of experience itself to trace its patterns, whereas 'knowledge' tries to brand a pattern or a model on top of experience, in the hopes that there are no inconvenient truths lurking in the distance to mar that 'pillar' of truth.
   This afternoon during my work break, I reflected on how there are times when things 'make sense' and there are other times when knowing somehow needs to ripen, similar to the fruits in a field. I can never force myself to 'know' what I simply don't know in the moment, but there are times when the most I can do is watch closely for patterns and similarities across experiences to discern how they are similar.  It's the 'stuck' moments of not knowing that are truly valuable here, because they teach a person how to let go of their temporary blueprints for seeing the world, and thereby trace the more subtle patterns in the landscape of one's being in the world. I use one example of the weather: however much I can plan for the picnic, the weather is one thing that is not only beyond my control but which often overrides all my intentions and planning. Like the weather, there are days when things just don't feel like they are meant to go according to any plan. In those instances, one can only do what can be done and wait for causes and conditions to ripen. In other words, there is often no sense in over-planning something for which the causes simply haven't arisen yet. In those days, one has to learn not to be afraid of whatever seems to be missing. Rather, it is best to use that unknowing to gain a deeper insight into how things work in life. There is a difference between 'uncovered' and 'revealed'. The former comes from the metaphor of archaeology, which often symbolizes our understanding of discovery based truth. Revelation, on the other hand, is more holistic: truth is revealed when the whole universe is ready and able to reveal it. Why try to 'pry open' or 'dig out' the truth when it's not yet ready to be dug out or pried open? To see this rather than trying to use force is to acquire an appreciation of the subtle patterns and rhythms that accompany knowing: seeing knowing as a process that is not entirely controlled by the will, let alone ever completed by the will.




Gebara, Ivone (1999), Longing for Running Water: Ecofeminism and Liberation. Minneapolis: Metropolis Press

Broken Spirituality

   One of the most interesting metaphors that was introduced in the Media, Education and Evangelization course was that of broken spirituality: the sense of having a spiritual life that allows for one's sinful nature, or at least the ability to make mistakes. This is also perhaps the one area where most people struggle, because we tend to bifurcate our practices into good or bad, 'pure' or 'sinful', and this can sometimes be a judgment on oneself or others.  But an interesting question which might emerge from the dialogue on 'brokenness' is: is the broken aspect only a provisional form of forgiveness which allows the wheels to turn, as it were, or is the brokenness itself an essential aspect of spiritual life?
   I tend to depart from others in this answer, because I tend to think that 'broken' is not necessarily doing something wrong. It has more to do with what in Buddhist traditions is sometimes referred to as being in a dense thicket or a fog. If you think about it, it's not that one cannot see anything in a fog or a dense forest, or one's seeing itself is defective. Quite to the contrary, being in a fog, one suffers from seeing too much, so much that it obstructs a clear view of things. In the same way, the 'broken' aspect of spiritual life may not so much refer to something that is 'damaged', but more so could be about things which are deeply complicated by conflicting factors. Just as a stick will appear bent in the water unless one discerns the influence of water on light, so also things appear broken when they are enmeshed in deeply complicating factors which render things ambiguous and hard to discern.
    Brokenness, then, is an element of life where one fully acknowledges the creaturely, messy and interdependent aspects of existence. It's not about being defective and needing to be fixed, unless one subscribes to a kind of technical rationalist view of things. Rather, it relates to the tension between beholding complexity and being able to transcend complications through a larger view of all complexity. Ironically, to transcend one's brokenness is to enfold it within the arms of something greater yet inclusive.

Reflections on Water

  In the talk on Silent Illumination, Venerable Guoshing Shi noted that one of the hallmarks of the practice is being able to look at things clearly without having an emotional reaction to them. Just what does it mean not to 'react', however? I am reminded of a famous story in Buddhism about the mother who burned the monk's hut down because he would not respond to her daughter's 'advances' toward him. Does Silent Illumination really entail that one's emotions are not involved at all? I think that in a sense, it means that the mind is so clear that there is no particular inclination to attach to any feeling or thought. Although sensation states do arise in this process, the mind is just not attaching to anything precisely because there is a totality there.
   I don't quite know how to describe it but I wonder if it might be that the surface of the mirror is so evident that there is no desire to attach to the forms, because I am clearly aware that they are reflections on water. There is also an awareness that the reflection is not separate from the water or the person observing the reflection; that all three in that moment are together in one total situation. I am not separating the reflection or seeing it as inferior to the water, and nor am I attaching to the reflection as though the water did not exist. Each part of this puzzle--water, watcher, reflection--are integral parts to the whole, and one is mistaken to remove one from the other.
   I am wondering if I can put this all a different way. What happens if the watcher, reflection and water are taken as separate things? Well, seeing a reflection without an awareness of water is akin to essentialism: a thing is a thing, and it has a fixed substantiality which allows me to appraise it as good or bad in itself, thus giving rise to craving or hatred. On the other hand, if I focus only on the 'substance' of the image as water, I am committing another extreme of disregarding forms altogether, in favor of a concept of noumenon. If, on the other hand, I think this is all just a product of my fantasizing, dreaming mind, then I commit the third fallacy of trying to separate awareness from everything observed or experienced.
    Seeing all as as totality seems to create the greatest completion. Rather than denying the beauty and intrigue of forms, it recontextualizes them as impermanent and yet never really leaving to go anywhere.

Silent Illumination- A Few Notes

 I attended a class today about Silent Illumination practice hosted by GuoShing Shi, one of the monastic teachers at Dharma Drum Mountain. I have to say that I learned quite a bit, and the class inspired me to explore a little bit about Silent Illumination. Master Sheng Yen apparently wrote three books about Silent Illumination practice, two of which have been translated into English. One of them, Method of No Method, was the basis for Fashi's lecture, and it seems destined to be one of my favorite classics. I was heartened to see it on my bookshelf, rather than missing among several other books (I am still wondering what happened to my copy of Iris Murdoch's Metaphysics and Morals, as well as one of Michel Foucault's books about the birth of hospitals. Perhaps a graveyard for missing books lies somewhere out there!).
    What impressed me in particular about Fashi's talk is that she really delved into this notion of having a practice, and what that means. She even asked the participants point blank, what is practice? Many people have their own view of what practice means. Some answers that emerged from the audience included "meditation", "mindfully being in the moment"; "wholeheartedly doing", or "being present with the current action." While these ideas have their points, Fashi chose to focus on the practical and social benefits, including the ability for Buddhist practice to promote clarity of mind, ability to communicate reasonably with everybody, as well as ability to recognize emerging states of being before they manifest.
    What emerged from the early discussion for me is that practice needs to appeal to a person from one day to the next; otherwise, it is never 'practiced'! What makes practice appealing, according to Fashi, is how its foundation rests in relaxation. Without a relaxed mind and body, meditative practice is next to impossible, because it never really gets to a deeper place. In Silent Illumination in particular, there is an emphasis on unifying mind and body in order to eventually let go of all distinctions between 'me', and 'not me', or between 'this body' and 'that world'. Fashi really emphasized how important this letting go truly is to the practice of Silent Illumination in particular. Unlike other practices where there is a tangible object of focus and exertion, Silent Illumination emphasizes a kind of method-less stripping down to the elements of experience, without forming any attachments or connections between successive ideas.
   In my next blog, I will explore a little bit about the stages of Silent Illumination.