Just Awareness

 I used to feel that one of the main functions of meditation practice is to give rise to particular emotions, such as gratitude and compassion. Lately, I suggest that just having an awareness of what's happening in any situation is already a good place, because the awareness itself is often half the battle when it comes to emotions. As long as I am aware that I am having certain kinds of emotions or tensions, I am then just witnessing them and not having to act out on them, while at the same time not suppressing them in any way. But one of the key components for this to work is not to identify ourselves with any of our emotions, or even strive to embody the emotions of those around us. This, I have found, is incredibly powerful, because it pulls the rug out from the self's continual striving to perfect itself, or to please others, which often gives rise to vexations.
   I am not suggesting, however, that the awareness exists in a social vacuum, since there are always going to be social pressures to be a certain way or conform to standards at work and in personal life. But through the process of awareness that I am not these conditions, I am opening this space where I am not seeing myself as moved by the social pressures. I can decide to follow them or I might just keep my distance and allow other details to emerge. In other words, awareness allows for a more 'analog' and less 'digital' way of responding to things and situations.

"Trying to Get Rid Of Evil"

   In an anthology called 21st Century Buddhists in Conversation, David Loy remarks: "Social justice is not a traditional Asian Buddhist concept. It developed in the Abrahamic tradition, goes back to the prophets, and ultimately depends upon the duality between good and evil." (in McLeod, 2015, p.263). Loy goes on to suggest that "We try to separate good and evil, when the reality is that they're two sides of the same coin: we feel good about ourselves when we're fighting against evil, which means we have to find something evil to fight against." (ibid). I think what Loy means here is that the effort to 'fight evil in the name of good' can be extremely self-deceptive, in the sense that it is seeking a particular heightened feeling of 'joie de vivre' it might create in the person. I seem to get a 'kick' out of thinking that evil exists outside of myself and can be eradicated through punishment.  Yet, from a Buddhist perspective, one needs to be careful about what the attachments are behind the decision to fight a perceived evil in the name of 'good'. And the meaning of good always needs to be qualified in these cases.
     This quote is interesting to me, because I find that Buddhist thinkers often focus on the negative intention behind dualistic thinking: I have an idea to fight the 'evil other' in the name of my own personal view of what reality is. What about the effect on others? I am thinking of cases where people reach such a high state of experience or knowledge of how to manage other human beings to act according to what they feel is 'best' or 'right'. Their sense of being able to control others' behavior can easily generalize into some theory of the universe, such as saying "God is on my side" or "Providence is speaking through me". Yet, is it ever really a certainty that anybody in the world can ever have that status of 'being perfectly aligned with the universal order of things.'? This kind of thinking seems to lead to totalitarianism, especially when it leads to a refusal to entertain the ideas or the insights of others and their ideas.
    Can one conceive of a social justice without the fine or absolute divisions of 'good person' vs. 'bad person'? I think it's only possible when people abolish hatred of self and others altogether. How this is done is not easy, but hatred is at the heart of the rejection that people feel, and which in turn leads them to self harming and harming of others. If nobody in the world ever felt hated or felt hatred, there would never be any reason for harming people, or for a society based on punishment, reward and retribution? Would there be any reason why some people receive nothing in life, while others are born with seemingly everything?
   Yet, sadly, it seems that there is as yet no curriculum that can teach people to simply stop hatred and even to love all beings. I think it's because somehow, as people become adults, they tend to be conditioned to thinking in terms of sides, and in doing so lose the ability to imagine a world without hate.


McLeod, M. (ed), (2015). 21st Century Buddhists in Conversation. Boston: Wisdom Publications

Meditating Before Interviews

  I am thinking about interview anxiety, and how meditation and reflection can be used to deal with the stress of interviews. Interviews are interesting in the sense that they are often considered high-stakes, meaning that nobody wants to be rejected in them, and most people want to be able to take something away from an interview such as an opportunity to occupy a position or learn something new. While watching the breath is one way of coping with pre-interview anxiety, I tend to feel that another way is to be aware that the source of the anxiety is often a sense of high self-expectation, as well as a heightened feeling of having to hide what are perceived as weaknesses in oneself. For instance, if there is a volunteer position I want to explore, I might envision or even 'embody' the sense of what an ideal candidate for the position would look like, act like or talk like. However, in doing so, I create this huge pressure in myself, and I am not allowing myself to see what experiences I actually embody based on my past. It is as though I can't possibly imagine that I have these rich resources from my personal thoughts and experiences which would be equally valid in applying myself to the position.
    I think it's hard to separate one's thoughts about who they think they should be from the reality of who they are and all the abundant wealth of experience they have. It takes a deep faith in one's own life-story, to know that how this story has unfolded has layers of interesting and complex meanings. However, I believe that there is a stillness in that knowing which can allow someone not to be overwhelmed by the thoughts of personal inadequacy that sometimes happens in the face of the unknown or new situation.

Intention without Object

 I think the most significant aspect of loving-kindness meditation is that it involves an act of sustained intention without a particular object in mind. This seems to accord with the Buddha's teachings on the emptiness of objects, and the way in which things are always in a state of flux. I was reading a translation of the Lankavatara Sutra where Buddha is said to have remarked:

All that is seen in the world is devoid of effort and action because all things in the world are like a dream, or like an image miraculously projected. This is not comprehended by the philosophers and the ignorant, but those who thus see things see them truthfully. Those who see things otherwise walk in discrimination and, as they depend upon discrimination, they cling to dualism. (in Goddard, 1994, p.278).

When I read this part of the sutra, I am reminded that there is a tendency for people to fixate an intention on a particular object, as though it were endowed with special powers that are divorced from the other circumstances which constitute its being. For instance, I might wish someone loving kindness thinking that doing so will give them special benefits or doing so might tap into their power. I might even wish loving kindness on someone with the intention of personally benefiting them, thus making a distinction between a "powerless" I and a "more powerful" someone else. In this way, it's possible for loving-kindness meditation to be used to reinforce this sense of separateness. In contrast, the Buddha states that the world is devoid of "effort" because everything exists in a kind of dream--a state of flux where things don't have a separate, inherent existence. To fixate on one thing is a kind of delusion because it ignores the way that reality does not operate from one or two isolated principles or moments. There is always a mutual influence of interlocking forces that define and shape
      In a sense, loving kindness also has no particular intention: it simply uplifts every sentient being without trying to discriminate between one appearance or another. When I find myself attaching to one person and rejecting another, the practice of metta counterbalances this tendency by reminding me of the equal regard we can give to all sentient beings as a whole.
    What would a pedagogy of loving-kindness look like, then? How can I take this practice of loving kindness meditation and transform it into a comprehensive education that would help people think metta, not just reciting metta? I am going to give a tentative sketch of what I had in mind:

1. Respect for life: studying biological systems, natural processes, and ecosystems, with the aim of gaining an aesthetic and contemplative view of all living beings in general (not just separating specific beings whom we find powerful or cute, such as pandas). Biology and ecology would be studied, along with cultural and literary representations of ecosystems.

2. Self and Other Acceptance. Studying the psychologies developed by Martin Buber, bell hooks, Carl Rogers, Simone DeBeauvoir and Albert Ellis, to craft a nuanced and reflective sense of how communities can foster self and other acceptance, with sensitivity to the ways that socialization influence our sense of identity.

3. Loving Kindness as Spiritual Practice: Studying the origins of Loving Kindness Practice (Metta Sutta), and looking at metta from a variety of spiritual traditions. Incorporating Loving Kindness Meditation into daily practice and reflection, as developed in steps 1 and 2.

Could a curriculum be developed around these three steps? I guess it's "too be continued"...

References

Goddard, Dwight, (ed) (1994), A Buddhist Bible. Boston: Beacon Press.

Learning Acceptance: Metta and REBT

 Metta, or loving kindness, is an interesting practice in Buddhism which I have studied before as part of my master's degree. I have often wondered, is it ever possible to wish loving kindness to all beings? What happens when it feels insincere, as when there are judgments or thoughts that override that loving kindness?
  I am thinking that in fact the practice of loving kindness would go very well alongside something like Albert Ellis's Rational Emotive Behavioral Therapy (REBT), in the sense that both practices are really based on finding an acceptance within that is unconditional, and then extending that USA (Unconditional Self Acceptance) to UOA (Unconditional Other Acceptance). I think that whereas the latter is devoted to the idea of challenging the notion that acceptance is conditional or necessitated by something external to oneself, loving kindness practice is more devoted to embodying the basis for unconditional acceptance, which is a kind of non-dualistic attitude. Non-dualism seems quite crucial because unless a person can get to a state where they are not fixated on thinking of themselves in terms of shoulds and shouldn'ts, they may have an intellectual understanding of acceptance but not a realization that feels authentic and embodied. Perhaps the two ideas of metta and RBT could be taught together as part of a comprehensive form of therapy.
   At the same time, I think that metta practice by itself would not necessarily be sufficient for everyone, because there are often times when a reflective process is needed to know why we lack compassion or acceptance toward self and others. This is where I believe that REBT can play a big role in helping people to identify what stops them from feeling acceptance, and even to adjust their thinking so that they are not so swayed by negative thoughts about themselves. Could these practices somehow be combined into one therapy, a kind of LK-REBT? The acronyms are multiplying now! But nonetheless, the idea has a kind of potential that I would like to explore, especially where it relates to a key intersection between Western therapy and Eastern philosophies.

Return to Meaning

Everyday, when I turn on my computer to do work, I will find myself bombarded with all kinds of stories and messages, scandal and drama. After a while, it seems like a whole lot of very distracting and dizzying messages, and there are times when the heart needs to replenish itself by remaining still and silent. More importantly, it's important in these times to check in with myself and really know what might be happening to me or how I might be feeling or responding to these events.
    I have found that the pressure to produce more and consume more information on a daily basis sometimes gets in the way of reflecting on fewer things with a more rich mindset. Rather than rushing through many entries of work per day, it's important to take moments to reflect on what I intend to do at work and what value my thoughts can have in enriching the work process. Rather than being driven by habit, I might be driven more by an intentional curiosity to learn a bit more about some process, or try looking at it from a different view or perspective. Somehow, I think this way of doing things might seem slower in the short term, but in the long term, it can lead to a more satisfying meaning attached to one's work, as well as an ability to link one's thoughts to the nobler intentions of work.
   Taking things one moment at a time, I can truly make information into something that really means a lot to me. For instance, when is the last time I have ever wrestled with a particular problem, be it philosophical or in the workplace, and just stopped to reflect on its various aspects? If I am always rushing to cram things into a busy schedule, I may find myself unable to find those moments to reflect on what truly matters to me. This is why it's so important not to be drawn into the illusion that more is better, including all the information we receive daily.

Finding Linkages

  I have noticed that recently, I have been caught up in a lot of planning events for the Buddhist organization of which I am an active volunteer. One of the interesting things about it is that I observe throughout the process how I can participate or often fail to participate, either through insufficient knowledge of simply a lack of incentive. Without a knowledge base in traditional Chinese culture which undergirds the Chan Buddhist group, I often find myself in the role of a kind of solitary observer, who doesn't have too many valuable insights to contribute to the discussion on hand. During those times, being able to link the new traditions to what I know or understand can be quite tricky, and often requires a kind of complex parallel processing which moves between different ways of looking or thinking. I believe this is perhaps one of the reasons why I am not only reading books from Chan Buddhism itself. In order to delve into what I am experiencing, I often find myself drawing from sociological texts as well (Peter Berger and Sara Ahmed's books being among my favorites), as well as anthropological studies on Buddhist customs or teachings.
   I wonder if perhaps anthropology and sociology are not so much 'hard sciences' per se as they are valuable ways of seeing the world which lie somewhere midway between a 'purist' observational stance and the knowledge that comes from deep participation in a process or a community. What makes both perspectives unique lies in the way they approach things from a constructivist slant, where they are exploring the self and social identity as something that is continually constructed and moulded, rather than as something fixed and transcendental. Such a perspective can enrich one's spiritual life by giving her or him the space to explore what happens in a person's thinking patterns relative to the interpersonal and cultural dynamics that happen around and through them. I think this perspective is a kind of necessity to Buddhism, because Buddhists do not uphold the view of a fixed soul, and are more bound to suggest that self is the ongoing dynamic of inter-being rather than a kind of fixed and predictable progression within. Without the balancing processes of looking at things sociologically, it's sometimes possible to trick oneself into believing that everyone's experience of a spiritual community is going to be exactly the same, or bounded by the same rules or progression.

Desires, Good and Bad

During meditation tonight, I felt an extreme discomfort in the spine, perhaps owing to a kind of tired sensation in the body. I let it dawn upon me, and eventually, I started to practice using the sensation as a 'doubt sensation'. Feelings of discomfort can easily be lead into huatou, simply by turning the discomfort into a kind of questioning: if I am so certain that I am suffering in this moment, where is this "I" located? In this way, it's very easy for discomfort to become part of practice rather than being distant from it.
   I have often read about Tibetan Buddhist traditions which emphasize transforming desires into spiritual experiences or lessons, quite simply by using a refined awareness to approach those desires. According to this approach, the only reason that desires produce suffering is that one has somehow missed the mark of not knowing how to use proper awareness to engage the energy of the desire itself. For example, rather than seeing the energy of care and concern that underlies certain forms of anger or impatience, I squander that energy through unskilful actions like taking my anger out on furniture.
   What makes desire more 'productive', perhaps, is that it is not being derailed into something that is purely for my own comfort. For example, rather than simply stay in the mode of wanting my pain to disappear, I start to work how I might be curious about it or see what's having that experience. The pain becomes a teacher or a guide rather than being an obstacle to avoid or surmount at all costs. If I didn't so badly want something for myself, would desires be such a profound source of suffering? What would like be like if we could enjoy the flowers rather than trying to bottle up their essence?

Complexity

   Lewis Thomas writes a lot about the complexity of biological systems, using a chain or network metaphor. Talking about the way diseases have evolved in tandem with the workings of the immune system (and how the immune system often overreacts), he remarks, "We are systems of mechanisms, subject to all the small disturbances, tiny monkey wrenches, that can, in the end, produce the wracking and unhinging of interminable chains of coordinated, meticulously timed interaction (1979, p.82)." While Thomas might be overstating the mechanistic aspect of life, he seems to correctly surmise that living beings are implicated in very complex fields of being, where things interconnect in complicated ways. To me, the idea that all living things are related in a complex way sheds a different light on what the meaning of success is. After reading Thomas, I am inclined to think of successful adaptation more as a sideways reaching outward to benefit others in an organized way, rather than using an elevation metaphor of 'upward climbing'. Perhaps this is what adaptation means: finding ways to harmonize or co-exist, rather than trying to stand out in some way.
   The problem with this model, in a sense, is that it can seem a bit too much like assimilation. While a person might think that their purpose in life is to adapt to the society in which they live, that person also has a part play in influencing how the system works. It isn't that the system is static and individuals find a way to hitch onto a spoke in the wheel. Rather, we also have ways of communicating with this mechanism in ways that potentially could alter it, particularly when we find more effective strategies for performing things. Sometimes, I wonder if perhaps there are two things happening when people harmonize with groups or communities: the first, considering what the community has to offer, and second, looking into their own mystery to find out what they have to offer the community. Without this two-fold discovery process in place, a person is left somehow having to fit into what already exists as a system, rather than taking time to explore the differences they make as individuals in the system.
   Could it be that wisdom is the process of clear seeing within to resonate with what happens in the whole? The more I can understand my own mind and its tendencies, the more I find a way to be spiritual which allows my potentials to connect with others' potentials. The challenge lies in being able to be true to one's abilities and talents while infusing them with a spiritual teaching or principle.


Thomas, Lewis (1979), The Medusa and the Snail: More Notes of a Biology Watcher  Toronto. Bantam Books

Changing One’s Relationship with Time

I have been reflecting today on the notion of chronological time (chronos) and what I believe Christians have referred to as a kind of eternal time, known as kairos, which has been translated as the right or ‘opportune moment’: a moment when all other moments point toward something that is timeless. I am not sure if I quite get the terminology, but I think that Kairos must refer to moments where time itself is transcended somewhat, and all other moments are contained in that one moment.

For instance, have you ever seen a movie or read a book in which the significance of every single scene doesn’t quite come together until the very “end”? I put “end” in quotation marks, because the notion of Kairos time does not depend on the accumulation of previous moments or the ‘progress’ of cause toward effect. Rather, Kairos seems to be an expression of every moment as though they all happened in the same moment. It’s as though every moment were perfect in itself and did not require a progression whatsoever; it only took the Kairos moment to redeem these moments from their illusion of chronological progression.

  The simplest example I can give of this “Kairos” is a phenomena I have often observed in my personal experiences lately: namely, that of engaging in the struggle to ‘find meaning’ in an activity, only to find later that the activity was already meaningful, and did not require a conscious ‘addition’ of meaning to validate or substantiate it. I am sure that all of us have had moments where we thought we were wasting time in doing a very difficult task or an unrewarding one, only to find later the seeds of a story or an interesting insight in that task. It’s not that the causal, chronological nature of the task created an added meaning to it. Rather, the sense of meaning was already there at each given moment, only waiting just to be revealed by stepping off the tendency to link things chronologically in an endless sequence.

I also think that Spinoza has expressed  a similar idea of time not being an endless progression but rather a series of timeless, standalone moments which already belong to an eternity.

The Hidden Spirituality of "Shame"

 I have found that whenever facing criticism, I have a tendency to contract and even to feel withdrawn from shame. Feelings of shame can be a way of telling myself that there is something I can do better or reflect upon. But there is also another way of looking at shame, and that is to see how it represents the attachment one has to the self. If I am overly attached to the notion that I should be doing something, or fulfilling some requirement, I will feel vexation when it turns out that I fall short of my own expectations. I feel that the practice of Chan is a balance between the need for self-correction on the one hand, and non-attachment to self on the other.
   Another way of looking at this is to recognize the transient and conditioned nature of the self. This morning, I went to the meditation to facilitate, and there were times when I didn't feel adequate to the task (voice too soft, not sure what to say to the newcomers, etc.). I could even hear the voice inside of me telling me I wasn't good enough to lead the group. Nonetheless, I reminded myself that I was there to help, given the level of experience I happen to have and resources at my disposal. In other words, I recognize that just being there is already a kind of help to the group, since I am putting consistent efforts into practicing alongside the others. This doesn't mean that I cannot do better in the future, but at times I am able to recognize that these improvements are only conditions, and they have nothing to do with a concrete self. No matter how much I might try to improve certain things in the way I present meditation, success or failure in this endeavor have nothing to do with a fixed sense of self.
   Sometimes, I recognize that a person needs to experience the feeling of inadequacy in order to see that it's just a feeling. If I overemphasize that feeling, I will get into a vicious cycle of withdrawal: not feeling that I am good enough to be with the others. But if I see that everything is only a condition, I can work to improve conditions without attaching to a final result, or identifying it as 'me' that needs to improve. I think this is perhaps a good way to approach situations where I feel pressured to perform a certain way around others.

The End of All Pain

I have been reflecting recently that there are two different pulls in life: one is toward the comfort of belonging and being loved, while the other is in the direction of non-self and non-attachment. Life 'kneads' back and forth between the rhythms of deep belonging and deep 'bottoming out', where the first represents the nurturing of a secure self, while the second represents letting go of that same self. It's interesting how this works, because it seems true that without the firm foundation of the first, the second is not going to happen very well. It's important to know at every single instant in life where a person is at with regards to these two.
  The analogy is something like what happens in meditation. If I try to fight pain and prove that somehow I am immune to it in some way, I only end up reifying the meditation into a struggle to 'man up' to the pain, or to somehow put a tough persona in front of the pain. This is going in the direction of trying to break the self before it festers into an indulgence or attachment. This only creates more attachment, because there is still a strong self lingering and attaching to the fight against pain. If, on the other hand, I forget this and try to nurture of comfort myself by any means possible, I also lose my method: I become too deeply involved in wanting to spare myself from all frustrations. What if the middle way were simply neither of these extremes at all? This is the dilemma, and I think that somehow the middle embraces both.
   Part of the balance of life is knowing when one feels so frustrated that they need nurturing and support, and when they can then challenge themselves to let go of this support as needed, little by little. It's not that one ever gets over the former, but one needs to gradually expand their ability to simply be without any objects at all: to be tender toward everything that life has to offer without picking one experience over the other. But without support, this can easily become something else: a kind of toughening up in life, or even a sense of shielding oneself from everything out of fear or a need to control. It's important, in my opinion, to be clearly aware of the difference between these to very different states: one 'hardening' toward the world and the other tender but open.

Discipline and 'Turgidity'

  After group meditation, we were talking about how discipline does not necessarily need to be a restricting or confining thing. For instance, we often have signals in meditation that are used to regulate when people can get up, or take a break, or even stretch their legs. Is this kind of discipline so necessary to a lay meditation practice, or is it just a kind of archaic form of punishment? One of the participants described discipline as the thing that a person needs to do to achieve their goals. I personally resonate with the notion that discipline (to a certain degree) allows for the freedom to let go. With a strong sense of purpose and functioning built into one's practice environment, it's possible to let go of scattered mind and accomplish many things within a spiritual practice. But the key is that the discipline needs to be presented alongside the process of letting go, rather than being presented as a kind of encumbrance or armoring. Discipline should not be added or imposed; it needs to be gently applied through a process of minimal instruction and environmental cues. Otherwise, it becomes a kind of ritual that has no deeper experience attached to it.
 An image that comes to my mind is something like that of a straw, or the cellular fiber in a stem which allows water the force and strength to traverse up the stem, rather than dispersing at the base of the plant. With a tight and narrow channel, the water droplets tend to stick to each other and travel upward, having no other place to go, and this in turn tightens the pressure along the walls of the stem, which makes it stronger. I think the idea is that when certain constraints or rules are established as guidance, the mind doesn't have so many options to choose from in terms of how to act. It is forced through a kind of artificially created pressure to create something using the collective strength of its parts and functions.

Writing and Anxiety

    There is an interesting relationship between writing something down and managing anxiety which I believe must be researched further. During my group meeting after the meditation practice today, we started talking about the retreat, and somehow I felt the need to get a pad of paper from the office and start to jot things down. I am wondering if it's possible that it has to do with learning style, in the sense that those who prefer to learn through writing tend to take notes more as a way of solidifying what they have heard. But there might also be something to the idea that writing down thoughts makes them more solid and less 'floating' in the air. It can become a way of anchoring thoughts, just as breathing might function in similar ways in meditation.
   Mantra recitation is another way that I found helps me to deal with the various anxieties that are involved in attending meetings. However, what makes writing somewhat of an 'advantage' over mantra recitation is that writing can help contribute to a meeting in a constructive way, such as by keeping track of what people are saying. It also encourages the writer to actually listen closely to what is being said and try to discern what is most notable to write. When I was attending a lot of the team leaders meetings, I found that writing the minutes was the most relaxing aspect, and I definitely do recommend it as a practice for those who are in meetings where they are feeling disengaged somewhat, or unable to feel that they are really part of the meeting itself.
       Finally, I see that cognitive therapy has taken the same approach, in the sense that participants in these therapies would be able to write down negative thoughts, and in doing so make them somewhat less solid or imposing. I do see a connection between this practice and the grounding, 'anchoring' practices of meditation, and I think it's worthwhile to explore them as ways of staying engaged in social situations, especially those prone to anxiety. I guess that I feel that writing is a blessing, and I am truly grateful for the ability to do so.

A Trip Without Books

    During my trip to Kingston these past three days, I saw a lot of wonderful things: a penitentiary museum, the beautiful Thousand Islands, a couple of vintage record stores, and a lot of winding streets and suburbs. One thing I didn't see to much of were the old bookstores and libraries which I often tend to gravitate toward. In fact, I had gone through a whole three days without reading or writing at all, and now I am left to reflect on what the whole experience meant for me.
    What I did most noticeably recognize is how not reading and not writing can often force me into a place where I need to listen to the deeper and poetic nuances of where I am travelling. It's a bit like what happened when I was flipping channels in the hotel room this morning, trying to look for the Kingston weather forecast for the day and suddenly stumbling upon a religious program. On this program, there is a priest named Father Fitzpatrick, who is gently sharing a line from the Bible which states that only in the moments of deep silence can one really hear the voice of God within. Another way of looking at this is that when there aren't so many distractions or chatter, or things pulling a person this way or that, one can really hear the deeper rhythms of the universe and get in tune with what they are saying to us.
    One such moment came to me as Judy and I walked through a very secluded street called Rideau Street. As I was walking, I saw around me a sense of things getting old or even falling apart in certain places--of a part of the city in need of construction and renovation, in contrast to the more tourist-attracting areas like King Street or Princess Street. I felt almost a kind of inner sense of emptiness, as though I were seeing an aspect of myself that feels uncertain or 'under construction', such as the uncertain future and not knowing where I will go with my education.
    But later, as we hopped on the bus and headed back to the Kingston General Hospital grounds where we had taken a break before, I was able to see that all the people in this city start and end in the same space. I guess I felt a sense of everyone in the city being connected by the hospital, because it came to represent the cycle of life in the city, for me. I felt the same way while visiting the Kingston Penitentiary. In all the sharing that the volunteers had mentioned, there was this sense that the inmates were not just criminals who needed punishment, but human beings who are part of a complex relationship with the systems of medicine, health, and justice which undergird the societies from which they are raised. And these retired workers in the Penitentiary seemed deeply affected by the inmates with whom they interacted. Again, I had this kind of felt sense that there are complex and mysterious connections between the roles of prison guard and inmate, as though these are only veneers or temporary roles behind which there are more complicated relationships and stories.
     To get back to my original point: while reading is certainly a preferred way of learning for me, not reading for a while gives me a chance to see that there are deeper ways of knowing that may not be fully expressible, even though they can be felt if one is silent enough to detect them. Once I get over my fear of not being able to express things in words, I can enjoy and appreciate these experiences as very golden moments of learning.   

The Role of Listening

During the one day meditation retreat today, there was a sharing session at the end, and I preferred to quietly listen rather than try to add to the discussion too much. I found that when I kept to my meditation method throughout and listened actively, I didn't feel that I needed to say too much--the discussion took care of itself. Had there been a need for me to say anything, I am sure that I would have said it, but this was one of those cases where I didn't feel too much of a need to say anything. I felt a certain joy in being, but there was also a sense that I should participate in some way.
  It's interesting how we live in a culture that prizes active 'participation', yet doesn't reward still listening too much. Yet, it is precisely the skill of listening that seems to have atrophied. I can see even from my experience today that listening is not something I altogether value, because I have come to associate it with a kind of passivity, or something that is not highly valued in today's society. Of course, active listening is also accompanied with a willingness to contribute in some way, and sometimes the best listeners are the ones who also say the most interesting things in conversations. But it's interesting how the 'pressure to say' something as a way of contributing to a conversation seems to get in the way of the bare attention that listening seems to require.
  I have a sense that not all cultures take to this idea that 'talking' is privileged over listening. I have heard that in some Quaker societies, people speak only when they feel called to do so in a deep way, which comes from their true and authentic heart. Listening and speaking can thus easily turn into art forms under this view. The challenging thing is being able to support others in their ideas and contributions without feeling that one's own identity has disappeared. I think it's challenging to do this, and precisely because listening is also a social role; it has parts to play in the interactions between people in communities, and in that sense, it has 'work' to do. In this way, listening often segues into some other part or parts one plays in relation to others. If I only listen as an academic exercise, then it quickly loses its relevance. Like speech acts in general, listening also needs to have some grounding in either behavior or connection with community. If I find myself, for example, listening to a friend talk about their relationship many times, I might start to think: what is my role in this situation? What is it like to be the listener to this person's stories, and do I want to be part of this? What do I contribute by being the listener? No one is ever really absolved from having to ask these questions reflectively. In this sense, listening is an art, and a very applied one at that.

Many Pure Lands

  During our study group session tonight, we explored the notion that many people have very different and distinct ideas of what a 'pure land' on earth really is and really looks like. Just as there are many views on what happens to a person after death, so there are just as many perceptions on what are the most conducive conditions to be freed from suffering. This is surprising to me, in the sense that most of the images I have about pure land relate to the Buddhist iconography of ancient China.
   I begin to wonder at times if perhaps the pure land that is described in Buddhist sutras is more like a mental state which can allow for many kinds of impressions and ideas to simultaneously exist, accommodating conflicting or diverse views rather than trying to make everything conform to one model or view. I suppose that it would have to be this way, since the heaven of pure land would need to be spacious enough to accommodate people of many views and perceptions. In our own Buddhist organization, I get a sense that working with diverse perspectives is a truly ideal place to know about our minds: how we function in the world and deal with diversity of perspectives, rather than only sticking with people with whom we agree or have similar tastes and personalities. 
    Spiritual communities in general tend to be held together by a common view, yet they allow participants a safe and nurturing space to explore differences and conflicts. In this case, perhaps it's as one of the participants had put it in the study group today, to abide in the principle, "agree to disagree". When I don't demand that others agree with me, or that I agree with others 100%, I give myself space to be curious and accommodate conflicts rather than reject them or see them as bad. This is much more interesting than a monolithic community where there is only one voice or one space.

Staying with Fears

  It's interesting for me to reflect: I have often heard the idea that one should 'stay with their fears' in order to overcome them. I saw a program some time ago where a lady overcame her fear of dogs by walking through a dog kennel, with her psychologist by her side to help her when the fear became too overwhelming. The principle behind this kind of therapy (called "exposure" therapy) is that the more I can be with something and not give into my habitual reaction of wanting to control the experience a certain way, the more I realize two things: one is that the object of my fear is not going to harm me in any way, and two is that there is no need to be 'in control' by trying to avoid or get rid of the feared object. From a behaviorist point of view, it is simply about forming new associations between a stimulus and a newly learned response.
  While I understand and agree with the premise of exposure therapy, I would have to add the caveat that a person needs a certain amount of faith and trust for this kind of thing to work. Why? Well, consider that a person being exposed to something fearful is most likely going to bring up the same old memories over again. How can this be stopped? I think it's only when a person has the faith that their mind can form new impressions given the same phenomena. This is not an easy faith to have, because a lot of times, memories of previous experiences can get the better of a person. However, the idea is that without this kind of faith, fear just perpetuates itself like a kind of habit. I develop a new kind of respect for the things I fear, when I can go through the process of forming altogether new connections with it that are often surprising or unexpected. And the discovery of the surprising connections we can form with others is what can change how we view the mind itself: not as something chained to the past, but rather as something that is quite flexible to newness in every moment.

Non-Doing is "No Big Deal"!

  Reading Edward Slingerland's excellent book, Trying Not To Try , has lead me to reflect that there are two distinct attitudes (perhaps among others) to the notion of wu-wei, or non-doing. One is to treat it as a kind of achievement which comes from many years of discipline and exposure to ancient arts, as the Confucian strand suggests. The other is to try to let go of every marker of achievement and live according to one's innermost nature, as Taoists might suggest. I am wondering if the other option is simply to suggest that non-doing is not an achievement at all, but is rather one of many essential aspects of how a person can engage the world and others with less anxiety and attachment. Rather than treating this attribute as some kind of goal or end in itself, would it perhaps be more helpful to see it as a an aspect of one's existence? The approach of looking at non-doing as one of many aspects of being shifts it away from a monolithic aim, and positions it within a pluralistic realm of attributes which forms the toolkit to how people can harmonize in society.
   Why would I prefer to take a pluralist view on this? I think it's because lately, in the midst of all the plans and daily happenings, I am under the impression that there is simply no one redeeming attribute, strategy, approach or attitude that is going to successfully bring a person through life's trials. To try to idolize one attribute is to distort it in some way by projecting all of one's deepest hope or fear onto it. Thus, for some people, the notion of non-doing gets mapped onto an associative process that might include nirvana, regression to an early phase of  life, not having to work or make any special effort to do anything...all of which are distortions of the original context of non-doing, which is more like a non-attached way of interacting in the world than a state of nothingness. Perhaps it's simply a good study to try to contextualize these concepts, as well as to observe when one is investing more into the concept than it can actually hold, rather akin to overloading a boat beyond its capacity to float. This also accords with the Buddhist notion of not taking the raft with us when we have reached the other shore, but rather being willing to let go of the vehicle when it is no longer useful in that moment.


Slingerland, Edward (2014). Trying Not to Try.

Inspiration in Adult Life

 It's interesting to me that many psychologists, including Harris in I'm OK, You're OK, tend to associate the adult with some kind of thinking, judging processor that intermediates between competing forces. Freud's model may also be said to be like that, and perhaps Plato's chariot analogy might have a similar perspective. Everything is about regulation and moderation, as though all the problems that beset people could be resolved simply by drawing a straight line in the middle. In fact, as anyone who has experienced inner conflict can attest, 'standing in the middle' can be an extremely tense or draining experience. It's certainly a worthwhile experience, but it can be hard as well, because there is no real point where we can say 'happy middle', where everything is exactly equal. The only thing that makes them equal is the way I perceive things, with a calm mind and not with one that divides and conquers.
   I tend to think lately that adulthood requires a certain kind of flexibility and creativity when facing these tensions. It isn't just something that comes from standing in the middle of two extremes, but it tends to come from not having a place to rest in those extremes and having to reinvent oneself as a result. Spiritual practice is one example which is not so much a science as it is an art. It's simply not always possible to force oneself into spiritual practices that don't resonate emotionally or from deep down within. If a spirituality doesn't have the soulful or joyful embodiment, it can become something that is a little bit dry or empty. Adult life may very well be a kind of art which involves balancing aspects of self, spirit and soulful connection. It's abut acknowledging that even when spiritual practices are austere and attractive, human life always needs a connection that is rooted in a feeling connection.
   When one feels trapped in a sense of obligation to fulfil, they need to find an inspiration to keep going. This often requires thinking in many different ways-not just logically but also using multiple sources such as imagery. Looking to be inspired is not so easy, but the discussion of it leads me to think that one must keep their minds open to different channels of experience and try different things, rather than thinking there is only one 'logical' path or solution.

Disconnecting and Reconnecting

  This morning, I went to a Buddhist temple on the west side of Toronto, on a site visit to explore the possibility of using it as a potential retreat site for our group retreat in June. I have to admit that I felt calmed by the beautiful surroundings of the temple, yet somewhat disarmed by the fact that I don't know enough Mandarin to know what the others were saying to the Fashi there. Later, on my way to a dentist appointment, I started to reflect on the paradox of connection and disconnection that sometimes happens in one's life.
    Sometimes, I have a sense that the Christian perspective offers a clearer way of saying this than the Buddhist, but I want to say something like, our experiences are always broken. There is no Utopia anywhere where a person feels completely 'in the zone', 24/7, and yet even the disconnecting experiences can be profoundly interesting. For example, one thing I noticed was that the more distanced I felt from the other participants in the site visit, the more my mind simply opened up to the surroundings, as though it were groping for some bigger or more mysterious way to be connected to the world. Picture the metaphor of falling: when there is no branch or leaf on which to grip, one has no choice but simply to fall and completely trust that there is going to be something at the bottom of it to keep one's body intact and buoyed. Or, one can even say that there is no need for a bottom anymore! Had it not been for the initial sense of 'not being a part of the group', I perhaps would have missed the moments when I might see something enveloping in the things around me.
  Some of this reminds me a bit about Jill Bolte-Taylor, a neuroscientist who suffered a stroke and was able to report on the experience as she was undergoing it. Bolte-Taylor found that when the left side of her brain was no longer giving her directives or categorizing things according to preconceived labels, the right side was free to register the vastness of her surroundings, which she describes as a kind of Nirvana on earth. But at the time when this was happening, she suffered a great terror at first. Perhaps it was none other than the fear of losing control (coming from the left hemisphere) but I wonder if it's also not the fear of a bottomless world, where there are no words to signify what is happening to someone. Once a person gets over that initial fear, they gradually start to realize that these concepts they use to filter the world is not necessary for the world to reveal meaning, or be meaningful.
    This experience I have had reminds me that sometimes a person needs to suffer a great period of meaninglessness or disconnection before they can start to appreciate a more profound way of being in the world. How can I describe this 'profound way'? Again, maybe it's best to keep it simple and say that it is a profound sense of trust: I don't need to hold onto the branches to stay afloat. I can trust that there is something greater than all individuals to whom they can entrust themselves. This is more important than being recognized within a community.

Reference:
Bolte-Taylor, Jill (2008). My Stroke of Insight.  https://www.ted.com/talks/jill_bolte_taylor_s_powerful_stroke_of_insight. Accessed May 8, 2017

No Systems Go!

  In my previous entry on models, I was exploring to some degree the limitations of all models: the ways in which they can reveal or expose tensions, but not necessarily guarantee that these tensions will be resolved. Years ago, I remember reading from H.G. Wells the idea that all of us live alongside a horse and a crocodile--referring, I believe, to different parts of the brain, one human, one mammalian, and one reptilian. What he was suggesting is that even if we have this perfect way of describing what happens in the brain or how it has evolved, this is not in any way meaning that the three 'parts' of the brain will start chatting amiably amongst the others! The fact of the matter is that it might very well go in the opposite direction, namely to divide the mind into artificial compartments, under the illusion that they were ever 'separate' to begin with. This can be quite dangerous, because it ends up being that we invariably prefer one component to the others.
   To use an example, in Harris's book I'm OK, You're OK, there are three parts of interactions: Parent, Adult and Child. While the Parent refers to all those demands (shoulds) that we have accumulated since childhood, such as "All good people should go to university!". "Child" refers to the sense of wanting to be stroked, protected or reassured, in a state of dependence. The "Adult" is thought to be the intermediary of sorts, with the added advantage of rationality, ability to plan, and awareness of religious and moral traditions at its disposal. This model sounds quite good, but as I read it, I start to realize that most of the functioning that we would normally consider crucial to mature responsible functioning is coming from the rational adult. Somehow, it overlooks the complicated questions of what goes into the social construction of an adult being. Do adults just emerge spontaneously from age and cognitive development, or is there a role that certain kinds of socialization can have in the kinds of adults there are in the world? Is there only one stereotypical "adult" or are there many varieties of adulthood?
      The more I start to dig into it, the less certain I am that there is such a thing as a universally understood "adult" that transcends all cultural differences and traditions. This model is quite fine in presenting a way to, again, mediate between the demands of inner parents and children, but beyond that, it leaves the field very much open to what would constitute mature adulthood. In this sense, the model has value, but it isn't necessarily comprehensive in terms of explaining all the conflicts that occur in adult life.
   All systematic ways of thinking seem to have this limitation: they emphasize certain things that are challenges, but they are often vague when it comes to what the ideal happens to be. This is perhaps because good is always an elusive thing to define, and it's not so easy as simply removing 'bad' obstacles. From a contemplative perspective, most of the wholesome qualities one can embody are not positive things one acquires but are actually what are arrived at through a process of self-emptying and openness. To take one example: being 'good listener' is not something one acquires through some special mental act or concentration. Rather, it is a process of opening up to someone else's experiences with an attitude of non-judgmental awareness. If I try to consciously 'be a good listener', the concept itself (or the plan) actually becomes the object of my focus, which draws me away from the people with whom I am listening. Sadly, alas, this is also the case with most so-called 'virtues'--the more a person strives to cultivate them, the more they elude grasping, because they draw us away from the actions and relationships where virtue can truly manifest.


Harris, Thomas A. (1969). I'm OK-You're OK. New York: Avon

The Sum of All Tensions

  Generally, most people don't like tension. If I think about it on a physiological level, the body has a tendency to balance itself: if something doesn't feel right, it might register some kind of discomfort, at least holding up the model of what a balanced body feels like. It's interesting how this works, because whenever there is a twist or dysfunction in the body, there is a kind of inherent template or model for what a 'healthy' body would feel like, almost like a perfect Platonic form of how the body should feel, somewhere in the background. I wouldn't be surprised if scientists one day discover or at least theorize about an innate sense of balance or health that people are born with, much as Chomsky has theorized about an innate sense of language.
   It's interesting to consider, however, does having a model of ideal health (physical or mental) mean that one has to live up to that model? Most of the time, we think that models are things we live up to. For example, when we are kids, we are often encouraged to have 'role models', or people who are just a little bit (or a great deal) ahead of us in terms of growth and development. But I am not so sure if having a model means that we have to live up to an ideal within that model. Perhaps the function of models in science or philosophy is not to tell us what ought to be but rather to tell us what is, and what tends to happen within systems. By thinking of models in this way, we can reduce the idea that we somehow have to adjust our thinking to conform to a happy ideal. It may be that instead, we use the model to seek clarity on what is really, actually happening in this very moment, much of which may even be beyond our control.
     I admit that this may be a controversial view about models. Plato, to use another example, had a model of a chariot rider, which he used to describe how people can use their minds to restrain their emotions and balance them with reason. Such a model seems to imply (at least for some) that reason is superior to one's emotions, and therefore should always have the upper hand. However, I am not so sure if this is the case. It's like saying, between the water and the dam, the dam is 'in control' of the water. Well, is it? Not really, because if dams controlled water, then all the water would simply stop flowing altogether. A dam can influence the movement and direction of water, but dams are not designed to get rid of all the water in the world. In the same way, we can use our models to clarify where we want to go with our different states of mind, but perhaps we can never claim that one part is superior to the other.
    I think that the best we can do with our models is to use them to behold tensions in mind as well as allow us to honor our complexities as human beings. We are never only 'one person', and a lot of times, there are competing parts to us which represent different longings and aspirations. I may, for instance, have an interest in spirituality, but does this make me spiritual all the time? What part do the other aspects of life have if they are subsumed under one concept, such as spirit? Only in cultivating awareness of complexity can one learn to be comfortable with their tensions and behold them in the process of making decisions.

Finding What Isn't So Rushed

  One of the interesting things about nature is how it reminds a person that they needn't rush through life. When you see snails come out after a rainfall, for instance, you are reminded that the natural world has its very own rhythm which cannot be replaced. There is a natural wisdom that seems to arise when a person slows down, which is quite in contrast with the usual pace of life, where a person is simply running from one thing to the next. I sometimes wonder if perhaps this is the way to look at the mind, always going back again and again to a still point.
   It's quite a different story at work, because in those moments, one often feels a pressure to finish things quickly or even to try to outdo one's own pace. But I think that there are certainly ways to incorporate these two paces together. Sometimes in our group meditation practice, we talk about the mind being still even though the body is moving. This is one apt analogy in the sense that it shows that no matter how strong the ripples or waves of the mind happen to be,  it's all just forms of stillness.
  A lot of this requires a certain inner discipline. I feel that for myself, there is always a part of me which wants to be perfect and therefore becomes self-critical. It's easy to succumb to the mind literally having an argument with itself, but if one has the wisdom, one realizes that this kind of self-criticism needs to be tempered with a more compassionate approach. But even if a person has no time for formal meditation practice, I believe that walking in nature can have a similar effect of reminding a person that they are much more than how they think and see themselves.

Confidence

I have found that throughout my life, I have struggled with confidence--either thinking I have not done enough, or comparing what I have done with others and finding myself wanting. I notice that this happens a lot when I am very impressed with someone else's remarks, or thoughts, and there is a sense that I could improve my own abilities, though I don't always know how. I have found recently that the how question is what really gets me stuck and bogged down. Whenever I begin to ask myself how to do something, I end up in a whirl: it's a bit like asking a centipede how it's possible to move so many legs and synchronize them together. Of course, there is simply no answer or end to any answer, and sooner or later the centipede can only do what's most natural to itself. But it seems very easy for a person to sink into the mire of how questions when there is a seemingly insurmountable challenge or frustration. Very often, we do things with some level of competence without ever knowing the "how" of it, and it's not explainable in such rationalistic terms.
  I think a lot of times, there is also the associated cult of personality that arises when people easily start to admire others for what they do, rather than contributing their own experience or knowledge. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter who has the most knowledge, the most experience or the most wisdom. Sometimes one has to simply let go of comparison altogether and just try. The example was during the sharing after meditation today, when the topic was about quantum physics and its connection to meditation. For some time, I became overwhelmed by the topic, but after a while, a thought came to my mind: well, I am far from being an expert on this subject, but I have read a thing or two about it. Why don't I just say what I know and not worry too much about whether it's an expert opinion, or just hopelessly naïve? Rather than trying to start with the finishing point, I focused instead on the simple question of what do I know, or what can I possibly know about what is being discussed. In this way, I am observing the process of contributing in itself, rather than trying to get to a predetermined destination.
    In ESL teaching, there is something similar that students are taught to do when they read unfamiliar or daunting passages of text. One strategy they are taught is to scan the whole text overall to figure out what the overarching topic might be, or why the author is writing this particular piece. The second strategy, somewhat related, is that of context clues: detecting the meaning of an unfamiliar word by looking for its context in the sentence or surrounding sentences to discern a possible meaning. I think both strategies are effective because they work on the felt, tacit sense of knowing, or 'pre-knowing' that learners often bring to a seemingly new situation. Through these processes, learners develop the confirmation of seeing that they already know many things, even when the details of a language may not be so transparent at first.  With this basic trust, people can engage things wholeheartedly without having to compare their abilities with those of others.  Quite simply: everyone has something truly unique an valuable to contribute to any situation.

Illusory and Sociable

  I find that it's interesting how I often feel so open to others after meditation, particularly when I have thoroughly relaxed my body and am no longer chasing after thoughts. The sense that I get is that a lot of the scenarios I run in my mind are really just illusions, and they are about situations that either don't come to pass at all or are momentary. What arises from this is a sense of regret--the feeling I get that I have spent too much time worrying about very immaterial things that don't have any chance of arising or affecting me in any way. Then there is a feeling of gratitude for the people around me--a sense that many people around me do accept me, in spite of my deluded thoughts and worries. It's as though there is this whole wealth of forgiveness and compassion surrounding me, yet I am too preoccupied on one or two chance judgments or remarks from the past to see that field of compassion that cradles me and protects me from wrongdoing and mistakes.
    Whenever I experience this state of gratitude, I become very sociable. Well, to be honest, I have never been a very talkative person most of the time, but I become somehow eager to accommodate others, because there seems to be a togetherness in the silence we share. This is so different from walking into a room full of strangers and being left to one's own devices, where the most compassionate statement a person might make is to the effect of 'where's your drink?' In the work of clubs and so on, alcohol is the way to soothe frayed nerves and kill free time. I think that there is also a sense of profound ease that arises after people have meditated together: a feeling that prior to any conversation or discussion, we have already done something very significant together, and no words need be exchanged to validate that experience.
   I think this kind of sociability is much more interesting and compassionate than the kind that we often see in parties or bars, because it no longer becomes about finding out what a person does and then evaluating a person by way of their status. Rather, there is a much more subtle and sensitive state where a person can completely accept their situation alongside those of others. Perhaps it's equanimity (upekka), but I am thinking it's an ideal sort of social state that not too many people attune to in this rushed sort of society.