Writing and Impermanence

In his book, Writing: Teachers & Children at Work (1983), Donald Graves remarks, regarding a student named John: John finally makes the major breakthrough on revision when he sees the words as temporary, the information as manipulable. Now he is able to deal with several drafts simultaneously (p.159). The context of this quote comes from a student who appears to be stuck on a draft, because he has ceased to see the possibilities of looking at information in different ways: turning the information around like it's a kind of cube. As a result, John experiences what Graves refers to as information "restlessness", and he is not able to do anything more with the draft except to tweak punctuation and so on.
   It's only later, when John glimpses the possibility to move or re-organize the information in his story, that he sees the temporary, impermanent nature of language itself. We see this evidenced in the following observations:
    
     a) John stops erasing, opting to 'cross out' words that don't make sense--which suggests that he is not attached to the look of the draft, and feels comfortable to revise the entire paper rather than covering up a few word
     b) more symbols are used to point between drafts, as information is inserted accordingly into new or different orders than before, thus characterizing what Lucy Calkins refers to as "going back and forth" in their writing (p.159)
   
This topic interests me, not only from the perspective of writing but from that of reading as well. I am thinking about how language moves from something static to something that is manipulable. Emerson seems to have hit on a point when he suggests that reading is a mirror of the soul, and thus books are not meant to be viewed as static in the first place, but I think there are deeper inroads to be made, such as how we can look at our own thinking in terms of extensions of what we read or write at a given time. Could the way we think (or the flexibility to do so) be determined by a dominant way in which we look at the functions of reading and writing--which are often related to metaphors of carving or inscribing information into fairly concrete, immovable shapes and forms? What if writing had a different metaphor, something akin to twirling a finger into the air?

The other aspect relates to seeing writing not as a form of inscribing but as brief flashes that can connect with other flashes in new ways. It doesn't need to have a logic or be locked into a particular category or genre. In fact, fiction and non-fiction can blend together in this way, as well as a cross-disciplinary blending of ideas.

Graves, Donald H. (1983 ) Writing: Teachers & Children at Work. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann Educational Books

Hard to Do Nothing

 Someone in the group meditation tonight had remarked about how difficult it is to do nothing, and my thinking is that--the best way to do nothing is not to try to do nothing at all. For instance, if I say "I am doing nothing", often what it means is that I am refraining from doing what I believe is socially acceptable. The "doing nothing" is referring to a kind of rebellious stance against something which I don't want to do, for whatever reasons. But if I am no longer thinking of either 'doing something' or 'doing nothing', then even 'doing something' is not felt to be something. Conversely, not doing something is not experienced as nothing! What a crazy paradox, right? In Zen, I think that this attitude simply refers to not making anything of any sort into an object that supposedly exists outside the mind. 
   The way of 'doing nothing' is not to get rid of all the somethings, but rather to relate to those somethings as processes that come and go. So far as I can see everything as impermanent, then there is no obstacle: I work when I need to, eat when I need to, rest when I need to, and so on. I don't have this idea in mind that I should do y while I am doing x, or vice versa. And even when I am doing x, I am not having an idea that I should do x... I could just as easily pick up y in that moment! But there is no struggle in my mind between the two of them; they are parts in the same whole, so why would they compete. If I think that work has nothing to do with eating, then I will try working without any food and see what happens! When things interconnect, there are no competing aims. They are just passing things that need doing.

Unfinished Research

 The title of this entry is a bit misleading, but I am talking about the experience of sometimes following the trail of a potential research project and then realizing that either the moment is premature or there isn't that much I can research. I was thinking about studying Tien Tai Buddhism so that I could learn more about a workshop related to the Lotus Sutra recitation. Somehow, I must have picked up one of the hardest (most academic) books at Robarts Library. I have found myself dipping into Zhi Li's theories about the four alternate views and four kinds of teaching, only to find that I could only absorb about fifty per cent of it, and apply much less.
   I found myself thinking that reading this book has been a practice in abiding with the sense of confusion (being way over my head) as well as occasional feelings of boredom. This kind of reading isn't that interesting or engaging to me unless I have a meaningful method to work with that is embodying the practice. I found that even though the Buddhist theory fascinates me, I at times zone out when it comes to reading the historical nuances of this style of Buddhism, which tells me that either it's not my time to learn it, or it will take me longer to do so.
    Lately, I have been thinking that the things I have been reading are a bit lacking in context, or even too 'theoretical'. I have heard some Buddhist students suggest that a lot of North American mindfulness practices lack the context of historically grounded Buddhism, particularly the ethical and devotional aspects. However, the other side of this argument is that sometimes people might be very attracted to historical Buddhist ideas, only to find that the history is an integral part of a very different culture and time period. I am saying that there often needs to be a way to bridge these historical movements and practice in Canadian life today, and sometimes I don't quite see a way to bridge it unless there is a feasible spiritual practice associated with it.

Rushing Rush Hour

  What is the rush in rush hour? I think this is a question worth considering, as so many associate rush hour with rushing to get home. Is it always that dinner is waiting on the table, or is there some other reason why people are frantic in the late hours of the day to get home?
   When I no longer feel that I need to get ahead of anyone else and can even take my time in getting home, something different happens. I feel more relieved, and more of a sense of not having to do anything or even communicate with anyone to feel connected. Connection with others doesn't come from having to struggle to be 'equal' to them, but rather it comes from the felt sense that awareness itself is already a connection.
    I have often felt that in urban life in particular, there is a kind of pressure to connect, as though we have internalized the understanding that we are not connected already. I get it into my head that in order to connect with others, there needs to be something that will allow me to keep up with them in some way, such as the same pace, the same status, the same education, and so on. Never does it occur to me that in the moment that I am aware of others, there is already a connection in mind, and there is no 'struggle to connect'. This awareness is never separate from me. For instance, if a person leaves the room, does this mean that they walk away from awareness? How is  it possible for any phenomena to exist without awareness? On the other hand, do we say that 'my mind' walks away from 'your mind', only to 'connect' later? I think that this is the folk belief that I have--namely, that my mind is a separate entity, rather than the totality of all the phenomena and functioning.
   The sense that there is already mind here and now should come as a relief. I am not trying to get my awareness back from someone who just left the room! Think about this, and sit on it for a while. Is there need to panic when the crowds rush ahead of 'you'? Where is the crowd, where is 'ahead', where is you?

The Spirituality of Literature Learning

   It's interesting how, in the process of preparing a lesson plan for young students, I start to realize the 'hidden spirit' of lesson plans! While doing a lesson plan for Treasure Island by R.L. Stevenson, I suddenly started to reflect upon how the process of doing this is in itself a journey, similar to what the boy Jim Hawkes experiences when he is with his comrades looking for treasures in Stevenson's classic. In order for me to find this parallel, however, I had to go back to my experiences as an undergraduate English major, and delve beneath the sleek surfaces of what the narrative ostensibly describes. What does this require, however? What experience will take me below the surface of literal meaning and toward something that has a more in-depth meaning?
    Part of what drives all of this is the sense of using a text to serve others in some way or another. This, to me, is the role of the English literature teacher. Rather than simply presenting a book summary to a classroom, English teachers will use the material of literature to serve the learning needs of their students, the latter taking precedence over the contents of the former. If what I am presenting only encourages memorization or (worse still) consulting Wikipedia for plot summaries, then I haven't served learners well: I haven't given them an invitation to discover what learning is and means for them, but have,  instead, put the text in front of the learner and said "here is what you have to learn." What would literature be like if, however, the reader became the center of the study rather than the so-called 'objective' contents of the text? This, to me, is where literature is exciting, because the text itself is only the vehicle through which students can really explore who they are. In fact, this is allegorically expressed through the narrator of Treasure Island, who also experiences a personal journey in spite of the fact that he appears to be fighting it out with Long John Silver for a chest of treasure. The 'goal' is not as important as the journey, even if the journey is not complete or aborts midway.
    It's important to work with the text in this way, because otherwise literature can be nothing more than regurgitating the details which can easily be found on wikipedia. Literature is not about reading meaning off the page, but about wrestling with the meanings within, or often undergoing the confusions and misunderstandings that readers often feel when facing another person's thoughts on paper. It's more of an inner process that differs from person to person.

Where tears from from

  Can tears for others be based on egoism and not vows? We had this discussion in the Surangama Sutra study group today, and I thought that it was an interesting discussion which brought up many things for me. I reflected on how I went to the Pride parade last night and saw a display which showed all the victims in the Orlando shootings of the last year, and how I was moved by this picture--to the point where I could feel a lump in my throat. The thought I had as people were dancing and celebrating that evening was, why do so many have to fight and even die for love? What is it about love that makes it so desirable for society to control and regulate? And, to go back to my original point--I did feel almost spontaneously moved by the pictures, but I am not sure exactly who those feelings were for, and whether it even relates to bodhisattva vows. I think that the only way that one's sadness might be based on vows is when there is a genuine insight into suffering which comes from spiritual practice. I suppose that this would be opposed to tears that come from emotional attachment, or the delusion of a self separate from others who fears the loss of others.
  The more that I think about it, the more I reflect that there are two things that move me the most, sometimes to the point of tears. The first is the surprise connections that people make as a result of grace. We never expect strangers to help each other or for people to save other people's pets from drowning--but when it happens, I am moved to feel that there is something deeper that is operating in people's hearts than their day-to-day, humdrum struggles for survival and happiness. The second thing that moves me is a sense of gratitude: a feeling that I have when I realize that there are a lot of unearned gifts that have been granted to me. Come to think of it, both gratitude and grace are hardly ever talked about in a Buddhist context, but they certainly do happen in a Christian one. But I do think that gratitude plays a big part in Buddhist repentance as well, especially reflecting on the teachers who have tirelessly worked on their practice so that everyone would be able to learn the Dharma teachings.
   

Sisyphus Revisited

  This morning as I was preparing the cushions for the group meditation practice, I was reflecting on the idea that life is often consisting in many related processes, and sometimes it can feel as though there is no progress. I set up the cushions, then the cushions have to go back in the closet again, and so on into a kind of temporal infinity! There is a certain sameness about what people do, and one often wonders if this is a kind of mental cage or prison. But in fact, all of it is very much like a kind of mental training in seeing that our worlds are constructed moments, and there is a continual cycle of moments arising and falling. To know what part of the cycle one is on is in essence part of the process of being liberated within the cycle itself.
   It helps to know that time itself is only a construction of the mind. For instance, I can either see the meditation as a single moment in time, or I can project infinite moments. It's like taking a picture and multiplying it to endless lengths until the image itself appears ridiculous. If I think this latter way, then nothing has much meaning or purpose. On the other hand, if I only take this moment the way it is, then everything is already complete and contained within it, and I can enjoy inhabiting that space, rather than getting nauseated at how 'similar' it looks to other moments. I am not endlessly abstracting from it to the point of 'everything looking the same', but I am taking that moment simply on its own terms, exploring its contours as it arises. This is a kind of skill, to let go of the tendency to form abstract bundles out of discreet experiences.
   The other point goes back to the story of Sisyphus, who some interpret to be a kind of cautionary tale. Sisyphus apparently angers the gods/goddesses to the point of being punished by having to endlessly roll a rock up a hill, over and over again. But there is this point in between the rolling of the rock that Sisyphus learns that he has a bit of freedom in his drudgery--that little space where he is allowed to get his bearings and know where he is in the moment, rather than trying to accomplish his impossible task. Perhaps this 'moment' symbolizes what is being done in the sitting cushion, but we hopefully try to extend this practice to our everyday toils as well.
  While Sisyphus seems to represent the mundane efforts required to make a life, people rarely mention the figure of Tantalus, who I feel is the converse. While Sisyphus is condemned to eternal drudgery, it is Tantalus who is punished with endless desire of having to reach up to grab a fruit that is always exceeding his reach. For me, Tantalus represents the life of endless desire---an eternal 'vacation' where one is left to imagine endless pleasures without cease, and without boundaries. Can Tantalus ever stop and realize that what he is imagining as real is only illusory, and can he simply stop rejecting the frustration he feels, and embrace frustrated desire as a part of his vulnerable being as a person? Is it possible to enjoy frustration rather than trying to exceed it through the satisfaction of desire? I leave these questions to ponder and to bear in silence.

A Dreaming Tapestry

 One day a man was riding the bus, just like every other day. And it was a new day, and yet it wasn't a new day at the same time, because this man was lost in his own dream: going to work, earning a living, and avoiding troubles at any cost. But on this particular day, a man looks up and sees the sunrise. And he marvels that his life is a passing bus on the way to a sunset.
   Have you ever felt that at the end of the day, it is all just one dream? Not to say that it's a bad dream, or a good dream, or even an insignificant dream, but think for a moment: were the things you worried about a year ago the same concerns you have today? Is there ever one particular concern that always stays with you, life after life, as though it were haunting you? In fact , I can hardly think of anything that has been an overarching concern. Rather, each step is a step in a long chain that often considers a great many things, yet which never has a final end or turn.
   Paying attention to the peculiar patterns of life is an art in itself. I recall that in Of Human Bondage, W. Somerset Maugham had used the metaphor of life as a tapestry, in which patterns have a life of their own and dance around key themes, depending on a person's character and tendencies. It's not about wrestling out of the tapestry, but more so about feeling one's way into the weaves and knits, to understand what the designs and patterns are intimating and suggesting. This is a very delicate art and balance, but one should perhaps not confuse it with something that has only one particular goal in mind.
   This is to say: study the intimate ways of life, with a microscopic eye of wonder, and one will appreciate and enjoy even its unpredictable moments and downturns.

Being Authentic in Meditation

   I noticed tonight that at some point in the meditation, there was this sense of everything being in the place it needs to be; everything falling together, with nothing in particular standing out. It's something like what I have sometimes experienced when looking at landscape paintings from ancient China, for example: the figures are usually occupying one part in an overall configuration that does not 'overvalue' one being over the other. This mindset sometimes just washes over me during meditation, though it doesn't happen all that often, and it usually gets eclipsed by some mundane issue like back pain or the like. I rarely get a chance to experience this sense that all is well, yet all is not so prominent. Nothing has 'taken over' into the foreground, in other words.
  Lately, I have been noticing in myself an overall shift in attitude towards meditative practices in general. I no longer seem under the impression that I have to monitor myself or be a certain 'meditative' way in order to practice my method. What I mean by this is that whenever I am facilitating group practice, I have a tendency to feel as though I have to project an image of myself and aid others in their practice through certain kinds of emotions I 'create'. But lately, I have been thinking that this approach is a little bit like holding back a huge wave of water. It's destructive, in fact, because it suggests that one 'has' to be a certain way, almost like trying to hold a smile in one place the entire day without moving an inch! You can only imagine how uncomfortable that would be, and yet somehow spiritual practices can often influence people to try to adopt inauthentic postures, as though they were trying to be something that they themselves have not yet attained.
  I have found that, quite to the contrary, when I just admit where I am in the moment and see the difficulties as difficulties rather than trying to sugar-coat them, the meditation goes much smoother. I think it's because I am no longer subconsciously trying to build a wall around certain states of mind which I find either socially undesirable or 'not spiritual enough': rather, I come into this space with my garbage, and I leave the space accepting the garbage, even though I am not indulging it anymore. It's only when I can put down my struggles to be something else that I can go beyond the difficulty and envelop those difficulties without giving into them. This is hard to express, but I believe that it's the idea that when the room is completely lit around you, there is no more guessing about what is hiding in the corners. Subsequently, there is much more room in the mind to make choices about what is there rather than putting effort into hiding or glossing over what one dislikes about themselves.

Taking Out the Garbage

Tonight, I heard about the metaphor of purifying the mind prior to meditation, particularly through repentance or some other practice, as something akin to 'taking out the garbage', or purifying the mind of garbage. While I think this metaphor is quite intriguing, I can't help but wonder, just what is meant by garbage, and what can this kind of practice really do for people? I am thinking that 'garbage' is really just the phenomena that comes from previous karma or past conditions, so there is no use in even branding it as garbage, per se. But more importantly, is there ever a point where person is truly 'purified' of anything, or might this sometimes be a kind of conceit, at times?
  I have sometimes had very genuine moments when I am prostrating to the Buddha, where I genuinely feel and know that all my vexations and thoughts are not worth attaching to, and I behold a space where I can truly accept the present moment with all the conditions that lead up to it. However, there is not much intention there on my part; it is just a sense of genuine and real refuge, knowing that I am simply not able to put down my thoughts using other thoughts. If on the other hand, I prostrate with strong expectations of a result, then I am in a subtle way imposing a goal of purity, and this actually affects the result by making me feel more tense in anticipation of a calm or 'pure' state. At times, I might even believe that I have reached that state, judging by the way my mind suddenly might feel calm or less burdened by the pressure of thoughts. However, where it becomes tricky, I guess, is when I turn this calm state into a 'marker' of my inner purity--something which many religions would consider a kind of false pride. It would be like praying to God and then thinking that God has answered my prayers in some way just because I feel a sense of relief after praying. When this subjective state becomes the goal of repentance, it can start to become more like a self-fulfilling narrative.
   On the other hand---when I prostrate without any expectation, I often find myself almost 'accidentally' having an insight into the value of prostration, without necessarily attaching additional meaning to that insight. For instance, I might realize how interconnected I am and in need of the vows and teachings of others, when I prostrate in respect to Buddhas and teachers--and this might result in an expansion of consciousness beyond the sense of self. But if I then make the 'state of purity' a goal, this in some ways diverges from interconnection by suggesting that there is a single 'self' that is purified by the practice. So I do think that these kinds of practices may need to be approached with care, humility and caution.

Looking at Things Atomistically

 The title of this piece may seem a bit deceptive. When I talk about seeing things 'atomistically', I am talking about a particular period in my life when I was 10 years old, and I started reading old chemistry books in the library and learning about the structure of atoms and molecules. It seems hard to believe in retrospect, but that period for me was a kind of religious conversion, because I started to realize that what I thought to be 'solid' enduring entities turned out to be composed of vast and infinite distances of space and matter, all of which can be broken down further and further into sub-particles. This kind of 'atomism' gave me a sense of joy and wonder, because it made me realize that things no longer need to be taken as things, but can be broken down further into these interrelated chains of events and situations, many of which could be colorfully illustrated. I don't think that science was ever as romantic for me as it was at that time, because later, the notion of this vast universe was replaced with something called "hard science", where data comes is said to confirm something that is 'fixed' and unchanging. At that time, I read that the criterion for a 'good' science fiction novel is that its parameters conform to realistic science that could be backed up by some physically tenable, or measurable idea.
   My point is that there are two ways to look at things 'atomistically': one is in the spirit of seeing how parts interconnect in intricate and infinite ways, while the other is to try to 'separate' or divide processes into discreet and segregated parts. While the former tends to lead to a sense of awe at the universe, the latter tends to lead to a narrowing of consciousness and even a rejection of holistic views of life. It's as though whenever we try to use our analyses to 'fix' things down to a few common denominators or substances, the view of the world collapses and we are unable to link things together in creative ways. I think that many Buddhist texts do indeed see things from the perspective of the constituents of experience (for example, the 5 skandhas), but this is not as a way of fixing or narrowing consciousness to one or two things. Rather, it is a way of realizing the deep intricacy of how things are similar and relate in a co-existing way. Could science be taught more along the lines of this sort of harmony, I wonder?

Abiding With An Uncomfortable Mind

There are a lot of parallels between meditation and what is called "exposure therapy", but I am afraid that the latter is a little bit like shock treatment. When I took undergraduate psychology at York University, I learned about different variations, such as re-exposing a person to a feared element, such as a snake, in order to reprogram the mind to develop different associations with the snake. In a sense, meditation could potentially offer a similar kind of practice, in the sense that one is asked not to react to one's thoughts or emotions, but to abide in discomfort--to know that the discomfort itself is one wave in the ocean of mind. One approach here is to say that the wave is passing by and therefore impermanent. The other way is to know that the wave is a manifestation of the ocean (mind) and therefore one needn't wait for the wave to pass in order to know the true mind.  I think this second version is more to the point than the first.
    That being said, from what I have read about exposure therapy, all it's trying to do essentially do is replace a 'negative reaction' with a positive one, by substituting a more relaxing stimulus that allows the mind to be still. I actually like this approach, in that it reminds me of samatha, the notion of calming the mind. But something else somehow needs to happen if I am to really gain insight into the phenomena. I have to see that the phenomena is driven by awareness. It's like this: when I have a flashlight, I can take the flashlight and pinpoint it on anything, and then it becomes illuminated. If the light is somewhere else, something else is illuminated. This is a tricky concept, because I am in the habit of thinking that what I see in front of me has its own awareness- so I start "having a conversation" with it as though it exists independently of awareness. The previous thought and present thought interact. If they didn't, would there be any vexations?
   If I don't get to this point of realization, I spend most of my time just trying to make myself comfortable by substituting one thing for the other, and suffering arises as a result. I still don't know that what is 'in front of me' is really totality of mind. The mind cannot form craving or aversions if there is no sense of I and 'something else'; in fact, this split is the original mistake that gives rise to craving and aversions. But without a method, there is no way I can break that habit of subject-object, hence huatou, or the practice of questioning the duality to know what is mind. Until I can do this, an expedient means is to learn to simply abide in discomfort and to know through a kind of faith or confidence that even the deepest and most troubling disturbance is a reflection of true mind, like a wave in an ocean. There is no need to change the disturbance or 'wait for it to go away'. Rather, it is to know in a deep way that discomfort is true mind.

Reading as a Meditative Practice

I am just discovering the joys of Robarts Library recently. Not only is this library incredibly huge, but it's also quiet enough that one can spend the whole day reading there, relatively undisturbed.  I have taken the opportunity recently to explore lovely "BQ", the call letters which start the Buddhism section, and which, coincidentally, sound like the word "bikkuni".
    Is reading anything like meditation practice? I suppose that traditional Buddhists might argue that the acts of reading and meditation are totally opposite to each other, and they would have a valid point there. After all, meditation instruction is often telling people to let go of discursive thinking, whereas reading seems to be exactly the opposite. However, recently, I have noticed that reading can be taken to be a meditative process as well. But I found that in order to do that, one has to be a little bit detached from words themselves, and more trusting of the mind's ability to comprehend the words without getting stuck on them.
    For example, I have found that reading certain philosophies in Buddhism is extremely hard, because they involve many layers of complicated mental states, much of which can't really be known except through hard practice. In those moments when I haven't been able to wrap my head around certain concepts, I have tended to exhort to just recognizing the struggle I am experiencing as a legitimate process in itself. Perhaps one can think of it as a form of honest reflection on what cannot be comprehended so easily, as well as a step in slowly comprehending it. If I don't have faith that eventually I will understand the concepts or states of mind, I will give up on reading altogether and conclude that all of it is way beyond my capacities. But in a way, it is a little bit like working out in the gym: the mind gradually assimilates the material and finds ways to apply it given enough time and practice. I would say that the ability to keep reading even if it makes no sense is a meditative practice: it involves doing without trying to grasp or use familiar concepts to understand what is written. So the idea is not to get attached to understanding or not understanding but to rest in the awareness of both states.
   Another aspect which intrigues me is using an open mind to read and being aware of when I am shutting down or using my previous thoughts or judgments to 'stop reading'. When a reader starts to intercept thoughts on page with their own thoughts, that's when there is sometimes a tendency to overlook what is being written, similar to what happens when people interrupt others too much in conversations. I have often seen people scribbling their own notes in library books beside each paragraph, as though they themselves were the co-authors--the only difference being that they seem to have more to say than the original author! In these cases, I find that the person is often no longer open to the author's thoughts, but are using their own impressions and judgments as a defence against reading further. It's okay when this happens (and it happens a lot) but I am saying that a meditative approach to reading might involve treating these judgments as passing thoughts, and using the text itself as a way to keep the mind settled and present. It involves allowing the book to change you and work through you, rather than using previous memories to judge the book.

Change and Perspective

  I find it interesting how the things one most attaches to are the things that often don't have so much significance overall. An example is getting worried about something that happened at work. Although it's certainly healthy to reflect on mistakes that have arisen in one's work or unexpected challenges and difficulties, it is perhaps not so healthy to then conclude that one is 'unemployable', or make some other generalization. But this is what I often do--rather than seeing the situation for what it is, I will get stuck on the individual details and lose the meaning of the totality. It sometimes takes a persistent determination to stay on the moment to know that these individual moments are not so significant as they appear.
   As I come to think about it, it's not possible to say that one thing directly causes something else. Usually,there is a cascading effect of causes that make one direction seem most likely to happen, if not inevitable. This is because nothing ever really exists in isolation. If I think, on the other hand, that one thing I do or say automatically qualifies something to happen, then I immediately assume that everything I do and say has this extreme significance, rather than thinking that causes and conditions have to work together to create a single result. I then become overly anxious, and the result is what appears to be self-fulfilling prophecy. If, on the other hand, I am able to maintain a healthier perspective on causes and conditions, I know that one thing does not directly or solely cause something else, so it makes no sense for me to attach to only one factor or situation as determining everything else. This attachment can lead to all sorts of perfectionist, anxious tendencies which only make me more tense and worried.

Starting from Scratch

 Tonight's mission was simply to clear the space and clutter in my apartment. It was certainly not an easy one, and I found myself running out of garbage bags, to the point where I even told myself that I would need to do a second session of cleaning. Finally, I at last cleared a space, and resolved to work on clearing my desk later. I believe that this is a good start anyway. It also helped me a great deal that I was listening to Buddha's chant (Amitufuo) on my mp3 player, as this helped me to slow down my tendency to become anxious or overwhelmed when faced with such tasks as these.
   Starting from 'zero' is such an important element to staying centered, and I wonder if this is not a kind of metaphor for the mind itself. Just as a room easily accumulates the clutter of the outside world, so the mind itself can hold any number of different, innumerable perspectives, much of which is deeply situated and relative. If I am not able to slow down enough to see what's in front of me and work step-by-step toward a single goal, it becomes hard to appreciate just being present. But the important thing in that piece is to know how to slow down and fully relax the mind.
    Is it true that the mind has this already latent potential to relax? I believe so, but it is as though the thoughts are always ready to hijack this natural relaxation that is a kind of birthright of human beings. As soon as I resolve not to allow any thoughts or judgments really affect my equanimity, then I can contain as many thoughts as I wish, but I am not really bound to them emotionally or in any sense. Then it becomes much easier to pick up just one thing at a time, and not worry if it takes an eternity to finish the task.

Introductions and Interests

 One of the things that one is often asked at interviews is something like, 'tell me what you do when you are not working', or 'tell me about yourself.' Today, I had a chance to meet the new director of our operations team, and he got our department into a room to ask us this same thing: tell me about your interests outside of work. This is all very interesting in the sense that we are always imagining that we are able to take ourselves and boil it down to a few activities that we like to do on our free time. It then becomes a question of who is more interesting, and who has the most filled schedule of interests. Of course, some interests are definitely more glamorous than others, but in all of this, there is this assumption that one can reduce their identity to a set of actions or repertoires, or what one does.
   An alternate way of looking at this kind of experience is to say that all interests and pursuits are roads or potential pathways to a self-transcendence. Woodworking is one such example: one starts out working with wood and then, through a deepened passion for it, one can sometimes experience a unified body and mind throughout the process of creating something. Soon enough, the experience itself provides a person with insights into the nature of what is: always changing, always dependent on numerous complex interactions, and always a mental experience. If one doesn't agree, one can always imagine what it feels like to do woodworking after one has had a bad argument, or a bad cold. In both cases, the act of being mentally influenced by illness or adversity can have an effect on one's relationship to their craft or interests.
   The point is that, all interests tend to create the same tendencies. They can deepen one's character just by leading a person to a place that is beyond the interest itself, or one's feelings about that interest. Can we then say that all roads lead to the same place? Well, I won't say that, because there is a variety of depth and level to a person's interests and there is never a guarantee as to what spiritual insights might be at the end of one's engagement in a hobby or pursuit. Certainly, a lot of it depends on intentionality. Nonetheless, the pattern of how one relates one's interests to something that is beyond interest itself is quite amazing to me, and it suggests that there is no end to what one can use to have spiritual realizations in daily life.

A Medley of Singing Bowls

What is the structure of sound, and what is its special meaning? I had a chance to reflect on this topic today during GuoYuan Fashi's talk about singing bowl meditation. Fashi had presented some ideas of how and why masters from the past had become enlightened through the simple hearing of sound, followed by a presentation of singing bowls. Meditating on the sound was an incredibly interesting experience for me, and I would like to share my understanding of it.
    For the most part, there tends to be a lot of scattered thoughts arising during evening meditation, and due to some fatigue, it takes me some time to relax and settle the mind. What I noticed upon hearing the sounds of the singing bowls was a sense of unity and totality: here was this beautiful, reverberating echo of the singing bowl, in contrast with the unreality of wandering thoughts. When contrasted with the purity of the singing bowl sound, the thoughts seemed so unnecessary and unreal, a kind of chatter between two mouths sitting on the same face. Not only this, but I also had a sense of unity in that moment of sound. Even as the sound faded, I had to wonder, where does the sound fade to, and how can sound really disappear when there is still a hearing faculty that is doing the hearing? Here again, subject and object suddenly ceased to feel relevant, seeing that there is this kind of present-moment awareness that is allowing sounds to arise with wholeness.
   Sound is really interesting, especially when it is shouted or when it has a certain presence of being, much like the sound of a gong. Unlike thoughts which tend to have a wispy characteristic, the sounds of gongs or other Buddhist instruments tend to herald the bold simplicity of now. They communicate an unmistakable reality, rather than allowing the listener to 'evaluate' their meanings or qualities. In this way, these kinds of sounds mirror a grounded nature of mind which is always 'such': it has no beginning or ending, no quarrel with anything, and no subject/object division. When the sound is made with this total and simple awareness, it can have a profound impact which is harder to achieve through words or explanation.

Avoid Disappointment!

I have been thinking about the phenomenology of disappointment: how it happens, when it arises, and under what circumstances. Though I have no answer to the question itself, I can say a few things, particularly that I was more easily disappointed when I was younger. My particular disappointments seemed to have arisen from two related things. The first is an unclear sense of what could come out of something: for instance, I might compare what I see on a movie to what happens to people in daily life, only to find the latter wanting in some way. The other source of disappointment seems to be a kind of high expectation placed on the self. I think the latter is by far responsible for the most disappointment, perhaps because disappointment always seems to come back to a very strong sense of purpose that seems frustrated by various things. One example is what happens when meditative practitioners think that they should not experience negative emotions, but then find themselves succumbing to such emotions when they are feeling weak, tired or exhausted. At that time, not only do I feel disappointed in myself for feeling physically tired or 'off', but I then attach that disappointment to a solid sense of self. This is a twofold disappointment.
  Now what happens if, instead of trying to suppress those states of being, I were to simply witness them, resting in the knowing that I am never identical with those feelings? This is what I experimented with today when I was going to the supermarket to buy food after work. There were feelings of tiredness, certainly, but there was also this added sense that I should not feel tired, which then creates an added layer of tension and pressure. If I want to be something I am not feeling at that moment, I create a very big mission for myself. Well--give up on that, because who exactly is having the feelings of tiredness anyway? Asking this question allows me to realize that there is a witness that is aware of the feelings but it not really tied to those feelings. It's like the nature of a window: a window can allow everything to go through it, or to be seen through it, without leaving any trace of those images. Is mind like a window? Indeed, there isn't anything that sticks to it- it witnesses like a movie screen, allowing everything to pass through it but not sticking to anything.
   It's important to really play with this idea and test it out. One day when you are not feeling very well or don't like the feelings you are having, take a moment to reflect: is your mind really immersed in these emotions and unable to emerge from them, or is it only transmitting those emotions temporarily?  If the former were the case, how would mind know that we are 'in emotion'? Think of the analogy: if a window were completely covered with paint, it could not possibly allow other things to be seen through it, yet the window is not covered with paint at all. It simply transmits light in a transparent way, allowing things to be seen as they are before they slip away.

Leading and Submitting

I find an interesting conflict between feeling 'in charge' of one's life and decisions and submitting or even surrendering to the moment. Contemplative practices tend to focus around the latter, under the premise that there is so much rich experience already available to the present moment. Without an attitude of simply surrendering to the delight and treasures of the moment, we would end up missing so much of that richness. On the other hand, there is a certain value which comes from having a direction in life: taking a vow, doing something for the sake of applying oneself and accomplishing tasks, and benefiting society as a result. I somehow believe that both processes are necessary to a balanced life, but I am still not able to ascertain how to arrive at such a balance in life. Perhaps the problem is insoluble in that respect; there is never a complete and total balance in the end.
  Interestingly however, 'submission' is a word that one needs to be careful about, because the submission I am describing is not something that is against my wishes or will. Paradoxically, the only submission that is really of any value seems to be the one that one wholeheartedly chooses. Without the element of choice, one feels like a body that is just passively submitting to the wishes and wills of others, and this often leads to a kind of resentment and resistance. When submission is talked about in spiritual traditions, it seems to be the point where the self is fully resolved to such a focused point in time that it is finally willing to 'explode itself', a little bit like the concentrated energies that matter must have been like at around the time of the Big Bang. It is almost as if the self has become so focused into one squeezed point of resolution that it has no other choice but to go beyond itself. Huatou practice is, for me, an example of where the self is concentrated into a single passion to know the mind, and this provides an opportunity for the self to literally get out of its own way. Without the passionate doubt of this practice, the self is still a scattered series of impressions, and there is no existential question underlying it.
  I strongly feel that before there can be such an experience of surrendering, there has to be a validation of the experience of being 'as a self', because this is where one is finally resolved to treat the issues of life seriously and connect them into a single question. To submit to that question, one has to have a strong resolve to lead themselves to that point in time.

Honoring the Child Within

  I have often heard the expression, 'honoring the inner child', but one of the interesting things about spiritual practice is that it can often evoke feelings of helplessness, similar to what I have often felt when I was a very young child. Without the symbolic patterning of beliefs and thought systems to buffer us, meditative and spiritual practices might have a tendency to bring out the vulnerable aspects of one's being, often in a way that might even leave a person feeling unprepared. While some spiritual traditions might say that this vulnerability to suffering is a healthy part of spirituality, I sometimes wonder if it doesn't throw us back from time to time to the feelings of childhood, where  a lack of control or sense of control can be quite terrifying.
  Having alone time to understand one's feelings and to tap into the evoked sense of childhood seems an essential part of spiritual practice. Without the ability to self-soothe or reassure the child parts of oneself that things are okay, there can be times when the going is quite rough. I suppose that the general rule of thumb is to know that there are a great many aspects to one's being and personality, and meditative practice might have a tendency to stir up a great deal of emotions and mental states that are unexpected or unexplainable. It's also important to have a personal space and narrative, and not to get overwhelmed.
   For sure, I am definitely afraid of being swallowed up and not having the ability to be by myself to reflect on what I truly think and feel about things. I think that part of this comes from the childhood fear of not having one's own unique needs and wishes fulfilled or acknowledged by others, and not really being heard in any significant way. But if I myself have the time and space on my own to recognize my wishes or needs, I can at least provide myself the psychic space to acknowledge unmet needs and wishes, as well as to soothe the anxieties that I have around not being acknowledged for what I need in life.

Ordinary Mind

  Today, I was able to attend a very special event with Abbott Venerable Guo Dong from our Dharma Drum lineage, where he talked about using the ordinary mind to deal with extraordinary circumstances. At first, I wasn't too sure what ordinary mind means. When we refer to "ordinary", we might tend to think of it as something mundane, such as the mind that we use to process the five senses. This might be considered opposed to an extraordinary 'genius' mind that is capable of processing complex intellectual ideas, or even having super-sensory experiences. But in fact, this 'ordinary' mind refers to a mind that does not accord special significance or importance to any particular being or situation. Rather, it sees all beings with a spirit of equanimity, not preferring one person to another. Similarly, when encountering diverse situations, ordinary mind approaches the world without the attitude of getting ecstatic about some things and upset about others. This ordinary mind just approaches things in a spirit of knowing that they are impermanent and interconnected at the same time.
   I found that the Abbott's concept of ordinary mind is quite appealing and useful as well. All too often, people on a spiritual path tend to feel that they are inferior or do not have the same element of mind that other 'more seasoned' practitioners do. Hence, they will go around with this notion of trying to be something else or acquire a special state of mind, rather than starting with mind as the basis upon which all phenomena naturally tend to arise. It is as though a person needs to 'become' extraordinary in order to 'face' what is extraordinary. In fact, however, it is us who determine what is ordinary and extraordinary, based on the way we evaluate situations around us. Even though my work may seem stressful and overwhelming at times, there is a deeper sense that how I view it is based on my evaluation of the experience and my expectations around it. So far as I can drop expectations and attend to my present state of body and mind, then there is less pressure to face the extraordinary with anything but an ordinary mindset. In this way, I would say that a person can experience peaceful heart and mind without exaggerating the conditions.

How Does One Feel Grateful?

 During the group study tonight, I could not help but feel a kind of deep gratitude, which I have often communicated in my previous blog entries. Every time I have this kind of rare experience, I want to somehow chronicle the emotion of gratitude, as if to try to get a better sense of how it naturally arises. But it's funny how the meaning of gratitude actually comes from 'gratias' which means 'free' or given by grace. In that sense, it may be futile to try to grasp onto something that is always and everywhere freely given. So how can one describe gratitude except as a letting go of sorts?
   I think that for me the letting go comes mainly from the belief that I don't 'belong' unless I am finding approval from others. Sometimes, when I let go of that need to belong in this way, I can find a deeper belonging that is freely given; it doesn't depend on specific signs of approval from others but is rather a much more natural feeling. If I were to describe it in a more detailed sense, it would be that I am fully trusting that the groups around me will embrace me, and I am not trying to protect myself. I am just enjoying the sense of already belonging which comes from a deep trust in the interconnection of all beings.
     It's hard to arrive at this kind of free gratitude, but I find it seems easier when the concepts are being discussed, especially in the Chan study group. I would best describe this as a kind of playful exploration, while wrestling with how to apply these principles to daily life. In a sense, even though there is much intellectual discussion, the group goes beyond this by relating their own experiences of what the concepts mean to them. This kind of conversing and discussion seems to be a great way to embody the practice in clear and practical ways.

Letting Things Speak For Themselves

  During the guided meditation tonight, I experienced what it was like to just walk in the walking meditation. "Just walk": there is nothing special about it, and there is nothing that profound in it either. The action speaks for itself, and simply requires little qualification or explanation. Why complicate the matter? Just embody it as it is, and one will fully understand and appreciate how it is for them.
   On the other hand, what normally happens in our lives is that we complicate processes by comparing one thing to another. We even have metrics which describe how many calories a person burns by walking a certain pace, in a certain manner, and a certain distance along the way. In this regard, things become comparable and measurable, to the point where a person focuses more on the so-called measures than the actual discovery of doing. No sooner does this happen than a person will start comparing how they do it to someone else, and this goes on ad infinitum, until the very act of walking itself becomes a sort of insitution.
   When we do the walking meditation in our group practice, there is simply no presumption as to what it's supposed to mean or supposed to do. This is the joy the comes from discovering the walking from one moment to the next. It speaks for itself, and there is no need to say how to 'walk well' as opposed to walking poorly. In this way, the walking becomes a teaching and learning moment that does not involve comparisons, judgments or rules. These kinds of moments of 'just doing' might teach people to trust their minds rather than relying on comparisons or judgments to find their way.

Future Worries

 Sometimes, it's very easy to get caught up in the future, because so much of the future seems to revolve around completing what doesn't feel finished, and even escaping from what is felt as a waste of time and regrets. What appears to be a striving for some future accomplishment is often a disguise for a fleeing from what is felt to be a waste of the past life. In this book, Dark Nights of the Soul, Thomas Moore suggests that looking at the so-called 'wastes' in life can be a profound experience in looking at the general emptiness of the human condition. He remarks:


When thoughts come to you deep in your dark night--that your life hasn't amounted to anything, that you've wasted a lot of time, or that you aren't as good as some friend or celebrity, thoughts of regret, bitterness and self-loathing--you might consider the necessity of these annoying preoccupations. They don't literally make you garbage, they merely allow you to see this all-important emptiness in your accomplishments. (p.84)


I think the key point is when the futility of dreams can open up to a sense of shared community or humanity, but only if a person is really willing to surrender these dreams or transform them into something that is shared. It's only then that the dreams stop crushing a person with perfectionist standards and expectations. This is a very tricky point which I would like to articulate by way of example.


When I first started to practice meditation in 2006 and 2007, I was definitely looking toward a particular kind of experience--something peaceful and smooth. I certainly did experience those moments, but there are just as many times in meditation where I experience quite the opposite, and it becomes very hard to stay on the method. What does one make of it? If I am only sticking to the idea that meditation is supposed to make my life seamless and smooth, then for sure it's a failure. But on the other hand, the process of meditation helps people to see that nothing lasts. In a cushion or in a single spot, there is no lasting thing whatsoever, and thoughts are bound to come and go even about the process itself.


When I go to group practices nowadays, I am much more inclined to feel that it's for the benefit of others that I might do so, but there isn't even a particular goal I have in mind. I feel a little bit like the Overlords from Arthur C. Clarke's book Childhood's End, who are these beings that acts as gatekeepers for others to evolve, but themselves only stop at a certain point and are unable to go forward. Perhaps the point is not to try to find a way to 'go forward' but rather to let go of the need, or the striving, to do so, and to realize that it's precisely the renunciation of striving that opens us up to the world itself.


Moore, Thomas (2004). Dark Nights of the Soul. Gotham Books


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Love of the spirit

  I had a chance to look at a biography of Lisa Lopes, "The Last Days of Left Eye", directed by Laurin Lazin. Lopes was a music artist who had tragically died in a car accident at the age of 30 in 2002, in the Honduras. Lisa was one of the members of the musical band TLC, which had been quite popular when I was a teenager, and her nickname was "Left Eye" Lopes because someone had once remarked that her left eye was very beautiful. In fact, she started to even wear a condom on one of her eyes, to promote safe sex...so the nickname "stuck", needless to say!
    Recently, I had been thinking a lot about how she was making the headlines throughout the 90s, and how she had struggled to find meaning in her life, in spite of the troubles she was facing, including alcoholism, an emotionally abusive relationship, and falling out with her fellow band-mates. In this documentary, much of which Lisa filmed herself, she chronicles the ways in which she tries to overcome her difficulties through a seclusion and a kind of self-imposed retreat. Lisa felt that she was somehow haunted by a spirit, who she feels had even wanted to take her life. Yet she also developed interesting ideas about the spirit, which were inspired by her investigations into yoga, naturo-pathic medicine and numerology. One of the things she mentions toward the end of this documentary is that she doesn't believe in death; rather, she believes in the recycling of the elements in the universe. One of the most poignant things she says is that we are what we believe in, and that who we are is continually cycled into the cycle of life. She also mentioned that struggle is often a precursor to growth, and I came out of this movie feeling that she must have a very 'old soul', as someone who has gone through great amount of trial and pain to achieve a subtle and very moving spiritual vision. Could it be that all of her creative endeavors were precursors to this realization?
   It's strange that sometimes the darkest and most extreme forays can lead to transformation, but in a way,there is something interesting about Lisa's life. Part of it seems to be about trial through love and hate. At one point in the documentary, she describes how hate comes with the love of her band-mates, and I sense that this gave her the understanding to know that hate is not real--it is just the obverse of a loving bond, a kind of 'flip side' to it. A person often has to go through a lot of extreme ups and downs before they start to see them equally and provide a coherent narrative about them, rather than being attached to the up-side of things.
    Lopes' movie allows me to feel that sometimes the spirit can take people to scary and dark places, but that doesn't mean that the spiritual life has abandoned them. Often, as in the case of Lisa herself, periods of doubt and seclusion can often spark places for renewal and unexpected discoveries.

Being More Patient

I was reflecting late tonight about how easily I am lead to feel impatient when things don't go my way or easily for me. I think this is important to reflect, because it's a sign of ego. This especially happens when an unpleasant or disconnecting feeling arises in me, and I am not able to process it fully. But when I think about it, from a Buddhist perspective, giving into these kinds of feelings is not correct practice, and it only solidifies the sense of a narrow self that is always needing to feel in control of things. What would it be like for me to become absorbed in the method of practice, to the point where I no longer felt the need to be in control, but could just flow with the natural course of events? I think this is one of the most laudable goals there is in spiritual practice, as well as in the teachings of Stoic philosophers, who agreed that according with nature is the goal of human life.\
  Between emotion and reason, what should prevail here? Reason is the tool that can allow a person to practice more patience. For example, if I use my reasoning to reflect on why I am feeling a certain way, I can also realize that identifying too much with that emotion only sends me into more isolation. In fact, the lack of a reasonable reflection makes me more prone to wanting more and more comfortable experiences. But we all know that life is hardly going to be comfortable most of the time, and one must exert their wholehearted effort into everything. The desire for comfort and happiness is only temporary, and it can lead to all sorts of addictive attachments. That's why it's important to look at all states of mind with equanimity and then use one's reason to solve problems, rather than making decisions only based on subjective emotions. Well. I suppose all of this is the key to being patient, and it's always worth a try!

Not Attaching to Feelings

  From a Buddhist perspective, what do we do with feelings? I have read many accounts of this matter, and I am trying to articulate for myself what these perspectives mean. I think at the end of the day, it's important not to attach to feelings, but to see them more as useful information that might help in making a decision about something. If I attach to feelings and think of them as myself, I tend to shut out other conditions or perspectives that go into the making of the situation. Therefore, it's not useful for me to only base a decision exclusively or primarily on emotions that are fleeting and therefore impermanent.
   Another perspective I have been reading lately is that feelings often only represent one person's subjective experience. While they sometimes might also be an example of others' perspectives as well, it more often than not does not represent anyone else. For this reason, I find that it's best not to give into one particular feeling, but consider a more objective, multifaceted approach to the situation. This is in line with the Buddhist idea that there are simply no permanent states of being; they are rather always fleeting and tend to come and go. If I don't link these feelings to any particular story or narrative, I can just view their raw energy and allow them to emerge and pass away.
    It's most important that, from this perspective, the individual emotions are not as important as harmonizing with the totality of people and all beings. If I view it from this angle, only my own emotions can hurt me, and it's not possible for these emotions to do so if I am considering the totality of everyone and all sentient beings. This is a hard perspective to achieve, but I think that's the purpose of practicing meditation and reading spiritual writings.

Dedication of Merits

 I am wondering tonight, can dedicating merit really make a connection with others? I have been reciting transfer of merit after the group meditation sessions, and the thought came to my mind tonight that often reciting to all sentient beings can seem too abstract. I have even gone so far as to ask the participants to perhaps consider transferring merit to a specific person. I am not sure if it works, but I often feel that the point of practice is to put things deeply into heart. Otherwise, it only becomes a kind of ritual that is devoid of a felt meaning or sense.
   If a person cannot see themselves as worthy of the deepest love and understanding, unconditionally, would this not affect one's dedication? At times, yes, because the heart hasn't allowed itself to connect to the deepest realities of suffering and the human life. I myself have sometimes, in my tired moments, thought of life as just something to get through; I am not aware of the suffering that the mind has when it is looking for one thing and rejecting other things. I am just jumping to the next thing, not able to observe the suffering of this present existence.There is such a natural suffering in the mind that to be aware of it is to know natural compassion first-hand.
   If one were to see a creature struggling in a deep pond, naturally, a compassion arises. But can we also see that we are all creatures struggling, if not drowning, in the deepest lakes of suffering? Even when we feel pleasure, our whole mind no sooner becomes consumed in trying to keep that pleasurable experience, as though we had a precious jewel and we were protecting it against all the elements around us. To really stop to recognize this is to tap into something very heartfelt. It can also help us appreciate each other, as fellow swimmers, just trying in our own way to make it through the ocean.

Importance of Faith in Process

I was reflecting today after meditation how important it is not to see life as a punishment/reward system, but more as a kind of journey where one can look back from a certain vantage point and see why things have happened as they had. This doesn't mean that one should just be unconscious, but on the contrary, it suggests the need to always be alert for how life unfolds and what it might be saying.
   There are two extremes that one can take in this context. One is simply not to care at all, and just see life from moment to moment, under the idea that 'we will die anyway'. Another extreme is to think that everything is terribly 'bad' or portends something ominous, especially when one is disappointed in something. Without a basic trust that life has these self-contained reasons for being as it is, it is sometimes impossible to see how it can possibly be coherent. I think of the example of a tree. When taken as a tiny seed or a branch, the tree might look like an agglomeration of cells, with no particular reason to it. A person might even look at the tree from a vast context of comparing it to the other matter in the universe, then concluding that the tree is really quite finite and might not even have a purpose after all in the grand cosmic scheme. But when taken as a self-contained living being with a particular process of maturity, the tree starts to have its own unique bearing and meaning, which cannot be replicated or imitated by anything else. The tree basically has 'its own reasons' for being what it is, which cannot be repeated by anything else.
   This faith is something that preserves a process of being something in a particular localized way, rather than going the extremes of negation or trying to be 'everything'. Without this faith that all living beings have a unique story and meaning, it is very hard to pursue one's dreams and hopes, because one has either lost hope altogether or gone the other extreme of trying to pursue a higher ideal that is beyond one's lived experience. I would have to say that soul is this middle space where one can see the unfolding meaning in the heartfelt pursuits of daily life.