Rules and How to Use Them

 Reading about the early accounts of how bhikkhus (monastics) resolved disputes in the Buddhist sangha, I am lead to reflect on the dialectic relationship between different parts of a community. It's interesting to me to reflect that 'rules' don't just get written down in books and thus become the automatic standard. Even though the early monastics had scriptural authority of the Buddha's teachings and were often well versed and practiced in the principles of dhamma, they still had to meet from time to time in communal groupings to discuss and lay out specific problems, and how the scriptures can be applied to deal with the problem. At times, disputes between the monks would become quite contentious, because not all the monastics could agree on how to apply buddhadharma to the point where majority rule would have to be resorted to. At still other times, the method of 'covering over with grass' had to be used: that is, burying the problem so that the monastics could get on with their lives and stop fighting with each other.
   In a way, it doesn't surprise me that this would happen, because again, rules are defined hermeneutically, in discussion with different parts in a whole. The university is one example of a place where there are rules (such as how to complete a degree, what qualifies as a good research, etc.) but there are different stakeholders who relate to these rules in different ways. Those who have more power and experience in adjudicating the rules also have a responsibility to inform those coming into the institutions for the first time. But all the mutual parties are equally responsible for making the educational experience significant and meaningful. If I am on one side of the spectrum and am not aware of the experience of the others who might have less power or voice, then I will miss out on a rich opportunity to see the operating principles and ethics of an organization in a different light. I also miss out on the role of relationships in refining how we apply standards.
   Sometimes, I think the best analogy when it comes to conflict in groups is that of 'pieces in a puzzle'. In order for the puzzle to complete itself, the pieces need to be known for what they are and come together to make that whole picture. Without the sense of things coming together to make a whole, there is a tendency to prescribe rules, without knowing who is looking at the rule, from what angle, and what limitations one may have in knowing how to apply them with wisdom and sensitivity.

The Limits of Symbolic Thinking

 Roberto Assagioli's theory of psychosynthesis was conceived a little bit after Freud, as the latter was a disciple of Freud and Jung at one time. Where he departs from both his contemporaries lies in the fact that Assagioli uses active visualization and other techniques to stimulate the integration of personalities in one framework, as well as to go beyond personality altogether through spiritual awakening.  Assagioli has many helpful maps of what this connection between consciousness, the unconscious, the super-conscious and the ego look like when interacting together.
   What I am learning from Jean Hardy's book Psychology with a Soul is how much Assagioli was fascinated by symbolic representations of the soul, such as through dream analysis and art, and yet how reluctant he was to promote a passive understanding of the unconscious. As Hardy remarks, "The point of therapy is not only that the person should be able to be more fully himself or herself, but that the energy released and the sense of purpose achieved should be grounded by action, positive action, in the world." (p.63) The point here is to say that the 'energy' released in therapy is not meant to be simply admired, the way one looks at a mirror and admires one's figure, smile, and so on. More so, the idea of working with symbols is to create more  meaningful, authentic connections to the world and to even become more part of one's lived experience rather than detaching into an abstract notion of it.
   I find this point to be rather significant when it comes to the practice of understanding symbolism in daily life. At one time, I used to believe that the world around me could be exclusively read through the framework of a set of symbolic meanings: for example, Jung's archetypes or Freud's drives. Recently, I have found this way of looking at things to be problematic, in part because it may potentially encourage a kind of passivity in the face of life situations which Assagioli cautions. The other reason is that it tends to turn things into rather generic stereotypes. Anyone observing the world closely will recognize that there is hardly any form which conforms precisely to the patterns we might symbolically read into it. Part of the issue is about the ceaseless change of things: since everything interconnects in some way, there is hardly a single element that behaves according to a predefined form. It would be like expecting a bar of soap to look and smell soapy even when it is thrown into muddy water.
    The other aspect is that I can't help but wonder if perhaps I relate differently now to the term 'projection' than I did when I was in my teenage years. As a teenager of 17, I had devoured Freud's Interpretation of Dreams, even accepting as fact that dreams could be scientifically studied as manifestations of fixed or discreet symbolic elements and units of meaning. At that time, being able to understand my experiences in terms of my projections was a very fun exercise, though I wasn't so much aware of how isolating it was at the time. In fact, while it was fun to discern 'grand meanings' in the smallest details of frustration, depression, etc., this kind of symbolic exploration had the unexpected side effect of not allowing me to just inhabit the world without any symbolic understanding of it. It was only later when I started to meditate that I could see that I was capable of directly appreciating the world without so much symbolic meaning-making.
   I think that nowadays, I don't see projection in the positive and fun way that I did in my teenage years. I tend nowadays to feel that projections need to be seen through rather than 'enjoyed' as a kind of fun game or way of looking at the world through special glasses. I also see the suffering that can arise when a person confused their symbolic workings of life with the lived experience itself, which is always unpredictable. While I think that the guided visualizations and meaning explorations developed by Assagioli would be interesting for teachers in their self-discovery and personal development, I also share Assagioli's concern not to turn it into an intellectual game. All the meaning making, at the end of the day, is to allow people to integrate more fully into the world of differences and others.

Hardy, Jean. (1987). Psychology with a Soul: Psychosynthesis in Evolutionary Context. London: Arkana.

"Islands Onto Themselves"

 In the Cakavattisahanda Sutta, Buddha is addressing monks to be islands onto themselves, before he launches into a larger discussion on the ideal ruler or monarch. This sutra is very beautiful not only because it talks about the proper social roles of monastics and monarchs alike, but also because it talks about the them of self-governance, a kind of self-discipline which is based on turning inward rather than being propelled by the exigencies of the moment. 
   Although modern Western society does not appear to have a close connection of religious figures (such as monastics) and political leaders, there is certainly a tension between belonging within society and wanting to turn inward to see beyond it. During our group discussion after the meditation practice tonight, one participant used Facebook as an example of what modern life can often look like when one looks to images to define who they are. Facebook seems engineered to make people feel genuinely liked and attended to, even when getting attention often takes the form of a single click, emotional reaction, or 'like'. In a sense, this kind of interface gives the illusion that people can easily inspire like in others, when in fact it's the technology itself that makes 'liking' something much more disposable than in face-to-face connections. Think of it this way: when is the last time you have ever heard someone say that they like something about someone else, in person? Doing so requires a kind of vulnerability that often doesn't take place in social contexts, unless there is an established bond or understanding between people. On the other hand, the technologies of social media often make it deceptively easy to like something (or press 'like') even though the medium itself isn't transparent about the degree of liking that a person has for something.
    As one of the participants in the group meditation observed, it's only when a person can step outside the framework of social media that one gets a real understand of what it means to like one's life or to be content with it. Meditation is certainly one good way to settle the mind and allow things to be more clearly seen. But there are other social rituals, such as walking alone or going into a forest or secluded area, that can sometimes give people opportunities to reflect inward, rather than being carried away by the likes and dislikes of others.

Mystery as a Form of Compassion

Today, during the group meditation practice, I used huatou method in the most relaxed way possible: seeing every moment as an eternal question which can never quite be resolve through any thought. I felt a sense of wonder and calm around me which I cannot quite explain, and my body became very light. The people around me suddenly seemed to be fragile, and I dedicated that moment to helping all sentient beings see this beautiful mystery in daily life.
   Is mystery a form of compassion? Actually, the sentence is quite silly, but I thought I would try it out. I think that if we imagine a world where everything is already known and 'finished', we would see that mystery is the ultimate compassion. Without the sense of mystery and wonder, things would already be figured out and people would only be able to occupy fixed stations in life. Such a world would have no sense of creation or newness. In a sense, cultivation of mystery is perhaps the most compassionate gift, and many contemplative practices offer that gift of endless discovery: what is this world, who is this 'me' and am I in this body?

Enjoying Confusion

One of the errors that I have noticed in my personal meditation practice occurs when I make meaning or a story around 'confusion' or 'the babbling noise of the mind', aka. wandering thoughts. Is there anything inherently bad about wandering thoughts that we would want to wipe them out altogether? I think what happens for me is that I tack on many storylines about wandering thoughts (I have them because I am a bad practitioner, I am lazy, etc.) and these storylines only worsen the state and power of those thoughts.
   Abiding in thoughts means exactly that: a person just 'swims' in them. This is quite different from being averse to wandering thoughts. When I am averse to anything, I am giving it a power and existence that it often does not warrant. A key example might be thoughts about the future. I might worry a great deal about the future, never realizing that this 'future' is only a thought that has arisen and fallen away. But what am I really reacting to? A real 'future' that is 'out there' or is it just a past thought?
  It's helpful to perhaps read a lot of 19th century writers like William James and Virginia Woolf, around what they referred to as stream-of-consciousness. By comparing consciousness to a stream, both writers have suggested that thoughts really lack a permanence or an ability to 'stick' to the world. It seems that this is much easier to realize when one is not entrenched in notions of the self that often arise when one has distinct social roles. But still, are any of these social roles permanent or enduring? Why should I assign 'order' to one set of thoughts and 'chaos' to another, when in fact they are all parts of a never ending stream of thought? As long as I differentiate the orderly from the chaotic thoughts, I am bound to create a kind of sense of self that moves toward the order and away from the chaos. But again, is there any difference between ordered and chaotic thinking? If not, why not enjoy the confusing cascade of these thoughts and not get so compelled by them?

Connecting to Method

One of the most interesting things I learned during the retreat this weekend was related to how one connects to the method of meditation practice. Guo Gu Pusa remarked that the way one connects with method is a kind of reflection of how one treats self and others. I was quite moved by this statement, and I wondered, is it possible that indeed, working on one's meditation method is itself a way to work on one's interactions with self and others?
  How I am relating to this statement is quite simple, and that is: the more a person sits down and engages in one sense object or question, etc., the more they can see their own habit tendencies: the tendency to get drowsy, to think that meditation is a chore, to be bored, to get frustrated when they sense they are going nowhere, etc. And as GuoGu Pusa had suggested, these very things are not coming from the method itself but from one's mind. As far as I am not attaching to these states of mind and don't give up on the process, I will find that my relationship to the method grows, because I am no longer allowing these attached or deluded ideas to get in the way of my connection to the method. On the other hand, if I start to take the thoughts and emotions too seriously and assume that they are permanent 'obstacles', then everything about this process of relating will seem heavy and frustrating. Not only that, but it's in the process of reifying these emotions and thoughts that the self starts to appear, and that is also a reification of a kind of fictional subject that stands alone against the world.
    What happens when I allow the connection with the method to grow on me, and not to be fooled by wandering thoughts? It seems that when the connection is unobstructed, love and appreciation can naturally arise, no matter what the situation happens to be. This applies to all parts of life, as GuoGu had mentioned. How I see myself, others and the world in general tends to be colored by the way I see them as fixed entities that are unchanging, rather than as part of a changing universe in flux. But what if I let go of the categories and just lived with the method and beheld the mystery and wonder of it? Would this sense of mystery and wonder not enliven all my relations with sentient beings?

"Method, Attitude, Skill"

I want to write down a few notes about the 1 day meditation retreat with GuoGu Pusa. Although I consider this to be a kind of retreat reflection, I can't say that it recorded verbatim everything that was taught. I intend this mainly as a way of helping me learn (and potentially embody) what I heard today, as well as spread it to anyone who might benefit from it.
   GuoGu taught three main principles of meditation: namely, method, attitude and skill. By "method", GuoGu was referring to a clear understanding of one's own method and how it's used from moment to moment. Unless a person has a specific meditation practice that they have been given clear instructions about, their sitting will mostly be informed by habit tendencies, particularly 'like' and 'dislike', craving and aversion. "Attitude" refers to how we orient to our method. This one really stuck out for me, because I hardly have given much thought to what kind of attitude I should take toward huatou practice. While there have been times when I take a kind of tense, almost confrontational approach to 'wanting to know the answer' to huatou, GuoGu was really encouraging us to look at the method with a kind of gentle love and compassion: not expecting any result from the method, and not being too tense or tight about it. However, to qualify this statement, GuoGu referred to our love of the method not in terms of a desire, but in terms of contentment. What I understand from this is: regardless of what a method 'does' or 'does not do' for me, I am happy with the way it is, and I cultivate not wanting more or less from it. In the case of huatou method, this might involve being more open to the mystery of the huatou, knowing that there is no tangible answer to it, but that it's a kind of existential position (or lack thereof) that needs to be felt entirely. I sometimes fall into the trap of wanting to make a 'deal' with the method: I will stick to you, as long as I have the experience I am looking for. But as GuoGu reminded us today, this is just another form of attachment or greed, and this is the kind of thinking one needs to leave behind on the retreat.
    The last part that GuoGu mentioned, skill, is interesting in that it relates to how to use the method at certain specific times in one's life. If I am not skilful enough in my practice and method, I might end up practicing too tensely or not relaxing enough, while at other times I can use more focus.
   As for relaxation: well, I do have a lot to learn from that. GuoGu mentioned a practitioner who arches eyebrows and rolls his eyes upward, showing that his eyes are completely tense--and I have to say, that describes me perfectly, because I do that a lot in meditation. After GuoGu mentioned it (to my chagrin), I noticed it more and stopped doing it in the subsequent sittings, or at least did it less. I have to say that I haven't yet completely relaxed in meditation, and for the most part it's due to anatomical issues related to my low back in particular. What helps to mitigate these behaviors is that I focus less on the body as an obstacle, and more on the body as part of an unfolding mystery that can't be labelled.  A lot of this also has to do with letting go of the fear of bodily pain, without labeling it as pain.

Coping with Conditions

During the Dharma talk tonight, GuoGu Pusa had talked about 4 distinct steps to deal with conditions. The first step is to recognize the conditions for what they are; the second, to adapt to the conditions; the third is to wait; and the fourth is to create. I quite enjoyed listening to this talk and how it was applied to the situation of an old age home. But I have to wonder, what are the complex relationships that determine when to approach one of these steps or the other?
  I guess what I am asking is, when to 'create' and when to 'wait'? Is this a linear relationship between one step and the other? I have a sense that these steps aren't necessarily in any clearly defined pattern or order. For example, I might found a special business (creation), then recognize later on that I lack the skills and resources to follow through on it (recognition), which in turn forces me to adapt to the new knowledge that I have (adaptation), or wait for new opportunities to arise (wait). It makes me wonder, based on this example, is there any reason why 'creation' comes last in the fourfold pattern of looking at conditions?
  One of the typical success patterns is that of the hero quest, and I found that this fourfold pattern seems to match a heroic pattern or model. Recognition represents the hero coming to terms with a problem and having to embark on a quest to solve the problem. Adaptation seems to refer to the complex learning process or initiation that the hero goes through before she or he can resolve the problem that has been recognized. Waiting is the period of crisis: a time when progress is slow and the hero has to go through many setbacks before a goal is achieved. Creation is the new contribution that the hero makes to the society based on her or his success.
   I may have stretched things a bit with this example, but the point is that it's tempting to turn this fourfold way of looking at conditions into a story. In fact, GuoGu Pusa warned his audience of how easy it is to get caught up in one's stories, and these stories form a sort of thought prison fashioned by the mind. It's only when I see the four steps as part of a never-ending cycle of impermanence that I can be calm and collected, not defining my success only according to what I create in life, but rather seeing that every step in this process has its own legitimacy and its own time for existing. In fact, they are all non-abiding and empty.

Interacting in Dreams

 A Chan practitioner was telling me the other day that she hardly gets angry with others, because she is aware that everyone is just interacting in their own dream with others, and thus people are only responding to the cause and conditions that came before. It has taken me a while to sort out the implications of this perspective, but I think that when I come to know that others are seeing their own ideas, I no longer take such ideas to be me. On the other hand, if I think that the person's ideas relate to a self, I will feel angry because I will want to control the other person's idea. In fact, nobody wants to be 'locked' in the mind of someone else.
  Years ago, I read a beautiful little book by R.D. Laing called Self and Others, and its opening vignette describes how two people may not interact with each other at all, but are often interacting only with the image they have of others as well as how they think they look in the other person's eyes. This kind of movie just goes on and on infinitely, with neither person realizing that they are interacting with the inner ideas they ingest about a person, but not the true person. The book uses a quote from Confucius, something to the effect of "If the way out is through the door, why do so few people take it?" Why indeed? Perhaps because the fantasies are so compelling that one wants so badly for them to be real, only to find later that the fantasies have congealed into nightmares based on misplaced ideals.

The Burden of the Body

     During the group practice tonight, we listened to Master Sheng Yen's talk where he provided some guidance on how to free oneself from the physical attachments of the body and form. The way I understand the teaching is that the body is only seen as a burden when we are sitting, because at that time, there is nothing distracting oneself from the pain. I tend to think that seeing the body as a "burden" would be a kind of suffering of sorts, but now I realize that it's not so much the sensations themselves that are burdensome but, more so, the sense of self that attaches to those sensations. As Master Sheng Yen pointed out, even with something as simple as the fragrance of coffee, there is a subtle sense of 'I" when the smell hits the nostrils. But if I recognize that there is no "I" in the experience and only the drifting smells of the coffee, I no longer create a subject and object around it.  
      Seeing as this happens, however, I will start to see that even the sense of the body is a kind of burden because it always seems so solid and real to me. I have to admit that indeed, I experience plenty of these burdens during sitting. The difference between now and before, however is that, whereas before I attributed the pains to something that is 'physical' and thus unchangeable, nowadays I am inclined to see pain as a mental habit. But more importantly, I don't see pain as an impediment to practice anymore. It's just a phenomena, and for this reason, my 'processing' of the pain has no bearing on the practice. I can be pain sensitive and still practice my method. I guess I am saying that I no longer measure myself according to how well I can bear pain, because I know that this too is a self-referential idea, and it's not necessary to cling to this idea during practice.

What I am Learning from Charlotte's Web

 E.B White's Charlotte's Web is not a book that I have ever read when I was a kid, even though it's one of the most visible ones out there. I have nearly always found the cover of the book quite charming, but somehow I never got to read it, and I was even under the misunderstanding that Charlotte is the girl, when in fact she is the spider! Well, having to design a lesson plan for it for Grade 2, now I can see its charms.
   One of the interesting aspects of this book is that it's about a pig named Wilbur, who survives many attempts on his life. First is Fern's father, who wants to butcher him at the beginning of the book because he is a 'runt' who is not expected to be very useful for the farm, much less as a livestock. When Fern takes pity on him and wants to keep him, the father relents and allows Wilbur to be sold to a neighbor's farm for a low price. But throughout, we hear that there are plans for this pig to be killed at the end of the year. Charlotte, the spider, decides to figure out a way to save Wilbur. Even though in the beginning she has no idea how to do so, it's her persistence and ability to spin miraculous 'words' on webs that propels Wilbur to a kind of celebrity status. He is suddenly valued when Charlotte starts to put messages on her web that relate to him and put him in a positive light.
   I am not too sure at this point what this web symbolizes. Part of me thinks it's about art, and how we can spin stories to make life more bearable, and this is how we are able to survive life and death. Paradoxically, however, the 'web' is stationary, and unlike with the case of those people who walk up and down the bridge to make a living, the web has no place it needs to go. The web, in fact, could be said to be the essential mind itself. But my first guess is that the web represents our ability to value others by naming them. When I give someone a name, I am making that person relatable to other beings and showing the way for others to appreciate that person and receive them in a positive way. Names are so important, and there is even as sense that Charlotte's web could be about the interconnected webs that connect people and all beings.
   The magic of Charlotte's Web is that nothing terribly tragic happens in it. It's just about these animals getting together to solve the problems of life, in a spirit of good faith and good will. I can see why this book is a classic. I want to be able to teach contemplative themes through this book, and it seems to be a good springboard for children to create compassionate narratives and spin their own webs.

Leadership and Buddhism

 Reading the Cakkavattisihananda Sutta, I am reminded that leadership as a topic is not ignored in Buddhism. There is a tendency to think that Buddhism does not intersect politics, and to leave it at that, yet the Buddha did have a lot to say about the role of monarchs and leaders in general. The sutra I just referred to uses a term known as "chakravartin", which literally means a 'wheel turning' ruler or someone who turns the wheel. Yet, what does 'turning the Dharma wheel' actually mean? From my understanding, it means to act and lead in accordance with the principles, precepts and edicts of Buddhadharma, such as the 12 links of conditioned arising, 4 Noble truths, and 10 precepts. This also represents the individual 'spokes' on the Dharma wheel, all of which require each other to maintain the circle.
   The Cakkavattisihananda Sutta also includes ideas about what happens  when monarchs fail to follow the laws of Dharma, and use their own judgments and opinions to rule the state. In one example, the king is said to follow the rule to protect all his subjects, yet he overlooks the edict against theft. The result is having to punish thieves, which in turn leads to people imitating the violence of the king and killing each other as a result. The chain of misdeeds continues downward, to the point where the entire moral state degenerates. It's evident to me that this 'slipping' of the Dharma wheel represents the suffering that arises when rulers choose to overlook the Dharma in favor of their own judgments, which are often limited by experience and not informed by principles.
   All of this sounds very abstract, but there's a lot to say about leaders here. For one, a good leader does not just take his own decision into account, but needs to study ways outside of himself to understand the nature of the universe. I almost think of this as similar to the idea that there is a 'science' which governs how rulers succeed. Rather than just going according to reason or their own self-referential opinions, leaders need to study the patterns of karma, cause/condition and arising of various afflictive states, before they can properly care for their people and even advise the spiritual practitioners (sramanas, ascetics, Brahmins etc.) in their midst.
   Another aspect that interests me is that this sutra begins and ends with the Buddha instructing his monastic disciples to be 'islands onto themselves.' What's the significance of this framing, and why does the Buddha use a monarch (of all people) to demonstrate this principle? I think that the text is suggesting that the highest leader is one who, rather than looking outside of her or himself to understand the needs of her or his people, is ruling according to principles which can only be known through an inner cultivation. In a sense, this is similar to a Platonic idea of the charioteer (which is a parallel image common to both this sutta and The Republic), where the latter represents human inclinations, instincts, and so on, and the charioteer represents the mind, or in some cases, reasoning.The charioteer effectively learns to reign in the wild energies of the unruly horses, in order to be the master of the situation and her or himself. Similarly, perhaps the Cakkavattisihananda Sutta is similarly suggesting that leaders learn to be sufficient unto themselves, not by exerting their own opinions but by becoming self-made students of an eternal law or rhythm in nature. The notion of a leader as a 'student' of life and Dharma is perhaps a useful bridging metaphor between leaders as strict autocrats and the idea that leaders should give into every whim of the people.

Discovering Focus

Focus seems to come not only from concentrating on a single object for a long time. In fact, more often, I experience focus in the opposite way, as a kind of 'falling into line' with something which comes from letting go of distractions. Now, what's the difference between these two views about focus? The first view suggests that focus is like a narrow laser beam of light that is generated through an intense, concentrated effort of the mind. In other words, focus is based on will power and force. The second view of focus, however, suggests that it is something that is almost discovered: as though it was always there, latent within us, if only we could settle down and let go of our desires to be elsewhere.
   Interestingly, it seems that focus can often come through acts of grace, not necessarily through personal will power (although the latter plays a big part in sustaining focus). By "grace", I am referring to an event where the mind suddenly drops its tendency to distract itself endlessly, and finally falls into what needs to happen in the moment. It's hard to achieve this kind of focus unless one goes through a kind of difficulty which seems insurmountable at first, but ends up being the only route up the hill. Kafka, I believe, must have had a sense of what it means when he was writing his major works, because his characters often continue to try to find light of truth even in the depths of their confusion or despair. The kind of focus we see in these characters is coming from the other side of hope: when I can't go on but must go on (to quote Beckett), I find that there is something that allows me to always go on, regardless of where my will happens to be in the moment. But this 'something' is indefinable, and it is so rarely seen until the will exhausts itself or finds itself in the deepest paradox of not knowing where to go or who it is, much less what it should be doing.

Heavy Karma

 Is karma, I wonder, anything like the sense of gravity? I remember an analogy that Master Sheng Yen used to describe the doubt sensation: a big doubt is like a big iron ball that immediately pierces through a paper bag upon being dropped through it. A small doubt, on the other hand, is like a small pebble which requires more impact to be so powerful. The same can be said for karma: karma may not ripen overnight but eventually the conditions arise where one is bound to be impacted from it.And I supposed that "Heavy" and "Light" are pretty good analogies for karma, because they describe the sense of karma as sinking the body into a more difficult habitus. It's like the difference between travelling light and carrying very heavy accumulated luggage from past habits and attachments. Of course, the less one is able to let go of those attachments, the heavier and more burdened the body and mind will feel.
   Health is a very good example: people who don't take care of their health will eventually suffer consequences, even if not in the present or immediate future. I read this article which states that by the time a person feels the symptoms of a disease, that disease is already well on the most prominent stage, and there is no turning back from experiencing its effects. This is because at that point, the illness is manifesting as a result of many interlocking, accumulating conditions from the past, and it's only now that there is a tipping point and the karma has turned into actions that are visible and sensed. At that point, it's often not easy to get away from feeling the full impact, and one can only ride it out as best they can.
   Again, I go back to some Buddhist teachings which suggest that the challenging events of life might be reasons for rejoicing, precisely because they are ways to pay back a heavy debt from the past. However, it's also important to maintain calmness so that one doesn't generate new karma.

Turning the Wheel

 I was reading this morning about the concept of a "wheel turning" king, which is talked about in the early Buddhist scriptures. If my understanding is correct, the concept of a wheel turning king seems to be an interesting compromise. On the one hand, it's a person with some degree of spiritual authority who can give advice on matters and is said to conquer many kingdoms peacefully, rather than by might or force. This model would have had a strongly positive effect on kings around Buddha's time, because it encourages the king to expand the kingdom through accommodation rather than through violence. But on the other hand, the wheel represents the laws of karma, which are actually not under anyone's power whatsoever: they are considered laws of the universe, of sorts. In this way, the dharma-turning wheel king represents an impersonal law that cannot be contained in one king, and thus must be followed by everyone. This principle would allow people to think of power as not force or might, but more like the ability to accord with the laws of karma and nature.
   Do leaders in today's time govern by universal standards of being and acting in the world?It seems for the most part that they are able to rule because they are most popular, not because of the principles they follow. But the deeper meaning of wheel turning is that as long as a person learns the laws of the world, one isn't subject to any king whatsoever.So far as all beings are governed by the same laws, one is never more powerful or dominant than another, and all are subject to the same cause and effects. The wheel might even signify the vulnerable and always changing state of things. Kings are high one day and low the next, and vice versa, based on the merits they create as well as their previous actions and intentions. In this way, the wheel encourages people to detach from status and wealth, knowing that their social positions are only temporary and for the current moment.

Far From the Madding University Crowd

 This was the first Thursday evening of "the first week of school" at University of Toronto. And, true enough, there is an energy in the school which is hard to find either during the slow summer months or the heavy exam periods. During this time,the students have a lot of energy to kill! They are hardly in the mood to even think about meditation or some other more introspective practice, which explains the very large party just outside the meditation quiet room tonight. It seems that the group before us had booked the reception space just outside the third floor quiet room, and the participants in group sitting were entreated to a lot of screaming and yelling from the excited students.
   There is actually nothing truly unusual about sitting meditation in the midst of noise. Master Sheng Yen has talked about how the first Chan Meditation Center in Queen's New York is located so close to the middle of everything that it can be referred to as 'crossroads' Chan. The challenge is to be able to present Chan in such an environment.
  I have to admit that I felt awkward at the beginning of tonight's guided exercise and sitting, as though worried of how the newcomer in the group today (as well as existing members as a whole) would react to the sudden shift in energy. But what happened is that once I had let go of all concerns over the noise itself and its impact, the room became quiet: no restless movements, and very little non-verbal 'protests' from the participants. Soon, as I was meditating,I lost the sense that the noise even has a location or an origin somewhere. It literally became 'pure noise', in the sense of not being tied to anything or anyone. But the point is, without any location, there isn't even an "I" registering this noise. Of course, this state tended to ebb and flow, but it showed me that the noise is created not just from forms but also from the way my mind moves to approach the forms. When I really behold the sound as it is through the ears, I am less attached to adding thoughts about 'who' originates the noise. In fact, the 'who' leads to a deeper question about experience, and that takes me away from my tendency to label sounds as belonging to certain people and as having a specific quality that can be located. And as the mind settles, the sounds affect me less.

Immortality and Chan

After the group meditation sitting, we explored recent ideas of how humans can be made immortal through technology (or supposedly, anyway), and whether this defies the Chan idea of impermanence. I remember reading a science fiction novel as a teenager, The Silicon Man by Charles Platt, which explores the notion of downloadable humans: literally, humans that are able to be downloaded onto a computer and stored there permanently. One of the participants had asked an interesting question, and that is: if you had the ability to 'permanently' store greed, hatred or ignorance, would you want to preserve those traits indefinitely?
   It also makes me wonder too, how are the mechanisms of existence (desire, attachment to a body and so on) maintained through these hypothetical storage systems? Platt suggests that the machine world would be a kind of virtual heaven, because there is no longer the striving for material things for survival, but I have to wonder, would the downloaded human not try to invent other ways to continue its own existence, such as an endless striving to create on the virtual realm? It seems to be that any existence that continues across time entails a grasping at some organizing principle. I wonder, would these machines or downloaded 'spirits' not have an urge to survive continuously or maintain a certain state of being indefinitely? If that were the case, then there would always be the fear of losing the self even in a place of immortality.
   These questions might seem a trifle speculative, but I can foresee a time when immortality might become a discussion among Buddhists, especially with regards to whether physical immortality would defy the Buddhist concept of impermanence. I think that even if we built a perfect body, there would still be impermanence,  because no single though is continuously the same. Even the idea of immortality has no substance because we can never realize the 'never ending' in any given moment.

Peter's Principle

 I somehow remember reading a book called The Peter Principle, which states something to the effect that one eventually rises to one's level of incompetency in work. This seems to have been a pessimistic book, written by Laurence Peter in 1969, and the drift of it is that a person eventually reaches the point where they no longer can competently perform in a task or a role. But the Peter Principle also suggests something about the cyclic nature of life, and how as soon as a person strives to reach the highest point of themselves, they will find themselves in a completely different place. I seem to recall having read in a book on Taoism the idea that whenever a person tries to go the furthest they possibly can in one direction, they will end up in the opposite.
  Sometimes, the idea of the Peter Principle can sound pessimistic, suggesting that people occupy a humble position in life rather than striving to out-do themselves (literally). But I also think that the process of failing at a task can be an opportunity for learning and even self-transcendence, because it offers a space of exhausting a previously taken-for-granted definition of what success means. If I am striving my best to be person X and it turns out to become harder and harder the closer I get to  that goal, I can then learn to let go of the goal itself and not be so attached to the pleasure I thought I would derive from it when I embarked on the journey in the first place.
   But I think that in order for this process to really work, a person still needs to be sincere in their efforts to prove successful in an endeavor. This is because transcending a goal (or at least renouncing it) seems to require a familiarity with the goal itself and the process of getting there.

Greed for Success

 The title of this blog comes from an excerpt from a book I picked up , Hans Wolfgang Schumann's classic Buddhism: An outline of its teaching and schools.  It reads: "This is the Buddhist way to liberation: to act but without greed for success, free from the wish to harm anybody and with reason." (p.54). I found this sentence intriguing because I wonder, what would it be like to work without 'greed for success.' It somehow reminds me of the concept of the Puritan ethic, where diligence and productivity are consecrated before God rather than being considered intended for human glorification. Now, what would it like to act without greed for success?
  One idea that comes to mind is the notion of not striving for a particular grade or affirmation. If I am really serious and sincere in the content of what I am doing, then I don't work just for the sake of completing a roster of stated goals. There is almost a sense of doing something for its own sake rather than using it to create a marker for success. But, simultaneously, the idea of acting without greed for success might also be taking a more playful approach toward projects: not over-identifying with projects but rather seeing them as one of many possible forms of expression.
   I find it might be helpful to sometimes take an as-if approach, rather than looking at things as final. What I mean by this is: rather than seeing myself as wholeheartedly 'in' a project (which causes all kinds of vexations and over-identification with a perceived self or role) to actually stand a little bit beside the endeavor, remembering that it's really subject to available conditions. When I think this way, I feel less pressured to 'finish' a project in a way that I preconceive it to finish. And I am more free to see this as an activity rather than as a kind of final project representing 'who I am'.

Schumann, Hans Wolfgang, (trans. Fenerstein, Georg). (1973). Buddhism: an outline of its teaching and schools. London: Rider and Company

Dreams Dreaming Dreams

  I came across the following quote in Master Sheng Yen's Chan and enlightenment which I found quite interesting. It reads:

When sentient beings- especially Chan practitioners-practice Buddhadharma after hearing it, it is easy for them to be aware that they are dreaming amidst samsara. Once they know they know they are in an endless dream of samsara, they are already on the threshold of leaving behind the dream. Why? Because when they gain the power of Chan concentration, it is easy for them to reflect that in the past, their minds have been deluded, scattered, muddled, and vague, like dreaming an illusory dream. (p.106)

I found that when I read this paragraph and reflected on it, my mind has become more calm and peaceful. It is as though I were in a dense thicket of trees, and later was able to see the forest as a whole. It reminds me that no matter what the situation is, it's just a reflection of one's mind-state, and there is nothing to be afraid of in the environment as long as I can know that the experience is shaped by the mind. An example of this is to be aware that even if one's job is very stressful and one can be laid off in the future for different reasons, that it's only my taking the job to be something that is supposed to be permanent and feed 'my' permanent body, that vexations arise from this possibility. Does knowing that this latter is not the case mean that I won't be stressed on the job? Not necessarily, because one is still human and has human bodily needs. However, if I am able to reflect on things from the perspective of Buddhadharma or the true mind, these things don't have a permanent existence, and so therefore I can create a space of peace around what I am doing and what's happening around me.
   In my previous blog entries, I explored this idea of how to gauge whether a spiritual teaching is at one's level, and I have to say again--sometimes one has to be really honest with themselves! When taken to an extreme, the idea that we are in an endless dream might lead some to conclude that there is no point even interacting with the dream, since it's "only a dream". But this is a kind of nihilism which wasn't intended in Buddhist teachings, something I have sometimes heard of referred to as "dark emptiness". I think that what the teachings refer to is using the concept of the dream to enlighten one's experiences and appreciation of daily life. If I know that this job and this body are not permanent, self-existing entities, then I can take a much more relaxed and trusting approach toward them, because I am no longer relying on these concepts to define who I am as a person. I can then be more free to respond in different ways that are somewhat more artful and spontaneous, as well as less fear-driven. I sense that Buddha is not denying causality, but he is suggesting that we look at causality not just from the perspective of cause/effect but also from the awareness that it entails a constant state of change, like the succession of thoughts which define a dream experience.
 Again, however, I have a long way to go before I can fully embody this idea in my life, and I am only putting it out there because it is inspiring for me to reflect on my life in this way.

Sheng Yen (2014). Chan and Enlightenment. Elmhurst, NY: Dharma Drum Publications.  

Owning One's Spiritual Life

  During the group meditation retreat today, we had a sharing at the end of the period where each of us were asked what we would like to practice, or what our ideal practice of Chan would be. I thought that the question was very insightful and revealing, almost like the kind of question one could do a research study about. Each person in the group said something slightly different, even though an observer might find many different patterns across the people, particularly with regards to cultures and gender. But what struck me was the idea that people make complex choices as to how they invest their spiritual life and practice. There is no 'cookie cutter' when it comes to entering a meditation center and practicing as a group. People bring to the table very different backgrounds, so we often have to find the ways that work best for us and leave the others at least temporarily behind--at least until we find our bearings and can deepen our practice enough to include other methods.
   I have recently come across the term "owning", particularly in psychology books, and it interests me how it's being used these days. Of course, most people know of the term 'ownership' in regards to material things and personal belongings, but nowadays, we are  also said to 'own' our feelings, our judgments and our thoughts. Taking 'ownership' in this case means that we acknowledge our thoughts and feelings to belong strictly to ourselves, and nobody else is forcing us to believe otherwise. The REBT pioneer Albert Ellis would agree at least in part that one owns their own thoughts, and two people can see completely different things in the same environment, owing to their thought patterns.
   I think there is a more subtle meaning to ownership which has to do with, as mentioned before, the idea of approaching a group dynamic with one's own unique styles and interests--not leaving these interests behind but using them to enrich the group dynamic. To own that experience entails many things. One is that whenever a practice seems too difficult or challenging to understand, it's up to the person to decide for her or himself whether they will take on that challenge (out of curiosity) or leave it alone for now. In Chan and Enlightenment, Master Sheng Yen says similar things, when he remarks, "if we realistically apply standards appropriate to ordinary human beings, if we use Dharma as our guide and strive to accomplish what ordinary humans can, this wisdom can lead us to the other shore" (p.155-156). This means that a practitioner has to really reflect deeply on how valuable a teaching or an approach is to their own life experience in the current moment.
   I never have quite figured out the 'gauge' to know whether one has an affinity and gains benefits from a particular teaching or method. Sometimes teachings in spiritual traditions might not be of any value upon listening to it, but might start to click at a later time when one's practice has matured. Karma is one example of a concept that seemed alien to me when I first heard it, but has more recently become ingrained in how I see the workings of cause and effect in daily life. It's not a magical word anymore, and I started to incorporate the idea into explaining why some activities might entail heavy obstacles for one person, whereas the other approaches it with ease. In this particular example, one must be able to juggle between immersion in a spiritual concept and owning one's own encounter with the concept. If the hat is a size too big or small, it's sometimes best not to try to squeeze it to fit one's head, but rather to use a gentle approach to explore its meaning and figure out how it might potentially fit into the puzzle of one's life.

Sheng Yen (2014). Chan and Enlightenment. Elmhurst NY: Dharma Drum Publications

Failing as Transition

During the Buddhist study group tonight, we talked about Master Sheng Yen's discussion on how practitioners often fee frustrated when they are reading Buddhadharma that is not suitable to their level of practice and attainment. Prior to reading this particular section of Chan and Enlightenment, I don't think I have been too aware of the role that frustration can and does play in the life of practice. One of the participants in the study group was relating how frustration and failure is not necessarily about time being wasted, but is rather knowing which spiritual paths to cross and which ones are not the true path that one must face. I recognize in this the idea that failures are only learning and transition processes, a little bit like growing pains of sorts.
   I kind of have this image in my mind of someone who is continually trying to peel layers and layers off him or herself in order to let go of the self altogether--only to be told that there is always some vexation that one has which causes them to hold onto the self. The more I try to peel off the layers, the more I am seeing the self come back. Is it useful to go on like this? One practitioner suggested that in fact it is the way that one truly learns that there is no gimmick or mental trick out there to dissolve the self, and the true work is to leave behind self/no-self altogether, since this is just another thought that arises. When I put down all thoughts about the self and 'non-self', I naturally reach a state of not attaching to self.
   Alas, this practice is harder than how it reads on paper, and I am afraid that my level of practice isn't capable of understanding or grasping this concept. The only thing I can do is admire those on the path who are less attached to the self and have a large heart of compassion.

Devotion to "Oneness"

 In my last blog, I hinted at the acceleration of time that often assails people in today's technological societies, and how easily one is driven to distractions simply by virtue of all the many choices at one's disposal. This evening, I was having a conversation with a fellow practitioner from the Thursday meditation group, remarking about how I rarely attend the Toronto International Film Festival screenings because there are simply too many films to choose from! In this regard, I wonder if having too much choice in life can sometimes bog down the mind.
    The British writer Alan Watts had a lot of say about this, where he used two analogies: the sidewalk and the dirty dishes. In the sidewalk analogy, Watts talks about there only being one sidewalk tile that one needs to walk at any given time. Because the other sidewalk tiles only exist in a hypothetical future and the previous ones exist in a hypothetical 'past', there is really only one sidewalk tile that you ever really have to approach. Of course, many Chan practitioners would argue further to say that even the present tile doesn't exist outside of the mind itself, so it is even wrong to say that we 'only' have this present sidewalk tile. But the reason I find this analogy so powerful is that it limits the scope (but not the freedom) of the mind to remain in the moment, rather than projecting into an unlived future. The second analogy that Watts refers to is that of a pile dishes that need to be cleaned. Watts, true to his previous example, suggests that there is only ever one dish to clean! Why worry about the pile of dishes when we really only handle one dish at any given time? I tend to like this latter example even more than the first, because I tend not to like doing dishes (not the plural), but prefer washing one dish instead...only to realize that the two are the same.
   Both analogies mentioned by Watts suggest that one can learn to reduce distractions by devoting themselves to a kind of unity, such as that of present moment. If a person feels overwhelmed or anxious about something, it's often the case that the person is seeing a pile of dishes rather than respecting that there is only one dish to clean. Watts is exhorting his readers to stop projecting the present into the future, but instead to take the present moment as a place of enjoyment and devotion. As soon as I project or abstract-ify the present, I create hydra-like monsters, where each head represents accumulated responses and possibilities.

Dizzy Days

 I arrived home later than usual after the group meditation practice, opting to head to the local supermarket to buy food for a late supper.  I would have to say that today felt a bit disorienting, and it was nice to settle down at 11 pm to eat. I would have to say that life can be a rush, especially when there are so many hours in the day.
   Life is full of surprises, and there is no way of knowing where one will be from one day to the next. After the group meditation practice today, there was a Dharma video by Master Sheng Yen on the topic of birth and death. Master Sheng Yen pointed out how the Buddhist view of life does not entail an immortal being or the promise of eternal life. I reflected that, in a sense, a mini death is happening at every moment of life, and one can sometimes never tell when something will come up that simply changes the course of life altogether. I am almost inclined to think that perhaps the best attitude is always be prepared for when one has to go to a different station in life, but I think this might be a bit pessimistic. More to the point: the more sensitive one can be to the impermanence of moments, the more one can appreciate this present with all that one has, even when there is so much changing all the time.
  I believe that what is so radical about Buddhist philosophy (and what distinguishes it from other religions, perhaps) is how, rather than trying to immortalize the beautiful or true, it sees the beautiful and true in the everyday passing moments.

A Middle Path Between Thought and Action

  Have you ever stopped to wonder why it's hard to do what's right when it's clearly known what's right? Many expressions hint at this, and one of my favorite is  the one which goes "you can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink". I haven't figured out why there is a disconnect between knowing what is good and doing what is good, and perhaps this is something that a few scientific studies can explore in further depth. But one thing I can suggest is that perhaps there is a disconnect between too much self-consciousness and action. The more one becomes self conscious (conscious about what they are doing, who they are, etc.) the harder it is to act smoothly and from a sensible frame of mind. It is like the story of a donkey that doesn't know whether to drink water or eat first, and ends up dying of both hunger and thirst.
   Many therapies, particularly cognitive-centered ones, start with a well-meaning desire to analyze a person's style of thinking and the cognitive errors one makes which leads to suffering.  The problem I notice is that they often have this underlying tone that the cognitive aspect is separate from the world, as though the brain were a computer processor that just takes in sensations and packages them in the form of thoughts. I wonder, does it sometimes unintentionally create the illusion of a self that is separate from the rest of the world? Sometimes this can trip people up, because they start to think that what they are dealing with is themselves as a kind of thing that is encased in a skull.
   Can too much self-reflection inhibit acting? I sometimes believe so, at least from my own experiences. I think this is because, in one's eagerness to correct their erroneous thoughts or thinking patterns, they might start to forget the messy aspects of planning a course of action or actually committing to specific goals that relate to the world and others. But I suspect that a cognitive-focus might also create a kind of perfectionism. It's as though a person reasons that if only they get the processor in their skull right, then everything else should run smoothly. But what is overlooked is just what is 'running' and how it connects to the brain.
   Is it possible that the way around this is to go beyond thinking itself? I am sure that many cognitive therapists and psychologists would reject that idea, because they might ask, why would anyone want to go beyond thinking? Isn't thinking the source of suffering, and so shouldn't the goal of psychology be to correct faulty thinking? The problem is, I suspect that focusing only on cognition might lead to an attachment to thinking itself, as though correcting our thoughts leads us to an idyllic place. What is overlooked is that sometimes simple doing for its own sake (and with full presence and calmness) can be a very healing source of strength, and might do wonders to align the mind and step out of compulsive thoughts. An example of this might be gardening or doing some kind of art, which is done for its own sake rather than for the sake of an external prize or merit. When I absorb myself in a creative pursuit, I am no longer only using thoughts to guide my actions. I often start to use the whole body and mind rather than only using thoughts to resolve inner conflicts.
   
  

Watching the Waves

Watching the waves just before the full moon on the lakeshore, I had a very hypnotic experience today, as though I were stepping out of time and suspended. Though I tried to record such a sound, I surely could never capture the experience in a million years. I think the experience is about something so magnificent and yet so primal that it's hard to pin down. What I can tell about it is that it opens me up to the wonders of the natural world. And it makes me realize, looking at the pictures I have, how easy it is to miss my life, when I am not allowing myself to open up to the experiences around me.
  I wish I could describe with some precision what this is about, but I can only think of it as the divine beauty that pervades nature. It's so easy to become distracted from it, by all the sounds of the city calling me back to the things to do, and so on. But maybe there is nothing to do at all, only to yield to the mysteries that life is holding for all beings. Can I give up my need to control my life and thoughts even for a moment, to consider this 'something more' that surrounds me?

Turning Moments into Questions

Willingness to inquire and be open seems to be a hallmark of the education system. This is hard to do because as soon as I arrive at an understanding of something, I have a tendency to try to make some kind of rule around it or try to fixate on it as though it were a dogma. I think that this is a natural tendency, to try to lean on a concept rather than delving deeply into it to know its implications. Is it possible to take an inquiry based approach to our daily situations and life?
   This question interests me because it seems that the ability to raise questions rather than assume 'givens' is the key to an active mental life and a curious mindset. I don't have a particular solid or concrete answer to how to do this, but I think one method that helps is to view all situations as a kind of school. That is, rather than confining the process of learning and questioning to specific 'subject areas' as some educators have espoused (such as Neil Postman and Jerome Bruner), the inquiry can begin with one's very existence and interconnections in this moment. I can ask questions such as why the city street I am on is so distinct from others, what strikes me as different and similar; and use my imagination to inquire into the advantages of living there as well as the complex relationships. When I am looking at the prices of food at the local supermarket, I can ask myself, what's behind that price, and who benefits from the cost? Why is this food popular here and not somewhere else? In other words, I turn the daily jaunt into a kind of adventure in ideas and see how I can turn the everyday into a kind of exploration or lesson.
    Curiosity isn't a given that always exists, and I have found in myself a tendency to take things for granted rather than questioning what they are doing and why. I think that curiosity can be cultivated intentionally, if one is willing to suspend judgment and even entertain little glimmers of questions that can peep through the cracks of awareness. In turning a daily experience into an inquiry, one can invigorate how they see things and open the floor to a mutual learning with others, rather than turning things into static givens.

Fall's Dissolution

 Today, for the first time perhaps, I have experienced a true ending of summer and the heralding of the cooler weather of autumn. I can see this in the way the skies get dark very early recently as well as that chill crispness in the way the trees sway together. I am sure that autumn is well on its way from these warning signs.  And I also experience the singular beauty that comes from the dissolution of something that feels eternal and youthful.
   Fall's expressions, and particularly autumn trees, remind me that there is a certain kind of beauty that comes from dissolution. It is as though the one uniform swath of green turns into a burst of confused colors, all dissembled and yet meshing together in imperfect harmony. Yet without the dissolution, there would be no definition of things, only a kind of uncertain blandness that falls over things as they become more uniform. Fall reminds me that things have a distinct crispness to them, such as the sounds of rustling trees and the various colors of the fruits and seedlings as they drop to the ground. These planned dissolutions eventually herald new beginnings. They are part of a regular cycle in nature.
  What does fall's sense of dissolution signify? For me, I think it has a lot to do with the sense of an approaching newness, but also of how the heart has to be open to new changes. It has to be empty and still in order to accept what is new, including the fear of loss and disconnection that often come with chaos and disorder. Fall's liminal spaces symbolize how taking on new experiences often requires changing the way one sees existing ones as well as risking a break from the habitual self that is built around safety and familiarity. Yet the variety of autumn's colors is also a gentle reminder that change is not always a desolate thing, and that it can lead to a variety of perspectives that we wouldn't see if we never left the comforts of home and find new forms of 'home'. Perhaps for this reason, I do find fall to be the most exhilarating season to behold and experience.