Teacher and Student Acceptance

 In a book aptly titled Teaching with Feeling, educational psychologist Herbert Greenberg (1968) describes the process whereby students who don't receive sufficient attention or validation in their schooling years are later (hopefully) "picked up" by someone else. However, at the same time, he cautions:

A great concern in this regard must be the child who is neglected or disliked continuously. It is hoped that each child will find one teacher (perhaps in physical education, the shop, music, art), or the nurse, who will like him (sic). Or perhaps next year, with a new classroom teacher, he will be more fortunate. However certain children year after year, teacher after teacher, never click positively with anyone. These children are truly neglected in the educational process simply because they arouse no positive feeling in teachers (p.50).

As I am reading this passage, I am thinking a lot of different things. First of all, part of it does perhaps ring pretty true to many people's lives, if not most, even though Greenberg was writing in a time that is quite different from today's world. Emotional support or love never comes to everyone at the same time, and from everyone, especially when it comes to teacher and peer support. Perhaps one of the lessons that people eventually might get from this is that they are never really or fully "in control" of the process of connecting in ways that feel positive or sustainable. There is even a kind of joy in being able to bear moments of non-love or non-support and to even test one's ability to go through such periods when they are not being supported by kind teachers or guidance counselors.

On the other hand, I don't think that Greenberg is necessarily describing those fortunate students who have been able to develop the confidence to sustain periods of not being supported by teachers or authorities of some kind. Perhaps there are, as he describes, students who somehow did not find teachers who resonated with their character traits, and therefore did not develop the sufficient confidence to be able to see periods of non-support or lack as opportunities for personal growth and independence of some kind. In those cases, what kinds of choices can both the teacher and the student make to ensure that the student's need for emotional support in their learning is being met?  This very much seems a timely topic in light of recent incidents of school violence, many of which seem to be instigated by people who are characterized as "loners" or aggressive individuals by the school system and surrounding society.

When students fail to accept themselves, it seems to be up to the teacher to be able to work on themselves to the point where they can model acceptance in the child. I don't think this necessarily means coddling the child or giving them insincere gestures of support. Rather, I literally mean that teachers need to accept their total reactions toward all their students as a part (but not all) of themselves in the changing moment, before students can mirror that sort of grounded acceptance.
In other words, perhaps, teachers can practice self-acceptance of the totality of their emotional worlds, with the aim of conveying that attitude of total acceptance to the students.

What this means is that when I (as a teacher, say) am completely okay with who I am right now, emotionally and physically, as a presence in this classroom, I am no longer trying to suppress certain elements in my emotional makeup to please students or fellow teachers. Nor, for that matter, am I grabbing onto these emotions as though I needed to prove to the world that they are inseparable parts of me and therefore need to be somehow championed. Instead, this lack of attachment and acknowledgement of emotions can create a sense in children that it's simply okay for them to be who they are, without trying to prove themselves through some violent or aggressive force.

In this way, my point is never to frame myself as "an authority figure who dispenses love to passive students". Rather, I see myself as someone who exercises wholeness (as best as possible) so that students can possibly awaken to little moments of wholeness in their present existence. This also replaces the hidden expectation that teachers are supposed to be indiscriminate dispensers of love and support, empowering students instead to find their own inner support within themselves through moments of presence and acceptance.

Greenberg, Herbert M. (1968). Teaching with Feeling: Compassion and Self Awareness in the Classroom Today. Pegasus

Subtle Kindness

 Recently, I read an article which talked about a recent school shooting. Many of the students were given the impression that because the shooter had violent proclivities, it was somehow up to his fellow classmates to bestow "kindness" upon him in order to have prevented his violent behavior. A student who tried to befriend this person has reported that in her attempts to try to bestow kindness on him, he behaved violently and inappropriately toward her. The student concludes that people should never feel obligated to bestow kindness on someone even if they appear to be a "loner" with tendencies toward violence.
   I am reflecting on this issue, because I do wonder whether educators perhaps need to exercise care in the way that we teach/preach about kindness in classrooms. It's obvious that many of the students are indoctrinated with the view that it's good to extend a certain kindness toward all people, regardless of how that kindness is received or whether the receiver even truly benefits from it or wants it. People thus are brought up to think of kindness as a kind of moral injunction-which is often exactly what it is in many religious texts. "Be kind to..." is often understood as a divine commandment and a moral obligation that people have a duty to somehow fulfill or bestow evenly on all people. However, as I did learn in my recent experiences at the Timekeeper retreat, the way we handle situations is to first know what the person's situation is, as well as to clarify it using wisdom. Indiscriminate kindness can lead to a sort of almost blind or stereotypical vision where we smile at people and treat them nicely in the hopes that they will change from "frogs" into "princes" overnight. But what is implied in this vision of kindness is a kind of social control. Implicit to this notion is that if I am nice to you, eventually you are going to be nice just like me. Now why doesn't this work most of the time, you might wonder?
    I think the answer is that most people eventually get the idea that, when kindness is "dispensed" in this way toward them, they are somehow being tricked into doing something or even manipulated to feel a certain kind of obligatory reciprocity: "I scratched your back, now you scratch mine". Kindness becomes a game or a strategy that people use to please people who are powerful or in authority, rather than being a genuine emotion that arises from one's interactions and even a real compassion for someone else. This kindness is more a kind of social conditioning than it is something that comes from a real insight into how another person is doing in life. Not only do the receivers feel that it isn't genuine (that is, being done for the sake of an ideology) but the givers feel completely burned out and betrayed in their acts of kindness. Their kindness doesn't even feel so real to themselves, let alone others.
   I wonder if perhaps if people weren't so pressured to be any certain way, that they would perhaps naturally have more room to empathize with other beings. That is, maybe this "kindness" we are looking for arises precisely when we drop all the "looking for", "seeking", "striving" or even "pretending" for the sake of getting accolades and avoiding blame. But I think what's at issue here is that people are never given a chance to drop these pressures and pretenses. We are living completely in this sealed off pressure dome, where everything we do is monitored and given a label. This is happening for so long, in fact, that there is no room to even appreciate who we are inside of us. As a result, we hardly are able to feel anything for others either, because we are so cut off from who we are deep in ourselves.
   To go back to my original point: people may have to honor the depth of uniqueness in a person's soul before thy can develop a genuine respect.  This is not easy to do if people are never given the chance to see their own souls and to be valued for their souls. But the way to do so is to appreciate that we come from distant lands, which aren't necessarily limited to this present life. We can never fully know the mystery of who a person is, and when one sees someone who is violent, the first thing is to know that this is someone who needs special kinds of care and attention. The second is to recognize that this person must be suffering a lot in not being able to connect with people in nonviolent or creative ways. This gives rise to real compassion, to know, "well this person must be having  a real hard time with this issue. Even though I don't share their struggles, I have my own struggles in some aspects of life". This self reflective compassion is much more nuanced than the sudden jump to "you must be kind to everyone you see".

Small Kindness

  Coming back from a 5 day meditation timekeeper retreat, I begin to realize that there is a simple kindness that everyone has, which can arise when the right conditions are in place. That sounds a little bit silly, but what I want to share is that the kinds of qualities that timekeeping are meant to arise in people are really the conditions in which kindness can manifest. Some of those qualities include humility, attention to small details, and the ability to take care of the different signals for the sake of the practitioners. There is a kind of interaction between person and environment which is really delicate yet so crucial to the process of being an effective timekeeper. After coming out of this retreat, I start to develop a different sensibility toward volunteering. I start to realize that every little bit of attention I give to something truly counts in the final result, and it adds (or detracts from) the professionalism of a finished work.
   What's the relationship between this kind of care and kindness itself? Well, I have found personally that when my ambitions in life are very big, I don't have the ability to see what's in front of me. Conversely, seeing simple details in the here and now can furnish endless opportunities for small yet significant moments of kindness. Life sometimes furnishes examples. On the way to the Chan Hall, a practitioner whom I was talking to turned around very swiftly and warned the woman behind him not to step on a caterpillar which was slowly inching along the ground, soft and furry. I was quite moved by the fact that this practitioner so quickly spotted the caterpillar in so brief a period of time, as though he had eyes in the back of his head! It was as though every living creature was precious to this man, and he showed it through his behavior in that split second.
   Kindness also seems to come with appreciation. When I am not trying so hard to be really good at something, but take a moment to appreciate what I can do in this moment, my personality naturally becomes softer. During the timekeeper training, I tried to do a kind of "perfect" prostration in accordance with the regulations. When I couldn't quite do it, of course, I did feel inadequate. Yet afterwards, I reflected that this is what I can do at this time, and it can certainly improve as long as I have the blueprint of what a prostration might look like. I don't need to be there right now or right away, but I can let that blueprint grow on me somewhat, until it becomes a part of me. This is very much like the metaphor of planting a seed.
     I think what stops kindness is the habitual tendency to look for more, to want more in little time, and to compare ourselves with others. Another aspect is the anxiety that comes from thinking in an all or nothing way: it has to happen now or never, I am either all good or all bad, and so on. These kinds of polarizations don't mesh with the reality of how things grow in the natural world. Again, to use the metaphor of seeds, trees never grow into their full size overnight. Part of the beauty of seeing a tree is precisely that it grows in its own way, at its own pace, using the natural conditions it needs around it to find its own growth.
   What I am suggesting is that if a person changes their mindset a little bit, they can find themselves becoming softer in their personality. It's not necessary in these cases to rush through life, and one can savor the delicate aspects of life in a state of movement and change.
   

Time Anxiety

 With all the recent deadlines I have been experiencing at work as well as new learning opportunities elsewhere, it's important for me to pause and reflect on my attitudes toward time. Is time something that people accumulate, as in "clocking one's hours"? Or are there healthier ways of looking at our relationships with time?
 A culture that is obsessed with time and deadlines operates under one implicit belief, and that is, "there is one time, and one time only: it's now or never." I have to admit that this mentality can be helpful for people who procrastinate, since it encourages them to let go of the illusion that there is ever a future tense, or a moment when it "will" happen. However, when taken to an extreme, such an idea about time can lead to a hurried attitude toward life. I keep trying to accumulate what I think will give me more satisfaction and security, not recognizing all the while that such conferring is entirely human made. A "degree" in a certain academic subject is not a universal "conferring" of one's personal value or worth, yet how often does one pursue such things under the implied notion that it's a static object that is being pursued?
   Perhaps a healthier attitude is not to have any particular notion of time. If something needs to be done, then for sure we schedule that event, but we might keep in mind that in fact there is nothing that really needs doing, since there are infinite possibilities. If I bound myself to one particular set of habitual actions, I am really only committing myself to a habit-- one which can in turn be switched to something else when the need arises. In this way, I don't focus on the number of things I do but on the endless possibilities that are in each moment that can be done. This way, my attitude is more open and relaxed, with less need to rush.
   It's hard to keep this space where one can enjoy moments without thinking of endless tasks. I suppose it can be helpful to reflect on how completing a task is never a guarantee or "safety" but is only one part of a larger state of flowing with conditions.

Illusions of Control

  There is always a tendency to blame oneself when things go wrong, and I have observed this in myself especially. When work is piling up, I tend to overcompensate by doing much more than I am physically capable of taking on at any given time, under the belief that somehow this will "get things under control." In reality, however, this only solidifies the illusion of a self that was in control to begin with.
  During the group meditation tonight, we had this discussion related to how the mind tricks a person into believing that physical attributes which are passed down via evolution can tell people how they choose partners in life. The point of this discussion was in fact to suggest that all thoughts are somewhat delusional, because they are always only partial insights, similar to blind people encountering one part of the elephant. A thought is always by its very nature limited in scope: it cannot innovate or think new thoughts, as it's only one pathway that the brain happens to make. One of the biggest tricks that one's culture plays is in thinking that there is ever an "end" when we finally understand things definitively, thus maintaining a sense of control. In fact, phenomena are constantly subject to change and revision, and the only thing we can do is honor the commitments we have to others as they are happening in this moment.

Push and Pull of Expectations

 There is an interesting tension to explore between having expectations and having "none". Most people tend to associate "having no expectations" with a kind of freedom. For example, if I am buying a new stereo with no expectations regarding how it should sound, then naturally I won't feel bad if it doesn't sound as good as the others. However, the idea that having no expectations is "liberating" is a bit misleading. What "no expectations" often translates to is a kind of unwillingness to share in the emotions of others. In that sense, not having any expectations might be concealing a desire to avoid struggles altogether.
   It seems that the best expectations are the ones that are truly shared between people. By this, I mean that the expectation translates to concern and responsibility. In the case of being part of a spiritual organization, expectations are not just flights of fancy, but they are made concrete by the day to day decisions and operations of many working in tandem. Sharing expectations does not mean that people feel the same way, or are telepathically in tune with others. Rather, it relates more to a sense of having to take steps in doing things and make small efforts in a shared vision. This seems to me to be a kind of channeling of one's natural tendency to dream into something that is not entirely predictable and might not even suit people's whims of the moment. Yet, somehow, what makes the shared dream special is precisely that it is not meant to cater to the ego; it's a kind of project in which people are gradually relinquishing their desire to control every emotional state they have in service of a bigger ideal.
 

Esoteric Practices

This morning, I was reading chapter 45 of Master Sheng Yen's Common Questions on the Practice of Buddhism, called "Esoteric Buddhism and the Fate of Buddhism". This chapter describes the way that esoteric Buddhism tends to rely on the special powers of teachers, which can make it particularly vulnerable to straying from the Buddha's actual teachings. As I was reading this chapter, what struck me was how appealing it is to find a personal teacher who somehow speaks to one's own personal affinities and interests. I also begin to wonder, why might charismatic leadership have a large role to play in the way people are attracted to Buddhist or other spiritual teachings?
  One particular answer I was reflecting on is the potentially psychotherapeutic dynamic that might sometimes happen between a guru and a student. Rather than simply serving to point to one's mind, spiritual teachers might also serve the purpose of providing missing or incomplete roles from a student's childhood, such as that of a parental figure, while gradually subverting or weaning the student off such relationships. Particularly in the case of tantric practices (of which I profess to know very little), I do wonder whether the supposed completion of male and female energies might correspond to or at least appeal to someone whose personal dynamics with the opposite sex might be underdeveloped or somehow unresolved. Could it be that some of these practices mirror a "rapprochement" that might resolve old issues from a person's past, or at least in one's current relationships?
    Many Buddhist practitioners shy away from more esoteric practices. However, I do have to wonder whether having such practices or even knowing they exist might serve as a repository for unfinished or incomplete emotions--almost serving as a kind of shadow where one's transgressions are played out, yet "in the safety of one's mind" rather than being enacted. Eventually, one matures away from these incomplete emotions when one realizes (perhaps to one's disappointment) that there isn't really an all-knowing caregiver who is able to fulfill such desires whenever one wants them. In this way, one safely lands back to the Four Noble Truths, yet much more empowered not to revisit the past hopes of an all-knowing, omnipotent parental figure who can buffer one from such truths.

ShengYen (2017). Common Questions on the Practice of Buddhism. New York: Sheng Yen Education Foundation

A Ghost Town

 The trip to Niagara on Sunday felt like a trip through time. The escarpment was full of different trails, many of which involved and slippery terrain. There were times when I experienced a kind of vertigo as I approached the running water of the Niagara River, and even times when I felt that human beings are incredibly tiny compared with the rest of the planet as a whole. If anyone ever wants to feel an accurate size perspective of humans compared to the natural world, they could perhaps do no better than to go to the Adam Welbeck power station and look down at the power facilities below as well as the hydroelectric dam. There is such a feeling of being overwhelmed and yet also seeing a realistic view of how people compare with the planet they live in.
  All of this reminds me of the idea that Francis Cook mentions in his book Jewel Net of Indra that European portraiture often evokes closeness, whereas Eastern landscape paintings tend to position people as smaller elements in a much larger whole, which stretches back through eons of geologic and cosmological time. Those who are most accustomed to reading "human stories" close-up might feel disheartened when faced with the size of humans compared to the tallest mountains or the deepest escarpments. On the other hand, there is a kind of cathartic feeling that comes with not taking the human world so close up, and contextualizing human quarrels and woes in the context of a greater landscape. Going to places which illustrate the geological periods of history can often contextualize human life as a brief pinpoint compared to the greater dramas that have taken place over millions of years. It somehow makes me realize that my life (and life in general) is a precious miracle, not to be squandered on small worries and obsessions.
   As if to reinforce this last point, I had the opportunity to visit the stores at Niagara on a Monday morning, only to find so few people living there and shopping compared to what I have seen in Toronto. I also noticed that many of the store fronts reflected businesses that were closing or recently relocated.  I wondered if the town was doing okay in the economy we live in today. The only life I could find, perhaps, was that of a dog who was chained to a post in front of what looked to be the only public library. When I touched the dog, I could see that it was shivering, and had such a look of forlorn on its face. That look remained with me throughout the day. I think it stands for the universal sense that all living beings are bound by a slender and fragile thread of community. Even in the most thinly populated places, people long for community, and that longing keeps people together in spite of time's march.

Thinking Forward

 The entire scientific idea of "looking for a cause" is so antithetical to a lot of what I am reading in Chan Buddhism. And I do wonder if perhaps the academic world is catching up to the idea that the world is not driven by single causes, but by a whole vast array of interrelated variables which is referred to as causes and conditions.
  When planning things, one is often under one impression about how it's going to go, not realizing that the plan only exists in that single moment or span of time. We have such an example at work, where the system's database is not functioning the way anyone could have imagined in the beginning. Yet, lacking in any prior knowledge or information, we sketch an outline of what we think things might look like. In almost all situations, what a person can create in a moment cannot capture all the scenarios of what could happen later.
   If a person recognizes that plans are only hypothetical and tentative (in fact, similar to experiments), then there is no strict blueprint for how a person should feel or think. In fact, like any form of research, what a person plans is only a guess as to what could happen. If I am approaching plans from the perspective of what outcomes I want to arise, I had been leave a sufficient margin for things to be somewhat different. This is because the conditions in which I formulate a plan are always limited to the information and experience I have in that moment.

Material Issues

During the group meditation's "walking" session tonight, I was somehow inspired to talk about the way that all the different paces of life (slow walking, fast walking, gradual increases and decreases) can be encompassed in an overall totality of mind, if we choose to cultivate the subtle interconnection underlying these different experiences. Of course, I have some difficulty really articulating this idea, but I think that the idea is to see things in a balanced way, using a method to lessen attachments. When seen in this way, "fast" and "slow" are just different styles of being, and they aren't that much different from each other in their essence. Meditation can thus allow oneself to be more supple and accommodating toward these different gradations of being.
   The point that I want to make has nothing to do with this. Recently, I have been reflecting on a band I had liked as a teenager called Material Issue. They were very well known for pop songs that have a catchy feel to them, and I have to say that their album International Pop Overthrow was a cassette that I had played many, many times. One of the songs, "A Very Good Idea" talks about a person who is asking his love not to break his heart, even though the lyrics suggest that this person already has. 25 years later, I somehow feel ambivalent toward the singer, Jim Ellison, who committed suicide when he was quite young (only 31 years of age, in fact). In my mind, I connect this singer's untimely passing to the yearning quality found in many of his songs. Somehow, I also feel this kind of longing in his voice when I hear it, to this day.
   I am not particularly fond of the kinds of attachments that Ellison writes about in his songs. In general, I have come to a certain age where I can accept life's ups and downs more than I could when I was a fan of Material Issue as a teenager. In fact, I tend to think that the longings that Ellison is describing (loneliness?) is something that should not be indulged too much: it can get very self--destructive and counter-productive to what a person needs. If a person pines after someone he lost or hurt him, could it be that it wasn't the right partner for him? My reasoning mind tends to kick in when listening to this song these days. However, what remains and leaves a powerful impression is how raw and honest Ellison's voice is, and how it expresses a certain kind of lucidity that adolescents can empathize with. What remains is not the kinds of attachments that Ellison is talking about (to failed loves) but rather the authenticity of the voice itself: this person is willing to stick to his guns and express how he really feels, even when a lot of those feelings are doomed to be unresolved.
   To go back to my original theme: no matter what thoughts come to mind when a person is walking, the importance turns out not to be the content of the thoughts but rather the manner in which one's actions flow and interconnect into one totality. If I look to find ways to resolve my thinking, I will only end up becoming attached to them, but if I am willing to see their raw spontaneity in that moment, then my priority shifts toward simply being present and connected. I appreciate Ellison not for what he strove to attain in his songs (somehow, I suspect, an unattainable perfection), but rather the rawness of what he was feeling and experiencing, which suggests to me someone who was true to his inner life and feelings. And I do believe that this is also what can happen when a person slows down and appreciates something simple like walking. Suddenly, the objects of one's thoughts are much less important than the rawness of the present circumstances in which those thoughts arose in the first place.

The Grateful Feelings

 For some reason, after the group sitting practice, I did feel incredible gratitude for the other participants. It seems that in the process of being tired from the busy week and trying to hold onto the method amidst the scattered mind, there is this room to behold the others and appreciate their vow to be practicing in the same place, even when it did not yield the expected "result", such as a unified mind. I wonder if this is not perhaps the whole point, and that is that I am not in control and I never had to be in control in the first place. And what this does is that it opens up a space where we can truly acknowledge interdependence.

I was reading a chapter in Master Sheng Yen's Common Questions in the Practice of Buddhism  where it describes whether Buddhism believes in a monotheistic God (p.172-174). The gist of it is that Buddhism does not disbelieve in the existence of powerful beings; it only disavows the idea that there can be a single "originator" of all things. I take this more metaphorically than literally, in the sense that it could apply to most relationships. If I take credit for everything that happens at work, then I solidify the burdensome idea that only I can be responsible for what happens, and thus be in control. Is it possible to feel connected with anyone if one feels this responsible for things? Conversely, if I am not thinking that everything is on my shoulders, I might start to see that there are rhythms to life, and we only take some of the waves, only to pass them on to others and receive new waves in turn. In taking on responsibilities, I am never solely responsible for what happens. I am only ensuring that my part is done with the least negative consequences to others, which requires a gentle approach.

Perhaps there is something about meditation itself that finally allows a person to stop trying to take on a dominating agency in life: expecting specific outcomes is almost antithetical to the process of only sitting.

Sheng Yen (2017). Common Questions in the Practice of Buddhism. Taipei: Dharma Drum Publications

Troubling Utopia

This evening, I tutored a student who has been doing a group assignment on "designing Utopias" for her high school class. I mentioned that I had also been touching upon this very same subject in the Gulliver's Travels Grade 4 class that I am teaching, specifically since the topic of Utopia had been quite "hot" in Swift's time. What was interesting was the discussion that ensued between us, which ranged from the nature of government (democracy vs. meritocracy), how Utopia would be "policed" (in this case, robots were one possibility), and how crime is controlled (alas, the group had resorted to an "atomizer" which disintegrates unwanted things and reconverts them into new things).
    I have encountered the topic "design your own Utopia" in many contexts up to this point, all of which proved to be somewhat wild experiences. My first encounter of it was in seventh grade, in which I had been asked to design my own "planet", while my second encounter happened in the context of reading Golding's Lord of the Flies in eleventh grade. Finally, teaching Utopias has been another interesting foray. I personally can't quite pin a reason for this topic: is it a chance for young people to discover the kinds of societies they would like to live in? A way to think and reason sociologically?  Or is it an exercise in pure imagination? More than anything, Utopias reveal one's own personal yearnings, especially at the age where one hasn't quite found their bearings yet, and there are so many possibilities opening up.
   At times, I don't quite know how to teach the unit on Utopias. Today, the student talked about how her group discussed their ideal Utopia as having "only one race"and "one civilization which includes all others."  In addition, there was even some discussion regarding outcasting elders who reached a certain age: a point which was later replaced by the somewhat more humdrum option of uploading one's memories into a supercomputer after one's body has reached a certain old age. Whereas the second point raises issues about aging, the second relates to how diversity is approached in Utopia.
   I think the idea of  having a single "race" of people way to resolve the challenges of diversity, but it raises so many problems. Whose race, more specifically, will represent all people in Utopia? In addition, I wonder how I as a teacher am to respond to this idea, given that it has very terrible historical precedents such as genocide. Do I simply entertain this idea as "possibility", or might I challenge the student to find ways to honor diversity or re-think about inclusion in the world they are envisioning? I tend to go with the latter, albeit carefully, because the exercise is an opportunity to raise questions as well as link imagined worlds to actual worlds in which humans have been historically situated. Just as Swift used various "ideal" worlds to shed light on the world of 17th-18th century England, so it's also conceivable that one's Utopias can lead to very sinister ideas that actually need to be brought out to see their full effect and to challenge them. At the same time, however, I have to be careful to allow the students to give free reign to their imagination and for the ideas that they are raising to come up from their own hearts. My attitude has been to try to listen to the students to understand the ways in which they are coming to their own conclusions regarding how societies can address issues and run properly.

Learning Alongside Students

 I have had the privilege of being able to teach two groups of students in the past year, one in Grade 2 and the other Grade 4, in a private institution. I consider this to be a rare opportunity, because most schools have specific mandates and strict rules about what is covered in the syllabus. While I too am subject to expectations from the students and parents, I have been much more free to improvise as well: sacrificing the content I would ideally like to teach in favor of seeing what connects students the most, while allowing them to practice expressing themselves in written and spoken forms.
   I would have to say that when I first started working in this school, I was expecting that I was solely in charge of the learning experience, while the students were meant to contain what I disseminated. Of course, this is a classic approach to education, but it ignores the reality that teachers have very little control over just what exactly is being learned much less taught in the classrooms. There is a certain degree of "observer effect" here, wherein the teacher's observation of a student's progress influences them to work harder (or resist) rather than finding motivation in the work itself. Thus, overall, there will always be at least a little bit of uncertainty with regards to what the students are learning, since they may only be acting out of a need to perform in limited situations, rather than making the information theirs which they continue to use and reflect upon even after the class.
   I have digressed a lot here, but the point is: I have recently changed my orientation to suggest that while the "authoritative" model of teaching certainly works as far as the curriculum design goes (designing the syllabus, thinking through the lesson plan, etc.), but it hardly works in face to face situations where students' behavior is often far from predictable. In this case, I can't just hide inside my Power Point! I need to be able to flex out of that presentation and into the worlds of the learners in that moment, whether through connecting the lesson with something familiar that they know, or diverting the discussion to a game language generating exercise.
   I have found that when it comes to the latter approach of improvising based on the student's energies, I would have to say that the ideal attitude is one of learning alongside students, or even being a fellow learner in their midst. There is nothing more deadening than teaching a subject where one feels that everything about it has already been explored, and there are simply no further questions to elaborate within its framework. Such a belief leads to teachers' zoning out or even looking for "stock answers" to questions rather than seeing the possibilities hidden in the learning itself. In addition, such a stance allows me to explore and show my natural curiosity, but not with any intention of using curiosity as another veiled form of authority. It is rather a curiosity that comes from being in a certain zone with things and alighting on the questions that naturally come to mind.

Looking From Outside

I think that when we talk about things like "creativity", "knowledge" and "motivation" in education, we are really forming narratives which drive our sense of identity and motion in the world, not actual literal "components" of the brain that we can point to or experience directly. I think that this issue relates to the problem of introspection: what I experience to be motivation, creativity, inner-directedness, and so on, doesn't really relate to a particular component in one's physiology. It relates more to the story one tells about one's personal identity and sense of becoming over time.
   Many times, I have fallen into a mental trap of wondering, what is it that someone has that I lack? I especially notice that I am slower than others when it comes to formulating new ideas or topics. Normally, when asking this kind of question, I am trying to establish an empirically verified, objectively measurable "thing" which I can say is contributing to my inability to do what someone else does. I have swallowed whole the notion that my mind is a kind of supercomputer that needs certain ingredients and enhancements to its system in order to function properly. But on the face of it, this narrative doesn't actually benefit me at all. Simply telling myself that the problem lies in this area of the brain only gives me a mental marker which might allow me to focus on improving something, either through will power or intellect or reading various books by psychologists. In other words, the theory affects the way I narrate  my life, but in actuality, it has no direct effect on a physical part of the brain. This is because I can't directly experience the physical brain. It only exists as a kind of narrative metaphor which allows me to pinpoint areas where I need improvement, like a literal mental map. However, it does not provide any real explanation as to what practices can improve or enhance certain mental abilities or characteristics.
    While there are limits to psychological discourse or "biological" models of the self, I suggest that there must be larger social functions to such discourses if they have remained so popular in modern culture. In the past, biological arguments were used to justify certain kinds of social orders, such as through egregious arguments about the natural "intelligence" of certain kinds of races or peoples. Recently, I think that the discourse of psychology is doing something quite different. In arguing that people can control their behavior by pinpointing "defective" areas of their minds that could be enhanced through self-help or will power, other factors that might pertain to a person's ability to learn are excluded, such as interpersonal components, social identity and other constructed selves. They also take away from an ability to really be with one's difficulties in a more direct way, by imagining that the self can be observed from "outside". I doubt that this can truly be done.

"Rules of Engagement"

 Prior to teaching the Grade 2 students today, I felt apprehensive about delivering a Power Point which had worked effectively in a previous class, yet didn't feel appropriate for the reading level of the current students. I was so apprehensive about this, in fact, that I even came into the classroom with a certain eagerness to engage, coupled with a curiosity to know exactly what would engage the students in a way that felt educational. In fact, I found that having this eagerness to engage (coupled with uncertainty about how to do it), made the class feel more engaged to me! The students weren't acting out as often as they would, and I also found that they seemed to respond well to my eagerness to engage their attention.
   Much of what I observe in these dynamics ends up reinforcing my belief that engagement is not something that can ever be planned. Often, having a powerpoint presentation which one feels is "effective" can be an impediment to real, genuine engagement, because it can give the instructor or presenter a rather false or substitute sense of confidence. Moreover, this false confidence doesn't come from the reality that students are often difficult to engage unless they truly know and feel cared for. To be engaged with students requires a certain apprehensiveness:  I am not sure what works, but I am willing to try a bunch of things to experiment on what could work. I have found that this slightly apprehensive approach worked best in terms of connecting with the students. Without apprehension, I no longer reach the students, because they must feel that their role has been diminished in some ways to that of a spectator to a teacher's presentation and "bullet points". I am furthermore not willing to see myself as in a position to learn from my students; rather, I wall myself into a steely role of "teacher".
   I wonder to what extent the principal of engagement that I am observing with these young students can apply more generally to working relationships with adults. Engagement truly requires a sense of mystery. After all, if I am confident in what I know, I am like the person who has sealed myself off into a wall of confidence, rather than someone who is letting in the unknown and is vulnerable to moments of uncertainty. In working life, having too much certainty (especially in an exploration stage) is terrible to system design and testing, because it fails to see the new potentials and pitfalls in the unfamiliar. In the same way, students can feel the extent to which a teacher is willing to truly extend themselves into a classroom rather than standing on the sidelines.

Walking Through Fire

 I have recently been listening to a song by Peter Gabriel, "Walk Through The Fire", which comes from the soundtrack for the movie Against All Odds. It was a song which I heard a few times when I was younger, and it came out in the mid-80s (1984, to be exact). This singer and songwriter is brilliant for the way he uses poetic metaphor and imagery to evoke an emotional idea or even a spiritual one. The song uses the metaphor of walking in fire to describe how we can walk into destruction and be able to survive it. "Destruction" in this sense does not necessarily have to literally mean a car chase or running out of a burning building. It means being able to witness something that tears out of the supposed "buildings" that we construct around ourselves, which are designed to protect us from harm. I sense that the song is evocative of an instinct to tear down the things that we have built up around us for such a long time, be it a sense of safe or secure identity, or perhaps a general expectation about how one thinks life is supposed to be or to mean. It is also a call to adventure: what would life be like if I didn't need things to feel safe? How would it be if my worst fears were realized, and yet I could do nothing but run right into it and embrace it?
   Does this idea accord with the previous notion I discussed about karma? Can the view of karma from a Buddhist view be going the opposite direction of imposing more restrictions on the sense of what a person can or cannot do? I don't think that this is what the idea of karma is about. I think the sense of danger that karma sometimes evokes, especially the sense of risk, can be seen as exciting and challenging, not necessarily restrictive or daunting. If people only see themselves in terms of their standard "boxes"--self-imposed, confined identities---then they might think that their lives are predictable and going only one way. But to know that this is not the case and that identity is essentially porous and subject to all kinds of permutations, then there is definitely more room to breathe and create. Destruction, here, is not nihilistic, but it part of a bigger cycle that includes periods of both construction and destruction. The point is, one is always creating, and that creation has such a potency in an interconnected world: it multiplies and breeds. What a person says, thinks, feels, is so profoundly implicated in the things around oneself that we can no longer take their impact for granted. In this way, tearing down the things around oneself can make way to new forms of creation.

The Humble Look of Karma

Karma is something that sometimes scares me but at the same time, I feel that it needs to be taken a certain way. It's a bit like walking on an icy patch: if I know that I don't necessarily have the best shoes to walk the path and can never be 100% immune to slipping, I will tread more carefully and with a contrite heart. I am never at the point where I am completely "indestructible" or immune to the dangers or risks of life. It's important to cultivate a mindset that knows that everything we cultivate has a deeper effect on things around us.
  That having been said: it seems a bit mistaken to go the other way and make it one's life goal to accumulate karmic "points". The reason for this is that it solidifies a sense of self that stands to benefit from good karma. Heaven is created when I manage to convince myself that my deeds have protected me from the suffering of human life, and I am able to advance to a new place which is free of cares. But this state doesn't last. In fact, one of the deepest sources of suffering is how much of the karma we create which we consider as "good karma" is not meant to last. It needs to be renewed with new actions all the time.
   Can karma sometimes look like a treadmill? If one's purpose in life is only to accumulate good karma then, yes, life is a treadmill. But if, on the other hand, one can see that there is no discrimination of good and bad, then one has seen beyond the treadmill into something that is closer to the original mind. This is true relief, because then my life is no longer being over-run by ideas about good vs bad. While karma is important, it's only insofar that it helps liberate a person from the wheel of suffering that it makes sense. Otherwise, it becomes a game where one can't backslide even for a moment from accumulating karmic deeds.

Intentional Curiosity Again

During the sharing after the group meditation practice today, what came to my mind was the question a student had raised to Bodhidharma, and that is, "how can I settle my mind?"... at which point Bodhidharma had said (with a very fierce expression), "show me your mind, and I will pacify it." Not knowing exactly where this mind is, the student has an insight that there is no mind to pacify. I am not sure why this point was raised but it seemed right at the time when I came out of the meditation sitting.
   I have thought about this expression "intentional curiosity", and I don't think it's a very apt expression. Yes, it's important to develop an intention to want to know where the mind it, what it is, at every given point in time. But at the same time, there is something gentle about curiosity: I really don't need to know at all, and I don't have to harp on the fact that I don't know. Instead, my mind is very gently open and pointing in that direction of wonder. This is really the key point for me, and that is not to try too hard to be curious. After all, anything that we are going to deliberately be "curious" about is only going to be an illusory object. It isn't really what one is aiming for.
   I have sometimes found that certain kinds of music helps to evoke a sense of mystery, or the edges of reality starting to curl and reveal something else. But be careful not to make this into another dogma. It's not about trying to solidify or catch anything: rather, it's always retaining that light sense of wonder that never quite touches or grounds itself in any particular thing. This is the nature of mind: it's always luminous, like a crystal, and beautiful, but one is so shrouded in habitual ways of solidifying their bodies and identities that they cannot see this wonder.

Writing and Learning

  Part of what I have come to learn in the year of studies is that writing is a very methodical process, much like the way one does research. Prior to taking the proseminar course, I have harbored this naive attitude that writing is somehow a spontaneous process which happens straight from a person's heart. In fact, a lot of it is very step by step. What helps is for me to understand that the writing itself is not the final goal; learning is the final goal. In other words, truly writing one's life is a process of simultaneous self-discovery, where the process of formulating words on the page in and of itself becomes a form of continual renewed discovery. The act of writing is inseparable from the process of discovery and thinking.
   I find that this way of looking at writing is a refreshing step away from my previous ideas, which often positioned writing as a way of polishing already existing thoughts, rather than as a thought formation in itself. If taken seriously, the actual act of writing becomes an on-the-spot creative process of discovery, as opposed to simply a chronicle of one's past thoughts. It's quite refreshing in the sense that writing in this vein can lift away the burdens of having to present a perfected version of one's thinking in written form.
  At the same time, I am no longer that attached to the idea that writing doesn't involve planning and stages. In fact, it really does involve a lot of planning and methodical plotting of themes and ideas. To write is a bit like a marathon: one needs to chart the course and strategize over what stops they need to make in order to reach the finish post in a given time. Learning is thus not entirely spontaneous, any more than research is. There needs to be a stated question that one really wants to explore, followed by methods which logically complement the question itself and allow for meaningful answers. Once a structure is in place, there is then room for the researcher/writer to explore the inroads in the writing itself as well as the question one is attempting to explore or answer.
   Even if I never publish a full scale book in my lifetime, I would truly benefit to know what are the steps involved in doing so. Research complements the process of writing because it shows how to develop a plan for a longer work that can be accessed by others.

Impermanence as a Social Tool

  I am reflecting on how Buddhist philosophy can be a very good tool for social life. When I reflect on impermanence and contemplate it, having to socialize with people doesn't seem "a big deal" as it was before. It's only when I believe that people are permanent that I develop grasping or rejecting attitudes toward them. I don't recognize that what I am really perceiving is the mind's tendencies, not  a solid permanent thing that always exists all the time.
   It would be interesting to do a self-study on the kinds of beliefs that underlie social anxiety. I certainly think that one of those beliefs has to do with taking responses to human beings as being a permanent attribute of "myself" or others. For instance, according Alfred Korzybski's theory of General Semantics, humans have a tendency to use language to reify particular reactions to things. I observe a reaction or response I have to a situation and then draw the conclusion that I am always, irrevocably one way, and cannot be any other way. What I don't recognize is that the response is a habit: I see a phenomena and then react to it according to something associated with it that I experienced before. There are certainly multiple ways to respond to the situation, but I choose the way that I most identify with "me" not realizing that this is not me at all. It's only one way in which the mind has responded to similar situations in the past.
   Before a person experiences social anxiety or even disconnection, a thought usually emerges, usually some thought about the self. Before I can allow the experience to unfold naturally, I interject the sense of self: "Am I doing okay?" "Does this person like me?" "What do I stand to gain from talking to this person?" This self-reference continually emerges and puts pressure on the situation. Meanwhile, as I am reflecting on this presumably real, permanent sense of self, a sense of a concrete, permanent "other" emerges, which is labelled as a whole slew of imagined characteristics. Most of these characteristics are projections of my own evaluating self, who is always looking to see where it fits into the situation and is comparing itself, evaluating and judging. Of course, in the process of solidifying the self and the other, the entire situation becomes fraught with anxiety: am I good enough for this person? Is this person suitable for me? Do we get along together? etc. etc. All this inner discourse only reinforces my belief that there are these separate beings who are outside of the permanent "self". It's no wonder that such a situation gives rise to a feeling of alienation or struggle. I struggle to "get along" and "fit in" with you, not realizing that both "I" and "you" are temporary constructs that emerge in that moment in time, as a structuring tool or convention.  I don't recognize that these concepts are essentially illusory.
    What does all this mean for social life? I do believe it's important to approach social life in the same way that we approach meditative practice. We understand and recognize that what we think to be solid and "real" about ourselves and others is actually just a series of mental evaluations and constructs. It's as though the mind were a transparent calculator which continually throws figures up on the window of the world. I see the numbers on the screen and use such numbers to "frame" and quantify my experience in a certain way, such as through the lenses of success, personal gain, attraction, "spiritual growth", inner worth, and so on. Yet, what I fail to recognize is that the situation itself lacks permanence: there is nothing to secure in that moment. All I can do in that moment is treat the situation as a vow, such as the vow to treat the phenomena as one's mind and not separate from mind. In this way, my understanding of the world and its situations starts to soften, and I am no longer up against hard boundaries such as self/other, gain/loss, past/future, etc. etc. This subtle softening of boundaries can allow a person to face their emotional states with more courage and less fear.
 

Alternate Stories

 I am planning a lesson for my Grade 4 students based on Gulliver's Travels, where it talks about Gulliver's encounter with the magic conjurers of "Glubbdubdrib". In this chapter, Gulliver meets the spirits of historical figures, many of whom don't prove to be the way historians quite pictured them to be. I believe this chapter satirizes the way history is written in such a way that it valorizes some who did not "deserve" credit while belittling or ignoring those who might have received more credit than they did. History, for Jonathan Swift, is not so straightforward, and it almost seemed that Swift admired the antihero who did accomplish a great deal yet was not honored for her or his achievements. Cato, Socrates and Brutus were examples of historical figures whom Swift felt did not sufficiently receive credit where it was due.
   I begin to wonder what would be the take home lesson for Grade 4 students? Is it to say that our reputations are often built upon distorted stories or narratives? I find this conclusion to be a bit pessimistic, and it might lead one not to trust any historical narratives at all. A different way of teaching this lesson might be to consider, what are alternate ways of looking at people's lives? How might the life of a disgraced or "obscure" person, for instance, be seen in a way that truly recognizes the person's struggles and achievements, rather than consigning them to a category such as "failure"? What this lesson might also introduce is the theme that a lot of our narratives are based on perspectives and biases. It's hard to shake off a person's reputation, and it takes courage to be able to shed new light on a person that sufficiently explores their achievements in spite of negative aspects that might have been emphasized.
   The way I might design such a lesson for the students might be to explore someone they know or have read about, and try to explore unexpected or surprising facts about that person which have not been heretofore explored. Another way would be to have the students guess which obscure historical facts about a person belong to that historical figure, thus getting the students to think about alternate ways of seeing a person or even to feel "surprise" at history rather than framing people according to preconceived ideas.
   

White Rhinos

  On my Facebook feed today, I saw the very sad news that there is only one known example of a northern male white rhino in existence. His name is "Sudan", and according to the article, he is apparently very ill. The unfortunate part of this news is that there are only two other females that this male rhinoceros can mate with, and all three are in the process of ageing. This rhino is heavily protected, yet its the internal state of its being that stands to truly threaten it with extinction.
   Rhinos have always symbolized for me the most threatened animals, even when I was very young. Part of the problem is that they are such beautiful and prized creatures, whose horns are valued for their apparent medicinal properties. Whether such medicinal virtues are real or not, it remains questionable to me whether it is truly worth it for the species to be killed only for the sake of its horn. The paradox is that, however strong or sturdy the rhinoceros's body is, it is truly one of the most vulnerable creatures. I have always marveled at this paradox, and feel sad that humans are losing this species through the combination  greed, exploitation and unlimited "growth" or expansion of human societies.
   Eugene Ionesco wrote a play called Rhinoceros, which I read many years ago. This play did a quite opposite thing in suggesting the rhino to symbolize conformity and (perhaps) a kind of herd mentality. Interestingly, in my mind, the whole play represents not being part of any crowd, and not having the sufficient support and resources to find sustenance through a group of people.
     Compassion itself, as I mentioned in my earlier blog, is not so easy to negotiate in crowds. I am far too used to people passing off words like "unity" and "doing things together as a group" to realize that this kind of solidarity conceals more than it truly unifies or harmonizes. Even when people profess to share the same beliefs and principles, it's rare to find that people's experiences of these principles and beliefs is going to be exactly identical, let alone the way they express their shared commitments to a group. What always invariably happens is that the power of the group trumps the ability for individuals to find support and care. This is similar to what happens when species diversity is neglected in favor of the "grander" goals to profit and unlimited human expansion, which ends up becoming exploitative in some way.
   Being able to look at things from a variety of perspectives can often help to mitigate the tendency to marginalize sentient beings or leave people disenfranchised. This takes a lot of hard thinking and trying out different things with some persistence and sensitivity. But most importantly, it requires an attitude of never giving up trying to fight for the protection of sentient beings. Guarding the white rhino symbolizes an almost futile quest, but it is something that is done in the spirit of love and faith that the love means something, and it has longer consequences that cannot necessarily be seen in the moment.
   

Allowing Depressed States

 In Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism, Chogyam Trungpa notes, "Whenever the possibility of depression arises and the feeling of loss is about to occur, the defensive nature of ego immediately brings to mind memories and words we have heard in the past in order to comfort us. Thus ego is continually looking for inspiration which has no root in the present; it is a continual running back. This is the more complicated action of self-deception: one does not allow depression to come into being at all" (p.68). What this chapter alludes to is how depressive states of being tend to be suppressed in favour of soothing words. Instead of facing the depressed state and realizing that it is inherently "okay" for these states to emerge in mind, one tends to try to use positive messages and images to cover over that depressed state. But perhaps it can be meaningful not to run away at all, let alone to even create meaning around the depressed state.
    Many depressed states do indeed relate to "the feeling of loss", but who wants to feel loss? Perhaps the journey of meditation itself is learning to accept losses in small increments. In having the space not to surround our bodies with comfortable sensations, let alone control what comes in or leaves mind, there is this tiny space where nothing happens: there are no plot lines, no "punch lines" and no stories to follow in that brief, quiet space where one is just letting the emotions emerge in themselves. But this sense of loss can then extend toward being able to be in uncomfortable situations without necessary spinning into disconnected states. I still need to work with the things in this world and function as a person in relation to others, so it's necessary that I remain engaged even if I do have uncomfortable feelings. But being with those feelings simultaneously with engaging in the world can be a very good skill to know and understand. I think this kind of skill could also be nurtured by not preventing learners from reading about the sadder states of mind that have come over many people in different walks of life, be they scholars or political figures, etc. But what I think most impresses me about Rinpoche's approach is the promise that darkness contains a lot of richness, and one can stay in that place for a while to become acquainted with it without necessarily losing one's sense of responsibilities to life and to others.

Trungpa, Chongyam (1973), Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism. Boulder: Shambhala

Guilt as a Barrier

I have been thinking recently about guilt and its pluses and minuses. Having a healthy sense of guilt, like shame, can be a very good thing, because it helps us to steer clear of behavior that is not helpful or compassionate. On the other hand, too much guilt can be toxic. It can lead to the mistaken view that in order to truly be responsible, one must always take into consideration everything a person wishes for, and never say no to them. Such an attitude can lead to a blurring of boundaries, where the sense of what could benefit everyone starts to blur, and one begins to wonder to whom one is serving by always saying yes.
  I am reminded of a story in which a family or group of people ended up going on some ordeal of a trip, thinking that the other party was interested in going on this long trek. Later, they realize that the other persons were not at all interested in going to this particular place. In fact, they were motivated to go because they were under the impression that the former had wanted to go to this intrepid place! What can one learn from this? It's that what I think is the case (or assume to be so) is really only my own experience, often projected onto others. Sometimes when I say, "I feel bad if I don't do this", what I really mean is that if I don't receive the thing I am expecting myself to do to someone else, I would feel bad for not receiving it (assuming I were that other person). But this doesn't mean that it's even desirable to have done this even for myself, and nor does it mean that I have the other person's interests in mind. In fact, I may never have even asked the other person what they really want, instead only assuming based on what I like.  Compassion is complex and tricky in this way, because it's not just about what I would like. It has to be about listening to the other to know what they like as well.
   Sometimes, saying no to one thing might mean being able to say yes to things that matter, not just to me but to others as well. For instance, I have always had difficulty saying no to things when the rationalization is that I should be a good team player. But simply putting people together as part of a big whole doesn't necessarily guarantee that this group will somehow congeal together or communicate with each other. It's a bit like family photos: the group is all in one place and smiling, but we don't really know what each person is thinking and feeling. This is why the idea of simply bringing people together is not sufficient for unity. There often needs to be something that people mutually care about that they are actively involved in or can play a part in. People want to feel basically needed, so putting people in one place is not in itself sufficient for a "team" to be a "team." There needs to be more mutuality and a sense of people really appreciating each other.
  Feeling "guilty" might just be a conflict between wanting to help and realizing that one doesn't have the means to help in an impacting way, given the current situation and causes. In this case, it might be better to sit with the guilt for a while until better circumstances arise for real help or growth to happen.