Comfortable in Discomfort?

Discomfort is an opportunity more than it is an obstacle. During the sharing after the meditation practice tonight, one of the participants talked about a metaphor that is often used in Thich Nhat Han's circles, namely that of clouds in the sky. While some people might see the sky as eternally "present" and only in need of "clearing away" the clouds to fully be visible, others maintain that the clouds themselves are not obstacles. This is a hard practice to grasp, since a lot of times, people have a tendency to try to get rid of discomforts in order to achieve a kind of piece of mind. However, this is not necessary; one need only to realize that their thoughts and impressions are only forms of the same mind, in much the same way that clouds are phenomena.
  I think the best way of looking at this might be to recognize that even the worst kind of thoughts one could possibly have are empty and conditioned in nature. Just as they arise in one instant due to conditions preceding it, so it will also pass away in favor of other thoughts and conditions. There is no sense "building a fence" around a cloud to protect oneself from it. Not only will the cloud go away on its own but it cannot be contained by any boundary anyway, so it's a bit futile to try to suppress thoughts altogether.
  Why do we get "snagged" or attached to thoughts? This is more difficult to really understand, but it has to do with creating a subject and an object. As soon as I think there is something to be grasped that is permanent, a "grasper" evolves from it. Often this will happen so imperceptibly that one will hardly even notice when it's happened. But the good thing is that I can go back to this very same phenomena at a later time and be able to see it differently, with new eyes, because there is no self that is grasping and no object to be grasped. In this way, the discomfort itself is illusory, because it is taking the clouds to be permanent when in fact it is not to be grasped.

Turning Movement into Stillness

 When I am hearing the story of my colleague's retreat, I am sometimes lead to wonder: does anything ever really happen on retreat? Or is it really simply turning movement into stillness? I thought about how common it is for practitioners to report on how even the sense of time is lost during the longer retreats.  But sometimes there is a teachable moment there, in the sense that one is realizing that there is already an inherent stillness in everything.
   When we converse with people or even read the news, do we look at the underlying stillness, or do we look at the movement? To answer that question, I need only reflect on the word "news". "News" entails something that is emerging, that is completely novel, and is also completely original. An air of anticipation happens when we hear the words "breaking news", because the term entails a kind of rupturing of a predictable routine: "We interrupt our regular programming to deliver this breaking..".. and of course, "novels" and "news" are probably the two most popular genres of reading on longer commutes, where they both entail original, up and coming information. The point I am making is, one would hardly pay so much attention to breaking news if it were known or understood ahead of time that the news contains similar patterns of human interaction that cycle. Today's "gossip" may seem completely new, but somehow our familiarity with it tells us that it speaks of something universal and deep within the human psyche, such as a struggle to be known or recognized. However nobody wants to admit that our "news" stories are really old ones, because doing so takes the fun out of reading the news or watching it on one's preferred feed. This tells me that people often prefer seeing movement rather than looking for the stillness in things.
   The practice of turning movement into stillness in terms of reading news might be....to look for the silent universals in the news. Most stories revolve around similar issues: fear, trust/mistrust, camaraderie, betrayal, loss, success and separation. And they are simply rehashed in ways that make it appear as though they are being discovered for the first time, or as though the person affected by them was somehow not supposed to be affected. The "sullying" of a pure person is one such example of a trope one often finds in news, where scandals hit people who were otherwise considered "pure" as snow or good all around. But perhaps the sullying aspect is the switch from a universal given to an unexpected twist: I recognize that the eternal I once assumed in someone is really constant change, and the change I assumed excited me about someone is only a changing constant.

No Race!

 In the evenings after work, I often do see people racing to the subway train. It's compelling to participate in the amazing race, not only because it's good for one's health, but also because it allays the fears of "falling behind" that often assail people in the big cities. I have to say that recently, I have taken to walking more quickly in public spaces, simply because it gives me a more vigorous approach to the rush hour. I am much less tired when I use the time between places to do a bit of exercise.
  I think the trick to walking fast is not to do so with any destination in mind. I manage this by getting up early to go to work, so that I am not impelled to rush when I get to the office. When I am leaving work to go to an event with volunteering or school, it's not so easy to tell if I will reach my destination on time. But at least I can tell myself that some of that "getting there" is beyond my control anyway, so it's best not to have that goal in mind so much.
     Does running fast mean that it has to be a "race" to get from A to Z? This is interesting, because for me it becomes a symbol of what urban life often seems like. I have heard the expression "rat race" many times, and this evokes for me images of animals chasing each others' tales to get to the finish line or to the top of an echelon. But sooner or later, one feels the frustration of knowing that such a race has no end. I might be ahead one day (so to speak) only to find myself supplanted the next day. Perhaps the only person one can really "outdo" is oneself, and even here, one must be careful not to burn themselves out with unrealistic expectations.

Appreciating the Spaces of Work

 This evening, I did have a thought about appreciating the workplace, which stemmed from a very interesting conversation about what happens when people become aware of their death. Many people, when faced with the situation of their life ending, will stop thinking about their work. After all: one's profession is not an indispensable part of one's identity, and at the end of the day, what counts is thew way one treats people. However, I tend to feel that the workplace is a good space where a person practices how they connect with the world. When contextualized as a life activity, one's work does teach important lessons about life.
  To take a simple example: doing one's task to the best of one's ability often conflicts with the injunction to be "efficient" and speedy at work. I have often experienced within myself an conflict between wanting to do a job thoroughly and being constrained by time requirements or circumstances to limit one's time spent doing the job. We have a nickname for the kind of work that is expedient yet not attentive to completeness or quality, and that is "quick and dirty". Sometimes both approaches (slow and methodical/quick and dirty) are needed depending on the situation that arises, but what happens when a person cannot decide which approach is better? It ultimately depends on the situation at hand, but what it teaches me at work is how to hold conflicting commitments about different approaches to work. There isn't a single "right answer" to how to go about doing a job, but this conflict actually matures one's thinking by showing multiple options that are available to engage a task.
   Work, for me, is also a place of mental stability and anchoring. Knowing that I am needed tomorrow at my workplace gives me the opportunity to practice using mind to accomplish my tasks, and it also refines my being in the world. Had I never held a steady place of work since graduating, I may never have experienced the feelings that come with mastering certain processes or tasks. Having this anchor, like meditation, can become a very joyful experience if one is able to stop and appreciate the stability that work life affords.
  Work should never only be seen "literally" as a place where, say, certain goods and services are bought and sold. This is certainly the surface meaning of work, but unless one is unequivocally passionate about a certain product, they are not going to find this product to be the final meaning of work. The meaning of work, on the contrary, is often in the relationship I have toward myself, and how I cultivate that relationship to harmonize with others.

Heavenly Realms Revisited

  Reading the Surangama Sutra chapter on Heavens, I am sometimes hard pressed to figure out how this chapter can truly be understood. For example, I am reading the line in the chapter called The Destiny Gods where it states, "Next are gods who emit light and who--as they shine upon one another with an inexhaustible brilliance-illumine their realm throughout the ten directions, turning it all to crystal." (p.379). In reading this passage, I am lead to wonder, what might these special realms look like, and what exactly is the experience to be conveyed in the sutra? It is certainly a pleasant place, but would people want to bathe in the "inexhaustible brilliance" forever?
   During the discussion group, a member made the interesting observation that people in Taiwan that she knows often see Canada as a kind of paradise from a distance. The perception of Canada is that it is very affluent and affords a lot of different kinds of freedoms for people. However, what isn't mentioned in the travel brochures is that even Canadians have arguments and have their share of unhappiness. This is to say that, when taken from a distance (and compared to one's own place or origin), Canada has many opportunities, yet its people do not always enjoy a carefree lifestyle. In a sense, what one person sees as heaven is often from a distance, and it doesn't necessarily appear the same way to someone who is immersed in it. But this also has to do with how people's perspectives change when they are shifting from one environment to the other. What once seems heavenly is really only the imagined relief of one's own special kind of suffering in this moment.
 

Open Hearted Learning

Today, during the one day meditation retreat, the theme that the facilitator was describing was about open-ness. This word translates to "open heart" or "Kai-Shi". I found that the term open heart is very interesting and appropriate especially when learning new things. Lately, I have been feeling stuck in my class, because there are times when my heart is very much open to learning, while other times, my heart shuts down a bit. Either I feel overwhelmed by the information or unable to Can one apply the principle of the open heart outside of the meditation space and into daily interactions?
  I think the most important aspect in all of this is being open to pain and frustration. In learning a new concept, for example, one's previous experiences and patterns of behavior are often uprooted, and discomfort naturally arises. For me, this often takes the form of feeling that the ends are "loose" in my mind, and longing for times when my narratives are smoother and less riddled with obstacles. But what if all these obstacles precisely the means through which I learn through the frustration itself? Perhaps pain would then not be seen as detrimental to learning but might actually b a sign of learning.
  We tend to associate learning with a smooth path, through metaphors such as "learning curve". I love the thrill of feeling that I have "progressed" in my learning, but I wonder if this metaphor might be challenged. Perhaps learning is not always about progress at all but rather about starts and stops, as well as unearthing painful uncertainties. Could one reframe these stuck moments as forms of learning? I think that learning needs to include stuck moments as well as epiphanies.
 

Spirituality of J.S. Mill

I remember years ago in undergraduate philosophy, reading a small book called On Liberty by John Stewart Mill. I remarked to one of my friends how inspiring this book was to me, at which point my friend asked me what on earth I was thinking. Isn't Mill rather "utilitarian"? Why would Mill of all people be so inspiring?
   Looking back on it, I don't think it was Mill's political philosophy that inspired me so much as his implicit spiritual approach to life. Mill was writing at a time when a lot of theories of morality were deontological, or essentially "duty" based. Mill heralded a liberal approach to morality by suggesting that it's not duty that united human beings together in the same cause, but rather the wish to preserve and maximize the most pleasure for the most people. I realize that this is a crude rendering of a complex philosophy, and Mill offered a more nuanced rendition of what utilitarianism means, suggesting that there are even "scales" of moral goods that are based on the relative benefits of certain kinds of activities and pursuits. Nobody could ever accuse Mill of being a hedonist, since he did support the idea of delaying gratification in the pursuit of the highest goods in life. However, the radical departure of Mill from his philosophical contemporaries may very well have been his assertion that morals are not duties imposed on people from some heaven above, but are reflections of the deepest aspirations, hopes and wishes of people. Justice is a seeking of maximizing the collective gain of a diverse group of people. 
   Mill respected diversity of opinion, in part because he was aware that having more inputs can actually strengthen and broaden a person's initial argument. I suspect that what Mill was defending was a more inquiry based way to craft arguments: looking at the other side is a way of deepening one's own argument. But what I respect here is the spiritual approach of allowing others to have their own sense of meaning. Sometimes, if we are very determined to understand something, we are actually trying to assimilate the other's perspective into our own. What if those perspectives are not commensurate at all? If I look at it from a utilitarian perspective, the only way to balance these very divergent possibilities is through allowing everyone to pursue their own special good in life. I may not agree with the goods that you are pursuing (because they are not commensurate with mine), but what I can agree with is that your good doesn't have to be mine, and vice versa. This is a refreshing space which in fact allows people to simply pursue their projects mutually, without a pressure to completely "agree" on everything. There is a space where people honor each other including their disagreements.
   Today, I heard an interesting and funny story about a musical group, Beautiful South, who announced that they were breaking up due to "musical similarities". I laughed when I read this. It's ironic, but is it not what often happens? It's not that people in a group disband because they are too "similar" but rather because they assume that they are supposed to be similar (by default or by association), so there is a tendency to become frustrated when the other person doesn't match one's expectations (or projections). In those moments, it's possible to adopt a Mill perspective, which is to remember that people, no matter how similar, are often complexly different, and complicatedly so. In this way, one can also remember that this difference is what fills people with a sense of mystery, and that mystery is truly precious, not to be taken for granted. Mill's utilitarianism seems "utilitarian", but to what extent is his vision of incommensurate "pleasures" a veiled spiritual vision of alterity and seeing the other as not an appendage of the "self"?

Baby

 In the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey, the central character, David Bowman, undergoes a mental transformation which famously culminates in a fetus floating somewhere in space. While there are many different possible interpretations for this event, it's been said that the baby symbolizes a kind of fresh and new way of looking at the world, or even a new stage in evolution, in which the previous learning has somehow in need of being transcended.
   To be able to become a "baby" again in one's life is actually a very huge birth. Moment to moment, am I able to just lose all my previous assumptions and narratives, and not get hooked into the same patterns again and again? This somehow requires the mind of pure curiosity, not taking for granted one's whole existence in any way or form. It also requires a willingness to keep starting fresh, even when one catches themselves somehow repeating similar patterns again and again.
  This "Babyhood" that I am referring to is a beginner's mind. I have sometimes found myself experiencing it in meditation, but I do believe that there are other ways as well, such as taking a self-reflective perspective of life. In the books of Thomas Moore, for instance, one sees a caring attention to soul as well as the ability to detect daily life resonance with the soul. Even simple thing like going to a park or seeing a concert might carry the connotations of something meaningful to the soul. In other words, nature and life never "wastes" anything, and there is always an opportunity to see each experience as food for the soul. But this requires an attitude of trust--an utter, faithful and undying trust that life events are already endowed with the stuff of mind. I am not reaching for anything, as everything is an enfolded reflection of my true being. With this attitude, even simple events can become opportunities to learn more about the soul and its tendencies.

Working for?

 I am reflecting tonight about what people work toward, and whether one's working life is meaningful. When I talk about "working life", I am not only referring to one's professional work, but also the kinds of things we do that occupy our intellects and our bodies: volunteering for one, education for another. Is there ever a time when we feel that this work has no purpose? If so, what do we do in those situations?
   I have often thought of work as a place where meaning can be sought, even if it is not necessarily given in the purpose of the organization itself. If you have ever read mission statements before, you will know what I am talking about. Though mission statements are designed to define what an organization does, they are always by necessity framed in a vague enough way that it might not even suit the person's own sense of meaning. I wouldn't personally base my own sense of work around the idea of a corporate mission statement, since it is way too big, and quite often, people at work are unable to see themselves as carrying out a significant part of the mission statement itself. Even when I am in the front line of serving customers or dealing with customer inquiries and issues, this doesn't mean that I by necessity feel connected with those stakeholders or derive meaning from those relationships.
   To me, work (of all kinds) is really just a training for the mind to deal with various kinds of struggles, as well as to learn how to create meaning rather than passively seeking it in things. That is, my work meaning needs to come from a kind of creative reflection, such as in the mornings when I think about the best way to tackle a work problem, or when I am reflecting on a particular course in school. When I have insight into the constructed nature of meaning itself, I am less inclined toward depression or blaming environmental circumstances. Instead, I start to view myself as someone who is actively involved in their own meaning making. In addition, work life teaches us about mystery, harmony and the values of waiting. When I am working for someone, I am often having to work with others to get projects done, often collaborating with very different personalities. In this way, I learn the subtle balance between creating meaning and being able to yield to the moments and perspective of others. Meaning of work is always a work in progress.

Appreciating This Moment

This evening, I checked in with the online community of my class, only to find that the class was cancelled due to a technical issue. I had a night to catch up on my reading, eat grapes that I had left from my previous shopping, and simply enjoy a surfeit of free time that was unexpected. And, considering that I have had a few days off from work, I did feel truly rested. It was also helpful that I was outdoors yesterday, feeling the warm air and exercising.
   It's unfortunate that so much of my life is going through a series of tasks that I miss the occasional moments when there is only one or two things that need doing. I have to say that this experience often occurs as a result of an unexpected "freeing" of my schedule but there are also times when the body is very relaxed and I can focus more effectively. From a Buddhist perspective, however, such moments can even be cultivated in the time when one has many things to do, because the mind is not entangled in these successive confusing thoughts of having to do many things.
  I often think there is a lot to do, but that often happens only because I didn't cherish what I am doing presently, and appreciate it for what it's worth. Let's say, for instance, you have a stack of assignments to do. If you look at those assignments only from the perspective of things to be "done", then you have already committed to a time when they should be completed. Any thought in your mind that smacks of "not finished yet" is going to feel unsatisfying. However, if you treat each assignment like a really wonderful book you are reading or writing, the thought of getting it done will actually not feel so compelling. That's because you are simply enjoying the actual doing of the task, without worrying about whether it's finished or not. Savoring what needs doing now takes away from the sting of "not having things finished" as much as one originally planned.
   Another way of putting this, perhaps,is that the best way for time to pass is not to be aware of the time passing at all. How is this done? Part of it is to retrain one's mind to see that there is something in one's responsibilities that nobody else shares: it's entirely unique to you. Right now, I am taking a class in anti-oppression education, and isn't this wonderful? No matter whether I finish or not, I have this chance to learn something completely new in an area that can help other people. It can also help me to learn how to see things differently. No matter whether the assignments are finished, it's what I am learning and trying to digest that really matters, not so much the performance of the stated educational outcomes.

No Horizon

At Tommy Thompson Park today, there didn't seem to be any separation between Lake Ontario and the hazy blue sky. I felt heartened by the lack of distinction, while also dizzy at the same time. I wondered what it would feel like if a sailor on a ship simply didn't see any separate border where "sky" and "lake" separate, and whether it would feel terrifying to them to know that there isn't a single place where one could mark off such a boundary.
   Boundaries tend to be artificial, regardless of whether they are blatantly clear to the naked eye or not. Their designation is more so marked off by the mind and often referred to when defining separate things. Yet, in reality, there is no actual point in the sky that connects with the lake, or vice versa. The point where sky becomes water is actually not a demarcated point. It's relative to the viewer's position when looking at the lake and sky from a certain distance.
   Boundaries are often negotiated places. The more one explores them, the more one recognizes their continuous creation, as well as the fear that perhaps the boundary is not a fixed thing that is stopping one thing from leaking into another. During the hike through the park, we see a place where algae appears to be fenced off from the rest of a growing marshland. Yet, it strikes me as a bit odd: can and does algae obey the dictates of a porous fence, or is it possible for some of it to slip through the cracks and start to drift into the rest of the marshland? Perhaps this fence was only built for the reassurance of a local park ranger, and has no bearing on the growth of the natural world.
   In our relations with the others, there are distinct places where we are different, as well as places where we blend in, and our shapes even change a little bit. Who is the real "me" in this? It's sometimes scary to fathom that perhaps the real "me" doesn't have a real boundary. Yet, this real me must somehow include all the ways I think and act in the world. It's wonderful yet sometimes scary to contemplate how people shift and change all the time.

Only Walk...

This morning's walking meditation might not have been for everyone. One of the participants, who looked to be a newcomer to the group, had left shortly after the walking meditation, though she didn't specify why. From what I heard from another participant, this particular person was not more interested in sitting meditation alone. Sometimes the act of walking seems so simple, but can people walk without destination in mind?
   Here is an excerpt from a beautiful poem I read recently from Ven. Thich Nhat Hanh, called "Walking Meditation". It begins with the lines, "We will enjoy our walk without thinking of arriving anywhere". Later, it reads:

We learn
that there is no peace walk;
that peace is the walk;
that there is no happiness walk;
that happiness is the walk.
We walk for ourselves.
We walk for everyone
always hand in hand.

Once a person is really on a path in walking, is there a real actual destination? Is there a person who is walking, as opposed to the walk itself?
   I think the metaphor of walking is somehow related to knowing oneself. If I am sitting in a room entertaining all sorts of ideas of my likes, dislikes, "who I am", personal preferences, and so on, can I truly say that this is self-knowledge? On the other hand, when I walk a road for a long time, I literally know what it feels like to step in my very own shoes, which is a prerequisite for doing so with others.   
      Something about my physical engagement in this simple act inspires a whole lot of bodily metaphors related to the ups and downs of life's journey. It's no wonder that perhaps one does their best reflecting while walking. But more importantly, walking can teach me my capacities and limits: when it's time for me to go home, or when I'm tired, or what I truly feel satisfied doing, as well as my temptations. When I stop from my walk in a local book store and see books that arise from my youth, am I tempted to buy these books? Alas, what about the other books in my room that I still haven't read? No, put it back...I am going to go back to walking again. So you see that sometimes the journey tells us more about where we get stuck, as opposed to sitting in an armchair. Embodied thinking and reflection literally adds the body itself to the equation.

References: 

https://plumvillage.org/news/walking-meditation-a-poem-by-thich-nhat-hanh/

Effort Quantified?

 I have been reflecting recently on two kinds of performance "standards" that I have experienced in my school years. The first relates to a kind of output, be it a test score, essay, work of art, etc., which demonstrates to the teacher my attainment or mastery of a subject matter. The second performance relates more to how well I make the material "my own"; that is, how well I truly learn the material. These two are not necessarily the same. For example, there are times when a person does exactly as they should for a teacher, but they do not necessarily internalize the meaning of the course work. I once took a course in programming in which I managed to memorize the examples of how to write a simple financial program, finding out later that the test is exactly a reflection of what I memorized. However, I am not sure if I can say I truly learned anything from the exercise, because it's not so easy to say whether I could have applied the same principles of the course to a completely new program or scenario.
  In the second kind of performance, I am not looking only at my output, but am also looking at what I really took to heart or how I was transformed by the experience. This is not so easy to measure or evaluate. I wonder if perhaps the only way that this can be done is to actually get the student to reflect on the process and what they learned. I am noticing that when I am replying to different posts for my current online course, I often find myself "retracing" my steps to ensure that I am really aware of what I am writing and whether it's based on the readings from the course. I find that this way, I reinforce the material and also deeply reflect on what my understanding or opinion of the material is. I think the same process of reflection might even be applied to writing a computer program. In writing what I learned, I am actually making "known" to myself what I learned, and this takes the act beyond simply performance. It makes it into an active "reflecting on" my connection with the activity. I would like to see more of this reflective process being used throughout curricula.

Inner Richness

I find it quite interesting to reflect on the question, what makes life rich? What gives meaning to it? Many years ago, I read a book by Henri Barbusse called L'Enfer in which he describes a solitary narrator's journey into this struggle for meaning as he looks at various people through a peephole in his tiny room. The character literally becomes a "voyeur", later concluding that even when people feel insignificant to the immense universe, they still find meaning insofar as they are thinking and framing beings. Barbusse invokes Kant as a kind of "savior" in this book, because it is Kant who suggests that meaning is evoked in the way humans frame the world through their capacities of intellect and synthetic reason.
   Tonight I do reflect that meaning is not a pre-given, but it is something that is fostered through certain kinds of communities. Reading, to give one example, is hardly a solitary act. It involves locking into a particular series of discourses or frameworks that scholars and others work together to build and develop. At the same time, however, it's up to the individual to tap into that sense of meaning by turning inward to see if it makes sense. This "making" sense is not easy to explain, but I think it has to do with shutting out a lot of the inner chatter in one's mind and really asking the question: how do I as a thinker connect with the information in front of me?
   If a person is continually driven from one task to another (as often the case in today's rushed society), it's hard to find time to check in with oneself to find out how they are structuring, ordering and making sense out of the activities they engage in. Yet, it's the way that people frame their stories that seems to make them somewhat meaningful. A life that lacks the narrative substance might start to lose that appeal: it becomes a life of looking out rather than turning within. I think that even when people leave formal education, they need that ability to turn their experiences into meaningful, thoughtful and deep narratives. Perhaps blogging is one way to do so, but even personal reflection in silence can also work in a similar way to foster a richness of meaning.

What's In a Sound?

There is a recent, and rather funny, debate going on in the Internet world about whether a person hears the world "laurel" or "yanny" when a particular sound wave is played. Apparently, the science behind it is that depending on the frequencies of sounds that people pick up,they may be  inclined to hear different sounds or make out different words. While this kind of experiment has people scratching their heads and disagreeing with each other, it is an interesting experiment in the way people disagree and even become frustrated when they are unable to "hear" what the other hears.
  A lot of our arguments may very well be based on differences in the "frequencies" with which we are hearing things. This is both literal and metaphorical. For example, how often have I thought to myself, "I don't know why this person behaves this way", not realizing that I am operating from a completely different framework and mindset from the other. It's hardly that I am right and the other is wrong; only that we thinking and acting from different frames of reference which don't happen to meet in a congruent way.
  Part of the miracle of music is the ability for two very different sounds to resonate: meaning that they meet in a certain place that might create a third "sound" or reverberation which is qualitatively more than the sum of the two parts. When the two people are willing to see past their differences (or at least stretch to acknowledge differences), the resonance can be captivating and beautiful. "Resonance" does not emerge because the sounds we are making are exactly identical: rather, it emerges when the two different sounds are able to create a new space between them which allows for more permutations  than what a single sound could produce. To go back to the example of the two words that people can hear from the same sound: what if it were the case that one is not the "true" sound after all, but that both sounds are just emanating from particular conditions of the mind? Is one sound "less" real or true than  the other? Can the two words somehow co-exist?

Other Languages and Cultures

In the process of thinking about my anti-oppression education course and going through the readings, I begin to realize the challenges of being in a school where monolingualism (speaking a dominant language) is encouraged. Is it possible that in the process of watching Youtube videos tonight about what ELL learners face that there is a kind of vicarious "culture shock" transmitted to me? Sometimes I feel that the best way to empathize with such a shock is either to learn a second language oneself, or at least to listen to others who go through such a process.
   There is something quite spiritual about the process of opening up to those whose first language is not my own. I have often taken it for granted, but being a part of a Buddhist organization, for example, has allowed me to see things through different cultural lenses from what I grew up with, and this has allowed me to deepen my perspectives. I don't think I ever noticed this happen, but even in the process of tutoring students who are ESL, something inside of me has shifted over time, and I am much softer because of the experience. I wonder why is that, but sometimes when I see my students mastering a second language over time, I am reminded of the rich inner strengths and resources that the students introduce to me, and how it affects the way I look at life. I am not so persuaded that one culture or way of thinking, such as the one I grew up with, is necessarily the "correct" one or the one which embodies the best values in the world.
   I am also thinking that sometimes in the process of encountering another culture, one also gets a glimpse of a kind of shifting identity that changes with every new thing that is learned or acquired over time. There is less certainty of a single fixed identity, and there is more room to welcome the fluidity of one's own personality. Encounters with others certainly reflects encounters with new parts of oneself which may have been disowned or disallowed in the past.

Managing Time

 There is no sense of time except the present. If I am not fixating on the future or the past, there is not that much to be done except for what is coming up now. Many times, the sense that I have is that there is a whole pile of things to do, but in fact this is only a temporary thought which often comes from a state of mind that is pulled away from its inner stability.
   Without the sense of stability it can be very hard not to completely lose one's balance in all the busyness of the day. This sense of stability might also take the form of asking myself, "what do I really find fulfilling in the present?" rather than the oft heard question, "What do I have to do now?" If I am constantly on a kind of twenty four seven alert from one task to the next, it is hard for me to find time to turn inward and ask the more basic questions, what do these actions really mean to me? If I am not asking this deeper question, I run the risk of wasting a lot of time doing the things that others are telling me to do, without really knowing what those same things mean from my perspective.
   Sometimes having moments of meditation and silent reflection can bring a person back to the sense of who they are in their entirety, stripped of the expectations of others.

A Sense of Difference

Reading Zenju Earthlyn Manuel's very beautiful book Way of Tenderness for a second time ,  I reflect on whether the sense of diversity or difference truly divides me from others, or whether it's a cause for celebration. I would like to qualify my remark with a question, what does it mean to 'celebrate' the existence of another being, and how is this "celebration" different from appropriation of the other? 
   I think that celebration represents the middle path between trying to possess something one has made into an exotic object and trying to reject others in favor of a kind of false state of independence. To celebrate others is to be able to behold them for their special identity and qualities, without, as Manuel insightfully observes, trying to distort the "Other" to one's own fantasies or desires. It also requires a certain humility to understand that there are a lot of things I cannot know about another person, but I can still appreciate what I do understand about them. 
     This leads me to another observation I had, and that is, I tend to equate liking something to knowing about it. For example, when I am in an art gallery, I can't help but want to understand what the art is "all about" (note the all-encompassing term "all" in this phrase), without the ability to simply stand in awe of it. There are certainly times when I can be amazed by another creation or in awe, and there are other times when I have to acknowledge that I cannot relate fully, even though I do have a basic wish to connect. Manuel would go even further to suggest that connection is not something that a person even needs to make consciously but already pre-exists between people. The key is that it cannot be forcefully brought into existence; it's there already, but needs to be appreciated over time to understand its meaning.

Manuel, Zenju Earthlyn (2015). Way of Tenderness: Awakening Through Race, Sexuality, and Gender. Boston: Wisdom Publications
   

Born a Minute

This morning, I attended a service for the Buddha Bathing celebration. Although technically, this celebration is about the "symbolic" birth of the Sakyamuni Buddha, it is also the celebration of the "birth" of one's own Buddha awakening, which happens when our actions and thoughts are in alignment with those of the Buddha. This event was significant for me in that it forced me to consider why I am so attracted to Buddha's teachings--perhaps even to consider every moment as a kind of vow to be reborn.
     I go back to what YanBen Fashi was mentioning, namely that the mind ceases to give rise to vexations when each moment is taken for itself, without comparing to the previous moment. This is very profound, even though it's subtle and perhaps easy to miss. Behind every sense of suffering, there is always this distant yet present expectation, whether based on the past or on an imagined future. When I fully surrender this subtle expecting, then every moment is timeless, even beyond time itself. For me, this is the precious jewel of the Buddha that needs to be protected in some way.
   Try this experiment: in whatever situation you are in right now, try to engage in a way that is not chasing after or repelling the things around you. Ask yourself, can your mind be this still and this clear? It's only when I stop wanting to chase after the image or the impression that I can discover the natural stillness of the mind. However, when my mind is moving to the next moment or to the previous one, there is this subtle disturbance or disruption which can hardly be described. In fact, even when the mind tries to get rid of that disturbance, there is still yet again, disturbance! In any situation, the key is to see that the waves are always and irrevocably of the same basic substance, even when they are in a state of continuous fluctuation.
   When this mindset arises in me, there is a kind of smoothness in the mind, which is almost akin to grace. But it's not important to look for grace moments. In fact, even "ungraceful" moments actually have this built in grace which comes from not chasing the thoughts but just letting them be. In the letting be is the mind. But even in not letting be is the mind.

Two “Exercises” Inspired By the Platform Sutra

    After attending Venerable YanBen’s talk yesterday, I am inspired to reflect on two practices which could be done based on the insights from the sutra. The first is “mindfulness of impermanence” while the second is called “cheerful non-abiding”. I would like to describe the guided meditations below and how they can be used in a potential workshop.

    The first relates to “mindfulness of impermanence”. The first part of this exercise might seem counter-intuitive, but it’s about reflecting on a particular person or experience that feels uncomfortable or difficult. In this exercise, the participant first brings to mind the difficulty that is related to the experience as well as being aware of how the mind and body feels when they are experiencing this difficulty. Pay attention to the quality of the breath, the shoulders, the forehead, the muscles in the arms, down to the feet, etc. Then the person reflects on how the feelings one has are not staying forever. There are specific conditions that shape the experience, such as the particular circumstances which gave rise to the experience, the wider factors that surround those conditions, and so on. The participant gradually explores each of the conditions that might have lead to their present difficulty, going back to the past.

    Then, the participant is asked to contemplate an opposite scenario, which is that of a very pleasant situation. Again, they take note of any shifts in how the body feels. After this, did they notice any difference in how they feel about the experience of the difficulty and the pleasant situation? The participants start to notice that the two situations create very different experiences. It is hoped as well that the participants have an insight into the impermanence of the both experiences: noticing that both the pleasant and unpleasant experiences are the result of specific circumstances (including the instruction to reflect on the difficult and good experience).

     The second meditation relates to “cheerful non-abiding”. This is a bit more challenging to present, but it has to do with cultivating a clarity of being that is not comparing this present moment to previous ones. Let’s say that the person is noticing a disturbing situation or event that comes to mind. Instead of using the memory of that even to add a commentary about the person’s identity (“I am … because this happened”) the person simply enjoys whatever the experience happens to be and lets it pass. It seems helpful if a person can visualize themselves as a kind of open gate, letting in thoughts and then letting them out without any personal identification with those thoughts or situations. If there is a tense feeling or anxiety, what would it be like to allow that anxiety or tension to arise without seeing oneself as “a tense person” or “an anxious person”? What this practice does it to allow the thought and feeling to arise without attaching any distinct “self” to the experience. Even when the thoughts are about “who I am”, one’s attitude is “these are just thoughts coming and going. They aren’t me, but there is no need to reject them either. I can cheerfully allow them to come and go without relating them to a permanent self”.

     Both these exercises seem to be suitable for those who experience a lot of anxiety. They may be difficult to perform if a person has not practiced meditation before, but I do wonder if it can still be useful in dealing with the anxiety that comes from “over thinking” or attaching to a lot of different scenarios in mind.

"Deception of Perception"

During the Dharma talk tonight at Emmanuel College Chapel, Venerable Yan Ben had talked about The Platform Sutra, in which he had mentioned the two major concepts which underlie the treatment of suchness: namely, impermanence (temporal) and dependent arising (spatial). His account of dependent arising interested me, as he used the example of people coming into the Chan Hall and then disappearing to do other things. The arrangement certainly looks very permanent, especially when the classroom is a regular place for people to learn. However, things are constantly shifting, to the point where there is no graspable substance to hold onto that can be called my own.
   The second example that Venerable Yan Ben mentioned was that of the mani pearl, a kind of multifaceted, idealized pearl which reflects light around it in a crystalline form. According to Buddhist folklore, mani pearls are said to reflect perfectly all the colors and lights around it, thus creating a sense that they embody these colors. However, anyone who spends time around crystals will know that their light never actually really "belongs" to them in the end; they are only temporary conditional arrangements that are based on the plays of light, shadow and materials.
    According to the Platform Sutra, the way to achieve the straightforward mind is simply by not making any chains of thoughts, connecting past, present and future thinking. This way, we see the reflections of thoughts without thinking that those thoughts are solid objects, which is often what happens when we pile "thought upon thought". The more I dwell on one concept of who I am, either from feedback or from what people write and say about me, the more I start to create a reified concept of self which doesn't really have very much at all to do with the present mind. One often experiences this if they harbor some upset thought about someone, only to meet them later and realize that the person they are with is not the person they remember at all. In that instant, all resentment coming from the past memories is instantly vanished: the illusory aspect is not that those phenomena (anger, good, bad) did not appear in mind, but rather that they don't correspond to real things.
    I love the expression "deception of perception" which came up in one of Venerable Yan Ben's slides. What he means by this is that perceptions can be very deceiving if we are not careful and realize their true nature as impermanent. Again, the phenomena are definitely evident in mind (we don't get attached to the emptiness or "nothingness") but at the same time, we know that suffering arises when we take the images and phenomena as static and unchanging.

Seeing Everything as Learning

When I start to reflect upon it, I realize that there are ways to look at things as learning experiences, and ways to take things personally. When I take things to be personal, I literally believe that there is a "person" who is on the defensive or is being attacked. This is a mistaken view, because it suggests that there are these individuals who need to be defended. When I believe this more and more, my body tends to become very tight and tense. I have imagined that there is another person who intends to attack me, and then I become more and more defended inside.
  An alternative view might be to see that I call the self is really a shifting series of experiences, thoughts and ideas. Rather than thinking that there is a "me" that is solid that is in need of defending, what would it be like if I understood that all these thoughts and emotions are just passing constantly, to be replaced by other thoughts and feelings? If I have some degree of insight into the impermanence of this "selfhood", I wouldn't be so invested in the idea of trying to defend a solid sense of the self that is presumably real.
   Sometimes it's important to reflect on impermanence so that a person is not caught up in the illusory belief in a self to defend.  It's scary to realize but it is so important to relax and focus on the things that matter in life and are of importance. But this requires seeing that things are often not as permanent or fixed as they appear. This is a practice that seems to me worthy to contemplate for a while.

Seeing the Strangers

This morning, I came across a baby raccoon just outside my backyard. The animal was busy trying to climb a tree and must have spotted me before I did spot it, because it seemed to freeze while it was climbing the tree. And it gazed at me for a while in this frozen silence while I tried to wave at it--as though "hello" were somehow a universal language that all species intuitively understand. Still, I had some kind of notion that connecting can happen even when there isn't a shared language that is used o connect.
   Many traditions talk about the inherent interconnection between all living beings, and how prayers can form connections based on faith in the mind's already connected nature. I find it difficult to feel this way with other people, however, because a lot of times there are ample opportunities for miscommunication there. With animals or non-human species in general, there isn't so much confusion with regards to what one is seeing, and the viewer has no demands placed on them as to how to interpret and act upon what they are seeing. Of course, if the situation were a life or death flight from a tiger, say, this principle would no longer apply.
  I mentioned in an earlier blog entry how simple connections with nature can sometimes reveal patterns in our thinking or symbolic elements of our lives. Natural "visitations" from unusual species can sometimes give me pause to consider whether the animals are special messengers of sorts who have come to deliver a teaching about soul. I have often wondered, for example, why there have been so many rabbit sightings in Toronto, when it seems like the last place one would go to, to find a live rabbit, much less a wide patch of grass upon which to graze. Sometimes the answer is quite simply that these visitations are the stranger in us awakening and being heard: something telling us that we don't know ourselves as much as we think we did, and we had better slow down to pay attention to those mysterious parts of us that have no voice as of yet. Perhaps this is the aspect that allows me to connect the visiting strangers with my inner stranger.

Pressing Dreams

I had the opportunity to catch Chloe Zhao's movie The Rider yesterday. I have to say that it's by far the most touching and moving film I have seen in a long while. What amazes me about this movie is its portrayal of a rodeo rider who is trying to rise above his injuries from a previous mis-happen stint, only to find himself bogged down by the difficulties of his recovering body. A poignant and symbolic example is a hand that clenches so tightly as well as the brain's inability to keep up with the neurological signals travelling from the hand, resulting in a hand that is hard to unclench. To me, this part of the movie seemed to represent an inability to let go of dreams that outlive the body's ability to fulfill those dreams. Even when Brady, the protagonist, is continually reminded by strangers and acquaintances not to "give up on his dreams" of continuing to be a rodeo rider, it's his body that is ultimately unable to reach those dreams. The soul has its purpose, but the body has its own karma.
  The tension between the soul's purpose and the embodiment of that purpose runs throughout the movie, in parallel with the theme of interconnection which one especially sees in how Brady relates to the horses that he rides with and trains. Brady not only inhabits his body but also a world of others who are vying for his attention and space: a sister, for example, who has developmental challenges, a father who alternates between high expectations and dead-pan realism; friends who even try to wake Brady from his "recovery" sleep to go joyriding in the desert; and the demands of a community where he needs to get by somehow. Brady inhabits a world where his dreams don't go away (as well as his fame as a rodeo rider) but survival of the body must take precedence. The compromise between dream and its imperfect embodiment is perhaps best represented in Brady's good friend, who is paralyzed due to a previous accident in he rodeo. Brady does his best to help his friend relive the rodeo days, and it's only in the end that the audience can see that this relationship with his friend is the true embodiment of his hopes and dreams. Dreams are not about final destinations, but are meant to be shared with others, even in the most compromised circumstances. Watching this film, I become much more interested in the simple love and trust that the characters (both human and animal) show for each other, and how they work together to support their hopes and purpose in life. It seems that these grandiose visions of fame and fortune are just a cover for the work we really need to do for each other in this world.

Our Empathy Projects

I have been recently reading a book called Empathy: Why It Matters, and How to Get It, by Roman Krznaric. Krznaric’s book is quite readable and entertaining, introducing his readers to a historic overview of different empathy movements throughout history, as well as how to cultivate empathy through reading, conversation and imagination. One of the interesting aspects that Krznaric refers to is that different historical movements seem to have pushed forward the cause of empathy, such as the abolition of slavery post 1700s, the Quaker movement (which was instrumental to slavery) in the same time period, and the push for universal rights after World War II.

I understand that there is also a “science” of empathy which Krznaric also explores, looking at parts of the brain that might be hardwired for empathy. It seems that these parts of the book seem to suggest that empathy activates what are called “mirror neurons” (p.21-24), parts of the nervous system that make us “feel” what others feel based on a sympathetic resonance. While I find some of these studies fascinating, I wonder if the building blocks of empathy are really found in these mirror neurons, or whether mirroring is only one aspect of empathy. I recall a situation years ago when a friend had remarked to me that me joining a hiking group was very “courageous” because I was surrounded by strangers. Back in the time, even though I am an introvert by nature, it never occurred to me that joining a hiking group necessarily inspires “courage”. However, my friend reflected that in my shoes, such an activity would require courage. In a case like this, is the person really empathizing with me, or are they really looking at how they might react to a similar situation? What I think is happening with my friend is that there is an image in the mind which makes the person feel a certain way, and this feeling then causes the person to believe that I might feel the same way. That is, rather than “feeling for me” there is a kind of sympathy which arises when a person imagines themselves in the same position. I don’t see this as an exact mirroring of my experience, but it’s a kind of constructed dialogue based on how a person imagine themselves in a similar situation.

Is it “terrible” that we don’t feel exactly the same way that others do? Think of how uninteresting the world would be  if our feelings were mirrored exactly in the others. What this paradigm of empathy as “mirroring” perhaps overlooks is that people have different and diverging ways of responding to the same situation, and this sharing of information seems to be a kind of creative improvisation, rather than a note-for-note “copy”. I tell someone one thing, and their particular “take” on it might broaden my perspective  bit, even if it is not the same as how I feel about it. Sometimes the “empathic misfire” is more interesting than an exact mirroring of emotion, and it makes for an expanded view of who we are and what our choices are in a given situation. For this reason, I tend to think of empathy more as a process of artistic co-creation than a kind of “mirroring” of a person’s experiences.

Krznaric, R. (2014) Empathy: Why It Matters, and How to Get It. New York: Perigee

Bound To Fail

Continuing to read John Makransky’s book today, I am lead to wonder, is it even possible to extend love to all sentient beings? I occasionally (read: very often) feel overwhelmed by this prospect. But what helps me through this situation is to know that quite simply it is not necessary to succeed in this process. Having the vow to see one’s boundless mind is quite enough.

There is a certain humor in this realization. I stepped on the bus this morning and soon realized how absurd it is for me to imagine that I could practice “pure peace” without any disturbance in mind.  The point is that the habit is always a shadow that hangs over any spiritual practice. It is so easy to be caught off guard, and I feel there’s a need to cultivate humor about this, to know that such a goal of loving all beings is impossible. But being able to vow to do the impossible reveals two things: one is the boundless aspiration, and two is the boundless fragility of the heart.

Every now and then, if one really has a vow, something will creep into all of this: a little glimpse that who I think I am is not quite so real. This morning, I had that moment and a sense of relief came over me. The nightmare I impose is that of “a self that needs to be a certain way”, but paradoxically, one must have an impossible vow to glimpse that this self is not real, and not sustainable either. If every goal that we set out for ourselves were super-easy, there would only be the sense of accomplishment, no sense of the impossibility of perfecting the self. Only when I face that impossibility can I really laugh at it and see beyond it.  I think this is why the beauty of vows is that they are bound to fail, even when they are infinite. Nobody, no “self”, is behind the vow; there is no sustainable self that can complete the vow. Everything is always changing from one moment to the next. What better way to know this than to have the ceaseless, impossible vow?

Makransky, John (2007). Awakening Through Love: Unveiling Your Deepest Goodness. Boston: Shambhala

Hot Potato

In his book, Awakening Through Love: Unveiling Your Deepest Goodness, John Makransky remarks, “[E]very time we mistook others for the very source of our happiness, and misreacted to them with possessiveness or anger through that delusion, we have contributed to a world in which greed, hatred, and violence are daily news” (p.76) This is a very impactful statement indeed, in that it implicates all people in the suffering that we experience even in the news. It takes quite a while to unpack this sentence, among many of the others’ in Makransky’s book, and that’s part of the reason why this is my second reading of the book. But I think it’s worthwhile to explore some of the implications.

Why would mistaking others for “the very source of our happiness” be such a source of suffering? Some might argue that looking toward others for one’s happiness might make people harmonize more and conflict much less. The problem with this theory is that it doesn’t account for the frustration and unhappiness that arises when one unconsciously (or consciously) desires to be happy from another person. What happens is, as Makransky suggests, a kind of chain reaction. With thwarted expectations or desires comes a sense of “possessiveness or anger”, as well as a battle to “win” the attention of the other person, or at least to show that one has some control over them. As the person soon realizes that they don’t have such control over a person’s feelings or thoughts, depression or despair can set in, as well as the need to conceal from oneself the desire, which can lead to more anger or undirected anxiety. A person might not feel that they need to depend on others, but underneath that belief is an atmosphere of uneasiness. Even though the person has consciously overcome their craving for happiness in others, deep down, they still harbor the notion of self and other which stays in the backdrop until something triggers it over again. What results is a kind of tension which I often experience in myself as well as in others.

The way we work with these energies of desire and anger, from what I understand it, is not necessarily to strive to overcome the emotions themselves. If, for example, I hold up the model of someone else and remark to myself, “I need to be more like this person”, I will end up suppressing or denying any emotion or thought that does not fit that pattern of the other, while burying emotions that don’t fit the ideal. This leads to a kind of smouldering or fragile sort of mentality, because I am no longer congruent with my feelings about things. I think a more constructive approach is to allow the experience to arise without trying to “package” it into a self. If the sensation of anger arises, I automatically jump to the thought, “I am angry at you”, thus reinforcing a split of self and other. But what if the emotion was simply allowed to be without necessarily packaging it as a self/other? What if, quite simply, there is only anger, or only desire? What happens then is that there isn’t any feeding the fuel of that anger or desire, because it doesn’t belong to anyone at all.

I remember there used to be a game we played in school called “hot potato”, and the object of the game was to pass an imaginary (you guessed it) hot potato from one person to the next. After a certain time or perhaps a signal is given, the person in possession of the hot potato needs to find someone to give it to, while everyone else dodges or runs away. The idea of this game almost symbolizes the kind of self/other just described. If I am not clinging to the idea that I and I alone have this hot potato (and need to do something about it), I am no longer under any particular pressure to act on it. Who has it? Isn’t it just an emotion that arises, and not necessarily something substantial that belongs to me?

However, I qualify this remark by suggesting that there is still responsibility for one’s emotions. The difference is that there isn’t this attitude of blaming or trying to “assign” blame for something that has already arisen. To blame myself for an emotion I am feeling now is somewhat counter-productive. If it’s happened, it’s happened, and now I need to establish who the person is who instigates the action.

Makransky, John (2007). Awakening Through Love: Unveiling Your Deepest Goodness. Boston: Shambhala

The Tough Option

 When encountering everyday situations, especially with others, it seems there are two choices one can make. The first is that one can simply see that person as a reflection of one's own tendencies. In other words, I look at the world as a "sea of selves", all vying for certain kinds of comforts and happiness, and racing to get to the finish line of life. This very much can characterize the psychology of "rush hour", in the sense that we might see everyone as rushing to reach the same goals. Another way is to look a little bit further to ask the deeper question: why are people seeing themselves as separate individuals on a kind of race, when in fact there is nothing to take with oneself at the end of life? This second option is much harder to consider, because it asks that a person see the self as a temporary sort of thing, much like a set of clothes. The "self" is a construction, for sure, but if we didn't have the current social arrangements we do have, would that self be so prevalent?
   Consider the difference between city life and a life on the cottage. With city living, there are many things to choose from as well as many kinds of temptations. The self is sometimes constructed around notions of how much we do on a given week, and this list of "things done" can easily become fodder for conversations as well. If I am not living with the pressures to do so many things, my sense of self is bound to be a bit different, or less pressed for time. This is because a lot of activity is needed to sustain this kind of sense of identity with others. If I only have one or two responsibilities and am supported in those identities, then the struggle to maintain self and all its comforts and advantages, is not so heavy. The problem is that it's very rare to find a society in which one's responsibilities don't get multiplied somehow. This is because among many people, how we are known or recognized often seems to depend on the kinds of investments and commitments we have devoted ourselves to.
   It's hard to take the second option of questioning the necessity of identity altogether. Does my identity have to be based on all these things, and does one even need a fixed sense of self? These questions seem to challenge the fabric of society itself, where people are often evaluated using a variety of professional designations or markers. But perhaps the way toward a more spacious sense of being is to investigate where these identities come from, who they serve, and why they play such a compelling role in a person's life.

A Recurring Rabbit

Tonight, on my way home from the group meditation practice, I spotted a rabbit who was bounding out from a hedge onto the sidewalk in front of me. I was terrified that the rabbit would become frightened of me and run into the oncoming traffic, so I just froze and looked at it for a while. Just in the distance, a bicyclist was just about to cross the dangerous intersection on a red light, causing the car in front of him to honk several times. The rabbit was meanwhile very petrified, and did not flinch! Finally, I was able to shoo the rabbit back to the safety of the bushes. Life, it seems, is very perilous.
   This is not the first time that I had seen a rabbit in the neighborhood, and I sometimes wonder what it means to be visited upon by the same creatures many times. I believe that sometimes recurring visitors from other realms (in this case an animal one) can remind people of many things, among them the sacredness of life and how miraculous living beings are even when they are not necessarily tied to status or being part of a rat race (pardon the pun). They are also ways to connect lovingly with the universe that aren't necessarily expected.
    The other day, I saw a barrel of live blue crabs in a supermarket, waiting to be bought and cooked by the passing customers. One of the crabs was turned on its back, and all I could see was a kind of moving bubble of water on its mouth. That moving bubble made me feel very sad for this being's suffering as well as recognizing that all living things need the basic necessities, such as air and water, for their survival. In that tiny moment, I learned a lot about sentient beings because my heart was moved to see them in a certain way, particularly as painfully vulnerable. In those flash moments of compassion, the hardness within me naturally seems to dissolve away.
    Repetitions of encounters might also be a symbolic reminder of unfinished business. What better way to remind us of our own recurring challenges than the recurrence of an ethical dilemma? These situations might be seen as wake up calls, as well as calls to simplify one's life to find new solutions in the natural world.

Peace Walk

 My walk was peaceful on the way from Finch Subway Station to my home. Why? It had nothing to do with the scenery or with the fact that it's the first "warm day" that doesn't require a winter jacket. More so, I think it relates to the state of mind itself, which tries to take things the way they are without trying to control them.
  Some gazes are controlling: they see what they want and they want to change whatever doesn't fit that image. Other gazes are just cold and uninviting. The city is full of all kinds of energies, but the whole point of it is for the mind to be a container that clearly reflects all of it, rather than trying to reject it in any way. That's hard to do, of course, but whenever I find myself reacting, I then need to ask myself, what is it that I am attached to that leads to this reaction? Is it the attachment to being "liked" or "respected"? What happens if that expected result doesn't happen at all? Is there something I can still learn? In the process, will this mind still be "ok"?