The Future Self

 I was reading a recent article which talked about how many people don't save up very well for retirement, because their thoughts are mainly on how to get through week to week. It's not that it is not possible to save for retirement, but one is often thinking only of the immediate without recognizing that what one does now will have an effect on the future. It does make me wonder, why does the future self not become an object of our compassion as much as the "present" self?
  I have a feeling that people have a greater tendency to idealize the future self. Perhaps this is because one always imagines that time is moving "upward", and this is a kind of metaphor for progress. But in a sense, one can also see that the future self depends on this present self, and does not automatically "improve" or progress simply by virtue of time itself. One needs to make preparations now for that future person to grow or have opportunities.
   When a person is struck with some decision or behavior they now regret, there is an opportunity there to see the workings of causes and conditions on the person. I might not see the repercussions of my past behavior, but as soon as I do so, I am learning that what I do now also affects the future in turn. This is not a reason to be pessimistic, but it reminds me that everything I do now impacts the future. Nothing is lost in the cracks, and what I am doing now will always have some kind of effect, even if it's not so clearly visible at first.

A Playful Approach

  During the group meditation sitting tonight, I had the distinct idea of meditation as a form of play: a curious exploration of what it is to be truly aware and alive to the moment. It's a different orientation toward meditation for me, since I have often associated meditation with something that is about attaining something. I think this strictness is perhaps a dangerous approach to practice, because it creates all sorts of inner conflicts, such as self-evaluating with respect to the practice. I much prefer that when one approaches practice, one allow spaces for thoughts while keeping the overall vision that the method offers: an overall spacious awareness that envelops the situation and all its nuances. Adopting a spacious and relaxed approach toward doing any one thing is also good preparation for all the number of possible dilemmas that one faces in all their interactions as well.
   Many therapies do approach states of mind from the perspective of how much we are allowing ourselves leeway to make mistakes or to simply relax into our different tasks. Rather than adopting all or nothing, perfectionist approaches, such therapies advocate more holistic ways of learning where a person can relax into embodying a certain learning. The problem is that no matter how much meditation stresses embodiment, people are somehow going to think that it's about achieving a special state of being, such as "enlightenment", and this is what sidetracks the moment itself. As soon as I desire anything, I am derailed from the present where the mind truly resides. What results is a perfectionist attitude toward practice itself. I much prefer a less strict, yet principled approach toward practice, where one has leeway to actually explore their own reactions and contemplate how the mind works rather than chaining the mind to a dogmatic or mechanical experiment.

Tough Compassion

 I am reflecting on how the compassionate voice sometimes seems harsh when a person who receives it is not experienced enough to appreciate it. Certain forms of compassion might take the form of harsh or critical words to wake up the mind, such as exhortations to take on bigger challenges than what one is used to. "Compassion" might take the form of harshness, simply because a person has not yet developed the experience to handle it or make good use of what it exhorts us to do. In those moments, it's best to see that compassion as a kind of seed planted in the mind, which blooms at a later time. Rather than trying to resist or battle difficult or harsh voices, it is helpful to see those voices as part of a deepening of the soul.
    Harshness doesn't need to include violence, and I think I need to qualify the point that compassion can "awaken" through harsh means. I am not condoning violence as a "compassionate" act, but I suggest that compassion might challenge a person's sense of boundaries or comfort zones. It is similar to any kind of pain that one might experience in meditation: I don't necessarily like it, but allowing space or room for it to grow within me might allow me to deepen my appreciation of things that don't "sit well" with me in general (to use a pun). In other words: just the idea of allowing unpleasant information or thoughts might broaden a person's perspective on it and increase their tolerance of other kinds of frustrations as well.

news from a fish bowl

 Throughout the day today, I was reflecting on the metaphor of a fish bowl to describe how people often see reality. Part of it might have been the fact that I was at an exotic pet store yesterday, and found many animals peering back at me. I wondered, how do they see me? Does the way I see them match with their own perspective? There can never be a way of knowing the definitive of such questions Similarly, everything we think is always being shaped by impressions that are conditioned. There is never any "bottom" to these endless ways of framing experience, and one does not ever reach the end conclusion.
   The search for a definitive answer is like trying to find the "real" reflection in a fish bowl. All the light is continually being curved and refracted in different directions, and one can never fully know what is the "final" way of seeing. Such a perspective does not necessarily mean that one "gives up" establishing an understanding (since such understandings are what connect people), but there comes a humility that is aware the one's impressions are bound to be conditioned and impermanent.
   The opposite to this "humility" might be something akin to paranoia. "Paranoia" also accepts that things are not always what they seem, but it adds to this the idea that illusions are the product of "deliberate" plans or aims, usually in the attempt to belittle or step someone down to a lower stature or position. The paranoid perspective accepts the illusory nature of appearances, but adds the additional suspicion that something beneath those appearances is deliberately "throwing up" illusions to fool or to perhaps mislead a person. That might be very much like a fish trying to find the underlying "clear" view outside the fishbowl, thinking that it can still penetrate past the reflections to see the "real" outside world. Is there a real "outside" world after all, and could this paranoia be a projection of one's own desire to control appearances? I see paranoia as something halfway between seeing illusory appearances and clinging to a permanent purpose underneath. It becomes a burdensome quest for an underlying "truth" that perhaps is not "out there" and does not have an independent existence or self-evidence.
 

Being Present with the Future

   I am reflecting on how most anxieties arise from a sense of the future that hasn't yet materialized. I posed the question to Guo Yuan Fashi during the retreat: how does the practice of Chan relate to planning and making decisions that haven't yet materialized, as well as navigating uncertainty? Fashi replied that making judgments about what to do is about wholeheartedly being present with the decision making itself. In this way, one is being present when they are planning for the future, and are able to face all the variables with a clear mind.
   Trying to imagine all the "what ifs" before they actually materialize is one of my tendencies, which seems to be common with many people who suffer from anxiety. It's funny how my mind works, because a lot of times I treat thoughts as though they relate to situations that have already happened. Even though the thought is "just a thought", I am reacting as though a situation that has not happened yet has already happened, and I am wanting to control the outcome in some way.
   Different religious practices and traditions seem to address anxiety in similar but also different ways. What they share in common, perhaps, is the need to surrender to a higher principle. Even for those who have no particular belief system, there is often a need to feel that whatever is happening is happening with good reason, or with a substantial learning outcome that has some kind of meaning or value. M. Scott Peck remarks:

Perhaps the choice to die gracefully occurs when we finally learn and accept that all is according to how it should be. Whether one believes in an afterlife or not, to proceed gracefully in the arms of death is the ultimate acquiescence to an abiding conviction--even in the midst of paradoxical uncertainty--that every aspect of life contributes to the meaning of the whole (p.161)
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Perhaps the deepest underlying fear related to anxiety is that life has no meaning if we don't make certain choices in life. It might mean something like, "because nothing is certain and I can't own anything or call anything  mine, I don't have a story to tell". From a Buddhist or Chan perspective, how might one look at this fear?
   I don't really know the answer to this question, since it's a deep one and involves many paradoxes. As a volunteer with a Buddhist organization, I derive a sense of self from being a volunteer, being able to support the organization, and feeling that I am doing something worthwhile that contributes merit to the whole. But attendant to this sense of self is a fragile sense of attachment, which can be described as "what happens if all these roles I am playing are taken away?" I experienced the anxiety this past retreat, since I didn't play a key role as a volunteer. Guilt also accompanied this experience: the sense that being a volunteer is a good thing, and therefore my non-participation as a volunteer means that I am not doing good things at that time. Isn't it funny how I torture myself with these anxious thoughts?
  When I lack a compelling narrative which explains why I am not able to do something, I am left with the guilt (existential) of having the choice yet not taking that choice. I am a person without excuses, even without reasons. But this particular "narrative of choice" conflicts with the narrative mentioned by Peck above, which is that everything contributes to the meaning of the whole, even the moments of "indecision" or "not doing something positive". Perhaps the way I can look at it is that it teaches me to let go of excessive attachment to the role of volunteer. However painful this can be, it can also be a good learning experience not to participate, even though I am willing to help as needed.
   Perhaps there is no answer to this paradox, since volunteering is both good in itself and also a potential source of attachment.  Learning to live with that paradox is perhaps valuable. But it also might be valuable to let go of all of this, since all self is just temporary, and things are constantly changing moment to moment.

Peck, M. Scott (1997). The Road Less Traveled  & Beyond: Spiritual Growth in an Age of  Anxiety. New York: Harper Collins.

Three Day Retreat at Bliss Haven: A Reflection

When I came back from this 3 day meditation retreat, I noticed that I hardly had any desire to read the books I was so compelled to read in my "to do list". I wonder what the reason is. Could it be that after 3 days of not reading any books, the craving abates somewhat? I think a more plausible explanation is that when I have meditated for a while, I recognize that one's existential problems in life cannot be resolved through words alone, let alone conceptual thinking. In fact, when enduring even the tiniest leg pain, no amount of philosophizing is going to get me to the stage of really seeing problems as they are: looking at the problems head on, rather than trying to skirt those problems through easy fixes or evasions.
  This past retreat was lead by Venerable GuoYuan. In the first two days of the retreat (Friday and Saturday), I had a hard time adjusting my body, feeling all sorts of deficiencies and imbalances here and there followed by the attempt to analyze these imbalances. Interestingly, many of my so-called "explanations" were rather counterproductive. For example, how does acknowledging lack of exercise actually helping me to face the pains in my body at that moment? Nonetheless, my first impulse has been to try to break the problem into parts, without acknowledging that the problem is already composed of so many interlocking factors (or conditions) which are likely to pass over time. And on the third day, I believe that they did indeed pass. Not only was my mind more rested and clear, but also my body felt more balanced. It didn't happen in any way because I "analyzed" the problem and found some kind of underlying "root" cause. Rather, it happened just in the process of me engaging with the experience itself, and letting go of any judgments I was having at the time.
   The most important insight I gained from this particular retreat was the realization of how cravings come from a sense of self, and the way most problems deep inside are simply reflections on a false self: a self that somehow wants to be a wave "separate" from other waves. In reality, when I make a "problem" out of something, I am really separating myself from the flow of life. I create this "other" that I somehow need to oppose (such as drowsiness, wandering thoughts, etc). and am not able to see that there is neither a "self" in the phenomena nor a static "self" that is watching this phenomena.
   The example I am thinking about is that of nature. Throughout this retreat, I had many opportunities to observe the natural world, such as rabbits, birds, and even a frog croaking very loudly in a small pond What characterized my encounters with these creatures was my desire to "get close to them" and somehow name them or grasp their appearance in detail. Being animals in the wild, however, they of course would naturally freeze and flee whenever I came too close or became more noticed by them. Is it not natural that this would happen? But it's also true of thinking as well. When I try to reach out to a thought and make it some static, unchanging reality, what arises is a sense of suffering. It's as though I am constantly reaching out to "secure" something that is bound to change in time. This is not to be nihilistic, but it's to be prepared that all things are going to change, and to be aware of the instability of things and situations.
 
   

Time Away

A meditation retreat is considered a time away: a time to just be with one's method and not to be tied down by past memories. Perhaps most importantly, it is a time to see things in fresh ways: to keep coming back to a simple method of watching the breath or other meditative practice.
  Some people might go on retreats with expectations: they want quick results, or they've heard a lot of things about meditation, including the benefits and so on. I am often like this, because I tend to think that having the isolated time to be with one's method is already an opportunity. However, the point gets continually missed when practitioners come loaded with expectations, and their bodies also become subtly tense in expectation of what they are hoping to find in the process. Sometimes, one's meditative practice is little more than tricking oneself into "setting up" an experience, as when a person hangs on to their method very tightly when practicing. However, all these experiences belittle our sense of being as practitioners, because they set up this kind of perfection that the mind is not going to stick to.
   The meditative attitude can be summed up as a combination of maintaining awareness and discovering the present. Maintaining awareness is knowing that from moment to moment, one need only tend to one situation, namely the meditation method. Discovering the present is fostering a non-discursive, present awareness of all the phenomena that arise as a result of the practice. It could be drowsiness, or distractions, but the point is that one has a way of knowing these states, through the method itself. Nothing is discounted from this experience, and nor is anything sought after. This is such an important part of the practice, a kind of acceptance of the Buddha nature that already exists in a person, but is simply changing states, much as water has states of freezing or gas. These states are neither good nor bad, and there is no sense in preferring one state to another since they are all originating from the mind.
   This "time away" is actually not a time away at all, but a time that is deeply with one's mind and its phenomena.

Intellect and Spirit

 People rarely associate intellect with spirit, and yet, reading M. Scott Peck's The Road Less Traveled and Beyond, I reflect on how the intellect connects with spirit. Peck writes:

 "[O]ne of the most crucial skills of critical thinking is that of deciding what is essential to think or learn about, and what is nonessential. And we must acknowledge the gaps in our own knowledge, rather than feel compelled to let pride, fear, or laziness lure us into assuming the role of know-it-all" (p.35)

Peck, for me, seems to point to the spiritual role that intellect, thinking and intelligence can play in shaping a more complete picture of life. Through thinking (and a proper, complete use of thought), one can open up to new possibilities, avoid what Peck refers to as the "simplicism" of easy answers and pat stereotyped responses, and be open to completely new ways of looking at previous or familiar things. I think the key is that Peck identifies the "obstacles" that prevent thinking: habit for one, followed by a sense of "familiarity" which promotes intellectual laziness, and, perhaps most importantly, the fear of the pain and discomfort that come with thinking itself. Unless a person is truly open to the difficulties and thorniness of what a thinking life has to offer, there is a danger that one will drift into the easy mode of formulaic, technical reasoning and logic.

Of course, while Peck celebrates the spiritual roles of thinking for oneself, he refers also to the potential dangers of over-attaching to one particular way of reasoning, such as trying to reduce thinking to a set of rules or abstractions. It's safe to say that a "reasonable" perspective on thinking might include "non-thinking" elements such as body and emotions.

What is perhaps more to the point is that thinking is a kind of "attitude", not a formula. When I am truly open to new ideas and am making this effort to bracket all my previous judgments (and thus not be drawn into the past), I am entertaining a space for new or unfamiliar sensations, thoughts and experiences. This nearly always feels uncomfortable, and it can be challenging to trust that the tensions and paradoxes of new thinking are not "bad" things at all, but can be amazing ways of discovering new possibilities. This is quite opposite to cognitive dissonance, a tendency one has to reduce the tension between contradictory states of thinking or feeling by trying to make the thoughts somehow similar or connected in any way possible.

It also occurred to me walking home from work today, that thinking requires a kind of caring attitude: if I am not somehow caring for the simple things of my life, there would simply be no motivation to think at all. What would there be to think about? When I am in touch with the basic elements of my being in the world, I am no longer drawn into artificial kinds of categories such as "popular", "talented", etc. and this gives me the space to actually befriend all the parts of my thinking and feeling. Without that honest look at what I truly want to think, thinking itself can easily become stilted, as though it were a kind of homework assignment.

Peck, M. Scott. (1997). The Road Less Travelled & Beyond: Spiritual Growth in an Age of Anxiety. New York: Simon & Shuster

Are We "There" Yet?

No matter where life takes a person, there is only this one moment, which can't even be reduced to a "one". So much of my life, I have worried about where this body is going, but in reality, has the mind really traveled anywhere? To where does the mind travel when it is already arrived?
   When I was an undergraduate student, I remember asking myself the question, "am I moving toward things, or are things really moving toward me?" This is my way of asking the question, what makes me think that I am moving toward something when even the notion of space and time are constructed from my subjective experience? Can I locate the coordinates without the reference point of the mind? Reflect on this and one might find that there is no place to where one is moving or progressing.
  I believe that a lot of my own anxieties about life arise from embodied metaphors which I haven't  really questioned before (for a discussion about this, see Johnson, 1987). An example might be the metaphor of the path and "obstacles in the path". These metaphors always assume that there is a place one is supposed to be going to or continually arriving at. But what if there isn't any goal one is arriving at, and what if it is continually changing from one moment to the next? Can I breathe into that experience and allow myself not to be impelled by the idea of a path and an obstacle in the path? What happens when I simply choose to "miss the boat", and not to be drawn into the idea that there is a boat? Again, it might be an interesting exercise to examine the unconscious or implied metaphors of one's writing and speech to see what is becoming a vexation in the mind. Can the mind rest in the awareness that these metaphors are not actually physical things upon which one is impelled, but might in fact be just thoughts that we use to navigate our lived worlds?
  Many cognitive approaches to therapy stress modifying one's thoughts, but I wonder if examining one's unconscious "embodied" life world and story might be an equally effective way of questioning the kinds of metaphors that can create "visceral" experiences (such as difficulty, pressure, "spaciness") which aren't in fact in the physical world at all. Could contemplating these metaphors as no more than thoughts reduce anxiety and allow a person to be more present in their lived experiences?

Johnson, M. (1987). The Body in the Mind: The Bodily Basis of Meaning, Imagination,and Reason. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

The Sun Analogy

  In Surangama Sutra, the analogy of the sun is used to describe how what one experiences is merely a reflection, and not some kind of solid "reality" that is true for everyone. In elaborating on the analogy, Master Sheng Yen remarks,

Imagine the sun in the sky on a bright day. Two men standing together by a river see its reflection. Then one man walks east; the other west. Each sees the sun in the water accompanying him as he walks. A foolish man will believe that the sun he sees is the real sun. A wise man understands that it is a reflection, an appearance. There are two people in the sutra's analogy, each of whom sees a sun. But if there were a thousand people, they would see a thousand suns, all different (p.95-96).

The way I relate to this analogy of the sun is that each person's way of seeing the world is based on specific reference points in space and time. In examining others, there is often this underlying assumption that everyone is looking at exactly the same thing, when in fact what they see is based on the previous conditioning as well as their respective positions. Does this mean, however, that one should commit to a kind of moral relativism and assume that everyone has their own way of seeing things that cannot be evaluated by other frameworks?

I think that this analogy is designed to lessen people's attachment to the self and individual notions of perception, ability, intelligence, and so on. A very astute person might have a strong grasp of a specialized area of study, such as physics, which allows them to see the speed of a moving object in a different way from others. However, even this specialized knowledge does not give that person privy knowledge of everything imaginable about the situation. Not knowing everything is an invitation to be more curious about the worlds that others inhabit, as well as to preserve and foster diverse experiences rather than ignoring those perspectives altogether.

Biodiversity is a very good example of looking at the different reflections of the sun and respecting the many forms in which life takes. Yesterday, I walked through a nature trail where a plaque showed the remnants of an old historical farm, now covered over with grass and a lot of vegetation. The message I got from this experience is that human habitation is only one very fragile link in the natural world, which is subject to birth and decay just as all the natural elements would. When I see that even my own life experience is only one reflection of the sun, I have a much wider perspective which is not limited to my own self absorbed world or experiences. This allows me to make choices or think in a way that respects the entire natural world and to want to commit to preserving all its forms.

Far from being an isolationist view ("I have my dream, you have yours"), I wonder if the analogy of the sun's reflection might encourage people to be more curious about the dreams of others, as well as let go of attachment to their "own" dreams.

Sheng Yen, Until We Reach Buddhahood: Lectures on the Shuramgama Sutra, Volume Two. Elmhurst: Dharma Drum Publications

"Supposed To" and "Need To"

When I think about all the things I am supposed to do, what I am really doing is projecting an ideal image of myself, which is not all that real. I start to feel anxiety that I am not "that person" that I am supposed to be, often disregarding times when I thought I was supposed to be somehow "more" than who I am in this moment in order to survive. In fact, however, I later discovered that the ideal that I harbored is in no way a requirement: in fact, it is often just a burden which prevents me from seeing what I need to do in the moment, which is starkly different  from any kind of ideal. Living itself is something that does not require a static or statuesque ideal. It is often involving being open to compromise when situations don't entirely fall into something that is ideal.
  Even depression, at times, might be the expression of a thwarted "supposed to": an ideal that gets in the way of living or going on with the life that one has. Although depression might take the form of not wanting to engage in anything in particular (except, perhaps, to stay in bed at times), I often wonder if depression is really the endless internalization of a kind of hidden ideal that is so badly thwarted that one doesn't even want to see it. Instead of seeing the ideal, the person feels a kind of heaviness: the heavy leaden ball that is hidden inside an even more opaque bag is really a kind of ideal that has been disowned but not entirely relinquished.
   In order to relinquish the ideal that often might chain a person to depression, one might need to ask the question: what part of myself or my being feels so much like a failure that it cannot "go on"? What sense of failure am I even trying to hide from myself, and what ideal does that sense of failure depend on? If I can finally come to terms with the ideal that is the driving force behind the sense of failure, I can then realize that this ideal might need some adjusting or even deconstructing. Perhaps what I think should be true of myself (e.g. happier, smarter, "more spiritual", more adjusted, etc.) need to be challenged instead of simply internalized and regarded as static and fixed givens in life. In this way, one can shift away from a mentality of "I am supposed to be..." or "supposed to do", to "what do I need to do" in this moment to survive and thrive?

again, decluttering

 I have been reflecting recently about how powerful the computer and Internet has been in creating all kinds of distractions. Overall, being distracted by the internet divides the mind, and does not allow for the calm that is needed to reflect, to step back and see things in perspective. Taking a break from the screen turns out to be an important factor in one's mental health, which should not be overlooked or ignored.
  What I most reflect about is how easy it is for the mind to get caught up in the emotional blurbs of news or news feeds. It's as though the mind were continuously engaged in taking sides by showing no end to human conflicts. The Internet seems to encourage the mind to jump from one opinion to the next, thus creating a kind of anxious craving to identify with one side or another. What would it be like to simply step back and realize that all conflict comes from the continuous movement and distractions of the mind? When the mind is clear and calm, are these "conflicts" or contradictions so heightened? Are they as real as one thinks when one is in an agitated state of mind?
   It is a very good idea to consider whether one is really in need to respond to information, or whether the information itself is simply designed to stir up the mind, and thus cause even more craving for information. Perhaps when one is less reactive toward what they are reading can one find a more clear way to reflect on what's happening in the world and how to interpret it. Such a way of being requires a lot of reflection on whether one is reading in a state of craving or reading in a state of wisdom.
 

The Joys of Being Frazzled

Work sometimes leaves me feeling "frazzled" at the end of the day. I believe that part of it has to do with competing priorities: for example, a project that is competing with regular work loads. I have found that rather than feeling upset by this frazzled state of being, it's often best to really acknowledge and allow such a state of being. I think that it's funny that, in fact, being frazzled seems like a sign of danger, when in fact, it can be a very enjoyable state which signals the body and mind to finally let go. With that letting go comes a sense of renewal and regeneration.
  I wrote an earlier blog entry about how we can reframe our mistakes, and I think that being frazzled is something else that we can learn to tolerate. The problem is that culturally, confusion is somewhat frowned upon: seen as an "incomplete" form of knowing or perhaps even a kind of dullness. In reality, however, confusion opens doors to see something that lies deeply beyond thinking. If only a person stops trying to avoid that state of being, they can get glimpses of a world that is actually in a continual state of flux.
  An analogy might be the spinning dances that I sometimes read about in Sufi culture. I have heard that one of the reasons why spinning is practiced in Sufism is that it induces a kind of trance-like state, where the mind's accustomed reference points of space and time are suspended. If anyone has ever tried to spin in a circle repeatedly in the school yard, they will understand this feeling. The "confusion" of the senses that comes with spinning is actually the door that leads to a deeper insight that is often confused by the senses. What the perception does is literally "fix" the mind in frames of reference that are deeply embedded in day to day functioning. To be able to move out of that is something that can happen in states of confusion or even disorientation.
  Over time, I have come to feel that it's not so bad to feel confused sometimes, because this is a time when one is still formulating ideas that have definitely not solidified. Being more tolerant to these moments can train the mind to let go and take in new ideas in the process.

The Spirit of Diplomacy

 Many people in this day and age don't seem to value diplomacy so much, at least not in the way that it is often cast. I think that the reason is that many times, people are diplomatic in ways that compromise their way of being in the world. For example, someone who strongly disagrees with someone else is now said to "take the high road" by not commenting back to the other by hurling insults or the like. Yet, people have often come to believe that not saying anything is really a way of hiding something. Is diplomacy nothing more than refraining from saying what one truly feels, or is there something to be said about a certain spirit of diplomacy that isn't necessarily artificial.
  I think that Buddhist teachings can allow people to be diplomatic in more authentic and spiritual ways. Part of what I have understood about the Middle Path is that it is not upholding one view at the expense of the other: instead, it somehow stands between views, neither rejecting them nor upholding them as absolutes. Why? I think it's because the doctrine of the Middle Path sees all viewpoints, thoughts or stances as fundamentally empty in nature. What I think is "true" today is really only relative to certain kinds of conditions. For example, I might think that I am a "shy" person or will always be shy, but what happens when I am put in a party full of people who are "more shy" than I am? More likely than not, I suddenly become the "outgoing" person in their eyes. Similarly, conditions might change in the sense that I might become less inhibited for various reasons, some within my influence and some not. Given the notion that my "shyness" is not absolute, a diplomatic spirit would not force this person to become less shy, but would rather seek ways to influence conditions so that the person might feel more at ease in company with others, even if it means not saying a lot. In other words, the Middle Path is not to insist on one way of doing things, but to find skillful means which might fit that particular contingent moment in time.
  The spirit of diplomacy might thus be thought of as a kind of spirit of experimentation. Having the humility to recognize that there is no one single "formula" to solve all problems, spiritual diplomats are always willing to seek out new ways of benefiting others. It's not about trying to find a single way, but being open to several different ways. Surprisingly, when people are less pressured to do things one way or fit a standard mold, they become more likely to try more things or to be flexible to change.  I think that for this reason, diplomacy is still a valid way of being, in the sense that it tries to navigate complex relationships in a spirit of gentle openness.

"Mistaken" Pedagogies

 I remember a professor in undergraduate philosophy explaining how he was dumbfounded to learn how students are afraid of making mistakes. He mentioned the idea of "being penalized for one's mistakes", which means that students don't like the feeling of being punished as the result of making an incorrect action or assumption. I found that what students often forget is that they are always generating theories about life, and "mistakes" are actually well-thought theories which happen to be misapplied to some situations. For this reason, I consider it best not to conclude that one's mistakes are necessarily always bad and all the time.
   A model of mistakes that stress them as "forms of theorizing" about life has at least two advantages. The first is that it validates the learner as someone who does have a storehouse of ideas, and is always advancing forward with new ways to process experiences. The second, related to the first, is that it does not "write off" one's mistakes as necessarily bad things, but rather frames them in terms of newly emerging information that may not have been present to the learner at the time that the original acts or thoughts were performed which lead to the mistake. Because one's theories are always based on temporary conditions, one can never arrive at a theory that contains every possibility, although some theories certainly are more effective than others in certain ways. At least, one can say that in scientific contexts, theories can be refined to take in more complex aspects of a situation, as well as account for more detailed phenomena.
   Sometimes, pedagogy and schools in general reinforce the idea that mistakes are signs of either stupidity, or ignorance, or perhaps even a character flaw, such as laziness. If students internalize these ideas, they quickly lose the motivation to be active theorists of experience, becoming instead passive or even depressed about their prospects. How many students decide not to continue with any kind of education, whether formal or informal, simply because they got into their minds the idea that they are "incorrigible", "less than the others", "inferior", or even "incapable of learning or improvement". These ideas lead students to become disenchanted with even the possibility of learning, let alone giving themselves the chance to explore detours or try out new approaches that might lead to new outcomes.
 

Images as Projections

 I find it fascinating how the mind works: how, quite often, the world that a person sees is often the result of previous habits and experiences. Writing about the Surangama Sutra, Master Sheng Yen remarks:

the mind does not simply perceive, but rather adds its own emotions and perceptions. If a sense organ, say the eye, only perceived what is in front of it and gave rise to nothing but seeing, there would be no vexation. It is only when we add to this initial direct perception feelings of love, hate, desire, or greed, among others---that vexations arise. The sutra advises us to only give rise to that natural, direct response (p.25)

I am at such a low stage of practice that I am unable to really do this. For example, if I see a news story, I seem to automatically form an impression or emotion which drives either curiosity, or boredom, or sometimes dislike. Seeing things for what they are seems to be a practice of continually returning to the original source of all these impressions. Before the emotion arises, before the memory, before the thoughts, what exactly is this that I am seeing?

It goes even further than this. Even when I am trying to see the object as it really is, I am still perceiving a separate "object" instead of seeing that even this "objectifying" is a creation of the mind. To give an example, if I crave something, is it not because I think that something outside of me can be a source of enduring happiness? I pursue the object, thinking that "it" is somehow separate from the mental processes that are used to form that object. But is there a separate object? How often do we chase after thoughts, when in reality we are only projecting our notions of separate others?

What I find helpful to realize in the midst of this is that there is really no appeal to "someone else" when dealing with craving and aversion. A lot of times, the pattern is to think that something outside of me is causing me to feel attached. In fact, it's the activity of mind that is creating this sense of separation, of attachment, of the need to "appeal" to the other "object" (to negotiate) so that I can see or have more of it or have less of the other. But if I continue to think that I am being controlled by objects outside of mind, a feeling of helplessness ensues: I become 'at the mercy' of forces that are presumably outside the influence of the mind. This can cause people to give up trying to manage their lives.

An alternative is to reflect that everything arises from mind activities. While I might react to one thought, it is a thought that has already passed and, therefore, there is no need to "appeal" to that thought to somehow make the situation improve. In this way, I stop indulging the habit of thinking there are objects that are outside of the mind.

ShengYen Until We Reach Buddhahood: Lectures on the Shurangama Sutra Volume Two Elmhurst NY: Dharma Drum Publications

Learning and the Obsession with "Accountability"

Dealing with imperfection can be a hard thing, in a world of accountability. I am thinking about how essential it is that teachers allow for "imperfect" learning moments in their classrooms, and the pressure to make these imperfect moments accord with the discourses of "accountability". Teachers are being asked to be accountable for students' learning, as though learning itself were easily targeted behaviors and goals.
    To give an example: what happens when a student's learning of a particular unit in school conflicts with the official narrative of what students are "supposed" to learn? A student comes into a classroom feeling disengaged with the assignment, and tells her teacher that she would learn more if she could do a different assignment. What does the teacher do then, and how to respond to the student's request? According to the "standardized" model of education, all students must be trained in the exact same knowledge, and need to demonstrate the exact same behaviors to show they have learned something of value. But isn't one of the aims of education precisely to allow students to set their own course and understand for themselves what it means to "learn something"? And is modelling a predicted outcome not just encouraging students to act a role of the learner, rather than making the knowledge their own? The view of standardization seems to rely heavily on a behaviorist model of learning: if I demonstrate the proper response, and that response is reinforced into a "habit", then I can say that I have fully learned the unit or the proper response. But is this kind of unreflective, habitual responding a true "learning"? More than anything, I sometimes consider it to be more akin to "adjusting" than to learning.
   If teachers are pressured to administer tests which demonstrate certain "pre-given" responses in students, what happens when they are challenged about this view of learning? Unless a teacher is brave enough to challenge the obsession with accountability, they might see such challenges as an affront or a threat to their livelihood. After all, "I am here to teach what's in the textbook: without it, I can't show the school that my students have learned something." It also overlooks the role of imperfection in the way lessons are administered. "Imperfect" may seem inimical to learning, but the discrepancy between what a teacher presents and how a student "performs" in response is very rich in information about how students learn, as well as what exactly they learn.

Making Space

"Making space" is a new metaphor which I arrived at to describe what individual meditation practice means, in the introductory meditation class today. Now, what do I mean by "making space"? I am talking about a kind of minimalist movement of mind, where the aim is not to accumulate new information, new "responsibilities", or new wants, but to offload these things a bit in a single period of time. Some people symbolically try to do this by a process of "spring cleaning": getting rid of the old clutter in favor of the new. However, meditation offers the possibilities of doing this kind of thing everyday.
   I believe that meditation has the added function of giving people the space to accept their entire state of being, body and mind. This isn't stated in any books related to traditional Zen or Chan practices, but I do feel nonetheless that having one's own inner acceptance is so important in a very accelerated age of deadlines and social responsibilities. Without the ability to "tune out", it can be very difficult to ever know myself in any kind of depth. It is as though I am merely an acquaintance to myself, rather than being truly acquainted with myself in any way.
   Recently, I finished reading a book by Paul Heelas called The New Age Movement. In this book, Heelas talks about the reasons why New Age movements have come to rise recently. I am not always a big fan of certain New Age movements, but what I go get from Heelas' book is the idea that people are looking for a deeper connection to themselves, in what is quickly becoming a very fragmented age. I credit the "pace of life" to this recent trend: it's not that people are rejecting traditional religious values in favor of alternate spiritual paths, but that perhaps they are really looking for an acknowledgement of the value of their being in life, stripped away of all the layers of social obligation and work. Perhaps some spiritual practices in their own way are teaching people to validate their existence in and of itself, without the pressure to compete and complete things.

Heelas, Paul (1996) The New Age Movement: Religion, Culture and Society in the Age of Postmodernity: Wiley Blackwell

Finished, Unfinished and Hopeful

 I finished my course as of this weekend. I have to say that it was a whirlwind, and I did learn a lot in spite of the intensity of the readings and the weekly postings online. Quite often, the tasks of life are full of mixed blessings. On the one hand, there is always possibility of failure and not owning up to the requirements and responsibilities of the course. On the other hand, there is the blessing of knowing that what I am learning can make a contribution to my students' understanding as well as support my own growth.
   Some of this reminds me of what Carl Rogers spoke about many years ago in regards to the fullness of the self. Rogers would have articulated it better, but one of the tenets of the therapy he espouses is that each individual contains a rich and complex combination of different inclinations. To try to reduce one's own personality to one or two isolated traits is to do violence to the soul.. At the same time, I would apply this very same principle to all actions. There really isn't an "all good" or "all bad' undertaking, and it seems that even the most trivial undertakings can have a richness to them which contains a mixture of many elements. Just as Rogers asks his clients to consider their own complexity and to honor it, so also one can consider every action as containing many kinds of elements, and to honor them as parts of a whole. I think that this holistic view can allow me to bear the sometimes rough patches and challenges of doing course work.

the Sharing of Not Knowing

 During my posting of ideas and replies on my online course this evening, I couldn't help but feel a certain kind of joy and excitement. I am not sure if it's because I feel the flow of thoughts, or whether online courses are perhaps the equivalent to a virtual cocktail party (and to think that I would like such a virtual party, being an introvert!). The point is, it makes me realize how enriching it is to learn in the midst of others.
  I am convinced that for even brief moments, these experiences can pose what Martin Buber referred to as "I Thou" encounters: places where we are truly reflecting each others' awareness back on each other rather than treating each other as "things". What gets me every time is the ability to articulate my experiences and understanding of a theory to other students. I do think that it makes me grateful for the educational process itself. This, like my previous blog about Master Sheng Yen, points in a direction of not seeing education as a goal with a certificate that says "now I am an expert". Rather, it is the opposite: seeing what I don't know reflected in the eyes of others, and seeing that this is a good thing, not bad at all. Think about it: if we knew everything, what would become of "us"? We would stop talking to each other because we were already professed "experts" and we would probably live in separate silos, protected by guns! That's because we assume we know everything and thus don't make ourselves open to the sense of "not knowing" that every human contact provides.

Getting a Degree and "No Self"

During the video sharing tonight, Master Sheng Yen was talking about the wisdom that comes from concentration. One of the interesting things I got out of this lecture as Master Sheng Yen's example of why he became a doctoral student and got his degree. Many of his followers have asked Master Sheng Yen, "why does a monk need to have a doctorate?" at which point he replied that the doctoral degree is utterly useless to him! Well, amazing that he would see it that way! But Master Sheng Yen observed that without such a degree,he wouldn't be able to communicate Dharma teachings to such a wide audience, such as through the TV and other media.
  In a way, what Master Sheng Yen says actually motivates me to keep going in my education, perhaps for two reasons. The first is that it takes away the "false prestige" that sometimes plagues people when pursuing a degree. The more attached I become to the notion of getting a degree, the less I focus on the actual learning process behind taking courses and so on. The second point is that it de-selves the degree, by suggesting that it's really for the benefit of others that we have such things as "degrees". Education provides the social discourses necessary for people to work together to collaborate on new projects and ideas; it's not about having a static certificate on a wall, but is actually an active process of intercommunication.  But to try to value myself by how many degrees I have "earned" is counterproductive. Not only does it lead to self-attachment to notions of personal worth and identity, but it also makes the degree into a static accolade, which fails to convey the process of learning as a dialogue-based process.
   I quite liked Master Sheng Yen's vision of what education is about and how it can lead people to less self-attachment and a life of engagement,

Sheng Yen, "Deriving Wisdom from Concentration". https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gljxwLC_9sM

language meditation

 It's not so easy to practice meditation in classrooms, but as I am reflecting on the course I have just taken, there is something so rich and meaningful when one's meditations are centered around learning a new language. "Language Meditation": now how about that? I am thinking about the idea of getting students to practice mindfulness of characters; similarities between characters in a first language and second language; associations they make between one language and another, etc. The whole point of it is to say that when I can truly slow down and appreciate the layers that go with learning a language, I might find myself more engaged and willing to explore learning new words.
  If language learning is only about trying to match a sentence to a normative template of what a "grammatical" sentence looks like, I then overlook the importance of the way that meaning is often spontaneously and unpredictably established between words and sentences. In other words, I overlook the miraculous way in which no two people see the sentence the same way, even though they may technically operate from the very same grammars.
   This way of looking at language takes it out of the traditional correspondence theory of language, wherein one word signifies only one distinct meaning. Instead, it suggests that there are no limits to how words can be linked to other words or beheld in a novel freshness with every sentence that we make. Is it possible to teach language through poetry, even if the poetry doesn't "make sense" in the traditional discourse of making sense? Zen poetry comes to mind here, wherein the meaning is communicated somewhat indirectly, through spurts of imagination and inspiration.

Learning Fresh

I completed a presentation for my course tonight and I fee the dual sense of "relief" on the one hand and "more to go" on the other.I think this is the whole point of taking courses after all: not to get a degree per se, but to actually learn something. Certainly one thing I am learning throughout the semester is that there is always something that can be improved through my observation of the other presenters. How I interpret or understand the assignment will be different from someone else, so you end up having this rich plethora of presentations to choose from. In a way, this is exactly how it should be, because it takes me out of the stereotype of the student as some kind of isolated being. In fact, most of my learning experiences have been social ones, meaning that I get these unexpected moments of inspiration from others, and it completes parts of my journey.
  Does this mean that I am only "copying" the ideas of others? Hardly: I think that it's like the metaphor of a cow eating grass. Eating grass does not turn a cow into grass, but what the cow has to do with the grass is absorb it and make it its own. Under the same token, learners also find ways to make the information they acquire from others uniquely their own, creating something new in the process. One thing that impressed me the most about the presenters was how richly and seamlessly they incorporated so many of the readings into one subject area. I think that this aspect impressed me a great deal.
   Learning is a never ending thing, and I hope I never get tired of this kind of learning. It's certainly what keeps people young!

The Anguish of Choosing

 Existential therapy seems to have a lot to say about the anguish of having to choose. I would like to share my understanding of the nature of choice, both from existential and Buddhist perspectives.
   Many years ago, I read a book by J.P. Sartre called Nausea. Of all of Sartre's books, this one seemed to speak to me the most as a teenager. Why? One particular scene always stands to mind, and that is the one in which Roquentin, the main character, sees a "tree" stripped away of the label of "tree". Roquentin is horrified by the tree because suddenly there is no label to "hem it in" or to contain it in some way. Why "horrified"? There may be many psychoanalytic interpretations, but I think it's because Roquentin is beholding the fear of annihilation due to the infinite variations of the so-called "things" around him. Without the label of "tree", there is no metaphoric "container" that allows me to see something schematically and reduce it to a type. I start to feel overwhelmed by the infinite possibilities of the Other, and thus start to lose my sense of agency and a bound "sense of self".
   We do something similar in our longer meditation retreats, and this involves being able to hear sounds and see the world around us without prescribing particular labels to them. It's actually not an easy practice to do, and I recognize that the context in which Sartre was writing might have influenced how his character was responding to the situation. The point I want to make is that it's important to address the terrors of "annihilation" that this experience can offer people. I theorize that most of our identities are subconscious responses to the threat of annihilation that comes from infinite proliferation of forms.
   One solution, if there is one, is to simply spend one's life generating new forms or new ways of seeing. This is the path of the artist, where I affirm my ability to create with or alongside the forms around me using my own flexibility to see new designs in the natural world. The other path might be considered more contemplative, akin to what monastics do, and that is to meditate on the source of the infinite variation. Who, or what, is beholding these infinite forms?  Is that "it" a thing that can be defined or reduced to particular forms? I consider this to be a path that Zen Buddhism (or Chan Buddhism) tends to practice: not getting attached to forms but trying to investigate the source of all forms.
     However, I wanted to add that existential philosophy has a lot to say about the consequences of choosing either path (ie. the artist or the mystic contemplative). The consequence is always a sense of anguish of choosing, which cannot be eradicated. For the artist, making a new work of art provides a portal which allows the infinite to be expressed in a form that others can understand and learn from. However, there is never a final end to this expression, and the artist risks insanity (possibly) in trying to express endless proliferation of form. On the other hand, the mystic's way is also fraught with the anguish of refraining from being attached to forms. Even when I detach from forms (emotionally), I am still bound or condemned to living in a world of forms, and am responsible to them. The mystic might experience the pangs of realizing that there are some very desirable forms to pursue, yet she or he is bound to a path that of non-attachment.
   The point is that no matter what path I take, I am still a kind of negation that cannot be defined by the path itself and this is what gives me a sense of infinite responsibility. Every time I choose one way, I accept the consequences of denying the other, and this is an endless source of anguish. I am never "satisfied" in the sense that my whole being can be reduced to an essence or a path. But in acknowledging this anguish, I no longer go on a path of trying to get rid of anguish. Knowing that anguish is part of what it means to be a human with finite life (and infinite choice), I can learn to accept and live with that anguish.
 

Embracing The Tight Spaces

 It's interesting to reflect on how one's interpretation of tightness can often determine the kinds of experiences that a person has in response to the sensation. For some, tightness is a sign to break out of something. But somehow, I have also come to feel that the tightness is really a sign of a challenge to be faced. What is it about this experience in particular that necessitates that I hold my body a certain way or brace for some sense of failure?
    Sometimes the "tightness" is actually a sign that one is having to grow in a certain way, given the constraints that often accompany growth. The example might be compared to a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. Because the chrysalis had previously been protecting the butterfly, the newly appearing butterfly is raw and exposed--almost buffeted by natural forces.  It's only later when the butterfly starts to develop its wings that the previous limitation can be viewed as a kind of strength of sorts. What one experiences as "limitation" might also end up being a strength later on. Because I am not relying on the familiar to ease my way into the new situation, I can start to develop new resources to help me along.
   I would say that tightness does not need to be avoided completely. It can be explored with curiosity. I might start to tell myself, "Feeling this way might feel like dying now; I am like a hedgehog who is turned over on its back. But maybe later, this will introduce something quite new to me." I think this is the approach that one can use in handling newness in general. It is about abiding in whatever situation arises, and even finding out what happens or what arises when one is not feeding their usual habits of escape.

Healthy Self Relationships

 The relationship I have to my own being is a reflection of how I see the world and others. This is a most powerful sentence that I have been contemplating throughout the day. Is it true? Some are skeptical of the idea that there is such a relationship. I myself am often plagued with self-doubt: I am never so sure if this "self" is a real self, much less worthy of some special status. I think what it relates for me is that if I am very demanding toward myself and not aware of the unique conditions impinging upon me at any given moment, then the way that I approach the world and others will also be equally demanding, if not more so. It's not so difficult to know what this means. For example, waiting in a lineup, I can either keep my mind open and anchored in a particular sensation or word, or I can choose to feel the tension of wanting the lineup to end or even the temptation of jumping to the head of the line. In the former case, I am anchoring my awareness in something that is unrelated to the circumstances surrounding me. In this way, my mind has a chance of seeing things clearly without so much attachment to outcomes. In the later, I am bringing desires and attachments into the experience. Not only this, however, but the desire to jump the line is often a subtle reflection of the pressures I place on myself to always "get ahead" at all costs. Such a mentality is personally destructive because there is not much room in all of that to function as a person.
   Another point I want to make is that what one sees in others is possibly a reflection of how one sees oneself. If I am unforgiving of myself, I might end up seeing others as unforgiving or even merciless. What I am placing before the other person is the reflection of my deepest insecurities as well as a longing to be loved in spite of the insecurities or weaknesses I perceive myself as having. What if, instead of reacting to the other person for their "judgment" of me, I were able to look inward to understand the pressures I am placing on myself in that moment? To give an example: I am often facing criticism at my workplace over things that I might not have considered in the business testing. While this is an upsetting occurrence, the harsh part of me might say that I am not capable of learning or that I am always making mistakes. But what if it were the case that I am not always making mistakes, and that even in making mistakes, I am always learning? By shifting my emphasis on positive aspects of my experience, I relieve myself of an unrealistic pressure to be perfect all the time. In fact, I allow myself the forgiveness needed to keep going and keep improving on what I have done before.