New and Old Faces, New Spaces

 Today, I just learned that one of the colleagues I work with is leaving the company. Whether by choice or not, I can never be sure, but I notice that each time this happens, it's like a kind of familiar face falls away. I wonder to what extent, when we meet people, we identify "home" with those people, especially those whom we interact with on a daily basis.
    The tendency to identify with others is probably a survival trait that we have acquired through our evolution as a species. If everyone in a group were nothing more than a "face", I would not associate any particular emotions, likes, or attitudes with that face, and the group would not cohere very well. Could the notion of "face" be an offshoot of the need for groups to preserve themselves? I am not an anthropologist, but perhaps it's a safe guess.
   I also believe that we learn about ourselves when we learn about others, and there is a complex process that happens when I sort out "who I am" in the light of those around me. I tend to find that when I can feel that I am coexisting with someone else without competing with them for resources, I feel more "safe", but their leaving opens the door for another complex "working out" of mutual assistance and identities. It's a bit like "starting over" and having to navigate the uncertainties in not knowing who the next person will be who occupies the new position. All of these factors can contribute to the destability that people often feel when those around them shift to new spaces.

A Heart Needs a Head

 Movies such as A Star is Born --which I quite loved, in fact--can sometimes perpetuate the idea that if only one finds one's true calling in life, or passion, then life would somehow go smoothly. The central character in the film, Ally, meets a musician who is struggling with his own addictions and who finds in love a way to overcome his demons. Ally's life immediately soars into stardom when she starts to let go of her insecurities, and the movie follows a kind of fairytale career trajectory. One of the key themes of the movie is to always know "what you have to say" and to follow that natural voice within. But such a kind of message leads me to wonder, is finding one's way through life always so straightforward in terms of reading the heart?
   Master Sheng Yen highlights the importance of having a reflective space through which we can know ourselves. But he also mentions that due to the pace of life, it has become harder to even conceptualize the question, "what do I want from life?" He notes:

When people married in times past, they would rarely consider the option or even the possibility of divorce. These days, people often marry with an attitude of “What’s the big deal? The worst that can happen is that we divorce.” There was a time when people were not so busy, and they had more time to know themselves and understand what their lives were about. Now, we are sometimes even unfamiliar to ourselves. We may be confused by such questions, “What are you doing with your life?” or “Where do you think you are going and what will you be doing in the future?” (p.18)

What the pace of life does is that it often trivializes the deeper questions of the future, mainly because it bombards the senses with so many things to do. As a result, a person easily gets caught up in a delusion that there are endless opportunities and possibilities in the world.

In fact, however, while social life has changed, it's up to humans to make life valuable and meaningful. For example, if my attitude is simply to acquire the most accomplishments without any idea about their significance, such accomplishment become like the proverbial medals "gathering dust" on a mantelpiece. They mean nothing to the winner, because they are one of many experiences to be sought. The mentality of quantifying one's achievements sadly also trivializes death and the end of life, by making it nothing more than the resume of all of one's past accomplishments, in a "list" form. In reality, the nature of choice (and death) is that people always stand to lose something because they are not infinite, nor is the time infinite. This is why it's important not just to choose passionately but to choose wisely.

The title of this blog entry is "a heart needs a head", and I say this because it's so opposite to the cultural zeitgeist, which often says "follow your heart". But the head also represents the wisdom of differentiating appearances, and wisdom is needed to know when our hearts have found things that are good for our spirit's growth, not just desirable or passionate. Taking a slower approach to life (and even a more cautious, day to day approach) seems needed in the age of fast food and fast pace.

Sheng Yen (2013). Tea Words Volume II Elmhurst. NY Dharma Drum Publications

A Long Journey of Discovery

 Today, I joked that the walk from Castle Frank Station along the DVP would be the longest hike in Toronto. I didn't realize that in fact, it truly is--or perhaps I had forgotten how long the journey would take. Nonetheless, the walk was beautiful and I was able to endure the pain in my legs and back to get to the "finish" of Taylor Creek park. Perhaps this will be the last time Toronto will have warm enough weather for walking, but I can imagine that with the proper clothing, this kind of walk can be quite enjoyable any time of the year.
  Long walks in Toronto might seem a bit absurd to some, particularly when people are programmed to be always interacting with some kind of screen, itinerary, or to do list. However, there is something inspiring about simply enduring in a natural surrounding without the thought of having to do something, and being able to savor some of those moments of not always being stimulated by the sense of connection. It is sad that "nature walks" are not included as formal pedagogy in schools, and the one or two times that I ever did have a nature walk in school was generally for the purpose of identifying plants or geographical features, rather than as an exercise in being present to the experience of walking outdoors. A course which teaches young people how to use contemplative inquiry in outdoor walking might to a ways in helping them enrich their experiences of the natural world, but also to know something about their relationship to body, time, meaning and purpose.
 Some "field" observations I would like to randomly jot in this regard, to be expanded upon later:
 
a) looking at trees seems to provide a natural release of stress, particularly seeing their swaying forms and being able to project that swaying, rhythmic and changing form onto my own embodied sense of being, makes the tension in my body seem less real, more fleeing

b) trails are places of induction into mystery and meaning. I am always poised between the uncertainty of not quite knowing where it's going to lead, for how long, and whether I can endure, yet there is a fascination in being on the path itself

c) trails offer new ways of looking at the "same old", and they have a way of disorienting and even defamiliarizing one's tried and true map of the city. I have had that experience today where, coming back to a familiar restaurant on Bloor and Yonge for dinner, I thought, "where exactly did I just come from? How come I cannot see it on my traditional map of the world?

d) nature trails are places where one can potentially contact liminal situations: the contact with a hungry squirrel, the sight of a curious bird, even the flight of a stationary helicopter. These experiences inject the everyday with something from a totally different world that is not saturated with "human" meaning--it has a spirit meaning of its very own.'

There is so much here to expand upon, but the point is that these random walks do have an educative value that might translate into the way people relate to things in the city. To be continued?

Narratives of Hardship

    It’s interesting to compare the kinds of explanations for hardship that are found in A Little Princess and Tales of the Greek Heroes. Whereas the predominant trope of the Greek myths is that of punishing humans for disobedience to the gods (and testing the virtue of humans such as Philemon and Baucis), A Little Princess traces the root of human suffering as downfall due to human excesses which have to correct themselves naturally. In this second case, it isn’t that Sara needs to respect the gods to expiate the “sins” of her father, who dies after investing in a diamond mine network. Rather, Sara has to go through the hardship of being poor as a way of testing her resolve to practice goodness to others and hospitality, in spite of her diminished material wealth. Instead of gods, we find that wealth itself becomes the measure of punishment and reward. Material wealth is “awarded” to those who attain a virtuous attitude and don’t squander wealth, while material wealth is “withheld” to test the strength of the character in the face of deprivation. It’s not long before readers begin to think of wealth and fortune as similar to the gods in the Greek myths. Wealth and sudden changes of fortune are signs that either a person has something more to learn or someone has achieved a certain amount of learning. It’s the story of a person who does well in life by maintaining a virtuous character, in spite of suffering or hardships, or deprivations.

   How might a Buddhist see this sort of story? Do Buddhists also see the value in developing strength in character as a result of suffering? First of all, I am aware that all of these narratives are just ways of telling ourselves how to deal with hardship. It’s hard to say, beyond this, whether a person’s character is “strengthened” through hardship, and I am more inclined to think that a person’s belief in the redeeming powers of hardship is actually what motivates them to keep practicing virtuous or productive things in the midst of suffering. If I continue to believe I am entitled to things because of my position, class, birth, upbringing and so on, I cause suffering to myself by carrying resentment. If on the other hand, I am aware that all of these “ups and downs” are only temporary, then I allow myself to focus only on what is in this moment. I don’t try to trace back, through some kind of constructed narrative, the “wherefore” or the “why”, since this kind of inquiry is not so productive: it can lead to all number of debates about when suffering began or what started my “downfall” when, in fact, sometimes one is only feeling some temporary vexation in the moment that is not connected causally with anything. In other words, Buddhists are more interested in the human tendency to make stories out of simple sensations and then attach to some identity embedded there.

More on a Fast Paced Life

 I feel that I would like to go back to some of Master Sheng Yen's teachings, particularly his Tea Words Volume II, as some of what he is writing about touches upon the fast paced world that I am living in today.
   When a person refers to "fast paced", what do they mean exactly? Today, I was sharing with some of the Grade 4 students about Frankenstein, a story which at one point was dubbed as "The Modern Prometheus, and how it's sometimes perceived as a warning against trying to control nature too much. I also reflect that from the perspective of the scientist, Frankenstein, this story might be an allegory for the ways in which one's creations end up controlling them, in many respects. How this relates to today's fast paced world might be expressed in the form of a paradox: the easier we make things to be, the more those things can influence a person. A good example might be the "addiction" to connecting on Facebook. When a person becomes attached to the idea of being recognized or having one's pictures "liked", a kind of short circuiting situation arises. One Dharma teacher, Guo Gu has remarked, "our need to be seen, heard and loved is greatly exploited by technologies that purport to meet those needs" (p.26). Why is it that apps and other online tools are so powerfully addictive? I think in some ways it's because they short circuit the long process that comes with connection by offering an easy substitute that feels like "being liked" or being recognized. In a scary sort of way, these technologies have a way of reminding us that the feeling of being recognized is really an internal one, not even something that people "share" necessarily, but something that I might feel when certain conditions are there in the environment. Whether it's coming from an app, a road sign or wherever, the function of these signs is to provide us with a somewhat illusory sense of uniqueness or "protection" from hostile elements in the world that might not necessarily have our interests in mind. In a way, recognition is a form of temporary immunity from a pervasive feeling of indifference or perhaps even a sense of fragility and contingency in one's perceptions.
  To go back to Tea Words Volume II, Master Sheng Yen remarks:

 There was a time when people were not so busy, and they had more time to know themselves and understand what their lives were about. Now, we are sometimes even unfamiliar to ourselves. We may be confused by such questions, “What are you doing with your life?” or “Where do you think you are going and what will you be doing in the future?”" (p.18)

Here, Master Sheng Yen is referencing the pace of life as something that prevents people from sitting down and reflecting on life's purpose. But what is Master Sheng Yen's recommendation to deal with this kind of fast paced life, from the perspective of Buddhadharma? Master Sheng Yen reflects:

Buddhadharma teaches that the world we live in is only a very small portion of the universe, like a grain of sand in the Ganges River, or a grain of sand in countless Ganges Rivers. Even if we feel that the world is as small as an egg, we can take heart in the vastness of the universe (p.19)

This is a very interesting perspective shift, and one worth noting as well. I believe that it refers to how the world could be seen as so vast that even the "busyness" we engage in is nothing compared to its miraculous vastness. It is not so necessary to dwell on these things we do daily when the universe is so much larger. Another way of looking at this is to say, what will one's world be twenty or thirty years from now? Are all the worries related to accumulating things and getting things done today, going to make a difference at that time? Most likely, the majority of things are only going to be temporarily known or recognized, only to be replaced by newer experiences.

Master Sheng Yen continues, "We may not be able to roam through it in its entirety at this point, but we need not feel any claustrophobia or oppression because the Earth feels small to us now. With a method of practice, we can discover a great world inside of us that is limitless, like the world around us. There is no measure of the space within and without." (ibid). Again, the sense of oppression that Master Sheng Yen is referring to is none other than the view that my "self" is limited to this body and the things it is able to do in a tiny stretch of time. In aligning myself to a greater vastness of the mind, all these thoughts start to diminish in their overall magnitude

Sheng Yen (2013). Tea Words Volume II. Elmhurst, NY: Dharma Drum Publications

The "book end" metaphor of spirituality

   I had this idea on my way home from work today, which relates to how my experience of spiritual life is literally book-ended: caught between the covers of books. This is not to say that I see spirituality as an intellectual form of book reading, but recently my ideas about what makes a person "spiritual" have expanded a lot.
    I think the important aspect of spiritual life is that it always exists as a narrative which is shaped by communities of practice. Contrary to popular belief, spiritual practices are not about this lone traveler who transcends all social life. In fact, a person's spirituality is literally being mediated by language all the time, even to the point where evaluating how one interprets a spiritual experience is predicated on texts and the wisdom passed down along a lineage. Communities confirm or dis-confirm one's path, and this also becomes a point of reflection on that path. I would say that all of this confirms the important role that community plays in spiritual life.
  But there is more to this "book end" metaphor than that. Since there is always a space "between" book ends, one should also look for the spaces between different discourses that are out there on spiritual life and practice. There are also practices and ways of being that simply don't fall into words at all. Knowing that there are these spaces of unknown or unnameable states of being can help people become less literal minded about the texts they read. Does this suggest that an eclectic approach works better? In some cases, it might, but perhaps a good way to look at it is that texts are always serving as go-betweens for vast spaces of spirit that can only be known through a direct contemplation through practice.

Ways of Reading Spiritual Texts

 I have been reflecting recently on the correct attitudes toward reading spiritual texts. I believe that two factors in particular stand out in terms of effectively helping people to immerse themselves in reading spiritual texts. The first is that one should have an attitude of humility when reading spiritual texts. Texts are like living beings, and there is simply no way to swallow or absorb all the various meanings of the text in one big "gulp". This brings me to my next point, which is that spiritual texts are inexhaustible in terms of providing sources of wisdom. I have found that I can read Master Sheng Yen's books several times over and over, and yet still find something so valuable in reading them. It is as though each reading were an entirely new moment to which the text addresses itself in uniquely new ways.
   Sometimes, a reader like myself has to admit the fact that they are not able to absorb every possible aspect of a text. It doesn't always get "internalized" into one's worldview or way of being. I notice, for example, that I feel vexations after work, and I have noticed my need to come back to basic Chan texts by Shifu (or commentaries) to be able to ground my mind again, or at least provide a wider perspective on what I experience. My attitude at that point is one of admission, admitting that my practice is too weak to carry me through these rough patches, and I do need to remind myself of some teaching that will at least ground my awareness. Here, it's the text that grounds me, not necessarily my own personal embodiment of it. And sometimes being able to admit my need for reading something inspirational or informative helps me to ground myself and not to be so independent all the time. A lot of times, the desire to turn to a book is really that desire to surrender to something that is greater than the sum of desires, fears and dislikes.

Holistic Connections: Language and Science

I would love to design a course or a unit for children which is a cross-pollination of English and science, since these subjects were two of my favorites in high school. Why English and science, you might ask? Well, it goes back to C.P. Snow's idea of the "Twin cultures" of art and science, and how he feared that these cultures were becoming further and further derailed or separated over time. It would somehow be great to bring it home to young children that we need language to communicate scientific ideas--not just mathematical symbols but more so the symbols of  written and oral language that can be shared between people. And, I think the best way (perhaps) of engaging such a course is by reading Shelley's Frankenstein alongside some science articles for children, as a way of encouraging children to think about the advantages and drawbacks of scientific ideas and innovations.
    Too often, I see a sharp division between science/math on the one hand and languages on the other, particularly in grade and high schools. It is as though the precision of science did not require the kinds of imagination that are needed to process and understand a literary work. However, it seems that both imagination and precision are required to fully comprehend science and its implications. Being able to integrate science and language in a more reflective course about the opportunities and challenges of science might help people to stop associating science exclusively with mathematics. In addition, it challenges the idea that subject areas are bounded tightly and cannot cross-over into other genres. I believe that being able to cross genre boundaries is an important skill which allows people to reimagine familiar subjects in new and interesting ways. It also forces people to rethink what they once thought to be "doing science", adding an element of literary narrative to allow people to relate "abstract" science to the impacts on daily life

Our Frankensteins

 Soon it will be Halloween, and I am reflecting on ways that I can engage my Grade 4 students in a Halloween theme that ties in Greek Mythology. By coincidence, in fact, the kids are about to read about Prometheus, which ties into Mary Shelley's story of Frankenstein. I am definitely seeing interesting parallels across myths and this particular book, and I am especially interested in the subtle exploration of creator and creation.
   Most analyses of Frankenstein focus on the parallels between the monster and modern science or technology, commenting on to what extent humans should control nature or be in charge of creating life. I have a somewhat different take on this book these days, since I am thinking of to what extent Frankenstein's monster really represents one's shadow, or thoughts that one chooses to disown. It's often the case that when I am deeply critical of myself, I will project onto other people this critical tendency, believing that I am forced to believe others' critical remarks when in fact they are my own. Put it in this way: whatever I hear from others gains power by my belief that what they are saying is the absolute truth, rather than one moment in an unfolding process. I have swallowed into the idea that there are "other people" who are separate beings, rather than looking at the ways in which these others are only extensions of my thinking. For example, I hear a comment that is hurtful, and then I believe that this comment actually belongs to someone and is a fixed part of their personality. In fact, however, that comment is only one moment among others, and it would be incorrect for me to generalize that this comment exists eternally within another person. But by magic, I continue to associate that person with one hurtful remark that only came and went.
  To go back to Frankeinstein analogy, is it possible that Frankenstein is an allegory for ways in which our thoughts take on a life of their own if left unchecked, and we have to take some responsibility for this life? This metaphor suggests that rather than seeing one's creations as separate, that one truly see them as reflections of one's thought processes and to own them as phenomena of one's mind. Unless we do so, thoughts become "monsters", hijacking our families and friends, and leading us to faraway places where we have to bear our inner dramas in isolation.

Good by Association

  It's always interesting to reflect, what if? But in fact, things happen as they do for complex reasons. Western philosophy (and to a certain extent, Eastern, I suppose) tends to look at people's success in terms of these supposedly internal characteristics. For example, a person is said to be of "good character" if they demonstrate certain personality characteristics that are fairly enduring over time. Sometimes, looking back on one's life, one can often even see that the seeds of one's future being were already contained in those past times. Does this mean that the self is determined? Well...maybe and maybe not. I have a sense that change is possible, but most of the time, people's will might not be bolstered enough to push through all the resistances to change.
   I think it's very important, no matter where a person is in life, to take pride in what's in front of them, and not to pine over the old times when something was supposedly "present". I am afraid that this is a mistake that people often make in their lives: to think they had something that was never their's to begin with. When I was in high school, for example, there were many people I looked up to, but in associating with those people, I would give myself the misleading idea that because they accept me, I too must be "one of them". It's a sort of "good by association"game that one plays with oneself, as repeated exposure to someone else might give someone the impression that they have the same good qualities that the other person has. In fact, this is not the case: admiring someone does not confer the same status on the admirer, even when they are loved by the admired.
  Part of maturity might consist in differentiating who one really is and is capable of from the capacities of others, as well as one's daydreams about themselves. Who I am can only be known when I am fully present with whatever it is that needs doing. If I start to fall into a wandering mindset, what happens is that I quickly lose contentedness with the present and start to daydream about a future that never will be. Conversely, reflecting on past regrets is also a kind of vanity effort, which assumes that one's failings were so tragic that the world needs to stop because of them.. It's sometimes helpful to ask oneself, "now that I admire so and so, does that mean that I am special? Does admiration make me special in the eyes of the other?" Of course (and unfortunately) the answer is usually no: a person who is admirable may have many who admire them, and it makes no sense for that person to focus on their so many admirers!
   The point I want to make is, quite often, our view of others is influenced by our own projections of childhood wishes: to be loved, to belong, to never be forgotten or left behind. But this is all magical thinking, and the growth experience entails letting go of or at least acknowledging that one's projections are not the other person.

A Curious Mindset

  Having a curiosity as well as a heart to engage life are priceless gifts, and they are not easily obtained. From my own personal experience, life's passions often come from struggles and efforts. I just watched a movie, A Star Is Born, where one of the main characters remarks that without looking deeply into one's heart, one has "no legs", meaning that talent is not enough to make a career or a life; a passionate commitment to finding meaning is also needed. I just remarked that this passion is a hard thing to come by, but it might start with the curiosity to ask the question, what does it mean? And to engage such a question also requires a mindset that is always inquiring.
  Perhaps one of the worst things a person can succumb to is the temptation to stop asking questions and to stop looking for a sense of meaning in life.Such a sense of meaning isn't automatically incurred upon someone as though "by magic"but it comes from a struggle to know, and not to give up in the search to know. When a person is not satisfied in their hearts with the answers given to them from their communities or life worlds, how do they cope with that disconnect? Do they conclude that life is just something to be "gotten through", or is there another way to look at it? I believe that curiosity and a questioning approach allows people to engage life without succumbing to easy answers as to what life is.
   Finally, mediation itself can be approached as a form of inquiry. Do I know what this mind is? I often think I do (that is,assuming it's the thing that exists in the brain) but is that really what mind is? It's only when I am engaging fully in this question that something deep within opens up that is not coming from my conditioning.

Place of Awareness

 During tonight's meditation session, we explored Shifu's Dharma talk in which he explored the nature of awareness in meditative practice. Many times, people do reflect that meditation is about being aware; for example, one speaks of "being aware that one is angry". However, is it so simple as simply knowing one is angry, or does awareness entail something more than just "knowing"?
  I think that awareness is more than simply knowing. For example, knowing that I am feeling a certain way does not give me the proper space and realization to know that this feeling is temporary and based on salient factors. When I am truly clear about anger, it is no longer seen as the function of a discrete self , but the more complex interplay of conditions. Awareness requires a mental space to contain these phenomena rather than being simply acted upon.
   Participants in the discussion also pointed to the importance of using a method consistently to raise an awareness and insight into emotions as temporary. Without the method, we are not truly aware, but are often simply being swept away in the conditions, thinking that they are permanently a part of us. In this way, consistency in using one's method is such a crucial aspect of awareness.

Two Hands

 The days are much shorter and I have been thinking how much life is so much like a hurricane or an avalanche. It can be hard at times to keep up with the pace of life. In those moments, one must really cherish the fact that there are only two hands and two feet: to try to go beyond what can be physically done or possible is doing violence to one's body, and in times like that, it's good to set limits.
  At the same time, taking on different responsibilities can be an adventure, so long as one is not so invested in gaining from it that they feel pressured to succeed all the time. Getting enmeshed in the idea of having to be successful can lead to all sorts of resentments and disappointments, so it can be helpful to slow down and allow oneself to consider whether it's a life death situation if one does not always succeed.
  If you are not sure where you are going, just look at what your two hands can hold and what direction your two feet are pointing. Beyond that, is there anything to know?

Pressures to Succeed

 Even in meditative settings, it's surprising to learn that there is a pressure to "succeed" or to progress in meditation in ways that feel authentically like a series of stages. I have been learning recently how meditation unearth's unconscious "success" scripts, or the ways that we believe we are progressing in anything--not just a spiritual practice but in life generally. In all of our group practices, we have tried to emphasize the importance of awareness without force: a need to simply know what's happening in mind while seeing that they are about as insubstantial as clouds. Even the most pervasive dream (or nightmare) that comes to mind is fleeting and circumstantial: it comes from the exigencies of the moment, rather than being a permanent fixture in one's personality. Why is one's success or failure in meditative practice based on the relative view of phenomena?
   I also try to extend the success mindset to everyday life. Any time we want something, we frame it as an achievement to gain it, a failure to lose it, and dissatisfaction with our present circumstances when it is not attained now. These three dynamics create desire, aversion and ignorance (the three kleshas). In the state of craving, one imagines that the desired state will bring lasting happiness, so one starts to crave it. In the state of aversion, I don't want to lose or see myself as someone who is striving for success yet humiliated by circumstances. With "ignorance" comes the ingratitude I show toward the things that are in front of me: when I am focused on one way of being, I am not able to see what's in front of me.
   This model also suggests that every desire creates a subtle subjectivity: a sense of someone being either a success, a failure, or a "nobody". I found that it's important to be aware of what subject emerges from desire. I have noticed that when I am able to accept the fact that my identity is not equipped to always succeed (ie I have both strengths and failings), I have found that I am less anxious about success or acquiring things I want. Why is that? It's because every desire has a hidden narrative of worth or lack of worth. It is as though I have been pressured to always succeed in living up to what I want, by earning it, or by proving myself worthy of it. But what would happen if I totally accepted the fact that I cannot always succeed: that success is relative not just to my current capacities but also to the circumstances of the moment? This creates a more realistic space for me to reflect on my wants without internalizing a sense of failure. It would sometimes be helpful for me to even practice imagining being rejected or proven ineligible for things I want (such as earning a degree) as a way of critically reflecting on whether this rejection is really going to "kill" me, or even affects me fundamentally. Reflecting this way might mitigate the anxieties that are often associated with wants, and might also get people to reflect on the difference between want and need.

Torturer and Tortured: It All the Mind

     We continue to be both our "torturers" and our "tortured". I was reflecting on this idea after the one day meditation retreat today. It's a little bit of an unusual theme, I admit, but I am looking at it both from a Buddhist and a Christian perspective. From the Buddhist point of view, both "torturer" and "tortured" are really just the same mind going through different role plays. One minute, I take the side of the one who is "hating me", while the other is defending "me" to the death. We have all heard about what's called the "inner critic" but have we ever stopped to think that when someone criticizes or insults us, it is really ourselves "taking on" and internalizing the role of the other?
  From a Christian perspective, I would have to argue that the reason we experience situations where we are deeply hurt or wounded by others, is to awaken compassion within. Quite simply put: nobody is a rock or an island unto him or herself, and the trying times we experience with others are really invitations and opportunities for the heart to reach out to one who has been disowned, mistreated or simply left in the margins...simply because we are none other than that person. Conversely, we have also experienced moments in our lives when our actions have hurt other beings---when, whether we intended to or not, we too were the "torturers". This is not about feeling ashamed about this, but about understanding that the hurting of others often comes from a place of either not knowing what others need or simply being narrowly constricted by one layer of thought. For example, I might subscribe to the view that everyone should "take care of themselves" and anyone who can't is just a "freeloader". But this view does not come from an accurate assessment of people's vulnerability in stressful situations (such as poverty) but from a need to protect oneself from the bitter truths of suffering and one's own vulnerability. When I know that the torturer is only acting from a wish to avoid harm to themselves, I am able to see their humanity as well, and forgiveness is possible when I know that in their own way, they are simply trying their best.
    Again, these situations are about opening up to what is and knowing that there are deep meanings behind these difficulties which are ultimately meant for the good of one's soul, even though they feel painful at the time. I think this is one way to handle situations where a person feels deeply disconnected from others.

Discussing Silent Illumination in Daily Life

 During our study group discussion tonight, we talked about the way that too much Illumination in Silent Illumination practice can lead to a discriminating mind, whereas too much Silence does the opposite:it can lead to a kind of mental torpor. One of the participants in the group made the interesting observation that rather than trying to "balance" these two sides of the practice, it's best to perhaps observe one's reactions, not judging the self as  it's unfolding its reactions to life, but sort of just seeing how reactions arise with a sense of humor.
   I have found that recently, I have swung in the direction of silence in my practice, because I am often afraid of judgments or thoughts that arise in my mind. But the whole point of practice is not to "judge" one's "judgments", but to rather be clear that those judgments are not truly one's essence. To not judge judgment itself is perhaps a more realistic process, where we are neither aligning with the Illumination of judgment or the silence of "not judging".
   The point is that if I am really in the present moment, I need not fear that my thoughts will take me away from this moment. All I need fear is attaching thoughts or trying to form complex narratives from them. When I get lost in chains of thought, I am essentially creating karma from that attachment, and I become both creator and actor in a personal drama.

Finger Traps

 Today is my birthday, and I am reflecting on what kinds of things I have learned in the past. There is an idea that I picked up from an old Philip K. Dick novel (it was probably Valis) and it is something to do with the Chinese finger trap: the more you struggle to resolve the dilemma, the more crushing and confining the trap is on one's finger. Some might attribute this to be a form of karma, but they might be missing the point of why the trap is designed in such a way that one emerges from it only by letting go of the idea of a problem to be resolved or fixed.
  A lot of people might even approach contemplative practices very similar to the "finger trap": they frame meditation as the potential solution to all their problems, and even approach meditative practice in the way that one consults an oracle at Delphi. In other words, we have a tendency to regard the value of meditation as lying in a kind of "solving of riddles". But in my own experience I have found, to the contrary, that the value of meditation lies in that little cubby space between the bookshelf and the wall, where a book or magazine accidentally becomes wedged. In dislodging the awareness from attachment to thoughts, we find ourselves simply in the middle of the mess, of the displacement, and yet we are able to authentically be and rejoice in those in between spaces. In that way, there is no longer any sense in resisting or struggling. Even the idea that this is "Making It" or a kind of accomplishment also needs to be let go of.
   To "solve" the finger trap is to stop seeing it as a trap in the first place.

Finding Community

I unfortunately had to miss the evening meditation tonight due to some errands I had to run and school work that was pressing. I have found that my heart feels so heavy when I cannot be with the group, and such a feeling makes me realize how important it has been to have an accepting group of people in one's life as a spiritual life support.
  I have rarely talked about community in my blog, perhaps because my concern has been developing self-compassion and self-awareness to function well in communities. But I do believe that when there is a community that is supportive of you, and you are given the opportunity to be a contributor to that community in turn, your mental and spiritual health is nurtured. I also believe that possibilities open up only when people can open their hearts to communities of some sort or another.
   When I talk about community, however, I don't mean that one needs to force themselves to be extroverted or the same as everyone else. This form of community is actually just an extended peer pressure. I am more interested in community that shares a common spiritual vision and acts on that vision, particularly through shared texts, meditations and reflections. There really needs to be a psychic space there for people to bring their whole personality, being and mind into the moment of coming together, rather than bringing out fragments here and there. In this way, communities that allow people to bring themselves to the present are most inspiring and nurturing to me.
  It's also important that communities operate from an attitude that everyone has something to contribute to the whole.  A community that only values a few people's talents does very little to expand outward and embrace others at their own stages in life. Even when people's spirits are broken in some way, those broken shards are beautiful crystals: they are gifts waiting to grace others' life with the wisdom that can come from enduring hardships.
   These are a few isolated thoughts on community which I would like to expand on in future entries.

Different Ideas about Working Life

  Most Western cultures inherit a particular idea about work that is often derived from Greek and Biblical stories of the Fall. According to this view, people are punished for disobeying God by being driven to very hard labor. Rather than being provided for, people are "condemned" to fending for themselves. This attitude also gives rise to a flip-side, the narrative that "life without work" is an even greater drudgery. Where and how did working life ever come to be associated with these labels?
  If a person is too focused on work, they may very well lose scope about the overall lessons that are often inadvertently learned through work life. Examples: how to listen before speaking; how to communicate to be understood; how not to jump to conclusions; how to refrain from decisions until possibilities have been fully explored and analyzed, etc. These principles, for sure, could be learned outside of communities such as work, but what makes work so compelling is that we are pushed to work by survival needs. That is, a lot of things one would otherwise walk away from is highly (perhaps notoriously) tolerated at work!
   Work life often teaches me things that I would never have sought using my own thinking or devices. Am I suggesting, then, that everyone should have an activity that they are forced to do to survive? Well, currently, that is the social arrangement, but I often wonder whether work is really something we are forced to do after all.I suspect that people for the most part enjoy the sense of being mentally occupied and engaged, as well as the sense of belonging that workplaces afford. I doubt that work would suddenly fall behind if everyone didn't have to work tomorrow. I believe that people would still desire work in this case, and in fact, would seek it out even more if it were not associated with pressure and fear.

More Fall Walking

 Today's walk was a beautiful one, and I had the lucky opportunity to see the autumn trees foregrounding the foggy, somewhat eerie backdrop of a warm and humid day in Toronto. This time, the walking was around the Don Valley Brick Works, amidst a series of maze-like trails. I have more time to reflect as well on the importance of being in the present moment, just the same way as the trees themselves are gently reflected in the water. No single moment, I am reminded, is any more "tangible" than this beautiful reflection. And the natural clarity of the fall leaves reflected in the crisp water reinforced the fragility of that beauty.
  Can witnessing the beauty of nature help us to have different perspectives on our loved ones and relations? I believe so, but of course, it depends on one's mindset. Any number of mindsets can, and naturally do, emerge on such a nature walk.  One obvious mindset is, of course, to be so preoccupied with one's cellphone or inner thoughts, that they can't even see the things around them with any clarity. If a person is similarly caught up in worries about the future and anxieties about what is already passed, they will not have the heart or the mind to enjoy what is in their life in this moment.
    Another mindset, somewhat opposite to this, is a kind of possessive hyper-vigilance. I often see this in the form of people taking selfies or constant snapshots of the fall scenes, in hopes that perhaps some of that activity will literally "capture" the beauty around them and preserve it for future keeping. I also saw this earlier today when several young boys were pulling carp and catfish out of the local pond across from the Brick Works, treating the fish as though they were special "pets" that they could extract and throw back into the water at will. Naturally, the fish were struggling to breathe when the boys kept doing this, and I started to fear for the fishes' lives, almost to the point of wanting to warn the boys not to do this, for fear that the fish will die in vain. Although this action strikes many people as inhumane, I now start to wonder to what extent this attitude also applies to our relationships with people. Do we sometimes try to "hold" people in one pose or one place that is not conducive to their flourishing and life, rather than allowing them to swim naturally in the elements where they are most healthy? I attribute such a mentality to one of grasping and attachment.
   Often, people "kill" the moment by bringing a grasping mindset to it. I believe that it comes down to not being able to properly appreciate or enjoy things as they truly are in the universe, in their proper context. As soon as I find grapes that are particularly sweet or "better" than what I tasted before, I long to reproduce that exact same moment of tasting the grapes, by going back to the same place over and over again. Eventually, I "kill" the moment by trying to recreate it again and again, only to realize that I am simply poisoning myself through a grasping, comparing mentality. I think I am tasting something "new" every time when in fact I am mentally trying to repeat my previous experience of the grapes, holding it as a standard moment. The same goes with people as well. Am I really seeing the person in front of me, or am I only repeating a dream I had before? Knowing the difference requires a kind of mental reminder that the past and present are not the same.  And being in the present requires not clinging to any thought.
    I think that being with nature is really a good therapy to correct the mistakes of grasping on the one hand, and distraction on the other. But engaging with the natural world requires a light, open mindset of receiving nature's simple gifts, rather than trying to appropriate those gifts on the one hand or "zone out" on the other. At what point children stop enjoying nature and start wanting to keep nature as a pet, for me, is really a very tragic moment. It seems to mark, for me, the beginning of an acquisitive mindset, where one's identity is defined not by where they are but by what they can hold onto. And old age, conversely, is about going back to knowing where one is in this moment, and letting go of what cannot be held onto.

Incubating Ideas

 On the way home tonight to Mandarin class, I started to think about how much brainstorming and writing I will need to do to start nurturing a suitable topic for my thesis. It's going to be a bit of a long journey, and I suppose one of the joys of this process lies in not really knowing where it will ultimately take me. But the good thing about it is that, just as a bird often uses even the most random elements at its disposal to "create" a nest, so even the most disparate elements could end up forming this future totality. At the same time, I want to make sure that what I come up with is really coming from my own heart.

I sense that this is part of why doctoral work is in itself a spiritual process of forming connections and accessing the soul. It doesn't need to be imitative of similar processes: it can certainly borrow from things around it, but the process of inner learning (learning about one's deepest aspirations) is going to be different to everyone. To know this in itself lifts me of the burden of having to somehow read or absorb everything. Sometimes the most direct topic will naturally solidify over time, and one gradually builds and deepens her or his connections to the preferred topic.

Ideas need to sit for a while before they can grow and hatch, but analogously, one needs to nurture those ideas with warmth, spirit, consistency, and care. Many people confuse the creative process with a kind of stagnation. They might have had episodes in their lives when creative ideas just seemed to strike them, unprecedented, out of the blue, with no prior context to know just how they arose. But what isn't accounted for in these cases is how much care is put into mystery. That is, one has to have faith that mystery has a kind of productivity, a little bit like the faith of going up a misty mountain and not really knowing when or how one will reach the highest point. And most of all, I believe that a certain amount of dedicated "plodding" is essential for one's finest, most heartfelt ideas to emerge. Even if a thousand such thoughts and inspirations don't amount to the final result, they play their part in eliminating possibilities, which is also an important (and often ignored) aspect of creation. Yes, even one's "rejected" ideas are generative, because they represent learning efforts and new insights as much as the "final" product does.

A Human "Placemat' (but not a "Doormat")

  We had our meditation in the Second Floor Meditation Room this time, due to a visiting teacher in the Quiet Room tonight. At first, two Muslim women came into the room and asked me if something was going on--to which I replied that we have a Buddhist Chan meditation event. They then went outside the meditation hall to do their prayers. Later, when another co-facilitator arrived, she suggested that the two women could have prayed in the same room, since we don't use up a lot of space for our event. It then dawned on me that this entire room is big enough for everyone, so why was there any need for the women to leave the room to do their prayers? I told myself that next time, I would invite the women not only to "join meditation" but to pray with us as well.
   An analogy I would like to explore is the idea that the mind is like a gigantic placemat. If you ever remember times when you were a child and the placemat was a flat piece of plastic that was placed on the table which allowed you to make any kind of mess you wanted, without too many repercussions. Could the mind be seen in this way as well? I believe so, but the trick is not to think that your mind is 'better' or 'worse' than someone else's. In fact, it's all the same mind, so why differentiate one mind from the other? The same goes with emotional states and personalities. If I am making a space for everyone, I don't distinguish "my way" as being superior to someone else's. Rather, my practice is to allow every way to simultaneously operate in unison, much like those monads that the philosopher and mathematician Leibniz conceived of in his principles. When I am really committed to this practice, I don't worry about what I need to do, since I am only a placemat through which others will have their agendas or meanings to uncover for themselves. And I don't insist on one way being the "correct way". If I have such a mindset, I can never be at peace in any situation, since I insist that things be one way. What if I just let go of the idea that there is "any way" to begin with, instead realizing that all ways lead to one (or to none at all)?
   This is not the same as subscribing to an ethical relativism or a kind of weak-minded doormat philosophy. A "doormat" is someone who simply succumbs to every wish, believing (at times) that acquiescence leads to some form of reward. Sometimes, it's the opposite way, in the sense that people can be giving and being drained by a person who doesn't know the limits to what they can give. A "placemat" seems a more apt metaphor to suggest that all relations are experiments in give and take, where we create shared space upon which we can create all kinds of art works or, conversely, "messes".

A Crowded World

In an article in Tea Words Volume II called "Buddhadharma in the Modern World", Master Sheng Yen remarks:

The world today has a genuine need for Buddhadharma. There are many fine things in the modern world but also, much that is less than desirable. As the world becomes smaller and more crowded, people are getting busier and busier. As a child I read a Chinese novel called Journey to the West. It is the story of a monkey with mystical, supernormal powers who accompanies his master to India to seek special teachings from the Buddha. Despite the monkey’s power, the journey is very difficult. The monkey could leap over 100,000 miles but because his master lacked that power, the journey was arduous (p.17)

Reading these words, I reflect that the word "crowded" can be a metaphor both for the world getting smaller and the idea that we live "crowded' lives. I remember once reading a prediction that with more technology, people would not need to work as many hours. In fact, more technology has simply extended the reach of people's productivity to the point where they are simply working longer hours and having even more tasks to accomplish. Mater Sheng Yen compares this phenomena to that of "Journey to the West", where one person's arduous journey is actually another person's single step. What it reminds me of, in fact, is that we often don't realize how much we are asked to do that may exceed our own bodily capacities. Sometimes I compare this situation to that of a frog that is slowly boiling in water that is gradually increasing. The frog is barely aware that it is in a bad position until it is much too late.

Meditation seems to be so essential to my life, particularly when the pace of life is so great. For example during tonight's sitting, I experienced the pains of living a sedentary life; back pain and the usual soreness and tightness that comes with being in one place for a whole day. Yet, in sitting with that pain, I was able to drop a lot of racing thoughts, and I felt a sort of quiet which allowed me not to be so driven by all the thoughts. It turns out that the "crowds" are really in our own minds, and when we are not able to find a place to run away to, it's best to find refuge in the mind itself.

Even on a crowded bus, it's possible not to be so driven by crowds; not to always react or respond to everything, but to illuminate one's reactions with a state of calm.

Sheng Yen (2013). Tea Words Volume II Elmhurst NY: Dharma Drum Publications

Myths continued

    In reflecting on the roles of myths, I have come to realize that there are progressive understandings in myths. While the "creation stories" tell children about cause and effect and the categorical tensions that exist between order and chaos, subsequent stories teach them what it means to be a "mortal" in a volatile world; the sense that one's own actions can have severe repercussions or consequences; the splendor of creation; and the terrors of existing in a world where even the gods are not necessarily "reasonable" by any stretch of imagination. Greek myths strike me as being (somewhat) the apotheosis of other religions, in the sense that their gods tend to be quite jealous and even terrible at times, and it's only later in the mythological canon that Zeus, for instance, learns that human/god relationships are reciprocal and require mercy. The progression from a justice-based to a mercy based ethics is yet another aspect of myths that make them, to some extent, parallel the maturity of human endeavors and relationships. If the goddesses and gods are not open to trying new ways of relating to mortals (and vice versa), then the powers will often only end up wiping each other out in battle.
  I am not so much interested in the "bare bones" of a lot of the Greek myths as I am about the patterns of relationships that they reveal. For example, Oedipus is a figure in Greek mythology who is so pitiably cursed by his own fate (in murdering his own father and marrying his mother), that it forces people to wonder how they relate to events in their own lives that come from themselves yet at the same time are somehow beyond their capacity to know or understand. In seeing that struggle carried out through Oedipus, something inside of us (some story that connects with our own felt experience of life)...let's just say a psychic wound is opened which we allow ourselves to safely explore from the distance of a symbolic pattern in a story. Hercules and his twelve labors is somewhat the same, echoing the "never ending" trials that people face when they are indebted to their own souls to unfold certain lessons and prove themselves through different ways. The resolution to such stories is not the point so much as it is showing people that some things we go through are inevitably part of the condition of being human. Perhaps looking at these narratives in this way can help our struggles to be manageable and more worthwhile as well.

Disaster Stories

I find it interesting to observe that nearly all mythologies contain a story about the "deluge" or flood which wipes out all creatures except for a few virtuous folks. The story of Deucalion (a flood which heralded the Greek Bronze Age) is one such example. If taken from a psychological point of view, floods (or disaster stories in general) tend to symbolize a kind of "taking stock" of the most essential virtues and letting go of the rest. When I take stock of my mind and find that there are a lot of distractions or destructive emotions, I decide that I don't want to follow these to their outcomes, and I start to plot a simpler course for myself.  Sometimes this might take the form of reducing the time I spend on overstimulating myself or thinking obsessively about some worry or concern.
   Of course, flood stories mean so much more than this single interpretation allows. I tend to think of floods as also symbolic of curbing excess, retaining the important bonds that we have with loved ones, and staying true and loyal to a good life. It also represents a wrathful being who, however loving and just, will not tolerate or excuse behavior that deviates from the path of spirit or soul. A lukewarm (pardon the pun) spirituality does not tend to jibe well with these higher beings, and floods take a no nonsense approach toward creation, saying in effect that some things cannot be sustained. Again, I don't take this story as "literal" punishment, but rather the sense that too many things taken together can easily become destructive and excessive, and our psychic "floods" are clearing spaces for the mind to resolve itself and decide what is really and truly needed to sustain the journey.
   Modern disaster stories (such as those of science fiction writer J.G. Ballard) might chart a similar course, only using technology as the weapon of humanity's own destruction. Interestingly, here, it isn't nature or gods that prove wrathful, but humanity's own hands that end up self-destructing. Do we too often create our own conditions for self-destruction, so that we can leave space for something new and simple?