Calm Days, Calm Ways

 What is it about brisk spring days that can soothe the heart? It's hard to believe that tomorrow is the beginning of June, and I seem to relish the times in the fresh air when I can feel the breeze in my hair and the air filling my chest.
   Natural walks can teach oneself what it means to be calm, and thus provide a baseline for times when life is not so calm. I believe that nature can extend and project one's feelings of compassion, by presenting an atmosphere of subtle impermanence. The swaying of trees and the blowing of pollen from the flowers tell us so : these things pass. And it is a reminder as well to relish the days of warmth before the winter strikes again.
   But compassion also says: life is interconnected. Just as some things die, others sprout. I was able to see that some homeowners had been culling the branches from trees, presumably branches that had already died. They would surely be hoping to make way for new branches and blossoms as summer approaches.
  Nature and compassion go hand in hand, even though you might think this is an unlikely partnership. Nature seems "red in tooth and claw", but only if we are seeing the immediate presence of something that seems threatening and painful. In the grandness of things, life is continually renewing. There is no need to grasp even existence itself, when it carries on without end in this way. In life, there aren't these winners and losers, but the cycle of gain and loss needs to keep happening until mind is capable of truly seeing that there is no gain or loss. Unfortunately, this delusional kind of pain/suffering has to keep happening again and again until one can see through it.

Merger Anxieties

I find that anxiety is most provoked when we want to bring two ideas together. We want to make one better and enhance it. There is a curiosity that arises. How should I say it? It is the weird sense that something that was originally "you" (a part of you) and is actually still "you" has been split from you, and is separate.
   I remember seeing once a cat who was so fascinated upon seeing another cat across the street in another window--yet, what was behind that fascination? You might call it instinct, but I think it's the eerie sense of meeting one's true being through something foreign and alien: something which, by necessity, needs to stand "out there" to prevent from being sucked into the vortex of a boring, yawning self.
  Anxiety and desire: the sense of being close to something that is essentially one's own being, yet not being able to touch it. It's not really out there at all, but it's not "in here" among my conditioned parts and habits, so what could it be?
  Perhaps we insist on keeping things strange (exotifying them?) to prevent them from getting lost in the void of the self.

Faith in Practice

  Faith is an important aspect of any spiritual practice. I was reading Master Shen Yen's small book Chan Practice and Faith (in https://chancenter.org/en/publication/free-books) before the meditation tonight, where it talks about how entrusting that there are beings wiser than ourselves (and even enlisting their help at times) is an important aspect of the practice. Without it, we might either become very despondent and forget practice altogether, or very arrogant--thinking that we have already attained everything and don't have anyone "higher" to look up to. The point, however, of having others to have faith in is that it does indeed tap into elements of the mind that are closer to one's own inherent wisdom. They may appear to be expressed in someone else, but they could be seen as expressions of the mind that is within.
   The problem is that if I say "I don't need anyone, I have already what I need inside me", I am already limiting who I am to something I perceive as being "inside" me, as opposed to "outside me". In this way, we disown our own being by contracting inward into a tiny corner of being that is defended. This is not a real nature of mind but it is some kind of very impoverished sense of the self as enclosed in a body (with its own aches and pains). Going back to my previous entry, we start to behave as though we are an isolated body "tossed about" by the waves around us.
   Faith is more expansive and it also leaves room to learn more. Literally, when I allow myself to "look up" to a more advanced stage of wisdom, I am giving myself room to imagine something more than who I might think I am at the moment. This faith is not about reaching the highest summit, as though climbing a mountain. It is more about being able to have a vision of wisdom that is both within one's reach (literally one's own nature) and beyond one's reach (our nature is clouded by ignorance and conditioning). This paradox of both being and not being, both near and far, is the paradox of faith itself.
   Faith also means investing in (as in a kind of cathexis) the value of an experience, or method, without having an expectation of the result. I find that this practice of faith needs to be honored in some way before doing meditation. Otherwise, the meditation practice will not feel authentic, and one lacks trust in the method.

Observing Emotions

Observing emotions is a key to coping with life. I often try to wrap things in stories, when the emotions (confused, angry, hurt or whatever) are what really speak to me about things. Staying with the emotion instead of spinning endless narratives about why emotions are there, how they got there, etc. seems to be one helpful way of dealing with them. In a way, observing neither suppresses nor does it add fuel to the emotion.
  This week, I feel rushed: lots of emails to write and taxes to do as well. But what is the emotion? It's just a discomfort in the stomach area, as well as a heaviness in the chest. Such emotions are in the body, but I subconsciously think that these emotions reside in the things that need doing. Taxes become a pain in the stomach; meetings a "pain in the neck". But, in fact, the physical sensation has no relation to the event itself. It's only a bodily feeling that happens to be triggered with some thoughts or events.
  To feel fluttering in the stomach might make a person feel as though the events outside of them stir them to action (note the metaphorical way of thinking). But that sense of fluttering is no more than a nervous reaction that travels to the brain cells and gives signals. Even the sense of "pressure" in the chest has no external correlate; they are only analogies for speaking about stress, and there is no corresponding reality of being pushed, stirred or pressured. Such ideas only form an internal landscape of the mind.
    If one can separate the internal from the external, what happens is that I have this emotion, and then there is this "thing to do", and that is that: the thing to do has no relation to the emotion,and vice versa. In this way, they can co-exist: not needing to do one to make the other disappear, or manage one to manage the other.

Uncreative

 People hardly hear moments of uncreativity. Let's face it; they're unglamorous moments. People tend to see the result of creativity after a series of steps --and sometimes mis-steps. There is hardly any account of the mis-steps or even the dry spells, where things aren't coming together at all. It's a little bit like when I was trying to teach Percy Shelley's Ozymandias to the Junior class today. The statue looks pristine, but how do we explain the desert wasteland that laid claim to that slender beauty?
   Two events I am thinking about: the arduous process of lesson planning for one, and the task of doing a thesis project for another (in particular, the pilot study). Lesson plans often come across, for me, as dry affairs. It's not easy to know when creativity will strike a teacher and they will make connections between the material of a book being studied and something that is precious or important to students. Metaphorical thinking, parallel thinking, and imaginative improvisation are often collectively needed. But even in these moments, sometimes one cannot stretch far enough. The soul is blocked: it needs some nourishment, yet doesn't know how to seek or attain that nourishment. And there is no technique to get it. Well, then time for a break or a walk.
   Pilot projects can be even scarier, because they seek to gain better understandings about something that is not really well known.  A pilot project tests the robustness of an idea--and in the process, renders both the idea and the creator of the idea vulnerable. People clearly are addicted to projects that "work out"--that are somehow transformative, or provide valuable information through which people's lives are changed. But what is a "failed" experiment but a very ripe bit of information waiting to be mined? I am wondering if, after all, the problem is not "creative block" so much as it is the inhibiting desire for a rather limited view of success, one that does not tolerate the "failing" effort let alone see the fertility of all efforts as a whole.
   I think it's important not to see dryness or stuckness in a bad way---maybe there is something in there that is growing but hasn't emerged from the dirt yet. Give it a bit of time and tomorrow we might start to see buds growing. But like meditation itself, the key is to stay in dryness rather than trying to escape from it. It is indeed part of the process.

Non Resistance

Non-resistance is, ironically, not something that one can just take up "by choice". This is because the principle of non-resistance is about not choosing at all. Ken Wilber has described something like: seeing everything around you as though it were a picture. You take everything in with a sense of equanimity, and nothing is rejected. Well, the picture metaphor might be extended to the idea that nothing in a picture is either ugly, disfigured or out of place. I don't even complain to say the artist "should have done this" or "should have excluded that", because I have this basic trust that the picture's elements all fall together and have their own essential and unique place. Even things we don't like during meditation have a basic good place, and there is a resting in that awareness, without trying to reject anything.
  I have found that this state doesn't just get turned on like a switch. It requires an attitude of surrendering to what is and inquiring always into its true nature. An honest surrendering does not try to ignore pain; it sees it for what it is and allows it to arise naturally. And it takes it all as something to be cherished. Even the slightest idealization or "thinking it would be nice if this were something else" is already far off this attitude of accepting the totality. There is already the thought of privileging one thing over the other, or one thought over the previous.

Endings and Beginnings

The principle of impermanence can allow a person to relax more into the present circumstances, knowing that things are in continuous flux. It's not necessary to try to grasp a "handle" on every situation, the way that Archimedes might have imagined a lever over the earth. Rather, there is an attitude that no single technique is applicable to every situation.
  Knowing there are no ultimate ends, one can rejoice in broken finishes or unexpected results. This is because we aren't falling into the trap of something being "forever enduring". The stories we read in school are mostly related to a state of imbalance (the setting and climax), followed by a presumably steady state (the "happy/unhappy" ending). In reality, there is no such state, and even "retirement" is simply a prelude to something else. There are neither happy nor unhappy endings, since there are overall no real endings at all.
   If you look closely at the worse case scenario (whatever that happens to be in your mind), you will find that there is an illusory finish. How many movies have we seen where the hero or villain is cast into a deep well or an underground or inferno at the very end? The inferno seems to symbolize a literal boiling off of the person's identity. Such kind of destruction may feel attractive, in much the same way as getting rid of the clutter of one's mind is refreshing. But is there such a thing? Can a consciousness or mind be boiled to a cinder, or a point of no return? The "grand finale" is the fantasy that everything will resolve in one big flourish. But is that flourish really an ending? This illusory act of ends needs to be contemplated.

Reading Sutras

Due to a recent translation project for a Tibetan Buddhism collection, I have been reading Pure Land sutras recently. I admire and enjoy the beauty and repetition of the sutras, and sometimes the imagery takes me to different places.
    To be honest, however, I have at times felt uncomfortable reading sutras without commentaries. I think part of what makes reading sutras difficult for me is that the descriptions evoke such a sense of vastness that is beyond my comprehension. The way that I have been taught to manage it is to treat sutra reading as a contemplative practice and to literally meditate on the words.
  What does it mean to "meditate" on the words? Well, I think it means to enjoy them and read them in a mindful way. Quite often, when I am reading a book, I get caught up in my thoughts about a certain sentence. My fascination is drawn not so much to the book itself as to my thoughts or connections based on the book. At times, I focus more on my sense of meaning than on the words as they come to mind. I think reading sutras requires a more still mind, not one that is racing or jumping from one idea to the next.
  An attitude of faith is also helpful--if, by faith, one means a strong conviction in the words. Some people might reflect that the words are in themselves powerful, so they trust their ability to benefit even from merely reciting the words. If one thinks this way, their attitude toward the sutra is more grateful and reverent. The sutra is not meant to be teased out like a puzzle; it has its own power and demeanor that are gleaned from the words themselves.
   Reading the sutra aloud, I found, is also helpful. I think it's good to hear oneself saying the words, as a kind of feedback loop. And it convinces me that I am part of the sutra--the words are coming from my mind, and therefore it's not so alien to me. In this way, I connect the images of the sutra to the nature of my mind which is also containing the images. Again, the attitude is not to feel like an outsider because the sutra seems so "vast" but to contemplate that this vastness is always with me, and is awareness itself.

Observing Intensities

   Intense emotions such as fear or desire can seem like they last forever or even dominate a person's life. However, I have found that such experiences are short lived and are based on circumstances that are themselves impermanent.
  I find that with anxiety in particular, I am at a loss, because anxiety tends to lead to racing thoughts. Sometimes it's a bit like looking at a cloud chamber and seeing all these streaks and swirls on a blank surface. If I am attentive to the whole experience, I find that the panic is often based on lacking sufficient information on how to fully handle the situation. Maybe I am able to face the situation but I haven't accepted it fully because the pieces in the puzzle just aren't there. In those cases, I need to tell myself that there's nothing wrong with "me", only that I am being given a partial view which is incomplete. I can only work with what I know to make the picture more unified later on.
    Desire may look like wanting to complete something, but what if it were wanting to avoid the suffering of "not having"? If one could allow that suffering of not having to arise instead of trying desperately to complete the picture of desire, then the desire itself abates. I think it's because desire is seen for what it really is, and it's no longer so desirable.
   These two emotions, anxiety and desire, are often very intense. Intensity has a way of clouding the mind and making a person forget the whole picture (see Spinoza). It's no wonder that people often do rash things when they're in the state of these emotions. They are only looking at a tiny fraction of the whole experience of life, like looking at a tiny thread in an enormous tapestry. If a person allows the pain of these two emotions to take their course without searching frantically for a solution, they might tend to make better decisions, because the solution will come later on, when the mind is calm and clear.

Systems Allergies

I have a kind of love/hate relationship with "systems" philosophies, or philosophies which try to systematize all that has been written and synthesize them into a unified pattern. My love of such philosophies is that they provide road maps to contextualizing whole theories of thought, while also providing some humility. Knowing that my resistances to some things may be an allergy to a key component in an overall system, I can approach such things with more balance and humility. I am not building a wall around something which is meant to be integrated into a totality.
 On the other hand, I am hesitant that sometimes systems offer an illusion of completeness that never fully translates into experience. Systems don't often factor the need for people to take things piecemeal or even to stay in a particular rung for a long time. A system sometimes interprets staying in one place as "not seeing the trees for the forest"---getting mired in one place without seeing its purpose in the grand whole. But a system that overlooks the intricacy of the parts is also not quite right; systems are meaningless unless they factor the living processes or "pieces" that come together to make the whole. That is, even if one were to comprehend the entire universe as a single unified organism, that insight is essentially "lifeless" unless one comprehends how each part is actively unfolding according to an inner principle. Without parts, wholes could not be wholes. Similar to the body, if each part functioned the same way, they would not survive for long. Not every cell in the body can and should function as a heart cell, even though the heart is essential to the overall survival of the organism.
 I would say that systems need to be complemented with sideways moments that defy systems--to remind us that even systems are vehicles that operate in specific contexts, and in themselves are empty. If they are valuable, by all means use them, but it seems important not to think that systems are reality itself. No map ever fully captures the territory it describes.

A Soul's Whimsy

 I am reading a lot of books where spirituality is portrayed as a series of levels that a person aspires to, based on a combination of practice, insight, right views and faith. I have to admit that, at times, that road can be daunting, and a person can lose their sense of direction in it, perhaps ironically. Spirit, in my opinion, needs to be infused with a sense of soul.
   I have recently been watching the news about Little Richard, the musician who died at age 87. Seeing the way he inducted Otis Redding into the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame on Youtube, I feel inspired by him. He is hardly what you would call a "calm" person- in fact, he seems ridiculously all over the place at times, albeit in a delightful way. But there is this soulful passion in him, and an ability to cheer up everybody in the room. This is hardly what everyone nowadays might call a spiritual practice, but I do believe that the ability to rise to the occasion in an artful way is a form of spirit, in the purest sense of the word.
     What I most appreciate about his performance on that video was the verve and spontaneity of his performance. Like most people who give speeches in commemoration of others, Little Richard could just as well have read off pieces of paper or practiced a speech. However, it wouldn't have been the same as just saying it like it is in the heart and even risking being off the "speech end" and going a bit crazy. But this "craziness" too is something that is not acted out; it's a sincere outpouring of the heart that takes dedication and focus. Perhaps it comes from the craft of being a musician, but also it must come from the love of singing and voice.
   People these days need more craziness at times, and certainly more cheering up. I think that in spite of the need to progress and learn more (which all very serious business and undertakings), there is room in all of this for people to sometimes do whatever they feel, even if it's off a beaten path or just plain silly. Things do not always need to make sense, even when we need things to make sense. And sometimes just recording these ideas can be helpful at a later time.

Where Wind Blows

The wind is a kind of symbol of change and impermanence. We seem to have many metaphors for it, pertaining to direction, to time and to general chaos, depending on how one construes the wind. I remember a friend from long ago once saying that people sometimes yell at the wind as though it were a person. And hasn't the wind often been personified as such in old children's drawings?
  "Being tossed about" by the wind is not the way to go, and we often hear stories about people literally being carried away by winds. Whether they symbolize passions, or just change of circumstances, such sayings position stability in the feet, on the ground, and where gravity pushes us downward on a level path. Having too many directions to go in is often seen as a sign of danger, especially reflecting old sailor's stories. So finding one's ground and being rooted somewhere is a reflective turn that counterbalances getting lost or overly torn from one desire to another.
   On the other hand, sometimes wind energies can be internalized in the form of flexibility, or the ability to bend with the wind. The strongest trees are more or less able to bend with the wind rather than trying to hold a rigid position against it. When circumstances change, one needs to know when to go along with it and not necessarily cherish outdated ideas about the self and its priorities. Wind can mean a willingness to trust unknown forces of change and give into their mysterious powers and dislocations, rather than always desperately trying to stake a certain ground. Contemplating these metaphors of "wind" and "ground" could be one way to navigate unfamiliarity without being overly rigid , on the one hand, or overly distracted on the other.

Joys of Reading II: Collection

Having a book collection can be both "blessing" and "curse". I have several books piled up on my shelves, waiting to be read, only to be succeeded by other books. I believe that books need to be cherished to the extent that one makes a promise to oneself to read them, regardless of their immediate relevance to one's current life situation. The other aspect of books is that, as I have suggested earlier, we can become more open to their messages when we consider them as conversations with living words and authors.
  I have tried to make it a general rule not to collect books unless I am certain that I will re-read them at a later time. I am hardly one to re-read fiction, except if the book is quite exceptional. Recently, I have found that that books I am most likely to re-read are either Buddhist books or spirituality-based books such as Ken Wilber's. I consider that books are references and guides, and once these guides have made their mark, I need to see if they meant anything to my life.
    On the other hand, some books do have a value that goes beyond their utility: they mean something that can never be quite captured. Having a book, even before reading it, always feels like having a special portal machine that can take a person through an exciting experience. Books have potency because they distill many thoughts that go through the brain, sometimes fastening a few key words of wisdom along the way. Honoring the mystery of books is one way that we can accept them into our lives, instead of always considering them only as practical tools for survival or knowledge.

The Joys of Reading I: (Re) Collection

  For whatever reason, going to university heralded the end of "reading books for the pleasure and discovery". I think that all too suddenly, I was inducted into a view that reading should be something both active and critically subversive. Gone was the idea that a book could be an adventure and simply a careless kind of joy. It's only been recently that I have rediscovered a little bit of the joy of reading for its own sake.
  Sometimes a book has no reason to exist other than that it is something intriguing. I have often bought books not because I would re-read those books or use them as one would an owner's manual (or a reference book) but because something inexplicable intrigues me about that book. And if I take the process of reading too "literally" (pardon the pun), I might lose sight of the fact that putting an author's thoughts on paper is already a miracle: it is a conversation from the writer to the reader. What more can one ask? Yes, I know that the author is dead, but sometimes we need to see this from different lenses and start to find more ways of understanding what it means to read a book.
    Reading Ken Wilber's Future of Religion and Frederik Pohl's Man Plus, I recently found myself transported back to the reading just for the sake of enjoying the thoughts and imagination of another person---that is, not having to take a stand, agreed/disagree, implement the writer's perspective, etc. etc. but to simply take part in a re-imagining of the author's vision. Allowing oneself to enjoy something without any ulterior purpose is a treat that we can always give ourselves at any time.

Inhabiting Fear

 During the group meditation tonight, I shared about changes that have happened to me since the pandemic. I think that being alone to figure things out is one big change that has come about: being alone, for instance, to figure out how to deal with internet connections that don't always work as planned, or how to shop for things when the stores close earlier. And while these aren't insurmountable issues, I start to see how easily I can get flustered or anxious over them. I sort of have a sense of humor about this, because there is nothing that can be controlled, neither the situation nor my reaction to it. When I am pushed to the point where I face who I am, I can (sort of) see a bit beyond who I am.  This is because I am no longer pretending to be in control. I can then be more aware of the whole situation.
   Some of this is written "post panic", so it's not all that accurate or speaking truthfully. When my internet connection is slow and I need to work, I do experience it as a big issue. But on the other hand, in those moments, I am beside the fear--it's not pushing me from behind anymore, and I no longer have this idea that I can control fear or get rid of it. There is a kind of surrender there, much like the way Master Sheng Yen described how he saw a frog hop into the mouth of a snake after finding itself completely cornered. When the fear of death is absolutely experienced as unavoidable, there is no place to go but to inhabit the fear fully and directly. Then in the midst of that fear, neither "fear" nor "death" have any meaning; they are just elements in a surrounding storm.
 

Rethinking the Future

  I was very much interested in science fiction when I was a teenager. I am not too sure why this genre attracted me so much, but I can see recently how inspiring it is to read about future possibilities. One of my favorite writers in the genre was Frederick Pohl, but the thing about him was that he introduced me to darker elements that aren't in "traditional" kinds of science based fiction. Man Plus is a novel in which the protagonist is involved in a mission to terraform Mars by adopting a cybernetic body, and yet many of the themes in the story are hardly about the promises of human technology. More than anything, this book speaks to the ethical costs of manipulating human bodies (and minds) to suit alien bodies. Literally, the protagonist becomes an "alien" to his own body, and becomes the subject of a nameless "we" that mediates the text. Pohl subverted the positive leanings of science fiction, but he also introduced ways of thinking about science fiction as a cautionary look into the limits of human creation.
   When people are young, the future often looks "brighter"  because one feels so "subjected" to others as a child. A child looks forward to a time when, as an adult,they can take charge of their own condition and have the right answers and wisdom to drive their own vehicle, as it were. Then, as I have gotten older, I come to understand that the "future" is really an idea that is relative to a feeling of being a subject to today's conditions. The projected future often promises a liberation that might sometimes arise, but is never fully completed and might even self-destruct as hopes erode or new challenges present themselves. For instance, as soon as I "graduate" from one level of subjection, I become the subject to a new set of rules and standards. I am never free of it, even though I might present myself as such to others who might have greater sense of oppression than myself. The point is, this future never truly arrives. It is only an indication of how far people must go to free themselves from whatever they are struggling with at the time.
  On the other hand, when a person reaches a place in life where they lost that optimism of being fully liberated (an autonomous, self-choosing being, perhaps), the bright future means something else. It is a delightful idea that we can use to brighten peoples' day. It is also a testament to compassion that we can share hopes and dreams even if those don't necessarily refer to permanent states of being. I don't count on the future anymore; the future is more like an idea that I entertain as a way of keeping my spirits up and keeping me strong. And this idea of the future becomes a companion who stands and struggles with me, not forever in front of me with a promise that is forever unfulfilled.

Insult to Injury

 What fixates a person in pride? I was thinking about this after reading a discussion in Khenpo Tsultram Lodro's online book The Handbook for Life's Journey. I genuinely believe that it pride relates to a childhood dynamic of feeling punished by an elder. Pride is a kind of defense against annihilation; when I put my heart into a tonne of armor, I try to immunize myself against the pain of a perceived humiliation or being put in my place. These things are not necessarily imaginary. For example, parents often believe that they need to speak harshly and bluntly to children to "teach them a lesson"--almost to shock children into never engaging in shameful practices. But the opposite of shame is pride, and pride can often become a very heavy armor that a person wears to protect against even the slightest of threats which can remind them of past punishment.
  Seeing past the punishment idea is recognizing that these things happened when a person felt vulnerable--wanting or desiring the love of an elder person who is perceived as an authority. I think that this attitude of deference to authority needs to soften a bit. As we get older, we realize that even authority figures are complex beings and are human, and nobody knows everything. Seeing into this, one might realize that the sting of humiliation is not so harsh; we are not being punished by a divine authority, but rather by another human being who has the same vulnerability or weaknesses that we do. With this stance, there is less need for defensiveness and pride. There is more of an opening up of the heart and a sense that things will be okay even when another person's words might feel harsh or coming from a high ground.

Adventure in Ideas

I recall reading a book by Alfred North Whitehead called Adventures of Ideas. This book provided a lot of delightful thoughts about the ways in which ideas bring about certain kinds of civilization and goals. I rarely reflect that "adventure" isn't just a feeling of excitement, but it is a "going forth": a special journey which involves taking risks and also being able to entertain possibilities. There is a certain impossibility here. Like any vision, an idea never reaches the ground fully. Like sunlight, it illuminates the ground, paving the way for new ways of thinking and exploring.
   It's important, at least to me, never to feel like every idea has been mined. Some people resort to a kind of bittersweet realism, when they come to acknowledge that ideas are more like signposts than final destinations. They might even wonder, why entertain ideas when there is only this heavy reality to deal with? An idea, in fact, enriches the places where we travel; it is not meant to substitute for the rocky terrain, but rather allows people to explore the terrain in novel ways that might lead to new connections. Having a healthy relation to ideas can help us see them as tools rather than as burdens which require "proof".
    I think that when one stops thinking of ideas as absolutes, we can freely entertain as many as we wish, knowing that there is no idea that we have to claim as our own or try to defend against competing claims. Some ideas come in handy when we least expect them, so I think it's important to include elements of exploration and reading in our lives.

The Razor's Edge

I am reading a book by Osho called The Pillars of Consciousness, which contains a collection of four of his earlier works on Buddha, Zen, Tao and Tantra. In the section on Tantra, Osho refers to the Middle Path as "the razor's edge". I have heard this term in two slightly different contexts-one as the title of a Somerset Maugham book, while the other as a song by the band Rush. Well, maybe I will articulate a bit on what this term now means to me.
   The razor's edge is exactly what it describes--a painful, knifelike, precarious condition. It's somewhere in between striving and being, where striving is stymied by being and being is pulled asunder by striving. The razor's edge is being caught in the knowing that one is a negation, yet not having any way to fill that negation. Then resting in the negation and the absence of a negation. This razor's edge is also an eternal guilt--we are never fully ever finished, yet we might sometimes feel like we are "cooked" (even overcooked), and there is always one more mountain to climb. So there is an anguish there.
   None of these explanations of mine particularly relate to Buddhist notions of the middle path, but I think it suffices to say that nobody in good faith can rest in some eternal certainty. Perhaps, paradoxically, they can realize that nothing is ever clear and focused or finished. A life lived in guilt of things committed in the past is really only the seed for some future redemption or something that needs to be paid later. A person cannot wallow in guilt, the way a creature might hide in mud to escape from predators-nor can one wear guilt like it's a kind of "forever me". These ways of cloaking oneself in the past are evasions of the fundamental voidness that guilt points to. When I do something wrong, nothing exonerates me--that wrong remains fixed in my mind, no matter whether I run away from it or rationalize it. Nothing can write over the anguish of past wrongs, which makes it infinite. On the other hand, guilt can be redeemed, just as we can constantly renew our vows to do good things. Guilt can spur a person to greatness, much more so than a life that is completely "innocent" (a theoretical life, no doubt). This is because seeing harm or wrong is the greatest inspiration to seeing what is good. Good is sometimes only known and felt in the not-good. Alas, this is the terrible thing about the good. By the time one has recognized it, the opportunity to be innocent has passed.
    Razor's edge is an awakened state, sometimes raw and painful. It is eternally never-resting.

Moving Pictures

Pictures in a photograph are made of the exact same material, no matter what image it takes. The problem is that we forget the substance of the photo; one literally gets drawn into the scene of the picture itself. There is no context to frame how the picture got there, or the fact that it is the product of many conditions that extend infinitely. Instead, one's mind gets fixated on the story behind the specific picture and how the self is in relation to it.
   It's an interesting experiment to try to understand what happens when we calm our mind before or while viewing images in the media or news. The calm mindset is not about staking territory or trying to figure out one's angle or perspective on something. Instead, it's seeing all images as coming from the same stock. The images are literally flat: one is not better than the other, but all are arrangements of colors. Even the camera itself has no 'opinion' about what images it is drawing up. In the computerized world, the pixels simply arrange themselves according to patterns of light cast by the lens. What we are often seeing is a digital replica of that arrangement of light along the lens. If we think of the image as an interrelationship of light and various kinds of processing, would we be so attached to the outcome of the image?
    If we stare at the image long enough, what happens? What changes in our relationship to it? I have found two things happen. One is that an habituation sets in: we are no longer shocked by what we see, but we accommodate our mindset to place the theme and characters of the photo into some conceivable framing that might feel natural to us. The second thing I notice is that there is less back and forth mental chatter. I am no longer opining about it, or trying to negotiate its "real" meaning, or even trying to analyze how to deal with the image. Instead,  I might start to recognize that all of the chatter is created by mind and is the result of all kinds of past conditioning and mental scripts. Pictures and stories often call us (unconsciously perhaps) to be something or rise to the occasion that the story or image conveys. But this calling forth is also constituting a subject, an I, that is also transitory.