Wandering and Directive Thinking

I have taken to writing some poetry and prose recently, in an effort to return to an old dream I had related to creative writing. Part of the motivation has been the wish to do something slightly less linear than the thesis dissertation I am working on: that is, to explore something a bit off the beaten path in terms of generating creative and new ideas. Another motivation has been my return to reading prose fiction, both in my classes that I teach and in my recent exploration of Philip Roth's Letting Go. Sooner or later, what we read rubs off on us, to the point where we wish to explore it in some way on our own.
  If I freely let my hand travel across the page (or, in this case, the screen), I am inclined to come up with crazy ideas that often bear little logical connection to each other. This is a kind of mind wandering that can induce all kinds of unlikely connections if allowed to run freely. On the other hand--and this is perhaps where I floundered in my early years---too much wandering thinking can lead to an aimlessness, both in writing and in life as a whole. Without a sense of directive thinking to accompany it, the writing not only becomes stale at times, but it lacks a form. Without that directive part, free writing easily devolves into something that is free-floating or even lacks an anchor or substance. I think the second part of this free writing is to go back and ask oneself where they really want to go in terms of their goals with the work itself.
   There is a dialogue that must happen between the non-linear thinking that often brings together shockingly different ideas, and the directive attitude which attempts to shape these ideas into a defined goal. Too much of the former leads to a sad or depressing aimlessness, while too much of the latter is too constricting. Finding that middle balance is the challenge of the writer.

The Effort of Attention

Real attention, for me, seems to require the suspension of a belief that I am fixed in some way. If I only believe certain images that pertain to me, I will not be using my full attention. I have bought into the belief that I am "only this" and should therefore not expect myself to be something greater or better. This "only this" is the enemy of a full attention, and one sometimes needs to have the self-image shattered to be fully attentive.
  In a way, it is like a contemplation I had yesterday during the meditation: mind encompasses each phenomena, yet is not limited to any phenomena. That is, the mind is flexible enough that it fluidly accommodates every thought and appearance, yet it does not confuse the appearances for its true nature. The emptiness aspect of mind is the latter, while the form is the former. If I get caught in the forms and start to identify myself with the thoughts, I will start to lose the sense of totality. I get fixated on appearances rather than seeing these appearances as parts of a vast and always changing landscape.
   Attention is the effort to see the appearances and behold the thoughts, without rejecting or seeking. For someone attached to forms, it would be hard to resist seeking them out and trying to mine them in some ways for whatever insights they might offer. For someone attached to emptiness, thoughts are seen as the "enemy" which need to be spurned somehow or even suppressed. Neither of these approaches is correct; they both lose sight of nature of form as emptiness. When form is seen as emptiness, then all forms can be embraced, because no forms can be obstacles to awareness. Forms can be entertained, and they can be embraced without attachment

Trusting Experience as a Teacher

I have talked about the metaphor of "life as teacher" in my previous blog entries, but I have hardly mentioned the aspect of trust. This is perhaps because it seems rather evident that life "teaches" the very obvious lessons of working hard, mastering certain ways of socializing and getting along in the world, cultivating the virtues of patience and diligence etc. The problem, I think, is that even with these latter 'lessons', it's so easy to get attached to forms. "Patience" always looks a certain way, then takes on an almost stereotypical pattern of behavior, to the point where it even becomes an unconscious habit. But the problem with attachment to familiar forms of being is that it leads to a kind of sleepwalking. A person waiting in a long line up in the supermarket certainly looks the part of "being patient" (he or she hasn't screamed or tried to jump the line), but is this really patience, or is it just a habit that lulls a person int sleep?
  Sometimes pure experience, without form, is an ultimate teacher, but it can only come to a person when familiar patterns of comprehension, "call and response", etc. are subverted. This is truly an ultimate truth which takes people beyond form altogether, and yet it can be so unbearably painful in the face of attachment to forms. A person who is attached to form wants all too badly to find a role within the experience that they can call "themselves" and play out that habitual pattern. It even takes the form of an addiction to feeling certain and standing on a certain ground. But what if there is simply no foundation upon which to be--and one can see that those truth games are just agreed upon roles that are supported by the society?
   Patience is more than just following the pattern of a "patient" person. It means being able to work playfully with something that really doesn't quite have a form. The classic example of this patience is the process of learning itself, which starts in a sea of unknowns, only to later surface into familiar patterns over time. Can this sense of being lost in a sea of learning be borne with equanimity, if not embraced?

Cultivating Impermanence

 During our group discussion tonight after meditation, we talked about how we apply the idea of Master Sheng Yen's quote on impermanence, which I have noted below:

"If one is able to adeptly use the concept of impermanence, then one will live in the midst of the joy of fresh thoughts, peace at every moment, and continuous movement"

One of the insights I found from the group is how impermanence itself needs to be a habit that we almost need to remind ourselves. For instance: sometimes, we think that we know how to handle situations after talking about the theory, only to find that the situation comes up again--and very quickly, we fall back on a habitual way of dealing with it. The concept, on the one hand, is there, but that concept never touches upon the actual ground.
  To give an example: if I don't realize that cause and conditions only temporarily come together this moment to make things as they are, pretty soon, I am going to think there is some solid, permanent "thing" that moves and shapes things. I slip on ice and I think that something or someone "made me slip". Some people might even complain to God or blame karma for slipping, as though God or karma were the prime mover of all those things. I will thus have a tendency to think that something is doing it on purpose or making things a certain way. But when I think deeply about it, or at least from the perspective of impermanence, there isn't really even a solid self that is slipping on the ice. These conditions only temporarily come together. I might feel the pain of slipping and need to recover from it, but the feelings will certainly change over time.
   What's the opposite of impermanence? And does impermanence mean that one should always just be like a rock of equanimity? I don't think so at all. I think that impermanence allows for the flexibility to naturally respond to different conditions in ways that are spontaneous. The emotion is not something that I need take as "I" or as a sign or indication of whether I am good or not good. Instead, it too is a phenomena or a condition that is bound to arise and disappear based on cause and conditions. I need not cling to these emotions or be alarmed by them, or even judge myself based on them. So, this gives my emotions space to breathe without a sense of needing to judge the self based on their arising.

Rush Days

 People often feel hurried in today's world, and I am no exception to that rule. When I am feeling rushed, I often need to remind myself that I am the one who is in charge of my own pace. Even if someone is telling me to do more, I can use awareness to judge just how much effort is needed without tiring myself out.
  Being rushed requires a cognition of another person who is "rushing me". But does anybody rush me? Well, in a way, it is only by consenting to another person's idea about time, efficiency and quantity that I start to experience a discrepancy between how I do things and how the other wants me to do them. "Rushing" is literally giving into a concept of time that isn't fitting my physical and mental processes. I literally "knock myself out" to meet a deadline that might not be that feasible.
  When I was a kid, I remember taking a can of Pepsi to a school trip. Because pop was only provided as a treat at the time, I savored that can of Pepsi. When lunch was finishing up, the other student told me to drink quickly, since we would not be able to take anything to the school yard. I slugged down the last half of the can of pop and felt terrible; it certainly wasn't a speed that was allowing my body to enjoy it. And nor was it that good for my digestion, since I recall having a stomach ache afterward.
  The point of this anecdote is that when I surrender my bodily and mental experiences of time for someone else's concept of time--of what should be done, by what time, etc.--I have to sacrifice a way of being in time. In doing so, I get rid of all the special things that make me part of time, including my sensory and mental processes. This happens if a person tells me "don't think too much--just get it done". "Getting it done" involves a mad dash for quantity, and this can be violent on the mind.
   It's helpful to recognize and honor one's own speed. While we have to make compromises and adjustments, it should probably not be to the point of total exhaustion, burnout or having to risk bodily health or integrity to get a quick result. I think this requires a certain mindfulness that, while speed can be varied, it needs to be accompanied with an embodied awareness of what one is doing.

Devotion

 Every so often, a work of art or piece of music will show me some example of human devotion, and the interplay between "you" and "me" that spins endlessly without beginning. 

    Devotion is paradoxical, precisely insomuch as it can never be paid back. There is no actual reciprocal and symmetrical relationship with devotion, for if this were the case, it would not longer have an unconditional ring to it. For example, if I give to someone knowing that they owe me or need to carry their weight, this is not really a devotional form. Similarly, with the notion of Buddhist devotion, the aim is not to gain merits or have special favors from others; more so, it's to realize emptiness and let go of attachment to self.

   Perhaps it's also possible to say that the devotion of the other, and the care they give to the receiving person, is not immediately recognized or rewarded. Precisely insofar as the receiver might be blind to human devotion that its discovery becomes all the more dramatic and transformative. It gives the receiver of devotional acts the opportunity to see past their feelings of dissatisfaction, and reach a real feeling of gratitude. This, to me, is also a Christian message: it's precisely insofar that humans are lost without God that the unconditional devotion and sacrifice of Christ is all the ore miraculous. It's precisely because of this sinfulness that the devotion stands out as transformative and filling one's heart with a sense of gratitude. 

Starting a New Journey in Research

As of yesterday, I have had approval to go ahead and start my thesis research. While I have felt the relief of overcoming that hurdle, there is also a burden that comes with that relief: the sense of not quite knowing how to recruit, who to go to, where, and all the other details about the relationships in research.
  To a certain extent, times like these can remind me of applying for a job or embarking on a career. In the very beginning, one has literally no bearings, and the journey has to start with building the right connections. That part feels delicate and complex, because I am so dependent on others at this stage to say "yes" and consent to undergoing this research. But at the same time, I am also aware of the need to have some basic faith and confidence in my project, and all the potential benefits that could come forth from it. Even though this "seed' or germ of an idea hasn't yet materialized into anything truly substantial. How to navigate and not feel too anxious or desperate?
  I think that the challenges of research are also related to challenges that go with asking people to have some involvement in one's life. An invitation is there, and the project is one's own journey. If I set too much hope on particular people in this journey, I might find myself losing the way--not going back to my original purpose and intention but relying too much on the approval and acceptance of others. On the other hand, being too closed and asking a question I somehow already know how to answer, is only a mental exercise at best. It might be investigative, but it lacks the risks and challenges that go with learning alongside others and getting their inputs.

Religious Temperament

   One of the fascinating things I like about William James's book Varieties of Religious Experience is the way he describes religion as meeting specific temperaments. A person who is born with a sanguine temperament, for example, will have different spiritual needs and ideas than one who is more inclined to be melancholic or phlegmatic. Regardless of the way we classify or describe personalities, I take this idea to mean that some parts of one's proclivity toward a specific sect of religion must come from their existing character and habits. If there isn't a proper fit between the existing character or habitual way of being, the religious practice may always seem a bit alien to them, as though they didn't quite see the meaning of the practice on their own felt experience of life.
  Buddhism seems most accommodating of different paths, both within Buddhism itself and outside of it, as they would regard these as vehicles rather than as absolutes. The Buddha was famously known to say that once one has reached the other side, they no longer need the raft--wherein the "raft" symbolizes a set of teachings or doctrines that a person uses to get to the other side. That is, it's not in the specific contents or order of teachings that a person is enlightened, but rather the fit between a person's aspirations and the teachings themselves that leads to liberation. In this way, I don't have license to say that my way is the best way. My way just happens to be the way most suited to my character and needs to help liberate me from suffering.
   It's important to see that people may have different needs, so a religious teaching can't be assumed to be the best fit unless one has a way of inviting the person to try it out for themselves. Should that person make a sincere effort and find a mismatch between their ideals and that of a religion, they had best not push themselves too hard to adopt it. Instead, it seems more congenial for a person to find the best fit for themselves, while remaining open to whatever philosophies of practice work well in their daily life.

Books and Empathy

There have been several claims made in recent years about the power of empathy, and how reading classic fiction can increase empathy. The mechanism is not well known, but I think the idea behind it is that a classic book contains complexity of layered characters, all of whom have multi-factored perspectives that have a bearing on the characters' actions. Like all works of art, fiction requires an extension of a person's imagination to be able to reach into the character and imaginatively frame what that character is going through. Thus, it stands to reason that a person learns empathy by getting a first hand understanding of how a character operates in the universe of the story or novel.
  I don't think that reading novels necessarily automatically makes a person empathetic to the narrative, because there are simply many different ways of reading a text. It's impossible to tell whether or not a text is really being read with the intention to cultivate empathy, or whether it's really an attempt to cement a reader's preconceptions or favorite ideas surrounding a specific novel. This all depends on the reader's personality and intentions. A second point is that empathy often requires guidance and direction. To truly empathize with a text, for example, may require a way of thinking about characters and their situations that is not automatically assumed simply by opening a book. Empathy itself, being a socially constructed emotion, often needs framing and scaffolding to take effect.
 I would like to design more structure around teaching empathy in classrooms. It's definitely not an easy thing to do, but I do think that empathy needs pedagogy. It is not acquired simply by having students read dense pieces of literature. I think that in order for empathy to happen, there needs to be a cycle of empathy around the teacher, text and student. At the very least, a culture of empathy is needed.

Right Ways of Looking at Books

The more I plan lessons for English classes, the more I have courage to explore meanings in books. I start to depart (a little bit) from the tried and true, knowing what the result is. I meander away from the beaten paths, knowing that they have already been paved quite a bit. I try to detour away from the predictable patterns. Do I want to do another lesson plan about "hero's journey"? Well, at this point, not really---and neither would my students, for that matter. They would likely much rather read about the complexities of characters than the standard patterns that are often read into those characters.
    I wonder if what is truly magical is to fully trust one's ways of being curious about books, and trying to relax the more "official" and pretentious missions of trying to figure out the "ultimate meaning" of a book. This latter exercise assumes that a book is a puzzle that is decoded ever the same way, across the same readers. To relax the need to think of books in this way is to allow for fresher and more spontaneous meanings to emerge from the reading: allowing myself to become unexpectedly intrigued with new and unexplored connections. It might also mean taking more risks, such as the risk of reaching a dead end or failing to inspire students with a standard code for how to read a book.
 It might also mean allowing for more detours in the classroom itself. The other day, that detour took the form of jumping from horror in literature to the effects of violent entertainment on children's behavior. This is not exactly literature or high art, but it was a topic that rang true to the students and made them want to speak out.
   I guess the principal 'rule" in all of this is for teachers to try to have fun. This is the ultimate form of mirroring that might invite students to think that books are fun as well-including the so called "classics".

The Price of Fame

I find it interesting, in retrospect, that two of the books I am teaching--George Selden's Cricket in Times Square and E.B. White's Trumpet of the Swan--are both somehow related to themes of fame. Animal characters in both stories become surprisingly talented enough to play musical instruments and become inducted into the human world through those means. Such kinds of stories are interesting on many levels. One is perhaps to show that there is no clear dividing line between animal and human: animals have many strengths and abilities which, though unrecognized in the human world, do have some human equivalents. The second is more educative: to show the ups and downs of fame, as well as illustrate how sensible the animal characters are in detecting that fame is "unnatural" and not what it's cracked up to be. Rather than letting their fame and success get the better of them, these characters opt to retire into country life, just when they reach the "peak" of their fame and success.
    Are there teachable moments in both books--ways, that is, to connect young learners with the lessons of fame and success? I can think of several examples, but perhaps one is to show that having an ability or talent doesn't necessarily mean always taking every opportunity to reap its rewards. It takes a certain amount of courage to say no to taking advantage of one's fame or popularity. Leaving a successful career "at one's peak" may not be a sign of weakness, but more so the mark of a person who is conscious and decides not to fall into the temptations of fame and success.  The second aspect is how both stories stress the "unnatural" aspect of fame. Chester in Cricket in Times Square feels a longing to go back to the country and retire into country life when he sees the signs of September in New York. Louis in Trumpet of the Swan longs for the solitude of family, similar to his parents who raised him in a marshy area. Both stories revolve around becoming successful, only to abandon the machinery of success during its peak time. Success, contrary to "natural life", is portrayed as regimented, repetitive and always demanding more of the protagonists' time and resources. Success (and its related fame) literally exhausts the main character.
   Children might be taught, when very young, to think about their successes as relative to community, rather than as the mark of personal distinction. For example, if I have a talent for science or building things, does this mean I always should use it, especially if that talent compromises the community or creates more mischief than good. If fame takes a person out of their "moments" or their ability to create spontaneous connection with others, is that fame a benefit or a detriment to the person? Although most people don't realistically achieve fame in their lifetime, the equivalent might be to reflect on who we live for, and who we imagine we are achieving success for. Children can, through these books and their enjoyable characters, reflect early on their own sense of values in life.