Thoughts vs "Attachment" to Thoughts

 I would like to explore the topic of being with thoughts vs being “attached” to thoughts.  

We might think that, in order to “not be attached” to thoughts, we need to almost look at them askance, as though we were looking at pages from the side rather than reading the pages directly. This creates a kind of aversion toward thought, at least in the sense that we don’t want to be fooled, connived or tricked by our thoughts. In my journeys through meditation practice, I sometimes get afraid of thinking, as though thoughts were deceptive demons that “suck” away one’s attention away from the meditation method. However, this is simply not the case. We can be with our thoughts all the time without attaching to them. It’s even possible to have very angry thoughts; however, when viewed in light of the clarity of meditation, these thoughts lose their edge because we simply don’t identify with them at all.

The best way to illustrate this, I believe, is to think about the process of selecting and reading a book from a library. Some people insist on finishing a book from cover to cover—believing it’s a waste of time to dip into a book without finishing (something that, incidentally, happened to me quite a few times while reading Thomas Mann’s wonderful yet incredibly long Magic Mountain). Other readers casually dip into books to see what interests them, without getting mired in thoughts of completing the book, let alone analysing it and submitting a review to amazon. Some people choose to focus only on a specific preferred genre of books, knowing that this is familiar territory for them and they know the basic overall structure of the book. Others, however, choose to dip into many different genres.

When it comes to thinking, we similarly have thoughts that we “like” and “dislike”, as well as thoughts that are so compelling that we feel the need to “complete” the underlying project or task entailed by the thought itself. When we practice meditation, however, we are not really trying to select any particular thoughts from the flow of thoughts. Rather, we are observing all thoughts with an equal intensity, using either a specific object or a general open contemplation to allow these thoughts to freely flow. In this way, we are like a hand that changes from a tight fist to something that is open and just allows ideas, thoughts and emotions to flow naturally, just like the waves on a river. Even if the content of these thoughts is not so wholesome (anger at a co-worker, stubborn adherence to a closed view, reactivity, defensive posturing, etc.). we don’t at all take any time to judge this content or brand it as “unwholesome”. The “wholesomeness” actually comes from how we relate to these thoughts as thoughts rather than as external realities that we need to tend to or respond to right away. Thoughts, when you think of them (pardon the pun), are not that tangible in the sense of pointing to something that is out there in some form or another. More often than not, thoughts refer to things that never happened (or haven’t happened yet) or speculations based on insufficient evidence. Thoughts are often partial, since they are mental constructs. Thoughts fail to capture the lived experience of successive, unfolding moments, because each thought tends to be a thing unto itself, which later solidifies into a concept or a fixed opinion.

So, the attitude toward are thoughts is never to say “Hey, I shouldn’t be having these particular thoughts”, because they are only thoughts after all. It’s only when we start to dwell on certain thoughts and take ourselves to be having these thoughts (or even owning them), that thought starts to spur on certain planned behaviors. If I hear a loud noise and say “I hate that!” or “Who did that?”, I will easily start to fall for the belief in an “I” (a me) who is having this thought, as opposed to the world “out there”, where the noise originates. This then creates the illusion that the thought originates “out there” when in fact it’s a mental construct cobbled together from prior experiences, assumptions, cognitive “fill ins” etc. We then tie these thoughts to cultural notions of who we should be in relation to those thoughts, and try to surround ourselves with thoughts that most accord with our sense of who we are or should be, as well as what we deem as appropriate or inappropriate. Attachments arise from the habit of discriminating between “good” and “bad” thoughts, coupled with a strong sense of the self that should (or shouldn’t) have these thoughts. If, on the other hand, we stay with the notion that thoughts don’t point to a particular thinker, and have a shelf-life of a brief instant of time before another thought appears, then we lose attachment to thoughts. When this happens, all the muscles around our temples and skull will naturally ease up, and it becomes so much easier to relax and be in the moment. I believe that it is this relaxed attitude toward thoughts which is so crucial to meditative practice, and it’s vitally needed if we are to go forward in practice.

The relationship toward thoughts, I want to stress, is way more important than what we do with the actual thoughts themselves. Many Buddhist practitioners think that meditation is about somehow inducing a peaceful state of mind by flushing out all thoughts, or picking only certain “nice” thoughts to have. But if we are trying to replace some thoughts with “better” thoughts (or no thought at all), we will only become more tired when we sit on the cushion. Stirring up discriminating likes and dislikes only induces more conflict in the mind, which paradoxically can make us less peaceful and relaxed, even when we resolve to be the latter. The reality is, thoughts don’t need to be dealt with at all. Even obsessive, repetitive thoughts (such as addictions) don’t need to be subdued when we meditate. Rather, we treat obsessive thoughts just like any other thought. The less afraid we are of our thoughts, the more easily they flow in and out of mind, to use a metaphor, and this results in a naturally calm state of awareness that comes from not abiding in the thoughts. I believe this is extremely important—that is, don’t be afraid of your thoughts, no matter how scary they may seem! Even if you think someone is out to get you, you need to realize that it’s just another thought, and there is no real thinker behind it. It comes and goes. Does the thinker need to defend himself? No, there’s no independent , separate thinker to begin with!

So very important, don’t worry about the quality or content of your thoughts. What you need to see is that thoughts emerge and disappear on their own (they have their own shelf life, and a very brief expiry date at that). We also need to see that the content of our thoughts does not point to a fixed and unified self. Thoughts do not define who we are because when a thought arises, there is no attendant “thinker” who arises with it. A thought is just a thought. Even the notion of “thinker” becomes yet another thought or object. So if we don’t act on these thoughts, we aren’t creating any story around them. We don’t try to carry forward that thought by arming it or giving it weight and life. In this way, our actions can become more economical: we only need to what needs doing in the moment, then let that go. Again—there is no “doer” separate from the doing. It’s all just a flow of thoughts. Can you try this? I hope you can try it everyday!

Why I Enjoy Reading the I Ching

 I first discovered the I Ching as a teenager, by way of reading Philip K. Dick's science fiction novel Man in the High Castle. This novel depicts a group of characters, one of whom is able to tell the future through the I Ching, which serves to contextualize the events of an alternate history where Nazis had defeated the Allies in World War II. It was not long thereafter when I found my own copy of the I Ching--a black paperback edition, in fact--and started using coins instead of yarrow sticks to "tell my own fortune". I found the I Ching readings to be especially helpful when I had a perplexing question that needed answering. To my surprise, I found that most of the I Ching readings shed a lot of light on the things I was going through, and even helped me gain insight into a few dilemmas I was facing by visualizing a story around it. Although some psychologists have commented that the I Ching works only through our unconscious associations formed with the text, I think of this text as a living being of sorts. Jung seemed to suggest that the I Ching brings out the synchronicity found in all things, by creating a surface upon which we can see unfolding events.

   I have recently been reading sections of the I Ching sequentially, as though it were a novel. This is perhaps not proper (and even irreverent at times), but the point of my exploration is that it allows me to get a good general outline of it. I think one thing I like about the I Ching is that it has a flavor of seeing human beings as parts of a greater unfolding cosmos and nature, where forces beyond our control or comprehension play themselves out. Rather than placing agency entirely in human hands, the I Ching narrates a world where proper timing, tact and unfolding conditions work together, alongside the twin aspects of Ying and Yang which interweave with each other to create new permutations.

    The moral universe of the I Ching is leaning toward restraint, modesty, care and consideration of timing. "Tact" might be a good word to describe all these qualities, where the reader is taken into a place where forces vie together--some hidden and not yet ripened yet. Waiting is sometimes considered a virtue, but swift action also works in this universe. The point is that we learn to read the signs of the text to understand what we're up against, the best course of action, and the kinds of qualities we may need to cultivate while going through life's perils and hazards. There is a certain aesthetic beauty in this text that makes me feel in awe of the mystery of life--both the active unfolding of politics and society as well as the more passive and mysterious forces of nature and the mind. But the I Ching always gives me hope that situations have an unfolding harmony which somehow works itself out in some way, even when we don't feel it's particularly orderly or predictable in the beginning.

    

Amitabha's Vow

  I have been reflecting on the compassion of Amitabha and how it is inclusive of all beings. One of the amazing things about such kind of vow is how no sentient being is exempt from it. The point being that all thoughts dissolve into the power of such kind of a vow. We need only listen deeply into our hearts to find this positive message and let it sink into us, curing us of all the worries that we have about our life in this world.

  Mind can create any number of different thought patterns. There is no limit to its creations, and thus, we have people living in the same city having very different lives and occupying different mindsets. Whatever preoccupies a person the most is what defines their world and their actions within that world. This is known as "karma". Where Amitabha has the power to overcome karma lies in the infinite compassion that he has to save all sentient beings, and to provide a refuge through which they can realize awakened being. But this is none other than the fundamental mind itself. It is the mind that doesn't actually move with all these infinite creations. It's fundamental to these forms just like the water in the waves.

With such kind of an attitude, a person can take any situation and find a positive way of looking at it. The mind is not limited to the "inevitable" like a fixed outcome or a scientific law. Because of this infinite plasticity of the mind, it's possible to shape the waves into anything we so wish to have, or even see beyond the waves to peer into what's underneath.

Trusting Unfolding Speech

   During the Complete Enlightenment Study group tonight, I had many thoughts about the stages of non-attachment that practitioners go through on the path to enlightenment. One area that I need the most help in involves adjusting my attitude to the view that we are all Buddha nature. All sentient beings are simply Buddha nature embodied. What this entails is a trust in the unfolding experience, knowing that whatever is happening is a manifestation of all the Buddhadharma's key qualities of emptiness, no self and impermanence. By letting go of our thoughts about situations, events or people involved, we come to appreciate their brief stay in the mind, as well as the fact that they are by no means posing a threat to the self. They are, in the end, phenomena, just like the rainbow colors on a kaleidoscope. Knowing this, we can learn to enjoy and appreciate whatever situations involve as the different permutations of experience. At the end of the day, they are all Buddha nature because it takes a mind to experience anything.

   This attitude doesn't mean that we simply slack off and do nothing. I think the better approach is simply to ask ourselves, what does this situation ask of me? How can I be an instrument in the grand orchestration and unfolding of Buddha nature? And I use this musical metaphor on purpose, to suggest that all of life is the harmonization of different forms. What we create from these forms can ultimately liberate all sentient beings if we take on the right approach and attitude. This also, paradoxically, involves reframing what it means to "do something" or to be productive.

   In work meetings, for example, you may find yourself in situations where you seem to have little to contribute to the discussion, or are even surrounded by people who are much more experienced, qualified and talented than you are. There are several ways we can face these experiences. One way is to strive to emulate these people, knowing that they are the A+ students who are worthy of imitation. When we ask the right questions and engage in the right way, we too can be the top scoring students. This is a very admirable position, and I have seen many people succeed through their emulation of those who exceed their skill levels and experience.

   One other option, however, is more subtle than this. Rather than seeing the other as "better" than myself, why not accept the fact that what I am witnessing is really all Buddha nature? Buddha nature encompasses both the one who is speaking and the one who is listening: the words uttered and the words heard. When I adopt this more even-minded approach, I start to realize that the words do not need to create comparisons between the speaker and the listener, since in that moment, the speaker and listener codependently arise within the same mind. When I am listening to someone, my mind is both registering the sounds of the speaker and listening. Why bother to divide my listening functioning from the speaking functioning when they are both supported by the same fundamental awareness? This way, we can listen to the words with complete and total equanimity. There is no need to take a side, or compare the speaker's words to the listener's words. I refer to this as a complete and utter trust in the unfolding of the conversation, which feels light and fresh because there is no illusion that words are being transferred from one "brain" to another brain. Therefore, there is no burden of being overloaded in meetings. The metaphors we subconsciously adopt to describe speech acts  start to collapse.

   Now, an interesting thing happens when we adopt this complete trust in the unfolding moment. That is, words start to gradually lose their implication of choice, urgency and emotionality, because there is no longer the urgency to act on speech based on the emotional loaded nature of speech acts. That is, I am no longer tied up to the idea that words must produce actions and agency. Secondly, when this happens, I am freed up to adopt a different perspective on communication altogether: one which neither privileges the speaker nor burdens the listener. Then I am free to enjoy the words, in the same way that children enjoy the images produced on kaleidoscopes. The words, after all, have amazing combinations and produce all kinds of interesting images and ideas. There is no pressure to act on those images and ideas, but only to enjoy their unfolding in a similar way that movies or musical scores unfold. Then the learning itself is more relaxed and there may even be a sense of dissolving of the self and other.

Emotions as Energies

 When we break things up into discreet properties, we then label them as good or bad. Feelings are one good example. When I am feeling a certain way, there is an energy that arises in the body. I might even characterize them phenomenologically. For instance, irritability might seem prickly and easily excitable, whereas sadness seems more like a deeper or slower wave that surges through me. Tiredness may take the form of an in-between kind of state that lies somewhere between irritability and drowsiness. 

The point is that all of these are just like the different waves of the ocean. Now, if we prefer those deeper and calmer manifestations of waves, we may forget that the prickly forms of irritability and the like are also mind energies: they have the exact same source as the calmer energies, and therefore their nature is very much the same. If we look even more closely at these emotional states, we will find that they too fluctuate: there is no single discreet form that we can unilaterally label as “irritable”, “happy” or “annoyed” because these states are bound to fluctuate as well. Individual emotional states can always be broken down into still finer points of arising, abating or varying in intensity.

The point is not to try to seek out these energies or reject them but rather to change how we relate to them: as being neither inherently good nor bad, but only as temporary states of being that have an empty nature. Once we start to get stuck on these states, they start to appear as more solid and real than they truly are, which gives rise to things like “like” and “dislike” or other such judgments. By simply learning to abide in the emotions themselves, we can come to realize their interdependent and aggregated nature. Then we don’t need to push away or identify, conversely, with certain emotions. We will no longer feel so imprisoned within them.

 Another way of doing this is similar to what I described in the group practice tonight, and that is to view energies similar to the way sound hits the eardrum. If anyone is ever having an argument with you, try turning to the sound itself and directly experiencing it without layers of interpretation surrounding the sounds themselves. Then we can view these sounds more playfully, enjoying their special quality or timbre without becoming overly invested in them. This can make otherwise difficult situations more interesting.

Schopenhauer's View of Suffering

 Suffering is a part of life and not something we can avoid. It’s only when we relax into that sense of universal suffering that we can recognize compassion and turn toward it. Philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer is useful here in the sense that he sees all sentient beings as part of a wheel of suffering. Taking his cue from Buddhist, Christian and Hindu philosophy and religion, Schopenhauer maintained that we come into this world bound by suffering caused by endless desires, including the striving for survival. What distinguishes Schopenhauer from his contemporaries lies in how he did not try to mitigate or qualify that suffering by suggesting conditions through which humans can be spared of it, somehow. In other words, suffering does not only inflict the poor, the infirm, the sick, elderly, etc. Simply by virtue of having a body that is subject to the stirrings of hunger and thirst makes us prime candidates for a life of suffering. Thus, Schopenhauer does not present any illusion that humans can progress out of suffering, concluding that ultimately we are inclined to suffering because our bodies have many biological needs which put us on a ceaseless path of desire fulfillment. It’s only when we stop identifying with the sense of embodiment that gives rise to feelings, sensations, cravings, likes and dislikes, a false sense of an enduring self, etc. that we can emerge from the suffering of life and have a true understanding of its conditioned nature, which is subject to decay and endless struggle.

Schopenhauer had a very clear-eyed awareness that life is suffering, but it’s not in vain. In fact, Schopenhauer suggests that when a person honestly follows the path of suffering, they will reach a point of no longer clinging to the phenomena as a sense of security. In fact, it’s precisely in trusting the unfolding of suffering that we can learn to let go of its individuality. We need to stop and ponder this for a bit. People tend to attach to “my suffering”, or “my fortune and lot”, to the point where we subsconsciously compare our fortunes with others. Schopenhauer even suggests that one of the greatest pleasures in life is schadenfreude. This is to say “I am so glad I don’t suffer the way that person does”. But when we meditate deeply on it, we are all subject to similar kinds of suffering in life, regardless of what paths or choices we make.

One of the deepest forms of suffering is the way that we are ultimately not always in control of the outcomes. Our decisions, even when well deliberated, are partially made, in the sense that we don’t know in advance the outcome or all the information that’s needed to understand all the consequences. In addition, even the outcome itself is not within our control. As Buddhism indicates, we plant seeds, but not all the seeds will ripen or prove to be meritorious. When looked at from the perspective of previous lifetimes, we really aren’t in the know about why things happen the way they do and when we do. Alan Watts has referred to a basic trust that whatever decisions we have made in the past turn out to contain the lessons we need to learn in life in order to become wiser. This may be a bit glib—sometimes suffering does not yield clear lessons or answers---but the central idea is that even our decisions are often based on contingent information. In the absence of any “full picture” of what’s happening or will happen to us, the only route we can go is that of trust, without adopting a clinging view of the phenomena around us.

In today’s world, we are often lulled into the comforting fantasy that certain choices will guarantee us happiness. Having the “right job”, or meeting the “right person” somehow makes us believe that we will be forever happy once we have made the right decision, and doing so only requires a certain modicum of education and intellect. The problem with this view is that there is no such thing as a stable job, and even our closest relationships are subject to change or unexpected turns. Trying to hold onto the comforting fantasy of “perfect” decisions can lead to delusory notions of fixed identity, fate, destiny etc. But even our own jobs are not who we are. I recently learned that the current role I am taking on was subject to a budgetary decision by management. I was happy to hear that my job wasn’t axed, but at the same time, it lead me to reflect: as much as I would like to fancy that I have a value to an organization that I have been in for over two decades, there really isn’t anything special about “me” that could not be replaced by someone else, or perhaps even a machine or artificial intelligence. Knowing this can make me feel either terribly insecure and grasping, or simply humble: allowing myself to acknowledge that I am not in control of what will happen to me. I don’t occupy such a privileged place in the universe that I am somehow exempt from things like economic downturns, job loss, illness, disability etc. All we can really do is pray for the best in life and for good karma, but this is never guaranteed. By contemplating and relaxing into the precarious nature of all things, I recognize there is nothing to grasp in all of this, since nothing is guaranteed to be forever.

When, on the other hand, we gently acknowledge the possibility that suffering is a universal part of life that we all must undergo in some form or another, then we will be less perfectionistic and more realistic about what happens to us in this life. We can relax into the flow of experiences, knowing that even if we can’t figure something out right away, there are possibilities to manage in the world. But at the same  time, we don’t punish ourselves for being unhappy. Also, there is a certain wisdom in recollecting that all paths involve some kind of unexpected challenge. Suffering is in all places and all directions. But, as Schopenhauer suggests throughout his writings, there is a hidden opportunity to transform through our suffering, by no longer attaching to the forms in which suffering takes. These forms are only surface phenomena. Underlying the surface of that phenomena is the nature of life which everchanging, empty and devoid of any form. Schopenhauer took his cues from Kant in suggesting this is the “thing in itself” or the “noumenal” as distinguished from the phenomena, which is only one temporary expression of the thing in itself. Buddhists might refer to it as the mind.

Let’s try this experiment: think of one of the worst possible things that can happen to you. Right now, I am thinking about the possibility of getting laid off and not being able to find another employment. I imagine all the headaches I will have, such as dwindling finances, bills to pay, creditors asking to collect, missed payments, lack of financial stability, and even a dire state of abandonment or homelessness. Now, you may begin to ask yourself, isn’t this reason to be alarmed? Is the fact or the threat of homelessness not a way to motivate us to push ourselves hard to look for that next job, rather than throwing our hands up in despair? Isn’t fear—the fear of not having a home or place in life—not the “great motivator”?

One of the greatest myths we tell ourselves is that we cannot function without fear. This message is so deeply ingrained within us that we surround ourselves with all kinds of fears, including the fear of abandonment, rejection, poverty, lost resources, shame, poor health, degradation etc. The fear keeps us on edge, and even prevents us from sleeping at night, because this fear cannot ever be fully abated. No matter how hard I push myself at work or try to get that extra hour of time to “prove my worth” to the organization of my employment, none of this is any guarantee that I won’t lose my job, even as I push closer to the finish line of retirement. So the function of fear, more than anything, is to perpetuate a sense of lacking, striving and trying to gain advantage in our situations. We most especially fear ostracism; the frown on the face of the stranger who looks at us and deems us as unacceptable. We internalize a low sense of self-worth when others look down at us and see us as unemployable, unskilled, untalented, etc. But is that fear useful?

Sometimes fear can be effective, and we can use that emotion to push ourselves. Psychologists such as Albert Ellis suggest that we need realistic feelings of shame, guilt or sadness to motivate us to seek better conditions for ourselves. Fear, under this view, has an appropriate and normative place among all the emotions, in the sense that it can provide a needed “push” for us to clean the room we haven’t cleaned in a long time, get the job we need to get, etc. However, I think Schopenhauer wanted us to go deeper beyond the fear. We ask ourselves the question: is there something that endures after the body has become degraded, starved or “cast off” from society? Does some fundamental part of who we are “survive” the scolding gazes and glances, declaring that we are a disgrace to society? Again, those who look down upon us are equally caught in the wheel of continuous striving, and so their scorn of us is a function of how they’ve been conditioned to fear unwelcome experiences. So again—we need to ask ourselves, is there something that lives beyond fear?

In order to ask this question, we have to look closely at the nature of our being in this world. The eyes that see, nose that smells, tongue that tastes, brain that thinks: what allows these elements to come together, and what supports the world that we are creating, moment to moment, with our senses? When the phenomena are arising, what experiences those phenomena? The nature of awareness is one way of attempting to answer this question. But let’s be careful not to get confused here; we are not trying to seek an awareness that is separate from the unfolding phenomena. Rather, we are doing something more subtle here, and suggesting that there is some fundamental nature that supports every moment of unfolding, and it’s inseparable from phenomena. We need not detach ourselves from anything that is happening to us to look for this mind.

If, while experiencing this present moment, I am aware that it’s just like a dream—a conglomerate of interconnected elements—then I will become less and less attached to the body that I take to be fundamentally real and “mine” forever. I can loosen myself and become less defended, knowing that awareness is not limited to this body. Even when people are shaming me and calling me the worst person in the universe, what is the mind that experiences the totality of this moment? Is that mind confined to some label that points to a singular “I”, or does it somehow encapsulate that whole experience in the moment? Why would “I” think there is only a single “I” in that experience? Or another way of putting it: if a big wave crashes over a small wave, does the small wave get “defeated” by the big wave? Does the small wave even “die”, for that matter? Think about it: a wave does not really exist independently from the ocean, and is even one “form”, albeit brief, in a total ocean. To attach to one wave is to make the mistake of believing that our existence is defined by this one temporary shape that changes every moment. Even seeing a “wave” and labelling it as such is a delusion of the eye, which happens because we put together different elements of the experience to make the standard shape that we then label as “wave”.

If we don’t internalize the view that our bodies are nothing more than waves, we will end up going in the opposite direction of solidifying the body into a discrete, solid sense of self. We then make the mistake of believing that the mind resides within the body. If this were the case, however, how could we possibly even see “outside” the body, and why don’t we see “inside” the body if the mind somehow “resides” there? By identifying less with the form in which our thoughts take and more with the underlying awareness that allows thoughts to arise and disappear, we become less stuck on thoughts of gain and loss. We will see that trying to gain money, attention, compliments, praise, fame, security, etc. is not that much different from a wave trying to protect itself against other waves. It’s simply impossible for the wave to keep a fixed and secure shape and is, in fact, continually changing with factors such as wind, movement, temperature, tidal forces, etc.

The problem is that most people don’t feel this way, and we even try to avoid this realization. This is because we internalize the fear of something terrible happening to us, by mothers, loved ones or others. Unless we are able to penetrate past this fear, we will always be miserable because we are constantly waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. We don’t recognize that this is only a temporary state of being that is bound to change to something else. We need to see that this fear is not based on anything, and to see past this script of motherly concern is the ultimate compassion we can give ourselves as well as the world. We need to stop internalizing the idea that we are confined beings who are just this body, with this fixed state of being. We are actually more than this. And suffering is the illusion that comes from attachment to forms. Fear is not necessary. It only exacerbates the sense of being trapped.

Attending to the True Nature

 

I often want myself to be different, and to have been different. I think that somehow if only I could be more like someone else, I would somehow be happier and more content with myself. But let’s think about this here and now moment. Is it really being “someone else” that will make me happier? Aren’t all identities somewhat tenuous? And what about this desire to be someone else? Is it the correct way to be?

We know from Buddhist scriptures that desires lie at the heart of suffering. Even more fundamental to this is the sense of ignorance that gives rise to desire. When I admire a famous person and how they talk, think, act, etc. I start to think that I would be happier by being that person. Actually, it doesn’t necessarily even have to be a famous person. We can want to emulate anyone who is different from ourselves. Where does that desire come from? It comes from imagining that this person is somehow better off, more comfortable, more “facile” than we are. We even interpret the seeming smoothness of another person’s actions as indicative of a higher state of being that we are not privy to. As a result of this admiration, we get lost in the ignorance of thinking that the peace we are looking for the most lies outside of ourselves.

In Surangama Sutra, the Buddha asks Ananda what he admires the most about the Buddha. Ananda remarks that he admires the Buddha’s “golden” appearance, features and demeanor. He thus attributes the Buddha’s powers (and his own Buddha nature) to an external appearance or form. This causes him to desire to be something that isn’t inside of him. Now, this isn’t so bad, since this appearance is what leads Ananda away from a prostitute and toward Buddha. But at the same time, the admiration he feels is only superficial. It’s like admiring the manners of a person without really knowing the substance underneath or the underlying heart of that person.

To get to any true peace or true stillness, we have to turn inward and let go of this endless striving to become someone else or even keep up with someone else. This is because both desires come from the mental habits of seeking some forms and avoiding others. As long as we are stuck in that cycle, we can’t realize true peace and happiness because we continue to feed our minds with a chase after external appearances. I want to emulate or become something that is really only symbolic of a fundamental awareness that is always still and not sticking to anything.

The unrest we feel is because we are attached not only to our own bodies, but to the images that we have, of ourselves and others. When we are around others, we continue to check ourselves to wonder if we are good enough compared to them. This creates all kinds of anxieties and even suspicions or paranoia, not to mention gossip. To know our true self, we must continue to look into the real source of these images, and stay with that question of who has the images: who sees, feels, thinks, perceives, senses etc. Even if we have no answer to this question, engaging it can help us detach from the desire to become an image, and see the image for what it is, a kind of empty and ephemeral phenomena. True peace thus comes from letting go of these images and seeing their moment to moment flux and impermanence.

Even when we feel states such as “depression”, “regret”, “anger” etc. we must ask ourselves, am I creating the illusion of the angry, depressed, regretful “person”? Am I reifying what is otherwise only a temporary emotional state based on an incomplete interpretation of things? This is the point where investigation starts to happen and we are no longer enslaved by labels and stories related to emotions.

The Naked Now

   What would life be like if we were simply to have a window into the unfiltered experience? While watching a  Master Sheng Yen video tonight about mindfulness of the breath, he compared the method of breath watching to a kind of window into the present moment. We very rarely are able to see the present moment without the usual filters of the past and future. In fact, the lack of stillness can lead us to easily compare our current predicament to something we want more of. Or, as Marcus Aurelius relates, we wish to take "vacations" of the mind by going off to exotic countries, when in fact, the real vacation is resting in the present moment. One need not venture into some faraway planet or locale to get to this moment.

  What gets in the way of this? Thinking does, as well as comparing what we have in the moment with what is past, or what we think could be in the future. When we have the mentality of "this could be the last and only moment there is", then there is no continuation, because the mind has simply stopped moving to the hypothetical next step. It resides in the here and now, where there is no judgment, because there is no dreadful prophecy of what's to come. 

What's most interesting about this is that everything is always eternally now, but we are so often unable to see or feel that way, because of our mental projections. We fear retribution, stress, pressure, downfalls, bad things, all because our minds are in this constant state of comparing one moment to the next: weighing in on whether something will be good for us, bad for us or neutral, all the while not tuning into the effervescence of everything. This is what leads to a reified, stuck or depressed mindset: always thinking that things stay the same, projecting our fears into the future, and staying with what's already past. But the good news is that we can always renew ourselves by just looking at what's in front of us and continually unfolding.

Fear in Daily Life

Have you not seen the idle man of Tao who has nothing to learn and nothing to do,
Who neither discards wandering thoughts nor seeks the truth?
The real nature of ignorance is Buddha-nature;
The illusory empty body is the Dharma body.

When I read these words, I reflect on the nature of fear. If, as the poem suggests, "the illusory empty body is the Dharma body", then why would we be filled with fears? I have started to reflect on how we can approach fear from two perspectives. One of them might be described as "Spinozistic" while the other may be described as "Buddhist".

Spinoza saw strong emotions as being rooted in a lack of proper perspective on life. Fear is literally a "passion", meaning it takes us by surprise and leads us to a feeling of diminished control.  In contrast, reason provides a proper understanding of the place of an emotion in the development of a human life. To understand the way an emotion unfolds and its proper function is to not overstep the role of that emotion. Let's say we are watching an action movie, and we see the protagonist surrounded by many explosions or gunfire. We "fear" for the protagonist's life, because we simply don't know how the movie will end for this character. When we are particularly empathetic toward this protagonist and know precisely why they need to go through their trials and tribulations--what lessons to be learned or skills to be gained--we start to see fear in the context of a greater whole. Fear has a necessary place in life, but it needn't consume us. On the other hand, overattachment to fear can lead to a life lived simply for the sake of avoiding fear. Fear is reified as a kind of demonic power or enemy.

A Buddhist view of fear is to understand it as a mind-created phenomena. To go back to the opening vignette, all feelings, thoughts, emotional states, are creations of the mind. As such, they are not alien to Buddha nature. The subtle mistake we make here is that as soon as any unpleasant emotion arises in our mind, we create a sense of self that wants to detach from it, and which is even based on a belief in our ability to successfully distance. Attachment comes from this belief that we have a self that is worth salvaging from any dire emotional state such as anger or fear. Contrariwise, if we were to see that eve anger and fear have Buddha nature, we wouldn't try to barricade ourselves from these states of awareness. Furthermore, we would be able to observe their arrival and going without attaching to them.

Fear is part of a greater context of lived experience governed by purpose (conatus) and reason, per Spinoza. But in Buddhism, fear need not have an ulterior purpose that it moves toward or acts against. In fact, by trying to interpret fear in terms of a larger sense of meaning, we may miss the fact that fear is just a part of deeper Buddha nature. All we need to do is to peer deeply into the impermanent nature of every moment to see what's underneath fear.

Grace and Life

   Grace involves being able to accept one's flaws as indicative of the need for help. Coming from a Christian perspective, this could mean the chief sin is one's belief that they are self-sufficient: the sin of "pride", in other words. From a Buddhist perspective, it's the belief in a reified sense of self. According to both views, our need to control things and to 'play God' with ourselves is not only the root of suffering but also our biggest burden.

   Grace can come from the breath. When I breathe, I remind myself that there is more to "me" than just my thoughts and worries. Also, simply looking--using my senses and being mindful of the surroundings--can be one helpful reminder that my being in this world is not sustained through thoughts. On the other hand, when I try to subsume everything under a single overarching thought, that is like trying to swallow the ocean. It's simply impossible.

    Random coincidence is one way we remember that our life story is not within our control. Things come together just as they fall apart, not with any overarching plan per se, but just like mathematical combinations and permutations. There is a certain refreshment in the view of evolution, because it stresses that things are shifting, and there is no set, determined fate to things. An organism survives not because of its own inner strength, but because of the way it adapts to the things around it, and vice versa.

   There is no need to coerce or influence anyone using ideologies. This only chains us to one idea that ends up exhausting itself, like very cheesy fashion that we look back on from decades past and wonder how people could wear it. Sometimes we don't need to live linearly but we can draw various parallels from one thing to another, and this is enough to make an interesting pattern and connection. We can then wipe it away the next day like sand castles on the tides.

The Mystery of Flow

 Flow moments have sometimes been described as experiences of being at one with an activity that we love, such as a sport or even writing itself. When someone experiences "flow" moments, they are said to lose the sense of time, become absorbed in what they are doing, and just challenged enough to feel that they are engaged with something. People have sometimes found themselves "unified" with the experience of flow, as though they were one with whatever they were doing. Does this mean that flow can only be experienced with certain kinds of activities--especially ones that are challenging or passion filled?

  I would like to suggest that flow moments can be induced in any experience. There are two conditions required to get oneself into a sense of flow. The first is focus: focus on a particular event, experience or doing, as though this were the only experience, event or doing that is of any importance in the moment. When walking, only walk; when typing, only type, etc. The second condition required for a flow experience is a completely supple, relaxed mind. We let thoughts flow evenly from our minds like water from a river, and we don't suppress some thoughts over others. In that way, our mind is less tense and not so focused on successfully completing the task at hand.

   Even something that is challenging can be changed to a flow experience, if we adjust our focus to be in that moment, while allowing for as many permutations of the action as possible. As I am typing these sentences, I am performing the balancing act of allowing certain meanings to be freely put together through the words and controlling the meaning to make cogent sentences. By balancing between focus and relaxation, I am able to maintain a certain presence toward the writing itself without going back to correct the sentences.

Flow moments can even be created from lax times when we have no particular goal to accomplish. When listening to a long speech, we can pay attention to the flow of sounds and just relax with that flow. In that moment, there is no need to respond to the speaker or try to catch multiple meanings from the words. Instead, it's sufficient to simply behold the words and let them penetrate our eardrums. The sheer delight of the sound itself, without going into the meaning, can help us to relax into the talk or conversation, because we are simply enjoying the presence of the words themselves without suppressing or seeking them.

In today's age of distractions and many entertainments, I believe flow is a muscle that we can flex through the process of writing, particularly what we call "free association" or stream of consciousness writing. By seeing words freely put together on the page, we free our minds of thoughts while also seeing a product come to life before us. We can also get a more concrete sense of what we truly think and feel about something. Flow moments such as this can give us the sometimes surprising revelation that we do have many stories to tell and thoughts to share. We only have to commit them to the pen (or keyboard) to see them emerge.

Coping with Weariness

  Tonight, I had this feeling of being midway on a mountain, and feeling tired from overexertion. I feel like the mountain above me is covered in mist, and I have no idea where my steps will lead me anymore, or if I even have the energy to scale such a precipice. But for a moment, I gave myself permission to feel tired and even to feel sick. And I even started to listen to some chanting in Sanskrit.

   As I was relating in yesterday's group meditation, our society is addicted to the concept of time, keeping time and clocks. Life rarely ever flows according to the clock, at least certainly not the literal clocks that surround us in the form of wristwatches, timers, cellphone clocks, laptop displays etc. In spite of all my efforts to be on time, accomplishing tasks on time, etc. there is still a part of me that has nothing to do with time at all, let alone the chronological sense of it. And I think that it's crucial to touch this eternal present, even if it seems physically inaccessible or impossible. 

   When people feel tired, they might take it as a sign that something is wrong with them. I beg to differ: it may have nothing to do with iron deficiency or Vitamin D loss, etc. Instead, I tend to think of tiredness as arising from the expectation to care. Quite simply, in the age of surplus information, we are expected to care about everything, respond to everything at once, and even have answers to things that are unanswerable. This creates a sense of pressure.

   Actually, pressure is illusory, and the only thing we need to be true to is our own embodiment in this brief world. I can read many books that contain lofty ideas, but if I am unable to feel those ideas in my bones at the end of the day, then they are only indigestible footnotes. Time, responsibility, efficiency, are all words of violence against our bodies and even our souls. These words come from an industrial model of the world --one which assumes that people can be reduced to numbers and even tracked using time-motion studies. People become depressed because it's the body's way of saying "I can't do this anymore", or "this is not who I really can be at the moment". And so in those moments, we need to honor the feeling of weariness and nurture it.

   The soul itself is full of mysteries that will never be fully resolved. From a Buddhist perspective this amounts to emptiness. We are full of infinite possibilities, to the point where there is not a single "I" that controls, let alone oversees, the entire life story. We simply don't know whether we will succeed or fail. This is a scary prospect--one prefers the safety of knowing what they are capable of--but at the same time there is solace in the fact that nobody can take this moment away from me.  

Benefitting Others, Then Self

  During our group meditation practice discussion today, I was reminded that whenever we encounter adversity, we should always embrace it as a sign of care. Criticism or even the day to day hassles of life can be reframed as challenges and ways that those around us help us to grow. Perhaps the best attitude possible is to think that whenever we are being challenged, the result of the challenge will help us to better help others. For instance, if I go through a difficult ordeal, I may not be so successful at overcoming it, but I can take what I have learned from adversity and use it to benefit (or, at the very least, warn) others. In this way, I don't take the situation too personally and I am able to reframe it overall as the opportunity to practice.

  If, after all of this, I still encounter negative emotions and afflictions, I can reframe my attitude toward those emotions. First, are they permanent? No, they are conditioned, and therefore they won't last forever, no matter how dire the circumstances. 

Second, is the emotion "me"? If I take a detached view, I can realize that emotions are usually the result of habitual thinking. By changing my mindset and thoughts to positive ones, the feeling that I am "in danger" or "under threat" will eventually subside, and I can treat the experience in a smooth and easy way. 

Thirdly, does the emotion benefit me? If it only pains me, why should I even nurse the emotion? We often think that anger or irritation benefits us by giving us a form of self-defense, but in fact, these emotions only tend to make situations worse, and never help us solve the issues. In fact, anger can end up estranging us from others. Simply contemplating the destructiveness of the emotion can be one way of counteracting it, by proving to ourselves that no matter how strong the emotion may feel, that feeling does not legitimate or "prove" its value to our survival.