staying with questions

     I often wonder, when one is meditating, where does the decision to remain with the method really come from? For beginning meditators especially (and I am a beginner each time), images can be so powerful, particularly coming from the unconscious. Even when one is not trying to do so, images often come in to fill gaps. If one is not guarding against it, one can get into a very dreamy state after a while. In dreams, one just goes from one image to another and randomly connects them until they make some kind of 'cogent sense'. Like a very young child's writing or drawing, sometimes that sense only 'makes sense' to me. But when I awaken, the sense is gone altogether.
    During meditation practice today, I just stayed on a question (called huatou) without trying to generate answers to the question itself. It's not easy to do this, because the mind has a way of bringing up answers in the form of images, which ends up dulling the experience. It's as though I am constantly coming up with solutions to what appear to be problems, even if the 'solutions' make less sense than the problems do. But one way to circumvent this approach is not to fixate on any answer to the question. It is to be more curious about the question itself, the act of questioning, or the act of having something unresolved. It is not easy to do this at times, because it seems that I am conditioned to treat a question as a segue into an answer. How many times have I asked a question half-heartedly, thinking that deep down inside I already 'know' the answer to it? Funnily, when I am most convinced that I know the answer to a question, the answerer will end up surprising me.  So, I think that I need to get around this idea that having a question entails that I urgently need an answer right away. Rather than privileging the answer, it is often better to privilege the question.
   Another way to look at this is to keep prolonging the process of questioning, until I am convinced that the questioning is worthwhile and that my "answers" have exhausted themselves. That process takes me to a deeper state of fascination with the question itself: an ability to turn the question over and over, looking at it from different sides, and not letting the stream of consciousness kick in and block the process of questioning.
    Many spiritual traditions have emphasized the value of beholding mystery. Pat Schneider, who writes from a Christian perspective, remarks, "What is required to be open to an experience of mystery? Perhaps nothing is required. No formula, no specific words to be said or acts to be performed. No baptism, no creed, no doctrine, no priest, no confession of faith, no adherence to tradition." (p.34) Schneider beautifully captures the attitude of letting go, to see what is left over when one is not relying on any concept or rule while being open to  the unknown. At the same time, I don't think the process itself need be mysterious. It might take the form of being more aware of mystery and allowing it to be present, particularly when one is unsure as to which path to take or what solution to follow. Being with the not knowing can be an exhilarating process where I learn not to feel devastated when I don't  have the answers.

Schneider, Pat (2013), How the Light Gets In, Oxford: Oxford University Press

Pace of Life

   City life, like any kind of life,is a good way to learn the values of patience and yielding. Most of the places I frequent have line ups, and most of the city is pretty crowded with people trying to have their needs and wants met.I have heard someone explain that multitasking and taking on too many things is literally the 'violence' of the 21st century. But that kind of taking on a lot of things probably happens most often in the city life, where there are simply too many choices and not enough time to do everything. I wonder how people do manage to slow down the pace of life?
    I read an essay by Venerable Guo Xing  in the book Encounters with Sheng Yen that helped me to better understand this question. In it, he relates, "After I was ordained, I encouraged myself to be in a state of mind of a seven-day meditation retreat every second of the day" (p.66).  If I had such a state of mind, would everything appear to be so fast paced? It reminds me that the sense of pace is based on how I see the way thoughts flow in the mind. Because thoughts race past each other in rapid succession, I think that a lot of things are happening to me. For example, if I am in a crowded store,and suddenly the thought of being comfortable at home arises, I will have these two images seemingly juxtaposed in front of me. I use this thought of being at home to reject the thought of being in the store, or vice versa. The two thoughts almost appear to interact with each other. It's interesting to wonder if they really do interact.
    This past weekend, Venerable Chang Zhai used the example of a person moving to illustrate this point. If I see someone get up and move around, I assume that one thought of the person connects with the next thought, and so on...until I see this person moving across the room. The succession of thoughts generates the illusion of something that is moving. But if I can stop the camera and see that the images are just separate, I will see that consciousness joins those images together to form some illusion of movement. The thought that these images are 'joined' arises so quickly that there is no way to see that they are separate thoughts. The mind just starts to follow the idea that they are joined.I think the same goes with these two separate images: being in  the store, and being at home. When the image of the store arises, it is somehow joined to my image of relaxing at home. The two images are joined together. Then I add a third thought, "I don't want to be in the lineup,I'd rather be at home!"This goes on and on...until I get home and realized that I forgot to buy something at the store. And then a feeling of regret arises. And so on.
     If I were to really slow things down, I would see that the images don't really interact or connect with each other.The mind is always still, but the sense that the images are joined creates this illusion of 'moving' between the thoughts.
   It's important to reflect on that principle, because doing so can allow me to see how most of what I consider 'problems'are really the result of the habitual joining of unrelated images and thoughts. I see the thought now and connect it to past experience which I labelled as 'unpleasant'. Is the present thought therefore unpleasant? Before I go to trying to fix the problem (or the person),I need to examine this root habitual tendency. Most of my unsettled emotions arise from the way I conjoin images and thoughts, rather than seeing the stillness in the current thought.
 
References

Encounters with Master Sheng Yen II: (2013) Sheng Yen Education Foundation

Fall Walking

   In the distance, the fall leaves create a shimmering kind of impression. At times, it appears as though the trees were on fire. The flicker in reds and golds until they fade out into the hazy sky.
      I remind myself that this phenomenon I am observing is a kind of optical illusion. When I get close to the leaves, I no longer see the individual ripples anymore.  Rather, the leaves start to take on the form of solidity as I get closer to their forms.
     The neighborhood, what they call the Bridal Path, looks a bit forbidding; no sidewalks and narrow paths in some places. The gates are all ironed out, with lions and  heraldry gracing the sides and stony pillars. A few cars are lining the garages and along the sides of the streets. But I don't see too many people on this Thanksgiving weekend. The streets even look a bit lonely in places, even though the houses retain a certain majesty. And I feel like a voyeur if I linger too long to gaze at the architecture.
   It is not too long before a ladybug perches on my hand. I marvel at the ladybug's orange-colored, mottled surface. The ladybug seems to linger with me for a while and I start to wonder. I feel a faint pinching sensation along my finger, but I don't think too much about it. I only sense and enjoy the contact of this small insect. But when the ladybug finally flies away after about half an hour, I see a tiny marking on my finger. It appears that the ladybug was hungry! But I didn't mind to give it some of my blood. After all, it's not that I need all this blood to keep me alive.
   During the weekend talk, there was a topic about the four elements of the body. I remember that the four elements in Buddhist philosophy are earth (which corresponds to the bones and skin, the solid parts of the body), water (blood), fire (body heat) and wind (circulation and breath).   It interests me that these same elements recombine in different permutations, across the natural world. The ladybug even took some part from my body and put it into its own. Even something as solid as bone has to be replenished through food. Without the right kinds of minerals,these solid structures would quickly become fragile and start to break easily.
    Even then, where did the elements of my own body come from? Was there really a 'me' that had given anything to the ladybug at all? Everything that I have in my body seems to be mine to 'keep', but is it really that way? I remind myself of the time when I had read that the cells in our body are constantly being replaced at a fast rate. I can't really say that any of the skin cells or hair cells that I have today are the ones I had when I was born. Going down into this, I can see that there is no solid origin to this movement. Even when I say, "I think that...", the "I" of now is not the same as the one from five minutes ago or five years ago. I even reflect on how the cells that compose the body must borrow their energy from somewhere: from the foods we eat, from the soil,from water, and from the sun.Without these things, would the body even exist for a week?
    Reflecting on these biological and natural process might seem a bit strange, but it also seems a useful reflection on the constant flow of processes and materials. I wonder, do those who study the life sciences perhaps feel more gratitude, to know that all the elements that make up living bodies are composed of the minutest of elements from many places? But besides teaching a sense of gratitude, life cycles such as those of the seasons could be a way of demonstrating the inter-relatedness of forms. When I see that my own body is a constant give and take with other bodies in the world (plants, other humans, animals, etc), perhaps I might hesitate to think that my body needs to be privileged over another being's body. Feeling this way, I might lower my defenses and find a reason to better relate to living beings.

Exploring the Five Aggregates and Self

       Autumn starts to come in fast, almost relentlessly, leaving me to wonder where the summer just went. The changing colors in the trees are reminders of the winter to come, as well as the growing season that just passed. Things are constantly in process of change, renewal, integration and eventual dissolution. Just reflecting on change can be a form of strange release. I often wonder why, besides being the season of my birthday, the autumn has so much symbolic weight to me. I believe that it is the one season which reminds me the most of impermanence, It portrays the beautiful and colorful disintegration of life ,back into the crisp elements of the soil and cold wind.

       Today's study session is hosted by Venerable Chang Zhai, a very gentle and amiable nun who lectures very deeply and honestly on the Chan principle. Venerable Chang Zhai describes the Five Aggregates, Twelve Contacts, and Eighteen Realms. I found it quite fascinating how the Venerable started our session by having us explore what life means to us. After describing the Five Aggregates and how they compose the world we perceive (Form, Sensation, Perception, Volition, Consciousness), Venerable Chang Zhai then asked us to look again at our first question of the day. Did anything change between the question of life before and after learning the Five Aggregates?

         Venerable Chang Zhai compared the Five Aggregates to the pieces of a puzzle. While they inter-mesh and compose each part of one's experience, they somehow never quite become whole. When I see something in front of me, say, a cup or this computer, I already have gone through a complicated process to get to that point of 'seeing/framing' the object. There is a condition of an appearance, such as a form, followed by sensations hitting the eye or other organs (sensations), followed by a framing of the sensations into shapes or appearances (perception), then followed by my responding to that perception (volition), and my labeling the object in terms of set qualities or labels from memory (consciousness). Venerable emphasized the last as the part that drives the whole business. Without an ability to describe something as a 'thing' using discursive thoughts, there would not be this process of forming objects based on the aggregates. This leads me to feel that consciousness is the 'glue' that keeps the aggregates together, though it too is only a constituent in a never-ending cycle. What I mean is that consciousness must play a big part in sustaining my belief that a 'thing' is a 'thing' and sustains that same thing-ness over time. Yet, if I were to look at still shots of each part of an object's trajectory on a film, what makes me think that the ball in one shot is the same as the ball in the next shot? The act of unifying these two images is also an act of consciousness.

     This teaching is valuable  in itself, because it describes a way of approaching how the world is created by mind. Most of my energy and efforts are devoted to the 'practice' of responding to what I believe are self-contained, permanent objects that are 'out there', impinging upon 'me'. Because I believe that the images in mind have a separate, individual self, or a kind of independent substantial existence, I spend my time either seeking those objects that I like, or warding off what seems threatening to my happiness....or, ignoring what is neither desirable nor detrimental. How the sense of self is formed in all this is a mystery, perhaps worth some study with developmental psychologists, But the point is that, I literally attach a 'weight' to subject and object that is not real. I once read a book by Walker Percy, called Lost in the Cosmos where he refers to the self as a  kind of thing that 'sucks' the life out of objects around it, eventually draining the things of their qualities. For example, when we first buy a clothing that is attractive to us, our impression is to identify closely with that clothing ('I look good in this"),until eventually, the clothing loses its allure. Soon enough, it's not the thing we thought it to be, but is rather a piece of cloth sitting in the closet somewhere.

     Now, how did that happen? How did the self get to be what it is, appropriating what it likes and discarding what it stops liking or dislikes? Maybe my question is not an interesting one. A better question might be, 'what happens when that happens? What is that experience like?' I think it's the experience of constantly using up experiences and growing disenchanted as they no longer feed the weighted sense of 'me' or 'mine'. And that weight is so addictive that it must be frightening when a person first meditates and sees that the self does not have such a heavy weight to it. It is like, 'what's going on?' "Why don't I feel the grave matter of 'me' coming up, with all these wandering thoughts coming and going and disappearing?" A kind of ontological panic starts to set in. And I see that similar ontological panic when Descartes starts to question who he could be without thinking...or when Roquentin, the character from Sartre's Nausea, starts to deconstruct a tree into its thusness, no longer labeling what arises as 'a tree'.

   I think this can also happen in one's relationships as well. How often have I experienced times when others went against what I expect to be 'considerate' or 'sensitive' behavior, leaving me feeling demoralized? This sense of 'I am wronged' is such a pervasive source of suffering. It's based on a misunderstanding that there are actually these permanent selves that are connected in mutual 'obligation' to each other. In fact, my perceptions of another's behavior are entirely subjective ones, which are often based on false and hasty over-generalizations of what I think should happen in a given moment. But does even this sense of 'I' endure over time? Unless I am aware that this situation is a threat to a specific sense of 'weighted, substantial self',then I will spend all my time trying to defend the illusory sense of self,without being able to let go of my grip on it. It's a pity and a waste of time as well, to be driven by this habitual sense of 'this is what existence must be'. But on the other hand, those 'threats to self' are opportunities to peel away the layers of that sense of weight, to see that it's simply a heap of impressions "bundled together" by a false consciousness of a 'me' as opposed to 'you' or 'the world''..

  I think it's important to explore, at least phenomenologically, what happens when the sense of self is compromised or exposed. Otherwise, I think that subconsciously, it is easy to put up smoke screens and start to zone out when our experiences are seen as aggregates. But over time, we might start to experience the liberating potential of seeing our experiences as pieces in a puzzle

Arthur's Beautiful Solitude

     Reflecting on tonight's Buddhist study class, I realize how much one of the practitioner's comments had really struck a deep chord with me. She described how many of the chapter we had been reading in Chan and Enlightenment circle around the notion that everything 'comes back to you', meaning that it always comes back to this question of the ultimate source of one's experiences. Indeed, to try to answer such a question using the phenomena as a final appeal would be completely defeating, and yet it is this kind of defeating behavior, I suppose, that keeps us getting caught in the vexations of craving and everyday suffering. This practitioner reminded me of how everything that happens to me is my responsibility. This means that only I can take care of the experience I am having, and there is no way to appeal to anyone else to own my own experiences. While this seems so fundamental to most existential philosophy in particular, it is a hard teaching to live, because I am always appealing to others,including authorities, to help me along the ways of life.I believe that one still needs teachers,but the difference is that at the end of the day,only I can take care of my own experience.

    I often find it hard to wrap my head around this fundamental alone-ness. The one thinker who comes to mind as reminding me of this principle is Arthur Schopenhauer,  a nineteenth century German philosopher. Schopenhauer had written a work called "The Wisdom of Life". I read this book in my third or fourth year as an undergraduate. Mind you, it wasn't an assigned reading or anything, since Schopenhauer isn't that widely taught in schools these days.But in chapter 1 of this book, Schopenhauer essentially describes how happiness is really a result of one's outlook on life, which Schopenhauer attributes to 'temperament'. Listen to the contrasts that Schopenhauer makes,when he makes the following remarks:

      What a man [sic] is in himself [sic], what accompanies him when he is alone, what no one can     give or take away, is obviously more essential to him than everything he has in the way of possessions, or even what he may be in the eyes of the world. An intellectual man in complete solitude has excellent entertainment in his own thoughts and fancies, whilst no amount or diversity of social pleasure, theatres, excursions, and amusements, can ward off boredom from a dullard. A good, temperate, gentle character can be happy in needy circumstances, whist a covetous, envious and malicious man, even if he is the richest in the world, goes miserable. (p.15)

What kinds of contrasts does Schopenhauer describe in this passage? Some are quite agreeable to our times, while some seem a bit disagreeable, if not archaic in tone. Schopenhauer contrasted someone of high intellect to the amusements of a 'dullard', which suggests a clear polarity between intellectual and non-intellectual that runs throughout Schopenhauer's writing. I disagree with this distinction. I think that all human beings have some intellectual gift or talent, and the only differences I can observe are in whether these talents are fostered and cultivated. I also acknowledge that each person comes into the world with different conditions acting upon her or him, and therefore different talents as well.

What still resonates in Schopenhauer's writing, to me, is the metaphor of turning 'inward' to find the true and unending source of happiness--a theme that also resonates in a lot of spiritual narratives I have read. As I am reading this passage from Schopenhauer, I wonder: how much am I living according to his ideal concept of a person who finds happiness in herself, rather than dissipating her energies in so many activities or diversions? How much do I really practice the ability to be content with my own being, to not seek out diversions when I lack stimulation? Sadly, I reflect on how easy it is to dissipate my energy when I am spreading myself thin or wanting to complete so many tasks. On the other hand, Schopenhauer intimates how possible it is to find contentment in one's own still mind, rather than looking outward to find amusement or 'salvation in the outside world'.

If I were to go back to this theme of taking ownership and responsibility for one's own experience, I must ask the question, how does one go about this task of taking responsibility for experience? I think that the turn toward a greater enjoyment of solitude is one possible, albeit tentative answer. Through a cultivation of the joys of solitude and alone-ness, one can lessen her attachment to others and preserve energy that might otherwise be dissipated through endless pursuits. Finally, becoming more comfortable in one's solitude is also one good way not to burden others, who also have their own business to deal with.

There may be some out there (often myself included) who might be saying, "what about those who don't enjoy being alone?" I think that many people who are afraid to be alone may not have cultivated a strong faith in their ability to be by themselves, as well as to take a contemplative approach of wholeness. I suggest that people simply make more space and time to be by themselves and meditate,just to get a sense of what happens when we are not so driven by racing thoughts and the pace of daily life. This gradual immersion in meditative solitude might be one ideal way to become more grounded in a happiness that does not come from external elements. Over time, a person might begin to realize that the daily temptations of the phenomenal world are only temporary,and are no substitute for the joy of an uninterrupted sense of being in the universe. Although this sense of being is not an ultimate inquiry into existence, it helps in unifying the body and mind, as well as for bolstering a faith in mind.


Schopenhauer, Arthur (1995), The Wisdom of Life and Counsels and Maxims (tr. T.Bailey Saunders) Prometheus Books

stepping into and out of line

The rain pours down on an October evening, one that is neither terribly cold nor that warm either. Autumn is taking its toll very fast, with a few cold spells happening on the previous weekend. I count the days before I can expect some snow or chilly spells, but I am finding that the weather surprises me so often these days. Some have even joked with me that they are simply unable to decide what to wear, on any particular day. It seems perhaps best in these situations to stock up on a variety of options.

I am reading a book by Vinita Hampton Wright called The Soul Tells a Story. This book describes how Hampton Wright gradually came to realize that she wanted to become a writer, even though she had little encouragement from her family, and was expected to teach music when she graduated. Hampton Wright notes that being 'called' to do something meaningful or creative with her life often didn't come from a conscious decision, but rather came from "losing" control and finding her unique ways of being in the everyday. Creativity often takes the form of 'witnessing' (p.32) what our inner creations or narratives want to say, rather than trying to control the narrative from the very start. What I create is not a result of a self over-riding everything, but flows from a space that cannot be predicted. Rather, it "unfolds"before the writer's eyes.

I agree with many of of Hampton Wright's conclusions about writing and art.  In particular, Hampton Wright spends a lot of time exploring the social opposition that can arise when people choose to embark on a creative endeavor (see pp. 28-32), which lends credence to the view that the artist is a solitary trailblazer, But I also think that there is a complicating element of how my art connects with another person's art. I get a sense that art is never done in isolation, but, more so, consists of circles of resonance with other beings and their 'art'. The example I think of is how much I have been inspired by others to write, and how the creative process has often been nurtured by many people I have known along the way. I even come to the point where I cannot separate 'my' creativity (if there is a 'my' here) from the synergistic elements I have encountered with others. Of course, being original and speaking one's true voice often requires stepping out of the lines of social circles and influences. Hampton Wright notes how many good works of art go unrecognized within an artists' lifetime, due to the lag in time before an idea becomes accepted by a society.

I wonder how much 'art' really gets on a page. Though most peoples' first exposure to art is through a formal class where it is thought to be a noun, there is also an 'art of',which refers to a way of being that transcends individual objects. Many people, due to causes and conditions,may never have the sufficient encouragement to 'create' a work of art, yet their life in itself is a special kind of art, or way of being. Perhaps these people are meant to provide a different way of being that cannot be captured on paper or canvas after all. But there are still others whose life forms the inspiration for an artists' creation. I am thinking of that complicated, tumultuous relationship between Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller, which Miller (perhaps loosely) adapted into his play After the Fall. I also recall how Somerset Maugham was inspired to write about a character based on the artist Gaughan. Here are examples which blur boundaries between 'art', 'artist' and 'inspiration'. 

I suspect that many people do find their most creative work in the process of isolating themselves: perhaps by going on a retreat, or turning to their own energies to find wisdom within. Sometimes, however, it may be too much to ask a person to 'look within' for the source of creativity. No matter how original a creative idea is, it eventually needs to ground itself and even inter-mesh with other perspectives. Similarly, I think that there is always a tricky balance between stepping out of a line to pursue one's heart and passions, and coming back into the line to convey one's learning and refine them in a social context. Both seem to be necessary parts of a creative life. But they are also parts of an ethical, wisdom life. Without the ability to turn to my own experience,I would be easily drawn into destructive lifestyles or inauthentic views of life. But without the ability to share and learn from others,I would simply be using creativity to create an artificial barrier between myself and the world. The middle path, here, might be not attaching to either one's own identity as creator or others' identities as audience/judge.

Hampton Wright Vinita, (2005) The Soul Tells a Story: Engaging Creativity with Spirituality in the Writing Life. Downer's Grove: Intervarsity Press

A Seeing Eye Dog

      At Spadina Subway station, on a stairwell, a woman slowly descends the steps. In one hand, she sports a long white and red cane,while on the other hand,she has a tight leash. A black coated seeing eye dog slowly guides the woman down each step, one by one, until he stops midway at the middle point of the stairwell. The woman, noticing those slight hesitations, immediately pipes up,
    "Why are you hesitating?" she asks. She quickly tugs on the leash to encourage the dog, as well as to hasten herself to catch a train that hasn't arrived yet. Meanwhile, her companion, a young man in his twenties, walks confidently beside her and verbally explains to her all the objects in front of her,
    "I don't understand this dog at all," the woman remarks, as they finally reach the bottom of the stairwell together.
      When I reach the bottom of the stairs,I too become curious about the dog's hesitations. When I spot him, I see him eyeing the subway platform with an uncertainty that almost bordered on embarrassment.I wondered, what is this dog thinking? Perhaps the dog is confused because its owner decided to take a steep flight of stairs rather than take an elevator or escalator.Or maybe there are so many people on the platform that the dog feels unsure of itself or its role. Better still, maybe the dog is simply new to its job.Seeing that the size of the dog is quite small compared to others of its kind, I guess that the dog might be quite new to this job.
      I am even tempted to approach the dog and at least console him for his hesitation and uncertainty, but then I remember that I am not supposed to disturb seeing eye dogs when they are on their duties. So, I amble close to the far end of the platform, never quite getting a chance to return the dog's lonely gaze.

***
    There is something quite miraculous and even mysterious about seeing the uncertainty of another being. Perhaps it is all just a projection of one's own inner uncertainty. I am not sure if the dog-owner was reading into the dog's hesitation her own mixed feelings about not knowing where she is going. I sometimes find this situation happening when I am not sure whether I want to be in a situation or not, or engage in some social activity such as watching a particular movie. Rather than cluing into my own uncertainty, I might subconsciously project it onto someone else. I have also heard couples say something like "where are we going to now?" "....|"It's up to you..."... "no, no,it's really up to you". Finally, once the couple decides where they are going and one of the two does not like their destination after all, she or he will say, "well,this was your idea...I had no say in it!" But in reality, the person's uncertainty colored the experience itself. Somehow, the person was unable to commit to a line or action or throw her or himself into the present moment, once the decision was made.
      Is it a contradiction to see uncertainty in a being whose role is to 'guide' another being? Some people feel that uncertainty is a sign of unprofessional behavior, something like 'not knowing your stuff'. But without encountering one's questions, life would just be a series of automatic judgments, a little bit like what happens when one does the same work again and again for many years. It's true that one becomes more proficient in that way, but the ability to be in an unknown situation becomes threatening to that sense of security. Sometimes it can be a good idea to immerse oneself in the experience of simply being unsure, of being hazy, or of having a deep question but not yet knowing what that question is. That seems to be the beginning of the knowing gaze,the wandering eye, and the soft look that pulls a being away from a habit path around others,
    The wonderful thing about uncertainty is that it is very close to the living pulse of possibility. It moves and beats according to it. But it can be scary, and I saw my own fear in the dog's eyes. Uncertainty can help one to raise one's eyes a bit and see another compassionately, with a bare and vulnerable presence.