In Chan Buddhism, people sometimes talk about there not being any distinction between 'you', 'I' and 'they'. Master Sheng Yen refers to "you", "I" and "they" as terms of reference that arise when people have "attachments, discriminations and vexations" (2014, p.227). I think that in daily life, people are bound to use labels to describe themselves and others, even if it is just a simple pronoun. There is no getting around that, especially where we need to refer to each other as names or delegate specific responsibilities. How could one assign appropriate tasks and roles to people if they don't differentiate between qualities or characteristics of one person or another? The convention of naming has a value, somewhat, as long as we don't cling to that value we temporarily assign.
In a conversation I had today with a participant in meditation, we described how the anxiety of having a role at work can sometimes lead to clinging to something fixed and unchanging such as a job title. We both reflected that having this static job title is almost like a social 'self'. It provides a sense of security and order in a stressful work situation that is often unpredictable. Though I may have a great sense of camaraderie with co-workers in an office, having no responsibilities assigned to me can be a daunting, chaotic experience. I knew a colleague who once described the feeling of being given a management position where there was simply no structure to speak of: no other duties assigned, no supporting roles, and no 'scaffolding' to tell her the role expected of her. No doubt, this person felt stressed in her new position. Eventually, she ended up going back to a previous position which was much more routine and familiar, even though it lacked the 'status' of a managerial position.
I don't think that Buddhism is saying one should give up all labels, titles, or designations. To do so would be to risk going to a state of childhood, in a way. While this state may be useful in pursuing artistic forms, I have to wonder what life would be like without the sense of naming. I think the clue is that Chan always operates in the lived practical world. For example, we can have titles, roles and responsibilities, yet still know that these 'names' we give ourselves (or others) are always subject to change. The job title through which I entered an organization is even bound to change as technologies and capabilities change, as well as requirements. It would be incorrect if I tried to compare my present job requirements with that of ten or fifteen years previously. But all these labels are happening in mind. I think it's notable that even the impression I have about a certain job title will be quite different from someone else's. All we can ever do is approximate the reality to which a name or title refers, because each person has different associations and impressions arising from that name.
On the other hand, if I become too attached to names, what happens then? What I imagine is the anxiety of trying to cling to forms that are always changing. As the practitioner had put it tonight, it's a little bit like trying very hard to find that small thread of something that is going to last. Ordinary people like myself need those reassurances that there is something there to say that I exist: a name card, a reflection of myself in some form of contact or conversation.. But through practice, one can learn not to lean on titles for comfort, but to widen one's tolerance for discomfort when roles and names shift over time.
Sheng Yen (2014), Chan and Enlightenment. Taipei: Dharma Drum Publishing
Thursday, November 12, 2015
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
the concept of 'fit'
In the process of exploring the city, I learned a lot about the nature of the fitness business. It seems that the bigger the gyms are, the more compelling it is for the employees to give the customers the very best of their time and attention. On the other hand, smaller gyms tend to be less 'hands on' and more inclined to leave people to learn on their own, either through a website or a brochure.
No matter what the situation is, cause and conditions prevail. With more income comes a greater demand for any business to expand to accommodate new customers. That's certainly when the nature of the business changes into something more 'corporate'. I do wonder whether it's always necessarily good to go 'big'. It seems that there is room for everyone in this kind of business. While some customers prefer a quieter place to do their own exercise, others prefer the attention of a trainer. I think that there needs to be room for both the smaller/mid sized gyms and the larger gyms, just as there need to be room to accommodate different bodies and individuals.
One of the themes that Aldous Huxley explores in his chapter on "Religion and Temperament" in The Perennial Philosophy is this idea that one size does not 'fit all' in spiritual practices. One example he uses is the parable of Martha and Mary in the New Testament. While Martha embodies salvation through work, Mary embodies salvation through contemplative practice. While interpretations of the Bible tend to suggest that Mary's way is favored over Martha's, Huxley points out that there isn't a single 'right way', and it really depends on the person and her needs. Huxley also advocates a sense of balance when it comes to one or more temperaments predominating in a religious movement. Hence he remarks, "In the course of history it has often happened that one or other of the imperfect religions has been taken too seriously and regarded as good and true in itself, instead of as a means to the ultimate end of all religions." (p.155). Now, it isn't clear what the ultimate end of all religions is, but I think that Huxley's point is that it is ideal to strike a balance between different ways of seeing and relating to the world, as a corrective to extremes. This is also something I learned regarding the Middle Path.
The concept of "fit" gets problematized, when one considers how quickly things change. One may say that she or he has a specific body type, but that is bound to change over time. Someone may say they are not familiar with a certain language or way of being, but then further interaction with it will change our own view of those things. In other words, there is nothing that stays the same in the course of learning from others or being in new environments.
Many of the ideas of 'fitness' that Huxley explores in his book seem quite dated, even though they were fashionable ideas at the time he was writing. One such idea is that body type is a precursor to personality (the 'endomorph', 'somatomorph', 'ectomorph' theory). I don't hear too much of this theory nowadays. I doubt that there can be any model to summarize why people are as they are. Like any theory about 'fitness', categorizing bodies into types of being or personality has a potential to stereotype and to discriminate. At best, these kinds of typologies might attune people to diversity of ways of being.
Huxley, Aldous (1990), Perennial Philosophy. New York: Harper Collins
No matter what the situation is, cause and conditions prevail. With more income comes a greater demand for any business to expand to accommodate new customers. That's certainly when the nature of the business changes into something more 'corporate'. I do wonder whether it's always necessarily good to go 'big'. It seems that there is room for everyone in this kind of business. While some customers prefer a quieter place to do their own exercise, others prefer the attention of a trainer. I think that there needs to be room for both the smaller/mid sized gyms and the larger gyms, just as there need to be room to accommodate different bodies and individuals.
One of the themes that Aldous Huxley explores in his chapter on "Religion and Temperament" in The Perennial Philosophy is this idea that one size does not 'fit all' in spiritual practices. One example he uses is the parable of Martha and Mary in the New Testament. While Martha embodies salvation through work, Mary embodies salvation through contemplative practice. While interpretations of the Bible tend to suggest that Mary's way is favored over Martha's, Huxley points out that there isn't a single 'right way', and it really depends on the person and her needs. Huxley also advocates a sense of balance when it comes to one or more temperaments predominating in a religious movement. Hence he remarks, "In the course of history it has often happened that one or other of the imperfect religions has been taken too seriously and regarded as good and true in itself, instead of as a means to the ultimate end of all religions." (p.155). Now, it isn't clear what the ultimate end of all religions is, but I think that Huxley's point is that it is ideal to strike a balance between different ways of seeing and relating to the world, as a corrective to extremes. This is also something I learned regarding the Middle Path.
The concept of "fit" gets problematized, when one considers how quickly things change. One may say that she or he has a specific body type, but that is bound to change over time. Someone may say they are not familiar with a certain language or way of being, but then further interaction with it will change our own view of those things. In other words, there is nothing that stays the same in the course of learning from others or being in new environments.
Many of the ideas of 'fitness' that Huxley explores in his book seem quite dated, even though they were fashionable ideas at the time he was writing. One such idea is that body type is a precursor to personality (the 'endomorph', 'somatomorph', 'ectomorph' theory). I don't hear too much of this theory nowadays. I doubt that there can be any model to summarize why people are as they are. Like any theory about 'fitness', categorizing bodies into types of being or personality has a potential to stereotype and to discriminate. At best, these kinds of typologies might attune people to diversity of ways of being.
Huxley, Aldous (1990), Perennial Philosophy. New York: Harper Collins
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Being One's Own Best Friend
Occasionally, I find an article that has such a beautiful sense of presence, which I want to share with others. This one article I found in a book called Spirited Practices: Spirituality and the Helping Professions is by a man named Giles Barton, and the article is called "Buddhism, mental illness and loss" (pp.92-99). Barton's article focuses on the Buddhist principles he has found helpful in alleviating the suffering of depressed and suicidal youths with whom he has worked.
This particular article stands out from all the rest because I felt calm when reading it. From the start, this article shows a kind and loving presence, when it begins: "Open the door of your heart and soften to whatever is in the present moment, with acceptance rather than blame, anger or criticism; let go of trying to change or escape the circumstances, Theravadin monk and meditation teacher Ajahn Brahm encourages. From this point the confusion of our minds and the overwhelming emotions that arise can begin to be understood and calmed." (p.92) Here, it turns out that Barton is paraphrasing Ajahn Brahm, but the way he paraphrases it is compelling nonetheless. And as I was reading this section, I wondered, what is the real heart of this acceptance that Giles Barton talks about?
I think a clue to this question is to look at what Barton is saying in this text. He exhorts readers to open the door of their hearts and soften to what is in the present moment. This point, however, is not the same as being resigned to the moment, or steeling one's will to the moment either. People who suffer from depression or sadness often say they ''accept" things, but their emotional state deteriorates at that point. The reason is that their kind of 'acceptance' is a resigned one, almost as though one is up against a wall and forced to accept what is happening to them. So what would 'acceptance' mean? Softening and 'opening up the heart' evoke something quite different from resignation. I think it's important to distinguish 'soft' from 'resigned' acceptance, lest the Buddhist teaching of acceptance become a form of suppressing one's emotions and soft spots.
From my understanding of Barton's article, I think 'soft acceptance' means creating a space where one can simply be with whoever one is, in whatever circumstances one is in at the moment. This means leaving room to allow things to be as they are. As Barton remarks, "In meditation removing the arrow of mental suffering is achieved by being open and accepting what you find as you sit to meditate, not by finding fault with the situation and wishing for something better to come along." (p.94) It also entails loosening the sense of self so that one is not blaming her or himself for illnesses or other personal issues that are often beyond a person's control.
In order to clarify what 'opening the door to the heart' means, Barton remarks: "When trying to help young people understand, I ask them what they would do if someone were talking to their best friend in a harsh way. To follow this up, I ask what stops them from being their own best friend, since they need someone on their side if no one else is around." (p.98). I think this is the key point in the article, and it's what distinguishes soft from 'resigned' acceptance. Without a good relationship to oneself, it becomes quite difficult to avoid self-criticism, much less buffer against the difficulties of emotional hardship or pain.
As I read this article, I reflected on how difficult it must be for many people to experience the total acceptance that might come from meditative practice. I think the reason is that what we try to accept is often a 'reality' loaded with internal scripts, many of which say that we are not good enough to survive in the world, or not 'this' enough, or 'that' enough. Much of it is rooted in this tendency to separate 'me' as 'my body', rather than seeing the totality of all things as part of mind. Many if not all these 'inner scripts' are just thoughts or impressions, yet they can be powerful enough to seem incredibly real. Accepting these unconscious scripts is not the same as the kind of acceptance that Barton is describing. A best friend can come close to offering that acceptance, because best friends are often not hampered by the internal scripts inside one's memory. But if one has these internal scripts, it certainly colors what they see, to the point where 'just accepting things as they are' can mean accepting the terrible self-judgments that one has. For this reason, Barton's skilful means of asking his young clients to imagine themselves in the eyes of a best friend, can be a very effective one...and worth implementing if one is caught up in challenging self-views.
Barton, Giles (2007), "Buddhism, Mental Illness and Loss". In Spirited Practices: Spirituality and the Helping Professions. (Ed Gale, F., Bolzan, N., McRae-McMahon, D.) Crows Nest: Allen Unwin.
This particular article stands out from all the rest because I felt calm when reading it. From the start, this article shows a kind and loving presence, when it begins: "Open the door of your heart and soften to whatever is in the present moment, with acceptance rather than blame, anger or criticism; let go of trying to change or escape the circumstances, Theravadin monk and meditation teacher Ajahn Brahm encourages. From this point the confusion of our minds and the overwhelming emotions that arise can begin to be understood and calmed." (p.92) Here, it turns out that Barton is paraphrasing Ajahn Brahm, but the way he paraphrases it is compelling nonetheless. And as I was reading this section, I wondered, what is the real heart of this acceptance that Giles Barton talks about?
I think a clue to this question is to look at what Barton is saying in this text. He exhorts readers to open the door of their hearts and soften to what is in the present moment. This point, however, is not the same as being resigned to the moment, or steeling one's will to the moment either. People who suffer from depression or sadness often say they ''accept" things, but their emotional state deteriorates at that point. The reason is that their kind of 'acceptance' is a resigned one, almost as though one is up against a wall and forced to accept what is happening to them. So what would 'acceptance' mean? Softening and 'opening up the heart' evoke something quite different from resignation. I think it's important to distinguish 'soft' from 'resigned' acceptance, lest the Buddhist teaching of acceptance become a form of suppressing one's emotions and soft spots.
From my understanding of Barton's article, I think 'soft acceptance' means creating a space where one can simply be with whoever one is, in whatever circumstances one is in at the moment. This means leaving room to allow things to be as they are. As Barton remarks, "In meditation removing the arrow of mental suffering is achieved by being open and accepting what you find as you sit to meditate, not by finding fault with the situation and wishing for something better to come along." (p.94) It also entails loosening the sense of self so that one is not blaming her or himself for illnesses or other personal issues that are often beyond a person's control.
In order to clarify what 'opening the door to the heart' means, Barton remarks: "When trying to help young people understand, I ask them what they would do if someone were talking to their best friend in a harsh way. To follow this up, I ask what stops them from being their own best friend, since they need someone on their side if no one else is around." (p.98). I think this is the key point in the article, and it's what distinguishes soft from 'resigned' acceptance. Without a good relationship to oneself, it becomes quite difficult to avoid self-criticism, much less buffer against the difficulties of emotional hardship or pain.
As I read this article, I reflected on how difficult it must be for many people to experience the total acceptance that might come from meditative practice. I think the reason is that what we try to accept is often a 'reality' loaded with internal scripts, many of which say that we are not good enough to survive in the world, or not 'this' enough, or 'that' enough. Much of it is rooted in this tendency to separate 'me' as 'my body', rather than seeing the totality of all things as part of mind. Many if not all these 'inner scripts' are just thoughts or impressions, yet they can be powerful enough to seem incredibly real. Accepting these unconscious scripts is not the same as the kind of acceptance that Barton is describing. A best friend can come close to offering that acceptance, because best friends are often not hampered by the internal scripts inside one's memory. But if one has these internal scripts, it certainly colors what they see, to the point where 'just accepting things as they are' can mean accepting the terrible self-judgments that one has. For this reason, Barton's skilful means of asking his young clients to imagine themselves in the eyes of a best friend, can be a very effective one...and worth implementing if one is caught up in challenging self-views.
Barton, Giles (2007), "Buddhism, Mental Illness and Loss". In Spirited Practices: Spirituality and the Helping Professions. (Ed Gale, F., Bolzan, N., McRae-McMahon, D.) Crows Nest: Allen Unwin.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Power and Spiritual Life
In Perennial Philosophy, Huxley elaborates on the view that power is a kind of expansive craving. He remarks, "Craving for power is not a vice of the body, consequently knows none of the limitations imposed by a tired or satiated physiology upon gluttony, intemperance and lust. Growing with every successive satisfaction, the appetite for power can manifest itself indefinitely without interruption by bodily fatigue or sickness." (p.121).
Huxley's point is to suggest that, unlike with other desires, there is simply no 'curbing' of power through satiation. The more one seeks power and gains it, the more one wants to expand her or his power indefinitely. Huxley, maintains, "the nature of society is such that the higher a man [sic] climbs in the political, economic or religious hierarchy, the greater are his opportunities or resources for exercising power." (ibid) I suppose this principle does not just apply to rulers, but it applies to anyone who is forever seeking something more--such as another degree, another house, or another car. Huxley suggests that as people get older, their opportunities to expand power can only increase, which means more craving for power. Huxley is so pessimistic about the ability for power to be curbed or tamed that he goes on to remark, "No infallible method for controlling the political manifestations of the lust for power has ever been devised." (p.122) Only through a "divided" (or perhaps representative) government can power be kept in check.
Seeing that power can be an indefinite self-aggrandizing vehicle, is there a place in power for spirituality? In other words, does all power have to be corrupt, or could there potentially be spiritual forms of being powerful?
I think the question ends up becoming, for me: can a person be powerful in society without succumbing to the illusion of ego? I think the answer is yes: power can come precisely from lack of ego and even virtue. I think the idea is that truly powerful people are not seeking power for its own sake. For example, if someone is really using a principle of non-self attachment in their daily life, they will gain power of support from others in their endeavors, because they naturally harmonize with other minds. People will naturally find ways to benefit each other when their talents are being recognized and they are not trying to compete with each other to gain a single 'spotlight'.
If, on the other hand, power is pursued for its own sake, it ends up never being satisfied. I think it's because power is a result of actions, not an actual tool or a means. If I am doing things that support other beings or lead other beings to work better together, then power becomes a result of that specific endeavor aimed at harmony or peace. As some Taoist philosophers suggest, people simply work better when they are being governed according to their natural abilities and capacities to harmonize together. But if I then take that same principle and tell myself, "I can have the most power out of everyone", then I am taking a result and making it the means: I take 'my' power to be the means to conquer or influence others. In fact, however, it's the other way around, isn't it? My "power", far from being the tool to influence others, is the result of others' acknowledgement of my efforts on their behalf. In that sense, whatever power I have is always the result of others' support. It's never entirely my effort that sustains power. For this reason, the effort to 'be' powerful is a never ending one, because it is always relying on the continuous support of others, be it stakeholders or voters or party members, etc.
My point here is to suggest that perhaps power was never meant to be 'gained' in the first place, because it is only the result of small causes and consequences emerging in the moment, across many hands. I have even heard the argument that power is only temporarily lent to people to fulfill certain social obligations. Yet, a lot of belief systems tend to reinforce the illusion that power is something to be gained and kept. People who accumulate educational degrees to 'add to the resume' are under the belief that more of something can give them more ability to influence job interviewers on their next job. No sooner does this become widespread that new educational degrees are invented to satiate the need for more powerful roles or echelons. I think the only way to curb this craving is to see, again, that the degree itself is only powerful because a few people say it is so. And it is always up to the person whether that degree will accord with people's lives and benefit other, or whether it's a kind of credential that doesn't add much more to the person.
Huxley, Aldous (1945, 1990), The Perennial Philosophy: An Interpretation of the Great Mystics, East and West. New York: Harper.
Huxley's point is to suggest that, unlike with other desires, there is simply no 'curbing' of power through satiation. The more one seeks power and gains it, the more one wants to expand her or his power indefinitely. Huxley, maintains, "the nature of society is such that the higher a man [sic] climbs in the political, economic or religious hierarchy, the greater are his opportunities or resources for exercising power." (ibid) I suppose this principle does not just apply to rulers, but it applies to anyone who is forever seeking something more--such as another degree, another house, or another car. Huxley suggests that as people get older, their opportunities to expand power can only increase, which means more craving for power. Huxley is so pessimistic about the ability for power to be curbed or tamed that he goes on to remark, "No infallible method for controlling the political manifestations of the lust for power has ever been devised." (p.122) Only through a "divided" (or perhaps representative) government can power be kept in check.
Seeing that power can be an indefinite self-aggrandizing vehicle, is there a place in power for spirituality? In other words, does all power have to be corrupt, or could there potentially be spiritual forms of being powerful?
I think the question ends up becoming, for me: can a person be powerful in society without succumbing to the illusion of ego? I think the answer is yes: power can come precisely from lack of ego and even virtue. I think the idea is that truly powerful people are not seeking power for its own sake. For example, if someone is really using a principle of non-self attachment in their daily life, they will gain power of support from others in their endeavors, because they naturally harmonize with other minds. People will naturally find ways to benefit each other when their talents are being recognized and they are not trying to compete with each other to gain a single 'spotlight'.
If, on the other hand, power is pursued for its own sake, it ends up never being satisfied. I think it's because power is a result of actions, not an actual tool or a means. If I am doing things that support other beings or lead other beings to work better together, then power becomes a result of that specific endeavor aimed at harmony or peace. As some Taoist philosophers suggest, people simply work better when they are being governed according to their natural abilities and capacities to harmonize together. But if I then take that same principle and tell myself, "I can have the most power out of everyone", then I am taking a result and making it the means: I take 'my' power to be the means to conquer or influence others. In fact, however, it's the other way around, isn't it? My "power", far from being the tool to influence others, is the result of others' acknowledgement of my efforts on their behalf. In that sense, whatever power I have is always the result of others' support. It's never entirely my effort that sustains power. For this reason, the effort to 'be' powerful is a never ending one, because it is always relying on the continuous support of others, be it stakeholders or voters or party members, etc.
My point here is to suggest that perhaps power was never meant to be 'gained' in the first place, because it is only the result of small causes and consequences emerging in the moment, across many hands. I have even heard the argument that power is only temporarily lent to people to fulfill certain social obligations. Yet, a lot of belief systems tend to reinforce the illusion that power is something to be gained and kept. People who accumulate educational degrees to 'add to the resume' are under the belief that more of something can give them more ability to influence job interviewers on their next job. No sooner does this become widespread that new educational degrees are invented to satiate the need for more powerful roles or echelons. I think the only way to curb this craving is to see, again, that the degree itself is only powerful because a few people say it is so. And it is always up to the person whether that degree will accord with people's lives and benefit other, or whether it's a kind of credential that doesn't add much more to the person.
Huxley, Aldous (1945, 1990), The Perennial Philosophy: An Interpretation of the Great Mystics, East and West. New York: Harper.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
View of No Vexations
In Chan and Enlightenment, Master Sheng Yen remarks, "Practitioners need not fear having vexations, wandering thoughts, or erroneous thoughts. With our self as the center that takes control, when we become aware of erroneous thoughts, the erroneous thoughts do not exist anymore" (p.233). As I am reading this passage, I am wondering, what is it about awareness that has this power to extinguish erroneous thoughts? I think I have a clue about this in the later sentence, "Vexations definitely have their objects, which are either 'you' or 'them'. No matter whether the 'you' and 'them' are things or people, if there are no 'you' or 'them', it is impossible for us to have vexations."
Normally, when there is a thought that is upsetting me, I can get easily drawn into its power. At that point, I lose my sense of the real origin of that thought, assuming that the thought is an object with a life of its own. At that point, I try to find ways to defend myself against the invading thought. I think what Master Sheng Yen is saying here is that all of it is mind, and therefore we can almost say that all of it is 'mine'. Knowing this, it would not serve me to try to fight the thought. In this sense, if I know that the thought is just part of awareness and not a separate object, then it's impossible for those vexations to exist.
I think that getting to the point of 'impossible to have no vexations' takes practice. It takes an awareness of thoughts arising, rather than focusing only on the content of thoughts. But without that awareness, all I am doing is trying to replace one thought with another, which can be an endless task. As soon as a thought appears in awareness, it's the tail end of the thought. But I am in so much of a habit of trying to replace 'thoughts I dislike' with 'thoughts I like'. This is what one does when she or he daydreams, or wanders off into the events of the day, or projects into the future. And it looks as though I make progress through this approach, only to find that the 'objects' of vexations return again.
To use a simple example, a depressed person often has the thought, "I am not loveable or likeable", and that person uses the thought to judge her or himself. In psychology books, we find that one useful technique is to replace the thought "I am not loveable" to "I am loveable". The depressed person then disputes the negative thinking with the positive statements, with evidence that she or he is loveable. She or he takes one bad thought and replaces it with ten good ones.Over time, it is hoped that the feelings of not being loveable will be replaced with other thoughts.
These psychological ways of changing one's outlook have been known to work with people by creating new habits of thought. But one potential drawback with this approach is that all thoughts are impermanent. What works for me today may not apply tomorrow, when I am faced with other situations. Another is that thoughts don't really 'act on' other thoughts. The idea that thoughts connect together is a kind of illusion, similar to taking a flame and swinging it in a circle to create a ring. I may think I am acting on a thought to change it, but that in itself is a new thought.
A more direct approach might be to suggest that all thoughts are coming from the same source. Whether I have the thought, "I am unlovable" or "I am great", they are ultimately only thoughts. They don't really connect with who one is deep inside, and they don't make conclusions which capture true nature of mind. In fact, mind is neither unlovable nor great. Mind is the essence of thought but cannot be defined by the content of thoughts.
I think it's useful to investigate: can anyone ever 'live' in a thought, the way a snail lives in a shell? I think it's worth it to try this way: try to have one thought for an entire half hour, and see what happens? Is it the same thought I have for that entire half hour? Is it a new thought? But in order to investigate this question, one cannot 'use' thinking to do so. One must create a space that is beyond thinking, which is why one needs to sit with the question and relax with it, rather than using another thought to answer it.
Normally, when there is a thought that is upsetting me, I can get easily drawn into its power. At that point, I lose my sense of the real origin of that thought, assuming that the thought is an object with a life of its own. At that point, I try to find ways to defend myself against the invading thought. I think what Master Sheng Yen is saying here is that all of it is mind, and therefore we can almost say that all of it is 'mine'. Knowing this, it would not serve me to try to fight the thought. In this sense, if I know that the thought is just part of awareness and not a separate object, then it's impossible for those vexations to exist.
I think that getting to the point of 'impossible to have no vexations' takes practice. It takes an awareness of thoughts arising, rather than focusing only on the content of thoughts. But without that awareness, all I am doing is trying to replace one thought with another, which can be an endless task. As soon as a thought appears in awareness, it's the tail end of the thought. But I am in so much of a habit of trying to replace 'thoughts I dislike' with 'thoughts I like'. This is what one does when she or he daydreams, or wanders off into the events of the day, or projects into the future. And it looks as though I make progress through this approach, only to find that the 'objects' of vexations return again.
To use a simple example, a depressed person often has the thought, "I am not loveable or likeable", and that person uses the thought to judge her or himself. In psychology books, we find that one useful technique is to replace the thought "I am not loveable" to "I am loveable". The depressed person then disputes the negative thinking with the positive statements, with evidence that she or he is loveable. She or he takes one bad thought and replaces it with ten good ones.Over time, it is hoped that the feelings of not being loveable will be replaced with other thoughts.
These psychological ways of changing one's outlook have been known to work with people by creating new habits of thought. But one potential drawback with this approach is that all thoughts are impermanent. What works for me today may not apply tomorrow, when I am faced with other situations. Another is that thoughts don't really 'act on' other thoughts. The idea that thoughts connect together is a kind of illusion, similar to taking a flame and swinging it in a circle to create a ring. I may think I am acting on a thought to change it, but that in itself is a new thought.
A more direct approach might be to suggest that all thoughts are coming from the same source. Whether I have the thought, "I am unlovable" or "I am great", they are ultimately only thoughts. They don't really connect with who one is deep inside, and they don't make conclusions which capture true nature of mind. In fact, mind is neither unlovable nor great. Mind is the essence of thought but cannot be defined by the content of thoughts.
I think it's useful to investigate: can anyone ever 'live' in a thought, the way a snail lives in a shell? I think it's worth it to try this way: try to have one thought for an entire half hour, and see what happens? Is it the same thought I have for that entire half hour? Is it a new thought? But in order to investigate this question, one cannot 'use' thinking to do so. One must create a space that is beyond thinking, which is why one needs to sit with the question and relax with it, rather than using another thought to answer it.
Saturday, November 7, 2015
Spaces for Wholeness
Wendy Cadge's book Paging God; Religion in the Halls of Medicine (2012) beautifully explores the notion of the chaplaincy in hospitals, and how it has changed over time in North American hospitals, both in meaning and in appearance. I have been learning quite a few interesting points from this book. For one, I never realized prior to reading this book how much hospitals in North America have historically been tied to religious spaces, such as the Christian church. In fact, hospitals originally arose from hospices, places where pastoral care was a frequent driving force for healing both the physical body and the spirit. Only recently have hospitals become more focused on healing the physical body through science, as opposed to the more holistic goal of healing the whole person.
It has only been recently, it seems, that chaplaincy has become an established discipline in its own right, with the growing pressures to validate or certify all health-care professionals . Cadge also chronicles an accompanying urge to neutralize chaplain spaces so that no one is excluded from spiritual practices in hospitals. For example, she notes how chaplaincy spaces in hospitals are often stripped of any religious symbols or furnishings, so that people of all denominations can feel welcome. Where possible, pulpits and other furnishing in traditional churches are equipped with wheels, so that spaces can make way for other denominations. It is difficult to say whether perhaps too much neutrality can end up diminishing the spiritual capabilities of a space. For example, Cadge reports chaplaincy places in hospitals where hardly anyone attends, because the spaces are so bare, save for the occasional abstract painting or gurgling fountain (p.67). It seems that without overt spiritual or religious symbolism, people may be at a loss as to how to use public spaces for personal spiritual practice, such as meditation or prayer.
Cadge's observations are perhaps not surprising, considering a long-standing debate over the value of imagery and iconography in spiritual practice. Some spiritual practices heavily rely on images as pointers or symbols that help guide practitioners to an insight into themselves or their nature. Others feel that all spirituality is completely internal, and it is not valuable for practitioners to rely too heavily on external images for support. Negotiating what belongs or does not belong in a place of meditation or worship might involve a tug of war between conflicting views of what spiritual spaces should be able to furnish for people.
As I read Cadge's book, I become more aware of how problematic geographically locating spiritual practice can be. Where are spaces of spiritual learning and wholeness, exactly, and can anyone really leave a particular space to naturally furnish that for people? What happens when people look to a particular space to provide them with spiritual inspiration, be it in the form of a quiet meditation room, or a prayer hall, or the like? My feeling is that it's hard for a space to speak to people's spiritual needs unless it points to something that teaches, guides, or informs the person in some way. It is also hard for a space to 'become' spiritually inviting unless there are communities of practitioners actively and regularly using that space. For example, simply attending a quite space is not going to automatically make a person want to meditate, even those who have a prior background of meditation experience. Even something that is presented as 'neutral' or non-intrusive can end up becoming an obstacle to practice, simply because it does not invite practice to arise. It gets overlooked, unless some group of practitioners can see the image's potential to point to a contemplative experience.
The interesting point I also found in Cadge's work is: I cannot help but feel that the natural imagery and 'abstract art' found in some chaplaincy spaces in hospitals owes something to a similar "Zen" aesthetic found in certain paintings or poems. But I think the main difference is that whereas those traditional Zen arts are trying to point to mind, I am not sure if the natural or abstract images found in hospital meditation rooms are accomplishing the same thing. It's tempting to say that any form of art or scenery that is 'minimal' can encourage a place for contemplative or reflective practice. On the other hand, neutrality often has a way of being overlooked or habituated, especially if people haven't yet caught inspiration to practice meditation or contemplative practices. So I think that a further study is warranted into what spiritual space in hospitals really do for people, and how they are experienced by different kinds of practitioners.
Cadge, Wendy, (2012), Paging God: Religion in the Halls of Medicine. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
It has only been recently, it seems, that chaplaincy has become an established discipline in its own right, with the growing pressures to validate or certify all health-care professionals . Cadge also chronicles an accompanying urge to neutralize chaplain spaces so that no one is excluded from spiritual practices in hospitals. For example, she notes how chaplaincy spaces in hospitals are often stripped of any religious symbols or furnishings, so that people of all denominations can feel welcome. Where possible, pulpits and other furnishing in traditional churches are equipped with wheels, so that spaces can make way for other denominations. It is difficult to say whether perhaps too much neutrality can end up diminishing the spiritual capabilities of a space. For example, Cadge reports chaplaincy places in hospitals where hardly anyone attends, because the spaces are so bare, save for the occasional abstract painting or gurgling fountain (p.67). It seems that without overt spiritual or religious symbolism, people may be at a loss as to how to use public spaces for personal spiritual practice, such as meditation or prayer.
Cadge's observations are perhaps not surprising, considering a long-standing debate over the value of imagery and iconography in spiritual practice. Some spiritual practices heavily rely on images as pointers or symbols that help guide practitioners to an insight into themselves or their nature. Others feel that all spirituality is completely internal, and it is not valuable for practitioners to rely too heavily on external images for support. Negotiating what belongs or does not belong in a place of meditation or worship might involve a tug of war between conflicting views of what spiritual spaces should be able to furnish for people.
As I read Cadge's book, I become more aware of how problematic geographically locating spiritual practice can be. Where are spaces of spiritual learning and wholeness, exactly, and can anyone really leave a particular space to naturally furnish that for people? What happens when people look to a particular space to provide them with spiritual inspiration, be it in the form of a quiet meditation room, or a prayer hall, or the like? My feeling is that it's hard for a space to speak to people's spiritual needs unless it points to something that teaches, guides, or informs the person in some way. It is also hard for a space to 'become' spiritually inviting unless there are communities of practitioners actively and regularly using that space. For example, simply attending a quite space is not going to automatically make a person want to meditate, even those who have a prior background of meditation experience. Even something that is presented as 'neutral' or non-intrusive can end up becoming an obstacle to practice, simply because it does not invite practice to arise. It gets overlooked, unless some group of practitioners can see the image's potential to point to a contemplative experience.
The interesting point I also found in Cadge's work is: I cannot help but feel that the natural imagery and 'abstract art' found in some chaplaincy spaces in hospitals owes something to a similar "Zen" aesthetic found in certain paintings or poems. But I think the main difference is that whereas those traditional Zen arts are trying to point to mind, I am not sure if the natural or abstract images found in hospital meditation rooms are accomplishing the same thing. It's tempting to say that any form of art or scenery that is 'minimal' can encourage a place for contemplative or reflective practice. On the other hand, neutrality often has a way of being overlooked or habituated, especially if people haven't yet caught inspiration to practice meditation or contemplative practices. So I think that a further study is warranted into what spiritual space in hospitals really do for people, and how they are experienced by different kinds of practitioners.
Cadge, Wendy, (2012), Paging God: Religion in the Halls of Medicine. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Friday, November 6, 2015
Huxley and the Meaning of Charity
Every now and then, I come across a book that attempts to 'say it all' about what makes life meaningful. Aldous Huxley's Perennial Philosophy is one such a book. I have to say that Huxley's understanding of human beings and his humaneness shows throughout this book. And I am humbled when reading it, because there are many instances where I am seeing a tall mountain in his writings and saying, "wow, that's quite a high place to scale! I have a long way to go!" Good writers perhaps give us a glimpse of this mountain. I think the trick is not to make readers feel terrible about their position in relation to that mountain but, more so, to inspire them in the process of contemplating and engaging the mountain itself.
Huxley has a chapter on "Charity" where he talks about a kind of ideal love that is not blemished by desires or lusts. He cites different spiritual texts and religious viewpoints to show a kind of current that runs throughout religious writings. I want to share the following quote:
"We can only love what we know, and we can never know completely what we do not love. Love is a mode of knowledge, and when the love is sufficiently disinterested and sufficiently intense, the knowledge become unitive knowledge and so takes on the quality of infallibility." (p.81).
Already, my brain starts to crackle as I am reading these lines. Can love be a 'mode of knowledge'? How does that work? The dominant paradigm in scientific circles, at least, is to see knowledge as something detached from love. But then, as I read these sentences, I reflect: is it not the case that we only know deeply what we are capable of loving deeply? If my experience of something is only cursory and lacks the passion of involvement, can I really say I 'know it' well? To know is to spend time with something, at least on a regular basis. For example, there is a qualitatively vast difference between reading about a cat or dog in an anatomy textbook, and sitting down with a cat or a dog to interact. In this regard, I can even think of a regular meditative practice as a form of love. It is committed, it is repetitive (to a certain extent), and it involves revisiting the same situation with new eyes each time. And this kind of involvement is a simple curiosity which might start with something small and stay with smallness. Seeing the universe in a drop of rain might be one example of what kind of knowing the love of simple things might yield if one waits for it to happen.
But Huxley doesn't just stop here. He refers to the idea that "when love is sufficiently disinterested and sufficiently intense, the knowledge becomes unitive knowledge". It's interesting for me to see the words 'disinterested' and 'intense' in the same sentence. Can love be both disinterested and intense a the same time? In order to understand Huxley's view, we have to read further to see what isn't love, in Huxley's eyes. Huxley remarks, "Where there is no disinterested love (or, more briefly, no charity), there is only biased self-love, and consequently only a partial and distorted knowledge both of the self and of the world of things, lives, minds and spirit outside the self." (p.81). So, Huxley is saying that disinterestedness is the hallmark of love. It is not about 'not having passion', but it is more about being passionate without a bias or a sense of "I" am loving something. Huxley suggests that our normal ways of looking at love as 'desire' is often a distortion of things around us, because it refers back to the lusts of the self. Rather than seeing things the way they are, the "lust-dieted man", as Huxley puts it, "subordinates the laws of Nature and the spirit to his own cravings" (ibid).
Does Huxley mean that true love has no 'object' and no 'subject', no 'lover' and no 'loved'? Huxley uses the term 'love knowledge' (p.82) to describe a kind of pure love of God or all creation which is not tainted by attachment to 'my likes' or particular others. As difficult as it may seem to grasp that this love without attachment is possible, Huxley sticks to this vision through and through. He insists that the only way to true love of the divine or all reality is through a kind of self-emptying, which he describes through various quotes from spiritual teachers (p.86-89). To love is to completely accept things as they are unfolding, things as they are created, and things as they are in their revealing to us. This contrasts with trying to grasp particular qualities in order to hold onto special 'sweet' experiences, including what Huxley calls "the sweetness of God" (p.86).
I think that a lot of what Huxley says in these brief passages can relate to meditation. Regardless of what tradition it comes from, most meditative practices stress the relaxation of the mind, to a point where all the objects of the mind are not seen apart from mind itself. The 'edges' around subject and object start to smooth over, as a meditator stops attaching to coarse thoughts about liking one or disliking another. What results is a kind of lightness of being. I can't say that this lightness of being is anything like traditional notions of 'love' that I internalized while growing up. It certainly isn't a very stereotypical love that tries to get attention or something from someone. It's rather an open curiosity which treats all things on an equal par.
One of the dangers of reading Huxley without that first-hand experience of lightness is that it tends to look as though Huxley is advocating a 'resigned' attitude, or even a 'do-gooder' attitude toward charity. His chapter on "mortification" (p.96) attests to this possibility: I need to somehow 'give up' desire altogether in order to embrace 'true love', much the same way that I should eat broccoli instead of chocolate. People give lip service to this idea, without really knowing where they can access its power.
From my own experiences (however shallow) in meditation, I can say that this resignation is not quite what meditation is like. With meditation, one is not trying to even get rid of lusts or desires. Slowly, one is observing that lusts are phenomena of mind, and not these kind of solid, concrete 'givens' of the body. The letting go experience, however, is not at all a kind of 'willful parting' of desires. In fact, it is a kind of letting go of grasping to any ideas whatsoever, including ideas on what love is supposed to be. For example, if I cling to the notion that love should be charitable and not self-interested, all I am doing is adding one thought to another, and creating a conflict between these two thoughts: one that 'desires', the other that says, "desires are bad". This inner conflict creates the illusion that real love will win over desires. But does this happen? It hardly does, because one is relying on will-power to credit one thought over another. In fact, people will need to continue to use will-power to make it seem that one thought is 'better' than the other, when all thoughts are only conditioned and temporary experiences arising in mind.
I believe that Huxley's analysis and definition of true love is correct, but I don't think that one needs to view it as opposite to 'lusts'. Lusts are also part of the mind that can be enjoyed without being indulged. If I observe the sensation of lust, but don't see that there is a 'me' having lust, I can actually just observe it passing through without a 'me' being compelled to act on it. This is hard to realize, but acting on lust is always assuming that there is a solid 'me' that has to act on it or control the situation. But if I view the lust as one part of an unfolding, total environment, does it ever need to be acted upon? In this way, all experienced can be completely accepted without the need to react to one or the other.
Of course, in the end, Huxley's conclusions mesh with my own conclusions, but I wouldn't go so far as to say that love and lust are opposites. Love and lust just exist on very different wavelengths. And it is possible for love to encompass all emotional states without attaching to them.
Huxley, Aldous (1945, 1990), The Perennial Philosophy: An Interpretation of the Great Mystics, East and West. New York: Harper.
Huxley has a chapter on "Charity" where he talks about a kind of ideal love that is not blemished by desires or lusts. He cites different spiritual texts and religious viewpoints to show a kind of current that runs throughout religious writings. I want to share the following quote:
"We can only love what we know, and we can never know completely what we do not love. Love is a mode of knowledge, and when the love is sufficiently disinterested and sufficiently intense, the knowledge become unitive knowledge and so takes on the quality of infallibility." (p.81).
Already, my brain starts to crackle as I am reading these lines. Can love be a 'mode of knowledge'? How does that work? The dominant paradigm in scientific circles, at least, is to see knowledge as something detached from love. But then, as I read these sentences, I reflect: is it not the case that we only know deeply what we are capable of loving deeply? If my experience of something is only cursory and lacks the passion of involvement, can I really say I 'know it' well? To know is to spend time with something, at least on a regular basis. For example, there is a qualitatively vast difference between reading about a cat or dog in an anatomy textbook, and sitting down with a cat or a dog to interact. In this regard, I can even think of a regular meditative practice as a form of love. It is committed, it is repetitive (to a certain extent), and it involves revisiting the same situation with new eyes each time. And this kind of involvement is a simple curiosity which might start with something small and stay with smallness. Seeing the universe in a drop of rain might be one example of what kind of knowing the love of simple things might yield if one waits for it to happen.
But Huxley doesn't just stop here. He refers to the idea that "when love is sufficiently disinterested and sufficiently intense, the knowledge becomes unitive knowledge". It's interesting for me to see the words 'disinterested' and 'intense' in the same sentence. Can love be both disinterested and intense a the same time? In order to understand Huxley's view, we have to read further to see what isn't love, in Huxley's eyes. Huxley remarks, "Where there is no disinterested love (or, more briefly, no charity), there is only biased self-love, and consequently only a partial and distorted knowledge both of the self and of the world of things, lives, minds and spirit outside the self." (p.81). So, Huxley is saying that disinterestedness is the hallmark of love. It is not about 'not having passion', but it is more about being passionate without a bias or a sense of "I" am loving something. Huxley suggests that our normal ways of looking at love as 'desire' is often a distortion of things around us, because it refers back to the lusts of the self. Rather than seeing things the way they are, the "lust-dieted man", as Huxley puts it, "subordinates the laws of Nature and the spirit to his own cravings" (ibid).
Does Huxley mean that true love has no 'object' and no 'subject', no 'lover' and no 'loved'? Huxley uses the term 'love knowledge' (p.82) to describe a kind of pure love of God or all creation which is not tainted by attachment to 'my likes' or particular others. As difficult as it may seem to grasp that this love without attachment is possible, Huxley sticks to this vision through and through. He insists that the only way to true love of the divine or all reality is through a kind of self-emptying, which he describes through various quotes from spiritual teachers (p.86-89). To love is to completely accept things as they are unfolding, things as they are created, and things as they are in their revealing to us. This contrasts with trying to grasp particular qualities in order to hold onto special 'sweet' experiences, including what Huxley calls "the sweetness of God" (p.86).
I think that a lot of what Huxley says in these brief passages can relate to meditation. Regardless of what tradition it comes from, most meditative practices stress the relaxation of the mind, to a point where all the objects of the mind are not seen apart from mind itself. The 'edges' around subject and object start to smooth over, as a meditator stops attaching to coarse thoughts about liking one or disliking another. What results is a kind of lightness of being. I can't say that this lightness of being is anything like traditional notions of 'love' that I internalized while growing up. It certainly isn't a very stereotypical love that tries to get attention or something from someone. It's rather an open curiosity which treats all things on an equal par.
One of the dangers of reading Huxley without that first-hand experience of lightness is that it tends to look as though Huxley is advocating a 'resigned' attitude, or even a 'do-gooder' attitude toward charity. His chapter on "mortification" (p.96) attests to this possibility: I need to somehow 'give up' desire altogether in order to embrace 'true love', much the same way that I should eat broccoli instead of chocolate. People give lip service to this idea, without really knowing where they can access its power.
From my own experiences (however shallow) in meditation, I can say that this resignation is not quite what meditation is like. With meditation, one is not trying to even get rid of lusts or desires. Slowly, one is observing that lusts are phenomena of mind, and not these kind of solid, concrete 'givens' of the body. The letting go experience, however, is not at all a kind of 'willful parting' of desires. In fact, it is a kind of letting go of grasping to any ideas whatsoever, including ideas on what love is supposed to be. For example, if I cling to the notion that love should be charitable and not self-interested, all I am doing is adding one thought to another, and creating a conflict between these two thoughts: one that 'desires', the other that says, "desires are bad". This inner conflict creates the illusion that real love will win over desires. But does this happen? It hardly does, because one is relying on will-power to credit one thought over another. In fact, people will need to continue to use will-power to make it seem that one thought is 'better' than the other, when all thoughts are only conditioned and temporary experiences arising in mind.
I believe that Huxley's analysis and definition of true love is correct, but I don't think that one needs to view it as opposite to 'lusts'. Lusts are also part of the mind that can be enjoyed without being indulged. If I observe the sensation of lust, but don't see that there is a 'me' having lust, I can actually just observe it passing through without a 'me' being compelled to act on it. This is hard to realize, but acting on lust is always assuming that there is a solid 'me' that has to act on it or control the situation. But if I view the lust as one part of an unfolding, total environment, does it ever need to be acted upon? In this way, all experienced can be completely accepted without the need to react to one or the other.
Of course, in the end, Huxley's conclusions mesh with my own conclusions, but I wouldn't go so far as to say that love and lust are opposites. Love and lust just exist on very different wavelengths. And it is possible for love to encompass all emotional states without attaching to them.
Huxley, Aldous (1945, 1990), The Perennial Philosophy: An Interpretation of the Great Mystics, East and West. New York: Harper.
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