I was experiencing quite a lot during the meditation retreat today. There are times when using the method of practice (in this case huatou, or asking a question) is refreshing, while other periods involve this kind of dryness that's hard to explain. It is as though all the juice has been squeezed out of the lemon, and I don't seem to experience any doubt sensation. In fact, I often experience a sense that the juice is running out of the huatou. But it's in those moments that I need to fully be in that experience itself--to just be and to use that experience to pose a question on where it originates.
I often have difficulty telling whether the pain or the 'dry spell' is more difficult to bear in the meditation practice. I think that even the 'dryness' one experiences has a source in mind, and one only need keep pointing to the source. Sometimes even when I fix upon a solution to pain or dryness such as through a compelling visualization, I later realize that the 'fix' is not genuine. For one, it doesn't last that long (at least not the benefits, anyway), and secondly, it's not what one is looking for anyway. There is a wonderful parable in The Lotus Sutra which describes this temporary 'halfway point' between towns where a person goes to take a rest from their travels. If one stays in that town, one loses sight of the destination to which they are meant to go. In the same way, it's very easy to see how empty are the half-way measures in meditation. One needs to really keep trying to get directly to the source of mind, even if it ends up being a failed attempt. I think the more I attend the intermediate retreats, the more I see that there is no substitute for the real pointing to mind. There is something interesting here, because what one perceives as success in one moment may end up being off the mark the next..and vice versa. That is why it's so important to let go of measuring the results of meditative practice.
I have always been assailed by pain in meditation, especially toward the last few periods of sitting at the end of the day. Recently, I came across a passage in the Surangama Sutra which talks about a bodhisattva, Pilindavatsa, who uses awareness of pain to attain enlightenment. It reads:
I heard the Thus-Come One say many times that nothing in this world can bring true joy. One day, as I was reflecting upon this teaching during my alms round in the city, I failed to notice a poisonous thorn lying in the road. I stepped on it, and pain suffused my entire body. I reflected on the sensation: I was aware of a deep pain, but I was also aware of my awareness of the pain, and I realized that in this pure mind there is neither pain nor awareness of pain. I had this further thought: how can it be that one body has two awarenesses? I held fast to this thought, and before long my body and mind became empty. (p.214)
I love this example for several reasons. First, it talks about this attitude that 'nothing in this world can bring true joy". I think that one of the driving forces of meditation is the ability to experience unconditioned joy, as opposed to the conditioned pleasures of the world. Pilindavatsa is apparently intent in contemplating this point as he was making his alms rounds, when he suddenly steps on a poisonous thorn. Not only does Pilindavatsa feel the pain but he also senses his awareness, which seems to divide him into two parts. Pilindavatsa has this insight that although there is a pain sensation, the sensation and its awareness are empty and interdependent. I am thinking of the example: if I use an anesthetic before stepping on a thorn, will the pain come to awareness? In these cases, my sensory awareness and the pain are temporarily arising in mind, but they lack a permanent substance, and they depend on so many interlocking factors. Through contemplation, Pilindatavatsa lessens his attachment to pain and is helped to know that the pain is not a permanent situation in mind.
In daily life today, can one use pain as a basis for purifying the mind or becoming enlightened? I believe that pain itself is a gateway to deeper contemplation, for which one can even be thankful. For myself, I find that contemplating the 'non-self' of pain is perhaps the best and most direct method for addressing pain. If one contemplates that the sensation of pain does not have an attached sense of self, who then feels pain? When doing this practice, I was able to see that pain is not so 'painful' when there isn't this self acting to try to control the pain or exaggerate pain as having awareness in itself. I think this contemplation of pain as an aggregate of sensation would help lessen self-attachment and help me realize that pain is just a phenomena like any other. Attaching 'me' to the pain only aggravates and centralizes its claim on my awareness, which then leads to further attachment. Asking the question "who is experiencing the pain" also seems to work in situations where one experiences pain in meditation.
Surangama Sutra: A New Translation (2009) . Buddhist Text Translation Society
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Friday, November 13, 2015
Gratitude as an Inner Quality
The Buddhist study group met tonight and dissolved again into the cold air. I felt all the tensions or worries of the day dissolving into a sense of gratitude. What is this feeling of gratitude? I think I would like to explore the meaning of the 'felt' sense of gratitude, since all too often I tend to think of gratitude in terms of external things (such as being grateful for work or for a non-violent existence).
I don't think being grateful means that one only focus on positive aspects of life. The gratitude I felt tonight was more a sense of equanimity. I somehow felt that each comment the participants made was a rare gift, like a sparkling jewel. But the mental attitude I adopted in that space of listening is not to reject and not to seek anything from what is being said. Everything, as even the Buddha had taught, is a kind of experiment of sorts. "Try for yourself", and see what works for you, put down what doesn't, and explore for other connections when it does work. One doesn't stop learning this way, and over time, even the strong vexations can be seen in the same light as contributing to a loosening of self-attachment.
The other aspect of gratitude is to feel supported in a genuine way. I mentioned earlier this idea of being one's own best friend, or at least conceiving the possibility to nurture oneself in this way. I think this is very hard to do. It's easy to get into the habit of being the worst on oneself, in the interest of training mind to bear every kind of suffering 'out there'. Gratitude allows a person to see that there are real friends in one's life, including one's own awareness, who are going to be there and respect one's being, no matter what. Even if this position is not available, one can still find a way to generate that inner compassion in a balanced and sincere way. This again seems important; not easy to do, but important to balance and harmonize.
By reflecting on the things that have gone somehow well or what one has learned, one can see that not everything is terrible. Sometimes things can seem terrible if deep inside, one does not have this basic sense of self-love: the idea that I will not allow the misfortunes of life to affect the sense of my true nature, my true being. One needs to practice speaking more softly, thinking more softly, and even writing more softly (!) to get to this sense that things are well overall. But balance is most important.
I also think that gratitude is a choice, a kind of commitment one makes to see things as genuinely supportive. For the most part, people live in a very competitive time, particularly in industrialized communities where the emphasis is economic growth. It's very easy to start to see oneself as replaceable, like a cog in a wheel. Gratitude allows me to re-person myself. I start to think, for example, on the people who have been one's teachers, or lovers, or people who might have shared some feeling that impacted us. Here too is a kind of gratitude: the sense that one has never been alone in their journey.
A final way of feeling gratitude is to know that this writing is mind-to-mind, and nothing more. It is to know that the words leave an impression in mind but don't leave any trace on the screen as they are typed. This is a more subtle kind of gratitude, but perhaps I can sum it up as the natural gratitude of knowing that all is of the mind, and there is no need to reach outward to be in the home of one's mind in every moment.
I don't think being grateful means that one only focus on positive aspects of life. The gratitude I felt tonight was more a sense of equanimity. I somehow felt that each comment the participants made was a rare gift, like a sparkling jewel. But the mental attitude I adopted in that space of listening is not to reject and not to seek anything from what is being said. Everything, as even the Buddha had taught, is a kind of experiment of sorts. "Try for yourself", and see what works for you, put down what doesn't, and explore for other connections when it does work. One doesn't stop learning this way, and over time, even the strong vexations can be seen in the same light as contributing to a loosening of self-attachment.
The other aspect of gratitude is to feel supported in a genuine way. I mentioned earlier this idea of being one's own best friend, or at least conceiving the possibility to nurture oneself in this way. I think this is very hard to do. It's easy to get into the habit of being the worst on oneself, in the interest of training mind to bear every kind of suffering 'out there'. Gratitude allows a person to see that there are real friends in one's life, including one's own awareness, who are going to be there and respect one's being, no matter what. Even if this position is not available, one can still find a way to generate that inner compassion in a balanced and sincere way. This again seems important; not easy to do, but important to balance and harmonize.
By reflecting on the things that have gone somehow well or what one has learned, one can see that not everything is terrible. Sometimes things can seem terrible if deep inside, one does not have this basic sense of self-love: the idea that I will not allow the misfortunes of life to affect the sense of my true nature, my true being. One needs to practice speaking more softly, thinking more softly, and even writing more softly (!) to get to this sense that things are well overall. But balance is most important.
I also think that gratitude is a choice, a kind of commitment one makes to see things as genuinely supportive. For the most part, people live in a very competitive time, particularly in industrialized communities where the emphasis is economic growth. It's very easy to start to see oneself as replaceable, like a cog in a wheel. Gratitude allows me to re-person myself. I start to think, for example, on the people who have been one's teachers, or lovers, or people who might have shared some feeling that impacted us. Here too is a kind of gratitude: the sense that one has never been alone in their journey.
A final way of feeling gratitude is to know that this writing is mind-to-mind, and nothing more. It is to know that the words leave an impression in mind but don't leave any trace on the screen as they are typed. This is a more subtle kind of gratitude, but perhaps I can sum it up as the natural gratitude of knowing that all is of the mind, and there is no need to reach outward to be in the home of one's mind in every moment.
Thursday, November 12, 2015
What's In a Name?
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
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
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.
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