Peripheral Visions

   November has a kind of dreary feel to it which can also be enlivening as well. The trees form these inter-meshing networks of twigs which stretch out into the bare sky. And on a night like this, the sky is full of gray clouds. Is this a sign of death to the natural world, or is it only the starting point to new life?
   I am reflecting on the way that quite often, falls from grace or from previous security give way to peripheral visions. This kind of vision looks to the sides and  around, rather than only focusing on looking forward.  It is often scary to think this way, but people can often be forced into these positions, through no particular reason other than the causes and conditions that happen to be in their lives.
     In the course of reading about spiritual writing, I came across Haiku poetry as a tradition in which there is an attempt to communicate direct experience. One of the most famous poets, Kobayashi Issa (in Higginson & Harter, 1985), was apparently given a whole lot to deal with in his life: banishment from his hometown, an unhealthy relationship with his stepmother, and poverty well into his teens (p.16). But surprisingly, Issa does not rail against the injustices of his misfortune. Instead, he starts to use this particular situation to  develop a compassion toward the small creatures of the world, such as "grasshoppers, flies and bugs, sparrows, and other less-than-glamorous beings." (p.17). One of Issa's poems, whose English translation I would like to share here, reflects on how a katydid deals with the forces of nature in the best way that it can:

                            cool breeze...
                            with all his might
                             the katydid (p.19)

Issa's poetics are simple, sparse and meaningful in their own beautiful way. What they illustrate is the determination for all beings to live and survive against overwhelming elements, using all the resources they can at their disposal. What impresses me the most about this vision from Issa is the sense of unassuming fascination with other beings. It almost seems as though Issa is determined to find meaning in spite of some traumatic experience he may have had. He refuses to give up on that search for meaning, even if it shifts down to the smallest creatures.

I don't quite know how to convey this fascination with insects, but it seems that Higginson & Harter relate it to Issa's unfortunate situation. But, by presenting natural imagery, Issa also suggests that all life is fleeting and transient. Although many might feel that their lives are indomitable, there is no life that doesn't encounter change, impermanence and dissolution or loss at some point or another. Using the very  simple, natural image of the katydid, Issa's poem forces its readers to look sideways and into the smallest crevasses to learn what life is about. He seems to be saying, don't look into your own tragedy, but look outward into the beauty of other beings and their struggles. In that looking outward, one finds a mirror into one's own deepest inner meaning, which is beyond winning and losing.

References

Higginson, William J. & Harter, Penny (1985), The Haiku Handbook: How to Write, Share, and Teach Haiku. Toronto: McGraw Hill

                           

An Experiment in"Social Silence"

  The title of my blog is a pun on "Social Science", but I wanted to introduce the idea of being silent in the midst of being social. I guess the entry hinges on this question: what kind of experiment could I do on myself to be silent in social situations? And is all silence necessarily healthy?
   There seem to be two radically different views on the function and purpose of silence. One is to say that silence is a form of violence or oppression. If I am in a room and I am the only one not talking, is this a kind of violence against me? Often,I experience situations where it seems necessary to talk, in order to be seen as a viable social being. If I am not talking at all, where is that not-talking truly coming from? On the other hand, observing others is also a kind of rich participation in the lives of others. To observe it to take part in the energies that surround all beings. To observe with attention is a way of even altering the situation, as the energy of observing always gets interspersed with those who are observed. In fact, both observer and observed occupy the same shared energy, as Rupert Sheldrake and others are noting in their experiments on morphic fields.
    Observation is only one of many examples of how one interacts without saying too much. Another idea that interests me is the Quaker notion of speaking only what truly needs to be said. (Actually, this process is not only shared by Quakers, but Zen/Chan practitioners as well). Now, how does one know what 'needs' saying? I have to admit that I have only occasionally had this experience. I think that it happens when there is a hollow space just wide enough for voice to directly speak a need or a reality. And that happens only when I have exhausted the compulsion to talk, whether out of fear or the desire to please someone else. This voice  is a voice that genuinely gives something, but it is not forced to give at all. In fact, the content of the speech is not at all as important as the space where the voice originates. It is generous precisely because it feels no compulsion to give at all. Giver and receiver are already one at that instance of the utterance.
    The other side of this is that some people 'romanticize' silence as the cure-all for social ills. I think this is also a mistake, in the sense that it attaches too much weight to silence. Silence, like talking, is not that important. What's important is the mind itself that is silent or talking. If my silence comes from resentment, or wanting attention, or trying to avoid something painful, then it is a very noisy silence. It is the silence that still wants to be heard. But if the silence is a kind of by-product of finding stillness, then it is a very different experience altogether. In that instance, the person no longer feels that either silence or speech is particularly compelling. In that moment, both silence and speech come from the same source, and they are not opposites as we imagined them to be.
    To go back to my theme of ''social silence": I think the best kind of silence is the stillness of genuinely feeling that nothing needs to be said, and yet nothing needs to be silent either. I can speak, then, but at that point, what is there really to say? The funny  part of it is that it doesn't matter what I say or not say. If the saying is located in one's deepest awareness of mind, then even an incoherent grunt would be acceptable. But, if one is only grunting to be known as a wise person, then this is not the truest silence. It is only a pale imitation, trying to impress rather than attain a true equilibrium in all situations.
   Speech and silence are only gifts when I have stopped using them to achieve certain ends. A true gift is freely given in that way. But how often have I been able to give so freely? The thought humbles me.

Crossroads Meditation

I remember coming across the expression "Crossroads Meditation" some time back, to describe a kind of meditation where one is bombarded by a lot of sensory information: traffic sounds, distracting signs, and so on. And at the time, I think I had assumed it meant "challenging" one's sitting practice to see if it has 'matured' or not. Nowadays, I don't think that's the real purpose or meaning of the expression "meditating in the crossroads". I think that it is pointing to the idea that meditation can happen in any situation. It does so because mind is always including every phenomena that arises. It is only an illusion that I separate the phenomena into these objects and then call them 'obstacles'. I wonder, how would that change if one realizes that the sounds and sights they experience are all coming from themselves?

In our group practice tonight, there were a lot of people mingling outside from the previous group. And, as always, I felt that mixture of anxiety and wanting to help others to calm down. In the guidance, I suggested that there really isn't a need to feel any of the sounds or stimuli as separate from the mind. This is a hard thing to understand for me, because I often associate meditation and mind with a total stillness and quiet. But if I have to wait for total stillness to be aware, I would just be craving silence all the time. Real life doesn't seem to work that way.

Something that helps me is to remind myself that no matter how I might respond to situations, it is 'the mind responding to mind'. There is nothing beyond that. If I am shaping a piece of clay into a chair and accidentally make it look like a toilet, does the clay itself change? It is the same substance. In the same way, even if I am responding with anger to a situation that doesn't seem to warrant that strong emotion, I can still trust that it's just mind responding to mind. This is not an invitation to anarchy, but more like a hint to use a gentle approach when facing different environments. I don't need to look for a way to resolve or stop interruptions. I can let the interruptions be signs that all situations are bound to change. And it's not even about 'going with the flow' of thoughts, because even that expression assumes a mind separate from thoughts.

Is Space Ethical?

   When I write this piece, I am writing slightly tongue in cheek. I am reflecting on this idea that the so-called "Mindfulness Movement" in America started by Jon Kabat-Zinn and others might be overshadowing other aspects of spirituality, by focusing only on awareness and concentration. Some people might say that being mindful can also make one very good and competition and killing, rather than using mindfulness to create healthy space for compassion and generosity.
   As I reflected on this idea, I wonder, is there not something ethical in the act of making space for mind? In other words, I wonder whether the space we make when we meditate is not also a kind of honoring of other beings, in and of itself.. Is it possible that the experience of meditative practice itself already contains a kind of 'ethical stance' within it? Or is all 'ethics' really just based on reflection on rules and precepts?
      I myself am not even sure how to answer this question, but I will venture a few guesses. I think there is something already compassionate and nurturing about the experience of making space for mind. Allowing the mind to open up or even to relax body and mind is already a kindness that extends to all sentient beings. It isn't just a kind of frivolity, but there is something somber about this practice. Part of the solemnity and dignity of meditation is that it is about refraining from doing the habitual. If I sit solidly and still, I become more aware of my tendency or inclination to fidget, to want things, or just zone out in a daydream. And yet, because I am allowing myself to just be with those emotions rather than acting on them, I start to want fewer things. I settle into a place where I crave and reject less. Maybe I might feel more things (including desire, pain and anger) but I am not acting on them. In this sense, I allow a more ethical space to open up, where I consider all beings rather than just serving my desires.
    This idea does not discount the possibility that meditation might have other motivations. Some people do meditate to become better competitors. I even venture that mindfulness could be used to break precepts, or even to kill. But, all things considered, I would suggest that even in those cases, a sustained effort of meditation or mindfulness practice would probably take the edges off those desires and motivations. Why? I think it's because the desires to kill, to break rules, to harm others, are driven by thoughts and emotions, often magnified out of proportion to the present situation. To see past these thoughts, one would really need to let go of their attachment to them. If I am really doing this process in a correct manner, I become less driven to act out of an impulse to better ''myself" or to harm another.
    In the end, I don't think that mindfulness is separate from ethics. I think the two do interconnect and inform each other. I even suggest that true mindfulness is a sincere inquiry into desires, rather than a tool used to serve desires.

It Is and It Is Not

      I remember a time when I had been attending a Christian Church, and I had taken part in Bible studies classes many years ago, in my very early twenties. And there was this moment when I was riding the subway home when I was reflecting on the certainty of the faith, then the sensation of seeing the shadows on the Plexi-glass mirrors, somewhat distorted. And I had this somewhat strange experience. I think the experience was something like realizing that what is written in a book is so starkly different from what is happening in my sensed experience of things.  I wondered how long anyone can really linger in the pure or felt senses, without resorting back to explanatory frameworks of books. I think it probably does not (and cannot) take very long before one does have to go back to a cultural framework to make sense of the world and scaffold things. But the experience of stark discord between the neatness of reading and the rawness of experiences did strike a chord for me on that day.
    I almost tend to believe that there are two ways of looking at things, especially difficulties and challenges that I face. One is to see that there are definite principles out there, of which the phenomena are only signs. This might be similar to a Platonic view of things, seeing that the shadows are only pointing to a true essence in all things. The second way is to see that the essence is in the shadows themselves. In fact, whatever that essence happens to be is none other than the shadows. The difference is that with the second view, I am no longer separating the real from the false, or the shadows from a crystalline essence. Instead, I am seeing a kind of wholeness even in the fragile reflections of things.
    Whenever I experience some difficulties in life, I often try to find the principle that will clarify the situation for me, or at least bring it into greater relief. Most theories seem to serve as these maps which sketch out a terrain and provide select information to help me guide myself. An example might be a regular street map, which emphasizes location names, or a contour relief map, which reflects on slopes and terrains. But I am lately beginning to feel that this way of doing things or approaching problems is somehow violent: it is like trying to substitute a theory for a lived experience, which is not emerging in the same way as a theory does. Do all theories need to be so crystalline and so spelled out? Or are some theories capable of recognizing their own limitations, seeing that they co-exist among overlapping causes and conditions?
    I think that the expectation that theories can resolve life issues may be too high at times. The notion of theory-as-solution to life problems also ends up becoming prescriptive, somewhere along the line. Once someone establishes a model for identifying a problem and solving it, one then starts to solidify it into lifestyles and choices to live. It becomes an ethic. Sooner or later, people feel ashamed if a proposed theory does not work for them to solve their problems. They may feel, I am not doing this enough times or with enough regularity...not realizing the complex factors that often do make up a problem. Not only am I alienated by the problem itself, but I am also unable to follow the complicated ethics that circle around the proposed solution. That can easily make me an outcast on both accounts.
     The best way to describe the role of theory in life, is something like: it is and it is not. While theories fit certain bills, there is always an exception to that process, and minds can only approximate the kinds of idealizations imposed by the theory. I may perfectly know how to do something and even know the theoretical value of some idea (such as meditation). But without the real daily practice, the theories are not really true for me.

The Unsolvable

   I was reflecting today on the notion of how much I value 'figuring something out', and the feeling that comes from that ability to do so. When I was studying in formal school and learning how to solve math problems and computer programs, I always felt a discomfort when I failed to figure out how to solve the problem. It's a very palpable feeling that if I don't know how to figure out a problem, I must somehow go into emergency mode. I wonder how many have felt that sense of everything around them literally turning the color grey, because they were stuck trying to solve the unsolvable, or barely solvable. I have often felt this way whenever I am trying to generate a new idea or at least something tangible among a lot of intangible theories or ideas.
   It's equally difficult to know when one should stop and take a break from trying to solve a problem or come up with a viable idea for a project or a proposal. I remember reading something in one of physicist David Bohm's books, where he talked about scientists who are struggling on the cusp of a solution, only to find themselves solving the problem either through a dream or something as mundane as stepping on a bus. These examples either prove that the mind operates best when it is not clouded by thinking, or that the mind is always trying to solve a problem, even when not conscious of it. It could be a combination of both. But I wonder what happens, exactly, when the mind simply exhausts all possible solutions to a problem. Does mind continue to generate faith that the problem can be solved at some other time, or does it conclude that there is just not enough information to go by?
    I think that rather than pushing aside the feeling of not being able to solve a problem, that experience probably needs to be studied in more detail. I don't even think there is a particular name for it, to tell you the truth. The closest expression I can think of to the sensation of 'not being able to solve the problem' might be frustration. However, the latter has often been used in psychoanalytic terms to refer to specific drives that are engrained in human beings. Is there a similar 'drive' we can speak of to solve a problem, a kind of 'intellectual drive'? Maybe and maybe not. But the experience needs to be known in order to prevent people from being overwhelmed by it.
   People are always, it seems, either in the process of completing something or moving to something else, or both. When a particular problem has yet to be solved, can anyone just be in that null space, or do they need to keep going internally until the problem is solved? I think it takes a bit of shaking up to realize that the solution does not lie in me at all. It could simply be that the thought is conditioned in a certain way that there is no other thought available to seem to complete it. In those cases, the only answer available is to wait. But another way is to realize that none of our thoughts complete each other. If a thought remains without a solution, that thought is already complete; it doesn't need the completion of a solution. While that may not satisfy people looking for answers, it creates a space to allow thoughts to be complete in themselves, with no need for connection to a new thought.

Dualistic Thinking

   Many thinkers believe in 'conquering' adversity by splitting things into right and wrong, good and bad, etc. I remember reading a chapter this week from Robert Tremmel's Zen and the Practice of Teaching English where he talks about the success of using dualism to conquer difficulties. He remarks, "Even though it is fashionable in these days of 'New Age' ideas to attack Western culture for...tendencies toward dualistic thinking, the record shows that this use of mind has been a potent tool for building great civilizations and comfortable, technologically advanced democracies."  (p.73) Tremmel later offers a reason for adopting a more holistic approach in classrooms, where teachers use bare attention rather than imposing a conceptual layer into their classrooms. But his point is quite interesting. Would civilization collapse, I wonder, without 'dualism'? On the other hand, are the dualistic concepts that civilization advances not responsible for oppressive notions of merit and worth?
   I think that in a sense, dualism doesn't begin with something outside the mind, but it is part of the mind. But what normally happens, I think, is that people see the concept first, without realizing that the concept or category was created by mind in the first place. To use an example, instead of seeing that I create the category of 'dogmatic' and 'free thinking', I only see a person as 'dogmatic'. In labelling the person that way, I shut down any possibility to understand what makes me see that person behave 'dogmatically', or what makes me label them this way. Instead of probing into the way categories are created, I assume the category exists in a real world 'out there'. But actually, it only exists because of my situation in space and time, and how I connect with my thoughts. What a person sees is shaped by their way of seeing. And that way of seeing is so subtle, because the way is not reducible to an object.
     I believe that I have seen something before. A thought now reminds me of 'something else' that had arisen in the past, so I then conclude that what I see now must be the same as what I saw in the past. But are the two thoughts really connected? They connect in mind, but this doesn't mean that the thoughts have the same causes and conditions. It only means that I am looking at the thought now in light of the previous thought. I see a person and I think, "there he goes again, up to trouble!" But what I have really done is connected that person's present circumstances to what I see in the past. It never occurs to me that the two situations are different, and have different conditions giving rise to them. I only think, "ha, this person must be like this". My thinking limits me, in that sense. There is a story in Aesop's fable called "The Boy Who Cried Wolf". It's an interesting story, because most people reading it (including perhaps the author) take it as a cautionary tale not ask for help when one doesn't really need help, and not to distort the truth. But could this lesson be turned around? Could it be about people who trust their previous thoughts more than the present situation, leading to the boy's eventual demise to the wolf?
   It's easy for past thoughts to become generalizations. Is the solution to replace them with new thoughts? There is a behavioral therapy out there called "Stimulus Exposure" therapy (or something like that), and it talks about exposing people to what they fear the most. According to the theorists behind this therapy, people with phobias often connect the present experience of a feared object to a past memory ingrained in mind. Through repeated, habitual exposure to 'safe' versions of this stimulus, the therapists believe that a person's fears can be cured. I do have to wonder,  though, can anyone replace a thought with another thought? This therapy optimistically assumes that one can do so. But is there another way to approach that?
   Dualistic notions tend to rest on the idea that we replace what we dislike with what we like. But if I realize that all thoughts are not 'connected' at all except through mind's activity, I am no longer motivated to replace one thought with another. They then become just thoughts, with no permanent, enduring reality. From this view, I don't need to 'fight' one thought with another, and so the notion of dual sides to things might start to fade away a bit.

Tremmel , Robert (1999), Zen and the Art of Teaching English. Boynton-Cook. Heinemann