Lonely Diner

   Subway delays and a fire investigation and Rosedale station prevent me from stopping for dinner before the meditation class starts. By the time the session finishes, I am just living on the granola bars I had brought with me. I decide to stop off somewhere close to Centerpoint Mall, on Yonge and Steeles area, only to find the lady at Tim Horton's packing up and taking out the garbage. If Tim Horton's, of all places, is closing, then there is not much of a chance of anything being open. After all,  it is just a bit after 10 pm. I suppose not too many people are thinking of dinner at this time of the day.
   Thinking that all is hopeless, I stumble upon a Sushi place just beside the Tim Hortons. As I gently lift the door, I shyly wonder whether they are still serving food at the late hour. A kind waitress greets me, though she appears puzzled by the fact that there is only one of me. Seeing that I am not doing take out, she motions me to a curtained booth. I quickly order vegetable yaki noodle, and tea. When the salad and soup arrive, my body feels the relief of fresh food and not the kind of food that is prepared in a rush or processed. My body seems to ease into the seat.
   Soon, I feel grateful for the food and the atmosphere, as I hear the tinkling of jazz piano music streaming through a satellite radio. I decide then and there to treat each bite with care, just as the servers must have put care into the meal itself. I put aside the two books I was simultaneously reading, and I put my mind on the dinner itself.  Even though I felt the solitude of being there by myself, I was able to absorb myself in that moment. I was able to engage with the conversation in the booth ahead of me, and take in the excitement of the two men across from me, who were conversing in a different language from me.
  During the meditation earlier today, one of the participants had explained how interesting it was to sometimes hear a Buddhist talk or guided meditation that suddenly 'clicks', for no other reason than it resonates in the present moment. While listening to the meditation, she was able to finally become present just by hearing the words or phrases, 'be present'. I still don't fully understand how or why it works that way. I think it has to do with the fact that there are certain moments where the mind is able to tune into itself. especially when fully relaxed. Only when the mind is still and receptive can this be done. I can listen to words over and over, but if I cannot access  an experience through the words, I am left just reciting them or hearing them over and over until they sink  in..
    Every daily moment is an opportunity to resonate with the true mind. Even in a restaurant, just receiving the experience is like coming home wherever one is, even if it is a strange place or a lonely place.

Contending with Others vs "Vows"

   During the evening meditation session, I played Master Sheng Yen's video which highlights the notion of contention: competing for scarce resources to achieve certain benefits or results. Master Sheng Yen contrasts contention with 'making a vow', which is a kind of purified striving to benefit all beings in a situation rather than only forward one's own interests. Vows also have the added advantage of broadening the number of possible actions available in a given situation. By not competing for specific roles, I learn not to take a particular role as an enduring indicator of my own value, and there is more flexibility to define what my value is going to be in a given situation.
    The best way I can understand the concept of 'vow' vs contention is that vowing doesn't depend on an idealized role. It happens, rather, in the unfolding present moment. If there is a particular task I am not fully cognizant of at work, for example, I can make a vow to better improve myself in this area so that I can benefit others. Vows aren't initiated by particular, predefined roles for which people compete. In reality,  anyone can be open to learning new things, and the vow is a kind of choice to try to do wholesome and meaningful actions for others. It's also a decision to keep learning, rather than being stuck with a predefined or predetermined sense of what one's capacities are. Of course, people do have limitations on what they have been trained to do. Everyone needs to have a good feeling for that for which they are capable. But thinking in terms of vows can help re-orient me away from trying to act according to a 'perfect self' or 'ideal' role, and explore my real capacities in this present moment.
    I feel that it will take a lot of effort to shift my thinking away from a 'contention' orientation and toward a more vow-based approach toward work and life. The biggest anxiety one can face is letting go of the fear of not having a distinct identity that can be owned or 'developed' over time. If I accept the impermanence of the roles I am currently accepting, I have the humility needed to learn new roles and even let go of pre-existing ones to embrace bigger challenges. It's hard to say where the faith to let go comes from. Part of what helps is to recognize that one's inclinations don't start and end in a certain role. Even if I am doing poorly in one role (for whatever reason), this doesn't disqualify me from excelling in others.  So I don't write myself off as a total failure if I am unable to fulfill all of what I idealize to be 'who I am supposed to be.' That softening of the heart can also give me the flexibility to interact with others without so much fear. I am no longer thinking of others as potential competitors for scare resources, but might even regard others as complimentary or supportive of my unique  skills or calling.



Master Sheng-Yen, "Contention": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fE4oGqBhRhw

Nothing More But to Listen

   I have sometimes thought that listening is not as essential to a conversation as sharing ideas. It seems that the culture I grew up in highly values the exchange of ideas, as well as having the most 'original' idea of all to contribute to the table of discussion. But lately, I have been thinking about how complex listening is as a skill. I have all too often associated listening with only a passive 'absorption' of other people's ideas, as though listening were just 'filler' speaker and listener, or a 'space to hold ideas'. But a lot seems to happen when a person is truly listening with the whole heart.
     One of the things I really need to do in order to listen is to really know and accept the fact that I am 'here' in this place and nowhere else. I don't think this is as easy as it perhaps seems at first glance. Even when I make a determined 'effort' to listen, I am sometimes only waiting for something to add to what the person is saying. On the contrary, to truly listen, I almost need to completely let go of the desire to add anything to what the other is saying. Just as when I am appreciating a work of art, I am not adding my own work to the existing one, so I practice enjoying something for what it is. I am not even there to append my footnotes or commentary to what is being said. Rather, I am getting into the world of the person with whom I am interacting, and creating a shared world in the process.
     In listening, there is often the threat of personal annihilation if one clings to this 'self' that is in a conversation. For example, what happens if I suddenly realize that there is nothing for me to contribute to this discussion---simply no words at all? It's so easy to then go to the fear that I am not perceived as listening at all. Again, this goes back to the common attitude that listening requires an active contribution on the part of the listener: something to 'echo back' to the speaker to assure her that I am truly here in the moment. But as long as I am only listening to 'appear to be listening', I am truly not hearing the other at all. The tricky part about listening is that I have to abandon what I think I 'know' about someone else to really know what they are saying in this moment.
    Another thing I am doing while listening wholeheartedly is suspending my desire to manipulate another person's opinions or viewpoints. I believe that this aspect of listening is perhaps the hardest balancing act of all. It requires both listening to other and listening to the self, to know how I am responding to what another person is saying. Am I responding out of a desire to change the person, to gain something from him or her, or to genuinely understand? Am I listening to strengthen my own perspective, or am I doing so to learn and be open to new learning? It seems important to be self-aware: to know what I intend to do with the listening with which I am engaged. And it's  especially challenging to allow myself the chance to expand or even rupture a few cherished beliefs of mine, in order to accommodate the challenges of knowing another. Paradoxically, I have found moments when I felt most connected to someone, when I had let go of the compulsion to use speech to influence or control the flow of conversation.
    In my last entry from January 11, I wrote about my reading of the Thai monks who are doing environmental activist projects. And lately,I have been thinking that people need to learn how to listen before they can protect the diversity of the planet. Listening seems to be the communicative model that most clues me into what environmentalism is, because listening is also about cherishing wild, open spaces where nothing is predictable and everything is valuable in its own niche. While the eye can enclose or focus on specific targets, listening is more inclusive and less discriminating: it takes in a series of interlocking symbols which require each other in order to be fully understood. While seeing 'isolates' chosen objects of perception, listening tends to operate by integrating a succession of sounds into meanings and networks of associations.
   I can't say that I am a deep listener or even a very thorough listener. But examining the act of listening helps me better appreciate its depths and to  see it as a valuable communicative tool in its own right.

A View of Unknowing

   I am reading Susan M. Darlington's excellent book, Ordination of a Tree: The Thai Buddhist Environmental Movement. This book details an interesting research project that Darlington conducted, where she interviewed and observed communities of engaged Buddhism in Thailand. In particular, Darlington focuses on how Thai Buddhist monks are engaging in 'environmental Buddhism', particularly the struggle to protect nature from the kleshas of human greed, hatred and ignorance. It's interesting to me how controversial the positions of the monks are, and how varied their positions can be. For instance, while some of the monks advocate conserving the forests completely from all human use (including natives to the Thai forests), others favor a more integrated approach which doesn't oppress those who have lived and worked among the forests. Similarly, Buddhist rituals to 'ordain' trees are considered either a symbolic act of respect for all life (acknowledging life's source as mind), or a kind of deviation from the original use of ordaining ceremonies. Even the meaning of these ceremonies can change over time, as they are appropriated into the state ceremonies, or made into 'cosmetic' forms of environmental awareness by corporations.
     I find quite interesting the question of to what extent monastics should engage in political activism. and, if so, how they can do so while maintaining the Middle Path. I don't have any clear answer to it, since my understanding is quite limited. From my limited understanding of the teaching on the Middle Path, for example, it's not so easy to determine whether a particular platform is going to always serve the interests of living beings. It always depends on the context, and whether the ideas happen to follow the function of what is needed by sentient beings in the given moment. If I protect the interests of the forests, what happens to those who make a living in cutting trees or making paper? The answers are not so easy, because there are different interests involved. Perhaps a valid respect for life would have to include a respect for all manner of diverse opinions.
      But, as I reflect on my own personal life: it's extremely difficult to truly feel that all opinions and perspectives have an equal value. It's a real practice, in fact, of daring myself to let go of trying to find a safe and secure answer on how to do things or what decisions to make. This would invite the possibility that we can never fully 'know' what is absolutely true or best for all people, in all situations. Inviting uncertainty is quite dangerous and risky in political situations, where people are often faced with decisions that impact other beings. But trying to do so as best as one can is a quite revolutionary possibility, because it shifts away from a Utopian vision and toward prioritizing the process of dialogue over all else.
      At the very least, I think that individuals can practice this 'view of no view' by letting go of the possibility of the  "ultimate" answer that will resolve all environmental issues. Since the environment depends on diversity for its very existence (as well as interconnection), perhaps the true way to preserve all environments (social, natural, spiritual) is through a process of careful and mindful dialogue, process orientation, and a mind to not create a hegemonic understanding of ideas. From this perspective, it's not the final goal that counts but the process of dismantling or challenging the notion of a 'final goal'. This process would mirror the ecosystem itself by seeing viewpoints as part of a network or 'family' of viewpoints, all enchained together in an intricate and shifting mental space. To try to divorce one idea from the others is to push it out of its embedded context with other views, or to claim an undue supremacy of that view.

Darlington, Susan M., Ordination of a Tree: The Thai Buddhist Environmental Movement. Albany: SUNY Press.

It's Something Else...

    The writer Colin Wilson once described a situation in which he had felt as though he had been terribly lost, only to find later on after asking for directions that he was not as lost as he had originally thought. He coined this experience "St. Neot's Margin" after the town in which he had been situated, to explain the sense of relief that he felt in that moment, after being somewhat disoriented. Wilson describes in his book The Outsider how he tried to find a psychological practice or principle that would allow him to always maintain the sense of 'relief' or even 'gratitude', in situations where such is not even necessarily called for. But I don't think that Wilson had quite found the practice that would do so, even though he studied a lot of Gurdieff's philosophy, as well as Ouspensky. Both of these philosophers seemed to be trying to use meditative practices as ways to further human evolution, or to obtain different kinds of experiences than the 'norm'. And I was even recently informed that psychologists are still very much interested in using meditation to reach 'peak' experiences. I still wonder whether there is any value in an experience that is only fleeting at times. And I wonder, what does it mean if someone simply cannot achieve such an experience?
    From my own experience, the reason that the 'relief' from a problematic experience doesn't last is that..it is soon followed by another problematic experience. It seems to be the nature of things that there will be some difficulties or falling away from expectations. Situations are much too complex and conditioned for something to always run smoothly. From the Chan perspective, students are told not to cling to their meditative experiences, even 'good ones'. I think this is because as soon as I even slightly cling to the feeling of relief, I create vexation by wanting to keep it there forever. It is truly difficult, if not impossible, to keep an experience forever. Even if one gets what she wants in life, does this mean that she will feel the same way all the time? It's hardly the case in most situations. So I have found that it's a good practice not to get too excited when things happen to go well in a given moment. I believe that Master Sheng Yen even compares such a good experience to taking money from one's own bank account. Rejoicing in merits that one happens to have obtained is probably a bit redundant. But of course, people will naturally feel good when things are unexpectedly smooth.
    In spite of its problematic aspects, I still think there is a value in Colin Wilson's writing and observations. It's important that people somehow learn to enjoy the simple fortunes in their life, almost as though it were a free gift or a respite from something that could be potentially worse. It is a pity when people are surrounded by good food and available resources, yet cannot really taste the food or know that it is conveniently there.  Yet, without a sense of simple enjoyment of the present moment, it's hard to enjoy what is there.  On the other hand, reading about the Thailand monks who are engaged in social /environmental activism, I am made aware that it is hard to practice anything if a person is struggling to feed their family or make ends meet. Perhaps the meaning of hardship is that it sensitizes people both to the simple joys and also the precariousness of life: the fact that those joys are fragile and can easily be taken away from someone, can only arouse compassion in someone.

Wilson, Colin (1956), The Outsider. London: Gollancz.

Two Restaurants

During the winter walk yesterday evening, I  saw a strange yet comforting sight indeed. Around the Yonge and St. Clair area, I spotted restaurants with the dim lights and the quiet people eating and socializing. And right beside it,  there was a pizza place where a lone woman was having her pizza with a magazine in front of her. I reflected on the joys of both social life and solitude. And I thought that the images of the two kinds of restaurants represents two different states of living. One is the life of connection, ambiance and environment, while the other represents the bare twenty first century necessities: white walls, fast service and free wi-fi. And a third restaurant beside it featured a sign which read: “Danger: gas zone, no smoking”. I thought, it is very caring and considerate that the restaurant would take care of the patrons in this way. For a moment, I even felt a pang of tenderness: even though perhaps it wasn’t intended to be this way, in that moment I could see that somehow the universe and its beings are striving to care for sentient beings in a loving way.

The two restaurants I witnessed exemplify the cycles of my own life, in some respects. There are times when it seems like I am really connected with others and am in the warmth of others’ company. To me, this is most illustrated in the dark, ambient restaurant. In other situations, I feel the exact opposite. There is a kind of sense that I am by myself, with myself, and left to fend for myself. When I sometimes sense that in other people, both tenderness and fear arise in me. There is tenderness, in the sense that I want to comfort that person, and can relate to their solitude: the sense that somehow the universe has left them behind in some way.   And I want to be able to show this person all the things they have, all the love that surrounds them, and to just be grateful for this moment. At the same time there is that strange fear of not ever fully knowing why anyone feels this way, and not knowing how to remedy that feeling either. I think this fear is none other than the sense that perhaps we truly are left to our own devices in the world.

The other restaurant is about interconnection and reconciliation: coming in from the cold, being reunited with a loved one, and having the courage to continue in life’s path. It is about old friends being friends always, even when they haven’t seen each other for a long time, and it is also about the timeless quality of love: always being there as though resuming the friendship after a brief respite. I have often thought that this ‘togetherness’ is more ideal than solitude, but actually, the two states of being complement each other. They seem to represent the extremes of belonging and ‘being thrown’, and yet  without the polarity, there simply wouldn’t be either one. One cycles into the other. For example, there are moments when I feel so alone, and the sight of an animal or a person’s reassuring greeting will be so strong to me that it will pull me into a sense of grace. Had I not been put into that extreme state of solitude, I would not have known what grace truly feels like. So in that sense, the offering only comes when I have tasted moments when there is no offering, or even a sense of self who offers or is being offered something.

 

 

Cultivating "Weariness"

   January's first week has come and gone, and the weather fluctuates between warm and cold. Holiday songs still seem to linger in mind. It  is as though I didn't get enough of it, or perhaps am still attached to the meaning of it in some way: the sense of settling, appreciating, looking back. In contrast, I tend  to associate the beginning of each new year with ''buckling down" and putting the nose to the grindstone to accomplish the year's tasks. It seems that my life fluctuates between the work that needs doing and the sense of looking back in retrospect to make sense of the work itself and its importance. Without the balance of both, even work loses its meaning.
   While on the subway ride to work, I was continuing my reading of Uncommon Wisdom by Dzigar Konstrul Rinpoche. I came across the following:

Weariness recognizes the cause and conditions and sees the way out. Even though you enjoy relationships, ultimately everything is impermanent. How can you sincerely be attached to something that you know is impermanent and going to change (p.141)

Dzigar Konstrul Rinpoche contrasts 'weariness' with 'depression'. Weariness seems to involve having a clear sense that attachment can lead to all sorts of self-inflicted suffering, coupled with a determination to emerge from attachment. Depression, on the other hand, carries a kind of hopelessness. Once a person has decided that they don't need to suffer from attaching to something, they have more inner power and can free up space for other things in life.

While reading this chapter, I have tried to reflect on when and how I developed a determination to 'let go of' attachment, or even a sense of weariness. I think it's only through meditation that I have believed it even possible to do so. I have also recently been more aware of the pain that comes from craving and desire.

When I was younger, I associated desire with something that 'feels good', such as wanting a piece of cake or sweet food. But in the process of craving something, do people not sometimes notice the pangs or the mounting frustration that comes from 'not having'? For me, frustration is like a tight knot that wraps around my heart and stays there for quite some time. It often brings with it feelings of impatience or even aversion, as I try to avoid obstacles to getting what I desire.

Once I can oversee the entire cycle of desire as a totality, I have become even less fond of the state of 'having' desire in the first place. It is like being on a roller coaster for so many times that one is even afraid to get on the cycle, much less have to endure the after-effects of it. Certainly, it is easy to get hooked on the highs, and this too can become addictive. But when have the 'highs' ever stayed with a person? And is there ever a point where one has truly become satiated from it. Even the desire for approval or close friendship can become a craving that makes one's life feel unfulfilled by comparison.

Interestingly, Dzigar Konstrul Rinpoche does not construe weariness as a 'negation' or a kind of absence of feeling. Instead, he describes it as a determination to end suffering by realizing its impermanence, or the actual nature of desire itself. Sometimes this can be a conscious choice not to participate in the desire itself: to say no to it, or to gently experiment in refraining from it. There are certain kinds of attachments, such as to 'being right' or 'getting one's way', which can only abate when I see that there is no permanent self which is 'to be right'. At that point, I can observe my reactions without giving into the belief that I am those reactions.

I believe that it's best not to force this practice. Having desires is okay, but it's important to simply ask who really has those desires. If I see that there is no single fixed 'me' that is having the desire, it starts to lose its sting when it is left unfulfilled. It is as though I were watching a movie about some character who suffers the pangs of a desire. Though I might temporarily participate in that person's plight, it would be wrong for me to think I am that person on the screen. Yet, we do this all so often, particularly when the practice of meditation is not foremost in mind.

Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche (2009), Uncommon Happiness: The Path of the Compassionate Warrior.. Hong Kong: Rangjung Yeshe Publications