During the Sunday morning meditation, I practiced using huatou method. Though I had some pain in my spine, I began to probe into the painful body sensations that arose: wondering, where do they come from, and what is their source? What I notice is that there is some special kind of pain that isn't really related to the physical body at all. Rather, this pain relates to the deeper doubt of feeling detached from oneself, or being split into a subject and an object. This is the existential pain that gives rise to all kinds of suffering. I believe that at the heart of all physical pain, there is a deeper perplexity that the physical aches only expose or somehow make 'obvious'. Without this perplexity, the pain is just a kind of phenomena.
The other way to describe the 'hidden' pain is that it is similar to the frustration that arises when one is trying to solve a problem that appears to be unsolvable. No only does the problem itself create some agitation, but in a deeper sense, the problem poses a kind of 'split' that cannot be bridged in the moment. One way to resolve the suffering of that pain is to simply ask the question: in that moment, is there really an actual split between 'me' and 'the problem'? Or is this split just a creation of the mind?
When I write this, I don't mean to suggest that the pain is made up or constructed by mind. Rather, I am suggesting that suffering from pain comes from an artificial boundary that I construct between 'me' and a particular sensation that seems foreign to me (or which I prefer not to have). I then forget that it is I who created this boundary, and then feel terribly split or at odds with the sensation I dislike. Had I been able to see through my tendency to split off from the pain, I may have found a better way to cope with it or to simply acknowledge it as energy of the mind.
Another painful situation is that of being in a null place, or realizing that there may not be a tangible or measurable purpose in what I am doing in the moment. Here, the source of pain is similar; rather than taking in the experience fully as it is, I impose some object upon that experience and then conclude that I have gone astray from the object of my action. But what happens if I choose not to create an artificial goal, and simply let matters be the way they are? In that case, rather than trying to fight pain or objectify it, I can see the pain as a natural part of experience. In that way, I refrain from creating an artificial identity that resists the pain.
After this morning's meditation, I am a little more convinced that 'pain itself' is never the problem in meditation. The problem comes before that, when I create an object and label it as 'pain'. Such a process makes the experience seem more tangible than it really is, which then exacerbates my struggle to rid myself of the pain. The opposite process happens when I have an image in mind of what I want to have. Rather than going back to the source of the image in mind, I objectify the image, treating it as a separate, external reality that I need to 'grasp'. Again, if I am able to see that the suffering arises from splitting of subject and object, neither pain nor pleasure are seen as substantial enough to avoid or pursue.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Saturday, February 6, 2016
Thinking about Thinking
February turns out to be milder and even a bit stranger in climate than expected at this time of year. There have been times during this past week when the weather has fluctuated between very warm (like a spring day) to winter chill. In fact, I was quite surprised to see all the green grass on Thursday, after an unexpected winter thaw had taken place that day. With the strange weather, our bodies are bound to feel confused, with a few animals coming out of premature hibernation.
I was thinking today, what is the relationship between spiritual practices (such as meditation) and cognition? Can meditative practices make a person 'think better', and how would that be accomplished? I have heard a variety of answers to this question, the main one being that meditation practice can clear a space where there is non-attachment to thoughts. And this can allow the possibility for more creative opportunities or interesting thoughts. But I would like to step back a bit and ask the question, what does it mean to question and interrogate the quality of one's thinking? Under whose or what standards would a person evaluate the freshness, originality or 'overall quality' of thoughts? And who (or what) does such a venture serve?
The reason I ask this question is that there is something somewhat paradoxical about inquiring into the conditions of a 'good' thought. Many books abound out there (particularly in the business field) which suggest that people can improve their abilities to think productively and generate original or new solutions to existing situations. Rather than trying to mindlessly reproduce the past thoughts. "Productive" or "original" thinking is designed to create new or unexpected solutions. As elegant as this distinction sounds. it makes me wonder a lot of things. Firstly, is there such a clear, black-and-white delineation between 'productive' and 'reproductive', thinking, as Tim Hurson suggests in his book Think Better? While Hurson suggests that the two processes are different, I am almost inclined to think that thinking operates from a mixture of existing habits and new insights. The two seem to interact with one another dialectically, since it's unlikely that thought can spontaneously arise from that which one hasn't experienced in some way or another in previous thoughts or habits.
My second point is that I sense thinking itself to be something that can't be pinned down, because the 'productive' thinking that Hurson describes is a kind of spontaneous process. To try to pin it down would be to change 'production' into a kind of 'reproduction' or a trace of something that can be fixed or made into a measurable formula. But thinking itself is exactly not like that at all. Thinking seems to operate in a liminal space, between pre-formulated notions or hypotheses, and that which is not known or established as known yet. To try to 'figure out' what thinking is (and is not) seems not entirely productive in terms of how to think. Thinking seems to defy technique of any sort.
Because thinking itself is always happening in a spontaneous or fresh moment, perhaps a more productive question might be to ask, what are the conditions or prompts for fresh, moment-to-moment thinking? What motivates such a process to occur, and what inhibits this process? I am afraid that the very pursuit of cognitive 'boundaries' to define thinking is exactly the kind of thinking that inhibits thinking,because it pretends to be able to locate thought in some kind of flex-able muscle in the brain. In other words, the process of thinking becomes a kind of calisthenic exercise that can be commodified and measured in some way. But does thinking actually really operate in this way? Is the effort to 'map' thinking not precisely the form of self-consciousness that actually ends up inhibiting thinking itself?
To put it another way: even if I know the map, does that knowing enable me to become a 'better' or 'fresher' thinker? I believe this is the dream of cognitive science: to map the mind in such a way that people can become naturally better thinkers. But is it ever possible to map in precise detail all the ways that original thoughts arise in mind? I think that project is not only futile, but ends up sabotaging its own effort, because it reinforces the view that the mind is a 'box' with various measurable variables in it.
To go back to the question of what conditions motivate thinking: I believe that curiosity about how one relates to a process is perhaps the best way to stimulate thinking that is one's own. Rather than asking, for instance, 'what is the problem', a better way might be to ask, 'what is my relationship at the present moment to this problem or process?' In this way,I can truly enter into a dialogue with the object of study, rather than trying to subordinate my mental processes in 'awe' of that object. Meditative practice is exactly about engaging this natural curiosity, because it asks that practitioners bracket the kinds of conceptual 'traps' that might inhibit one's ability to relate in the present moment with what is happening. And this is also more motivating than trying to squeeze oneself into the mold of how others think or relate to a situation. It puts the thinker into the proverbial driver's seat, by asking how they specifically relate to the causes and conditions they face.
Hurson, Tim, (2008) Think Better: Your Company's Future Depends on It. Toronto: McGraw Hill
I was thinking today, what is the relationship between spiritual practices (such as meditation) and cognition? Can meditative practices make a person 'think better', and how would that be accomplished? I have heard a variety of answers to this question, the main one being that meditation practice can clear a space where there is non-attachment to thoughts. And this can allow the possibility for more creative opportunities or interesting thoughts. But I would like to step back a bit and ask the question, what does it mean to question and interrogate the quality of one's thinking? Under whose or what standards would a person evaluate the freshness, originality or 'overall quality' of thoughts? And who (or what) does such a venture serve?
The reason I ask this question is that there is something somewhat paradoxical about inquiring into the conditions of a 'good' thought. Many books abound out there (particularly in the business field) which suggest that people can improve their abilities to think productively and generate original or new solutions to existing situations. Rather than trying to mindlessly reproduce the past thoughts. "Productive" or "original" thinking is designed to create new or unexpected solutions. As elegant as this distinction sounds. it makes me wonder a lot of things. Firstly, is there such a clear, black-and-white delineation between 'productive' and 'reproductive', thinking, as Tim Hurson suggests in his book Think Better? While Hurson suggests that the two processes are different, I am almost inclined to think that thinking operates from a mixture of existing habits and new insights. The two seem to interact with one another dialectically, since it's unlikely that thought can spontaneously arise from that which one hasn't experienced in some way or another in previous thoughts or habits.
My second point is that I sense thinking itself to be something that can't be pinned down, because the 'productive' thinking that Hurson describes is a kind of spontaneous process. To try to pin it down would be to change 'production' into a kind of 'reproduction' or a trace of something that can be fixed or made into a measurable formula. But thinking itself is exactly not like that at all. Thinking seems to operate in a liminal space, between pre-formulated notions or hypotheses, and that which is not known or established as known yet. To try to 'figure out' what thinking is (and is not) seems not entirely productive in terms of how to think. Thinking seems to defy technique of any sort.
Because thinking itself is always happening in a spontaneous or fresh moment, perhaps a more productive question might be to ask, what are the conditions or prompts for fresh, moment-to-moment thinking? What motivates such a process to occur, and what inhibits this process? I am afraid that the very pursuit of cognitive 'boundaries' to define thinking is exactly the kind of thinking that inhibits thinking,because it pretends to be able to locate thought in some kind of flex-able muscle in the brain. In other words, the process of thinking becomes a kind of calisthenic exercise that can be commodified and measured in some way. But does thinking actually really operate in this way? Is the effort to 'map' thinking not precisely the form of self-consciousness that actually ends up inhibiting thinking itself?
To put it another way: even if I know the map, does that knowing enable me to become a 'better' or 'fresher' thinker? I believe this is the dream of cognitive science: to map the mind in such a way that people can become naturally better thinkers. But is it ever possible to map in precise detail all the ways that original thoughts arise in mind? I think that project is not only futile, but ends up sabotaging its own effort, because it reinforces the view that the mind is a 'box' with various measurable variables in it.
To go back to the question of what conditions motivate thinking: I believe that curiosity about how one relates to a process is perhaps the best way to stimulate thinking that is one's own. Rather than asking, for instance, 'what is the problem', a better way might be to ask, 'what is my relationship at the present moment to this problem or process?' In this way,I can truly enter into a dialogue with the object of study, rather than trying to subordinate my mental processes in 'awe' of that object. Meditative practice is exactly about engaging this natural curiosity, because it asks that practitioners bracket the kinds of conceptual 'traps' that might inhibit one's ability to relate in the present moment with what is happening. And this is also more motivating than trying to squeeze oneself into the mold of how others think or relate to a situation. It puts the thinker into the proverbial driver's seat, by asking how they specifically relate to the causes and conditions they face.
Hurson, Tim, (2008) Think Better: Your Company's Future Depends on It. Toronto: McGraw Hill
Friday, February 5, 2016
Emotional Energies
In Mind Beyond Death Dzogchen Ponlop describes how emotional energies are embraced and seen for what they are, as part of the original nature of mind. He remarks:
The nature of mind is the same. It arises and it manifests within the space of your awareness in its own natural state. Thus, the genuine state of aggression is not aggression; rather, 'aggression' is a label that we give to a particular experience. Passion is a label that we give to another experience. When you look at the raw, vivid and sharp experience of passion and aggression, you realize that they are inseparable. From the point of view of experience, there are no distinctive labels that identify something as passion and something else as aggression, ignorance or jealousy. (p.105-106)
I think this quote is quite fascinating, because it seems to describe how to work with the energies of emotions without trying to label them or sort them out into good or bad states. To give a simple example, right now, as I am sitting in front of my laptop, there is a tension arising around my forehead which is likely arising from a state of tiredness, or fatigue. Now, I could resist that tension and say, "this is bad; I want to feel something else" or "I want to focus on something good". And I might then find some way to distract myself to force the pain to go away. But rather than counselling people to distract themselves with spiritual practices, Dzogchen Ponlop seems to be suggesting the opposite--to see all these emotional states as one of many forms of mind. To extend to my example, I don't need to create a distinction between 'this state of mind' and 'that state of mind', and then create opposition between those states. By resting mind in this present moment, I can learn to see that all the states of mind are just one seamless totality.
I have to say from my own experience that this practice is not always so easy. It is not to be confused with just following every thought that comes to mind. To give an example, there is a difference between allowing anger to arise in mind, and attaching to one's thoughts about what to do with anger. These two states are different because the former is a more direct investigation of that emotion. It doesn't presume to know what the state of anger is, or how it is meant to be. Instead, the attitude is to face the energy of anger with a full embrace, not giving into fear of one's own aggressive energy. But what typically happens is that I don't give the aggressive emotion its due, and there is a struggle in labeling it and then wanting it to somehow go away. Nobody wants to think themselves to be an anger prone individual, so there is a desire to scuttle the anger or put it under the rug, rather than seeing it as a pure kind of energy.
One of the biggest challenges with this practice is the tendency to identify ourselves with whatever we observe comes to arise in mind. I can see that being more observant of certain emotions can also be a temptation to identify them as 'this is me', rather than to see the emotion as one part of a vast unfolding from moment to moment. While it's helpful to observe the emotion, it's equally helpful to see its impermanence. Without the latter view, an awareness of pent up or disowned energy can lead to an overidentification with those disowned parts. I begin to see this practice as a delicate balancing act between owning emotion and not attaching them to a self.
Ponlop, Dzogchen (2006, 2008), Mind Beyond Death Ithaka: Snow Lion.
The nature of mind is the same. It arises and it manifests within the space of your awareness in its own natural state. Thus, the genuine state of aggression is not aggression; rather, 'aggression' is a label that we give to a particular experience. Passion is a label that we give to another experience. When you look at the raw, vivid and sharp experience of passion and aggression, you realize that they are inseparable. From the point of view of experience, there are no distinctive labels that identify something as passion and something else as aggression, ignorance or jealousy. (p.105-106)
I think this quote is quite fascinating, because it seems to describe how to work with the energies of emotions without trying to label them or sort them out into good or bad states. To give a simple example, right now, as I am sitting in front of my laptop, there is a tension arising around my forehead which is likely arising from a state of tiredness, or fatigue. Now, I could resist that tension and say, "this is bad; I want to feel something else" or "I want to focus on something good". And I might then find some way to distract myself to force the pain to go away. But rather than counselling people to distract themselves with spiritual practices, Dzogchen Ponlop seems to be suggesting the opposite--to see all these emotional states as one of many forms of mind. To extend to my example, I don't need to create a distinction between 'this state of mind' and 'that state of mind', and then create opposition between those states. By resting mind in this present moment, I can learn to see that all the states of mind are just one seamless totality.
I have to say from my own experience that this practice is not always so easy. It is not to be confused with just following every thought that comes to mind. To give an example, there is a difference between allowing anger to arise in mind, and attaching to one's thoughts about what to do with anger. These two states are different because the former is a more direct investigation of that emotion. It doesn't presume to know what the state of anger is, or how it is meant to be. Instead, the attitude is to face the energy of anger with a full embrace, not giving into fear of one's own aggressive energy. But what typically happens is that I don't give the aggressive emotion its due, and there is a struggle in labeling it and then wanting it to somehow go away. Nobody wants to think themselves to be an anger prone individual, so there is a desire to scuttle the anger or put it under the rug, rather than seeing it as a pure kind of energy.
One of the biggest challenges with this practice is the tendency to identify ourselves with whatever we observe comes to arise in mind. I can see that being more observant of certain emotions can also be a temptation to identify them as 'this is me', rather than to see the emotion as one part of a vast unfolding from moment to moment. While it's helpful to observe the emotion, it's equally helpful to see its impermanence. Without the latter view, an awareness of pent up or disowned energy can lead to an overidentification with those disowned parts. I begin to see this practice as a delicate balancing act between owning emotion and not attaching them to a self.
Ponlop, Dzogchen (2006, 2008), Mind Beyond Death Ithaka: Snow Lion.
Thursday, February 4, 2016
The Four Reminders
During the meditation today, I felt my body becoming so light, almost as though light were running through it or it was even a form of light. I must say that this experience was entirely based on my readings and faith, especially in that I was able to have such an experience. It lifted me away from my body concerns. Is this a form of fooling myself'? All I know is that I needed that faith to be able to lift me out of the sensitivity to pain that often happens when I sit for a long time. I felt a vow to help and connect with others sustaining my practice. And it was somehow a pleasure that came from nowhere
One of the paradoxes I have sometimes found in life is that having what I perceive to be 'more' in life can be a source of anxiety. It is one of the forms of suffering that is talked about in the First Noble Truth, the suffering of losing what one cherishes. But what is interesting is that I have often been told to be 'grateful' for what I have. Is it possible for gratitude to end up turning into clinging to what one has?
I think the answer to these questions lies in the practice itself. I see meditative practice as like a raft. The more energy and consistency I put into the practice, the stronger a raft I have to keep me balanced. When I am clinging to things I like and then fearing their loss, I am just swimming with the passing phenomena, and I lose all inner strength or power. On the other hand, if I am sticking steadfastly to something that is not dependent on the outside world, there is no reason for me to feel misfortune to lose something. But because my mind is wavering and my practice is not so strong in daily life, I will tend to seek relief in things around me rather than seeing all things as opportunities to practice being present.
The 'gratitude' that is often described in Buddhist teachings is quite different from what I hear commonly. I recently read in Dzogchen Ponlop's book Mind Beyond Death, where he talks about the four reminders as common preliminary practice. They are "(1) precious human birth, (2) impermanence, (3) karma and (4) the shortcomings of samsara. All of these forms of reminders generate focus but they also grant practitioners a certain kind of gratitude. Rather than being grateful for particular things that are impermanent to begin with, these four reminders seem to focus the mind just a little bit beyond what is present here and now. While we are blessed to be born human, for example, this gratitude also carries with it a certain responsibility to ensure that we are not reborn in a less favorable state for practice. It is also sobering to reflect that humans are fragile beings, subject to impermanence, suffering and cause/condition. The gratitude comes more from discovering teachings that will help one go beyond this suffering. This gratitude seems more engaged than simply being grateful for one's possessions.
Ponlop, Dzogchen (2006, 2008), Mind Beyond Death Ithaka: Snow Lion.
One of the paradoxes I have sometimes found in life is that having what I perceive to be 'more' in life can be a source of anxiety. It is one of the forms of suffering that is talked about in the First Noble Truth, the suffering of losing what one cherishes. But what is interesting is that I have often been told to be 'grateful' for what I have. Is it possible for gratitude to end up turning into clinging to what one has?
I think the answer to these questions lies in the practice itself. I see meditative practice as like a raft. The more energy and consistency I put into the practice, the stronger a raft I have to keep me balanced. When I am clinging to things I like and then fearing their loss, I am just swimming with the passing phenomena, and I lose all inner strength or power. On the other hand, if I am sticking steadfastly to something that is not dependent on the outside world, there is no reason for me to feel misfortune to lose something. But because my mind is wavering and my practice is not so strong in daily life, I will tend to seek relief in things around me rather than seeing all things as opportunities to practice being present.
The 'gratitude' that is often described in Buddhist teachings is quite different from what I hear commonly. I recently read in Dzogchen Ponlop's book Mind Beyond Death, where he talks about the four reminders as common preliminary practice. They are "(1) precious human birth, (2) impermanence, (3) karma and (4) the shortcomings of samsara. All of these forms of reminders generate focus but they also grant practitioners a certain kind of gratitude. Rather than being grateful for particular things that are impermanent to begin with, these four reminders seem to focus the mind just a little bit beyond what is present here and now. While we are blessed to be born human, for example, this gratitude also carries with it a certain responsibility to ensure that we are not reborn in a less favorable state for practice. It is also sobering to reflect that humans are fragile beings, subject to impermanence, suffering and cause/condition. The gratitude comes more from discovering teachings that will help one go beyond this suffering. This gratitude seems more engaged than simply being grateful for one's possessions.
Ponlop, Dzogchen (2006, 2008), Mind Beyond Death Ithaka: Snow Lion.
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Dreaming Awake
Tonight’s meditation was a bit choppy in some places. I was torn between being very strict in my
practice and allowing wandering thoughts to arise, sometimes even observing how
strange or irrelevant the thoughts really are. And over time, when I was able
to see the thoughts for what they are, they had far less power over the
practice. Interestingly, once I could see the impermanent and ‘dead end’ nature
of wandering thoughts, they had much less power than, say, repressing thoughts.
Quite the contrary, ‘repressing’ thoughts tends to make them seem much more powerful
than they are. This is why I relish the middle way when it comes to having
thoughts in meditation. But I also noticed something interesting: the more I
observed my thoughts coming and going, the more it almost seemed like the
thoughts were dreamlike, and not at all connected to anything permanent.
There is an interesting relationship
between ‘dreaming’ and spiritual stories and practices. G.S Kirk devotes a
whole chapter to his Nature of Greek
Myths (1974) to expounding (and challenging) the connection between
mythological stories and dream states. Some thinkers which Kirk mentions, such
as V.W. Turner suggest that myths represent ‘transitional’ or liminal states
between two distinct stages of life’s maturity, similar to how dreams can
mediate between conscious and unconscious life. Quoting Kirk, Turner maintains
that myths function to “interpose a sacred interval in the flux of profane experience
in order to facilitate the sharp transition from one condition to a totally different
one.” (p.88). Kirk also notes the similarity between myths and dreams, when he
mentions that the myth’s story often “depends on the dislocation of normal
sequences and expectations; something that leads beyond paradoxicality to a
kind of dream-like, sometimes nightmarish, other-worldliness.” (p.90)
Kirk contends that myths can be
powerful aspects of spiritual life, precisely because they offer temporal and
spatial ‘disruptions’ from habitual ways of telling a story. “Sacred” and “profane”
elements often intermingle in myths, such as the interaction between gods and
mortals, or between spirits and animals. These in turn can lead people to try
out new possibilities, or experiment with a variety of perspectives on a
situation. Kirk also seems to like the idea hinted by Levi-Strauss that myths
offer ways to mediate between untenable contradictions in human life, by
creating and exposing conflicts in a safe and experimental, multi-levelled way.
I wonder, could this description perhaps equally apply to all art forms, or at
least literary forms?
From a perspective of Buddhist or
meditative practice, do dreams have a value? Dzogchen Ponlop offers a
compelling argument in the book Mind
Beyond Death to suggest that dreams are close to the ‘bardo’ or
transitional states between life and death, and could therefore offer grounds
for practitioners to ‘practice’ equanimity prior to death. He also suggests
that dreaming is an apt metaphor for the impermanence of all things. In one
powerful passage, he reminds us:
One of the ways to
understand the dreamlike quality of our present experience is to look at the
experience of yesterday from the perspective of today. When we do this, we see
that everything that happened yesterday exists now only as a memory. Our
conversations, actions, thoughts and feelings,
even the sights and sounds of yesterday, are no more real than the
images that appeared to us in last night’s dreams. (p.68)
For Dzchoghen Ponlop, dreams can indeed be the way people
can understand, perhaps by analogy, the transitory nature of their experiences.
This way of looking at all one’s experiences can, from a Buddhist perspective,
prepare one for the letting go that comes with the ending of life. This Is
maybe a far cry from traditional ways of trying to divine the symbolic meaning
of dreams. But it tries to look at the similarities between the ‘stream of
consciousness’ offered in dreams and that of waking life itself.
To go back to the experience of meditation: if I can start
to look at thoughts as a form of ‘awake dreaming”, I can learn to place less
emphasis on the content or the ‘dramatic’ pull of thoughts, and more emphasis
on the awareness which has the thought. I am also seeing that the thoughts are
bound to arise and pass away again, there is less attachment to habitual turns
of thought. This way of looking at thoughts
can also provide a healing space for upsetting thoughts to be observed, without
the sense that these thoughts are enduring. At the very least, dreams can offer
analogies for how to see things in
everyday experience with more creative play and less attachment.
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Sustaining Emotional Awareness
When I first started to meditate, I remember being afraid of the pain that I knew would arise from sitting. I don't think I had a way to look at the pain that created space for it. Instead, I tended to use focused method (like chanting) to block out the pain. I suppose in retrospect that this is a kind of misunderstanding of what the practice method is supposed to do, but at that time it had helped arouse the energy to keep going--not to mention enthusiasm. But it also created a tension within me, as though the aim of the practice were to get rid of certain undesirable states. If I proved unable to do so, the sitting meditation would feel like 'failure' to me, because I connected 'inability to bear pain' with failure itself.
In the recent months, I have switched my course. Instead of 'fearing' the bodily pains of meditation, I sometimes 'look forward' to how I can incorporate them into my awareness practice. It is as though my practice had turned upon itself and is acknowledging the origin of pain as coming from mind. I think that recently, I am trying to welcome the opportunity to work with the energies of pain, or painful situations.
In spite of all this, I believe I still have a long way to go in the daily practice and application of this principle. I believe that my tendency is to shy away from people and avoid risky situations where I might either be vulnerable or somehow responsible for people around me in some way. In consulting with Buddhist texts, I have come to realize that there are three approaches that might work well for me to help me overcome some of these tendencies. The first approach would be to reverse my tendency to become shy and withdrawn, by deliberately choosing the other's perspective, as I imagine it in my mind. The second approach would be to abide in my own feelings as much as possible, even if the emotions I am having with others might seem painful to me or even irrational. The third approach would to simply honor the totality of the experience as arising from the same source, the true mind. I would like to briefly explain these three methods.
I think I had first encountered the "reversal" approach in my reading of Shantideva's Way of Bodhisattva, where he counsels monastics to reverse their self-position and exchange self with others. I recently found the same approach in the writings of Western Buddhists, Joan Halifax and Caroline Brazier. Halifax, writing from the perspective of hospice caregivers, suggests an open-minded approach to receiving others as unique individuals, as well as "a mind of not-knowing." (Halifax, 2008, p.20). This may seem difficult, because my encounters with others invariably contain transference from previous, often unrelated encounters. From this perspective, it is also not helpful to 'fight' the memories coming from previous experience. Rather, it is to just recognize that the current experience is unknown, even though previous memories 'feel' familiar. By acknowledging that I am reacting to a residual memory and not the present state, I create a space where something new might happen between myself and others. Halifax also recommends that caregivers imagine every being as their mothers, in keeping with the Tibetan method of doing so (p.21). Imaginative reframing like this can help me go beyond my individual way of reacting to the world, and might help me imagine what it feels like to be someone else.
Caroline Brazier (2003) suggests an exercise where her clients loosen powerful, aversive emotions they might feel toward particular people, by speculating on what kinds of challenges and problems the other person might face in their daily life (see p.109). Looking at another person in this way can de-escalate tense or heightened reactions that one might feel. I guess this kind of comes back to seeing a person as a form of appreciation, rather than as a self-referencing. I find this would be painfully hard to do if I am strongly attached to someone else, because in that case, my relation to them would be based on these self-centered desires. If I find it difficult to appreciate a person on her or his own terms, I suppose that would be a sign of my own habitual energies getting in the way of seeing the person as they are.
The second perspective would be to simply learn to acquaint oneself with uncomfortable emotional energies, rather than trying to avoid them or turn them into something artificially pleasant. In his book Mind Beyond Death, Dzogchen Ponlop refers to this process as "befriending intense emotions". I love what he has to say here, so I quote this in full:
If we do not become familiar with our emotions, then we will always fear them--even more so in the bardos after death. It is like the fear we have of a stranger. When we do not know somebody, we tend to maintain a certain distance from them. We might be willing to have a formal conversation with the stranger, but we do not want to get too deeply involved. We do the same thing with our emotions. We do not really 'talk' with them because we do not really know them, an we prefer to maintain that distance in some cases. (p.42)
I would perhaps add to this insightful parallel between 'unfamiliar' emotions and 'strangers', by suggesting that strangers often become projections of my unwanted emotions. And I think the most unwanted emotions are fear of the unknown and loss of control, which the stranger ends up embodying for me. Encountering a stranger is like encountering a world of very new possibilities, where I may need to suspend my previous views of self, adopt new roles, or discard comfortable ways of being. If I can learn to sit with uncomfortable feelings, perhaps I can also abide in unknown social situations. And perhaps the two are inseparable on that front.
The third method is simply to see all experience as coming from the same source of mind. This approach goes beyond trying to conceptualize how I 'need' to feel about my feelings, or react to others, by suggesting that all these feelings and reactions are simply the mind's phenomena. This might be thought of as pointing to the mind nature that is in all phenomena. Through this perspective, there is simply no need for fear of other beings, as the fear is coming from my own thoughts and judgments. Being angry or afraid would then be like the left hand being afraid of the right because they are doing different things. I don't need to add to the arising feeling or try to make it better, as it is already part of the true and perfect mind.
Of the three approaches, I believe the third one is most familiar to me and perhaps the most direct. All the other approaches take a person in the direction of seeing that the thoughts are the source of one's vexations, not an 'outside awareness' independent of that mind you are experiencing now. But I do think that in many cases, the first two approaches can be skillful ways to reverse destructive emotions or feelings of isolation.
Brazier, Caroline (2003), Buddhist Psychology: Liberate Your Mind, Embrace Life. London: Constable and Robinson
Halifax, Joan (2008), Being with Dying: Cultivating Compassion and Fearlessness in the Face of Death. Boston: Shambhala
Ponlop, Dongchen (2006), Mind Beyond Death. Ithaca: Snow Lion
In the recent months, I have switched my course. Instead of 'fearing' the bodily pains of meditation, I sometimes 'look forward' to how I can incorporate them into my awareness practice. It is as though my practice had turned upon itself and is acknowledging the origin of pain as coming from mind. I think that recently, I am trying to welcome the opportunity to work with the energies of pain, or painful situations.
In spite of all this, I believe I still have a long way to go in the daily practice and application of this principle. I believe that my tendency is to shy away from people and avoid risky situations where I might either be vulnerable or somehow responsible for people around me in some way. In consulting with Buddhist texts, I have come to realize that there are three approaches that might work well for me to help me overcome some of these tendencies. The first approach would be to reverse my tendency to become shy and withdrawn, by deliberately choosing the other's perspective, as I imagine it in my mind. The second approach would be to abide in my own feelings as much as possible, even if the emotions I am having with others might seem painful to me or even irrational. The third approach would to simply honor the totality of the experience as arising from the same source, the true mind. I would like to briefly explain these three methods.
I think I had first encountered the "reversal" approach in my reading of Shantideva's Way of Bodhisattva, where he counsels monastics to reverse their self-position and exchange self with others. I recently found the same approach in the writings of Western Buddhists, Joan Halifax and Caroline Brazier. Halifax, writing from the perspective of hospice caregivers, suggests an open-minded approach to receiving others as unique individuals, as well as "a mind of not-knowing." (Halifax, 2008, p.20). This may seem difficult, because my encounters with others invariably contain transference from previous, often unrelated encounters. From this perspective, it is also not helpful to 'fight' the memories coming from previous experience. Rather, it is to just recognize that the current experience is unknown, even though previous memories 'feel' familiar. By acknowledging that I am reacting to a residual memory and not the present state, I create a space where something new might happen between myself and others. Halifax also recommends that caregivers imagine every being as their mothers, in keeping with the Tibetan method of doing so (p.21). Imaginative reframing like this can help me go beyond my individual way of reacting to the world, and might help me imagine what it feels like to be someone else.
Caroline Brazier (2003) suggests an exercise where her clients loosen powerful, aversive emotions they might feel toward particular people, by speculating on what kinds of challenges and problems the other person might face in their daily life (see p.109). Looking at another person in this way can de-escalate tense or heightened reactions that one might feel. I guess this kind of comes back to seeing a person as a form of appreciation, rather than as a self-referencing. I find this would be painfully hard to do if I am strongly attached to someone else, because in that case, my relation to them would be based on these self-centered desires. If I find it difficult to appreciate a person on her or his own terms, I suppose that would be a sign of my own habitual energies getting in the way of seeing the person as they are.
The second perspective would be to simply learn to acquaint oneself with uncomfortable emotional energies, rather than trying to avoid them or turn them into something artificially pleasant. In his book Mind Beyond Death, Dzogchen Ponlop refers to this process as "befriending intense emotions". I love what he has to say here, so I quote this in full:
If we do not become familiar with our emotions, then we will always fear them--even more so in the bardos after death. It is like the fear we have of a stranger. When we do not know somebody, we tend to maintain a certain distance from them. We might be willing to have a formal conversation with the stranger, but we do not want to get too deeply involved. We do the same thing with our emotions. We do not really 'talk' with them because we do not really know them, an we prefer to maintain that distance in some cases. (p.42)
I would perhaps add to this insightful parallel between 'unfamiliar' emotions and 'strangers', by suggesting that strangers often become projections of my unwanted emotions. And I think the most unwanted emotions are fear of the unknown and loss of control, which the stranger ends up embodying for me. Encountering a stranger is like encountering a world of very new possibilities, where I may need to suspend my previous views of self, adopt new roles, or discard comfortable ways of being. If I can learn to sit with uncomfortable feelings, perhaps I can also abide in unknown social situations. And perhaps the two are inseparable on that front.
The third method is simply to see all experience as coming from the same source of mind. This approach goes beyond trying to conceptualize how I 'need' to feel about my feelings, or react to others, by suggesting that all these feelings and reactions are simply the mind's phenomena. This might be thought of as pointing to the mind nature that is in all phenomena. Through this perspective, there is simply no need for fear of other beings, as the fear is coming from my own thoughts and judgments. Being angry or afraid would then be like the left hand being afraid of the right because they are doing different things. I don't need to add to the arising feeling or try to make it better, as it is already part of the true and perfect mind.
Of the three approaches, I believe the third one is most familiar to me and perhaps the most direct. All the other approaches take a person in the direction of seeing that the thoughts are the source of one's vexations, not an 'outside awareness' independent of that mind you are experiencing now. But I do think that in many cases, the first two approaches can be skillful ways to reverse destructive emotions or feelings of isolation.
Brazier, Caroline (2003), Buddhist Psychology: Liberate Your Mind, Embrace Life. London: Constable and Robinson
Halifax, Joan (2008), Being with Dying: Cultivating Compassion and Fearlessness in the Face of Death. Boston: Shambhala
Ponlop, Dongchen (2006), Mind Beyond Death. Ithaca: Snow Lion
Monday, February 1, 2016
From Desire to Appreciation
Reading Caroline Brazier's book Buddhist Psychology, I am reflecting on what a person can do when caught in desires, and how desire can transform into appreciation. There seem to be so many methods in Buddhist practice and in psychology that can help with this. But Brazier makes an interesting observation: namely, that desire comes from identifying something with the self. Using Buddhist theory, she arrives at four different ways of orienting on desired objects: identifying with it, seeing oneself in it, seeing oneself as different from the object, and seeing oneself as possessing it. (p.63). Upon first observing this list, I start to realize that there are deep contradictions between these orientations. For example, how can a person 'possess' that to which she or he is already identified? How can 'identity' and 'difference' co-exist in the same relationship with an object? Brazier's analysis, for me, points to the deep confusions that can arise when a person starts to work with their desires or try to become freed of them. It seems that in order to "identify" something as "me", I have to somehow confirm in my mind that it is 'mine'. But that can also involve embracing or sometimes even exaggerating difference. To 'embrace' difference as 'mine' can sometimes create a false sense of omnipotence, as when a person feels that she or he is able to embrace and even own what is opposite to her or his existing tendencies. So sometimes, when I think I have transcended myself through an object, I have only managed to intensify my attachment to self by making it seem 'larger.'
To give an example of this tendency, I am thinking about someone who collects spiritually charged objects or ideas. I have heard that this tendency may be referred to as 'spiritual materialism'. With this tendency, the self tries to prove that it has 'transcended itself' by collecting an object that represents self-transcendence, such as a totem or a sacred figure or statue. But by owning such an object or 'embracing' it, have I really 'transcended' myself? One might argue or suggest that it depends on how we treat the object and feel about it. If I am using the object to further my practice and understanding, then it is walking a path that can go beyond the self. But if I am seeing the object more as a kind of possession, then it starts to become more like an extension of the self. I often wonder, as I am writing this, to what extent the notion of 'cultural capital' taps into this desire to 'expand' and yet 'transcend' the self, and the contradiction that lies in this 'expansion'/'transcendence'. On the one hand, I want to go beyond the narrow views of who I am which cause me to suffer in this present moment, by latching onto something that is different or perhaps appearing more refined that I am. On the other hand, I might be relating to that object in much the same ways that I would relate to any novel or consumable object. I 'expand' myself only to contract within the boundaries of the expanded self. Then the object becomes appropriated to somehow represent this 'new and improved' self that is presumably purified. This is how things can become exoticized, yet still contract into the self.
I raise this topic because it seems important to know the difference between expanding the sense of self and going beyond self. While cultivating interests is good, when does cultivation become appropriation and possession?The practice of going beyond self can be quite arduous, and it is not a simple practice at all. I even think that it requires a critical awareness and reflection that can sometimes be furnished through philosophical discussion and analysis. Sometimes, my appreciation for something could be a way of simply expanding my sense of self to incorporate it into my habitual patterns of identifying with things. On the other hand, a sincere appreciation requires the willingness to lessen the sense of self or to invite a glimpse into emptiness of all 'selves'.
Brazier, Caroline (2003), Buddhist Psychology: Liberate Your Mind, Embrace Life. London: Constable & Robinson
To give an example of this tendency, I am thinking about someone who collects spiritually charged objects or ideas. I have heard that this tendency may be referred to as 'spiritual materialism'. With this tendency, the self tries to prove that it has 'transcended itself' by collecting an object that represents self-transcendence, such as a totem or a sacred figure or statue. But by owning such an object or 'embracing' it, have I really 'transcended' myself? One might argue or suggest that it depends on how we treat the object and feel about it. If I am using the object to further my practice and understanding, then it is walking a path that can go beyond the self. But if I am seeing the object more as a kind of possession, then it starts to become more like an extension of the self. I often wonder, as I am writing this, to what extent the notion of 'cultural capital' taps into this desire to 'expand' and yet 'transcend' the self, and the contradiction that lies in this 'expansion'/'transcendence'. On the one hand, I want to go beyond the narrow views of who I am which cause me to suffer in this present moment, by latching onto something that is different or perhaps appearing more refined that I am. On the other hand, I might be relating to that object in much the same ways that I would relate to any novel or consumable object. I 'expand' myself only to contract within the boundaries of the expanded self. Then the object becomes appropriated to somehow represent this 'new and improved' self that is presumably purified. This is how things can become exoticized, yet still contract into the self.
I raise this topic because it seems important to know the difference between expanding the sense of self and going beyond self. While cultivating interests is good, when does cultivation become appropriation and possession?The practice of going beyond self can be quite arduous, and it is not a simple practice at all. I even think that it requires a critical awareness and reflection that can sometimes be furnished through philosophical discussion and analysis. Sometimes, my appreciation for something could be a way of simply expanding my sense of self to incorporate it into my habitual patterns of identifying with things. On the other hand, a sincere appreciation requires the willingness to lessen the sense of self or to invite a glimpse into emptiness of all 'selves'.
Brazier, Caroline (2003), Buddhist Psychology: Liberate Your Mind, Embrace Life. London: Constable & Robinson
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