What Can't Be Taken Away

 I am often fond of reading the writings of Epictetus, one of the founders of the teachings in Stoicism. I am not too sure when I started to read Stoicism or under what circumstances, but I believe I had initially discovered Seneca and Marcus Aurelius. Epictetus' "Golden Sayings" was one of the last Stoic texts I had read, unless Boethius' "Consolations" could be called "Stoic". I seem to turn to this philosophy the most when I am feeling socially insecure, and not sure where to turn when doubting the social infrastructure where I live. I'd like to share about one of the chapters in Epictetus' "Discourses".
     In the first chapter, Epictetus starts by asking his audience what is used to comprehend subject areas like grammar, music, literature, and so on. His argument is something like: there must be some ability to discern the nature of things that is independent of the things themselves. While we sometimes believe that music is what makes us 'musical'  and grammar makes us 'grammatical', Epictetus suggests that these areas cannot determine whether something is musical, grammatical or even good. He pinpoints the reasoning faculty as the only thing that can truly discern the true value of things. Epictetus even goes so far as to suggest that reason is the only faculty that the gods cannot take away from human beings, and describes reason as "the power to deal rightly with our impressions" (p.5)
      Epictetus then introduces an interesting metaphor of the 'borrowed body'. He describes how Zeus, the king of gods, had given human beings this temporary body, through which Zeus has granted humans "a portion of myself": "this faculty of exerting the impulse to act  and not to act, and desire and aversion, and, in a word, making proper use of impressions." (p.6) But, as Zeus later goes on to explain: even though humans only need to take care of their reasoning, they choose instead to take care of a great many things which are not within their power or are impermanent, Rather than taking care of the one thing that is within one's power, people tend to spread their concerns over a multitude of areas, including "body, property, brother, friend, child, and slave" (ibid). Zeus proposes the solution, "make the best of what is in your power, and take the rest as it naturally happens." The chapter ends with many examples of what people could do in extreme situations, knowing that they only have the reasoning mind and letting go of their attachment to the body. One of them even mentions that if they should be beheaded, there is one head which cannot be removed! Wow, it's a powerful metaphor.
   It might be said that Epictetus writes from the perspective of 'salvation through reason alone'. But there is a deeper concept at work in his writings, and it has to do with a mind that is impervious to the ups and downs of the body. According to the Stoic philosophy, since my body is only temporarily 'on loan' by gods, I don't need to identify the body as me. I can simply let go of it when the need arises, knowing that it was never 'mine' to begin with. I see certain kinds of parallels with levels of meditative practice, in which a person no longer feels her or his body as an impediment, because she is beyond identifying with it.
    Is this philosophy identical with Buddhist ideas about the body? In a way, but I also believe that Buddhism takes a broader and more nuanced view of the body. For instance, to be born in a human body is a precious gift, and it's a rare one at that. To have a body is to have the capacity to cultivate a spiritual practice and to have good karmic  conditions to practice. Having a body is not something to be taken lightly, in other words. As well, without a material base in health, it's harder to have a spiritual life--not impossible, but perhaps hard. In this way, the mental and physical elements are connected in Buddhism. It isn't that I have a mind that travels from one body to the next, based on the biddings of a higher being, but that the body itself  is part of the conditions of being and often contains the results of previous effects. There isn't such a notion that the mind is separate from the body.
   Stoicism is attractive for the sense that it offers a sanctuary in reason against the turmoil of emotional situations. But I also consider: in my experience with meditating, it's slowly dawning on me that the resistance to emotion and 'the unexpected' moments is actually a form of suffering in itself. It's suffering because it creates a pristine oasis in reason, without considering the pain and repression of denying emotions. It's also suffering because trying to go against emotions by posing 'reason' is like trying to replace one thought with another. It's neither quite possible nor desirable. Every now and then, I glimpse a possibility of beholding a situation as it is without trying to fix it. Does it mean there is nothing to be done? In a way, it means doing from necessity rather than doing from a compulsion to perfect the moment.

Epicteus, (1995) The Discourses. Everyman

eternal recurrence

   During the meditation session, one of the participants had described the situation of coming back to something with completely new eyes, but realizing that there is a new view from 'nowhere'. It is something like this: have you ever had a situation where your mind either drifted or simply went into a different state of being, and then found that what was familiar before now looks 'unfamiliar'? The way this practitioner described it is something like: hearing the sound of my voice doing the guided facilitation, then starting to fall away from that voice, only to hear it again and ask the question: where was I between hearing the sound, then not hearing it, then hearing it again? This is not about just letting the mind wander. I think it's more about forgetting the self's existence for a brief moment, and seeing a situation anew without any solid sense of self. At that point, we catch ourselves wondering: what happened to this secure sense of being that binds the past, present and future? Is it really there all the time or does it in fact go in and out, like the tides?
     I think that every so often, people need to challenge the sense of who is the self that is having an experience, before they can see the experience with 'new eyes'. This is the meaning of huatou practice: to keep questioning the subject-object duality until it dissolves somehow. But there is another aspect to this experience which somehow reminds me of Nietzsche's notion of the 'eternal recurrence'. It is the notion of continuing to revisit the same place until one fully embraces living it and wishes to fully relive it in the same way.  From a Buddhist perspective, I think perhaps it means visiting things without an entrenched sense of self dragging one down.
    I think as soon as I even imagine what this eternal recurrence looks like, I have already gone afar from accepting this present moment without attachment. Why? It's because whatever I envision for myself is only going to be an image that is divorced from present awareness. It certainly doesn't mean that  one has no suffering to bear. I think what it entails is acceptance even of non-acceptance. Now how is this possible? Quite simply it is about so radically accepting one's present conditions that there is simply no need to envision something better, more positive, more relaxed, and so on. This 'more' is actually the source of suffering, because it is always displacing awareness to some thought that has no awareness at all. There is even a sense that trying to 'give rise to something more spiritual' is equally off the mark, because it is desiring something that just isn't present.
    Of course, there is a mystery to all this, particularly around the question of what makes eternal recurrence something that one can embrace. Sometimes I think that people start to have the experience when they have suffered a situation so much that all their alternatives to framing the experience have exhausted. At that point, there is no other choice but to embrace the situation as it is in its entirety, wholeheartedly. But all the ways we use to evade our current moment are really just preparations for that final embrace or surrender. Once I had finally figured out the futility of willing or wanting something different (especially its impermanence), I am back to the original awareness that is unchanging.

Envisioning Supportive Time

If space and time are relative, what does this mean for daily life? I think that it entails making space for alternative framings of time. If I am stuck in the idea that I do things to meet required deadlines and treat my life as a series of time blocks, I will quickly realize how vexing this kind of life can be. Overscheduling is already a common phenomena with many people. It seems that the convenience of modern scheduling technology such as texting and blackberry makes it easier to cram more things into a given day. But the result is a less clear or at least 'organic' sense of what the body can or cannot take, or even what could be fulfilling about life.
   An example might be what happened to me as I was riding on the subway today. As I was standing and leaning against the glass plate of the door frame (for lack of any available seat), I seemed to feel a sense of time stretching, compounded with the desire to be at home. It was then that I realized that the sense of 'time stretching' was not about the slowness of the train or the long stretches between the stops. Rather, it was more about my desire to be 'somewhere else', which came from a thought about the future. I then contemplated why this desire was so strong in me, and reflected on past times when I was able to enjoy the subway ride as an opportunity to read a stimulating book. Then I adjusted my attitude by giving myself a chance to enjoy the book in my bag. Gradually, I started to learn that the suffering of time was caused by my fixed understanding of time: "I should be home by this time; I should have accomplished x by that time", and so on. Had I let go of attachment to time and realized that there is no moment as valuable as the current one, I would not have generated such a vexation in mind.
     Therapists often talk about creating 'supportive space', such as through a sharing circle or a team of health professionals. But I wonder, could there be such a thing as 'supportive time'? Is it possible to create a therapeutic and healing relationship with time, so that a person can spontaneously adjust their sense of time when they feel 'squeezed' or pressured? I believe that such a 'time therapy' is possible. Of course, the obvious answer would be to meditate. For one thing, meditation can reduce one's attachment to past, present and future, thus allowing one's mind to rest in a timeless awareness that is always here. But a somewhat more analytic approach would be to consider what is in the 'future' that is blocking me from embracing what is happening now. Is the future real? Is it so desirable for me to cherish this concept of 'the future' or is it only an impediment that creates present suffering? Is it  a reality, or only a fictitious sort  of ideal? Sometimes when we finally reach the terminal destination, we might realize how empty it is, because we weren't able to enjoy the process of getting there.
    There is another aspect to this respect for time, and I believe it has to do with an ability to skilfully use the mind to appreciate life's aspects. I say 'skilfully' because I sometimes think appreciation is presented as something that is passive, rather than as something actively chosen. It's not that I simply open my eyes and appreciation naturally arises. It  is more like a kind of appraisal, where I become curious about certain elements like the book I am reading or something funny I saw, or a simple observation. This selective appreciation can allow me to creatively choose what might be good or valuable about what I am doing or have done, rather than concluding that things are a waste of time if they don't relate to a certain chosen goal or desire. In this way, I adopt a more flexible and curious approach to life which often ends up bringing me closer to enjoying my goals and priorities. And it also shifts away from a metaphor of seeing time as a 'race' to get home, to score a goal, to establish oneself in a certain area, and so on.

space, time and Buddhism

 I have read the first half of the chapter in Chan and Enlightenment called "Transcending Time, Space and Life" and it has been quite a complex chapter. I want to share more informally on what the view of space and time might mean for a Buddhist practitioner.
    There has been an awful lot recently in physics about confirming the theory of relativity through gravitational waves. I wonder what relativity means from the perspective of Buddhist practice, however? From my own view,  I think there are both correct and troublesome views about time, and I am subject to both kinds of views.
   Perhaps most 'troublesome' is the linear notion of time: the time that is often based on the modern concept of schedules and clocks, as well as 'beginnings and ends'. Many people, including myself, have been brought up to believe that time is a spatial progression that is often thought to be linear. When you look at a typical wall calendar or event planner, you will probably see a visual embodiment of the linear model of space/time. It suggests that time is a clear progression from beginning (the top of the calendar, typically) to the bottom. Sometimes this spatial model of linear time can come out in language, such as when we say "clocks spring forward" to mean setting the clock an hour in advance of the present time. We also say "look forward to seeing you" (where forward is said to be the future) while "looking back" refers to reminiscing about the past. All of this suggests that time literally moves a person through a stream of related or connected events, and there is a single thread that binds them together. It also assumes that time exists independently of objects.
    From a Buddhist perspective (and often from a philosophical one), time cannot truly exist without objects or unfolding phenomena. For example, if there is a static object that never moves and a subject that doesn't move, how could there be time? How would it even be measured if nothing changes in that picture? In order for time to exist, there needs to be changing phenomena. But it gets more complicated than this. From a relative perspective, past-present-future must exist because there needs to be conditions for something to happen. We don't just magically arrive at work: there needs to be a way to transport ourselves to work, as well as the right conditions for the transportation to go unimpeded. If I ignore those conditions, I would never get to work on time, much less even get to work. The fact that we even speak of conditions affecting things means there needs to be a sense of space and time for these to occur. More so, there needs to be a sense of a subject bearing witness to the conditions and their configurations Otherwise, how can we say that something is conditioned if it hasn't been observed in that condition or set of conditions?
   But from an absolute perspective, time cannot exist. Why not? If a person examines it in a minute level: if conditions are continually subject to change all the time, there isn't a single unchanging reference point to say that past 'was there', present 'is here', future 'is over there'. Such things are only relative to individual reference points. But even those reference points cannot be said to have a past or future (or present) because time is not really 'connecting' anything at all. For example, you might say that the acorn 'causes' the tree to happen, so the acorn is 'in the past' and the tree is 'in the future'. But actually, the very idea of past present and future is only conceptually derived from unfolding causes and conditions, which are constantly subject to change. It isn't even that a tree 'necessarily' must come from an acorn. A tree's growth is subject to many conditions, in fact, not just necessarily coming from a temporal law of 'this must happen from this.'
     What does the Buddhist view of time do for practitioners, I wonder? I think the idea that there isn't a 'concrete' space and time upon which to fall back can be frightening as well as exciting. One thing is that it frees a person from seeing that things necessarily need to proceed in a linear progression. Sometimes, too much attachment to a linear sense of time can create a perfectionist attitude and attachment to the notion of something progressing, as though through a blueprint. It overlooks the way that things are arising from a configuration of unique conditions which often can't be replicated. Sometimes it also means that we don't necessarily know what conditions will lead to a 'good outcome', especially when even outcomes are not guaranteed, and there is no one single 'good' out there that suits all occasions. So when I loosen my sense of space/time as a linear progression, I start to see new possibilities and combinations of things that perhaps never appeared before. Rather than seeing success as conditional upon achieving a certain series of steps, I can stop and see that there are many possible steps from which to proceed and choose. This also means that one can open up to what's unfolding and see different potentials without feeling that all of them need to ripen in that moment. This can also help with creative thinking and planning.

Doing and Thinking

  Lately, I have been learning the importance of doing things, not just getting caught up in thoughts.  I have often fallen into the chosen trap of using my thoughts to gauge actions. But I realize that this way of doing things is really limiting. For one thing, it makes 'thoughts' the measure of a person's values and actions rather than looking at behaviors. For another it lets the action be the key way to look at the behavior rather than how we feel prior to doing the actions. This is a hard lesson to learn, and I wanted to explore it from two perspectives. One of them is something I just learned about recently called Morita Therapy, while the other is a Buddhist perspective.
    I learned about Morita Therapy through Caroline Brazier's book Buddhist Psychology. I believe the principal behind this practice is using journals to document actions that need to be done, rather than looking only at feelings. I have found a lot of times in the past, I have relied on my present emotion (whether fear or anxiety or desire) to determine how and when I do something. But the interesting thing about Morita therapy is that it asks that clients (or practitioners) focus on the details of the actions themselves rather than on our initial feelings about those actions. Brazier remarks:

In particular, Moritist method focuses on moving a person into purposeful action and away from a state where they are at the mercy of crippling emotions. It places a lot of emphasis on the distinction between action, which is under the control of the person, and feelings, which are not. Unlike many western approaches which emphasize waiting until something feels right before acting, the Morita approach emphasizes putting the attention into whatever activity needs to be done and allowing feelings to flow in their own way. The aim is not to eliminate feelings, but to accept that they are just part of our experience. We do not need to become fixated on them. (p.265)

I found this account of Morita therapy quite interesting, and would consider trying Morita journaling technique for a while to see how it unfolds for me. I think it's especially interesting when it comes to doing things I am not used to doing or might not yet have embarked upon. I recall also reading in David Burns' book Feeling Good a similar exercise, where he gets participants to write down what they do on a daily basis and rate their feelings about the action before and after doing it. Burns focuses on the feelings and how they change from 'thinking about' doing something to actually doing it. But nonetheless the key catalyst seems to be getting depressed people to see what they can do and how good they feel once they finally get to doing it.
   I am especially prone to getting more caught up in thoughts (and attendant fears) rather than just buckling down to do something. And it happens all so often that if I get stuck in a thought, I will not see the possibility of action. In Buddhism, I think this has to do with habit energy. When I am in the habit of taking my thoughts to be what is happening in the present, I will fail to really act spontaneously from the heart, because my thoughts are all I can see in the moment. And those thoughts are the result of previous clinging to objects and comfortable ways of seeing the world. For example, if I am going to a movie theatre and I only want to see certain kinds of movies, that becomes an expectation which prevents me from venturing to enjoy other movies. It's not that I am attached necessarily to the actual movie, but it's more a general feeling of familiarity that constellates around my memories of similar movies from the past.
    What Morita or similar therapies try to do, it would appear, is put action first so that people don't fixate on feelings so much. In this way, I am not letting my previous impressions or emotions around something get in the way of the present experience of the actions. By emphasizing action over emotions, it can allow people to stop attaching their identity to emotions, and toward a more action-based approach to being and living. But it also gets away from the 'mystique' of believing that emotions are signs of divine fate or providence. Actually, such is not the case, because how a person feels does not often determine whether things are actually accomplished or not. Though I might believe that some job was 'meant for me', I cannot really tell whether it's going to work or not unless I put my full efforts into the job itself and plan to succeed in it as much as I can.
        

Brazier, Caroline (2003) Buddhist Psychology: Liberate your mind, embrace life. London: Constable

Letting Go of Self-Importance

   After the meditation this morning, I had a feeling of insignificance. In a sense, it was a good feeling. I thought: who am I to facilitate the meditation when I am so fragile and often worthless?  Even though it was harsh, the thought opened up a space for myself to reflect. I was able to understand, at least for a moment, that I didn't need to be or even feel significant to survive and function in the world.
   All human beings have some kind of responsibility to others, coming from previous lifetimes and seeds. To fulfill those duties, people need to work and serve others. But this doesn't necessarily mean that a person will be significant to others. In Master Sheng Yen's commentary on the Surangama Sutra, Until We Reach Buddhahood, he describes the way one of his practitioners felt he could never raise a family or marry, because he felt that he couldn't do anything right. Master Sheng Yen suggests that the practitioner take responsibility precisely because he feels worthless, rather than withdraw from it altogether. Afterward, the practitioner comes back to Master Sheng Yen and reports that he feels much better, having decided to commit to a marriage. The practitioner reports that he still considers himself useless but he nonetheless is able to feel a sense of  responsibility in a committed life (see pages 134 to 145 for the full story).
   Master Sheng Yen's point is to suggest that what a person can contribute to a greater community shapes the way she or he sees the world. When I do something for the volunteer organization at DDM, my view of the world changes, because there is no longer just an isolated "I". I am part of the greater world, and what I can contribute in a small way makes a difference to that community. However, it's notable that none of this changes how I see myself. I am still insignificant, in the sense that there is nothing outstanding about me. But even if I  am not who I wish I could be, I am still part of something bigger than me, and that motivates me to contribute to society.
    I think that this lesson is important for me because it teaches me to try to let go of the sense of self,  or at least the self  I wish I could be in others' eyes. I might evaluate myself as a good student, a good writer, a good friend or person, but this self-evaluation can be so deceiving. I can never know who I am or how I am doing to others, because I cannot see through their eyes. And even if I could, it is bound to change from one moment to the next. If that is the case, I should not look to anyone else to motivate me. I need to look to a more general sense of what needs doing, and volunteer myself as much as possible. Otherwise, I will only deceive myself into thinking I am doing well, when maybe my contribution is insignificant to others. In other words, I have to keep in the present and work hard, and not rely on what was done in the past.
    But another aspect of this teaching, is that I think I can relate to the person who sees himself as useless. I have struggled with those feelings all my life: not doing enough, not being enough, not going far enough. It is was keeps pushing me to do more and more. Maybe it is the way that humans are motivated to do their best in society. But if I keep worrying about how I am seen to others, this is also missing the point. Even if everyone disliked me or didn't think I have a value, I still need to contribute. So there is a sense that even if I am not valued to others, I still need to contribute in as best a way as I can. This means that I need to learn to be comfortable with being useless in other people's eyes, so that I can still function with others and get along with them. Otherwise, I will feel depressed and unable to function. This insight is also about letting go of attachment to self, and realizing impermanence.

Master Sheng Yen, Until We Reach Buddhahood: Lectures on the Surangama Sutra Volume One. Elmhurst: Dharma Drum Publications

Self and The Impossible Goal

   I want to elaborate a bit on the theme of trying to perfect the self as an impediment to living. In my previous entry, I had explored the idea of attachment to emptiness, and how it can often create an isolating situation. This is especially so if a practitioner tries to use meditation to isolate themselves from the chaotic and often messy world. I want to elaborate on some ways of looking at this situation or reframing it in helpful ways so that practitioners can engage in a world that is fraught with impermanence.
    I think it's important to realize that there is no permanent self to perfect. Conditions are constantly changing, goals are changing, and there are  always new problems to solve. When I look at my own life so far, it often seems like a shifting array of challenges and problems, almost like waves in an ocean. I might have a problem that I think it unsurmountable and so difficult, only to realize later that this is not the case at all. It's just that conditions were not ripe yet for a solution to arise. This happened to me in my last semester in my degree program, where I struggled with trying to come up with a good assignment for my teaching writing course. There was a point where the professor suggested that I completely reframe my assignment, and I remember feeling the frustration of simply being up against a brick wall--not knowing what to do. And I generalized it to mean that "I" was simply not able to surmount that problem. This created quite a bit of despair for me. But in reality, there is no static 'container' that has all the answers. There isn't this static 'self' who is an expert at everything all the time. Sometimes, I might actually get stuck on a problem, then abandon it for a while (at least consciously) only to find later that a solution will arrive in mind. But there are other times when I might discover something from someone else or from a book that might reframe how I see a problem. Sometimes it just takes re-orientation to allow me to reframe the problem in a different way.
      Sometimes it's important to persist in trying to find resources and ideas, while waiting for solutions to arise or plans to develop. This waiting is not necessarily about doing nothing, but it might involve stopping for a while and, as Joan Halifax is fond of saying, 'just showing up' for an experience and all its complexity. There is nothing wrong with stopping and observing what is, even if it means seeing that one is in a painful and unknowable transition. And again, I emphasize that this does not mean stagnating. But it might mean taking a break from routine to gather new information or learn something from others that is different from what one knows. It might involve taking a break from a familiar pattern of learning to integrate some new learning or insight in a different field.
    Sometimes, when I try very hard to do well in one thing (such as a spiritual practice), I only end up reinforcing the self that wants to perfect itself. As Caroline Brazier remarks in Buddhist Psychology:

Buddhism encourages us to aspire higher. The object of aspiration may be far beyond our grasp. In accepting this, we experience the failure of effort. We recognize how impotent we really are to effect what we set ourselves to do. This experience is an important part of preparing ourselves for the inspirational encounter. We have to recognize the limitations of the self....Secretly, the self wants perfection; so, in making perfection our aim, we test ourselves. There is always a part of us that believes itself to be omnipotent. This primitive self is constantly ambitious and seeking aggrandizement. In setting impossible targets, this self strives to accomplish the impossible and inevitably fails (p.202-303).

Brazier distinguishes between 'aspiration' and 'inspiration' in spiritual practice. Aspiration means trying to use self-power (such as through meditation or reading sutras) to attain a personal awakening and fulfill the potentials to discover one's own enlightened nature. "Inspiration", on the other hand, entails finding spiritual insight in an encounter with others (such as relationships, teachers or Dharma friends) which helps people along the way. I believe Brazier is suggesting that both are in balance with each other. If I am only relying on self-power, I end up feeding the delusion that the self is the true mind, and is all that is needed for enlightenment. This inevitably ends up in failure. But, as Brazier intimates, this failure is valuable because it opens people up to two insights. The first is that the self is a temporary  illusion that has no permanence or power of its very own. The second is that all being is interconnected, and that life is the balance of this interconnection. To be enlightened is to fully be with this interconnection and to know that the interconnection is true mind, not something that only exists in this body. When  I act in this  understanding, I don't need to cling to concepts of self or other, as though these were static and unchanging givens. But making an 'impossible vow' is an important part of realizing the reality of no-self. Without impossible vows, it would be hard to shatter the sense of self.

Brazier, Caroline (2003),Buddhist Psychology: Liberate your mind, embrace life. London: Robinson.