All Encompassing

   Every moment is a choice as to whether there is going to be a pure land or not. I was thinking about this: one actively chooses purity in their world or impurity. How is this done, you might wonder? From my understanding of Buddhist teachings, impurity does not refer to something that is poor in quality compared to something else. Rather, it relates more to an orientation; a way of seeing that treats phenomena as actively created and shaped by mind. I can see something in an infinite number of ways, to the point where that phenomena I am experiencing is really the product of choices I am or have made. Without those choices, nothing would really exist.
   This is a very liberating perspective, but there is something deeper than this, and that is the notion that mind encompasses every state of being, no matter what it happens to be. In other words, there is simply no need for me to take sides in any of this: to side with the torturer or the tortured, since they are both phenomena. It's hard to really practice this approach, yet it is essential to try doing so, even if it's only mapping the situation out on paper until one gets a genuine feel for it.
   What it entails is that there is simply no winning and losing. The only time I think of 'win' or 'lose' is when I keep comparing two thoughts. An example: I see someone get in front of me in a line or on the street, and the immediate thoughts are, "how dare he or she try to surpass me!" But in this situation, the thought of the person passing by is being paired with the thought of me standing or walking (whichever happens to be the case). The suffering arises when I am thinking that these two thoughts interact with each other, when they don't in reality. In fact, the two are completely unrelated; it is only the mind that just happens to connect them together and come up with associations and comparisons.
   If I didn't do this kind of thing and allowed my mind to simply be present, a lot of the tension and suffering I feel would naturally disappear on its own. Of course, this perspective is not easy to reach, but I think it can be practiced by writing it out as a reminder or saying it out loud.

Emotional Landscapes

  Throughout my life, I have been trying to articulate different 'models' for looking at emotional life, particularly focusing on holistic approaches. One of the most attractive ideas is that of reframing emotional life. Emotions tend to follow a kind of hydraulic metaphor, as though feelings were fluids. For instance, one says that anger is 'pent up', or I 'blow off' the steam of anxiety, or I feel 'drained' emotionally. Has anyone ever stopped to wonder why so many emotions are viewed as 'liquids'? Of course, one interesting side effect is that, like any fluid, emotions can be thought of as consumable.
     One alternative I have been trying out recently is that of regarding emotions as landscapes, somewhat akin to landscape paintings. Now, what would it be like to see emotions in this way? Well, one thing is that emotions would start to be less located in the body and more found diffused throughout experience. I think this would make emotions seem less like invaders and more like the stuff of art, or part of the way things are configured in the present situation. It would also help to allow people to pause for a bit and fully appreciate the landscape of their experience, rather than treating the emotion as something that needs fixing in some way or another.
   There has to be some way that we can sit alongside our emotions and not see them as part of who we are or as threatening in some way. I think this is a large part about meditation practice, and in some regards I take it to be a phenomenological approach to life: to start with the structure of one's feelings to determine if that's a good enough structure to sustain our actions and optimize meaningful life.

"The Death of the Contemplative Mind"

 Richard Rohr, a theologian who was recommended to me by my professor, states in his video "Christianity and Unknowing", that the split in the churches after the reformation is responsible for what he calls "the death of the contemplative mind." I love this statement. I have found that there is a very thin line between what Rohr describes as "knowing" and "not knowing and not needing to know". I think part of the reason is that people in communities are so worried about preserving the purity of their ideas that they forget the whole point of contemplative life. I also believe that there is so much emphasis on religious identity, and I wonder if there is room for a religious non-identity: a just being in the midst of other beings. An example of this is to walk into a situation with a 'trying mind': a mind that simply tries things out, rather than trying to put on something like it is a kind of character armor.
   When I was in group meditation practice tonight, the participants were talking about sitting in the full lotus posture and I could not help but feel a certain resistance. I was interpreting the discussion along the lines of: it's better for me to sit in full lotus, and I should try it out, even if for a little while. I stayed  with the sense of disconnection I was feeling, and later I was able to see that these voices are only suggestions, and I can feel free to experiment with them. But what happens if an entire community starts to believe that something absolutely should be the case, or has to be the case, in order for one to be a serious or committed spiritual practitioner? That, I think, is when the curiosity of trying turns into the dogma of knowing, and when there is this illusion of people progressing toward an ideal state. I think this is the kind of thing that can only lead to a depression or a despair: the sense that one is never owning up to the ideal. But, one thing that helps me in these situation is to honor foolishness. Maybe I am not "It", and maybe I am just here!
    As Rohr remarks, as a participant in the dance of the divine, there is nothing to prove, only interconnection. But sometimes in order to really be comfortable in that community, there needs to be a space for rebellion (albeit with the chance of a dialogue), but also for reconnecting. I can't describe it other than a kind of flow--sometimes one pushes back when it's too hot, then draws back in when it's too cold, and so on. To know that this flow is happening all the time and have the vocabulary to speak of that flow seems to be an important skill.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MnTC4NNIACk

Diving Deeply

 There is something really paradoxical about pain. It's a little bit like pushing a finger through a fabric or perhaps a tissue. In the beginning, there is a kind of resistance to the pain but then later, there is a breakthrough, and it's only when one goes deeply through that pain that something joyful will come out of it. However, the joy isn't separate from the experience of pain itself; rather, it's a kind of reciprocation or even a reiteration of the painful experience itself.
   An example is something like aloneness. Most of the time, people will try to alleviate the sense of aloneness by choosing company or trying to find stimulation of some kind. The paradox is that it's only when a person has fully experienced aloneness that a kind of reciprocation sets in. I am thinking of examples of times when I had a solitary walk, and felt that there was something a bit dreary about the atmosphere or the environment. Yet, because I stayed there long enough in that moment and didn't flee from it, later I realized that there was always a very 'human' presence to the whole scene, and that there was no need for me to fear depersonalization by inhabiting it for a while.
     Most people seem to associate mindfulness with this idea of trying to erase the personality, but I don't think that is necessarily entailed by mindfulness. Rather, being fully with one's environment shows that the environment itself is as alive, as sentient and as full of awareness as one's own body: awareness is not limited to the body. And then there is this aha moment when I realize that I can never be apart from awareness, so why fear being alone? The very question of how to avoid being alone comes from a living, sentient awareness that cannot ever be alienated from itself. That is why in those moments of total acceptance, there is not even a concept of being alone, because I am not identifying with an image or an idea of who I am. I am completely with whatever is happening for me in that moment.

Lifelong Learning

  I remember when I was 10 years old, I picked up a book--at K-Mart, of all places--called The Lifelong Learner. I don't know if this book still exists anymore or whether or not it's still in print. In fact, I don't even remember who the author was. But I bought that book anyway, and I think the reason I did was that I simply love the concept of "lifelong" learning. Even though I wasn't aware of it at the time and didn't have the words to say it, I think what struck me was the spiritual aspect of 'lifelong' learning. It's essentially a learning that has no limits and no credentials: something that isn't demarcated by earned status, or number of years spent in a certain field, or number of credits. It isn't conferred upon a person by a degree either. In a sense, it is the kind of learning that goes beyond the sense of being given a status.
   The reason, I think, that lifelong learning is not as popular as it could be is that people tend to think there is only one life, and one's merits are limited to what they do and complete in this life. But what if the things one does are never completed? Would life lose its meaning if that were the case? I have found that even when I cannot finish a particular degree or diploma, I am still able to enjoy the courses themselves and find some value in the process of learning. But in order to do that, I have to stop believing that there are ever completions. Instead, I need to believe that life is cyclic, and the value of one's purposes lies more in the intention and vows than in the process of completing something.
   This doesn't mean that people should not strive to complete anything. Rather, I think it means that one should not be attached to this notion of completion/non-completion. Sometimes we complete things that are not fulfilling at all, or we may not complete something that is deeply fulfilling. Which one of these two has the most value?
    When I stop valuing learning for its ends and start valuing learning for its own sake, then I don't worry if I don't finish what I set out to do. The learning itself has value, and other things will naturally take care of themselves in the process of learning.

a third choice

  I have lately been thinking about the idea that people often think there is only one of two choices in life. The classic example I can think of is that of the 'fork in the road'. This idea relates to how one's decision to do one thing invariably appears to exclude the other. But I have to wonder, is this necessarily the case? My concern is that in abandoning one road in favour of the other, I am under the illusion that both roads are separate. In fact, the two roads (the one taken and the one not taken) are really two sides of the same road; they are essentially intertwined.
   When I make one decision, the other path doesn't go away. Rather, it lives in my heart still, as a stillborn or undeveloped path. If I don't honor the path I didn't take, or simply try to repress that path, it will somehow come back in another form. How do I honor that other path? I think the best way seems to be to validate that all paths have a certain legitimacy. While only one path gets chosen in the end, that choice needs to somehow incorporate the other unchosen paths, either through an acknowledgment or a token which represents the blessings of those alternate paths. By recognizing the gravity of choosing one path over others, I am embracing a 'third choice' which is neither rejecting one path nor seeking the other. It's about seeing all paths, whether taken or not, as equal yet different, and having their own unique gifts.

The Nervous Presenter!

When I did my presentation today, I was much more nervous than I had expected, but in another way, it was okay for me to be nervous. Perhaps there are many reasons to feel that way: not knowing if I will fill the time or if there will be not enough time, the sense of uncertainty, the fear that others won’t like the presentation, and so on. I went through the gamut of all those emotions, and somehow I knew that it should be that way. I think that staying with my nervous condition and seeing that it won’t ‘kill me’ is a much greater value than trying to make the nervousness go away.

A lot of what I experienced today ties in naturally with the sense that loving kindness is not about replacing bad feelings with good ones, but it more about having the spaciousness to abide on one’s present momentary reality. Knowing that there is nothing wrong with being nervous or scared is one paradoxical way in which the fear is somehow reduced. I am confident that the feeling has its own legitimacy, and there is no need for me to force that feeling to go away; it in fact has its own place and time.

I had a very good time revisiting my thesis on Loving Kindness meditation practice, and this presentation did give me a good opportunity to read the thesis in a book form. I have to say that this experience was satisfying in the sense that it validated the efforts and care I put in the wording of the thesis. Reading it again allowed me to re-experience the magic of being able to work on the project, pushing through in spite of the difficulties. As one of the participants suggested to me afterward, “just keep going” with what I am doing. I hope to do so in whatever form it will take, preferably writing.