Burdens of Expertise

   People tend to think that being an expert is something to be desired, and I am even inclined to say that it's essential to acquire a deep knowledge in one's chosen subject areas. It may not be something one has to do, but deeper learning tends to ground a person in something, much like what we see when we observe someone learning a certain trade, such as baking bread. Sometimes, it's not the skill itself that matters so much as the acquisition of a certain grounded relationship to the world, where a person needs to carefully examine different options in resolving problems in the field.

  This having been said, I sometimes wonder if the notion of being grounded in a subject has been gradually supplanted by a competitive orientation toward expertise. It's as though only one person can be an expert, and this creates a kind of elitism around having knowledge to share. In fact, this 'cult' of knowing has the effect, it seems, of mystifying the knower, rather than serving to clarify who knows, and what. More so, such a cult of expertise can sometimes lead to the insecure fear that someone will come along who has even greater expert knowledge than you do--as though this were a death knell to one's status or power!

   What would knowledge authorities think or feel if they could reflect that it is not necessary for them to be 'perfectly knowing' as a means of holding onto their position in the community? I think this less burdened space might help them realize that they can be both learners and knowers, in equal parts, within different contexts. There would also be a diminished fear around being found out as not necessarily knowing all the answers. In my tutoring of ESL learners, I have lately noticed the sense of shame I felt in not knowing how to interpret a quote from a Shakespeare play, only to find that my student became more engaged when I was able to admit to my sense of loss. It is as though, in abdicating my sense of authority in knowing, I was able to provide a space where I could co-discover with my learner, and this seemed to make the learner much more engaged.

 

A Relationship to Present Life

  During the group meditation tonight, I was experimenting with the idea that meditation is a kind of relationship. With what, you might wonder? Well, that is the challenge, because meditation is bringing one back to the original mind that exists prior to subject and object, and yet there is still a relationship that is unfolding. Perhaps one can describe this experience as the 'ultimate' relationship with life, in the sense that there are naturally bound to be surprises there. This is in direct contrast to the idea that meditation is one single ladder that ascends to one particular goal, which is often referred to as 'enlightenment' or some other term.
   When we meditate, is it meant to be a kind of 'recipe' to attain some state of being that is fixed? Or is it discovering that nothing is fixed, and nothing needs to be fixed in one place or another? I tend to think the latter, if not simply because I don't think there is any meaning to this practice unless it somehow allows a practitioner to let go of these fixed concepts of what they believe their life should look like. More so, there are moments when one truly sees that there is this continual process of discovering, revealing and rediscovery that happens in meditating. In a sense, nothing is new about it, but then everything is revealed to be brand new, and we keep approaching that newness with fresh vitality. No longer working only with dead or broken concepts, one can approach experience in this way, even when there are parts to that experience which seem dreary or negative.
   What makes this way of looking at meditation practice so refreshing to me is that there is no time line imposed upon it where I am made to feel that I have to be a certain way as a result of practice. Sometimes one has to let go of all pretentions before a genuine change can arise in mind and heart.

Letting Go of Self in Equanimity

 I am reflecting on both recent Chan talks in Toronto, the first by Gilbert and the second by Venerable Guo Shang, and how they both emphasized in their own way that practice is not only stillness. When stillness (samatha) is practiced without an accompanying insight or investigation into experience, it can only become a dead sort of practice which lacks vitality, because it ends up seeking silence. The opposite of this is a mindset that is so pliable that it welcomes every guest, without becoming enamored with any of the guests.
   During the meditation practice today, I tried to adopt Silent Illumination by taking a yielding stance toward the scattered thoughts arising. While investigating the source of thoughts, I was seeing the thought itself without desire for the thought. I did reach a kind of glimpse into seeing thoughts as bubbles that have no substantial existence, but then this thought of glimpsing threw me off by creating a self concept around the seer. This practice of Silent Illumination is, at least for me, quite difficult, because I have a habit of confusing the thought of still contemplation for the experience. In desiring to reach this state, this anxious self emerges that wants to direct the experience toward its own benefit, almost like a movie director who is determined to scrape up an Oscar for meditative practice. Even that tiny desire for personal gain somehow becomes an obstacle to seeing with equanimity because it treats the latter as an agenda rather than as a natural outcome of a clear and still mind. There is still a desire there and still strong self-attachment there, it seems.
   I have found that this practice requires going beyond the sense of self and gain, but it seems like there is going to be a time when in doing so, one feels that there is no purpose or value to practice and one is not getting anywhere. I believe that Master Sheng Yen once compared this state to being on a mist-covered mountain, where one does not know one's 'stage' relative to the top, or how many steps they have left to get to the summit. But by letting go of the need to achieve anything from practice, there is already this space to move freely, because one is not afraid of failing the self's expectations or desires. At this point, the only thing left to do is just walk, and one learns that there doesn't need to be a self to walk anymore, or even a measure of the ability to walk.

The Logic of Running Water

    In her book Longing for Running Water (1999), Ivone Gabara remarks, "we cannot absolutize our present way of knowing; rather, we need to admit its historical and provisional character and the importance of always being open to new referents that history--and life in general--will propose." (p.61). In a sense, I view this statement as 'turning the view of truth' upside down, by exposing and questioning the view that life unfolds according to a truth 'blueprint'. Rather than seeing the truth as something that stands over and above experience, Gabara is viewing the truth of our lives as something that is always unfolding through an openness to direct encounter. To embrace this truth is almost to let go of the existing quest for a unified 'reference point' where truth can be found. However, paradoxically, it's through the reiteration of these immanent experiences that a person can discern the patterns of life, and learn to sail along those patterns rather than trying to resist them or go against them. It's not that, under this historicist view, the world becomes a rudderless place to be in. Rather, there is almost a sense that wisdom goes along the grain of experience itself to trace its patterns, whereas 'knowledge' tries to brand a pattern or a model on top of experience, in the hopes that there are no inconvenient truths lurking in the distance to mar that 'pillar' of truth.
   This afternoon during my work break, I reflected on how there are times when things 'make sense' and there are other times when knowing somehow needs to ripen, similar to the fruits in a field. I can never force myself to 'know' what I simply don't know in the moment, but there are times when the most I can do is watch closely for patterns and similarities across experiences to discern how they are similar.  It's the 'stuck' moments of not knowing that are truly valuable here, because they teach a person how to let go of their temporary blueprints for seeing the world, and thereby trace the more subtle patterns in the landscape of one's being in the world. I use one example of the weather: however much I can plan for the picnic, the weather is one thing that is not only beyond my control but which often overrides all my intentions and planning. Like the weather, there are days when things just don't feel like they are meant to go according to any plan. In those instances, one can only do what can be done and wait for causes and conditions to ripen. In other words, there is often no sense in over-planning something for which the causes simply haven't arisen yet. In those days, one has to learn not to be afraid of whatever seems to be missing. Rather, it is best to use that unknowing to gain a deeper insight into how things work in life. There is a difference between 'uncovered' and 'revealed'. The former comes from the metaphor of archaeology, which often symbolizes our understanding of discovery based truth. Revelation, on the other hand, is more holistic: truth is revealed when the whole universe is ready and able to reveal it. Why try to 'pry open' or 'dig out' the truth when it's not yet ready to be dug out or pried open? To see this rather than trying to use force is to acquire an appreciation of the subtle patterns and rhythms that accompany knowing: seeing knowing as a process that is not entirely controlled by the will, let alone ever completed by the will.




Gebara, Ivone (1999), Longing for Running Water: Ecofeminism and Liberation. Minneapolis: Metropolis Press

Broken Spirituality

   One of the most interesting metaphors that was introduced in the Media, Education and Evangelization course was that of broken spirituality: the sense of having a spiritual life that allows for one's sinful nature, or at least the ability to make mistakes. This is also perhaps the one area where most people struggle, because we tend to bifurcate our practices into good or bad, 'pure' or 'sinful', and this can sometimes be a judgment on oneself or others.  But an interesting question which might emerge from the dialogue on 'brokenness' is: is the broken aspect only a provisional form of forgiveness which allows the wheels to turn, as it were, or is the brokenness itself an essential aspect of spiritual life?
   I tend to depart from others in this answer, because I tend to think that 'broken' is not necessarily doing something wrong. It has more to do with what in Buddhist traditions is sometimes referred to as being in a dense thicket or a fog. If you think about it, it's not that one cannot see anything in a fog or a dense forest, or one's seeing itself is defective. Quite to the contrary, being in a fog, one suffers from seeing too much, so much that it obstructs a clear view of things. In the same way, the 'broken' aspect of spiritual life may not so much refer to something that is 'damaged', but more so could be about things which are deeply complicated by conflicting factors. Just as a stick will appear bent in the water unless one discerns the influence of water on light, so also things appear broken when they are enmeshed in deeply complicating factors which render things ambiguous and hard to discern.
    Brokenness, then, is an element of life where one fully acknowledges the creaturely, messy and interdependent aspects of existence. It's not about being defective and needing to be fixed, unless one subscribes to a kind of technical rationalist view of things. Rather, it relates to the tension between beholding complexity and being able to transcend complications through a larger view of all complexity. Ironically, to transcend one's brokenness is to enfold it within the arms of something greater yet inclusive.

Reflections on Water

  In the talk on Silent Illumination, Venerable Guoshing Shi noted that one of the hallmarks of the practice is being able to look at things clearly without having an emotional reaction to them. Just what does it mean not to 'react', however? I am reminded of a famous story in Buddhism about the mother who burned the monk's hut down because he would not respond to her daughter's 'advances' toward him. Does Silent Illumination really entail that one's emotions are not involved at all? I think that in a sense, it means that the mind is so clear that there is no particular inclination to attach to any feeling or thought. Although sensation states do arise in this process, the mind is just not attaching to anything precisely because there is a totality there.
   I don't quite know how to describe it but I wonder if it might be that the surface of the mirror is so evident that there is no desire to attach to the forms, because I am clearly aware that they are reflections on water. There is also an awareness that the reflection is not separate from the water or the person observing the reflection; that all three in that moment are together in one total situation. I am not separating the reflection or seeing it as inferior to the water, and nor am I attaching to the reflection as though the water did not exist. Each part of this puzzle--water, watcher, reflection--are integral parts to the whole, and one is mistaken to remove one from the other.
   I am wondering if I can put this all a different way. What happens if the watcher, reflection and water are taken as separate things? Well, seeing a reflection without an awareness of water is akin to essentialism: a thing is a thing, and it has a fixed substantiality which allows me to appraise it as good or bad in itself, thus giving rise to craving or hatred. On the other hand, if I focus only on the 'substance' of the image as water, I am committing another extreme of disregarding forms altogether, in favor of a concept of noumenon. If, on the other hand, I think this is all just a product of my fantasizing, dreaming mind, then I commit the third fallacy of trying to separate awareness from everything observed or experienced.
    Seeing all as as totality seems to create the greatest completion. Rather than denying the beauty and intrigue of forms, it recontextualizes them as impermanent and yet never really leaving to go anywhere.

Silent Illumination- A Few Notes

 I attended a class today about Silent Illumination practice hosted by GuoShing Shi, one of the monastic teachers at Dharma Drum Mountain. I have to say that I learned quite a bit, and the class inspired me to explore a little bit about Silent Illumination. Master Sheng Yen apparently wrote three books about Silent Illumination practice, two of which have been translated into English. One of them, Method of No Method, was the basis for Fashi's lecture, and it seems destined to be one of my favorite classics. I was heartened to see it on my bookshelf, rather than missing among several other books (I am still wondering what happened to my copy of Iris Murdoch's Metaphysics and Morals, as well as one of Michel Foucault's books about the birth of hospitals. Perhaps a graveyard for missing books lies somewhere out there!).
    What impressed me in particular about Fashi's talk is that she really delved into this notion of having a practice, and what that means. She even asked the participants point blank, what is practice? Many people have their own view of what practice means. Some answers that emerged from the audience included "meditation", "mindfully being in the moment"; "wholeheartedly doing", or "being present with the current action." While these ideas have their points, Fashi chose to focus on the practical and social benefits, including the ability for Buddhist practice to promote clarity of mind, ability to communicate reasonably with everybody, as well as ability to recognize emerging states of being before they manifest.
    What emerged from the early discussion for me is that practice needs to appeal to a person from one day to the next; otherwise, it is never 'practiced'! What makes practice appealing, according to Fashi, is how its foundation rests in relaxation. Without a relaxed mind and body, meditative practice is next to impossible, because it never really gets to a deeper place. In Silent Illumination in particular, there is an emphasis on unifying mind and body in order to eventually let go of all distinctions between 'me', and 'not me', or between 'this body' and 'that world'. Fashi really emphasized how important this letting go truly is to the practice of Silent Illumination in particular. Unlike other practices where there is a tangible object of focus and exertion, Silent Illumination emphasizes a kind of method-less stripping down to the elements of experience, without forming any attachments or connections between successive ideas.
   In my next blog, I will explore a little bit about the stages of Silent Illumination.