Today, on a lovely Good Friday, I found a nature trail close to my home, and the sights I beheld were quite lovely. I started to take pictures and videos in the hopes of creating something out of it, but it turns out that the process was a bit frustrating. Part of the problem was that I was enjoying the scenery, and yet somehow I was not able to communicate something that is interesting or sharable about that experience. Although the experience felt meaningful to me, it seems that I had been forcing myself to communicate a narrative on top of it that conforms to certain ideas. When I do this kind of thing, I find that the experience takes time to sink in. A story hasn't yet formed around the pictures and videos.
Is there a meaning to all of this from a Buddhist perspective? Well, I suppose that in Buddhism, there is never a sole creator of anything, but rather things come about through many interlocking conditions. Sometimes, an idea needs to take a lot of time to come to fruition, and I find that in these moments, it's best to wait for a story or narrative to emerge as the mind starts to clear. Another way of looking at this might be to say that creation is not a one-time event that is done by a single agent, but it rather involves a complex 'call and answer' dynamic. I call out to the world, and hope that the world will come back to me in dialogue, provided that the conditions are there. But if nothing happens whatsoever, then I need to be happy with that as well. If I am trying too hard to 'control' what the story will reveal, then I am not open to the kinds of surprises that make stories satisfying and interesting to people. It is as though there is a fixed script in mind and I am not even open to the possibility of changing that script at some later point in time.
Perhaps all the things we make are the result of a combination of initiative and humility: though my intention and effort might be strong, there needs to be a certain surrender to something else that completes the story.
Friday, April 14, 2017
Thursday, April 13, 2017
No Place to Go
During the group meditation facilitation tonight, I guided the participants through the usual walking meditation practice. I mentioned that there is simply no destination when walking: even when one's body is moving, the mind has no place to go. As I said these words, an interesting thing happened: there was a sense of excitement, as though one had been nibbling through a coffin for many years, only to realize that there is neither a coffin nor a person trying to get out of the coffin.
In daily life, it's not so easy to realize that there is no place for the mind to go: I am constantly assuming that the mind is inside this body, lodged deeply inside, like its own prisoner. Everything I do is a reaction based on the underlying belief that I begin and end with this body. If I didn't have such a strong and powerful belief, then I wouldn't be identifying this or that thing with my body as though I end with the body itself. Even the very act of rushing from place to place is part of the belief that the body needs to be 'filled' in order for the mind to survive. Gaining and losing is part of this dynamic, and it gets replicated in every social institution: even the idea of being a person with a viable social identity in Canada starts from having a series of numbers: social insurance, health card, student number, etc. It's not long before one goes from identifying the number to a fixed body that I call myself, as distinguished from others who may or may not possess a valid 'number' to be a citizen or function in the society.
Perhaps the laws that we live by are predicated on the fear of losing the body, either through punishment, death, or incarceration. But if we only abide by this kind of ethic, then there wouldn't be any reason to help others, or to try to work for the greater communities of which one is a part. Perhaps this greater community sense starts with acknowledging that the mind has nowhere to go or hide--it is deeply and already 'in' this world and yet also beyond all the parts of the world at the same time.
In daily life, it's not so easy to realize that there is no place for the mind to go: I am constantly assuming that the mind is inside this body, lodged deeply inside, like its own prisoner. Everything I do is a reaction based on the underlying belief that I begin and end with this body. If I didn't have such a strong and powerful belief, then I wouldn't be identifying this or that thing with my body as though I end with the body itself. Even the very act of rushing from place to place is part of the belief that the body needs to be 'filled' in order for the mind to survive. Gaining and losing is part of this dynamic, and it gets replicated in every social institution: even the idea of being a person with a viable social identity in Canada starts from having a series of numbers: social insurance, health card, student number, etc. It's not long before one goes from identifying the number to a fixed body that I call myself, as distinguished from others who may or may not possess a valid 'number' to be a citizen or function in the society.
Perhaps the laws that we live by are predicated on the fear of losing the body, either through punishment, death, or incarceration. But if we only abide by this kind of ethic, then there wouldn't be any reason to help others, or to try to work for the greater communities of which one is a part. Perhaps this greater community sense starts with acknowledging that the mind has nowhere to go or hide--it is deeply and already 'in' this world and yet also beyond all the parts of the world at the same time.
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Why Express The Unexplainable?
I sometimes wonder what it is that makes journal writing a kind of spiritual practice. I have sometimes subscribed to the view that journaling is only meant to be a form of representation. Just as a picture is a direct reflection of whatever is in front of it, the journal is meant to be a kind of reflection of a person's direct thoughts and moments. But then there is the other view, which states that writing is only a construction of an identity, and therefore it has no correspondence with an objective or mutually observable world.
In a way, I consider writing to be the practice of knowing that there is something which cannot be written at all: something that is beyond the constructed self, as well as beyond the sensory inputs. In Liberated in Stillness and Motion, Master Sheng Yen relates that "The true Chan is without language and words" (p.1). Yet, at the same time, he alludes to the fact that language is like the finger pointing to the moon. While words serve a purpose, the point is not to get enthralled by the tip of the finger, but to know that it is always intimating something that is unspeakable.
Language is sometimes a kind of play. I may not have anything in particular to say in the moment, but if my heart is open enough, I know that the words are just the backdrop through which connections are formed in often 'still' and 'silent' mutual interchange and presence. I suppose this can be best explained using the example of introducing people at a party. If I am in that situation wondering what the introductions will 'accomplish', I will end up not really enjoying the interchange, because there really isn't a literal purpose to the conversation: it only sets the tone for the sense of connection that may be developing on different levels between people over time.
The problem is that as a culture, I don't think that we have developed or even fully understood this hidden 'language', or 'meta-language' that happens between words and language: establishing the tone of inter-being that ends up making connections seem meaningful. I wonder if developing at least an awareness of the hidden 'language' of interconnection might help people appreciate daily interchanges more. I suppose another way of putting it is: where can we find the phenomenological study of the way meaning is formed or experienced through everyday communication?
Shengyen (2016). Liberated in Stillness and Motion. New York: Dharma Drum Publishing
In a way, I consider writing to be the practice of knowing that there is something which cannot be written at all: something that is beyond the constructed self, as well as beyond the sensory inputs. In Liberated in Stillness and Motion, Master Sheng Yen relates that "The true Chan is without language and words" (p.1). Yet, at the same time, he alludes to the fact that language is like the finger pointing to the moon. While words serve a purpose, the point is not to get enthralled by the tip of the finger, but to know that it is always intimating something that is unspeakable.
Language is sometimes a kind of play. I may not have anything in particular to say in the moment, but if my heart is open enough, I know that the words are just the backdrop through which connections are formed in often 'still' and 'silent' mutual interchange and presence. I suppose this can be best explained using the example of introducing people at a party. If I am in that situation wondering what the introductions will 'accomplish', I will end up not really enjoying the interchange, because there really isn't a literal purpose to the conversation: it only sets the tone for the sense of connection that may be developing on different levels between people over time.
The problem is that as a culture, I don't think that we have developed or even fully understood this hidden 'language', or 'meta-language' that happens between words and language: establishing the tone of inter-being that ends up making connections seem meaningful. I wonder if developing at least an awareness of the hidden 'language' of interconnection might help people appreciate daily interchanges more. I suppose another way of putting it is: where can we find the phenomenological study of the way meaning is formed or experienced through everyday communication?
Shengyen (2016). Liberated in Stillness and Motion. New York: Dharma Drum Publishing
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
Learning to "Enjoy" Pressure
This week is a big cut-off deadline at my work, and yet it is also a short work week due to the impending long weekend. I think about all the things that are possible for me to do, yet realize that there is simply not enough time to do everything I want to do in this short time, at least before the quarterly take off. While it's difficult to accept the latter, there is also a kind of joy or excitement that can come with pressure, if one understands it in a certain way. From one perspective, the fact that things cannot be completed in a short time suggests impermanence, or the sense that things are invariably bound to change. Knowing that the ways one engages and the factors that come into play are always shifting, perhaps that's also a time to reflect on whether it's necessary to grasp onto any arrangement as though it were going to be there forever.
Times of pressure are often just moments of transition. An example may be that of finding a new place to live. The steps that one has to take to ease into the transformation to a new place can be daunting and even burdensome at times, but this is only because the old foundations (or tent pegs, as it were) are being relocated to a completely new space. Once the new location is established, then one starts to become more settled in rhythms of life or patterns, but these too are followed by other kinds of transitions. The 'pressure' one experiences from being uprooted is only compounded by two ideas: one is the idea of wanting to hold onto a previous arrangement that no longer can exist, and the other is believing that there can never be another rhythm established again, or that one is in 'utter chaos' after the new change. These show very extreme views: one is attachment to something that is thought to be ideal or permanent, while the other is a more nihilistic view that there is a constant state of instability everywhere, in all things.
In reality, the way the mind works is somewhere in between these two. On the one hand, we need our memories and experiences to navigate new situations, and these previous experiences often provide the context to understand newness and work with it. Newness, in other words, is never 'absolute' newness because we are using our existing languages and experiences to make some sense of where we are with the new thing. But even languages are bound to break down in the face of change, and it requires a certain kind of faith to know that we exist in the middle, where language and 'non-language' intersect.
Times of pressure are often just moments of transition. An example may be that of finding a new place to live. The steps that one has to take to ease into the transformation to a new place can be daunting and even burdensome at times, but this is only because the old foundations (or tent pegs, as it were) are being relocated to a completely new space. Once the new location is established, then one starts to become more settled in rhythms of life or patterns, but these too are followed by other kinds of transitions. The 'pressure' one experiences from being uprooted is only compounded by two ideas: one is the idea of wanting to hold onto a previous arrangement that no longer can exist, and the other is believing that there can never be another rhythm established again, or that one is in 'utter chaos' after the new change. These show very extreme views: one is attachment to something that is thought to be ideal or permanent, while the other is a more nihilistic view that there is a constant state of instability everywhere, in all things.
In reality, the way the mind works is somewhere in between these two. On the one hand, we need our memories and experiences to navigate new situations, and these previous experiences often provide the context to understand newness and work with it. Newness, in other words, is never 'absolute' newness because we are using our existing languages and experiences to make some sense of where we are with the new thing. But even languages are bound to break down in the face of change, and it requires a certain kind of faith to know that we exist in the middle, where language and 'non-language' intersect.
Monday, April 10, 2017
Watching Arising Thoughts
One of the things I noticed this morning is how easy it is to let go of thoughts just as they arise in mind--and how hard it is, once the thought leads to another thought. It seems as though thoughts seem to take on a 'life and energy' of their own once a person allows them to follow their tendency. Interestingly, even the attempt to suppress thought requires just as great an energy: it's as though a ball has already started rolling down a mountain and it grows in speed and momentum, to the point where other thoughts stick to it and it becomes harder to stop.
My guess is that when a person lets go of the thought (or chooses to do so) right as the thought is arising, one has no time to really make meaning out of it; at that point it is still a very young thought and doesn't really have the necessary build-up of time and habit to be powerful. But still another reason may have to do with a certain commitment one starts to have toward not just focusing on any thought that arises but choosing only those thoughts which might need attention.
Of course another factor is that slowly one begins to realize where thoughts come from, so long as they are really in the present moment. Knowing this, the thoughts are no longer seen as having a self-existence. The thought is not 'this person' or 'that person' but rather just a manifestation of energy and impressions from the mind. It's truly hard to stay on this practice at first, but even after only a few hours of trying it, I realize that I am not that stressed, and the challenges I face don't seem as overwhelming as I had thought before, and there are hardly any stories or narratives left behind about 'why' a person behaves the way they do. In this way, my mind remains much less complicated.
My guess is that when a person lets go of the thought (or chooses to do so) right as the thought is arising, one has no time to really make meaning out of it; at that point it is still a very young thought and doesn't really have the necessary build-up of time and habit to be powerful. But still another reason may have to do with a certain commitment one starts to have toward not just focusing on any thought that arises but choosing only those thoughts which might need attention.
Of course another factor is that slowly one begins to realize where thoughts come from, so long as they are really in the present moment. Knowing this, the thoughts are no longer seen as having a self-existence. The thought is not 'this person' or 'that person' but rather just a manifestation of energy and impressions from the mind. It's truly hard to stay on this practice at first, but even after only a few hours of trying it, I realize that I am not that stressed, and the challenges I face don't seem as overwhelming as I had thought before, and there are hardly any stories or narratives left behind about 'why' a person behaves the way they do. In this way, my mind remains much less complicated.
Sunday, April 9, 2017
What to "Learn" from Karma
Yesterday, after the retreat, we had repentance prostration practice. I was thinking a lot afterward about the meaning of repentance and karma, and how the two connect.
I find that I am the kind of person who feels repentant about things that may or may not have happened, but for which I have little substantial evidence. I facilitate guided meditation sessions, and I notice that people might attend once or twice, but then stop attending these sessions. They might come to other events, but I see that they are not at the regular meditation. In those moments, I wonder what I am doing wrong, or what I can do better to serve that person's needs. I feel that there is something for which to repent, but I can never be sure what, because there are often a number of reasons why there may be no affinity with that person, and little opportunity to engage the people who aren't coming. I am also aware that from the Buddhist perspective, there may be an endless number of reasons for why people lack affinity for each other. All we can do is 'try our best' and be open to new ways of connecting with diverse kinds of people. But even this openness is no guarantee that I will be able to connect with specific people.
There are two ways (at least) of looking at this, in my opinion. One is what I have just mentioned above: the karma we 'receive' in our life is an opportunity to look deeply into ourselves and repent of unskilful behavior and actions--that is, to always ask ourselves what we can improve, and to know that there is always something we can improve. But there is another way of looking at this, and that is not to attach to karmic outcomes. If there is someone in the Chan group who simply does not attend the sessions, I also need to ask myself: why am I so attached to this fact, and what can I do with the sense of attachment that I have? Not only does the person's absence teach me what I can improve, but it also teaches me where I need to let go.
While a repentant attitude is certainly important, it becomes difficult and challenging when we are dealing with our attachments. If I live my life wanting to be admired or liked by so-and-so, or wondering why another doesn't talk to me, this makes it very difficult to repent because it is complicated by self-attachment. It is as though I am 'repenting' but with the primary motivation of wanting to be liked or admired, rather than repenting because there is something that can be done better to help others. I would say that the 'desire' might be sincere, but the motivation in these cases is not pure, because there is a sense of wanting the feeling of admiration or 'stroking'. I am aware that one needs to let go of this in the end, and go to a deeper view of life and practice.
I find that I am the kind of person who feels repentant about things that may or may not have happened, but for which I have little substantial evidence. I facilitate guided meditation sessions, and I notice that people might attend once or twice, but then stop attending these sessions. They might come to other events, but I see that they are not at the regular meditation. In those moments, I wonder what I am doing wrong, or what I can do better to serve that person's needs. I feel that there is something for which to repent, but I can never be sure what, because there are often a number of reasons why there may be no affinity with that person, and little opportunity to engage the people who aren't coming. I am also aware that from the Buddhist perspective, there may be an endless number of reasons for why people lack affinity for each other. All we can do is 'try our best' and be open to new ways of connecting with diverse kinds of people. But even this openness is no guarantee that I will be able to connect with specific people.
There are two ways (at least) of looking at this, in my opinion. One is what I have just mentioned above: the karma we 'receive' in our life is an opportunity to look deeply into ourselves and repent of unskilful behavior and actions--that is, to always ask ourselves what we can improve, and to know that there is always something we can improve. But there is another way of looking at this, and that is not to attach to karmic outcomes. If there is someone in the Chan group who simply does not attend the sessions, I also need to ask myself: why am I so attached to this fact, and what can I do with the sense of attachment that I have? Not only does the person's absence teach me what I can improve, but it also teaches me where I need to let go.
While a repentant attitude is certainly important, it becomes difficult and challenging when we are dealing with our attachments. If I live my life wanting to be admired or liked by so-and-so, or wondering why another doesn't talk to me, this makes it very difficult to repent because it is complicated by self-attachment. It is as though I am 'repenting' but with the primary motivation of wanting to be liked or admired, rather than repenting because there is something that can be done better to help others. I would say that the 'desire' might be sincere, but the motivation in these cases is not pure, because there is a sense of wanting the feeling of admiration or 'stroking'. I am aware that one needs to let go of this in the end, and go to a deeper view of life and practice.
Saturday, April 8, 2017
"Luminous" Thinking
Today, we had a very long one day retreat at the centre, and I stayed with the huatou throughout. I kept remembering Gilbert's words: stay with the method, stay in the present moment. When we got to the repentance part of the retreat, I was still on the meditation method, because in my heart I believe that the main thing to repent of is the belief in a subject/object.
I think in the afternoon, I started to lose a bit of energy, and I practiced Silent Illumination for a while. In the afternoon practice, I started with the sensation of the body, and then I connected all the phenomena to this idea of 'just sitting'. I found that overall, this practice was quite effective because it can often lead to a kind of vividness or brightness in thinking. I am not attaching to thoughts but at the same time, I am not sitting in a dark cave either. This brightness doesn't come from any particular color or object, but it seems to come from a way of being that takes everything to be part of one's being. This is simply the practice of mindfulness, looking at the things around me with the brightness of unattached awareness and attention.
One of the things I learned from this retreat is that one doesn't need to 'zone out' from thinking when one meditates. At the same time, the 'thinking' that happens in meditation is different in nature from consciousness. With consciousness, there is a function which continues to join thoughts together in space and time, which then creates a subject. When there is no subject or object duality, the thoughts seem crisper and more luminous because I am not adding new thoughts to them. I have to admit that I don't experience this very often, but every now and then I will get a glimpse of what this is, and I sense the beauty of it. The thoughts cease to cause suffering because they are not being constantly ground into previous memories or other thoughts. They are seen just as they are arising and if not needed they can be put down.
I think in the afternoon, I started to lose a bit of energy, and I practiced Silent Illumination for a while. In the afternoon practice, I started with the sensation of the body, and then I connected all the phenomena to this idea of 'just sitting'. I found that overall, this practice was quite effective because it can often lead to a kind of vividness or brightness in thinking. I am not attaching to thoughts but at the same time, I am not sitting in a dark cave either. This brightness doesn't come from any particular color or object, but it seems to come from a way of being that takes everything to be part of one's being. This is simply the practice of mindfulness, looking at the things around me with the brightness of unattached awareness and attention.
One of the things I learned from this retreat is that one doesn't need to 'zone out' from thinking when one meditates. At the same time, the 'thinking' that happens in meditation is different in nature from consciousness. With consciousness, there is a function which continues to join thoughts together in space and time, which then creates a subject. When there is no subject or object duality, the thoughts seem crisper and more luminous because I am not adding new thoughts to them. I have to admit that I don't experience this very often, but every now and then I will get a glimpse of what this is, and I sense the beauty of it. The thoughts cease to cause suffering because they are not being constantly ground into previous memories or other thoughts. They are seen just as they are arising and if not needed they can be put down.
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