No Systems Go!

  In my previous entry on models, I was exploring to some degree the limitations of all models: the ways in which they can reveal or expose tensions, but not necessarily guarantee that these tensions will be resolved. Years ago, I remember reading from H.G. Wells the idea that all of us live alongside a horse and a crocodile--referring, I believe, to different parts of the brain, one human, one mammalian, and one reptilian. What he was suggesting is that even if we have this perfect way of describing what happens in the brain or how it has evolved, this is not in any way meaning that the three 'parts' of the brain will start chatting amiably amongst the others! The fact of the matter is that it might very well go in the opposite direction, namely to divide the mind into artificial compartments, under the illusion that they were ever 'separate' to begin with. This can be quite dangerous, because it ends up being that we invariably prefer one component to the others.
   To use an example, in Harris's book I'm OK, You're OK, there are three parts of interactions: Parent, Adult and Child. While the Parent refers to all those demands (shoulds) that we have accumulated since childhood, such as "All good people should go to university!". "Child" refers to the sense of wanting to be stroked, protected or reassured, in a state of dependence. The "Adult" is thought to be the intermediary of sorts, with the added advantage of rationality, ability to plan, and awareness of religious and moral traditions at its disposal. This model sounds quite good, but as I read it, I start to realize that most of the functioning that we would normally consider crucial to mature responsible functioning is coming from the rational adult. Somehow, it overlooks the complicated questions of what goes into the social construction of an adult being. Do adults just emerge spontaneously from age and cognitive development, or is there a role that certain kinds of socialization can have in the kinds of adults there are in the world? Is there only one stereotypical "adult" or are there many varieties of adulthood?
      The more I start to dig into it, the less certain I am that there is such a thing as a universally understood "adult" that transcends all cultural differences and traditions. This model is quite fine in presenting a way to, again, mediate between the demands of inner parents and children, but beyond that, it leaves the field very much open to what would constitute mature adulthood. In this sense, the model has value, but it isn't necessarily comprehensive in terms of explaining all the conflicts that occur in adult life.
   All systematic ways of thinking seem to have this limitation: they emphasize certain things that are challenges, but they are often vague when it comes to what the ideal happens to be. This is perhaps because good is always an elusive thing to define, and it's not so easy as simply removing 'bad' obstacles. From a contemplative perspective, most of the wholesome qualities one can embody are not positive things one acquires but are actually what are arrived at through a process of self-emptying and openness. To take one example: being 'good listener' is not something one acquires through some special mental act or concentration. Rather, it is a process of opening up to someone else's experiences with an attitude of non-judgmental awareness. If I try to consciously 'be a good listener', the concept itself (or the plan) actually becomes the object of my focus, which draws me away from the people with whom I am listening. Sadly, alas, this is also the case with most so-called 'virtues'--the more a person strives to cultivate them, the more they elude grasping, because they draw us away from the actions and relationships where virtue can truly manifest.


Harris, Thomas A. (1969). I'm OK-You're OK. New York: Avon

The Sum of All Tensions

  Generally, most people don't like tension. If I think about it on a physiological level, the body has a tendency to balance itself: if something doesn't feel right, it might register some kind of discomfort, at least holding up the model of what a balanced body feels like. It's interesting how this works, because whenever there is a twist or dysfunction in the body, there is a kind of inherent template or model for what a 'healthy' body would feel like, almost like a perfect Platonic form of how the body should feel, somewhere in the background. I wouldn't be surprised if scientists one day discover or at least theorize about an innate sense of balance or health that people are born with, much as Chomsky has theorized about an innate sense of language.
   It's interesting to consider, however, does having a model of ideal health (physical or mental) mean that one has to live up to that model? Most of the time, we think that models are things we live up to. For example, when we are kids, we are often encouraged to have 'role models', or people who are just a little bit (or a great deal) ahead of us in terms of growth and development. But I am not so sure if having a model means that we have to live up to an ideal within that model. Perhaps the function of models in science or philosophy is not to tell us what ought to be but rather to tell us what is, and what tends to happen within systems. By thinking of models in this way, we can reduce the idea that we somehow have to adjust our thinking to conform to a happy ideal. It may be that instead, we use the model to seek clarity on what is really, actually happening in this very moment, much of which may even be beyond our control.
     I admit that this may be a controversial view about models. Plato, to use another example, had a model of a chariot rider, which he used to describe how people can use their minds to restrain their emotions and balance them with reason. Such a model seems to imply (at least for some) that reason is superior to one's emotions, and therefore should always have the upper hand. However, I am not so sure if this is the case. It's like saying, between the water and the dam, the dam is 'in control' of the water. Well, is it? Not really, because if dams controlled water, then all the water would simply stop flowing altogether. A dam can influence the movement and direction of water, but dams are not designed to get rid of all the water in the world. In the same way, we can use our models to clarify where we want to go with our different states of mind, but perhaps we can never claim that one part is superior to the other.
    I think that the best we can do with our models is to use them to behold tensions in mind as well as allow us to honor our complexities as human beings. We are never only 'one person', and a lot of times, there are competing parts to us which represent different longings and aspirations. I may, for instance, have an interest in spirituality, but does this make me spiritual all the time? What part do the other aspects of life have if they are subsumed under one concept, such as spirit? Only in cultivating awareness of complexity can one learn to be comfortable with their tensions and behold them in the process of making decisions.

Finding What Isn't So Rushed

  One of the interesting things about nature is how it reminds a person that they needn't rush through life. When you see snails come out after a rainfall, for instance, you are reminded that the natural world has its very own rhythm which cannot be replaced. There is a natural wisdom that seems to arise when a person slows down, which is quite in contrast with the usual pace of life, where a person is simply running from one thing to the next. I sometimes wonder if perhaps this is the way to look at the mind, always going back again and again to a still point.
   It's quite a different story at work, because in those moments, one often feels a pressure to finish things quickly or even to try to outdo one's own pace. But I think that there are certainly ways to incorporate these two paces together. Sometimes in our group meditation practice, we talk about the mind being still even though the body is moving. This is one apt analogy in the sense that it shows that no matter how strong the ripples or waves of the mind happen to be,  it's all just forms of stillness.
  A lot of this requires a certain inner discipline. I feel that for myself, there is always a part of me which wants to be perfect and therefore becomes self-critical. It's easy to succumb to the mind literally having an argument with itself, but if one has the wisdom, one realizes that this kind of self-criticism needs to be tempered with a more compassionate approach. But even if a person has no time for formal meditation practice, I believe that walking in nature can have a similar effect of reminding a person that they are much more than how they think and see themselves.

Confidence

I have found that throughout my life, I have struggled with confidence--either thinking I have not done enough, or comparing what I have done with others and finding myself wanting. I notice that this happens a lot when I am very impressed with someone else's remarks, or thoughts, and there is a sense that I could improve my own abilities, though I don't always know how. I have found recently that the how question is what really gets me stuck and bogged down. Whenever I begin to ask myself how to do something, I end up in a whirl: it's a bit like asking a centipede how it's possible to move so many legs and synchronize them together. Of course, there is simply no answer or end to any answer, and sooner or later the centipede can only do what's most natural to itself. But it seems very easy for a person to sink into the mire of how questions when there is a seemingly insurmountable challenge or frustration. Very often, we do things with some level of competence without ever knowing the "how" of it, and it's not explainable in such rationalistic terms.
  I think a lot of times, there is also the associated cult of personality that arises when people easily start to admire others for what they do, rather than contributing their own experience or knowledge. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter who has the most knowledge, the most experience or the most wisdom. Sometimes one has to simply let go of comparison altogether and just try. The example was during the sharing after meditation today, when the topic was about quantum physics and its connection to meditation. For some time, I became overwhelmed by the topic, but after a while, a thought came to my mind: well, I am far from being an expert on this subject, but I have read a thing or two about it. Why don't I just say what I know and not worry too much about whether it's an expert opinion, or just hopelessly naïve? Rather than trying to start with the finishing point, I focused instead on the simple question of what do I know, or what can I possibly know about what is being discussed. In this way, I am observing the process of contributing in itself, rather than trying to get to a predetermined destination.
    In ESL teaching, there is something similar that students are taught to do when they read unfamiliar or daunting passages of text. One strategy they are taught is to scan the whole text overall to figure out what the overarching topic might be, or why the author is writing this particular piece. The second strategy, somewhat related, is that of context clues: detecting the meaning of an unfamiliar word by looking for its context in the sentence or surrounding sentences to discern a possible meaning. I think both strategies are effective because they work on the felt, tacit sense of knowing, or 'pre-knowing' that learners often bring to a seemingly new situation. Through these processes, learners develop the confirmation of seeing that they already know many things, even when the details of a language may not be so transparent at first.  With this basic trust, people can engage things wholeheartedly without having to compare their abilities with those of others.  Quite simply: everyone has something truly unique an valuable to contribute to any situation.

Illusory and Sociable

  I find that it's interesting how I often feel so open to others after meditation, particularly when I have thoroughly relaxed my body and am no longer chasing after thoughts. The sense that I get is that a lot of the scenarios I run in my mind are really just illusions, and they are about situations that either don't come to pass at all or are momentary. What arises from this is a sense of regret--the feeling I get that I have spent too much time worrying about very immaterial things that don't have any chance of arising or affecting me in any way. Then there is a feeling of gratitude for the people around me--a sense that many people around me do accept me, in spite of my deluded thoughts and worries. It's as though there is this whole wealth of forgiveness and compassion surrounding me, yet I am too preoccupied on one or two chance judgments or remarks from the past to see that field of compassion that cradles me and protects me from wrongdoing and mistakes.
    Whenever I experience this state of gratitude, I become very sociable. Well, to be honest, I have never been a very talkative person most of the time, but I become somehow eager to accommodate others, because there seems to be a togetherness in the silence we share. This is so different from walking into a room full of strangers and being left to one's own devices, where the most compassionate statement a person might make is to the effect of 'where's your drink?' In the work of clubs and so on, alcohol is the way to soothe frayed nerves and kill free time. I think that there is also a sense of profound ease that arises after people have meditated together: a feeling that prior to any conversation or discussion, we have already done something very significant together, and no words need be exchanged to validate that experience.
   I think this kind of sociability is much more interesting and compassionate than the kind that we often see in parties or bars, because it no longer becomes about finding out what a person does and then evaluating a person by way of their status. Rather, there is a much more subtle and sensitive state where a person can completely accept their situation alongside those of others. Perhaps it's equanimity (upekka), but I am thinking it's an ideal sort of social state that not too many people attune to in this rushed sort of society.

Practicing Non-Interference

  This morning, I was using a mantra to calm my mind prior to going to work, and this mantra acted as a sort of prayer to me. There were moments when I did feel that the mantra had a hold on me and wouldn't let me go, and I felt the pleasure of that. But during my work hours, there was this feeling of my mind being pulled in different directions, and eventually, I did have to fully engage in those tensions. But the interesting thing is that there were moments when I could tell that these tense moments aren't really a part of me, and they are just moving through me. They may be painful, but I am not literally dividing myself because of them. This seems to have been an important insight for me, because had I just clung to the words of mantra, I would have experienced a greater tension around trying to suppress thoughts by way of the mantra itself.
   There are so many ways in which this practice can somehow backfire, including trying to create a dualistic 'mantra' and 'non-mantra'. But its important to enfold all experiences into prayer or mantra. It's easy to fall into the idea that prayers or mantras are referring to other-worldly experiences, and can thus be used to try to get rid of the tensions of living. Even easier still is the notion that there are sacred words which transcend the so-called 'profane' or non-sacred things of this world, which then creates a subtle rejection of anything that demands attention around me. But in thinking this way, one only creates more tensions, and dissociation as well. It might be apt to describe practice as entering into a place of non-interference, where the method just flows naturally into and around whatever is happening, like water rushing through rapids. Rather than contradicting or opposing the terrain, the mantra flows evenly across it, illuminating all the quiet corners of the terrain itself.

Certain Kinds of Faith

 I was at the bank today dealing with RRSP contributions, and I realized, to my embarrassment, how little I really know about stocks or investments. It's something I haven't put much time into learning, to be honest, and all I could really do was follow the advice that my financial advisor had provided me. Because I trusted the advisor and could see her sincerity and knowledge, I ended up agreeing to what she was telling me to do. But there was a part of me that was thinking how foolish I must look to her, not having a lot of knowledge about investing.
  It seems like it's a good experiment to try to go out into the world without the presumption of expertise. The analogy I can think of is that of Saint Francis, who looked upon other beings as higher than him, yet still had the trust that he would belong with them in his encounters. This is a very tricky balance: having the faith that one can connect with others without necessarily speaking the same language with the other, much less even knowing the languages they speak. It seems to me that in order for a person to experience that, there needs to be two conditions. The first condition is the ability to see one's being as already belonging in the universe as a whole, particularly through the love of a compassionate or benevolent presence. The second condition is the sense of awe and wonder that comes from opening up to the things that are more than what we can chew. So, on the one hand, there is a sense of being harnessed by the ultimate benevolence of the world, while the second aspect is using that harness to confidently explore the worlds one does not know, yet have faith that they reveal and reinforce this original belonging.
     Without both of these conditions working in parallel with each other, one can go to two different extremes. The first extreme is trusting so much in one's own belonging that one reduces the world to a blasé sort of self-induced congeniality: grass is green, sky is blue, everything is part of my daily routine or habit. The second extreme is having a sense of awe but having no sense of one's belonging to that awe--which can create the terror of annihilation and fear of the other. When both attitudes of belonging and openness to the unknown go hand in hand, there seems to be a chance that the world is interesting enough not to be overwhelming.
   I am reading a book by Henri Nouwen called Discernment, where he talks about how people can recognize the unique calling that God is revealing to them on a daily basis. The interesting idea is that no matter what one's vocation turns out to be, it doesn't matter so much what one does as how one does it. There's no such thing as missing the boat but at the same time, one can be alive to the moment to moment possibilities revealed by the divine. The Buddhist way of looking at this is seeing the empty, mind-created nature of one's moments and transforming the phenomena back to mind. In these cases, awareness is inherently a part of the world, but it also infinitely beyond it: belonging and infinity going hand in hand.


Nouwen, Henri (2013) Discernment: Reading the Signs of Life. New York: Harper.