During the Buddhist study group tonight, we talked about Master Sheng Yen's discussion on how practitioners often fee frustrated when they are reading Buddhadharma that is not suitable to their level of practice and attainment. Prior to reading this particular section of Chan and Enlightenment, I don't think I have been too aware of the role that frustration can and does play in the life of practice. One of the participants in the study group was relating how frustration and failure is not necessarily about time being wasted, but is rather knowing which spiritual paths to cross and which ones are not the true path that one must face. I recognize in this the idea that failures are only learning and transition processes, a little bit like growing pains of sorts.
I kind of have this image in my mind of someone who is continually trying to peel layers and layers off him or herself in order to let go of the self altogether--only to be told that there is always some vexation that one has which causes them to hold onto the self. The more I try to peel off the layers, the more I am seeing the self come back. Is it useful to go on like this? One practitioner suggested that in fact it is the way that one truly learns that there is no gimmick or mental trick out there to dissolve the self, and the true work is to leave behind self/no-self altogether, since this is just another thought that arises. When I put down all thoughts about the self and 'non-self', I naturally reach a state of not attaching to self.
Alas, this practice is harder than how it reads on paper, and I am afraid that my level of practice isn't capable of understanding or grasping this concept. The only thing I can do is admire those on the path who are less attached to the self and have a large heart of compassion.
Friday, September 8, 2017
Thursday, September 7, 2017
Devotion to "Oneness"
In my last blog, I hinted at the acceleration of time that often assails people in today's technological societies, and how easily one is driven to distractions simply by virtue of all the many choices at one's disposal. This evening, I was having a conversation with a fellow practitioner from the Thursday meditation group, remarking about how I rarely attend the Toronto International Film Festival screenings because there are simply too many films to choose from! In this regard, I wonder if having too much choice in life can sometimes bog down the mind.
The British writer Alan Watts had a lot of say about this, where he used two analogies: the sidewalk and the dirty dishes. In the sidewalk analogy, Watts talks about there only being one sidewalk tile that one needs to walk at any given time. Because the other sidewalk tiles only exist in a hypothetical future and the previous ones exist in a hypothetical 'past', there is really only one sidewalk tile that you ever really have to approach. Of course, many Chan practitioners would argue further to say that even the present tile doesn't exist outside of the mind itself, so it is even wrong to say that we 'only' have this present sidewalk tile. But the reason I find this analogy so powerful is that it limits the scope (but not the freedom) of the mind to remain in the moment, rather than projecting into an unlived future. The second analogy that Watts refers to is that of a pile dishes that need to be cleaned. Watts, true to his previous example, suggests that there is only ever one dish to clean! Why worry about the pile of dishes when we really only handle one dish at any given time? I tend to like this latter example even more than the first, because I tend not to like doing dishes (not the plural), but prefer washing one dish instead...only to realize that the two are the same.
Both analogies mentioned by Watts suggest that one can learn to reduce distractions by devoting themselves to a kind of unity, such as that of present moment. If a person feels overwhelmed or anxious about something, it's often the case that the person is seeing a pile of dishes rather than respecting that there is only one dish to clean. Watts is exhorting his readers to stop projecting the present into the future, but instead to take the present moment as a place of enjoyment and devotion. As soon as I project or abstract-ify the present, I create hydra-like monsters, where each head represents accumulated responses and possibilities.
The British writer Alan Watts had a lot of say about this, where he used two analogies: the sidewalk and the dirty dishes. In the sidewalk analogy, Watts talks about there only being one sidewalk tile that one needs to walk at any given time. Because the other sidewalk tiles only exist in a hypothetical future and the previous ones exist in a hypothetical 'past', there is really only one sidewalk tile that you ever really have to approach. Of course, many Chan practitioners would argue further to say that even the present tile doesn't exist outside of the mind itself, so it is even wrong to say that we 'only' have this present sidewalk tile. But the reason I find this analogy so powerful is that it limits the scope (but not the freedom) of the mind to remain in the moment, rather than projecting into an unlived future. The second analogy that Watts refers to is that of a pile dishes that need to be cleaned. Watts, true to his previous example, suggests that there is only ever one dish to clean! Why worry about the pile of dishes when we really only handle one dish at any given time? I tend to like this latter example even more than the first, because I tend not to like doing dishes (not the plural), but prefer washing one dish instead...only to realize that the two are the same.
Both analogies mentioned by Watts suggest that one can learn to reduce distractions by devoting themselves to a kind of unity, such as that of present moment. If a person feels overwhelmed or anxious about something, it's often the case that the person is seeing a pile of dishes rather than respecting that there is only one dish to clean. Watts is exhorting his readers to stop projecting the present into the future, but instead to take the present moment as a place of enjoyment and devotion. As soon as I project or abstract-ify the present, I create hydra-like monsters, where each head represents accumulated responses and possibilities.
Wednesday, September 6, 2017
Dizzy Days
I arrived home later than usual after the group meditation practice, opting to head to the local supermarket to buy food for a late supper. I would have to say that today felt a bit disorienting, and it was nice to settle down at 11 pm to eat. I would have to say that life can be a rush, especially when there are so many hours in the day.
Life is full of surprises, and there is no way of knowing where one will be from one day to the next. After the group meditation practice today, there was a Dharma video by Master Sheng Yen on the topic of birth and death. Master Sheng Yen pointed out how the Buddhist view of life does not entail an immortal being or the promise of eternal life. I reflected that, in a sense, a mini death is happening at every moment of life, and one can sometimes never tell when something will come up that simply changes the course of life altogether. I am almost inclined to think that perhaps the best attitude is always be prepared for when one has to go to a different station in life, but I think this might be a bit pessimistic. More to the point: the more sensitive one can be to the impermanence of moments, the more one can appreciate this present with all that one has, even when there is so much changing all the time.
I believe that what is so radical about Buddhist philosophy (and what distinguishes it from other religions, perhaps) is how, rather than trying to immortalize the beautiful or true, it sees the beautiful and true in the everyday passing moments.
Life is full of surprises, and there is no way of knowing where one will be from one day to the next. After the group meditation practice today, there was a Dharma video by Master Sheng Yen on the topic of birth and death. Master Sheng Yen pointed out how the Buddhist view of life does not entail an immortal being or the promise of eternal life. I reflected that, in a sense, a mini death is happening at every moment of life, and one can sometimes never tell when something will come up that simply changes the course of life altogether. I am almost inclined to think that perhaps the best attitude is always be prepared for when one has to go to a different station in life, but I think this might be a bit pessimistic. More to the point: the more sensitive one can be to the impermanence of moments, the more one can appreciate this present with all that one has, even when there is so much changing all the time.
I believe that what is so radical about Buddhist philosophy (and what distinguishes it from other religions, perhaps) is how, rather than trying to immortalize the beautiful or true, it sees the beautiful and true in the everyday passing moments.
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
A Middle Path Between Thought and Action
Have you ever stopped to wonder why it's hard to do what's right when it's clearly known what's right? Many expressions hint at this, and one of my favorite is the one which goes "you can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink". I haven't figured out why there is a disconnect between knowing what is good and doing what is good, and perhaps this is something that a few scientific studies can explore in further depth. But one thing I can suggest is that perhaps there is a disconnect between too much self-consciousness and action. The more one becomes self conscious (conscious about what they are doing, who they are, etc.) the harder it is to act smoothly and from a sensible frame of mind. It is like the story of a donkey that doesn't know whether to drink water or eat first, and ends up dying of both hunger and thirst.
Many therapies, particularly cognitive-centered ones, start with a well-meaning desire to analyze a person's style of thinking and the cognitive errors one makes which leads to suffering. The problem I notice is that they often have this underlying tone that the cognitive aspect is separate from the world, as though the brain were a computer processor that just takes in sensations and packages them in the form of thoughts. I wonder, does it sometimes unintentionally create the illusion of a self that is separate from the rest of the world? Sometimes this can trip people up, because they start to think that what they are dealing with is themselves as a kind of thing that is encased in a skull.
Can too much self-reflection inhibit acting? I sometimes believe so, at least from my own experiences. I think this is because, in one's eagerness to correct their erroneous thoughts or thinking patterns, they might start to forget the messy aspects of planning a course of action or actually committing to specific goals that relate to the world and others. But I suspect that a cognitive-focus might also create a kind of perfectionism. It's as though a person reasons that if only they get the processor in their skull right, then everything else should run smoothly. But what is overlooked is just what is 'running' and how it connects to the brain.
Is it possible that the way around this is to go beyond thinking itself? I am sure that many cognitive therapists and psychologists would reject that idea, because they might ask, why would anyone want to go beyond thinking? Isn't thinking the source of suffering, and so shouldn't the goal of psychology be to correct faulty thinking? The problem is, I suspect that focusing only on cognition might lead to an attachment to thinking itself, as though correcting our thoughts leads us to an idyllic place. What is overlooked is that sometimes simple doing for its own sake (and with full presence and calmness) can be a very healing source of strength, and might do wonders to align the mind and step out of compulsive thoughts. An example of this might be gardening or doing some kind of art, which is done for its own sake rather than for the sake of an external prize or merit. When I absorb myself in a creative pursuit, I am no longer only using thoughts to guide my actions. I often start to use the whole body and mind rather than only using thoughts to resolve inner conflicts.
Many therapies, particularly cognitive-centered ones, start with a well-meaning desire to analyze a person's style of thinking and the cognitive errors one makes which leads to suffering. The problem I notice is that they often have this underlying tone that the cognitive aspect is separate from the world, as though the brain were a computer processor that just takes in sensations and packages them in the form of thoughts. I wonder, does it sometimes unintentionally create the illusion of a self that is separate from the rest of the world? Sometimes this can trip people up, because they start to think that what they are dealing with is themselves as a kind of thing that is encased in a skull.
Can too much self-reflection inhibit acting? I sometimes believe so, at least from my own experiences. I think this is because, in one's eagerness to correct their erroneous thoughts or thinking patterns, they might start to forget the messy aspects of planning a course of action or actually committing to specific goals that relate to the world and others. But I suspect that a cognitive-focus might also create a kind of perfectionism. It's as though a person reasons that if only they get the processor in their skull right, then everything else should run smoothly. But what is overlooked is just what is 'running' and how it connects to the brain.
Is it possible that the way around this is to go beyond thinking itself? I am sure that many cognitive therapists and psychologists would reject that idea, because they might ask, why would anyone want to go beyond thinking? Isn't thinking the source of suffering, and so shouldn't the goal of psychology be to correct faulty thinking? The problem is, I suspect that focusing only on cognition might lead to an attachment to thinking itself, as though correcting our thoughts leads us to an idyllic place. What is overlooked is that sometimes simple doing for its own sake (and with full presence and calmness) can be a very healing source of strength, and might do wonders to align the mind and step out of compulsive thoughts. An example of this might be gardening or doing some kind of art, which is done for its own sake rather than for the sake of an external prize or merit. When I absorb myself in a creative pursuit, I am no longer only using thoughts to guide my actions. I often start to use the whole body and mind rather than only using thoughts to resolve inner conflicts.
Monday, September 4, 2017
Watching the Waves
Watching the waves just before the full moon on the lakeshore, I had a very hypnotic experience today, as though I were stepping out of time and suspended. Though I tried to record such a sound, I surely could never capture the experience in a million years. I think the experience is about something so magnificent and yet so primal that it's hard to pin down. What I can tell about it is that it opens me up to the wonders of the natural world. And it makes me realize, looking at the pictures I have, how easy it is to miss my life, when I am not allowing myself to open up to the experiences around me.
I wish I could describe with some precision what this is about, but I can only think of it as the divine beauty that pervades nature. It's so easy to become distracted from it, by all the sounds of the city calling me back to the things to do, and so on. But maybe there is nothing to do at all, only to yield to the mysteries that life is holding for all beings. Can I give up my need to control my life and thoughts even for a moment, to consider this 'something more' that surrounds me?
I wish I could describe with some precision what this is about, but I can only think of it as the divine beauty that pervades nature. It's so easy to become distracted from it, by all the sounds of the city calling me back to the things to do, and so on. But maybe there is nothing to do at all, only to yield to the mysteries that life is holding for all beings. Can I give up my need to control my life and thoughts even for a moment, to consider this 'something more' that surrounds me?
Saturday, September 2, 2017
Turning Moments into Questions
Willingness to inquire and be open seems to be a hallmark of the education system. This is hard to do because as soon as I arrive at an understanding of something, I have a tendency to try to make some kind of rule around it or try to fixate on it as though it were a dogma. I think that this is a natural tendency, to try to lean on a concept rather than delving deeply into it to know its implications. Is it possible to take an inquiry based approach to our daily situations and life?
This question interests me because it seems that the ability to raise questions rather than assume 'givens' is the key to an active mental life and a curious mindset. I don't have a particular solid or concrete answer to how to do this, but I think one method that helps is to view all situations as a kind of school. That is, rather than confining the process of learning and questioning to specific 'subject areas' as some educators have espoused (such as Neil Postman and Jerome Bruner), the inquiry can begin with one's very existence and interconnections in this moment. I can ask questions such as why the city street I am on is so distinct from others, what strikes me as different and similar; and use my imagination to inquire into the advantages of living there as well as the complex relationships. When I am looking at the prices of food at the local supermarket, I can ask myself, what's behind that price, and who benefits from the cost? Why is this food popular here and not somewhere else? In other words, I turn the daily jaunt into a kind of adventure in ideas and see how I can turn the everyday into a kind of exploration or lesson.
Curiosity isn't a given that always exists, and I have found in myself a tendency to take things for granted rather than questioning what they are doing and why. I think that curiosity can be cultivated intentionally, if one is willing to suspend judgment and even entertain little glimmers of questions that can peep through the cracks of awareness. In turning a daily experience into an inquiry, one can invigorate how they see things and open the floor to a mutual learning with others, rather than turning things into static givens.
This question interests me because it seems that the ability to raise questions rather than assume 'givens' is the key to an active mental life and a curious mindset. I don't have a particular solid or concrete answer to how to do this, but I think one method that helps is to view all situations as a kind of school. That is, rather than confining the process of learning and questioning to specific 'subject areas' as some educators have espoused (such as Neil Postman and Jerome Bruner), the inquiry can begin with one's very existence and interconnections in this moment. I can ask questions such as why the city street I am on is so distinct from others, what strikes me as different and similar; and use my imagination to inquire into the advantages of living there as well as the complex relationships. When I am looking at the prices of food at the local supermarket, I can ask myself, what's behind that price, and who benefits from the cost? Why is this food popular here and not somewhere else? In other words, I turn the daily jaunt into a kind of adventure in ideas and see how I can turn the everyday into a kind of exploration or lesson.
Curiosity isn't a given that always exists, and I have found in myself a tendency to take things for granted rather than questioning what they are doing and why. I think that curiosity can be cultivated intentionally, if one is willing to suspend judgment and even entertain little glimmers of questions that can peep through the cracks of awareness. In turning a daily experience into an inquiry, one can invigorate how they see things and open the floor to a mutual learning with others, rather than turning things into static givens.
Friday, September 1, 2017
Fall's Dissolution
Today, for the first time perhaps, I have experienced a true ending of summer and the heralding of the cooler weather of autumn. I can see this in the way the skies get dark very early recently as well as that chill crispness in the way the trees sway together. I am sure that autumn is well on its way from these warning signs. And I also experience the singular beauty that comes from the dissolution of something that feels eternal and youthful.
Fall's expressions, and particularly autumn trees, remind me that there is a certain kind of beauty that comes from dissolution. It is as though the one uniform swath of green turns into a burst of confused colors, all dissembled and yet meshing together in imperfect harmony. Yet without the dissolution, there would be no definition of things, only a kind of uncertain blandness that falls over things as they become more uniform. Fall reminds me that things have a distinct crispness to them, such as the sounds of rustling trees and the various colors of the fruits and seedlings as they drop to the ground. These planned dissolutions eventually herald new beginnings. They are part of a regular cycle in nature.
What does fall's sense of dissolution signify? For me, I think it has a lot to do with the sense of an approaching newness, but also of how the heart has to be open to new changes. It has to be empty and still in order to accept what is new, including the fear of loss and disconnection that often come with chaos and disorder. Fall's liminal spaces symbolize how taking on new experiences often requires changing the way one sees existing ones as well as risking a break from the habitual self that is built around safety and familiarity. Yet the variety of autumn's colors is also a gentle reminder that change is not always a desolate thing, and that it can lead to a variety of perspectives that we wouldn't see if we never left the comforts of home and find new forms of 'home'. Perhaps for this reason, I do find fall to be the most exhilarating season to behold and experience.
Fall's expressions, and particularly autumn trees, remind me that there is a certain kind of beauty that comes from dissolution. It is as though the one uniform swath of green turns into a burst of confused colors, all dissembled and yet meshing together in imperfect harmony. Yet without the dissolution, there would be no definition of things, only a kind of uncertain blandness that falls over things as they become more uniform. Fall reminds me that things have a distinct crispness to them, such as the sounds of rustling trees and the various colors of the fruits and seedlings as they drop to the ground. These planned dissolutions eventually herald new beginnings. They are part of a regular cycle in nature.
What does fall's sense of dissolution signify? For me, I think it has a lot to do with the sense of an approaching newness, but also of how the heart has to be open to new changes. It has to be empty and still in order to accept what is new, including the fear of loss and disconnection that often come with chaos and disorder. Fall's liminal spaces symbolize how taking on new experiences often requires changing the way one sees existing ones as well as risking a break from the habitual self that is built around safety and familiarity. Yet the variety of autumn's colors is also a gentle reminder that change is not always a desolate thing, and that it can lead to a variety of perspectives that we wouldn't see if we never left the comforts of home and find new forms of 'home'. Perhaps for this reason, I do find fall to be the most exhilarating season to behold and experience.
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