Is Disappointment a Form of Attachment

 Ever since I left the Buddhist Text Studies class last week, I have been haunted by questions that are analogous to: is it ethically wrong to mourn at a funeral, from a Buddhist perspective? According to the strictly doctrinal interpretations of Buddhist scriptures about death, weeping during a person's death is bound to create difficulties as the consciousness transitions to a new existence. Some have proposed the answer to be something like: weep and mourn inwardly, but don't "outwardly" express it, and try to stay calm and grounded for the other. Yet, this entire question raises related questions for me, such as, are there truly illegitimate expressions of emotion in Buddhism? Aren't humans entitled to emotional expressions to cherish the lives of other beings? Such questions have me wondering.
  Now my latest question to wrestle with: is disappointment a form of attachment? This again is a tricky question, because what do we mean by "disappointment"? I would have to propose from the outset that disappointment is attachment. After all, is the act of being disappointed not a sign that we have attached an image of who we think someone is, thinking it is a real person we are seeing? At the same time, however, I am ambivalent about this, because some forms of disappointment might come across as forms or at least signs of love and care. Consider a mother's disappointment that her daughter does not call her to say she is coming home late after a party. The daughter might argue with her mom (if she is a Buddhist) by saying that mother is too attached to her daughter's whereabouts, and suffers as a result. However, we would not expect mothers to be like this to their children? It seems to me that 'disappointment' with a child's behavior might be one of the job hazards that go with the territory of being a parent! And the same goes with all relationships in general. As long as we have expectations, we will occasionally feel disappointment over their not being met. Can we learn to simply let go of expectations altogether when it comes to loved ones? I suppose the answer depends on how well our spiritual practice has been going.
   I think that ethically speaking, at the end of the day, we need to be clear about where our emotions come from. It's not about saying "this emotion is bad; get rid of it", but more a question of being able to discern its nature and origin. If I am clearly aware that there is nobody in the universe who ever makes me feel disappointed with someone's behavior, then I can take ownership for the emotion itself. It's there and I can observe the emotion much as I would watch the breath during meditation practice. If I know that the emotion is created from my mind's way of seeing and relating to things (with cravings, aversion, ignorance, and so on), then I can accept the conditions that give rise to the disappointment without blaming anyone in the process (including myself). It's as though the disappointment were clinically observed through a microscope, then let go of over time. Is there any need to suppress that emotion? Not really because when we are not trying to figure out who caused the emotion, it naturally goes away on its own and loses its power, because there is no narrative built up around self/others by way of that emotion.

Random Thoughts on Soul/Spirit

Contemplative education seems to have two very distinct streams: one might be called “spiritual” while the other might be referred to as “soulful”. There is a strange intersection between the two which is quite interesting.

Spiritual education seems to be explored through embodied practices such as meditation, yoga, qi gong, etc. where the aim is a non-dualistic experience of the universe, coupled with a more disciplined encounter with one’s emotional and personal identity. Here, Foucault’s “Care of the Self” most comes to mind. The aim of such an education is transpersonal: coming to have a unified and all-embracing compassion, opening up the universe, and transcending the self/other duality are the aims of such an education. We see this kind of thing most particularly explored in how teachers develop themselves in loving kindness meditation, embodied self-care, learning of one’s spiritual tradition, spiritual modeling, etc.  I find that these practices are fairly straightforward, in the sense that they follow the path of many ancient spiritual traditions (Christian, Buddhist, Judaic, Islamic and so on).

“Soulful Education” is more problematic and dangerous, because I find that it focuses on integration of personality, achieving congruency, authenticity, etc., and exploring the darker elements of the personality which are not often considered spiritual. Examples of soul work are explored through Jungian psychology, dreamwork, Tarot, less conventional kinds of traditions such as Tantra. The problems with integration are legion: there are times when this kind of work confuses the spiritual with the sensual, and introduces erotic elements which may not be consistent with the spiritual teachings we read about in scriptures. The ‘bringing together’ of these two terms (soul and spirit) under one umbrella term “Spiritual/Contemplative Education” disturbs me or troubles me somewhat, because I worry that there may be a mixing of very different things. While exploring erotic identity, for example, may be one aim of Tantric or soul work, I wonder if this work might be construed as a form of spiritual realization when in fact it becomes a form of attachment or enmeshment which deepens one’s inner obstructions. It’s troubling for me to try to map out/distinguish things which are soulfully integrating and experiences which lead to spiritual realizations. I believe that while the two might have an intimate connection with each other, they need to be clearly distinguished. Otherwise, one might confuse an instance of soulful ‘integration’ with spiritual realization, when in fact the two are quite different.

An example of what I am describing might be ambivalence. Freud described ambivalence as a kind of uneasy complex of feelings which comes partly from social repression and splitting of the self into acceptable and unacceptable elements. For teachers, being angry with students might be considered unacceptable in light of a dominant archetype of the teacher as a servant, a martyr, or a Mother figure. What happens for teachers, then, is that they cultivate an ambivalent relationship with their anger: desiring to channel their anger, yet feeling forbidden to do so, can create an intensified relationship to their anger as well as a splitting of the teacher personality. The same can be said of love, which is problematized by the fear that teachers will relate to their students in inappropriate ways. A ‘soulful’ exploration of these dangerous or socially forbidden emotions might be one way for teachers to develop a less divided attitude toward themselves. Through a process of journalling, teachers can develop a more wholehearted acceptance of their authentic selves, and this self-acceptance can spill over into the classroom where the teachers find healthy ways to balance their professional role and their expectations of students. Teachers can learn to state clearly what they expect from their students rather than repressing their emotions under a false service to a socially dominant “archetype”. Soulful authenticity can allow teachers to focus their energies rather than dividing their energies in unhealthy or self-sacrificing ways.

While I applaud these efforts to integrate the self through soul work, I have to caution that these practices may nor may not be transpersonal in nature, much less spiritual practices. I suggest that what would make a practice spiritual is that it allows the person to become less invested in the ego or self, through a process of letting go of investment in the ego. Now why do I caution against soulful integration as “not to be confused with spiritual practice?” The reason is that the person who integrates their personality may not necessarily have attained a realization of no-self, much less a transpersonal view of the self as lacking in substance. If I am invested in my “teacher soul”, I am still attached to the soul as though it were a kind of permanent substance. I might even become attached to the idea of authenticity, not realizing that the ‘authentic’ self is actually another construct of the mind, which changes and shifts depending on the situation. In other words, with soul work, there needs to be an accompanying realization that the self exists in multiple contexts, is always shifting, and is ephemeral. If one approaches the soul as though it were a definite substance that can be defined, one only gets deeper into enmeshment with that sense of self. It also creates power imbalance, as the soul seeks to nourish itself at the expense of other “souls”.

What I propose is that soul-work has to be seen as transitional in nature, not an end in itself. Integrating different parts of the self is a necessary process in getting to know our tendencies and karmic obstructions. However, it’s risky and dangerous to get stuck there, because the soul is also a changing and illusory construct. I can never point to my “soul” because it’s really about energies that are continually shifting. If I lack the perspective to understand that soul is a shifting nexus of energies that interconnect with other energies, I run the risk of reifying the soul and investing attachment to this ‘big self’ which is the result of integration.

Balancing View and Attitude

During the talk on Sutra of Complete Enlightenment, Venerable Chang Hwa used a very interesting analogy when she was describing the proper attitude of detachment in daily life. She mentioned how, if someone rIeally doesn't like someone else and wants to avoid that person, she or he will be so vigilant and attached to wanting to avoid the person that they cannot let go of them. In fact, as Chang Hwa asserted, denial or avoidance are both forms of grasping and attachment which cause a lot of suffering. After all, if one does not feel any need to avoid a person or seek them, then there is no vexation in the mind: one simply faces what they need to face without attaching to the conditions. Venerable Chang Hwa asserted that if one feels vexation in avoiding someone, one makes the mistaken of thinking they are real, and thus all sorts of vexations and grasping arise in trying to avoid them.
    This is all very good, but what happens when a person takes the attitude: "well, since everyone and everything is a dream, and only a dream, then there is no use caring about anyone, since everyone is just a puff of smoke coming and going"? The problem is that this is still grasping the concept of detachment, as though it were an object that I am supposed to 'get' in order to put aside my vexations about 'others'. In other words, it still brings about vexation! So what's the proper attitude, and what mistake am I making in thinking this way?
   What I have observed in myself is that whenever I am thinking or practicing solipsistically, there is an underlying strong sense of the self as an uninvolved observer, or as a disengaged spectator who is yet beyond phenomena. When I practice in this way, two problems arise. The first is that I start to treat phenomena as obstructions to my sense of self which is 'observing' the phenomena, because I think there is a real "I" that's watching the illusory dream. Thus, it's not long before I become averse to the phenomena, believing that they take me away from a permanent sense of self. The second problem is that I lose a gentle and more even-minded approach to phenomena, thinking that by denying phenomena I will achieve something spiritually. This view is also wrong because it treats phenomena as separate from mind, not recognizing that it's the mind that generates the phenomena.
   Venerable Chang Hwa at one point showed us the video of a dancing image-- one which, when looked at in different ways, can be seen as moving clockwise, counterclockwise, or a combination of both. Her point was to suggest that most people are not aware that they construct what they see using a complex process of cognition and volition, rather than being passively moved by the conditions to judge a certain way. What we see or don't see is often influenced by our intentions. If I really insist on my view being correct, I will often make efforts not to see what others are seeing, or to argue that my way of seeing is the only way. This is because I don't want to acknowledge the impermanence and emptiness of all views, for fear that it will open me up to uncertainty and endless possibility. In the same way, any view can be held in such a way that it prevents me from seeing my own self-grasping and subjectivity. Even what appears to be a correct Buddhist teaching such as "all phenomena are illusory" can be adopted with the attitude of contempt and avoidance of phenomena, thinking that the phenomena are blocking the right view or are a hindrance to enlightenment. In reality, however, phenomena are just different expressions of the mind, much like steam and ice are 'expressions' of H2O.
    When I reflect on a concept in Buddhism, I need to ask myself: what's my intention, and how does this view or assertion reflect or affect the way I treat the phenomena? If my treatment of phenomena is dismissive, fearful, angry or resentful, then chances are I am not seeing phenomena's true source. Instead, I am taking the phenomena as subtly real, even when I vehemently assert they are unreal. This is a little bit like the person who says, "God doesn't exist, and anyway, God is not good." One's thinking says it's unreal but one's feeling is to try to protect oneself from it, which doesn't make sense. Sometimes, our assertions against something or someone are only forms of denial and avoidance, rather than fair and thorough insights into the true emptiness of those phenomena. To know emptiness is to see things with fairness and compassion, not fear or resentment. But this is the challenge of practice itself, which takes a while to cultivate.

The Spiritual Void

 We had our discussion group tonight, and we talked about the spiritual void.  The idea behind it is that people often feel an inner void within themselves that can come from an insatiable greed or desire for external things. When people are too attached with the satisfactions of the external world (or the constant pressure to survive and succeed) then they will start to experience a kind of void in themselves and be terrified of it.
  I have a slightly different take on this, and that is not to take the spiritual void as a lack but more so as an invitation to the spiritual life. So often, people are terrified of that sense of lack that they hardly see it for what it is, namely as a form of decompression that happens when we experience times of non-striving, or non-satisfaction. These instances of void often fail to happen in daily life because we happen to be surrounded by many distractions that can take the edge off the pains of withdrawal and decompression. But once we are caught in the cycle of desire, the fear of lack becomes so much greater and more awesome than the actual sense of lack in and of itself.
   Taking walks and even being alone can be good ways to reintroduce the void, along with meditative practices. Acquainting oneself with times of non-progress and "not getting anywhere" can yield profound experiences, such as the realization that "needs" are really only wants. Once we stop believing that our wants are our needs, there is this burden that is lifted off our shoulders, and we start to see ourselves more for who we are, not all of our strivings and addictions.
   If we think about the case of someone with substance abuse, it's not hard to realize that the substance and its accompanying pleasures are just a mask for the fear of void. But this void is not a bad thing at all: it's an opening to an experience of non-striving. But because I think this void means that I lose my self, or sense of self, I feel panic and anxiety. I think that the void experience does need to be taken in small doses, to acquaint oneself with the differences between want and need, and to realize that the sense of self is not so solid and real that we will die in not having it around.

Interdependence Vs Dependence

 The more that I interact in group meditation, the more convinced  am I that it's through group practice that people can negotiate dependence and interdependence. This is because group meditation relies on a dynamic that is entirely one's own mind and attitude, giving people a space not to seek approval or respect from others, but to go deep into their own space of mind and heart. Even the very simple act of "being present" (even if it's uncomfortable initially) is one way to get away from the dramas that we often play out in our minds regarding who we wish to depend on, who we go to for help, who we can trust, etc.
     The way that I see it is: whatever I feel or think about someone is entirely coming from the mind and previous experience which makes me feel a certain way. This is to say, I am never really interacting directly with anyone, but only my own thoughts, memories, experiences, and so on. Knowing this allows me to get distance on my reactions, and not to think that it's the person who "causes" me to feel a certain way (as this would be quite absurd, like saying that my hand forced me to eat something). I believe that this is the correct way to look at life, because it avoids the disappointment of believing that the person one sees in front of them has to conform to whatever pictures, inclinations, thoughts etc. exist in our minds about that person.
   Interdependence seems to be knowing that there are determinants in one's thinking and feeling (conditioning) that come from our mental factors. It's that awareness that it comes from being sensitive that conditions can be influenced by a whole variety of things. Dependence seems to come from a false belief in something that is eternal and fixed, such as a root cause for one's problems. Knowing the difference between these two seems crucial to changing one's attitude toward what happens to them.

How People Heal

In the past two weeks, I did have a bad situation with my left foot, and slowly, I find it healing (pardon an unintentional pun). And it did seem miraculous to me in a sense, because about a week ago I thought that I was in very dire straits. I went through panic, and now I am just feeling the need to take better care of my body and know that any mindless twist or turn might send it into injury again. But I think what this experience taught me was how many emotions and thoughts come to be associated with being physically challenged in some way.
   I also notice that whenever I have an unexpected situation come up, my tendency is to try to seek whatever help I can. But I notice that there is no magic cure except for what the body can do to care for itself: better rest, for example, and finding more adaptable ways to move the body without upsetting the painful spot. Does the body, then heal itself? I think that only the body can cooperate in the healing process. If for example, I continued to ignore the pain, I would only make things worse. But it's somehow a good thing that nature endows us with an inherent low capacity for pain tolerance, since pain can alert the body to slow down or find more safe ways to move in the world.
  Another thing that this experience has taught me, perhaps to my detriment, is to be really vigilant about future injury. If I feel even the slightest bit of discomfort in my leg or knee, I will now start to shift position slightly, as though anticipating that it might worsen the condition of the body in some way. There is a tricky part to this, however, and that is not to let pain get the body into a frozen state. If this happens, then the body will continue to get stuck or immobile in some way, all due to the previous memory of the pain.
    A lot of what I am describing somehow has analogies to the mind. To be mindful itself seems to be a balance between care and not getting paralyzed by situations which demand care. If I am too attached or sensitive to pain, I start to develop armor or defensiveness, including thoughts only make the situation worse, such as "I will never walk again." On the other hand, being insensitive to pain is also not quite the way, because the pain gives a person good information on how to move more carefully and re-engage muscles of the body, or perhaps emotional resources we didn't think we had. Pain can open up new avenues of resources as well as close off ways of being that are reckless or unappreciative of the body's gifts. The same is true of our mental pains and ailments.

Good Mourning

 Whenever a person feels a strong emotions toward something and someone, there is usually something psychic that needs to be worked on until it can be fully seen for what it is. Once that feeling is known for what it is, one can also see the other for who they are as well, and those strong feelings can then become deeper and more nuanced. This isn't to say that the feelings suddenly go away; they just transform into something more interesting and balanced.
  During the last session of the Buddhist sutra studies class tonight, we talked about the Buddhist notions of not wanting to 'show mourning' toward those who are about to pass into the next life, for fear that the mourning feelings will cause the consciousness to want to stay on earth to comfort the mourner. The goal in a lot of Buddhist systems  and philosophies is not to attach to worldly things, so it's considered a kind of obstacle if one shows mourning toward the person who is in the final stages of life. But as I heard this discussion, I came to appreciate that we often communicate different things when we mourn the loss of something. The most obvious or perhaps blatant form of this is wanting something to remain the way it is. But there are other kinds of loss which don't necessarily come primarily from a desire for things to be the same as they were. For example, I can lose something and feel great mourning, but that mourning may not be attached to wanting the thing to remain as it is. It may be a kind of sad acceptance of reality, coupled with a genuine affection for what we lose. I find that this affection is sometimes even more genuine than the previous one, because it does not insist that what we are losing stay with us to comfort us. Rather, we are able to hold the pain of loss in one hand and appreciate the loved one on the other, with a kind of sad joy and respect. I don't quite know how to say this, but I think this is a richer and deeper form of mourning, but it isn't engendering the notion that one must keep the loved one fixed in one state of being.
   It's very hard to hold the pain of loss and the joy of another in the same instance. I am not capable of it myself, so why would I bother to write about it? It's because I am exploring what it means to enjoy what we enjoy and mourn its impermanence, while embracing its ability to come out and then come back into our life again.