Pressing Dreams

I had the opportunity to catch Chloe Zhao's movie The Rider yesterday. I have to say that it's by far the most touching and moving film I have seen in a long while. What amazes me about this movie is its portrayal of a rodeo rider who is trying to rise above his injuries from a previous mis-happen stint, only to find himself bogged down by the difficulties of his recovering body. A poignant and symbolic example is a hand that clenches so tightly as well as the brain's inability to keep up with the neurological signals travelling from the hand, resulting in a hand that is hard to unclench. To me, this part of the movie seemed to represent an inability to let go of dreams that outlive the body's ability to fulfill those dreams. Even when Brady, the protagonist, is continually reminded by strangers and acquaintances not to "give up on his dreams" of continuing to be a rodeo rider, it's his body that is ultimately unable to reach those dreams. The soul has its purpose, but the body has its own karma.
  The tension between the soul's purpose and the embodiment of that purpose runs throughout the movie, in parallel with the theme of interconnection which one especially sees in how Brady relates to the horses that he rides with and trains. Brady not only inhabits his body but also a world of others who are vying for his attention and space: a sister, for example, who has developmental challenges, a father who alternates between high expectations and dead-pan realism; friends who even try to wake Brady from his "recovery" sleep to go joyriding in the desert; and the demands of a community where he needs to get by somehow. Brady inhabits a world where his dreams don't go away (as well as his fame as a rodeo rider) but survival of the body must take precedence. The compromise between dream and its imperfect embodiment is perhaps best represented in Brady's good friend, who is paralyzed due to a previous accident in he rodeo. Brady does his best to help his friend relive the rodeo days, and it's only in the end that the audience can see that this relationship with his friend is the true embodiment of his hopes and dreams. Dreams are not about final destinations, but are meant to be shared with others, even in the most compromised circumstances. Watching this film, I become much more interested in the simple love and trust that the characters (both human and animal) show for each other, and how they work together to support their hopes and purpose in life. It seems that these grandiose visions of fame and fortune are just a cover for the work we really need to do for each other in this world.

Our Empathy Projects

I have been recently reading a book called Empathy: Why It Matters, and How to Get It, by Roman Krznaric. Krznaric’s book is quite readable and entertaining, introducing his readers to a historic overview of different empathy movements throughout history, as well as how to cultivate empathy through reading, conversation and imagination. One of the interesting aspects that Krznaric refers to is that different historical movements seem to have pushed forward the cause of empathy, such as the abolition of slavery post 1700s, the Quaker movement (which was instrumental to slavery) in the same time period, and the push for universal rights after World War II.

I understand that there is also a “science” of empathy which Krznaric also explores, looking at parts of the brain that might be hardwired for empathy. It seems that these parts of the book seem to suggest that empathy activates what are called “mirror neurons” (p.21-24), parts of the nervous system that make us “feel” what others feel based on a sympathetic resonance. While I find some of these studies fascinating, I wonder if the building blocks of empathy are really found in these mirror neurons, or whether mirroring is only one aspect of empathy. I recall a situation years ago when a friend had remarked to me that me joining a hiking group was very “courageous” because I was surrounded by strangers. Back in the time, even though I am an introvert by nature, it never occurred to me that joining a hiking group necessarily inspires “courage”. However, my friend reflected that in my shoes, such an activity would require courage. In a case like this, is the person really empathizing with me, or are they really looking at how they might react to a similar situation? What I think is happening with my friend is that there is an image in the mind which makes the person feel a certain way, and this feeling then causes the person to believe that I might feel the same way. That is, rather than “feeling for me” there is a kind of sympathy which arises when a person imagines themselves in the same position. I don’t see this as an exact mirroring of my experience, but it’s a kind of constructed dialogue based on how a person imagine themselves in a similar situation.

Is it “terrible” that we don’t feel exactly the same way that others do? Think of how uninteresting the world would be  if our feelings were mirrored exactly in the others. What this paradigm of empathy as “mirroring” perhaps overlooks is that people have different and diverging ways of responding to the same situation, and this sharing of information seems to be a kind of creative improvisation, rather than a note-for-note “copy”. I tell someone one thing, and their particular “take” on it might broaden my perspective  bit, even if it is not the same as how I feel about it. Sometimes the “empathic misfire” is more interesting than an exact mirroring of emotion, and it makes for an expanded view of who we are and what our choices are in a given situation. For this reason, I tend to think of empathy more as a process of artistic co-creation than a kind of “mirroring” of a person’s experiences.

Krznaric, R. (2014) Empathy: Why It Matters, and How to Get It. New York: Perigee

Bound To Fail

Continuing to read John Makransky’s book today, I am lead to wonder, is it even possible to extend love to all sentient beings? I occasionally (read: very often) feel overwhelmed by this prospect. But what helps me through this situation is to know that quite simply it is not necessary to succeed in this process. Having the vow to see one’s boundless mind is quite enough.

There is a certain humor in this realization. I stepped on the bus this morning and soon realized how absurd it is for me to imagine that I could practice “pure peace” without any disturbance in mind.  The point is that the habit is always a shadow that hangs over any spiritual practice. It is so easy to be caught off guard, and I feel there’s a need to cultivate humor about this, to know that such a goal of loving all beings is impossible. But being able to vow to do the impossible reveals two things: one is the boundless aspiration, and two is the boundless fragility of the heart.

Every now and then, if one really has a vow, something will creep into all of this: a little glimpse that who I think I am is not quite so real. This morning, I had that moment and a sense of relief came over me. The nightmare I impose is that of “a self that needs to be a certain way”, but paradoxically, one must have an impossible vow to glimpse that this self is not real, and not sustainable either. If every goal that we set out for ourselves were super-easy, there would only be the sense of accomplishment, no sense of the impossibility of perfecting the self. Only when I face that impossibility can I really laugh at it and see beyond it.  I think this is why the beauty of vows is that they are bound to fail, even when they are infinite. Nobody, no “self”, is behind the vow; there is no sustainable self that can complete the vow. Everything is always changing from one moment to the next. What better way to know this than to have the ceaseless, impossible vow?

Makransky, John (2007). Awakening Through Love: Unveiling Your Deepest Goodness. Boston: Shambhala

Hot Potato

In his book, Awakening Through Love: Unveiling Your Deepest Goodness, John Makransky remarks, “[E]very time we mistook others for the very source of our happiness, and misreacted to them with possessiveness or anger through that delusion, we have contributed to a world in which greed, hatred, and violence are daily news” (p.76) This is a very impactful statement indeed, in that it implicates all people in the suffering that we experience even in the news. It takes quite a while to unpack this sentence, among many of the others’ in Makransky’s book, and that’s part of the reason why this is my second reading of the book. But I think it’s worthwhile to explore some of the implications.

Why would mistaking others for “the very source of our happiness” be such a source of suffering? Some might argue that looking toward others for one’s happiness might make people harmonize more and conflict much less. The problem with this theory is that it doesn’t account for the frustration and unhappiness that arises when one unconsciously (or consciously) desires to be happy from another person. What happens is, as Makransky suggests, a kind of chain reaction. With thwarted expectations or desires comes a sense of “possessiveness or anger”, as well as a battle to “win” the attention of the other person, or at least to show that one has some control over them. As the person soon realizes that they don’t have such control over a person’s feelings or thoughts, depression or despair can set in, as well as the need to conceal from oneself the desire, which can lead to more anger or undirected anxiety. A person might not feel that they need to depend on others, but underneath that belief is an atmosphere of uneasiness. Even though the person has consciously overcome their craving for happiness in others, deep down, they still harbor the notion of self and other which stays in the backdrop until something triggers it over again. What results is a kind of tension which I often experience in myself as well as in others.

The way we work with these energies of desire and anger, from what I understand it, is not necessarily to strive to overcome the emotions themselves. If, for example, I hold up the model of someone else and remark to myself, “I need to be more like this person”, I will end up suppressing or denying any emotion or thought that does not fit that pattern of the other, while burying emotions that don’t fit the ideal. This leads to a kind of smouldering or fragile sort of mentality, because I am no longer congruent with my feelings about things. I think a more constructive approach is to allow the experience to arise without trying to “package” it into a self. If the sensation of anger arises, I automatically jump to the thought, “I am angry at you”, thus reinforcing a split of self and other. But what if the emotion was simply allowed to be without necessarily packaging it as a self/other? What if, quite simply, there is only anger, or only desire? What happens then is that there isn’t any feeding the fuel of that anger or desire, because it doesn’t belong to anyone at all.

I remember there used to be a game we played in school called “hot potato”, and the object of the game was to pass an imaginary (you guessed it) hot potato from one person to the next. After a certain time or perhaps a signal is given, the person in possession of the hot potato needs to find someone to give it to, while everyone else dodges or runs away. The idea of this game almost symbolizes the kind of self/other just described. If I am not clinging to the idea that I and I alone have this hot potato (and need to do something about it), I am no longer under any particular pressure to act on it. Who has it? Isn’t it just an emotion that arises, and not necessarily something substantial that belongs to me?

However, I qualify this remark by suggesting that there is still responsibility for one’s emotions. The difference is that there isn’t this attitude of blaming or trying to “assign” blame for something that has already arisen. To blame myself for an emotion I am feeling now is somewhat counter-productive. If it’s happened, it’s happened, and now I need to establish who the person is who instigates the action.

Makransky, John (2007). Awakening Through Love: Unveiling Your Deepest Goodness. Boston: Shambhala

The Tough Option

 When encountering everyday situations, especially with others, it seems there are two choices one can make. The first is that one can simply see that person as a reflection of one's own tendencies. In other words, I look at the world as a "sea of selves", all vying for certain kinds of comforts and happiness, and racing to get to the finish line of life. This very much can characterize the psychology of "rush hour", in the sense that we might see everyone as rushing to reach the same goals. Another way is to look a little bit further to ask the deeper question: why are people seeing themselves as separate individuals on a kind of race, when in fact there is nothing to take with oneself at the end of life? This second option is much harder to consider, because it asks that a person see the self as a temporary sort of thing, much like a set of clothes. The "self" is a construction, for sure, but if we didn't have the current social arrangements we do have, would that self be so prevalent?
   Consider the difference between city life and a life on the cottage. With city living, there are many things to choose from as well as many kinds of temptations. The self is sometimes constructed around notions of how much we do on a given week, and this list of "things done" can easily become fodder for conversations as well. If I am not living with the pressures to do so many things, my sense of self is bound to be a bit different, or less pressed for time. This is because a lot of activity is needed to sustain this kind of sense of identity with others. If I only have one or two responsibilities and am supported in those identities, then the struggle to maintain self and all its comforts and advantages, is not so heavy. The problem is that it's very rare to find a society in which one's responsibilities don't get multiplied somehow. This is because among many people, how we are known or recognized often seems to depend on the kinds of investments and commitments we have devoted ourselves to.
   It's hard to take the second option of questioning the necessity of identity altogether. Does my identity have to be based on all these things, and does one even need a fixed sense of self? These questions seem to challenge the fabric of society itself, where people are often evaluated using a variety of professional designations or markers. But perhaps the way toward a more spacious sense of being is to investigate where these identities come from, who they serve, and why they play such a compelling role in a person's life.

A Recurring Rabbit

Tonight, on my way home from the group meditation practice, I spotted a rabbit who was bounding out from a hedge onto the sidewalk in front of me. I was terrified that the rabbit would become frightened of me and run into the oncoming traffic, so I just froze and looked at it for a while. Just in the distance, a bicyclist was just about to cross the dangerous intersection on a red light, causing the car in front of him to honk several times. The rabbit was meanwhile very petrified, and did not flinch! Finally, I was able to shoo the rabbit back to the safety of the bushes. Life, it seems, is very perilous.
   This is not the first time that I had seen a rabbit in the neighborhood, and I sometimes wonder what it means to be visited upon by the same creatures many times. I believe that sometimes recurring visitors from other realms (in this case an animal one) can remind people of many things, among them the sacredness of life and how miraculous living beings are even when they are not necessarily tied to status or being part of a rat race (pardon the pun). They are also ways to connect lovingly with the universe that aren't necessarily expected.
    The other day, I saw a barrel of live blue crabs in a supermarket, waiting to be bought and cooked by the passing customers. One of the crabs was turned on its back, and all I could see was a kind of moving bubble of water on its mouth. That moving bubble made me feel very sad for this being's suffering as well as recognizing that all living things need the basic necessities, such as air and water, for their survival. In that tiny moment, I learned a lot about sentient beings because my heart was moved to see them in a certain way, particularly as painfully vulnerable. In those flash moments of compassion, the hardness within me naturally seems to dissolve away.
    Repetitions of encounters might also be a symbolic reminder of unfinished business. What better way to remind us of our own recurring challenges than the recurrence of an ethical dilemma? These situations might be seen as wake up calls, as well as calls to simplify one's life to find new solutions in the natural world.

Peace Walk

 My walk was peaceful on the way from Finch Subway Station to my home. Why? It had nothing to do with the scenery or with the fact that it's the first "warm day" that doesn't require a winter jacket. More so, I think it relates to the state of mind itself, which tries to take things the way they are without trying to control them.
  Some gazes are controlling: they see what they want and they want to change whatever doesn't fit that image. Other gazes are just cold and uninviting. The city is full of all kinds of energies, but the whole point of it is for the mind to be a container that clearly reflects all of it, rather than trying to reject it in any way. That's hard to do, of course, but whenever I find myself reacting, I then need to ask myself, what is it that I am attached to that leads to this reaction? Is it the attachment to being "liked" or "respected"? What happens if that expected result doesn't happen at all? Is there something I can still learn? In the process, will this mind still be "ok"?