Unsettled

  The older I get, the less I seem to mind the notion of being mentally or emotionally "unsettled". This might be an unsettling conclusion to start with, especially when people tend to think of aging as a process of "settling". In fact, the metaphor of "sedimentation", a process common in geology, comes to mind as I write these words. Just as layers of sand and mud tend to aggregate and settle into predictable grooves, eventually turning to rock, one would expect that one's thoughts and habits would do the same over time.
   I prefer the idea of being a little bit unsettled: not sure about who I am, not sure which identities are "mine", and not settled in one direction in life. This sounds nightmarish to some, but I think it's a dedication to a critical and thoughtful life that one would not take any easy path of "this is me", or "this is the final goal", but rather to think that each part of life is a piece on a learning journey that doesn't end. Why do I think this is a good way? I think it's a good way because it is the way one's heart remains open to others and does not ever think that it knows everything, or even anything for that matter. This is the key to continually challenging the illusion of a concrete self that is never changing, static, and has nothing more to learn or to do.
  That having been said, I would qualify this remark by saying that not all learning is verbal, comes from books, or even comes from having degrees or achieving concrete goals that are socially sanctioned or prized. Sometimes this learning is more like an inner maturity that happens over time and space through a process of atonement with things and memories. But nonetheless the principle is the same to always be on the lookout for new ideas and discoveries, and to be humble in the face of what isn't known.

Resisting the Tyranny of Quickness

Nowadays, I believe that technology (including that found in the workplace) is pushing for greater volumes and quicker processing of products and services, to serve higher populations. I have noticed that whenever I am personally overwhelmed or unable to keep up with the pace around me, I fail to recognize that this "pace" is actually created by myself. Nobody ever forced me to do things quickly, so why do I need to push myself beyond my capacities to reflect? In principal, this is much easier said than done, and the workplace is a good example of a contested site where people do indeed have pressure to work quicker and process more. However, I still believe that the way to approach those rush situations is still to turn back to one's own reflections and awareness. After all, the mind is not the one that is moving, so why get sick identifying with all the moving parts arising?
    Even in cases where someone does not meditate a lot, I have personally found that stopping to reflect honesty on "what do I really think and feel about this?" can be a healthy way to really slow down and not over-identify with so many changes around me. This reflection doesn't have to be much and it doesn't need to come to the point of vexation. It is more like checking in with oneself to see what the state of their mind is like. Is the mind confusing its thoughts with itself? Is it just complicating things by insisting that everything be resolved at once? What is the mind doing to confuse itself into thinking that everything needs to be resolved at this moment? Again, sometimes it's not the environment that does this, but in fact the tendency to want to resolve conflicts, tensions and confusions all at once so that they don't need to be faced.

Getting "Unstuck"

 Tonight I experienced the frustration of realizing that an old set of data I had in 2014 is locked inside a computer that is too old to start up. I was looking for this data for a recent course I had registered in, and now I am beginning to realize that it might be locked for good. It's sometimes saddening when you get a glimpse of what could have been, only to realize that it's literally locked away in the past. And it can lead to the sort of fixation of trying to retrieve it, literally at "any cost", which can be quite debilitating to say the least. But it's important to reflect at the end of the day that something that is "gone" might not have really meant to be. It's important in those moments to "unstick oneself".
   One such practice I have found most helpful for this purpose is the ability to see that something is not always as golden as one thought. If I am thinking that something is good to have, am I pushing it to "absolutely essential"? If so, is that realistic to have as a goal, or might it be only an assumption? Thinking that something is absolutely necessary is a form of unnecessary attachment, and it might be helpful to start looking at reasons why the thing I seek is not as glamorous as I thought: for example, is the data I am seeking as complete and as promising as I thought, or am I only imagining it to be so great?
   Another strategy is quite simply to let go. This sounds very deceptively simple, but it's not necessarily simple at all. Letting go requires a lot of courage, and also the space to see that there could be another avenue or direction that hasn't yet been discovered. When I can observe that my current attachment to a thought is preventing new thoughts or possibilities to emerge, that might just be my cue to start to let go a bit and see what's happening and why I am so attached to the one thing, unable to see other possibilities.

Not Attaching to Thoughts, Embracing the New

 Non attachment to thought is not so easy to do, but I suppose it has a lot to do with facing one's inner energy and not getting caught up in taking thoughts as being real. An example has to do with facing  a challenge. A lot of times when taking courses, I am faced with a creative "block" of sorts, where I begin to doubt myself and cannot find ways to overcome the problem. But when I allow myself not to know or to be so certain, I realize that I am operating under the thought "this is too hard" and that thought itself of "this is too hard" stems from a craving for certainty. In the event that I cannot tolerate uncertainty or even the possibility of failure or disorientation, I tend to stick with the very easy thought "this is too hard" and even give up altogether.
    I have always admired artists or musicians who never do the same thing twice. I recall reading about an interview of Freddy Mercury where he remarked that he did not want to perform the same style twice, so many of his songs adopt very different styles. The reason I admire such musicians, however, is that they risk failure even when what they have done before assures them success. For example, if I have a fan base of people who always support me in my ideas, I might very well make a living simply from my fans. Nowadays, there are many tools to do that, and one is bound to find employment simply from this approach. On the other hand, taking a risk into uncertainty allows me to find new connections and new ideas. I think this is where it is important not to fall for the very easy and familiar pattern of taking new challenges as "difficult". In fact, the only difficulty is being able to face ambiguity: after all, nobody ever fully "fails" or "succeeds" at anything, and learning is a unique process that cannot be replicated or even imitated.

Exploring Afflictions

Whenever I experience some vexation or troubling emotions, I consider: well, this is another possibility to explore and to wonder "why". I think that this orientation in itself is part of what makes vexation so interesting and intriguing. When vexation is turned into an interesting process of contemplation or even (dare I say) study, then one's attitude toward vexation itself changes. It's not even said to be "vexation" anymore; instead, it's one of many energies from mind, just like the waves in an ocean.
   Part of the problem is that vexations and afflictions in the mind often invite shame. This is interesting, because I sometimes wonder why people might feel the sense of shame when it comes to experiencing disturbing states of mind. It is almost as though one were to feel they were losing face if any emotion comes to their mind that does not match up with one's self-image. Experiencing vexations might also bring a person to a train of thought where they don't allow themselves to feel disturbed, either for fear that it will get out of control or because they believe they should know better than to have such feelings. It's only when a person is open to exploring emotions in a relaxed way that they will not block themselves from processing the emotions.
 To give a simple example, if I just missed the bus and I feel some kind of irritation, I might then add to the irritation by telling myself "you should not feel that way", or even imagining what I would look like in that moment. But there is another way, and that is to simply behold the irritation and to observe how it rushes through the body, generating all sorts of internal reactions. Treating the sensation as a curiosity, I can then start to better appreciate its living energy, rather than trying to hem it in with rules or expectations. When I only observe this emotion, I also have the chance to let go of any narratives I have about myself in the relationship to that emotion. (Who I am, what I look like to others, and so on). Knowing that emotions do not have automatic judgments attached to them can help me better understand and deal with them as they arise.

Speaking To Others

 After the group meditation tonight, we talked about a very interesting topic, namely "wisdom" from a Chan perspective. According to Master Sheng Yen, true wisdom is objective, meaning that it lacks a self reference. When I speak to someone, rather than saying "if I were you, I would..." my wisdom mind first seeks to know what the other person is truly experiencing. Only in this way can wisdom truly manifest and the illusory self center will start to dissolve.
  I am not sure how to relate to this, since there are a lot of related principles, but one take home is that I should speak to others not with the mind to "impress" or "please" but with a mind centered on the topic itself as well as the group as a whole. In the workplace, for instance, people might approach meetings with either the idea to compete for individual recognition, or with the idea of benefiting the group as a whole. When my mind is really in the present moment and I am only focused on the topic or objective at hand, then even being silent is okay. It's really one's attention to the issues at hand that gives rise to the appropriate actions and responses, even if the appropriate response is "none whatsoever". In that kind of circle, it's not necessary for me to fret about whether I am looking "good" or not, or whether "my" idea is accepted (alas--as many of one's ideas are borrowed anyway). But the point is that the ideas might potentially contribute to the whole in some way. And even if they don't quite fit, that's okay too: it's over time and through a few trial and errors that one can learn what combinations work most effectively for this team.
    Another take home is that--well, to be honest with you, I get this more from Kafka than from the workplace or Chan Buddhism--we should expect failure and non-finality. There is never a moment when we ever "finish", and I think that this infinite aspect is where compassion comes into play. If I am someone who has absolute certainty as to what I think I and others need, then there might be some wisdom there, but it lacks compassion. Compassion needs infinitude, because it is looking at the infinity of sentient existence. Even when I look deeply into myself or "study" myself, do I ever reach the end point where I can know what I need? To the contrary, it's through working with others that one can get some idea of what those needs are, but even then the knowing of another person and the self is inexhaustible. But it's precisely here that we can truly cultivate a compassion that does not despair. When I know that there is nothing to finish and yet there is everything available to do or not do, then what I do becomes an improvisation on selves interacting. What started as a "science" starts to look more and more like an art. I guess this is how I am understanding the process of speaking to others.

Befriending Our Places, Recollecting Spinoza

Yesterday, I again deliberately (or not so deliberately) got off at the "wrong" stop in Mississauga, ending up in an old haunt, South Common Shopping Mall. This was one of my favorite teenage "haunts", a suburban terminal that served as a midway point between my home and the much bigger Erin Mills Town Centre. I often walked to both places when I was in my undergraduate years in university. Nowadays, I have neither the time nor the inclination to do so, on top of which it was raining yesterday as well. Yet, undaunted, I decided to walk to my mom's place from South Common Mall.
  My thoughts went to Spinoza: a philosopher who I had admired as a 20 year old, and who I had studied at university. Spinoza was one of the first philosophers to attempt to view reason and emotion as modes of a divine being that permeates everything. "Conatus" is Spinoza's term for the organizing principle of all things, and how beings have their own individual natures (perhaps fate or destiny might be apt words) which they maintain in the midst of other natures. To give an example,  a rock, plant and bird are all "modes" of the same being, but each has its own form of expression. Rocks don't grow in the way that plants do, and plants don't communicate or move as animals do, yet according to Spinoza, their fundamental belonging to a divine being is the same. The difference is that each has its own distinct piece in the unfolding conversation of life, occupying a role that is mitigated by its organizing principles.
   For humans, "conatus" is more about how our characters unfold in the midst of our fates. For example, on a day to day basis, I am buffeted by a variety of different urges and passions. Spinoza, however, reminds us that "passions" come from the same root as "passive", in the sense that they are ideas that act upon us; we are not the active authors of our passions. Only when I can integrate those passions into my character can balance be achieved. This requires a life of knowing oneself --not just what a person likes or dislikes but also where a person fits in the world, what strengths they can contribute to the society, and how they can give to the others in their lives.
    I am not sure what it means that a 44 year old is walking the same steps that his 20 year old self did many years ago. Is it the same or is it different? From my current view, the things that the 20 year old had at the time (including experiences, reading, thoughts, relations) were simply not quite enough to help him mature into a professional life or independence, at least not at that age. And even at this age, I can acknowledge that I don't know enough, and have not developed myself enough; there is still a long way to go. However, I can also see that he had the capacity to wonder about life, and this always keeps a person going at any age. If I ever find myself without that sense of wonderment, is there any more reason to live? I guess that's another question to add to one's daily walks.