The Joys of Reading I: (Re) Collection

  For whatever reason, going to university heralded the end of "reading books for the pleasure and discovery". I think that all too suddenly, I was inducted into a view that reading should be something both active and critically subversive. Gone was the idea that a book could be an adventure and simply a careless kind of joy. It's only been recently that I have rediscovered a little bit of the joy of reading for its own sake.
  Sometimes a book has no reason to exist other than that it is something intriguing. I have often bought books not because I would re-read those books or use them as one would an owner's manual (or a reference book) but because something inexplicable intrigues me about that book. And if I take the process of reading too "literally" (pardon the pun), I might lose sight of the fact that putting an author's thoughts on paper is already a miracle: it is a conversation from the writer to the reader. What more can one ask? Yes, I know that the author is dead, but sometimes we need to see this from different lenses and start to find more ways of understanding what it means to read a book.
    Reading Ken Wilber's Future of Religion and Frederik Pohl's Man Plus, I recently found myself transported back to the reading just for the sake of enjoying the thoughts and imagination of another person---that is, not having to take a stand, agreed/disagree, implement the writer's perspective, etc. etc. but to simply take part in a re-imagining of the author's vision. Allowing oneself to enjoy something without any ulterior purpose is a treat that we can always give ourselves at any time.

Inhabiting Fear

 During the group meditation tonight, I shared about changes that have happened to me since the pandemic. I think that being alone to figure things out is one big change that has come about: being alone, for instance, to figure out how to deal with internet connections that don't always work as planned, or how to shop for things when the stores close earlier. And while these aren't insurmountable issues, I start to see how easily I can get flustered or anxious over them. I sort of have a sense of humor about this, because there is nothing that can be controlled, neither the situation nor my reaction to it. When I am pushed to the point where I face who I am, I can (sort of) see a bit beyond who I am.  This is because I am no longer pretending to be in control. I can then be more aware of the whole situation.
   Some of this is written "post panic", so it's not all that accurate or speaking truthfully. When my internet connection is slow and I need to work, I do experience it as a big issue. But on the other hand, in those moments, I am beside the fear--it's not pushing me from behind anymore, and I no longer have this idea that I can control fear or get rid of it. There is a kind of surrender there, much like the way Master Sheng Yen described how he saw a frog hop into the mouth of a snake after finding itself completely cornered. When the fear of death is absolutely experienced as unavoidable, there is no place to go but to inhabit the fear fully and directly. Then in the midst of that fear, neither "fear" nor "death" have any meaning; they are just elements in a surrounding storm.
 

Rethinking the Future

  I was very much interested in science fiction when I was a teenager. I am not too sure why this genre attracted me so much, but I can see recently how inspiring it is to read about future possibilities. One of my favorite writers in the genre was Frederick Pohl, but the thing about him was that he introduced me to darker elements that aren't in "traditional" kinds of science based fiction. Man Plus is a novel in which the protagonist is involved in a mission to terraform Mars by adopting a cybernetic body, and yet many of the themes in the story are hardly about the promises of human technology. More than anything, this book speaks to the ethical costs of manipulating human bodies (and minds) to suit alien bodies. Literally, the protagonist becomes an "alien" to his own body, and becomes the subject of a nameless "we" that mediates the text. Pohl subverted the positive leanings of science fiction, but he also introduced ways of thinking about science fiction as a cautionary look into the limits of human creation.
   When people are young, the future often looks "brighter"  because one feels so "subjected" to others as a child. A child looks forward to a time when, as an adult,they can take charge of their own condition and have the right answers and wisdom to drive their own vehicle, as it were. Then, as I have gotten older, I come to understand that the "future" is really an idea that is relative to a feeling of being a subject to today's conditions. The projected future often promises a liberation that might sometimes arise, but is never fully completed and might even self-destruct as hopes erode or new challenges present themselves. For instance, as soon as I "graduate" from one level of subjection, I become the subject to a new set of rules and standards. I am never free of it, even though I might present myself as such to others who might have greater sense of oppression than myself. The point is, this future never truly arrives. It is only an indication of how far people must go to free themselves from whatever they are struggling with at the time.
  On the other hand, when a person reaches a place in life where they lost that optimism of being fully liberated (an autonomous, self-choosing being, perhaps), the bright future means something else. It is a delightful idea that we can use to brighten peoples' day. It is also a testament to compassion that we can share hopes and dreams even if those don't necessarily refer to permanent states of being. I don't count on the future anymore; the future is more like an idea that I entertain as a way of keeping my spirits up and keeping me strong. And this idea of the future becomes a companion who stands and struggles with me, not forever in front of me with a promise that is forever unfulfilled.

Insult to Injury

 What fixates a person in pride? I was thinking about this after reading a discussion in Khenpo Tsultram Lodro's online book The Handbook for Life's Journey. I genuinely believe that it pride relates to a childhood dynamic of feeling punished by an elder. Pride is a kind of defense against annihilation; when I put my heart into a tonne of armor, I try to immunize myself against the pain of a perceived humiliation or being put in my place. These things are not necessarily imaginary. For example, parents often believe that they need to speak harshly and bluntly to children to "teach them a lesson"--almost to shock children into never engaging in shameful practices. But the opposite of shame is pride, and pride can often become a very heavy armor that a person wears to protect against even the slightest of threats which can remind them of past punishment.
  Seeing past the punishment idea is recognizing that these things happened when a person felt vulnerable--wanting or desiring the love of an elder person who is perceived as an authority. I think that this attitude of deference to authority needs to soften a bit. As we get older, we realize that even authority figures are complex beings and are human, and nobody knows everything. Seeing into this, one might realize that the sting of humiliation is not so harsh; we are not being punished by a divine authority, but rather by another human being who has the same vulnerability or weaknesses that we do. With this stance, there is less need for defensiveness and pride. There is more of an opening up of the heart and a sense that things will be okay even when another person's words might feel harsh or coming from a high ground.

Adventure in Ideas

I recall reading a book by Alfred North Whitehead called Adventures of Ideas. This book provided a lot of delightful thoughts about the ways in which ideas bring about certain kinds of civilization and goals. I rarely reflect that "adventure" isn't just a feeling of excitement, but it is a "going forth": a special journey which involves taking risks and also being able to entertain possibilities. There is a certain impossibility here. Like any vision, an idea never reaches the ground fully. Like sunlight, it illuminates the ground, paving the way for new ways of thinking and exploring.
   It's important, at least to me, never to feel like every idea has been mined. Some people resort to a kind of bittersweet realism, when they come to acknowledge that ideas are more like signposts than final destinations. They might even wonder, why entertain ideas when there is only this heavy reality to deal with? An idea, in fact, enriches the places where we travel; it is not meant to substitute for the rocky terrain, but rather allows people to explore the terrain in novel ways that might lead to new connections. Having a healthy relation to ideas can help us see them as tools rather than as burdens which require "proof".
    I think that when one stops thinking of ideas as absolutes, we can freely entertain as many as we wish, knowing that there is no idea that we have to claim as our own or try to defend against competing claims. Some ideas come in handy when we least expect them, so I think it's important to include elements of exploration and reading in our lives.

The Razor's Edge

I am reading a book by Osho called The Pillars of Consciousness, which contains a collection of four of his earlier works on Buddha, Zen, Tao and Tantra. In the section on Tantra, Osho refers to the Middle Path as "the razor's edge". I have heard this term in two slightly different contexts-one as the title of a Somerset Maugham book, while the other as a song by the band Rush. Well, maybe I will articulate a bit on what this term now means to me.
   The razor's edge is exactly what it describes--a painful, knifelike, precarious condition. It's somewhere in between striving and being, where striving is stymied by being and being is pulled asunder by striving. The razor's edge is being caught in the knowing that one is a negation, yet not having any way to fill that negation. Then resting in the negation and the absence of a negation. This razor's edge is also an eternal guilt--we are never fully ever finished, yet we might sometimes feel like we are "cooked" (even overcooked), and there is always one more mountain to climb. So there is an anguish there.
   None of these explanations of mine particularly relate to Buddhist notions of the middle path, but I think it suffices to say that nobody in good faith can rest in some eternal certainty. Perhaps, paradoxically, they can realize that nothing is ever clear and focused or finished. A life lived in guilt of things committed in the past is really only the seed for some future redemption or something that needs to be paid later. A person cannot wallow in guilt, the way a creature might hide in mud to escape from predators-nor can one wear guilt like it's a kind of "forever me". These ways of cloaking oneself in the past are evasions of the fundamental voidness that guilt points to. When I do something wrong, nothing exonerates me--that wrong remains fixed in my mind, no matter whether I run away from it or rationalize it. Nothing can write over the anguish of past wrongs, which makes it infinite. On the other hand, guilt can be redeemed, just as we can constantly renew our vows to do good things. Guilt can spur a person to greatness, much more so than a life that is completely "innocent" (a theoretical life, no doubt). This is because seeing harm or wrong is the greatest inspiration to seeing what is good. Good is sometimes only known and felt in the not-good. Alas, this is the terrible thing about the good. By the time one has recognized it, the opportunity to be innocent has passed.
    Razor's edge is an awakened state, sometimes raw and painful. It is eternally never-resting.

Moving Pictures

Pictures in a photograph are made of the exact same material, no matter what image it takes. The problem is that we forget the substance of the photo; one literally gets drawn into the scene of the picture itself. There is no context to frame how the picture got there, or the fact that it is the product of many conditions that extend infinitely. Instead, one's mind gets fixated on the story behind the specific picture and how the self is in relation to it.
   It's an interesting experiment to try to understand what happens when we calm our mind before or while viewing images in the media or news. The calm mindset is not about staking territory or trying to figure out one's angle or perspective on something. Instead, it's seeing all images as coming from the same stock. The images are literally flat: one is not better than the other, but all are arrangements of colors. Even the camera itself has no 'opinion' about what images it is drawing up. In the computerized world, the pixels simply arrange themselves according to patterns of light cast by the lens. What we are often seeing is a digital replica of that arrangement of light along the lens. If we think of the image as an interrelationship of light and various kinds of processing, would we be so attached to the outcome of the image?
    If we stare at the image long enough, what happens? What changes in our relationship to it? I have found two things happen. One is that an habituation sets in: we are no longer shocked by what we see, but we accommodate our mindset to place the theme and characters of the photo into some conceivable framing that might feel natural to us. The second thing I notice is that there is less back and forth mental chatter. I am no longer opining about it, or trying to negotiate its "real" meaning, or even trying to analyze how to deal with the image. Instead,  I might start to recognize that all of the chatter is created by mind and is the result of all kinds of past conditioning and mental scripts. Pictures and stories often call us (unconsciously perhaps) to be something or rise to the occasion that the story or image conveys. But this calling forth is also constituting a subject, an I, that is also transitory.