Summer Beckons

  Why is the promise of summer like a kind of siren? I had to do work-related testing today, but just the sheer look of the summer sky made me feel as though being indoors were a kind of prison. I think that there is something so alluringly beautiful about the summer night. It's not simply the fact that the weather is nice, but that so much of summer is very metaphorically tied to feelings of warmth, safety and comfort in my life.

   Summer might also be a symbol of inner contentment. Somehow, seeing the sunset reminds me that life is transient, and yet there is always something in life for which we can be appreciative. Being part of nature is one of the gifts that we receive from it. The way I would describe it is that we feel a sense of belonging when we behold these simple joys, and that belonging does not depend on being popular, well liked or part of some fraternity or sorority. The sense of belonging I am talking about is more like a birthright.

   Summer reflects the mind that is eternally present. It does so in the simplest and subtlest ways.

Every Moment is "Back to Practice"

 I find that the easiest way to cope with life's difficulties is to see each experience as the opportunity to practice. But what does "practice" mean, at least from the Buddhist perspective? I think it refers to seeing things non-dualistically-- not seeing the self as separate from the rest of the world. However, more than that, it also means cultivating a good and positive attitude that is affirming of one's life. 

   If a person is only practicing insight into emptiness, this can lead to nihilism, or even wondering why to continue living. That is why it's important to look at things affirmatively even when all kinds of mistakes are made. Master Sheng Yen referred to the bodhisattva practice as like a baby having to learn to walk. Of course, babies naturally stumble, but this is part of what it means to walk! To extend the analogy further: I might not necessarily be good at certain things, and might be less capable than others. However, if I take some small steps and measure my own progress, this can be the base through which I can expand my observational awareness and figure out better ways to approach things.

  If a person looks at things too judgmentally, they might tend to create very harsh criticism that looks at things in a binary way. How do we approach judgmental situations? It's important not to feel helpless in the face of judgments, but to constructively learn from them. Does this criticism or judgment truly apply to me? Why would the other person tend to see me this way? What conditions would make them think this way? If I am looking at the judgments in this way rather than seeing them as "final", then I can be a bit of a scientist and think of those judgments as adding to my store of knowledge. In this way, I refuse to see judgments as final, but instead, see them as stepping stones in my own growth and development.

  Are there any true polarities after all? This is the real question that one must grapple with. There is no absolute, and so we can always learn from mistakes and improve ourselves through reflection. I think this is the essence of practice of any kind, spiritual or otherwise.

Overcoming Envy and Jealousy

   Envy and jealousy: how do we look at these from a Buddhist perspective? 

 Going back to my previous entry, I looked at how being and doing are often treated as separate entities. On the one hand, a person who is 'only doing' is considered like a machine with no being, while "pure being" is considered also detrimental. To "only be" is to be considered the ultimate form of laziness, and just won't be tolerated in an industrial society.

   More often than not, jealousy and envy are related to the mode of being wanting to be in the mode of doing--especially in the case of the underemployed. How can these tendencies be overcome?

   The problem is more fundamental than simply being envious or jealous. At heart, to be "jealous" or "envious" is to be envious or jealous of something. One wants someone to talk to or something to play with, and seeing others occupied with such things reminds a person of their own terrifying singularity. This reminds me of the god who creates other beings for the sake of company, yet forgets that those "other beings" are nothing more than extensions of its own innermost being. Nobody--not even god-- wants to be alone! And this is where jealousy and envy arise. They are looking at the other as being endowed with something, then seeing oneself as nothing but a singularity, which is frightening and terrifying to the self.

   Perhaps the ultimate resolution of envy and jealousy is the love of solitude. But how does that come about, really? How does one learn the art of solitude without the threat of envy or jealousy looming behind? Love of solitude is not easy in a world where people are pressured to be liked and well esteemed in communities, to the point where the community itself assumes the highest moral standard. But the alternative of not learning to love singularity itself--the lonely "One"--is a kind of crippling dependence on communities as forms of self-affirmation. I start to depend on the community or the organization to validate my sense of worth or having "done enough". However, this is very problematic and ends up becoming a terrifying experience. I stand on a certain ground, but what happens when my sense of "being a valued member" of a community starts to wobble, whether due to circumstances beyond my control or other events? Again, the community itself is not, and never can be, a reliable source of self-esteem or existence.

   Buddhism ultimately aims at the transcendence of self. How that is done in the context of a sangha is hard to say, because people crave a sense of merit in such organizations. As humans, we want to feel a sense of belonging and the feeling that "I am on the right path". But there are times when, even in the most tightly knit communities, the sense of a community identity easily cracks and splinters. Spiritual life and practice must surely prepare people for the destruction of their own cherished identities, both individually and within the community.

   As for the love of solitude, I don't think I have perfectly achieved that. Writing, for me, is one bridge between total solitude and the partial solitude of having something tangible to reflect back on.

Having a Sense of Purpose in Work

 What gives work a sense of purpose? In this reflection, I suggest that the sense of purpose in work cannot relate to external things, such as points or praise. Rather, it needs to come from a deeper sense of nonduality between self and others, or between who one is and what one does. Being and doing need to be seen as connected in a deep way that is inexplicable and immeasurable. But in order to explore this concept, I need to articulate why external markers do not give work a sense of purpose even when they drive a person's sense of identity in relation to others.

   It's clear that work needs to be externally acknowledged and measured in some way. Otherwise, there would be no way to really evaluate whether a person is working successfully to achieve certain goals or not. A person needs to be identified in terms of what they do. However, does this give work (or anything, for that matter) a sense of purpose? If people only rely on external gratification or a sense of having achieved numbers in some way, then one's sense of purpose is bound to fluctuate from one day to the next. This is especially the case since work is not always so cut and dry: some problems simply take longer to resolve than others, for instance. So, what is the inner driving factor behind work and its deeper motivation or purpose?

   When one really thinks deeply about it, the concept of worker and work is already an alienating one. It assumes that there is a "self" that needs to do heavy lifting, and this creates an inherent boundary between "being" and "doing". In fact, neither being nor doing exist as discrete entities. As I am writing these sentences, I may be sitting on a chair and not exerting too much physical effort, yet doing still flows from my being in the moment. Even the simple act of breathing is a form of doing--a constant process that takes place through a variety of different elements coming together and interacting for a single moment. Is there a point where doing ceases and there is only being? This would be like trying to imagine a lake being so still that there are no waves or ripples ensuing from it. In fact, being and doing behave inseparably, and it's only my conceptualizing them as such that makes them appear as separate entities.

   A person committed to the idea that their value depends on what they do has already separated the self (subject) from the results of one's work (object), without seeing that they intermingle in complex ways. The sense of who I am is continually being constructed from the different elements of experience. Being and doing are an inseparable part of the flow of existence. Naturally, identifying only with one's achievements constitutes a kind of distortion of sorts.

   On the other hand, a person committed to the idea that their value only depends on being (separate from doing) is also making the mistake of separating being from doing, and essentially reifying it. IN this way, being and doing are separated in an unnatural way. 

   If being and doing are inseparable, then work itself becomes a play on one's being in the moment: not turning "doing" into something reified, and not turning "being" into something that is separate from actions. This is a tricky sort of balance because it suggests that while doing is part of life, it is not a measure of a person's worth. Moment to moment, it is only an expression of the conditioned nature of events and experiences.

   When I let go of attachment to doing or being, work becomes a joy, and not something to be resisted or reacted to. But it can be difficult to separate these things, and that is the tricky practice that we need to keep revitalizing through work itself.

A Spiritual Philosophy of Working Life

  In his book, The Reinvention of Work, Matthew Fox has explored the work of organizational psychologist Richard McKnight, who has articulated a spiritual vision of work. Fox notes qualities that McKnight deems as the qualities of a spiritual person which businesses could help nurture and cultivate, including "Creativity, enthusiasm about life, acceptance of self and others, lives lived gracefully, being perpetual students of life, giving more than taking, optimism, peacefulness" (p.237-238). While reading this passage in the park today, I wondered, how might these qualities play out in an organization under management? I will try to articulate these points as I understand them in the paragraphs below.

  1. Creativity. Creativity is hard to define, much less condition. I am not a huge fan of trying to "mandate" creativity and originality through performance appraisals, as I feel that creativity is a rather elusive quality to define, much less predict or understand. The best that managers can do is to foster the optimal conditions in which creativity can occur. A few of these optimal conditions might include dialogue; uncensored communications between team members where all ideas receive equal care and support; giving workers time to reflect on changes they would like to see, by creating realistic targets; trust that leaders will be responsive to ideas; collaboration between team members in a free-flowing exchange of ideas. What's common among these qualities is the ability for workers to actively collaborate as well as a sense of open-ness and exchange. Ideas are seen to be collective energy that flows openly with other energies, rather than being confined to one "individual" body and mind. Effort can be seen in terms of open collaborative spirit, rather than the lone wolf who is doing everything her or himself through personal ingenuity.

2. Enthusiasm about life. I think this is related to not thinking of work as a source of fear and drudgery, rather but positioning working life as part of one's inner flourishing. In order to do this, workers need to feel both empowered to set personal goals within the context of working life, as well as confident that their ideas can have long-term repercussions. This creates a feeling of excitement and ultimate engagement with work: knowing that one's ideas are being heard, channeled and recognized. Also, one needs to see a parallel between their inner movement/growth and the organization's growth. If this does not happen, one will feel that their personal development lies separate from the world of work, which in turn leads to compartmentalization of spiritual life and efforts.

3. Acceptance of self and others. Through unconditional self- and other- acceptance, one can adopt a holistic view of self and others as part of an interconnected fabric, field or spectrum. In a meeting, I don't see my ideas as "pitted against" others. Instead, I experience both self and other as continually evolving new ideas while breaking down barriers that might create a hardened sense of the separate self as over and against the world "outside" the self. It's very important to break out of dualistic concepts of "mine" and "yours", to see that workers are on the same path of working toward the same goals, even though they are diverse and different individuals.

4. Lives lived gracefully. Although this point is not clearly spelled out in Fox's book, I think living gracefully means being able to make meaning of all experiences at work, whether they be deemed as "successes" or "failures". How people respond to failure or mistakes is often the result of previous conditioning. Instead of interpreting failures catastrophically or as an all-or-nothing scenario, one might re-envision failure as a process of taking stock of what went well or what went poorly, then seeing it as a learning process that can be improved over time. Taking the "middle path" of not interpreting success and failure as absolutes, could be one way of gracefully integrating failures into one's career path instead of ignoring or trying to cover over these life events.

5. Being perpetual students of life. I think this is a very big point, and for me it means treating work as a means for growth and learning, rather than only as a means for personal profit and gain. Learning never finishes, and workers have to keep coming up with new ways to do things better--or have the willingness to experiment. Big ideas often start with small questions, and that also dovetails with point #1 about creativity.

6. Giving more than taking. It seems counterintuitive to treat working life as "giving" more than "taking", especially when the goal of work is seen to be making profits in exchange for payment. However, if a person is engaged in work, they are more likely to feel generous. This is a natural outpouring which comes from a sense of genuine belonging in the company.

7. Optimism. This means the ability to look on the bright side, to accept and embrace the inherent goodness in all situations, and to trust the inherently good intentions of fellow colleagues. This also can lead to the self-fulfilling prophecy of bringing out the good in people by trusting in their inherent goodness and sincerity.

8. Peacefulness. I am a strong believer in seeing work as part of the cultivation of a sound and peaceful mind. When we are given challenges at work, we can use these challenges to create turbulent, dramatic situations or, conversely, to learn the art of equanimity in all situations.  Work life is the laboratory through which individuals can experiment with how they can achieve inner balance and peace in all situations. 

These 8 points are worth thinking about in terms of adopting and cultivating a spiritual philosophy of work. In subsequent blog entries, I hope to explore more concrete examples in detail.

Making emotional states into "objects"

 When a person associates a particular activity or situation with a single emotional state, they essentially commit an injustice to the activity. A roller coaster ride can become "scary" when it is labelled as such, even though the person experiencing a roller coaster actually undergoes many minute emotional states. Labels essentially dismiss; just as a painting gets labelled "Impressionist", "Cubist" or some other style, so emotional experiences in general are often given a single title or designation which allows one to keep the experience at arm's length. 

   I feel it is important to clarify that the process of reifying an emotion--making it into a "thing"--often becomes a way of dismissing the nuanced process of experience itself. Meditation, for instance, can be experienced as a long period of dullness or pain, and can thus become associated with such feelings. This happens in spite of the fact that many emotions and physical sensations arise in meditation, some not even classifiable per se. Knowing the difference between an experience as a process and the "labels" we affix to experiences, is one way of breaking out of the prison or the mold of a label.

    Furthermore, even a singular emotional experience (if one such exists) is actually an intensely unique and context-rich state. It's hard to pin down an emotional state. "Boredom" is a good example of this. Sometimes what seems boring or empty is really just the state of mind that is rushing to do something else, or to experience something presumably more intense. Boredom is not a "pure" emotional state, because being bored is often paired with a specific craving or desire to do or be somewhere else. In other words, boredom has this underside of rushing toward something that isn't there or hasn't even arisen yet. It is a masked craving: a feeling of wanting something that won't materialize given the current conditions. If a person were to simply let go of this subtle craving or yearning, the boredom state has no place to stand.

   What's also tricky about boredom is that the label "bored" is itself boring! It doesn't explain anything, it doesn't go anywhere, and it demands something else that is not there. What place does this emotion have in a person's life, except to signal either an unrequited desire or perhaps an impossible requirement or demand? To relax these demands and desires is to dissolve the tightness and tension that comes with boredom.

Radical Openess

   Vulnerability and openness is such an important part of Chan practice that often gets overlooked. The analogy of the empty room, which Guo Gu writes about in his book Silent Illumination, is an apt starting point to investigate this idea. The room is open and vast, and does not contract or change its shape no matter how much furniture is put into it. In the same respect, radical openness means to know the contents of the mind (emotional states, thoughts etc.) without attaching to the individual components. This is akin to having a basic confidence that the room (one's true mind or "identity") does not change, regardless of the contents that are there.

    If I am looking at a particular emotional state under this perspective, how do I face it without dwelling on the particular furniture? I think radical openness is the key, which means not identifying with the situation as myself. I can take responsibility for what is happening without clinging to the notion of "this is me". Guo Gu writes:

      We are so used to being caught up in our thoughts and feelings that we lose sight of our true        nature.  The key to meditation is to recognize that the host is not the guest. The comings and goings of   thoughts and feelings are like guests coming into our homes. Would you let guests run your house?         Of course not. You're the host. (p.39)

This idea does not mean that we disown feelings or try to get rid of thoughts. Instead, it means trying to acknowledge that the spaciousness of mind can accommodate all states without being affected or identified to it. This is difficult to conceptually accept, because I normally have an image in my mind about who I am. When I am listening to a sentence, I pick out the part of the sentence that is "myself" and then exclude all the parts that I don't think are myself. But if my mind is open, I am not discriminating between this is "my" thought and those are others. It's a bit like seeing everything as existing equally in the map of mind.

  At the end of the day, clarity of what's happening in mind seems to be foremost to practice: being aware without being tied to thoughts. This doesn't in the least bit mean suppressing thoughts, however. This ties into a radical openness and acceptance.

Guo Gu, Silent Illuminatino: A Chan Buddhist View To Natural Awakening. Shambhala.