I am reading a book by Robert Tremmel called Zen and the Practice of Teaching English. While I don't often take to the trendy fad of "Zen and..[fill in the blank]" books, I quite enjoy Tremmel's reflections about how he incorporated Zen and Basho's teachings in particular into his early years as an English teacher. Tremmel describes the importance of reflecting on impermanence, factoring in the mysterious unknowns of teaching life, deep breathing, and honoring the whole life of a teacher--all of which are important points in the holistic education movement. But I also came across a quote that felt particularly relevant to me in work life. Tremmel writes:
"Survival, which most of us do not need to think about most of the time, is the most primitive drive. For all plants and animals it precedes all other concerns; it is the prime directive. Without survival nothing follows. This is as true in the world of the school as it is in the red-in-tooth-and-claw natural world. So it has always seemed ironic to me that the topic of survival does not come up often in textbooks, methods classes, and on-the-record conversations among teachers." (p.41)
Tremmel goes on to describe useful qualities that teachers in training should have in order to 'survive' as teachers, such as the following: ability to think on one's feet (p.47), mindfulness, willingness to take action (p.49), and self-knowledge. His conclusion is that everyone must have the skillful means to succeed in one's profession, which often means anticipating the dangers or trials that others place before teachers: students who deliberately challenge teachers' authority, self-doubt, lack of assertiveness, failure to create opportunities to relate, etc. And Tremmel uses Zen concepts to relate his understanding of survival, citing the example of a zebra fish that narrowly avoids being eaten by leeches by moving unpredictably. Tremmel imputes this tactic to the spontaneity and flexibility afforded by Zen practices.
I find the account that Tremmel makes about survival to be both perhaps true to life and somehow limiting at the same time. One good thing is that Tremmel offers an unsentimental account of what it means to be in a profession of any kind, not just teaching. All professions have both opportunities and threats, for example, and people do need to use wisdom and judgment to stay viable in a social role. In a sense, an advanced degree in teaching, accounting, engineering, etc. is not a guarantee that one's social self will be kept intact in any one of these professions. Under this view, maintaining professional credibility often involves dodging competition coupled with a continual urge toward self-improvement in one's chosen field.
The trouble that I see with survivalism is that it does not quite take into account the interconnections that already exist between beings. Instead, the ethos of survivalism is typically something like 'only the strong will survive'. A modern variation of this principle might be something like, "only the strongest group will survive", so a survivalist will see their body as the basic unit that they must preserve at all costs. There are a few problems that I see with this account of things. The first is the underlying assumption that people survive only in isolation from other beings (see above zebra fish example). The second assumption is that survival is inherently valuable or precious.
The first problem or issue can be easily refuted, I think, because people rarely live in total isolation. People can usually only survive when they are sharing resources with others: other people, other countries, etc. It makes more sense for me to think that my survival depends on the survival of a whole group or society, instead of taking 'my' survival (the survival of this body) to be of utmost importance.
For the second problem, I think one need only consider; if someone stops being an English teacher due to layoffs, firings etc., what happens to that person? Do they die? Or is it perhaps the case that every moment is a kind of dying, continually in process of being reborn in a new moment? To put it more plainly, English teachers don't lose their existence if, for whatever reason, they don't 'make it' as teachers. Rather than focusing on the skills necessary to maintain one's status as a teacher, it might be equally valuable to have teachers reflect on why they need to "survive" in this profession. Is the need to 'survive as a teacher' so great that one will risk the status of someone else, much less one's own status?
While I agree that the Zen notion of skillful means is relevant in Tremmel's discussion, I question whether survival is always worth it. Sometimes, not surviving in a profession is valuable because it opens the door to other identities, both professional and non-professional. But more importantly, losing a social role can be a training for the bigger losses, such as loved one's or one's own physical body. Such losses and failures, rather than leading to an automatic course of 'improvement and revisiting' the same situation until one 'gets it right', might instead be invitations to question whether success at any cost is worth the potential harm that a success dream can inflict on both self and others. This is especially so when we attach to one social role as a marker of our existence.
Tremmel, Robert (1999) Zen and the Practice of Teaching English. Portsmouth: Boynton/Cook
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
On A Certain "Badness"
In his book Writing with Power (1998) Peter Elbow describes bad writing as a potential site for honest and real voice in narrative. He remarks "fear of badness is probably what holds people back most from developing power in writing. Some of that fear is natural in the struggle to develop an acceptable self. But some of it results from teachers who care more about getting rid of badness than about looking for potential excellence. If you care too much about avoiding bad writing, you will be too cautious, too afraid to relinquish control." (p.302).
Just what does Elbow mean by 'badness', and what could possibly be 'good' about the bad? I have sometimes witnessed movies that were so 'bad' in terms of their acting and premises that they turned out to be 'good' after all. Troll II is one notorious example of a very 'bad' horror movie that ended up gaining a cult status long after its production in the 1980s. People like 'bad' movies even when they are earnestly panned by every critic. Obviously, the statements 'good' and 'bad' are qualified statements, and it takes a bit of unpacking to know what's being described in these statements.
I think the easiest way to look at it would be to examine 'Zen' (Japanese for Ch'an) in the context of this nuanced 'badness'. Zen, as it was introduced to Western cultures, was presented as something non-discursive and spontaneous. One of the biggest killers of Zen, according to the early teachers in America, is too much intellectualizing. We don't really want to be indulging that aspect of experience that judges, or splits into 'this' and 'that'.. or objectifies other things and people in some ways. I think that, from this perspective, there is a funny paradox that emerges in Zen circles. That is, the harder one tries to be 'good'' and to get rid of what one deems as bad, the further away one is from the path of Zen. Why? It's because too much trying ends up staining the event with a sense of control, of striving, and overlaying things with neat and simple categories. "Too much of a good thing" turns out to have the potential to kill what is really alive inside, by imposing a strict framework over things as they are.
So, if too much insisting on good is a kind of desire related to the self, what does this have to do with 'badness'? I think that the 'badness' that Elbow is describing is more than just an absence of over-dominating goodness. Badness, in this case, has a very specific coloration and context. I think of it as being an accidental glimpse of things-as-such (or things-as-they-are) without makeup, or at least with some of the makeup peeled off. If anyone has ever seen the photographs of Diane Arbus, they will also know the term 'beauty of ugliness'. This badness first challenges the layers of wanting to control that define many aesthetic experiences.
If I want to decorate the apartment a certain way, I go to great pains to choose the right paint, décor, furniture, etc. and make sure they had better match each other. If I am too into that design, I forget who inhabits the spaces where I decorate. But, to inquire into badness is to inquire into that special, unmediated 'who' that inhabits the neat immaculate spaces in which we make our homes. It is to understand what always slips through the cracks: hence, 'bad' horror movies often depict monsters living under sewage plants, or in swamps. And it is to inquire into the person who does not always look a part, who might not even have a face or a mouth through which to communicate.
Could what we call 'bad' be an invitation to explore what is formless, soundless and wordless--an abyss that lies below appearances?
Elbow, Peter (1998),Writing with Power: Techniques for Mastering The Writing Process. New York: Oxford University Press.
Just what does Elbow mean by 'badness', and what could possibly be 'good' about the bad? I have sometimes witnessed movies that were so 'bad' in terms of their acting and premises that they turned out to be 'good' after all. Troll II is one notorious example of a very 'bad' horror movie that ended up gaining a cult status long after its production in the 1980s. People like 'bad' movies even when they are earnestly panned by every critic. Obviously, the statements 'good' and 'bad' are qualified statements, and it takes a bit of unpacking to know what's being described in these statements.
I think the easiest way to look at it would be to examine 'Zen' (Japanese for Ch'an) in the context of this nuanced 'badness'. Zen, as it was introduced to Western cultures, was presented as something non-discursive and spontaneous. One of the biggest killers of Zen, according to the early teachers in America, is too much intellectualizing. We don't really want to be indulging that aspect of experience that judges, or splits into 'this' and 'that'.. or objectifies other things and people in some ways. I think that, from this perspective, there is a funny paradox that emerges in Zen circles. That is, the harder one tries to be 'good'' and to get rid of what one deems as bad, the further away one is from the path of Zen. Why? It's because too much trying ends up staining the event with a sense of control, of striving, and overlaying things with neat and simple categories. "Too much of a good thing" turns out to have the potential to kill what is really alive inside, by imposing a strict framework over things as they are.
So, if too much insisting on good is a kind of desire related to the self, what does this have to do with 'badness'? I think that the 'badness' that Elbow is describing is more than just an absence of over-dominating goodness. Badness, in this case, has a very specific coloration and context. I think of it as being an accidental glimpse of things-as-such (or things-as-they-are) without makeup, or at least with some of the makeup peeled off. If anyone has ever seen the photographs of Diane Arbus, they will also know the term 'beauty of ugliness'. This badness first challenges the layers of wanting to control that define many aesthetic experiences.
If I want to decorate the apartment a certain way, I go to great pains to choose the right paint, décor, furniture, etc. and make sure they had better match each other. If I am too into that design, I forget who inhabits the spaces where I decorate. But, to inquire into badness is to inquire into that special, unmediated 'who' that inhabits the neat immaculate spaces in which we make our homes. It is to understand what always slips through the cracks: hence, 'bad' horror movies often depict monsters living under sewage plants, or in swamps. And it is to inquire into the person who does not always look a part, who might not even have a face or a mouth through which to communicate.
Could what we call 'bad' be an invitation to explore what is formless, soundless and wordless--an abyss that lies below appearances?
Elbow, Peter (1998),Writing with Power: Techniques for Mastering The Writing Process. New York: Oxford University Press.
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
turning inward
I am curious about the expression 'turning inward' and what it really means. This morning and later during the day, for example, I had a glimpse of what it could mean as I was riding public transit. In those times, I could feel that there were two ways for me to look at the situation of having delays on public transit. One is to see that something is affecting me in some way (that is, there is something separate influencing 'me'). The other way is to see that there is only one mind registering the feelings experienced. When I look at it in this latter way, something interesting seems to happen. It is like all the 'feelers' start to pull inward, as I recognize that there is nobody or nothing really making 'me' upset. All it really is, is one thought trying to reject another thought. For example, I have a thought which says that something is causing inconvenience to me. Then, I start to treat the 'me' as separate from the thought of that inconvenience, which in turn is seen as outside me in some way. What if I stopped and realized that all these experiences are originating from the same source--are all 'me', in other words? What would experience be like if I were to live like this all the time?
When I tried this approach today of owning the totality of experience as mind, I felt a space opening up between all these thoughts, as though there wasn't such a jammed collision of intermeshing thoughts around inconvenience or something 'getting in the way of' something else. By identifying all the experiences as coming from the same source, I didn't feel any need to reject one thought or seek another. But most importantly, I seemed to (albeit briefly) relax into a space where I don't need to react to any thought at all. One way of putting this might be, there is only one 'mind' to which to place attention. Trying to separate things into separate elements or causes only exacerbates the need to solve or conquer one's experiences through a single 'dominant' thought. But if all the thoughts come from the same source, would there be any sense in using one thought to 'dominate' another? All this desire to 'choose the best thought' often comes from taking the thought to be a person. But what if it is only a thought, among many other thoughts with equal stature? Would I be so determined to win the argument between thoughts that are seen as coming from the same source?
I think the act of turning inward is reminding myself of the source of my thoughts, and then learning to see them all with the same equanimity. No single thought defines who I am or my potential. But by clinging to a thought, I fail to see this, and end up experiencing vexations about thoughts.
When I tried this approach today of owning the totality of experience as mind, I felt a space opening up between all these thoughts, as though there wasn't such a jammed collision of intermeshing thoughts around inconvenience or something 'getting in the way of' something else. By identifying all the experiences as coming from the same source, I didn't feel any need to reject one thought or seek another. But most importantly, I seemed to (albeit briefly) relax into a space where I don't need to react to any thought at all. One way of putting this might be, there is only one 'mind' to which to place attention. Trying to separate things into separate elements or causes only exacerbates the need to solve or conquer one's experiences through a single 'dominant' thought. But if all the thoughts come from the same source, would there be any sense in using one thought to 'dominate' another? All this desire to 'choose the best thought' often comes from taking the thought to be a person. But what if it is only a thought, among many other thoughts with equal stature? Would I be so determined to win the argument between thoughts that are seen as coming from the same source?
I think the act of turning inward is reminding myself of the source of my thoughts, and then learning to see them all with the same equanimity. No single thought defines who I am or my potential. But by clinging to a thought, I fail to see this, and end up experiencing vexations about thoughts.
Monday, November 2, 2015
On Finding Onself in a Swamp
I was probably around ten years old (fifth grade, to be exact), when I first learned about the difference between swamps and marshes. Swamps, if I remember correctly, are heavily saturated wetlands that contain trees and other woody species of plants, while marshes are less woody. What I do recall, in all of that, was the fascination and fear I had around swamplands. Swampland is the place of some of the most interesting horror scenarios, including human-eating crocodiles, or unknown things living in murky places. Swamps seem to embody a kind of primitive subconscious, where there is a lot of uncertainty, and one cannot see their identity or direction in all of it. The fear of being in a swamp is none other than the fear of being eaten before one finds one's 'path' in life. Could swamps also be 'liminal' spaces--transition points to a more integrated kind of maturity? If that is the case, there is value in remaining in a swamp for as long as one can bear, without getting lost in one.
If swamps and marshes are such dangerous places for people, why is there an insistence on preserving or even cultivating marshlands? Why is it so intriguing to hear the wall of birds, frogs and crickets close to a boggy area? I think the reason is that they symbolize a kind of fervent, rabid fertility that goes unchecked when there is sufficient moisture and plants to sustain life. Frogs, crickets, dragonflies: all seem to emerge from this seemingly spontaneous place of life. And I often wonder where they go in the winter, or how they can possibly survive when the water freezes over on these small bodies of water. One particular marshy place close to where I live on Leslie/Sheppard Avenue, sports a small pond with a lot of algae, moss and frogs in the summer, with the occasional wood-duck as well. But now that it is November, I imagine the place to be pretty barren. What is intriguing is the self-sustaining aspect of swamp life; how all links in the chain seem to interconnect so seamlessly, to create a shared space. But it is also a place where things die, things go underground, things freeze over in an instant. Swamps and marshes are places where there is continual birth, death and renewal, as seen in its many contrasts across the seasons.
I think that during times of very painful change or transition, going to a swamp can be an interesting and valuable experience. As absurd as it sounds, the swamp is also a place of regression that can be healing: a place to step back and see natural elements working in harmony to create an environment. Without the sense of a self-sustaining ecosystem, I get caught in the illusion that I am in charge of things, or have a divine control over what happens to me in the future. As much as people are called to care, there are ways in which people are cared for as well. Even the oxygen I am breathing is in part from the support of ecosystems that are not in my influence. I can relax in the awareness that there are things that do take care of my body and life, even when I am not able to do so consciously or with any knowledge.
Sleep is another good example of swamp-territory. Like swamps and marshes, sleep is a world that is very fertile: it's a place where a lot of body maintenance and digestion takes place in the background, where consciousness yields to a parasympathetic nervous system, and where dreams take over to flush through the mind. Things consigned to the 'underground' of consciousness take their place, without too much intervention from consciousness. And these systems are at work continuously, unbeknownst to me.
Swamps are also places of inspiration. Life happens and can be a source of beauty and abundance. There is no need to cling to one facet of life when there is so much life integrated together in a single environment that connects with still other environments. In this mind-set, does it make sense to cling to one relationship or one role in life, as though it were a make-or-break situation?
If swamps and marshes are such dangerous places for people, why is there an insistence on preserving or even cultivating marshlands? Why is it so intriguing to hear the wall of birds, frogs and crickets close to a boggy area? I think the reason is that they symbolize a kind of fervent, rabid fertility that goes unchecked when there is sufficient moisture and plants to sustain life. Frogs, crickets, dragonflies: all seem to emerge from this seemingly spontaneous place of life. And I often wonder where they go in the winter, or how they can possibly survive when the water freezes over on these small bodies of water. One particular marshy place close to where I live on Leslie/Sheppard Avenue, sports a small pond with a lot of algae, moss and frogs in the summer, with the occasional wood-duck as well. But now that it is November, I imagine the place to be pretty barren. What is intriguing is the self-sustaining aspect of swamp life; how all links in the chain seem to interconnect so seamlessly, to create a shared space. But it is also a place where things die, things go underground, things freeze over in an instant. Swamps and marshes are places where there is continual birth, death and renewal, as seen in its many contrasts across the seasons.
I think that during times of very painful change or transition, going to a swamp can be an interesting and valuable experience. As absurd as it sounds, the swamp is also a place of regression that can be healing: a place to step back and see natural elements working in harmony to create an environment. Without the sense of a self-sustaining ecosystem, I get caught in the illusion that I am in charge of things, or have a divine control over what happens to me in the future. As much as people are called to care, there are ways in which people are cared for as well. Even the oxygen I am breathing is in part from the support of ecosystems that are not in my influence. I can relax in the awareness that there are things that do take care of my body and life, even when I am not able to do so consciously or with any knowledge.
Sleep is another good example of swamp-territory. Like swamps and marshes, sleep is a world that is very fertile: it's a place where a lot of body maintenance and digestion takes place in the background, where consciousness yields to a parasympathetic nervous system, and where dreams take over to flush through the mind. Things consigned to the 'underground' of consciousness take their place, without too much intervention from consciousness. And these systems are at work continuously, unbeknownst to me.
Swamps are also places of inspiration. Life happens and can be a source of beauty and abundance. There is no need to cling to one facet of life when there is so much life integrated together in a single environment that connects with still other environments. In this mind-set, does it make sense to cling to one relationship or one role in life, as though it were a make-or-break situation?
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Somerset Maugham, Complexity and Art
Walking along the beltline tonight, I spot a raccoon that is strolling along the side of the pathway. It looks quite big in fur, as it eyes us curiously and almost seems to approach us a bit warily before walking toward a neighboring yard. Judy sees if she has any candy to feed the raccoon. But then I notice I have a stale bit of a bagel in my pocket from this morning, which I toss toward the raccoon. Still, it ignores us and prefers to stay where it is. Finally, we see two men behind us who tell us to perhaps beware of any animal that isn't afraid of human beings. Chances are that this animal might have rabies or some other disease. We trudge along, trying to keep on the path and silently agreeing that lack of fear may be an unnatural response in an animal.
I recall that in my early 20's my favorite book was Somerset Maugham's The Summing Up, the author's autobiography about his life in theatre, art and philosophy. Maugham's book had quite a few interesting gems in it. Among them, Maugham had written about how he tries to create characters that have dimensions to them, often contradictory and conflicting. Maugham has notoriously written here something to the effect that his characters have a mixture of some of the most disparate elements working together: fear, selfishness, nobility, sacrifice, anger, tolerance, humility, etc. Whereas I normally only see people at specific moments in time, Maugham tries to show the dimensions of personality in the pages of very entertaining books. He believed that writing in this way gave him a glimpse into the way people can have deep contrasts and contradictions co-existing within themselves.
I found myself benefitting from Maugham's perspective, because it gave me less temptation to try to reconcile contrasting parts of myself. When I witness a short story of his such as "Rain", I see a character who is supposedly amoral or lacking in morals (Sadie Thompson) with a large heart to get along with others, contrasted with a moralistic priest who tries to 'convert' Sadie into a narrow idea of good/bad. Which character possesses more depth? They both have depth and meaning to them, but the priest tries to repress that depth somehow...almost as though he were trying to lay himself on a Procrustean bed. Maugham often creates a contrast between characters who aren't particularly 'good' in morals yet possess a generosity of heart, with those who are staunch moralists yet have a 'tight' heart. It reflects a struggle, I think, between wanting to refine or perfect the self with the more spontaneous expression of feelings. At this point, I am not sure which is correct, but I like how Maugham suggests that all people lie on a spectrum. We are all essentially part heathen, part moralist, part spiritual, part material, and so on. And Maugham suggests through his characters that there is no reason to feel surprised to have these inner contradictory standpoints or values.
The philosopher Judith Butler, I think, expresses a similar sentiment, when she describes the notion of 'opacity' in her book Giving an Account of Oneself. For Butler, 'opacity' refers to the way that people can't truly know themselves in entirety, and only get glimpses of the self through these acts of 'giving account' of who they are to others. While I narrate my story, I can only be aware of the details that make sense to this present context and those who are in my audience. Butler believes that 'opacity' can be a useful moral concept, because it gives people humility to see that they can never be wholly knowable to themselves or others. I may say "I am this" today, but is this "I" going to be the same as the "I" I claim to be tomorrow? Probably it will likely change over a very short period of time. But this 'humility' takes the form of accepting others' opacity as well. For example, I see someone expressing anger, but then I ask: do I really know why they are angry? Can I conclude that they are "always angry" just because I see them angry in one instance of time or space? According to the view that we are 'opaque' to ourselves or others, we might be slower to react to anger or conclude that someone is 'an angry person'. In fact, anger can coexist with many layers of emotions, including confusion, pride, loneliness, or even longing for justice. For me to condemn or label someone as an angry person is oversimplifying a person's complex opacity.
Master Sheng Yen similarly recommends a nuanced view of compassion, where even criminals are seen as being subject to many layers of conditions. He remarks in Chan and Enlightenment that "When some people create unreasonable incidents or behave illegitimately toward us, in terms of reasonableness, they may have to be sent to prison. From the perspective of compassion, however, their offences may have arisen from their family background, social environment, or physical and psychological factors. So, from a different angle, we forgive them with empathy, and try to help them in various ways. This is called compassion." (p.79). I think one of the great things about Maugham's writing is that it depicts a real and deeply interesting take on compassion. This is not a compassion that tries to repress or moralize, but something that is open to the mysterious opacity of myself and others.
Butler, Judith, (2005), Giving an Account of Oneself. New York : Fordham University Press,
Sheng Yen (2014), Chan and Enlightenment. Taipei: Dharma Drum Publishing
I recall that in my early 20's my favorite book was Somerset Maugham's The Summing Up, the author's autobiography about his life in theatre, art and philosophy. Maugham's book had quite a few interesting gems in it. Among them, Maugham had written about how he tries to create characters that have dimensions to them, often contradictory and conflicting. Maugham has notoriously written here something to the effect that his characters have a mixture of some of the most disparate elements working together: fear, selfishness, nobility, sacrifice, anger, tolerance, humility, etc. Whereas I normally only see people at specific moments in time, Maugham tries to show the dimensions of personality in the pages of very entertaining books. He believed that writing in this way gave him a glimpse into the way people can have deep contrasts and contradictions co-existing within themselves.
I found myself benefitting from Maugham's perspective, because it gave me less temptation to try to reconcile contrasting parts of myself. When I witness a short story of his such as "Rain", I see a character who is supposedly amoral or lacking in morals (Sadie Thompson) with a large heart to get along with others, contrasted with a moralistic priest who tries to 'convert' Sadie into a narrow idea of good/bad. Which character possesses more depth? They both have depth and meaning to them, but the priest tries to repress that depth somehow...almost as though he were trying to lay himself on a Procrustean bed. Maugham often creates a contrast between characters who aren't particularly 'good' in morals yet possess a generosity of heart, with those who are staunch moralists yet have a 'tight' heart. It reflects a struggle, I think, between wanting to refine or perfect the self with the more spontaneous expression of feelings. At this point, I am not sure which is correct, but I like how Maugham suggests that all people lie on a spectrum. We are all essentially part heathen, part moralist, part spiritual, part material, and so on. And Maugham suggests through his characters that there is no reason to feel surprised to have these inner contradictory standpoints or values.
The philosopher Judith Butler, I think, expresses a similar sentiment, when she describes the notion of 'opacity' in her book Giving an Account of Oneself. For Butler, 'opacity' refers to the way that people can't truly know themselves in entirety, and only get glimpses of the self through these acts of 'giving account' of who they are to others. While I narrate my story, I can only be aware of the details that make sense to this present context and those who are in my audience. Butler believes that 'opacity' can be a useful moral concept, because it gives people humility to see that they can never be wholly knowable to themselves or others. I may say "I am this" today, but is this "I" going to be the same as the "I" I claim to be tomorrow? Probably it will likely change over a very short period of time. But this 'humility' takes the form of accepting others' opacity as well. For example, I see someone expressing anger, but then I ask: do I really know why they are angry? Can I conclude that they are "always angry" just because I see them angry in one instance of time or space? According to the view that we are 'opaque' to ourselves or others, we might be slower to react to anger or conclude that someone is 'an angry person'. In fact, anger can coexist with many layers of emotions, including confusion, pride, loneliness, or even longing for justice. For me to condemn or label someone as an angry person is oversimplifying a person's complex opacity.
Master Sheng Yen similarly recommends a nuanced view of compassion, where even criminals are seen as being subject to many layers of conditions. He remarks in Chan and Enlightenment that "When some people create unreasonable incidents or behave illegitimately toward us, in terms of reasonableness, they may have to be sent to prison. From the perspective of compassion, however, their offences may have arisen from their family background, social environment, or physical and psychological factors. So, from a different angle, we forgive them with empathy, and try to help them in various ways. This is called compassion." (p.79). I think one of the great things about Maugham's writing is that it depicts a real and deeply interesting take on compassion. This is not a compassion that tries to repress or moralize, but something that is open to the mysterious opacity of myself and others.
Butler, Judith, (2005), Giving an Account of Oneself. New York : Fordham University Press,
Sheng Yen (2014), Chan and Enlightenment. Taipei: Dharma Drum Publishing
Saturday, October 31, 2015
Saints and Soldiers
In his book The Perennial Philosophy, Aldous Huxley writes about the saint as "one who knows that every moment of our human life is a moment of crisis; for at every moment we are called upon to make an all-important decision--to choose between the way that leads to death and spiritual darkness and the way that leads toward light and life; between interests exclusively temporal and the eternal order; between our personal will, or the will of some projection of our personality, and the will of God." (p.43)
I like Huxley's metaphor, because he positions spirituality as a choice that happens at every moment. In one way, there is a commitment to moment-to-moment awareness, to being present, and to surrendering to life's conditions rather than trying to fight conditions through desire or rejection. If I am not choosing the way of pointing to the mind, I am only following vexations of some kind or another. The thing that Huxley really appreciates is that spiritual practice is not so easy. He at one point describes a soldier as someone who is trained to put themselves aside in some circumstances, particularly in times of having to fight or risk one's life in battle. In contrast, Huxley maintains, the saint 's spiritual training "leads to a transcendence of personality...in all circumstances and to all creatures." (p.44).
The question I had while I was reading Huxley was: why did he choose to compare saints to soldiers? In a sense, doing so makes the two kinds of people appear to be similar, in that they are waging a kind of battle, perhaps even with themselves. But I have to wonder whether the experience of being a saint is really about conquering or transcending the self. It could be the opposite: in giving up my struggle to transcend anything (let alone myself) I see its impermanence, and I give up trying to create a solidified sense of self. In fact, I recollect one vignette in William James' Varieties of Religious Experience where a person only starts to realize the real nature of 'self' when he stops even trying to get rid of self. There is a kind of space there where I have exhausted every possibility at my disposal to even conceive of 'conquering' self by way of self. It is that moment of surrender when I realize that the self was not really substantial in the first place.
I sometimes wonder if in fact the idealized notion of the saint was ever achievable. Why is the saint held up as an example for others to follow? Huxley humorously alludes to the decline in the genre called hagiography (p.46), or 'biographies of saints', in favour of the more adventurous distractions of tragedy or thrillers. It may appear that the saint has 'conquered' her or his desires, but is that the real experience of being a saint? In recent years, I have hardly heard anyone referred to as a saint, except in colloquial terms ("oh, that guy-he brought hot dogs to our barbecue--what a saint he is"). I wonder if the practice has either declined, or perhaps only the social framing has changed over time.
What I can suggest is that the account of saint as one who conquers self is problematic for many people. Perhaps that is so because it conjures images of people who practice extreme self control on the outside, but might repress desires inside. Such is the model 'soldier' but it is also a picture of someone who is trying to get rid of things they judge as unsavory (or perhaps the greater society anyway). People have a harder time these days buying into the idea of good coming at the expense of other impulses that are considered 'profane' or less-than-human, especially at a time when we have studied the mechanisms of denial and suppression, as well as their deeper legacies in schools and churches. Equally interesting is the realization that any term that polarizes or divides people can be problematic. If there are saints, how does one describe the non-saints? And how to educate non-saints so that they can be like saints? Whenever there is a division, "what to do with the rest of us" becomes an unresolved management question.
Huxley, Aldous (1945) The Perennial Philosophy. New York: Harper
I like Huxley's metaphor, because he positions spirituality as a choice that happens at every moment. In one way, there is a commitment to moment-to-moment awareness, to being present, and to surrendering to life's conditions rather than trying to fight conditions through desire or rejection. If I am not choosing the way of pointing to the mind, I am only following vexations of some kind or another. The thing that Huxley really appreciates is that spiritual practice is not so easy. He at one point describes a soldier as someone who is trained to put themselves aside in some circumstances, particularly in times of having to fight or risk one's life in battle. In contrast, Huxley maintains, the saint 's spiritual training "leads to a transcendence of personality...in all circumstances and to all creatures." (p.44).
The question I had while I was reading Huxley was: why did he choose to compare saints to soldiers? In a sense, doing so makes the two kinds of people appear to be similar, in that they are waging a kind of battle, perhaps even with themselves. But I have to wonder whether the experience of being a saint is really about conquering or transcending the self. It could be the opposite: in giving up my struggle to transcend anything (let alone myself) I see its impermanence, and I give up trying to create a solidified sense of self. In fact, I recollect one vignette in William James' Varieties of Religious Experience where a person only starts to realize the real nature of 'self' when he stops even trying to get rid of self. There is a kind of space there where I have exhausted every possibility at my disposal to even conceive of 'conquering' self by way of self. It is that moment of surrender when I realize that the self was not really substantial in the first place.
I sometimes wonder if in fact the idealized notion of the saint was ever achievable. Why is the saint held up as an example for others to follow? Huxley humorously alludes to the decline in the genre called hagiography (p.46), or 'biographies of saints', in favour of the more adventurous distractions of tragedy or thrillers. It may appear that the saint has 'conquered' her or his desires, but is that the real experience of being a saint? In recent years, I have hardly heard anyone referred to as a saint, except in colloquial terms ("oh, that guy-he brought hot dogs to our barbecue--what a saint he is"). I wonder if the practice has either declined, or perhaps only the social framing has changed over time.
What I can suggest is that the account of saint as one who conquers self is problematic for many people. Perhaps that is so because it conjures images of people who practice extreme self control on the outside, but might repress desires inside. Such is the model 'soldier' but it is also a picture of someone who is trying to get rid of things they judge as unsavory (or perhaps the greater society anyway). People have a harder time these days buying into the idea of good coming at the expense of other impulses that are considered 'profane' or less-than-human, especially at a time when we have studied the mechanisms of denial and suppression, as well as their deeper legacies in schools and churches. Equally interesting is the realization that any term that polarizes or divides people can be problematic. If there are saints, how does one describe the non-saints? And how to educate non-saints so that they can be like saints? Whenever there is a division, "what to do with the rest of us" becomes an unresolved management question.
Huxley, Aldous (1945) The Perennial Philosophy. New York: Harper
Friday, October 30, 2015
and more 'aware'
In the previous posting I wrote, there is something there that could take me many lifetimes to really understand. When I note that being aware of feelings is sometimes enough, does that mean that I just act on them? What is the difference between 'accepting' and 'reacting' with emotions? Again--it takes a while for me to truly understand the meaning.
The difference between accepting and reacting? Well, in a way, they are opposites. For example, when I am reacting, I am usually in a conflict with some thought or emotion that I dislike, or want to remove. Rather than just enjoying the emotion as it arises, there is an intense desire in me to act on that emotion: I have to take it and 'do something with it', like it is a hot potato to hand over to someone else. Reacting could be thought to be the game of 'hot potato' where I try to find a willing (or unwilling) lap on which to deposit the emotion. At this point, the emotion is kind of like an object. I struggle to find some place to put it.
Accepting an emotion is sort of the opposite. It is an attitude of not even needing to form a concept of the emotion, like 'this is my emotion'. It is almost a kind of pre-cognitive awareness that something is in the air. By not really fixing a notion onto this feeling, it pervades my pores, and I remain open to its possibilities as it is actually happening. I don't elaborate on thoughts related to it. At that point, one can even say it doesn't matter where the emotion came from or why it exists. Even if I try to hang an explanation on the emotion, that explanation is only a way to give the emotion unnecessary artillery or wheels: artillery to charge forward at an invading army, or wheels to retreat into the self. So, it's an important aspect to simply let the emotion be what it is. There is no right or wrong for it to be there. In this way, I am not reacting or even acting on the emotion. I like that emotion on its own terms, without trying to create an agenda out of it.
As I reflect in this way, I realize: so much of what passes for 'acceptance' of emotions (or even self-acceptance) is often an elaborate defense against emotions that one dislikes. For example, I might say, "I totally accept the way I am regardless of how you treat me!" But already, in that statement, there is a rejection of the kind of emotions that arise when another person treats one a certain way. If I accept all the emotions, I wouldn't need to differentiate between 'the way I am' and 'the way others treat me''. They would both be the same experience, and I could potentially enjoy all of it . But because I make a distinction between 'my true self' and 'your experience of me', I find reason to reject the latter. I try to protect 'me' from others' opinions. But if I accept all emotions, I wouldn't try to reject even sadness that arises from what others say about me. I can just happily accept the sadness that arises.
When I was in seventh grade, I was not a particularly great student. I think the main reason was that somehow I had not quite gotten the hang of how to be successful in school, and I think I had a lot of interests beyond school as well. Most teachers might see this 'lack of school ambition' as something negative, and they would try to condition me through encouragement, reinforcement, etc. More or less, that conditioning must have worked; otherwise, I perhaps would not have succeeded in securing employment. Lack of interest might be seen as pathological to some, but in retrospect, I didn't need to 'fix' that lack of interest, or substitute something else for it. It was just there, and it would pass like many emotional states.
I found that the most effective way that teachers use to motivate students is to give them a compelling identity that suggests that one can succeed. The problem is that in relentlessly pursuing a cultural ideal of the 'model student', one ends up having no way to really be with emotional states which counter that model. Repression results, as well as the relentless pursuit for the elusive model self. But in trying to be this model self, I lose the ability to stay in emotions that don't have a clearly defined self. These emotions almost seem to threaten my stability or the 'hope' I place in the model identity. But if I treat emotions meditatively, I no longer need to see them as annihilating or crushing in any way. This subverts the classic notion of trying to choose emotions that are most conducive to a 'virtuous' being. Actually, in not choosing, one will naturally be virtuous, because there is no longer a need to react, to run away from emotion or to pretend it doesn't exist.
The difference between accepting and reacting? Well, in a way, they are opposites. For example, when I am reacting, I am usually in a conflict with some thought or emotion that I dislike, or want to remove. Rather than just enjoying the emotion as it arises, there is an intense desire in me to act on that emotion: I have to take it and 'do something with it', like it is a hot potato to hand over to someone else. Reacting could be thought to be the game of 'hot potato' where I try to find a willing (or unwilling) lap on which to deposit the emotion. At this point, the emotion is kind of like an object. I struggle to find some place to put it.
Accepting an emotion is sort of the opposite. It is an attitude of not even needing to form a concept of the emotion, like 'this is my emotion'. It is almost a kind of pre-cognitive awareness that something is in the air. By not really fixing a notion onto this feeling, it pervades my pores, and I remain open to its possibilities as it is actually happening. I don't elaborate on thoughts related to it. At that point, one can even say it doesn't matter where the emotion came from or why it exists. Even if I try to hang an explanation on the emotion, that explanation is only a way to give the emotion unnecessary artillery or wheels: artillery to charge forward at an invading army, or wheels to retreat into the self. So, it's an important aspect to simply let the emotion be what it is. There is no right or wrong for it to be there. In this way, I am not reacting or even acting on the emotion. I like that emotion on its own terms, without trying to create an agenda out of it.
As I reflect in this way, I realize: so much of what passes for 'acceptance' of emotions (or even self-acceptance) is often an elaborate defense against emotions that one dislikes. For example, I might say, "I totally accept the way I am regardless of how you treat me!" But already, in that statement, there is a rejection of the kind of emotions that arise when another person treats one a certain way. If I accept all the emotions, I wouldn't need to differentiate between 'the way I am' and 'the way others treat me''. They would both be the same experience, and I could potentially enjoy all of it . But because I make a distinction between 'my true self' and 'your experience of me', I find reason to reject the latter. I try to protect 'me' from others' opinions. But if I accept all emotions, I wouldn't try to reject even sadness that arises from what others say about me. I can just happily accept the sadness that arises.
When I was in seventh grade, I was not a particularly great student. I think the main reason was that somehow I had not quite gotten the hang of how to be successful in school, and I think I had a lot of interests beyond school as well. Most teachers might see this 'lack of school ambition' as something negative, and they would try to condition me through encouragement, reinforcement, etc. More or less, that conditioning must have worked; otherwise, I perhaps would not have succeeded in securing employment. Lack of interest might be seen as pathological to some, but in retrospect, I didn't need to 'fix' that lack of interest, or substitute something else for it. It was just there, and it would pass like many emotional states.
I found that the most effective way that teachers use to motivate students is to give them a compelling identity that suggests that one can succeed. The problem is that in relentlessly pursuing a cultural ideal of the 'model student', one ends up having no way to really be with emotional states which counter that model. Repression results, as well as the relentless pursuit for the elusive model self. But in trying to be this model self, I lose the ability to stay in emotions that don't have a clearly defined self. These emotions almost seem to threaten my stability or the 'hope' I place in the model identity. But if I treat emotions meditatively, I no longer need to see them as annihilating or crushing in any way. This subverts the classic notion of trying to choose emotions that are most conducive to a 'virtuous' being. Actually, in not choosing, one will naturally be virtuous, because there is no longer a need to react, to run away from emotion or to pretend it doesn't exist.
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