When I first started to meditate, I remember being afraid of the pain that I knew would arise from sitting. I don't think I had a way to look at the pain that created space for it. Instead, I tended to use focused method (like chanting) to block out the pain. I suppose in retrospect that this is a kind of misunderstanding of what the practice method is supposed to do, but at that time it had helped arouse the energy to keep going--not to mention enthusiasm. But it also created a tension within me, as though the aim of the practice were to get rid of certain undesirable states. If I proved unable to do so, the sitting meditation would feel like 'failure' to me, because I connected 'inability to bear pain' with failure itself.
In the recent months, I have switched my course. Instead of 'fearing' the bodily pains of meditation, I sometimes 'look forward' to how I can incorporate them into my awareness practice. It is as though my practice had turned upon itself and is acknowledging the origin of pain as coming from mind. I think that recently, I am trying to welcome the opportunity to work with the energies of pain, or painful situations.
In spite of all this, I believe I still have a long way to go in the daily practice and application of this principle. I believe that my tendency is to shy away from people and avoid risky situations where I might either be vulnerable or somehow responsible for people around me in some way. In consulting with Buddhist texts, I have come to realize that there are three approaches that might work well for me to help me overcome some of these tendencies. The first approach would be to reverse my tendency to become shy and withdrawn, by deliberately choosing the other's perspective, as I imagine it in my mind. The second approach would be to abide in my own feelings as much as possible, even if the emotions I am having with others might seem painful to me or even irrational. The third approach would to simply honor the totality of the experience as arising from the same source, the true mind. I would like to briefly explain these three methods.
I think I had first encountered the "reversal" approach in my reading of Shantideva's Way of Bodhisattva, where he counsels monastics to reverse their self-position and exchange self with others. I recently found the same approach in the writings of Western Buddhists, Joan Halifax and Caroline Brazier. Halifax, writing from the perspective of hospice caregivers, suggests an open-minded approach to receiving others as unique individuals, as well as "a mind of not-knowing." (Halifax, 2008, p.20). This may seem difficult, because my encounters with others invariably contain transference from previous, often unrelated encounters. From this perspective, it is also not helpful to 'fight' the memories coming from previous experience. Rather, it is to just recognize that the current experience is unknown, even though previous memories 'feel' familiar. By acknowledging that I am reacting to a residual memory and not the present state, I create a space where something new might happen between myself and others. Halifax also recommends that caregivers imagine every being as their mothers, in keeping with the Tibetan method of doing so (p.21). Imaginative reframing like this can help me go beyond my individual way of reacting to the world, and might help me imagine what it feels like to be someone else.
Caroline Brazier (2003) suggests an exercise where her clients loosen powerful, aversive emotions they might feel toward particular people, by speculating on what kinds of challenges and problems the other person might face in their daily life (see p.109). Looking at another person in this way can de-escalate tense or heightened reactions that one might feel. I guess this kind of comes back to seeing a person as a form of appreciation, rather than as a self-referencing. I find this would be painfully hard to do if I am strongly attached to someone else, because in that case, my relation to them would be based on these self-centered desires. If I find it difficult to appreciate a person on her or his own terms, I suppose that would be a sign of my own habitual energies getting in the way of seeing the person as they are.
The second perspective would be to simply learn to acquaint oneself with uncomfortable emotional energies, rather than trying to avoid them or turn them into something artificially pleasant. In his book Mind Beyond Death, Dzogchen Ponlop refers to this process as "befriending intense emotions". I love what he has to say here, so I quote this in full:
If we do not become familiar with our emotions, then we will always fear them--even more so in the bardos after death. It is like the fear we have of a stranger. When we do not know somebody, we tend to maintain a certain distance from them. We might be willing to have a formal conversation with the stranger, but we do not want to get too deeply involved. We do the same thing with our emotions. We do not really 'talk' with them because we do not really know them, an we prefer to maintain that distance in some cases. (p.42)
I would perhaps add to this insightful parallel between 'unfamiliar' emotions and 'strangers', by suggesting that strangers often become projections of my unwanted emotions. And I think the most unwanted emotions are fear of the unknown and loss of control, which the stranger ends up embodying for me. Encountering a stranger is like encountering a world of very new possibilities, where I may need to suspend my previous views of self, adopt new roles, or discard comfortable ways of being. If I can learn to sit with uncomfortable feelings, perhaps I can also abide in unknown social situations. And perhaps the two are inseparable on that front.
The third method is simply to see all experience as coming from the same source of mind. This approach goes beyond trying to conceptualize how I 'need' to feel about my feelings, or react to others, by suggesting that all these feelings and reactions are simply the mind's phenomena. This might be thought of as pointing to the mind nature that is in all phenomena. Through this perspective, there is simply no need for fear of other beings, as the fear is coming from my own thoughts and judgments. Being angry or afraid would then be like the left hand being afraid of the right because they are doing different things. I don't need to add to the arising feeling or try to make it better, as it is already part of the true and perfect mind.
Of the three approaches, I believe the third one is most familiar to me and perhaps the most direct. All the other approaches take a person in the direction of seeing that the thoughts are the source of one's vexations, not an 'outside awareness' independent of that mind you are experiencing now. But I do think that in many cases, the first two approaches can be skillful ways to reverse destructive emotions or feelings of isolation.
Brazier, Caroline (2003), Buddhist Psychology: Liberate Your Mind, Embrace Life. London: Constable and Robinson
Halifax, Joan (2008), Being with Dying: Cultivating Compassion and Fearlessness in the Face of Death. Boston: Shambhala
Ponlop, Dongchen (2006), Mind Beyond Death. Ithaca: Snow Lion
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Monday, February 1, 2016
From Desire to Appreciation
Reading Caroline Brazier's book Buddhist Psychology, I am reflecting on what a person can do when caught in desires, and how desire can transform into appreciation. There seem to be so many methods in Buddhist practice and in psychology that can help with this. But Brazier makes an interesting observation: namely, that desire comes from identifying something with the self. Using Buddhist theory, she arrives at four different ways of orienting on desired objects: identifying with it, seeing oneself in it, seeing oneself as different from the object, and seeing oneself as possessing it. (p.63). Upon first observing this list, I start to realize that there are deep contradictions between these orientations. For example, how can a person 'possess' that to which she or he is already identified? How can 'identity' and 'difference' co-exist in the same relationship with an object? Brazier's analysis, for me, points to the deep confusions that can arise when a person starts to work with their desires or try to become freed of them. It seems that in order to "identify" something as "me", I have to somehow confirm in my mind that it is 'mine'. But that can also involve embracing or sometimes even exaggerating difference. To 'embrace' difference as 'mine' can sometimes create a false sense of omnipotence, as when a person feels that she or he is able to embrace and even own what is opposite to her or his existing tendencies. So sometimes, when I think I have transcended myself through an object, I have only managed to intensify my attachment to self by making it seem 'larger.'
To give an example of this tendency, I am thinking about someone who collects spiritually charged objects or ideas. I have heard that this tendency may be referred to as 'spiritual materialism'. With this tendency, the self tries to prove that it has 'transcended itself' by collecting an object that represents self-transcendence, such as a totem or a sacred figure or statue. But by owning such an object or 'embracing' it, have I really 'transcended' myself? One might argue or suggest that it depends on how we treat the object and feel about it. If I am using the object to further my practice and understanding, then it is walking a path that can go beyond the self. But if I am seeing the object more as a kind of possession, then it starts to become more like an extension of the self. I often wonder, as I am writing this, to what extent the notion of 'cultural capital' taps into this desire to 'expand' and yet 'transcend' the self, and the contradiction that lies in this 'expansion'/'transcendence'. On the one hand, I want to go beyond the narrow views of who I am which cause me to suffer in this present moment, by latching onto something that is different or perhaps appearing more refined that I am. On the other hand, I might be relating to that object in much the same ways that I would relate to any novel or consumable object. I 'expand' myself only to contract within the boundaries of the expanded self. Then the object becomes appropriated to somehow represent this 'new and improved' self that is presumably purified. This is how things can become exoticized, yet still contract into the self.
I raise this topic because it seems important to know the difference between expanding the sense of self and going beyond self. While cultivating interests is good, when does cultivation become appropriation and possession?The practice of going beyond self can be quite arduous, and it is not a simple practice at all. I even think that it requires a critical awareness and reflection that can sometimes be furnished through philosophical discussion and analysis. Sometimes, my appreciation for something could be a way of simply expanding my sense of self to incorporate it into my habitual patterns of identifying with things. On the other hand, a sincere appreciation requires the willingness to lessen the sense of self or to invite a glimpse into emptiness of all 'selves'.
Brazier, Caroline (2003), Buddhist Psychology: Liberate Your Mind, Embrace Life. London: Constable & Robinson
To give an example of this tendency, I am thinking about someone who collects spiritually charged objects or ideas. I have heard that this tendency may be referred to as 'spiritual materialism'. With this tendency, the self tries to prove that it has 'transcended itself' by collecting an object that represents self-transcendence, such as a totem or a sacred figure or statue. But by owning such an object or 'embracing' it, have I really 'transcended' myself? One might argue or suggest that it depends on how we treat the object and feel about it. If I am using the object to further my practice and understanding, then it is walking a path that can go beyond the self. But if I am seeing the object more as a kind of possession, then it starts to become more like an extension of the self. I often wonder, as I am writing this, to what extent the notion of 'cultural capital' taps into this desire to 'expand' and yet 'transcend' the self, and the contradiction that lies in this 'expansion'/'transcendence'. On the one hand, I want to go beyond the narrow views of who I am which cause me to suffer in this present moment, by latching onto something that is different or perhaps appearing more refined that I am. On the other hand, I might be relating to that object in much the same ways that I would relate to any novel or consumable object. I 'expand' myself only to contract within the boundaries of the expanded self. Then the object becomes appropriated to somehow represent this 'new and improved' self that is presumably purified. This is how things can become exoticized, yet still contract into the self.
I raise this topic because it seems important to know the difference between expanding the sense of self and going beyond self. While cultivating interests is good, when does cultivation become appropriation and possession?The practice of going beyond self can be quite arduous, and it is not a simple practice at all. I even think that it requires a critical awareness and reflection that can sometimes be furnished through philosophical discussion and analysis. Sometimes, my appreciation for something could be a way of simply expanding my sense of self to incorporate it into my habitual patterns of identifying with things. On the other hand, a sincere appreciation requires the willingness to lessen the sense of self or to invite a glimpse into emptiness of all 'selves'.
Brazier, Caroline (2003), Buddhist Psychology: Liberate Your Mind, Embrace Life. London: Constable & Robinson
Sunday, January 31, 2016
Thinking "Mythically"
I am exploring myths and their function in a book by G.S Kirk, called The Nature of Greek Myths (1974). Kirk was a Greek scholar who not only outlined the meaning of Greek myths, but also talks about the function of myths. There are several theories about myths (what Kirk calls "Monolithic Theories") which operate on different levels to describe what they are, their function in a society, and (perhaps more importantly) how to read myths. Many of these interpretations seem familiar to me, because I encountered them before in my early years. For instance, I recall reading in science textbooks this idea that myths are attempts to 'explain' natural phenomena, such as how the wind and earth came to be formed, prior to inductive reasoning. This way of reading myths treats them as signs for 'literal' events on earth. Related to this theory is the 'personification' theory, which proposes that myths personify natural events, thus reflecting or projecting human nature onto otherwise natural events.
Kirk also refers to another model proposed by Malinowski (see p.59), which states that myths codify social and moral codes that are upheld in society, similar to a 'charter'. This is similar to the structuralist view which tries to look at religion in an entirely functionalist way: to use a crude example, the idea that "Hell was created by people so that there would be fewer criminals and more fear of the law". Rather than interpreting myths in terms of inner meaning, this perspective turns it inside out to see how the myth functions as a way of enforcing social norms.
Kirk is especially skeptical of the view that myths are representations of psychic contents--an idea that has become quite popular with psychologists like Jung. Kirk doubts that there are universal archetypes that are common to all minds. He suggests that there may be a lot of generalization about cases to fit the mould of the archetypes, and even wonders whether the element of 'sacred' or 'divine' nature really applies to all myths after all (p.78-80). I think Kirk is bringing up important issues of whether it is ever a good idea to try to reduce a term such as 'myth' into a single salient form, such as 'the sacred' or 'the divine'. Instead of trying to simplify or reduce all myths into a common theoretical meaning, he explores the grey areas and tensions between competing discourses on what these myths involve, showing that each has its strengths and sticking points.
This subject fascinates me because recently, I have been thinking about the relationship between magical or 'supernatural' imagery and spiritual texts. In the chapter on "Bodhisattva Who Hears the Cries of the World", in Surangama Sutra, the reader is entreated to descriptions of a being, Avalokitesvara, whose compassion and enlightened nature can save beings from seemingly impossible predicaments. Avalokitesvara can manifest himself in an infinite number of forms, according to the needs and dispositions of people. Some of the descriptions in the Sutra are quite amazing. Because of his enlightened nature, Avalokitesvara is said to be able to avert flooding, attack by knives or even fire. Read literally, these verses sound miraculous, and make it appear that Avalokitesvara has magical powers to save all beings in any predicament. But when I understand the text on another level, it represents the power of the mind to overcome fears by letting go of attaching to self and the body. While some might take it to be that Avalokitesvera works by 'changing the laws of nature' through miraculous cures, others might say that the text represents a state of mind that isn't fettered by material dangers or bodily harm. It may be that those who recite Avalokitesvara's name are saved precisely because they shift their attitude away from fear and toward a sense of love and devotion. Rather than being saved by 'magic', they are saved by their own attitudes and states of mind inspired by Avalokitesvara.
So, which is the 'best' way to read these incantations? Are they to be read literally as the miraculous powers of an enlightened being? Or metaphorically as the power that all minds possess to shift their perspectives and lessen attachment? Similar to Kirk's take on mythologies, I am going to say that both interpretations have a value, and don't need to monopolize the others. While it's important to acknowledge the way stories represent the powers of mind itself (taking a psychological approach), it seems equally vital that stories remind us of those powers and give them a concrete representation which serves as a pointer or a symbol. Without these symbols, it is easy to be cast adrift on the ocean of our thoughts.
Kirk, G.S. (1974) , The Nature of Greek Myths. London: Pelican
Kirk also refers to another model proposed by Malinowski (see p.59), which states that myths codify social and moral codes that are upheld in society, similar to a 'charter'. This is similar to the structuralist view which tries to look at religion in an entirely functionalist way: to use a crude example, the idea that "Hell was created by people so that there would be fewer criminals and more fear of the law". Rather than interpreting myths in terms of inner meaning, this perspective turns it inside out to see how the myth functions as a way of enforcing social norms.
Kirk is especially skeptical of the view that myths are representations of psychic contents--an idea that has become quite popular with psychologists like Jung. Kirk doubts that there are universal archetypes that are common to all minds. He suggests that there may be a lot of generalization about cases to fit the mould of the archetypes, and even wonders whether the element of 'sacred' or 'divine' nature really applies to all myths after all (p.78-80). I think Kirk is bringing up important issues of whether it is ever a good idea to try to reduce a term such as 'myth' into a single salient form, such as 'the sacred' or 'the divine'. Instead of trying to simplify or reduce all myths into a common theoretical meaning, he explores the grey areas and tensions between competing discourses on what these myths involve, showing that each has its strengths and sticking points.
This subject fascinates me because recently, I have been thinking about the relationship between magical or 'supernatural' imagery and spiritual texts. In the chapter on "Bodhisattva Who Hears the Cries of the World", in Surangama Sutra, the reader is entreated to descriptions of a being, Avalokitesvara, whose compassion and enlightened nature can save beings from seemingly impossible predicaments. Avalokitesvara can manifest himself in an infinite number of forms, according to the needs and dispositions of people. Some of the descriptions in the Sutra are quite amazing. Because of his enlightened nature, Avalokitesvara is said to be able to avert flooding, attack by knives or even fire. Read literally, these verses sound miraculous, and make it appear that Avalokitesvara has magical powers to save all beings in any predicament. But when I understand the text on another level, it represents the power of the mind to overcome fears by letting go of attaching to self and the body. While some might take it to be that Avalokitesvera works by 'changing the laws of nature' through miraculous cures, others might say that the text represents a state of mind that isn't fettered by material dangers or bodily harm. It may be that those who recite Avalokitesvara's name are saved precisely because they shift their attitude away from fear and toward a sense of love and devotion. Rather than being saved by 'magic', they are saved by their own attitudes and states of mind inspired by Avalokitesvara.
So, which is the 'best' way to read these incantations? Are they to be read literally as the miraculous powers of an enlightened being? Or metaphorically as the power that all minds possess to shift their perspectives and lessen attachment? Similar to Kirk's take on mythologies, I am going to say that both interpretations have a value, and don't need to monopolize the others. While it's important to acknowledge the way stories represent the powers of mind itself (taking a psychological approach), it seems equally vital that stories remind us of those powers and give them a concrete representation which serves as a pointer or a symbol. Without these symbols, it is easy to be cast adrift on the ocean of our thoughts.
Kirk, G.S. (1974) , The Nature of Greek Myths. London: Pelican
Saturday, January 30, 2016
Benefits of Non Ascertainment
In the meditation practices I have read and experienced, there is often an emphasis on seeing things clearly as they are. Without judging, labeling or attempting to create a story out of them, I can start to see things more clearly and have a bright perception of them. Sometimes, mindfulness practice is focused on clarifying what something is, but I recently read in Geshe Kelsang Gyatso's book, Understanding the Mind, that there are times when 'not ascertaining' what something is can be a useful approach as well. It depends on what we are dealing with in the moment.
Non ascertainment, according to Geshe Kelsang Gyatso, refers to being able to see clearly but not 'realizing' what it is one is seeing. An example is being in a crowd. Although the awareness functions to know that the crowd is there, I cannot make out the individual people, and mind isn't focused on seeing them as individuals. It is as though the mind is aware of something as a whole but is not engaging in its particular features or discriminating between parts of that experience. Another example referred to is when a baby sees her or his father. The baby has no words or even previous knowledge to recognize the father (p.68). The first example refers to knowing that something is present but not putting one's attention on that object or situation. The second comes from not having a prior experience to label the experience or focus on it. In both cases, I think the main activity of the mind is to recognize the sensations without putting too much meaning on it. The third example that Geshe refers to is on p.69, where he describes the case of people not knowing a language, yet still being able to hear the sounds. Because my recognition of sounds is not tied to a particular 'meaning' or chain of associated thoughts, the sound is experienced just as a sound.
I would imagine that education is most often associated with ascertainment. The classic example is that the more familiar we are with the particular qualities or distinctions between certain things, the more discerning I am. I can tell the difference between a rope and a snake only when I have a clear understanding of how the two are distinguished, and am in a position to realize the nature of both. If I am in a dark room or am feeling ill, I may not have such a clear way to perceive these or know that what is in front of me is one or the other. Without this ability to ascertain or "make out" features, I wouldn't survive for very long. I would need to have quick reactions to know that what is coming toward me is a car, for example.
However there are other cases I can think of where it may be important to let go of ascertainment or previous habitual experiences of something. The mind is always unconsciously ''selecting" which stimuli to focus and which is merely background noise that is not of much value. I wonder if you can imagine what it would be like if the mind were simply unable to filter these sensory experiences. What would happen if, instead of choosing to attend to a conversation, a person simply could not choose to blot out other background sounds? If the person's mind isn't calm, this experience might be quite challenging and cumbersome.
Geshe uses a second example, and that is cases where a person has craving for an object. He remarks, "At any moment, when we meet an attractive object we usually pay considerable attention to it and try to gain as vivid a perception of it as possible...Instead of paying so much attention to objects of delusion it would be wiser to develop non-ascertaining perceivers with respect to them" (p.71) Geshe uses the example of restraining the senses when approaching objects we strongly like or dislike.
What I got from this particular chapter is that mindfulness doesn't necessarily mean that one is focusing on every detail or experience around oneself. While it's beneficial to have an awareness of everything around us, we still have to decide from moment to moment what kinds of focus would lead to wholesome outcomes. When I attach to something I like and continue to 'seek' it, I overlook the question of who is seeking what. In fact, I take for granted that there is a fixed and separate body looking for something or trying to grasp it. "I" have already objectified the desire into an "it" without exploring or questioning that assumption.
It interests me that objectifying in this way is always a form of violence, both to the perceived 'subject' and the 'object.' While Geshe recommends the practice of simply not being driven by attachments or distracted by them, I also suggest that the desire itself can be looked into deeply, and can even be questioned. What does it mean to have the desire? Who benefit and who is harmed by it? Is it really so great to pursue something that is interconnected to the universe? For example, if I crave chocolate, am I really aware of the real nature of this chocolate: where it came from, what its' composed of, who grew it, who is exploited from making it, whether it benefits or harms this body? There are so many questions that complicate the 'object' we perceive as chocolate.
The other assumption that people can make when wanting or craving is that this wanting always leads to a desired outcome. I have often heard of a psychological idea which says, "If you want something, just imagine in your mind what you want, and it will naturally manifest over time." But what is overlooked is that wanting is also a source of anxiety and suffering. Because I am too focused on ascertaining the 'object' of my desire, I overlook the anxiety, fear and emptiness I feel when contemplating the object. If I am too quick to ascertain 'what I like' and 'what I dislike', I may overlook the violence and suffering this creates inside.
Geshe Kelsang Gyatso (1993), Understanding the Mind: An explanation of the nature and functions of the mind. London: Tharpa Publications
Non ascertainment, according to Geshe Kelsang Gyatso, refers to being able to see clearly but not 'realizing' what it is one is seeing. An example is being in a crowd. Although the awareness functions to know that the crowd is there, I cannot make out the individual people, and mind isn't focused on seeing them as individuals. It is as though the mind is aware of something as a whole but is not engaging in its particular features or discriminating between parts of that experience. Another example referred to is when a baby sees her or his father. The baby has no words or even previous knowledge to recognize the father (p.68). The first example refers to knowing that something is present but not putting one's attention on that object or situation. The second comes from not having a prior experience to label the experience or focus on it. In both cases, I think the main activity of the mind is to recognize the sensations without putting too much meaning on it. The third example that Geshe refers to is on p.69, where he describes the case of people not knowing a language, yet still being able to hear the sounds. Because my recognition of sounds is not tied to a particular 'meaning' or chain of associated thoughts, the sound is experienced just as a sound.
I would imagine that education is most often associated with ascertainment. The classic example is that the more familiar we are with the particular qualities or distinctions between certain things, the more discerning I am. I can tell the difference between a rope and a snake only when I have a clear understanding of how the two are distinguished, and am in a position to realize the nature of both. If I am in a dark room or am feeling ill, I may not have such a clear way to perceive these or know that what is in front of me is one or the other. Without this ability to ascertain or "make out" features, I wouldn't survive for very long. I would need to have quick reactions to know that what is coming toward me is a car, for example.
However there are other cases I can think of where it may be important to let go of ascertainment or previous habitual experiences of something. The mind is always unconsciously ''selecting" which stimuli to focus and which is merely background noise that is not of much value. I wonder if you can imagine what it would be like if the mind were simply unable to filter these sensory experiences. What would happen if, instead of choosing to attend to a conversation, a person simply could not choose to blot out other background sounds? If the person's mind isn't calm, this experience might be quite challenging and cumbersome.
Geshe uses a second example, and that is cases where a person has craving for an object. He remarks, "At any moment, when we meet an attractive object we usually pay considerable attention to it and try to gain as vivid a perception of it as possible...Instead of paying so much attention to objects of delusion it would be wiser to develop non-ascertaining perceivers with respect to them" (p.71) Geshe uses the example of restraining the senses when approaching objects we strongly like or dislike.
What I got from this particular chapter is that mindfulness doesn't necessarily mean that one is focusing on every detail or experience around oneself. While it's beneficial to have an awareness of everything around us, we still have to decide from moment to moment what kinds of focus would lead to wholesome outcomes. When I attach to something I like and continue to 'seek' it, I overlook the question of who is seeking what. In fact, I take for granted that there is a fixed and separate body looking for something or trying to grasp it. "I" have already objectified the desire into an "it" without exploring or questioning that assumption.
It interests me that objectifying in this way is always a form of violence, both to the perceived 'subject' and the 'object.' While Geshe recommends the practice of simply not being driven by attachments or distracted by them, I also suggest that the desire itself can be looked into deeply, and can even be questioned. What does it mean to have the desire? Who benefit and who is harmed by it? Is it really so great to pursue something that is interconnected to the universe? For example, if I crave chocolate, am I really aware of the real nature of this chocolate: where it came from, what its' composed of, who grew it, who is exploited from making it, whether it benefits or harms this body? There are so many questions that complicate the 'object' we perceive as chocolate.
The other assumption that people can make when wanting or craving is that this wanting always leads to a desired outcome. I have often heard of a psychological idea which says, "If you want something, just imagine in your mind what you want, and it will naturally manifest over time." But what is overlooked is that wanting is also a source of anxiety and suffering. Because I am too focused on ascertaining the 'object' of my desire, I overlook the anxiety, fear and emptiness I feel when contemplating the object. If I am too quick to ascertain 'what I like' and 'what I dislike', I may overlook the violence and suffering this creates inside.
Geshe Kelsang Gyatso (1993), Understanding the Mind: An explanation of the nature and functions of the mind. London: Tharpa Publications
Friday, January 29, 2016
A Method of Hearing
In the chapter on the Surangama Sutra, "The Bodhisattva Who Hears the Cries of the World", the sutra describes how Avalokiteshvara uses the element of sound as a way to contemplate a space where there is no abiding in sound. It sounds like (pardon the pun) a tricky concept, but I understand it to mean that a person using this method tries to contemplate the entire totality of sound, so that the sound just reflects on the mind, as in a mirror. Avalokiteshvara describes the different levels of this practice. First comes "redirecting my hearing" so that the sound appears inward (as part of the mind) rather than as a distinct property of an object. To take a simple example, if I close my eyes and manage to get into a relaxed state, I might get to a point where the sounds around me no longer link to a distinct visual object or concept. The sound is no longer automatically associated with a perceived object, such as a car or a plane. I believe this is what the chapter refers to when it talks about 'turning sound inward'. The sound is heard for 'what it is' pure and simple, without being impurely linked to visual objects or generic concepts that arise in mind.
That sounds like a simple instruction, but most likely, it is not so easy to get. Part of the reason is that people crave objects with which to link sounds. I am reminded of an example of someone I met before who was a big lover of classic rock music. When I asked him whether he was into buying CDs, he quipped that it no longer gives him pleasure to simply 'listen to' music, because he is so used to watching music concerts in a DVD form. Here is an example of where the purity of music is compromised by the desire to associate music with an image. But Avalokiteshvara's example goes further than this, by suggesting that all sounds come from the same source, and to try to contemplate sound in the context of that source.
Once there is no longer any attachment to a perceived object or concept associated with the sound, sounds become "stilled" (p.234) and "both sounds and silence cease to arise." (ibid) At this stage, I would say that the mind is reaching a point of equanimity, and is no longer even craving or liking some sounds more than others. It has stopped discriminating certain kinds of sounds as 'good' or 'bad' and seeking some sounds over others. Hence, there is neither a clinging to sound nor a clinging to silence: they can be said to be one unified, seamless experience. "Sounds" and "silence" don't 'grab' my attention anymore, so we can say that they cease to arise.
Then, Avalokiteshvara continues, "as I gradually progressed, what I heard and my awareness of what I heard came to an end." (ibid) If I understand this correctly, this is the point where I am no longer discriminating a self that hears the sound (let's say, a subjective awareness) from a distinct object of sound. This is subtly different from the previous level because in the former, there may still be traces of "I am hearing the sound" rather than sound and hearer are a single experience. At this point of non-differentiating subject and object, the 'awareness' of starts to yield to a completely unified state of sound and hearer.
In the next stage described by Avalokiteshvara, we heard that "My awareness and the objects of my awareness were emptied, and when that process of emptying my awareness was wholly complete, then even that emptying and what had been emptied vanished." (ibid). This emptying seems to be a process where, again, subject and object are seen as impermanent and not discrete things. Perhaps it might even be alluding to the Buddhist concept of emptiness as conditioned phenomena, where sound and hearer need to exist simultaneously with a series of interdependent conditions. Thus even sound/silence has no 'foundation' in a fundamental, shared substance called 'mind'. Instead, their forms are empty of underlying permanent substance or essence. The last step, however, is that even that emptying process ("that emptying and what had been emptied") vanishes. Now what could this mean? When I first read it, I thought perhaps it means that even the concept of 'emptying' is abandoned, and the sounds can return to their associated objects without a confusion of sound with other senses. When I read it a second time now, the thought occurs to me that even when there is a process of 'emptiness' there is still lurking in the background something that is 'emptying' and 'emptied'...a dual self, for example. But even this 'emptying' self dissolves, in the recognition that it is not permanent or distinct in any way.
All of this might sound a bit abstract at first. But this chapter raises interesting ontological issues for me with regards to the role of sound in establishing or potentially challenging identity. The most concrete way I can think of this would be to examine the process that the mind undergoes when there is mindful listening happening. What, for example,is the real difference between 'external' and 'internal' hearing, as this chapter relates? I think perhaps it means that a truly authentic listening does not cling to the objects that arise in mind when there are sounds. If, for example, I am listening to someone talk and I attach to many thoughts arising in mind, am I listening to the person in that moment? Quite often, this is not the case, because one is only using pre-existing concepts arising in mind to relate to what is being heard now. But if I were to disengage from the ''objects" that sound produces in mind and hear the sound as is (without emotional or mental projection), I would be truly listening. Why? I think, because I am no longer confusing the sounds themselves for concepts to which they associate in mind. I also start to lose the sense that there is a solid "I" who listens to "the Other". Compassion can arise when I treat the whole experience as my mind, rather than making a false distinction between the 'object' and the subject.
Surangama Sutra: A New Translation Buddhist Text Translation Society
That sounds like a simple instruction, but most likely, it is not so easy to get. Part of the reason is that people crave objects with which to link sounds. I am reminded of an example of someone I met before who was a big lover of classic rock music. When I asked him whether he was into buying CDs, he quipped that it no longer gives him pleasure to simply 'listen to' music, because he is so used to watching music concerts in a DVD form. Here is an example of where the purity of music is compromised by the desire to associate music with an image. But Avalokiteshvara's example goes further than this, by suggesting that all sounds come from the same source, and to try to contemplate sound in the context of that source.
Once there is no longer any attachment to a perceived object or concept associated with the sound, sounds become "stilled" (p.234) and "both sounds and silence cease to arise." (ibid) At this stage, I would say that the mind is reaching a point of equanimity, and is no longer even craving or liking some sounds more than others. It has stopped discriminating certain kinds of sounds as 'good' or 'bad' and seeking some sounds over others. Hence, there is neither a clinging to sound nor a clinging to silence: they can be said to be one unified, seamless experience. "Sounds" and "silence" don't 'grab' my attention anymore, so we can say that they cease to arise.
Then, Avalokiteshvara continues, "as I gradually progressed, what I heard and my awareness of what I heard came to an end." (ibid) If I understand this correctly, this is the point where I am no longer discriminating a self that hears the sound (let's say, a subjective awareness) from a distinct object of sound. This is subtly different from the previous level because in the former, there may still be traces of "I am hearing the sound" rather than sound and hearer are a single experience. At this point of non-differentiating subject and object, the 'awareness' of starts to yield to a completely unified state of sound and hearer.
In the next stage described by Avalokiteshvara, we heard that "My awareness and the objects of my awareness were emptied, and when that process of emptying my awareness was wholly complete, then even that emptying and what had been emptied vanished." (ibid). This emptying seems to be a process where, again, subject and object are seen as impermanent and not discrete things. Perhaps it might even be alluding to the Buddhist concept of emptiness as conditioned phenomena, where sound and hearer need to exist simultaneously with a series of interdependent conditions. Thus even sound/silence has no 'foundation' in a fundamental, shared substance called 'mind'. Instead, their forms are empty of underlying permanent substance or essence. The last step, however, is that even that emptying process ("that emptying and what had been emptied") vanishes. Now what could this mean? When I first read it, I thought perhaps it means that even the concept of 'emptying' is abandoned, and the sounds can return to their associated objects without a confusion of sound with other senses. When I read it a second time now, the thought occurs to me that even when there is a process of 'emptiness' there is still lurking in the background something that is 'emptying' and 'emptied'...a dual self, for example. But even this 'emptying' self dissolves, in the recognition that it is not permanent or distinct in any way.
All of this might sound a bit abstract at first. But this chapter raises interesting ontological issues for me with regards to the role of sound in establishing or potentially challenging identity. The most concrete way I can think of this would be to examine the process that the mind undergoes when there is mindful listening happening. What, for example,is the real difference between 'external' and 'internal' hearing, as this chapter relates? I think perhaps it means that a truly authentic listening does not cling to the objects that arise in mind when there are sounds. If, for example, I am listening to someone talk and I attach to many thoughts arising in mind, am I listening to the person in that moment? Quite often, this is not the case, because one is only using pre-existing concepts arising in mind to relate to what is being heard now. But if I were to disengage from the ''objects" that sound produces in mind and hear the sound as is (without emotional or mental projection), I would be truly listening. Why? I think, because I am no longer confusing the sounds themselves for concepts to which they associate in mind. I also start to lose the sense that there is a solid "I" who listens to "the Other". Compassion can arise when I treat the whole experience as my mind, rather than making a false distinction between the 'object' and the subject.
Surangama Sutra: A New Translation Buddhist Text Translation Society
Thursday, January 28, 2016
"Forms" of Emptiness
In the Multifaith Center tonight, the third floor Quiet Room is being used by Tibetan Buddhist monastics to create a sand mandala, which will be later destroyed on Friday evening. The event itself is a reminder that things don't last forever, even when a person devotes their whole body and mind to a process. I would imagine that it would take depth of practice and courage for the monastics to focus on something that they know will be destroyed in a matter of a week. And I admire their ability to stay with the principle of dedicating themselves to building such an intricate work of art, even when the work will leave little or no trace after the week's end.
We were discussing in our group sharing tonight the various ways that we contemplate emptiness. One such way is simply to contemplate the skeleton that is underneath or underlying all human beings. Another way that was suggested by one of the practitioners is to see people as animals of sorts, or even to compare human beings to other beings to see their commonalities. I suppose this kind of practice does indeed help people to realize that they are to be treated with compassion, knowing that they suffer the same impulses or desires of all sentient beings. And it goes beyond particularizing a person according to their class or appearance. I even recall a book by zoologist Desmond Morris, The Human Zoo, which dealt with the theme of humans being advanced primates who do things on a scale similar to other related sentient beings. Of course, the practice has limits, but the point is to show one's interconnection with other beings, and to emphasize commonality over difference. It is also to broaden one's perspective and take it out of the narrow view that humans are somehow dominant or specially chosen beings.
The two examples I suggest above are also examples of everyday experiences of emptiness. Contemplating the skeleton is an example, which can get beyond the idea that there are these static, unchanging appearances in bodies. The skeleton reminds people that their bodies age, get sick, and die, after which they re-enter a material universe, to be recycled into new life forms. I recall being in Kensington Market last week, discovering this special line of clothing and paraphernalia which deals with 'images of death'. Here you have sweaters and scarves with skulls on them. They even have a 'mint' called 'zombie mint' which presumably emulates the taste and smell of death! (The ingredients read "raw meat flavor", if that gives you any idea). I am wondering if fashion has perhaps gone too far in subverting itself. While traditional fashion focuses on the clean, sanitized and eternally young body, 'death' fashion subverts this view by calling attention to what lies underneath the skin itself. Does such a fashion get to the bottom of who people are? Does it help lessen people's attachment to their bodies, or is it just another fashion fad?
There are many ways that discourses and images can transform a static image into something that challenges permanence. I think the important thing is not even to attach to the images themselves, but simply to contemplate them as reminders. Certain kinds of fashion emphasize death symbolism (such as Goth style) but it seems that this only commodifies symbols of death into new packages, making the concept of emptiness and change seem safe and innocuous. There is potential there for insight into constant change, but there is also the possibility of fetishizing death, or simply denying it by making its meaning into something static. The same can be said about the Buddhist concept of emptiness, especially if people take it to mean that life has 'no meaning' whatsoever. The human mind naturally wants to make impermanence into a static concept, so that its scarier potentials are hidden or even denied.
We were discussing in our group sharing tonight the various ways that we contemplate emptiness. One such way is simply to contemplate the skeleton that is underneath or underlying all human beings. Another way that was suggested by one of the practitioners is to see people as animals of sorts, or even to compare human beings to other beings to see their commonalities. I suppose this kind of practice does indeed help people to realize that they are to be treated with compassion, knowing that they suffer the same impulses or desires of all sentient beings. And it goes beyond particularizing a person according to their class or appearance. I even recall a book by zoologist Desmond Morris, The Human Zoo, which dealt with the theme of humans being advanced primates who do things on a scale similar to other related sentient beings. Of course, the practice has limits, but the point is to show one's interconnection with other beings, and to emphasize commonality over difference. It is also to broaden one's perspective and take it out of the narrow view that humans are somehow dominant or specially chosen beings.
The two examples I suggest above are also examples of everyday experiences of emptiness. Contemplating the skeleton is an example, which can get beyond the idea that there are these static, unchanging appearances in bodies. The skeleton reminds people that their bodies age, get sick, and die, after which they re-enter a material universe, to be recycled into new life forms. I recall being in Kensington Market last week, discovering this special line of clothing and paraphernalia which deals with 'images of death'. Here you have sweaters and scarves with skulls on them. They even have a 'mint' called 'zombie mint' which presumably emulates the taste and smell of death! (The ingredients read "raw meat flavor", if that gives you any idea). I am wondering if fashion has perhaps gone too far in subverting itself. While traditional fashion focuses on the clean, sanitized and eternally young body, 'death' fashion subverts this view by calling attention to what lies underneath the skin itself. Does such a fashion get to the bottom of who people are? Does it help lessen people's attachment to their bodies, or is it just another fashion fad?
There are many ways that discourses and images can transform a static image into something that challenges permanence. I think the important thing is not even to attach to the images themselves, but simply to contemplate them as reminders. Certain kinds of fashion emphasize death symbolism (such as Goth style) but it seems that this only commodifies symbols of death into new packages, making the concept of emptiness and change seem safe and innocuous. There is potential there for insight into constant change, but there is also the possibility of fetishizing death, or simply denying it by making its meaning into something static. The same can be said about the Buddhist concept of emptiness, especially if people take it to mean that life has 'no meaning' whatsoever. The human mind naturally wants to make impermanence into a static concept, so that its scarier potentials are hidden or even denied.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Difficulties
After the group meditation tonight, a video of Shifu Sheng Yen was shown regarding coping with obstacles and challenges. One of the things that most impacted me was Shifu's remarks that difficulties can be reframed as ways to improve character and mature oneself. They don't need to be avoided, and people don't need to always seek an easy answer or solution to feel comfortable. As I had shared with the group members today, part of my difficulty lies in being attached to "100% success" and wanting to impress people at work with how I can handle problems. Quite often, it's hard for me to admit when I can only complete 20% or so of what needs to be completed, and it seems a sign of weakness in a competitive world to ask for help. But I also understand that people need each other to meet their targets, and sometimes the low percentage is simply a sign of the effort really required to complete a task..
I find that one good way to manage difficulties is to focus on the task rather than focusing on 'the person' or the self. If I am tasked with something quite mundane and not that rewarding, I am often focused on the result or the benefit I can incur from the task. But let's face it: some tasks aren't particularly inspiring at all, and they are simply done to maintain one's social and physical existence. An example of this might be paying one's taxes. The process of doing so requires resources and the initiative to get to the mailbox, but none of this proves to be all that rewarding. It is, in the words of a former high school colleague, one of those 'things you just gotta do' that offer no real reward. Looking at Shifu's video tonight, I realized that it might help to see the process of difficulty or 'task' not as a burden but as a way to strengthen a person's resolve to do things without a sense of self.
If I can see all experiences as phenomena that are pointing to the mind, that is probably an even better practice, though it is more subtle. The best way to describe this approach might be to see that all experiences are phenomena itself. Not privileging one experience as 'more rewarding' than others allows me to see them all equally, and I can let go of the desire to gain from one or avoid the other. The practice can even become a kind of challenge, where I try to determine how well I can let go into the experience rather than retaining a sense of time or space, or wanting to do something else.
Under this latter view, there is really no difficulty that ends up being a waste of time, futile or pointless. They are all just ways of helping a person to let go of the baggage of a fixed 'self' which stands to gain or lose from anything. Once a person can truly stop identifying so much with that self and see it as impermanent, then all the tasks are equally valid ways to learn and grow. It simply is a matter of balancing necessity and managing the different shifting priorities of the moment.
I find that one good way to manage difficulties is to focus on the task rather than focusing on 'the person' or the self. If I am tasked with something quite mundane and not that rewarding, I am often focused on the result or the benefit I can incur from the task. But let's face it: some tasks aren't particularly inspiring at all, and they are simply done to maintain one's social and physical existence. An example of this might be paying one's taxes. The process of doing so requires resources and the initiative to get to the mailbox, but none of this proves to be all that rewarding. It is, in the words of a former high school colleague, one of those 'things you just gotta do' that offer no real reward. Looking at Shifu's video tonight, I realized that it might help to see the process of difficulty or 'task' not as a burden but as a way to strengthen a person's resolve to do things without a sense of self.
If I can see all experiences as phenomena that are pointing to the mind, that is probably an even better practice, though it is more subtle. The best way to describe this approach might be to see that all experiences are phenomena itself. Not privileging one experience as 'more rewarding' than others allows me to see them all equally, and I can let go of the desire to gain from one or avoid the other. The practice can even become a kind of challenge, where I try to determine how well I can let go into the experience rather than retaining a sense of time or space, or wanting to do something else.
Under this latter view, there is really no difficulty that ends up being a waste of time, futile or pointless. They are all just ways of helping a person to let go of the baggage of a fixed 'self' which stands to gain or lose from anything. Once a person can truly stop identifying so much with that self and see it as impermanent, then all the tasks are equally valid ways to learn and grow. It simply is a matter of balancing necessity and managing the different shifting priorities of the moment.
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