Doubt is Healing?

   During the guided meditation practice tonight, I found that I was able to bring the huatou question into the body and resolve body pain toward answering the question. Something happened tonight and that is that I started to really feel the body relaxing in a way that I never felt before. There was a kind of pain to it, almost as though I had been resisting letting go, but I just kept practicing not holding on to the body muscles so tightly. Over time, it became easier for me to recite the huatou with sincerity, because I was no longer so heavily invested in keeping the body held in a certain tight way. And after the practice, there was a kind of still resolve. It is as though no thoughts were really swaying me anymore, and I was able to be clear about the things around me.
     I can't really say what the 'secret' to this is, but it's like everything in meditation; there is an element of inquiry to it. What I start to realize is that in order to fully trust the process of relaxation, I have to fully go into this question of who, to the point where there is no longer this determined self that is clinging so tightly to the body. A lot of my own pain is caused by this subconscious 'holding' of the body in a certain position, and then taking this body position to be the real self. But with some determination not to attach to this self-concept or notion of being (perhaps even a body-armoring of sorts), I am able to see that this body can ease up a bit, and there is no longer such a strong grip on the body. It's amazing how the practice of progressively letting go through the questioning process is opening up a lot of energy and often unifying otherwise disjointed experiences of body.
     The point, however, is not to 'make' the body comfortable, as though this 'body' were something solid and enduring or permanent. Rather, the point is to see that this body does not have an enduring self attached to it, and to really feel that there is no enduring self to it. But this takes a kind of doubt sensation: a bodily-felt experience of not being able to trace a self, and letting go of the solid assumption that there is a monolithic self that inhabits the body. For this reason, I think the method of huatou can be used to heal body energies, because it frees up the sense of a self armoring around the body. However, all of this is only a hypothesis, and I still need to test it out through meditation. The main thing is to have an orientation to work with in relating huatou method to the body.

Two Wings

   I have been reflecting recently on this metaphor I had once read about in Master Sheng Yen's writings, about how the practice of Chan is like two wings on a bird. One of the wings represents the wisdom of letting go (or renunciation) while the other represents the compassion of embracing life and living beings. Are these two tendencies completely opposed to each other, or are they in fact complementary to each other?
     To give an example: if someone does something to me that I dislike, I might take the approach of wisdom and try to see what it is exactly that is bothering me. Most likely, what bothers me is not the actual person but the thoughts and images I connect with the person. If I go deeply enough into this idea, I will end up with the discovery that everything is just a kind of changing aggregate that comes together for an instant, but is no longer present in the next. In that sense, I am taking this 'who' and challenging it, to the point of wonder who is even observing the other person. This concept is fine, but at the end of the day, there are still people, just as there are still mountains as mountains, and rivers as rivers. So the question is, how can this awareness of the aggregate nature of things help arouse compassion?
    If I only stay with the notion that things are aggregates, I will end up with a perhaps nihilistic point of view, wondering if there is anyone to be compassionate toward. But this notion is necessary, because there is no enduring state of being. In a sense, I think contemplating the emptiness can help a person eliminate anger and greed. But if one is staying in that place, it may not arouse kindness or compassion. This is why it seems that there needs to be this other wing on the bird.
      I think the compassion comes when we take this aggregate experience and extend it even to the thinking subject. When I start to see that even this "I" is a bundle of changing aggregates, all I can do is let go of self-clinging and start to see the suffering that comes from all such self-clinging. But if I am only using this concept to negate others, it doesn't go far enough to knowing that even the thinking self is empty. At that point, the thinking itself starts to soften and there is an open space where there isn't a solid "me" or "you" anymore. Perhaps this could be the space of love, if you want to label it as such.

"Just Thoughts"

    During sitting meditation, there is a process where a person is seeing thoughts as "just thoughts", and this way of seeing is facilitated by the state of calm relaxation. But during the day, why is it that one cannot do the same thing with all their experiences? If a person realized that the life off the meditation cushion isn't that different from life on the cushion, they might be able to see life as just like a kind of retreat. At that point, one is interacting mainly with thoughts. And even if the thoughts are very powerful, there is a very relaxed and calm method of dealing with the thoughts themselves. Life would involve observing one's reactions with a kind of gentle and open spaciousness, realizing that they are temporary and bound to disappear with new conditions.
   How can this sort of insight benefit a person? I think that for one thing, it makes a person realize that they are not interacting with 'people' or 'minds' at all, but are mainly interacting with their own thoughts, based on the previous conditions. It is as though one were with people but having a separate dream. To give an example, I might see a person who reminds me of someone else and have a negative reaction to the person which has nothing to do with them whatsoever. But because I am engaging in some thought that seems unpleasant, I engage in an argument with it. Is this productive? It hardly is, yet how often do I engage in this kind of behavior and end up creating suffering to myself. At that point, it is as though I am in my own thoughts or world and not aware of suffering around me.
     I have a feeling that the mind is already naturally compassionate: it loves and swims in love. But I notice that from early times, I had developed a kind of mistrust in myself. As soon as the love I felt wasn't reciprocated, I would start to think that I did something wrong: it was my fault somehow, or maybe I need to toughen up and 'take it like a man'. In any case, there is a self created there: a kind of sense that something needs to be done about the feeling of rejection, and only "I" (whoever this "I" is) can do something about it. Had I not taken the experience so personally and simply let go of it, I would have gone back to the natural compassion that is always there: always feeling connected with others no matter what. Could it be that this feeling of rejection causes the self to arise and try to take control by asserting its identity? I will leave that to psychologists to mull over.
     

under the stars

   He was a freewheeler: a man who came to the earth from somewhere and might disappear to some other place. And he is living under the stars.
   He is inspired by the sun and the wind, but never stays long enough with either of them to become scorched by one or blown away by the other. He skips, jumps and wails like a bear. Nobody can explain his crazy moods: his tendency to paint pointed brush strokes in the sand, or his frightening ability to identify what you are most looking for, somewhere out on that beach. He sings the songs that everyone sings, yet somehow the songs never have an ending. And he always leaves something under your doorstep just as he is about to skirt town.
    And who is this man? Maybe he is the living and moving spirit in all of us, that longs for completion while simultaneously knowing that all is indeed quite complete in itself. He is the actual way of all things: to pass in and out of the seasons, to plant corn, harvest corn, and kill corn in sweltering waves of heat and snow. He is the angel and the devil at once. And maybe he is the free floating giddiness one feels when they have reached the highest point of doubt, not knowing quite what the world is, who one is, and how she got into this world.
    Can anybody live with such a person? It's a howler to know, in fact, that too much life can kill us all. That's the reason why humanity invented doors with locks. It's to keep out the sources of anxiety and fear, where wild men can steal away into one's homes and take everything they thought would last or was theirs to keep. And that's the reason why humanity built binding contracts. It's to keep out the grief of a capricious heart; to civilize the world and make sure that things stay long enough to work through the tensions of life. But through and through, everyone is forced to acknowledge the tricky fox within themselves, as well as to account for him.
     In this 'vignette', am I celebrating the wandering trickster? In a sense, yes, but in another sense, I would say that civilization had better not get carried away with the archetype of the trickster. I think it's because impermanence is not something to be idly played around with. For instance, many people might interpret impermanence as an invitation to engage in a free-wheeling lifestyle. But, I think differently: it's a way of seeing that things can be created and re-created in new ways that innovate on existing traditions. It's not that society should be torn down and raised up anew, but that we take what we have learned from the world so far and keep finding new ways to express it and explore it. In this way, harmony is preserved while acknowledging that things are continually changing within that harmony.

Expecting Neither Easy Nor Hard

    This morning, I had the rather onerous task of having to proofread a chapter I am submitting for a publication. Though I am familiar with proofreading, I am certainly much less familiar with the aspect of having to conform to APA standards. And it is certainly a lesson in form: there are so many formalities with publication formatting, at least in the sense that it is designed to keep things consistent and neat. But one of the interesting things is that I had simply assumed that the task would be easy, given my previous editing experience with academic papers and student writing. How mistaken I am to realize that editing papers for publication is quite a delicate art, and it requires much practice to detect the common mistakes in formatting that I would normally make (such as not putting periods where they are meant to be in references).
      Later on, as I started to do the editing in more detail, I let go of the expectation that this task is meant to be 'easy'. In fact, I was able to see that my notion of easy/hard were simply inappropriate comparing of very different activities: namely proofreading school papers vs. proofreading for publication. And I also realized that most of my understanding of what is easy or hard is based on this kind of false comparison of present and previous experiences. Had I accepted the possibility that the task would take some effort and new learning on my part, I might have even received the opposite effect of thinking that the task is easier than I had anticipated. This happens a lot when a person is nervous about the responsibilities of doing something that seems difficult.
      It seems best not to impose any expectations on new situations, especially when we really cannot estimate in all certainty how much effort something will take, let alone what kind of effort is involved. It seems that the best way through this difficulty is to recognize expectations but be open to revising them with new information. Otherwise, the actual desire to be freed of expectation becomes yet another expectation that one imposes on her or himself. Can you imagine walking into a situation and being so vigilant of arising 'desire' or 'expectation'? To me, that would be like trying to walk with one's legs taped together. It doesn't seem possible to never have an expectation, because they seem to function as estimates of how much effort one thinks will be required to perform a task, particularly when it's an unknown or completely new experience. But if  I quietly observe the expectation and what it creates in me (for instance, conflict and disappointment), I can then gently steer myself in the direction of adjusting myself. So this morning, I was somewhat able to do this, when I realized that the task of editing would take much longer than I had anticipated. Once I accept that my previous expectation was a little off, I can then create new attitudes to address the challenge.

       This approach also creates a healthy matching between the task done and the real effort that is required. Sometimes a person has to 'buckle down' or focus more, or do something with more resolve than what I felt was needed from the beginning. But at the same time, through repeated awareness that expectations don't match what unfolds, one starts to be less attached to thoughts about 'easy' or 'hard' and might be more inclined to see themselves continually evolving to meet the changing challenges.

Struggle for Survival

  I have a number of times been revising and reworking my attitudes toward work and competitive life. It's almost a kind of curse-word, to say that the world is competitive, especially when educational theories are really stressing the value of cooperation in achieving the same shared ends. But when I stopped to reflect on it today, even cooperative learning implies a kind of push toward continual improvement in performance and operations. I wonder, how does the contemplative practice of meditation relate to competition? Does it enhance competition, hinder it or transform it in some way?
     I am starting to reflect that there is nothing inherently vexing about 'competing', particularly when one isn't attaching to 'me' competing with 'you'. Now is it possible to experience competing without experiencing a separate "I" and "you"? I think that there is an ability in me to see a drive toward more efficiency that is not tied up with others at all. It's almost like a kind of acceptance that humans do live in a world where there are comparisons made. It doesn't mean that anyone is identified with those comparisons, but on the other hand it's not to be lulled into a comforting illusion that comparisons don't exist. So there is a sense that there is no need to expect comparison or competition to go away.
    On the other hand, it's also important not to be too identified with competitive spirits at work. Of course, the idea is to do one's very best work given the circumstances- and think of new ways to improve one's way of work. But then the trap becomes when a person starts to assign credit to different people, based on their subjective notions of who contributes what and at what amount. That is when human 'output' is measured, often without any nuanced observation of how work is done and how people experience working life. But if we don't know how people work and what people experience in working, what or how can we measure anything related to performance? This is a grey area, because in the end, all designations of value are quite subjective. Not only that, but whenever I feel I am off the mark of where I need to be, a tension takes shape in mind. And strangely, the only way to resolve it is by doing what one imagines will get them 'further' in life. But this too is subjective, and it can create all sorts of feelings of unease.
     Another way of putting it is that life is full of movement but one should never be quick to judge the result as 'better' than the beginning. A more apt metaphor at work might be to refer to cycles. Sometimes a person works, sometimes rests; sometimes leads and sometimes yields. The situations might call for different things, and all one can do is flow naturally with cycles of pressure while not identifying with it. Could competition just be one of many dances that human beings do to convey cosmic movement? If so, how did it ever become about  fixed, quantifiable result?

Feelings are Like Sun, Rain, Clouds

   In the Buddhist teachings that I have read, there is often an emphasis on seeing external phenomena as illusory, in the sense that they are impermanent. But it seems that feelings get left out of the equation if one is only thinking about external objects as impermanent. For instance, some might interpret the practice to mean that it's silly to feel anything for the things around us, since an insight into impermanence will show them to be ephemeral. But the thing is that we also inhabit a place of emotions, and emotions also need to be faced as part of the total experience of life. If I am not in touch with how I feel about situations arising, I will end up suppressing emotion out of some false belief that it is nobler to do so. Actually this approach is a little bit like shortcutting to some place where there is total 'neutrality' or no emotion at all. It almost sounds a bit like the dream of some kinds of Western philosophers and scientists: to reach the 'view from nowhere' or a kind of pristine view that is all about reason and rejects emotions as 'irrelevant'.
     But does this approach work in daily life? I think that if one lives this way, one leaves out a whole lot of rich insights. For instance, if I try to deny my wish for contact with other beings, I might then rationalize my existence as a kind of permanent solitude. The problem is that it overlooks the value that a wish for contact can have, especially the healthy way that wish can be used to create deep bonds with others. If I kept telling myself that 'all relations with others are impermanent' and then protected myself from desiring relations, this leaves out the rich learning and insights that relationships offer. It would be like trying to make one's life conform to an oppressive logic that is life-denying. I don't think this is what Buddhism is about. I think that it's the opposite: when I know that my emotions are not based on permanent, enduring situations or objects, I can be more accepting and forgiving toward emotions, to the point where I can face them and become curious about them. This is a tricky balance, because I might also start to lose the insight into the impermanence of emotions if I become overly attached to them. The middle way, perhaps, is to acknowledge emotion while knowing their conditioned nature.
     Pema Chodron is one Buddhist teacher who has talked about the vulnerability of Buddhist practice. Reading her books has helped me to debunk the misunderstanding that spiritual practice is about distancing from emotions. According to Chodron, when we start to practice taking in all the suffering emotions of all beings and breathing out joy to others, there is no longer any reason to 'transcend' emotions. Emotions become the material through which we can feel genuine connection with others, if not a vulnerable closeness. When I am really open to my own sadness and extreme desires to be loved and nurtured, I can use that desire to create genuine compassion for other beings, who really aren't that different from me. Even though everyone has their own hard skin and might show vulnerability in different ways, I would have to somehow believe that all beings want the same things, and struggle with the same desires to belong, to be needed, and to find meaning in their daily life. Instead of trying to use a logic of impermanence to distance myself from emotions, I use the practice to be more fearless about emotional states, knowing that they are bound to change or lead to new actions or insights. Emotions are no longer meant to be feared at that point.
    Paradoxically, what I learn from Pema Chodron is that the way to understanding emotions is through being fully with them, seeing them as subject to flux of life. If I try to hide emotions, that hiding only creates more problems or symptoms, as I try to block the energy of emotion. Chodron suggests that the way to deal with emotion is not to deny it but to connect its rawness to all sentient beings. I find that this can be a great way to use emotion for the good of myself and others.