I have to admit that I don't quite get the soldier-like "man up" moftifs in Santideva's writing, and I don't think that I ever will quite understand it. He is explaining in Line's 17-20 of "The Perfection of Patience" that "Some, seeing their own blood, show extraordinary valor, while some faint even at the sight of others' blood" (Line 17). In Line 18, we read, "That comes from mental fortitude or from timidity. Therefore, one should become invincible to suffering, and surmount pain." (p.63) The part I do understand is that mental fortitude and timidity are really only states of mind, and they are the real forces that practitioners have to contend with when facing their challenges in life. Again, it goes back to the notion of where anger, fear, hatred, and other mental afflictions arise. It's certainly never in a specific object that endures. In a sense, I think Santideva is alluding to the fact that nothing can really prevent a person from being courageous in the sight of blood (or other things of that matter). Mental attitudes can always be aroused no matter what conditions happen to be present in the moment, since the conditions are themselves only temporary and not independent events.
Santideva is also referring to the fact, on Line 17, that blood itself is never the 'cause' of fear. If it were the primary cause of fear, everyone would naturally (and perhaps mechanically) faint at the sight of blood. But as Santideva points out, fainting or not fainting depends on the mental attitudes of the person, not on a specific object such as blood. Santideva is pointing to the understanding that nothing is ever inevitable cause for a state of mind. One's state of mind is an evolving co-creation of many elements which are interrelated. In this regard, flexibility of mind can allow people to embrace qualities they thought they didn't have.
An example that might prove somewhat more concrete is that of seeing a large shadow and being terrified, only to realize later that the shadow refers to a tiny mouse. You might say that 'seeing the shadow' makes me afraid, but that is only because I associate the shadow with a thought of what it might be, which is in turn associated with aversion. For instance, I might associate the shadow with something that is capable of jumping out at me or subduing me, which could be based on previous memories of an uncertain situation. Does the shadow 'cause' me to be afraid? No, not any more than the mouse causes me to be afraid. But because the shadow triggers a lot of memories or images which evoke fear, I think that the shadow is 'scary'. So in this regard, the shadow is thought to have properties which are really only based on the way I am seeing it, including the way consciousness links the image to another image or thought.
Now, is it ever possible to 'will' myself to be courageous in the face of something feared? I think that the strength that Santideva is referring to might be more akin to clear awareness than to a deliberately willed resolve. When I am clearly aware of the conditioned nature of my feelings or attitudes toward things, I am less inclined to project those elements onto specific forms around me. That sometimes does give me a mental space to behold them in new or less polarized ways.
Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997. .
Friday, September 30, 2016
Thursday, September 29, 2016
"Insensitivity" Training
Prior to the group meditation practice tonight, I was anticipating that the room would be cold. I told the young lady in the t-shirt that the towels we provide our participants can be used to cover not just the legs but also the arms, chest, or anywhere else that feels cold. But I also reassured the participant that people forget the temperature once they really start to meditate.
Of course, sometimes, it can go the other way: most people report heightened sensitivity to sensory inputs after they meditate. I have heard of one meditation practitioner who becomes acutely sensitive to sound when she meditates in a deep samadhi. Many even regard it as a special power to gain additional sensory abilities after meditating for long periods of time. Is it true that Buddhists would value greater sensitivity to perceptions?
From my reading of Santideva, I would have to say perhaps "no" to the question of whether Buddhists value acute sensitivity from meditative practices. After all, sensitivity could be a kind of attachment to sounds, smells, tastes, or touch, and the aim of many Buddhist practices is to lessen attachment rather than heighten it. Along these lines, Santideva uses many natural metaphors to illustrate the dangers of heightened sensory awareness, particularly when it comes to registering pain. He remarks, "Cold, heat, rain, wind, traveling, illness, captivity, and beatings should not induce a sense of fragility. Otherwise, the distress becomes greater." (Line 16, p.63)
Santideva's point is to say that the 'sense of fragility' only increases one's feeling of distress over commonplace events. But where does this sense of fragility arise, exactly? Throughout this text, Santideva challenges his audience not to narrow their awareness to predefined categories, like "suffering" and "happiness", "good" and "bad", etc. If, for instance, I anticipate that something like temperature will be problematic, I already categorize the experience in terms of pre-existing categories, which only serve to judge the experience itself. The sense of fragility that Santideva describes typically comes from a person who is finicky about almost everything, and I imagine that Santideva may even be describing a pampered situation. When a person is living in extreme comfort, they sometimes become very protective of that comfort by rejecting anything that is just a little bit uncomfortable. But on the other hand, Santideva forces his audience to put things in perspective. Are the inconveniences of life really that bad? He remarks:
15. Do you not consider the pain of bugs, gadflies, and mosquitoes, of thirst and hunger, and the irritation of a serious rash and the like as insignificant? (ibid)
Here, Santideva is posing an interesting question: if one traces one's discomfort back to the original sources, do those discomforts really seem so terrible? Most of the problems one experiences seem large to the senses, but then again are only the coming together of temporary conditions. Waiting in long line-ups is one good example of something that can be emotionally difficult, but in itself would not be anything more than a bit inconvenient.
Is Santideva suggesting that practitioners become like 'rocks with no senses'? From what I can see, Santideva is suggesting that people should never throw problems out of proportion, but can use their practice to see things from a greater context of cause and condition. After all, a 'fly' is only considered a problem in isolation. When I consider it in the greater context of other beings, without a self-reference, I stop personalizing the problems and start to see that they are conditions, none of which are directed at "me".
Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997. .
Of course, sometimes, it can go the other way: most people report heightened sensitivity to sensory inputs after they meditate. I have heard of one meditation practitioner who becomes acutely sensitive to sound when she meditates in a deep samadhi. Many even regard it as a special power to gain additional sensory abilities after meditating for long periods of time. Is it true that Buddhists would value greater sensitivity to perceptions?
From my reading of Santideva, I would have to say perhaps "no" to the question of whether Buddhists value acute sensitivity from meditative practices. After all, sensitivity could be a kind of attachment to sounds, smells, tastes, or touch, and the aim of many Buddhist practices is to lessen attachment rather than heighten it. Along these lines, Santideva uses many natural metaphors to illustrate the dangers of heightened sensory awareness, particularly when it comes to registering pain. He remarks, "Cold, heat, rain, wind, traveling, illness, captivity, and beatings should not induce a sense of fragility. Otherwise, the distress becomes greater." (Line 16, p.63)
Santideva's point is to say that the 'sense of fragility' only increases one's feeling of distress over commonplace events. But where does this sense of fragility arise, exactly? Throughout this text, Santideva challenges his audience not to narrow their awareness to predefined categories, like "suffering" and "happiness", "good" and "bad", etc. If, for instance, I anticipate that something like temperature will be problematic, I already categorize the experience in terms of pre-existing categories, which only serve to judge the experience itself. The sense of fragility that Santideva describes typically comes from a person who is finicky about almost everything, and I imagine that Santideva may even be describing a pampered situation. When a person is living in extreme comfort, they sometimes become very protective of that comfort by rejecting anything that is just a little bit uncomfortable. But on the other hand, Santideva forces his audience to put things in perspective. Are the inconveniences of life really that bad? He remarks:
15. Do you not consider the pain of bugs, gadflies, and mosquitoes, of thirst and hunger, and the irritation of a serious rash and the like as insignificant? (ibid)
Here, Santideva is posing an interesting question: if one traces one's discomfort back to the original sources, do those discomforts really seem so terrible? Most of the problems one experiences seem large to the senses, but then again are only the coming together of temporary conditions. Waiting in long line-ups is one good example of something that can be emotionally difficult, but in itself would not be anything more than a bit inconvenient.
Is Santideva suggesting that practitioners become like 'rocks with no senses'? From what I can see, Santideva is suggesting that people should never throw problems out of proportion, but can use their practice to see things from a greater context of cause and condition. After all, a 'fly' is only considered a problem in isolation. When I consider it in the greater context of other beings, without a self-reference, I stop personalizing the problems and start to see that they are conditions, none of which are directed at "me".
Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997. .
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Reversing the Attitude toward Suffering
It seems that by habit, people tend to think of suffering as something that is undesirable or to be avoided at all costs. I think, for instance, that suffering is the obstacle to liberation, without considering that perhaps suffering itself is a form of awakening if it is treated as such. Santideva has this to say about suffering in the chapter "The Perfection of Patience", in Way of the Bodhisattva:
11. For loved ones and for oneself, one does not desire suffering, contempt, verbal abuse, or disgrace; but for an enemy, it is the opposite. (p.62)
This passage seems rather straightforward, almost to the point of common sense. But then the question becomes, what does Santideva say about wishing friends wellness and wanting to inflict suffering on an enemy? Rather than exhorting his audience to love the enemy, Santideva chooses a different kind of tactic, namely, reversing the equation of suffering with something that is evil or to be avoided at all costs. Hence, in line 12 he remarks:
Happiness is obtained with great difficulty, whereas suffering occurs easily. Only through suffering is there release from the cycle of existence. Therefore, mind, be strong! (ibid)
It's interesting that Santideva equates happiness with 'great difficulty', thus reversing the common idea that happiness is somehow 'easy' or smooth. If suffering is easily at hand, why not use the suffering of daily life to release from the cycle of existence? Santideva suggests that suffering is a kind of short-cut to ending the cycle of birth and death, because it can take a person to the point of no longer desiring existence in such an attached or clinging manner. If one's friends or family only enjoyed pleasurable moments, they would not have such an 'easy' access to liberation, because happiness only increases one's attachment to life.
Finally, Santideva compares his own suffering in spiritual life to ascetic practitioners, many of whom have appeared to endure greater suffering than himself. In line 13, he remarks:
The devotees of Durga and the people of Kamata needlessly endure the pain of burns, cuts, and the like. Why then am I timid when my aim is liberation? (ibid)
Here, Santideva suggests that many ascetics 'needlessly' endure great amounts of pain, presumably for a low payoff. Why , then, should one be afraid of pain when the true aim is liberating oneself? Wouldn't the goal of liberation be well worth the cost, considering what other practitioners have endured for the sake of much less? To be clear, it looks as though Santideva has a particular bias toward his own school of awakening. However, he points out that suffering could be endured when a person understands its true place in a spiritual practice. To go through suffering is to eventually acclimatize oneself to its presence, and thus to overcome one's fear of suffering itself. Hence, Santideva remarks:
There is nothing whatsoever that remains difficult as one gets used to it. Thus, through habituation with slight pain, even great pain becomes bearable. (p.63)
The real benefit of undergoing pain, according to Santideva, is that it allows people to embrace much bigger experiences, as they grow accustomed to what used to be considered unbearable. Santideva suggests that the more one embraces suffering, the more expansive one's mind and experiences can be. This is surely an encouragement for all people to persevere in their small pains, with the prospect of being able to endure greater ones in the near future.
Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997. .
11. For loved ones and for oneself, one does not desire suffering, contempt, verbal abuse, or disgrace; but for an enemy, it is the opposite. (p.62)
This passage seems rather straightforward, almost to the point of common sense. But then the question becomes, what does Santideva say about wishing friends wellness and wanting to inflict suffering on an enemy? Rather than exhorting his audience to love the enemy, Santideva chooses a different kind of tactic, namely, reversing the equation of suffering with something that is evil or to be avoided at all costs. Hence, in line 12 he remarks:
Happiness is obtained with great difficulty, whereas suffering occurs easily. Only through suffering is there release from the cycle of existence. Therefore, mind, be strong! (ibid)
It's interesting that Santideva equates happiness with 'great difficulty', thus reversing the common idea that happiness is somehow 'easy' or smooth. If suffering is easily at hand, why not use the suffering of daily life to release from the cycle of existence? Santideva suggests that suffering is a kind of short-cut to ending the cycle of birth and death, because it can take a person to the point of no longer desiring existence in such an attached or clinging manner. If one's friends or family only enjoyed pleasurable moments, they would not have such an 'easy' access to liberation, because happiness only increases one's attachment to life.
Finally, Santideva compares his own suffering in spiritual life to ascetic practitioners, many of whom have appeared to endure greater suffering than himself. In line 13, he remarks:
The devotees of Durga and the people of Kamata needlessly endure the pain of burns, cuts, and the like. Why then am I timid when my aim is liberation? (ibid)
Here, Santideva suggests that many ascetics 'needlessly' endure great amounts of pain, presumably for a low payoff. Why , then, should one be afraid of pain when the true aim is liberating oneself? Wouldn't the goal of liberation be well worth the cost, considering what other practitioners have endured for the sake of much less? To be clear, it looks as though Santideva has a particular bias toward his own school of awakening. However, he points out that suffering could be endured when a person understands its true place in a spiritual practice. To go through suffering is to eventually acclimatize oneself to its presence, and thus to overcome one's fear of suffering itself. Hence, Santideva remarks:
There is nothing whatsoever that remains difficult as one gets used to it. Thus, through habituation with slight pain, even great pain becomes bearable. (p.63)
The real benefit of undergoing pain, according to Santideva, is that it allows people to embrace much bigger experiences, as they grow accustomed to what used to be considered unbearable. Santideva suggests that the more one embraces suffering, the more expansive one's mind and experiences can be. This is surely an encouragement for all people to persevere in their small pains, with the prospect of being able to endure greater ones in the near future.
Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997. .
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Undisrupted Happiness
In Line 9 of the chapter "Perfection of Patience" in Way of the Bodhisattva, Santideva remarks, "Even if I fall into extreme adversity, I should not disrupt my happiness. When there is frustration, nothing is agreeable, and virtue is forsaken." (p.62) As I am reading this passage, one question that comes to my mind is, how does a person have undisrupted happiness? Part of the perspective that Santideva shares with us is found in the next line of the text, where he writes, "If there is a remedy, then what is the use of frustration? If there is no remedy, then what is the use of frustration?" (ibid, Line 10).
Santideva uses a very intriguing logic to point a way toward an undisrupted kind of happiness. He does this by suggesting that regardless of whether there is a cure or no cure, there is simply no point in feeling frustrated at all by any emerging situation. Why is that? As in previous lines of this chapter, Santideva is revealing how the real adversary is not anybody or anything, but the kind of emotional attitudes which habitually arise from likes and dislikes. This is why in the previous sections, Santideva is viewing anger and hatred as 'adversaries' in themselves, rather than looking toward the supposed objects of anger. If I know that the real affliction is emotion itself, then I turn toward the emotion and ask: truly, is this emotion necessary? If not necessary or integral to bettering my situation, why should I even bother to keep that emotion? Using this same logic, Santideva finds a way to let go of frustration in all occasions and reach a state of equilibrium, where it is possible to maintain a state of continuous happiness.
It interests me that Santideva's logic is quite the opposite to modern psychology in the West. Western psychology of emotions tends to treat emotions as products of events or objects. If I dislike something, it's thought that the object of the dislike triggers me to feel dislike. If only I can just take away that dreaded or detested object, then I will be okay (or so they say). But according to how Santideva writes, it's often the emotion itself (in this case frustration) which becomes the source of attachment. If I am frustrated, I am really responding to the emotion of frustration, rather than a specific object. It stands to reason that if only I wasn't attached to the emotion at all, there would be no problem. But normally, I solidify the emotion into something that is outside me or that belongs to something else. What if instead of doing this, I simply realized that I could question the emotion itself, and go directly to the heart of whether it is working for me or not. Is it worthwhile for me to feel depression? Does frustration really get me anywhere? Besides eliciting the occasional pitying glance, what benefits do 'sad' emotions have? Santideva is immensely practical when addressing these sorts of questions.
Yet another point Santideva makes is that the emotional states we choose to take on (or discard) have a deep impact on our virtues or moral character. Santideva never stops reminding us that we are moral beings, particularly when he remarks: "When there is frustration, nothing is agreeable, and virtue is forsaken." Again, if virtue is forsaken, the emotion becomes nothing more than a burden which ends up isolating a person. Santideva keeps engaging us to push the question: what true value do emotions have in our lives? If we can maintain this pragmatic attitude, perhaps we can reach a state where we choose to remain joyful and calm in the midst of arising circumstances.
Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997. Other translations by the Padmakara Translation Gorup.
Santideva uses a very intriguing logic to point a way toward an undisrupted kind of happiness. He does this by suggesting that regardless of whether there is a cure or no cure, there is simply no point in feeling frustrated at all by any emerging situation. Why is that? As in previous lines of this chapter, Santideva is revealing how the real adversary is not anybody or anything, but the kind of emotional attitudes which habitually arise from likes and dislikes. This is why in the previous sections, Santideva is viewing anger and hatred as 'adversaries' in themselves, rather than looking toward the supposed objects of anger. If I know that the real affliction is emotion itself, then I turn toward the emotion and ask: truly, is this emotion necessary? If not necessary or integral to bettering my situation, why should I even bother to keep that emotion? Using this same logic, Santideva finds a way to let go of frustration in all occasions and reach a state of equilibrium, where it is possible to maintain a state of continuous happiness.
It interests me that Santideva's logic is quite the opposite to modern psychology in the West. Western psychology of emotions tends to treat emotions as products of events or objects. If I dislike something, it's thought that the object of the dislike triggers me to feel dislike. If only I can just take away that dreaded or detested object, then I will be okay (or so they say). But according to how Santideva writes, it's often the emotion itself (in this case frustration) which becomes the source of attachment. If I am frustrated, I am really responding to the emotion of frustration, rather than a specific object. It stands to reason that if only I wasn't attached to the emotion at all, there would be no problem. But normally, I solidify the emotion into something that is outside me or that belongs to something else. What if instead of doing this, I simply realized that I could question the emotion itself, and go directly to the heart of whether it is working for me or not. Is it worthwhile for me to feel depression? Does frustration really get me anywhere? Besides eliciting the occasional pitying glance, what benefits do 'sad' emotions have? Santideva is immensely practical when addressing these sorts of questions.
Yet another point Santideva makes is that the emotional states we choose to take on (or discard) have a deep impact on our virtues or moral character. Santideva never stops reminding us that we are moral beings, particularly when he remarks: "When there is frustration, nothing is agreeable, and virtue is forsaken." Again, if virtue is forsaken, the emotion becomes nothing more than a burden which ends up isolating a person. Santideva keeps engaging us to push the question: what true value do emotions have in our lives? If we can maintain this pragmatic attitude, perhaps we can reach a state where we choose to remain joyful and calm in the midst of arising circumstances.
Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997. Other translations by the Padmakara Translation Gorup.
Monday, September 26, 2016
Perfecting Patience II
Continuing in Santideva's chapter "Perfecting Patience" from Way of the Bodhisattva, I read the following line:
Finding its fuel in discontent originating from an undesired event and from an impediment to desired events, anger becomes inflamed and destroys me. (Line 7, p.62)
Santideva seems to get to an interesting point here, which is that our anger and suffering is mostly related to some undesired event. But the flipside of this 'undesired' event is 'an impediment to desired events'. It's interesting, because in a sense Santideva is suggesting that there isn't an undesired event without some underlying desired event. If, for instance, I am in a long lineup waiting to pay for groceries, I might think that the long lineup itself is giving me suffering. That is, it's the 'undesired event'. But in actuality, what is the true source of discontent?
Put it this way: what if I am lining up at the supermarket, and then realize that outside the supermarket is one of my worst enemies from the past waiting to do me in? Would I then think the lineup itself is bad? Or another, less extreme example: what if raking the leaves is preventing me from going indoors and having to clean a very dirty toilet? Is raking the leaves so unpleasant when viewed in light of cleaning the toilet? I guess that tastes in housework might vary, but the point is that the root of suffering here is the desire for some other experience than what I am having. My sense of suffering in a long lineup doesn't come from the line itself, but is the result of a secret or latent desire to be somewhere else at that particular time. But what if I were to recognize, as Santideva does, that the root of suffering is this 'impediment to desired events'? With this recognition, would I not think twice about desire itself? If desire turns the moment into a nightmare, what would it be like to simply let go of that desire to be somewhere else?
Again, as in the previous lines of this chapter, Santideva alludes to the way in which anger itself is a kind of enemy. It's not anyone else who causes me harm, but anger itself is the source of the harm. I wonder if perhaps thinking in this way might help a person recognize that their pain comes from needless desires for faraway things. What would it be like turn from desiring that future thing to wanting what is in the moment, right now?
Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997. Other translations by the Padmakara Translation Gorup.
Finding its fuel in discontent originating from an undesired event and from an impediment to desired events, anger becomes inflamed and destroys me. (Line 7, p.62)
Santideva seems to get to an interesting point here, which is that our anger and suffering is mostly related to some undesired event. But the flipside of this 'undesired' event is 'an impediment to desired events'. It's interesting, because in a sense Santideva is suggesting that there isn't an undesired event without some underlying desired event. If, for instance, I am in a long lineup waiting to pay for groceries, I might think that the long lineup itself is giving me suffering. That is, it's the 'undesired event'. But in actuality, what is the true source of discontent?
Put it this way: what if I am lining up at the supermarket, and then realize that outside the supermarket is one of my worst enemies from the past waiting to do me in? Would I then think the lineup itself is bad? Or another, less extreme example: what if raking the leaves is preventing me from going indoors and having to clean a very dirty toilet? Is raking the leaves so unpleasant when viewed in light of cleaning the toilet? I guess that tastes in housework might vary, but the point is that the root of suffering here is the desire for some other experience than what I am having. My sense of suffering in a long lineup doesn't come from the line itself, but is the result of a secret or latent desire to be somewhere else at that particular time. But what if I were to recognize, as Santideva does, that the root of suffering is this 'impediment to desired events'? With this recognition, would I not think twice about desire itself? If desire turns the moment into a nightmare, what would it be like to simply let go of that desire to be somewhere else?
Again, as in the previous lines of this chapter, Santideva alludes to the way in which anger itself is a kind of enemy. It's not anyone else who causes me harm, but anger itself is the source of the harm. I wonder if perhaps thinking in this way might help a person recognize that their pain comes from needless desires for faraway things. What would it be like turn from desiring that future thing to wanting what is in the moment, right now?
Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva (selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion, 1997. Other translations by the Padmakara Translation Gorup.
Sunday, September 25, 2016
Perfecting Patience
In his chapter "The Perfection of Patience" in Way of the Bodhisattva, Santideva describes anger and impatience as things which only estrange a person from others. I take it that I have a great deal to learn from this chapter, because it can train me to become more patient and accepting of all situations around me. I think I would like to spend some time going through the concepts.
Santideva's first task in this chapter is to show the disadvantages of impatience, as a spur toward the mindful cultivation of patience. How he does this is by showing how dreadfully isolating impatience can be. He remarks "the mind does not find peace, nor does it enjoy pleasure and joy, nor does it find sleep or fortitude when the thorn of hatred dwells in the heart." (p.61, line 3). He later goes on to suggest that friends and dependents fear an angry person (lines 4-5) and may even wish to harm that person. What I get from this passage is: anger and impatience only breeds the same anger and patience in others. Therefore, anger only ends up perpetuating one's misery when it isolates oneself from other beings. Not only this, but Santideva remarks on how anger can taint a person's virtue, even that merit which has been accumulated over a long period of time (line 1).
Santideva's strategy in this chapter is very interesting. He essentially takes the notion of hatred and turns it upon itself. Rather than being angry or impatient toward a particular being, I reflect on how the true source of my misery is the anger itself. Thus, anger itself is come to be known as the source of problems, not any particular object. Interestingly, rather than abolish the aggressive, rejecting tendencies of anger, Santideva seems to exhort his practitioners to take this very same 'rejection' and use it to 'reject' the impatient attitude of rejection itself! Is this a contradiction? Maybe not so much, considering that rejection is only harmful when it reflects an attachment to certain states of being. For instance, if my rejecting behavior is related to wanting to seek the desirable object and avoid the undesirable, then this very state of rejection becomes a form of vexation and suffering. On the other hand, on can take this exact same rejecting attitude and turn it upon the tendency to reject itself, which thus becomes a formless practice in the sense that there is no object to reject.
It is as though I were redirecting anger from an object to the mere reflection of an object. In the former case, there is some belief that I am fighting a tangible, permanent object outside of me--something with an enduring substance that lasts forever. But in the latter case, I start to realize that the true source of suffering is not any object, but rather the tendency to objectify, which is actually an intangible quality of volition or 'mental construction'. Then I can take the anger I feel toward the object and redirect it to my tendency to reject. I think that this 'redirected' anger feels much more manageable, because suddenly the 'object' of anger turns out to be an intangible tendency of mind, among many other conditions going into the illusion of a tangible object. It is as though, rather than fighting a dragon, a warrior were suddenly to realize that the 'dragon' is just a shadow on the wall constructed by the eye at a certain angle.
Santideva's first task in this chapter is to show the disadvantages of impatience, as a spur toward the mindful cultivation of patience. How he does this is by showing how dreadfully isolating impatience can be. He remarks "the mind does not find peace, nor does it enjoy pleasure and joy, nor does it find sleep or fortitude when the thorn of hatred dwells in the heart." (p.61, line 3). He later goes on to suggest that friends and dependents fear an angry person (lines 4-5) and may even wish to harm that person. What I get from this passage is: anger and impatience only breeds the same anger and patience in others. Therefore, anger only ends up perpetuating one's misery when it isolates oneself from other beings. Not only this, but Santideva remarks on how anger can taint a person's virtue, even that merit which has been accumulated over a long period of time (line 1).
Santideva's strategy in this chapter is very interesting. He essentially takes the notion of hatred and turns it upon itself. Rather than being angry or impatient toward a particular being, I reflect on how the true source of my misery is the anger itself. Thus, anger itself is come to be known as the source of problems, not any particular object. Interestingly, rather than abolish the aggressive, rejecting tendencies of anger, Santideva seems to exhort his practitioners to take this very same 'rejection' and use it to 'reject' the impatient attitude of rejection itself! Is this a contradiction? Maybe not so much, considering that rejection is only harmful when it reflects an attachment to certain states of being. For instance, if my rejecting behavior is related to wanting to seek the desirable object and avoid the undesirable, then this very state of rejection becomes a form of vexation and suffering. On the other hand, on can take this exact same rejecting attitude and turn it upon the tendency to reject itself, which thus becomes a formless practice in the sense that there is no object to reject.
It is as though I were redirecting anger from an object to the mere reflection of an object. In the former case, there is some belief that I am fighting a tangible, permanent object outside of me--something with an enduring substance that lasts forever. But in the latter case, I start to realize that the true source of suffering is not any object, but rather the tendency to objectify, which is actually an intangible quality of volition or 'mental construction'. Then I can take the anger I feel toward the object and redirect it to my tendency to reject. I think that this 'redirected' anger feels much more manageable, because suddenly the 'object' of anger turns out to be an intangible tendency of mind, among many other conditions going into the illusion of a tangible object. It is as though, rather than fighting a dragon, a warrior were suddenly to realize that the 'dragon' is just a shadow on the wall constructed by the eye at a certain angle.
Santideva, The Way of the Bodhisattva
(selected chapters only). Translated by V. Wallace and A. Wallace. Snow Lion,
1997. Other translations by the
Padmakara Translation Gorup.
Saturday, September 24, 2016
What is Wisdom?
In the course of my readings this week, I came across the notion that wisdom is simply not taught in schools in the same way that more commonplace skills are taught, such as problem-solving, inductive reasoning, and so on. I am often lead to wonder, however, what is 'wisdom', and is it really something that can ever be made into an object and achieved? And then I realize too that I am not altogether even comfortable with the term 'wise', because in essence, it always contrasts with a different term, such as "ignorant" or "foolish". I actually wonder, is there even such a distinction between wise and foolish when wisdom has been fully realized? This is what I had arrived at today.
I really suspect that my apprehension has to do with the way thinkers in this area typically reduce the question of wisdom to a series of dichotomies: rational vs. emotional, objective vs. subjective, wise vs. foolish, etc. I wonder whether such an approach really arrives at authentic wisdom, because it just sounds like the repetition of an ages-old struggle to divide the world into two distinct categories, where one is considered good and the other 'not good'. I have to wonder, is such an approach even able to define wisdom? In a sense, the reason wisdom is so elusive is that it is simply too vast to operate under such categories. Nor does a wise person necessarily 'strive' for wisdom the way a car-collector might strive for a vintage Cadillac. Wisdom seems to involve a level of experience that has nothing to do with even the words 'wisdom' and 'ignorance'.
Of course, in conventional circles, one still needs to use such terms as wise/ignorant, good/bad, rational/emotional, etc. but my sense is that a wise position encompasses divisions and moves beyond them in a dialectical process. For instance, if we reject something in ourselves very much and then want to replace that rejected quality with something else, the wise move would be not to follow that desire at all. Rather, it would be to embrace both the rejected and sought-for qualities, while going beyond them. If we look at the plays of Shakespeare, do we see Shakespeare trying to side with the good guy and banish the bad? In fact, one hardly ever gets a glimpse of Shakespeare's opinion about his characters, because Shakespeare the author never seeks one character and rejects the other. He simply reveals and reflects them, warts and all, for everyone to see, and he often does so humorously and lovingly. There is a certain transparency about Shakespeare's writing which makes it non-polemical. Can we then say that he writes wisely?
Another way to put it is that wisdom is able to see what works best for living creatures, without judging a creature for not living up to those 'bests'. It is like this: if it were not for the 'bad', how can there be 'good'? Should we not feel a little grateful for what we refer to as bad, because of its ability to point us to what is good? In the same way, why banish any quality if it is really working within a totality that embraces many qualities?
I really suspect that my apprehension has to do with the way thinkers in this area typically reduce the question of wisdom to a series of dichotomies: rational vs. emotional, objective vs. subjective, wise vs. foolish, etc. I wonder whether such an approach really arrives at authentic wisdom, because it just sounds like the repetition of an ages-old struggle to divide the world into two distinct categories, where one is considered good and the other 'not good'. I have to wonder, is such an approach even able to define wisdom? In a sense, the reason wisdom is so elusive is that it is simply too vast to operate under such categories. Nor does a wise person necessarily 'strive' for wisdom the way a car-collector might strive for a vintage Cadillac. Wisdom seems to involve a level of experience that has nothing to do with even the words 'wisdom' and 'ignorance'.
Of course, in conventional circles, one still needs to use such terms as wise/ignorant, good/bad, rational/emotional, etc. but my sense is that a wise position encompasses divisions and moves beyond them in a dialectical process. For instance, if we reject something in ourselves very much and then want to replace that rejected quality with something else, the wise move would be not to follow that desire at all. Rather, it would be to embrace both the rejected and sought-for qualities, while going beyond them. If we look at the plays of Shakespeare, do we see Shakespeare trying to side with the good guy and banish the bad? In fact, one hardly ever gets a glimpse of Shakespeare's opinion about his characters, because Shakespeare the author never seeks one character and rejects the other. He simply reveals and reflects them, warts and all, for everyone to see, and he often does so humorously and lovingly. There is a certain transparency about Shakespeare's writing which makes it non-polemical. Can we then say that he writes wisely?
Another way to put it is that wisdom is able to see what works best for living creatures, without judging a creature for not living up to those 'bests'. It is like this: if it were not for the 'bad', how can there be 'good'? Should we not feel a little grateful for what we refer to as bad, because of its ability to point us to what is good? In the same way, why banish any quality if it is really working within a totality that embraces many qualities?
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