When I am in class, am I really doing something or contributing to society? I thought about this tonight on the way home, and I am afraid that answer that I came up with is that I am not doing very much. Taking a class is one thing, but then I think about all the sentient beings who made that class what it is, and I realize that my contribution is just one minor piece in a very large puzzle. In that sense, I need to revise my understanding of what it means to 'meaningfully contribute' to such a collective.
In Buddhism, there isn't very much about an original creator. We were talking today about the Abidharma school, and how it suggests that there are 'dharmas' that form the basis of all things, in much the same way that particles form wholes according to the modern theory of atomic physics. Madhyamika school shattered this idea by suggesting that these individual particles could be infinitely divided, since everything exists only as a relationship to something else. In that sense, the notion that there is some underlying substance that 'creates' or forms the universe starts to become quite suspect. So, I wonder how the notion of emptiness in Buddhism relates to the act of creation (particularly one's creative contributions to society) when in fact there is no sole creator or originator in anything?
I think that of course, all of this challenges and perhaps even shatters the notion that anything can exist in isolation. And, contrary to the annihilationists who suggest that nothing exists at all, one must have some faith that their way of contributing to the world is useful and valuable. Otherwise, a person might not have the heart to continue. In fact, it seems imperative that people contribute as a way of awakening their inherent caring abilities. But here again, one must believe and have faith that one has such an ability already built into them. This is where I believe that the Buddhist faith becomes very crucial.
Without faith in one's own compassionate nature, it's hard to sustain creative effort in a world that is seeming less and less permanent, and is accelerating at a huge pace. But it's important not to lose heart and to always feel that even being present somewhere can have a good impact on someone else. I am hoping to be able to design exercises and techniques that will help others (and myself) to cultivate sustainable efforts in compassion, especially through journal writing and an emphasis on gratitude. I am not sure how it will work, but it's a work in progress. Even when I don't feel that it will make much of a difference, in my heart I believe that it will help me a lot to be more optimistic and uplifted. I think that must count for something in this vast universe, even if it is quite small in the end.
Monday, October 31, 2016
Sunday, October 30, 2016
language and mindfulness
I am continuing today to reflect on language learning as specifically a mindful practice. I thought about quite a few things during my readings of the Buddhist psychology assigned readings. One such thing is how language learning must have very different phases of being. In the beginning of learning Mandarin, for example, I found it very difficult to retain my memory of the words and their meaning, since there is hardly an equivalent of many of the sounds and pronunciations in English. As I became more familiar with the context of certain words, I was able to retain more, and the way the language is structured helped me remember individual words. And still later, there was a kind of delight in remembering certain words, akin to scoring points in a video game.
All good and well, you might think, but how is this tying in with mindfulness? My answer is that learning a new language forces a person to really be reflective on what the word is and what it means. It is not an automatic process but is a deeply conscious one, and it doesn't take for granted what I might think a word would mean. Whereas a familiar language can be built up from many random associations of words, a new language takes a person to a beginner's mind. In that sense, it is truly a discovery to deal with every word and its meaning. More importantly, learning a new language can be a way of thinking without the baggage of the self, which is often constructed from one's native language around many associations.
I would like to explore a more intermediate experience of language--such as that of learning and reading French. Though I take French to be my second language, my fluency in this language would be moderate and not 100% at all. This kind of language learning would be somewhere in between the familiarity of a native language and the unfamiliarity of something completely new to me.
All good and well, you might think, but how is this tying in with mindfulness? My answer is that learning a new language forces a person to really be reflective on what the word is and what it means. It is not an automatic process but is a deeply conscious one, and it doesn't take for granted what I might think a word would mean. Whereas a familiar language can be built up from many random associations of words, a new language takes a person to a beginner's mind. In that sense, it is truly a discovery to deal with every word and its meaning. More importantly, learning a new language can be a way of thinking without the baggage of the self, which is often constructed from one's native language around many associations.
I would like to explore a more intermediate experience of language--such as that of learning and reading French. Though I take French to be my second language, my fluency in this language would be moderate and not 100% at all. This kind of language learning would be somewhere in between the familiarity of a native language and the unfamiliarity of something completely new to me.
Saturday, October 29, 2016
Learning a Language and Anxiety
In many of the articles I have read on Second Language Learning and anxiety, I have come across the premise that most second language learners may feel afraid to make mistakes with others when using a new language, and this is quite visceral to them. According to this common view, the more we tend to anticipate making mistakes or even feeling embarrassed about those mistakes, the more inhibited one will be with practicing the language. And this kind of thing would prevent a person from practicing language itself.
I sometimes wonder if perhaps a deeper or more subtle anxiety might relate to the fear of 'starting over', perhaps even akin to being born again. I am again thinking 'archetypically', trying to understand what parts of the collective psyche really speak to second language learners. And I do have a sense, from my own very minor exposure to Mandarin and French (my two 'second languages') that there is an anxiety related to having to start a new language from 'scratch'. In fact, it's not quite true to say that any second language is learned from scratch, because there is actually an entire grammar that one learns from one's first language whose principles could (at least in theory) apply to second language learning. But again, the starting over theme---that is quite hard to take for those who have developed through many experiences and forms of education in one language, only to have to transition to another. There is something bewildering about it, and it might even put a person in a vulnerable position of having to ask fellow adults for help. And on the positive side, there is a sense that this very vulnerability could be a way of opening up to other beings, similar to the path of the bodhisattva.
This comes to another question that I had. That is, is the bodhisattva always someone who 'has something to give' or teach others, or are there some bodhisattvas whose journey is in receiving others? I believe that a second language learner might be temporarily in that latter category, because a person who is exposed to a language for the first time might feel that they have to reach out to everyone around them for help in a language. And this 'asking for help' can also be a way of allowing others to show their own skills while doing something compassionate toward another.
I sometimes wonder if perhaps a deeper or more subtle anxiety might relate to the fear of 'starting over', perhaps even akin to being born again. I am again thinking 'archetypically', trying to understand what parts of the collective psyche really speak to second language learners. And I do have a sense, from my own very minor exposure to Mandarin and French (my two 'second languages') that there is an anxiety related to having to start a new language from 'scratch'. In fact, it's not quite true to say that any second language is learned from scratch, because there is actually an entire grammar that one learns from one's first language whose principles could (at least in theory) apply to second language learning. But again, the starting over theme---that is quite hard to take for those who have developed through many experiences and forms of education in one language, only to have to transition to another. There is something bewildering about it, and it might even put a person in a vulnerable position of having to ask fellow adults for help. And on the positive side, there is a sense that this very vulnerability could be a way of opening up to other beings, similar to the path of the bodhisattva.
This comes to another question that I had. That is, is the bodhisattva always someone who 'has something to give' or teach others, or are there some bodhisattvas whose journey is in receiving others? I believe that a second language learner might be temporarily in that latter category, because a person who is exposed to a language for the first time might feel that they have to reach out to everyone around them for help in a language. And this 'asking for help' can also be a way of allowing others to show their own skills while doing something compassionate toward another.
Friday, October 28, 2016
Missed Arrows
There is this scene in the Tim Burton movie Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children which struck out at me: the scene where the villain, Mr. Barron, played by Samuel Jackson, is pursuing the lead character, Jake, and the latter keeps trying to shoot him with arrows and missing every time. Mr. Barron finally gets exasperated and says, "Jake, when are you going to realize that shooting arrows is not your peculiar talent?" The premise of the movie is that each child has a special talent or skill that makes them supernormal: one child is able to make inanimate objects come to life, while another can set fire to things simply by touch, and still another can lift very heavy objects with her bare hands. It's only later that Jake is able to use his own special seeing abilities to avoid the dangers of the monsters in the movie and save himself in the process. But in the beginning, like most mortal humans, Jake doesn't know what his talent is that makes him 'peculiar' or different from everyone else. He is even told at one point by one of the older boys, Enoch, that perhaps he doesn't have any talent at all, and doesn't belong to the 'gifted' others. This movie, in its own magical way, speaks to the faith that we wish we had in our own unfolding character or fate, and even to know that we have special abilities that others don't possess.
I recall when I was a teenager, I went through a phase where I was quite fascinated with stories about beings who have supernatural abilities, which set them out from other humans. I at one point wanted to be part of my high school's 'gifted' program, and even became despondent when I wasn't identified as gifted in that way. Meanwhile, I became quite interested in science fiction stories and novels which spoke about these special out-of-the-norm abilities. A.E. Van Vogt was one such writer, and so was Olaf Stapleton,who wrote a book called Odd John, as well as Arthur Clarke's Childhood's End. Most of these books tried to show how human prejudice tends to react to exceptional abilities with fear and even persecution, as though there were a hidden moral 'economy' in which one mustn't be 'too' good for one's good.
And somehow these books carried with them the hope that these exceptional powers would redeem the world: they had a religious, eschatological feel to them. In recent years, I have wondered if perhaps all of these books are simply showing a very similar archetype of what Jung has called the 'puer' or the magic, eternal child who is forever young. We all admire this kind of figure because, in her or his youth and inquisitiveness, they are able to see what others don't see due to their ingrained habits, responsibilities and customs. When a person gets older and faces illness or simply the hassles of daily existence, this puer being sometimes seems farther away from reality and very difficult to relate with indeed. I sometimes wonder how these magical books would be written from the perspective of the older figure who has gone beyond the eternal innocence of such a magic child. Are they jealous of the child for having so much vitality or life in her or him still? Or do they have something to contribute to the puer's eternity: a kind of grounding in the magic of everyday existence that the puer desperately needs?
Somehow, I think more work needs to be done to reconcile these different views. I almost feel that societies have a special responsibility to bring these soulful qualities of the puer spirit into everyone's life, no matter what their abilities are. At the same time, the puer soul needs to find a ground to stand upon. Otherwise, it will have many missed arrows, and many of the dreams we have about who we are never quite come to fruition.
As I get older, I am not so enthralled by the odd-john stories, because it becomes harder for me to believe that the child-genius will redeem all of the world, no matter how great their powers are. It is not possible for any single person to do that, actually: it seems that it takes everyone to be able to create a better world, and this means having a very clear mind about people's strengths and weaknesses. When I see a strength, I can celebrate it for sure, but I should also be willing to carry the burden of another's weaknesses, to help them and support them to improve in those disowned parts of themselves. And I should always feel that everyone has a special, peculiar ability of their very own, and there is no special, exclusive club for that.
I recall when I was a teenager, I went through a phase where I was quite fascinated with stories about beings who have supernatural abilities, which set them out from other humans. I at one point wanted to be part of my high school's 'gifted' program, and even became despondent when I wasn't identified as gifted in that way. Meanwhile, I became quite interested in science fiction stories and novels which spoke about these special out-of-the-norm abilities. A.E. Van Vogt was one such writer, and so was Olaf Stapleton,who wrote a book called Odd John, as well as Arthur Clarke's Childhood's End. Most of these books tried to show how human prejudice tends to react to exceptional abilities with fear and even persecution, as though there were a hidden moral 'economy' in which one mustn't be 'too' good for one's good.
And somehow these books carried with them the hope that these exceptional powers would redeem the world: they had a religious, eschatological feel to them. In recent years, I have wondered if perhaps all of these books are simply showing a very similar archetype of what Jung has called the 'puer' or the magic, eternal child who is forever young. We all admire this kind of figure because, in her or his youth and inquisitiveness, they are able to see what others don't see due to their ingrained habits, responsibilities and customs. When a person gets older and faces illness or simply the hassles of daily existence, this puer being sometimes seems farther away from reality and very difficult to relate with indeed. I sometimes wonder how these magical books would be written from the perspective of the older figure who has gone beyond the eternal innocence of such a magic child. Are they jealous of the child for having so much vitality or life in her or him still? Or do they have something to contribute to the puer's eternity: a kind of grounding in the magic of everyday existence that the puer desperately needs?
Somehow, I think more work needs to be done to reconcile these different views. I almost feel that societies have a special responsibility to bring these soulful qualities of the puer spirit into everyone's life, no matter what their abilities are. At the same time, the puer soul needs to find a ground to stand upon. Otherwise, it will have many missed arrows, and many of the dreams we have about who we are never quite come to fruition.
As I get older, I am not so enthralled by the odd-john stories, because it becomes harder for me to believe that the child-genius will redeem all of the world, no matter how great their powers are. It is not possible for any single person to do that, actually: it seems that it takes everyone to be able to create a better world, and this means having a very clear mind about people's strengths and weaknesses. When I see a strength, I can celebrate it for sure, but I should also be willing to carry the burden of another's weaknesses, to help them and support them to improve in those disowned parts of themselves. And I should always feel that everyone has a special, peculiar ability of their very own, and there is no special, exclusive club for that.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Choosing Positive Ways
One thing I am reading in the Surangama Sutra is a very beautiful verse called the 10 profound analogies. Number 3 reads, "All physical bodies are like the moon on water" (p.342), while 7 reads "All deeds of the Buddhas are like dreams" (p.343). With all these dreamlike analogies, you would then start to wonder, why are people often so sad in life? I think that the Buddha is in some ways trying to compassionately demonstrate that life needn't be a chore at all, and one can simply see it as impermanent, changing.
It is hard to do this without some practice in observing the mind. For instance, when a person is extremely angry at someone else, what are they key constituents of that 'anger'? I would have to say that within myself, I tend to think that my impression of someone else were somehow tangible and unchanging. In fact, however, most of the time one gets angry only at a few moments which are not even a fraction of another person's life and behavior. But because I cling to that one view of a person so tenaciously, it seems so hard solid. Then another thing happens: a word comes to my mind which then is supposed to sum that person up! Really! But actually, the point is that there is nothing in my experience that corresponds to an enduring self or being. If I am able to anatomize my experience into individual moments in time, there no longer seems to be an enduring substance. Perhaps this is what the sutra means by 'dreamlike'.
There are times when this kind of thinking most likely needs to be supplemented with positive words and actions. It's not that there are any specific positive things in a dream, but sometimes we need to find ways to detach ourselves from negative thoughts and embrace more lively and certainly more balanced ones. One thing that seems helpful is to keep track of moments when one's thoughts are fixated on a self/other distinction. We hear this a lot when there is a voice like , "oh, he's just so.." or "that person is such a..." as though one could really understand a person in this way. When one has these kinds of thoughts, it might be helpful to slow down and ask the question, can anything I am experiencing now be so simplistic? Can it be reduced so easily to a formulaic argument or a label? In this way, one can detach from those negative judgments and start to see that they don't have too much value for anyone.
It is hard to do this without some practice in observing the mind. For instance, when a person is extremely angry at someone else, what are they key constituents of that 'anger'? I would have to say that within myself, I tend to think that my impression of someone else were somehow tangible and unchanging. In fact, however, most of the time one gets angry only at a few moments which are not even a fraction of another person's life and behavior. But because I cling to that one view of a person so tenaciously, it seems so hard solid. Then another thing happens: a word comes to my mind which then is supposed to sum that person up! Really! But actually, the point is that there is nothing in my experience that corresponds to an enduring self or being. If I am able to anatomize my experience into individual moments in time, there no longer seems to be an enduring substance. Perhaps this is what the sutra means by 'dreamlike'.
There are times when this kind of thinking most likely needs to be supplemented with positive words and actions. It's not that there are any specific positive things in a dream, but sometimes we need to find ways to detach ourselves from negative thoughts and embrace more lively and certainly more balanced ones. One thing that seems helpful is to keep track of moments when one's thoughts are fixated on a self/other distinction. We hear this a lot when there is a voice like , "oh, he's just so.." or "that person is such a..." as though one could really understand a person in this way. When one has these kinds of thoughts, it might be helpful to slow down and ask the question, can anything I am experiencing now be so simplistic? Can it be reduced so easily to a formulaic argument or a label? In this way, one can detach from those negative judgments and start to see that they don't have too much value for anyone.
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Acceptance and Change
I am reading about two kinds of therapeutic approaches which have been combined recently. One is simply called "Cognitive Behavior Therapy", and what it tries to do is show how we can change our habits by framing our thoughts and experiences in different ways. One of these kinds of therapies actually consists in identifying painful thoughts and then rationally discovering the distortions in those thoughts. I believe that quite some time ago, I had blogged about Albert Ellis, who was something of a pioneer in this area. The point is that this model takes the view that it's our thoughts that create our pathologies. If we could only find ways to balance our thoughts by substituting new ones, we would be happier, or even develop healthier ways of responding to challenges.
The second kind of therapeutic approach is more 'acceptance based', and one example is precisely called Acceptance Commitment Therapy (ACT). Under this 'more recent' model, the aim is not to alter one's thoughts or even deal with the content of thoughts at all. Rather, it is to simply realize the space in which those thoughts arise and not to be identified with the thoughts at all. ACT has a lot in common with meditation! This approach suggests that the source of suffering often arises precisely because one gets caught up in the content of one's thoughts, rather than seeing that one does not need to relate to one's thoughts in any specific way. Even so-called "constructive thoughts" are considered tools to gain valued ends, rather than things to ruminate on. You can probably tell that ACT is close to the strategy of mindful, non-judgmental awareness, where the concern is more about how mind is relating to thoughts than the content of the thoughts.
The question that came to my mind is: how does one know what to accept and what can be altered or changed? I think that only when one has cultivated calmness of mind that they can decide for themselves how to use their thoughts. CBT is still valuable in the sense that it seems to encourage people to actually write out their thoughts and see how they look on paper. I have yet to see an article which explores why 'writing something down' is so powerful, but in this case I suspect it's because it gives me the space to contemplate the value of that thought overall, rather than the content per se. Just like with any kind of writing, there is a maturing process where one starts to develop an ideal narrative of how one could respond to life. To go back to my earlier question: this way of changing one's outlook through examining thoughts can be powerful. But on the other hand, it's also useful to accept whatever comes to mind as is, because those thoughts are somewhat immaterial. It especially happens when we come across situations where nothing can change how saddening something is, like the loss of a loved one. In those cases, there is no way to 'rationally dispute' that the situation is distressing. But by looking at the thoughts themselves with acceptance, it turns out that every thought is a perfect thought: perfect in its own causal conditions and in its present state, and perfect in a state of impermanence.
The second kind of therapeutic approach is more 'acceptance based', and one example is precisely called Acceptance Commitment Therapy (ACT). Under this 'more recent' model, the aim is not to alter one's thoughts or even deal with the content of thoughts at all. Rather, it is to simply realize the space in which those thoughts arise and not to be identified with the thoughts at all. ACT has a lot in common with meditation! This approach suggests that the source of suffering often arises precisely because one gets caught up in the content of one's thoughts, rather than seeing that one does not need to relate to one's thoughts in any specific way. Even so-called "constructive thoughts" are considered tools to gain valued ends, rather than things to ruminate on. You can probably tell that ACT is close to the strategy of mindful, non-judgmental awareness, where the concern is more about how mind is relating to thoughts than the content of the thoughts.
The question that came to my mind is: how does one know what to accept and what can be altered or changed? I think that only when one has cultivated calmness of mind that they can decide for themselves how to use their thoughts. CBT is still valuable in the sense that it seems to encourage people to actually write out their thoughts and see how they look on paper. I have yet to see an article which explores why 'writing something down' is so powerful, but in this case I suspect it's because it gives me the space to contemplate the value of that thought overall, rather than the content per se. Just like with any kind of writing, there is a maturing process where one starts to develop an ideal narrative of how one could respond to life. To go back to my earlier question: this way of changing one's outlook through examining thoughts can be powerful. But on the other hand, it's also useful to accept whatever comes to mind as is, because those thoughts are somewhat immaterial. It especially happens when we come across situations where nothing can change how saddening something is, like the loss of a loved one. In those cases, there is no way to 'rationally dispute' that the situation is distressing. But by looking at the thoughts themselves with acceptance, it turns out that every thought is a perfect thought: perfect in its own causal conditions and in its present state, and perfect in a state of impermanence.
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
Life a Dance
I have been thinking lately that life is so much like a dance. It is so amazing how it works, its ups and downs. And tonight I feel grateful for the people I have encountered in my life. There is just such a great gratitude that beings can connect with me. I believe that over a course of many lifetimes, there will come a point where I can be skilful with all the beings. It won't happen in this lifetime for sure, but then I do see life as a kind of training process which, even in itself, is so magical and cosmic. Can you imagine, indeed, if the universe were just already perfected as soon as we opened our eyes? It wouldn't make sense, because for every perfection there is an assumption of imperfection. But if I am able to behold the different forces as part of a total dance, then there is no more perfection vs. imperfection. The pieces somehow fit together.
I am also amazed that I have been able to do what I set out to do in these past couple of months: going to do a new degree in a program dedicated to Buddhist pastoral care, as well as maintaining my work life. And these things have a meaning, even if they don't lead to anything in particular. I think that as long as I get a deeper insight into the deeply conditioned nature of every moment, it need not matter whether this process I go through accomplishes anything. It is more a kind of meditation that allows me to see things as impermanent and always leading to some new and unexpected turns and twists.
I think that the best way to embark on this journey of sorts is never to ignore the role and place of people and all sentient beings in general. It's helpful to take a moment to thank every sentient being, even those who have challenged me a lot. To see this dance of creation is so essentially important, and I hope others can also see their lives as a cosmic dance as well.
I am also amazed that I have been able to do what I set out to do in these past couple of months: going to do a new degree in a program dedicated to Buddhist pastoral care, as well as maintaining my work life. And these things have a meaning, even if they don't lead to anything in particular. I think that as long as I get a deeper insight into the deeply conditioned nature of every moment, it need not matter whether this process I go through accomplishes anything. It is more a kind of meditation that allows me to see things as impermanent and always leading to some new and unexpected turns and twists.
I think that the best way to embark on this journey of sorts is never to ignore the role and place of people and all sentient beings in general. It's helpful to take a moment to thank every sentient being, even those who have challenged me a lot. To see this dance of creation is so essentially important, and I hope others can also see their lives as a cosmic dance as well.
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