Into the Hurricane

  When there is a hurricane stirring up, the instinctive thing to do is to try to seek shelter from the storm. In fact, I apply this principle to other kinds of suffering, including mental suffering. If I experience vexation, the first thing I try to do is to curb the sources of the vexation or try to find a way around it. Another process that happens even before this is that I treat the emotion as something far away from experience, as though trying to dissociate from it. Of course, this ends up not really addressing the feeling at all, but instead only intensifying my felt sense that it is not good, or needs to be eradicated in some way.
    When I was at the Science Centre yesterday, I saw an exhibit which talks about researchers who go into the hurricane in order to better understand it, predict its severity, and figure out ways to minimize its effects on others. Here, the hurricane is still seen as a potential source of suffering. But the approach is different from trying to avoid the problems latent in the hurricane. In this case, the scientists go directly into the storm itself to fully understand it. Rather than trying to avoid the hurricane or see it from a distance, there is a sense of wanting to genuinely know what it is, to thoroughly understand it before making any decisions related to it.
     This experience of 'entering the hurricane' might be analogous in meditation to that of questioning where the phenomena comes from in mind. Here, I am not trying to solidify my understanding of the hurricane and how I relate to it, but rather am changing my overall experience of myself and the hurricane (and everything around it) into a question. By asking 'who' is having this experience, I am going beyond the sense of self and other, or separate 'me' vs 'hurricane'. It's not easy, because my deep-rooted instinct is to look for an object that I can call the source of suffering. Without that object, anxiety will tend to arise, which takes the form of a kind of malaise: a sense that the world I inhabit makes no sense or is just 'meaningless'. But if I am staying close to this malaise, I will recognize that even the desire for 'meaning' is just another form of the desire for awareness to have a tangible object. Perhaps it's also a desire to locate the source of suffering in something tangible, thus separating what is 'good' (which I want to preserve) from what is 'bad' (which I want to reject or get rid of). This attempt to create 'good' and 'bad' objects only perpetuates anxiety and a sense of overall dissatisfaction. Perhaps meditation explores how a person can stay with discomfort of not having an object: of being 'naked' without objects to cling to.
    But in meditation, there still needs to be an object, which is why the question itself becomes the object. But, one can't just treat the object like a safe mantra: one must start to see where that object is coming from, in order to break through the craving for objects.

Science and the Role of Awe

    I took a trip to the Ontario Science Center today, as part of the week's relaxing Christmas holiday. It had been quite a while since I had been there, and I notice that a lot has changed. I was particularly impressed by the fact that there is an entire wall of placards which display the contributions of Canadian inventors and scientists, in particular the exhibit about Inuit inventions. Many of the placards suggested the debt that scientists owe to others in their local and scientific communities, in the realization that science is never a solitary pursuit, but is part of an unfolding collective of knowledge.
   Probably the most interesting part of the exhibits for me was a series of aquariums which demonstrate two very different ecosystems: one related to the Atlantic coast, while the other related to a tropical coral reef. The people who had put this exhibit together seemed quite sensitive and attuned to how species interact together to create an optimal survival condition, making sure throughout the process that the species are introduced slowly and gradually. The analogy described in the accompanying video was that of introducing a family to newcomers. The good way to introduce newcomers, according to this video, is to carefully observe how all the existing family members (or species, in this case) are surviving and coping with the new element. Care is made to ensure that there are no shocking changes that might disturb the ecosystem that has already been built up. This exhibit impressed me in particular because it showed me how science is not necessarily about creating anything 'new', entirely from scratch. It can be about preserving the delicate balances of what already exists in nature. One other thing that impressed me about the aquariums is that they have a timed release of water which is supposed to imitate the movement of the tides, which also replenishes oxygen and water circulation throughout the tank.
     It strikes me that doing good science must require a sense of awe in beholding the natural balances that exist in the world. And there is this ceaseless need to keep questioning and digging deeper in into the given subject. There are said to be many 'magic' numbers in the universe, such as the proportionate distances between proton and neutron. But most things also have magic when one sees them with openness. I almost tend to think of it as a sense of excitement and adventure: there is always something new in the phenomena one is observing that can be discovered. Even with the most tight experimental design, there needs to be room for entertaining fresh new questions. I wonder: when proposals for experiments are being approved, how much openness is there in the learning community to redesign the experiment at a later time, based on a very new or unexpected discovery?Are researchers pressured to stick with their original plan, or is there room to redesign or rethink the experiment using new variables and even new questions?
    What I am realizing recently is that a lot of the quandaries of doing research can apply to many situations in life itself. There is a spirituality to research, just as there is spirituality in anything. Some of the points I am working out in my own life include 1) having the courage to abandon 'best-laid' plans when a more interesting question emerges; 2) not presuming to know something before it's been deeply and 'messily' investigated, using whatever means are available; 3) drawing from other, often unrelated traditions and disciplines to enrich the base to inquire into a subject; 4) persevering (sometimes doggedly) with a particular broader vision of good; 5) never believing that there is ever a final 'finishing' point in research, as it is a going-concern. Well, I am sure that I can think of others, but the point I am hinting at is how research can become a spiritual practice. In fact, trying to fathom how knowledge is constructed and reconstructed after inevitable disintegration, is an interesting facet of the research process, which I would consider to be a spiritual journey of building, losing and building again.

Focus and Grounding

In the process of focusing on meditation, I have come to understand other principles in life as well. One of them has to do with the process of relating to a method of practice. Tonight, for example, I did notice myself treating the method as though it were a person--perhaps even a divine sort of being. And I was literally appealing to the method to keep me in the present as well as help my body to stay settled, in exchange for my full attention to the method itself. It is odd, because I found that doing this really helped me to stay focused throughout the practice. One might argue that the 'person' or 'being' I am appealing to is only a projection of mind itself. But it can help to see things in this way, because it's an important part of practice to be really devoted to something bigger than the self. I wonder if perhaps the appeal of monotheistic religions is not just this: it provides an anchor in devotion to be able to put one's deepest existential concerns to a higher being.
    One caveat, however, is that this practice only seems to work under the condition that I am not asking the higher power for anything that the ego craves or wants. Instead, what is actually being asked for is a kind of connection to the universe or to one's existence that is deeper than consciousness or the senses. This is, after all, why I came to practice meditation. I didn't come to meditation to relieve stress. I came to it to find the deepest part of who I am and to connect with that. Without that deep connection, life is just scrambling after twigs while swimming upstream against tumbling rapids. And I get this feeling when I am most in meditation: a kind of feeling of despair. I am most fond of the intellect, so I often try to find what I am looking for in philosophies, but actually, intellect does not really suffice to satisfy the mind in any way.

"Natural" Compassion

    I have been thinking lately that cultivating compassion requires a certain space to behold things as they are. Meditation is one of the spaces where compassion is able to flourish, because it's not a place where one indulges in over-thinking or even logical kinds of deduction.  I also believe, particularly after my visit to the aquarium yesterday, that observing nature and its creations can have a similar effect on the mind.  I think it takes a person out of the pitfalls of overthinking, to be able to simply feel in awe of the creation that doesn't belong to anyone in particular. When I look at the pictures I took yesterday on my cellphone, I am similarly reminded of the joy of connecting with sentient beings in a way where I am not projecting myself in any way onto what I am seeing.
  Is there anything particularly wrong with 'overthinking', you might ask? I get a sense in my own experiences that overthinking can lead to an illusion of control. It is as though the mind were trying to compromise on a lack of control by mentally categorizing and classifying things, with the intention of thinking that one is prepared the next time. But trying to be prepared is also a kind of safety measure which is often designed to protect the sense of self from harms, perceived or otherwise. It can also be a battleground in which one mentally tries to separate what is good from what is harmful in an experience, in the hopes of ensuring that one doesn't accidentally harm the good. But experience seems to suggest that good things often go with unpleasant situations, and vice versa. There is no way to insulate oneself against the hardships that life offers.
    I don't think there is a formula or a way to be 'stronger' or even 'kinder' in the face of adversity. The reason for this is quite simply that thoughts tend to obscure the strength and kindness that is a natural part of who sentient beings are. One already has these qualities, but often thoughts can get in the way because they tend to cut up experiences in often unnecessary or even violent ways. It is as though I were to receive a painting of a good friend and tried to use a crayon to accentuate the things I 'like' in the person's appearance and brush away the elements I dislike. In the process of trying to manipulate the world through thought, I tend to forget how spontaneous action in the world can often handle the situation much better than trying to make the world different through a kind of selective judgment.
  

Nature's Symmetry

 A trip to the Aquarium can often yield very interesting insights into the way nature is. Looking at even something as simple as an archerfish using water to squirt its prey into the water, I am lead to think that it's a kind of miracle. How can the fish have even been designed in such a way that it could detect what's above the water, much less find a way to use water to shoot something back into the water? Even more interesting is how an archerfish can shoot something down to the water, and then allow its fellows to eat the prey instead of claiming it for itself. I believe that this kind of hunting works along the inexorable rules of connection. That is, the more one fish does its part in the hunt, the more it will be rewarded in turn by a strong school of healthy fish, which in turn increases its chances to survive and have food for itself. I wonder if perhaps this group dynamic helps each fish to survive better than it would have if it were strictly on its own.
     Somehow, I get a sense that reflecting on the wonders of nature can help people to trust in the ways of life, much more than they would when left to their own devices. I have found that nature actually has a kind of symmetry: there is a lot of symbiosis between creatures, and unexpected relationships as well. An example might be how the hermit crab has evolved in a way that it gathers discarded shells of mollusks and uses these to make its temporary shelter. Nature doesn't seem to waste anything, and this is truly what is amazing about it. But there is also a sense that nature provides certain grounding principles which allow organisms of very different genetic blueprints to thrive. For example, the circular shape of certain mollusks can allow hermit crabs to create a viable shell, without having to hide away in crevasses or rocky surfaces. It is as though the hermit crab is able to take the relative immobility of a shell and innovate it by using it to enhance its hunting or foraging abilities. Not only does this build on what the natural world has already left behind, but also uses the existing abilities of a creature to enhance those designs.
      When I visit the aquarium, I recognize that nature has so many interesting designs, and it makes me realize how miraculous the living world can be. But it also gives one a sense of humility. When so many species of fish, for example, are being endangered due to the obstructions created by human technologies, I wonder what we stand to lose if we allow these creations to die out. There is so much that we owe to nature in terms of our current technologies and designs--and so much we can learn in the future.

Turning the Moment into Something Lovable

    Have you ever wondered why one can easily get annoyed over the smallest things or the smallest trifles? I have often heard Buddhist books talk about it being the ego that always wants to have things a certain way. But there is another question, and that is, what happens for the ego to arise in the first place? This seems to be something worth observing. After all, if there is no comparing one moment to the next, is there even an opportunity for the ego to get involved? I think there needs to be a deep look into this actual experience.
  When, for instance, I even say 'ego', there is already this reified 'thing' that I take to be 'me' or 'mine'. Then another part says that this 'ego' is not okay, and I take all the things I intensely dislike about myself and rack it up to ego. What does one make of this? Who is disliking the ego anyway?
   Anytime I propose that there is something bad that needs to be transcended or is limited in some way, I am operating from some dualistic concern. This is a tricky point, because even words like "love" can entail a dualistic opposite, such as hate or dislike. Can we possibly suspend all of this and live in a psychic space where everything is equal in its own way? I think this is a tricky point again!
   To go back to my first paragraph: the reason one gets annoyed is that one is comparing one state of being to another and preferring it. In fact, the more I desire something, the more irritated I am with my present circumstances and way of being: I am in such a state of distress trying to get the desired thing that nothing else seems to satisfy me at all. And even if I then presuppose a spiritual entity that want to embody, I end up doing violence to myself by saying "I need to be like this, not the irritated person I am now." Rather than softening the edges around that emotion, I create another category of being that is opposite to that emotion and then strive to get to that other side.
    There is always a kind of dialectic process in place when one is trying to open a compassionate space around their present experience. I suggest that there be room to play with the opposites, rather than trying to choose one side and reject the other. Beholding multiple states in mind, all equally, seems to be the way of genuine curiosity, and it is perhaps similar to the notion of Tao. It's not so much about trying to get to a certain place in life, but rather being always open to a candid exploration of what makes things the way they are in this moment.

Inner Criticism

  One of the interesting things we have seen recently is the spate of self-help books which describe how to 'silence' one's 'inner critic'. But can and does criticism always necessarily serve a disparaging, negative function? I suppose the answer to this question depends on the context in which the criticism is framed. If the criticism becomes very damning, it can be so easy to forget one's own strengths, and this kind of criticism can even weaken the will to live or survive in the world. A very self-critical stance toward actions one committed in the past can create a huge and almost insurmountable regret. By suggesting that what was done is all my fault, I am carrying a heavy burden of guilt on my shoulders, and it makes my steps heavy as a result. If I find myself getting that way, then chances are that I am globalizing a single moment into an incredibly huge judgment about myself. And this can tend to make me feel extremely heavy and even hopeless about the future.
    I am continuing to read Ian Suttie's Origins of Love and Hate, and I resonate a lot with the idea that people tend to reject sentimental or warm feelings, on the grounds that they don't feel 'deserving' of those feelings. I agree with Suttie that part of the taboo on tenderness probably arises from early childhood, when one's parents may not have always been emotionally available or so eager to embrace their child, due to all sorts of responsibilities as well as the existential reality that we are separate (even though intertwined). The price of becoming an individual is to suffer intermittent disengagement with others, and I even wonder if perhaps that early tenderness one felt as a baby could ever be fully recovered in adult life. I think what later happens is that when a child no longer feels nurtured, she or he interprets this to somehow mean that they did something wrong or bad. Thus, the loss of love in life is associated with a kind of punishment for being somehow inadequate or doing something wrong. The deleterious result of all this is that a child can tend to associate gaining love with the threat of losing it all over again. The result is that the child might start to disengage out of anticipation of a future rejection.
   To bring me back to the topic: I wonder if perhaps the function of a lot of self-criticism is in fact to guard oneself against the desire for forgiveness or nurturing from others. How this works is that a person feels needy yet does not want to take too much from others, for fear that they will then have to pay it back again. We internalize the idea that love is a series of 'points' that are given and taken away, as though it were so conditional. And that explains the reluctance to engage, for fear of taking too much away.