Striving to Be Good in Others' Eyes

  I sometimes wonder where my fear of 'being disliked' comes from, and when it might become a chronic problem. Here, I am reminded of a documentary I watched on tv many years ago about the singer Jim Morrison, in the years shortly before he died. He was living in Paris at the time and was described as incredibly lonely and desperate to make friends toward the end of his life. As the narrator had explained it in this particular documentary, Morrison was so used to being famous as a singer that living an obscure life without the trappings of fame had become a kind of trap to him. Is it possible, I wonder, that too much 'respectability' can do a similar thing to people, to make them terribly afraid of the slightest inkling of disapproval from others?
   I think that approval and disapproval are similar to a kind of human currency. Once a person learns how to gain approval from others and avoid disapproval, they become like children stuck on a merry-go-round: each point forward impels them to keep going forward at all costs, indefinitely into the unknown. Most things that people strive for tend to be like this, and that's a problem that even 'good karma' brings about: people become addicted to a certain kind of good as a way of affirming their own existence and self-worth. At that point, the striving to become good is no longer heartfelt but can become a very sham need to impress others with one's own good(s). The problem isn't about the good itself, but rather the striving to look good in others eyes, which can create a false sense of security from harm.
   I have a feeling that this whole striving comes from an exponential sort of 'law' of doing good, which I might put something like: the more we succeed in scoring the trappings of good virtues, the harder it appears to maintain the image we build of ourselves, leading to a sense of disdain for virtue, followed by the need to look good as a way to temporarily rest from the hardships of doing good. That sounds complicated, right? I am talking about a vicious cycle that might start with an intrinsic love of the good and then end in a false illusion of having to strive for the good and maintain it in ourselves in some way.
   It's almost as though the good starts as a shining star of inspiration, but then someone comes along and tells you that you have to swallow the star in order to become immortal.  Something that belongs naturally to the sky and to everyone as a birthright is changed demonically into a kind of scarce commodity that a few people hoard up through acquisitive behavior, leaving others to suffer from a lack of it. When did the good become like this?

Two Sides of the Coin

  There seem to be two aspects of vexations: one emotional and one related to thinking. If I only focus on thinking, I ignore the emotive aspects of the situations I encounter. I find that part of the interesting thing about meditation is that it tackles the emotional aspects of vexation, which in turn allows thoughts to be seen more clearly.
  According to some kinds of therapy like Albert Ellis's REBT, thoughts are the causes of the suffering we have from emotions. For example, I might suffer a bad setback which upsets me and prevents me from attaining a goal, but then I make it worse through certain kinds of thoughts, such as "I am so terrible for not achieving this goal". Quite often, the thoughts of a self or an ego will get in the way of just processing day to day pain. But one of the problems is that we quite often don't identify the thought in the heat of the moment, when there is strong emotions. That's why it seems more practical to abide in the emotion for a while until the mind fully settles, and then examine the thoughts as they arise.
   If I am operating from the assumption that certain emotions are 'good' and others 'bad' (or unpleasant) then I often subconsciously operate to reject the emotions I dislike, rather than seeing that those emotions are just parts of the mind. By not liking the emotions, I eventually start to see them as intruders, that are separate from the mind. Alternately, if I learn to relax with those emotions and work with those energies, almost befriending them, then I can start to see the thoughts that are behind those emotions and even sound out those thoughts.
   I have a sense, actually, that thoughts are only ways of narrating mental states. There can be multiple narratives describing the mental states, not just one thought. This is what makes thought so slippery. I wonder if it's better to think of 'thinking' as a kind of art, similar to taking paints and coloring a canvas. It's not that one thought 'covers' one emotion but more that we can apply different kinds of thoughts to understanding the emotions at any given time. But only if one is really relaxed enough to abide in emotions can they start to apply the different thoughts to their moods rather than being governed by one mood ore emotional state.

An Attitude Toward Acting

Some people believe that spiritual practices encourage passivity and non-doing. There is a special term in Chan philosophy related to non-doing, where there is no abiding in particular actions. I eat, go to work, and go to school, but because I am not attached to the notion of a ‘self’ doing these things, it is really as though I am not doing anything in particular. In other words, when I know that this self is constantly changing (as well as the conditions around me), I can rest without thinking that everything I do either adds to or subtracts from the self. In this way, doing becomes a way of contributing something to the world as a whole and a way of thinking, rather than having a goal related to the self.

This sounds pretty good, but some people might still wonder, does this mean that nothing a person does really matters to him or herself, and therefore there is nothing to do at all? I don’t think this is the case. As long as I have this body and this human form, I still need to behave in response to the human world from which I am a part. An example of this is brushing teeth. Very few people think about this daily habit, and yet it is essential to our society to keep our mouths and teeth clean, as a health measure for the body and out of courtesy to others. But the point is, when one brushes her or his teeth, there isn’t really any attachment to the self. I don’t necessarily need to think that brushing teeth is going to make ‘me’ immortal or better than others.

The attitude one can take when doing things or making decisions is to be aware of the present conditions which allow those actions to emerge, and to know that those conditions are not permanent. In this way, actions can flow easily without grasping at the actions and their outcomes or attributing them to a permanent self. An example might be getting a medical degree. I might worry about whether the conditions are ripe for me to get a degree that lasts many years and costs a lot of money. But what I can understand is that based on my research and current understanding, this decision might make sense to me and be within my foreseeable means of achievement. I make a reasonable judgment based on what I know about the conditions and consequences.

But let’s say that down the road, I lack the resources to continue this pursuit. Well, if I am attached to the self, I might attribute the inability to continue to a weakness on my part, or ‘bad karma’ or any number of other self-referential judgments and regrets. On the other hand, if I am not attached, then I know that the actions come from the causes and conditions of the moment, and therefore there is no need to regret when conditions have changed or there are unforeseeable circumstances. This is because there will always be the unforeseeable: one’s brain is never capable of registering everything that could happen in the future.

Discrimination

 I was reflecting this morning on the way to the library: when does discrimination arise? Is it because of a feeling one has or is it because of something that happens later on? I am thinking of the situation of feeling an itch when meditating. I feel a sensation that is unpleasant, but I haven't yet said whether it is good or bad. Later on, I start to have thoughts: I wish it would go away, which reflects a subtle longing for something else. What if I just stayed with the irritation rather than trying to wish for something else to emerge? It seems like discrimination begins when we desire something else.
   It is a little bit like when I drew pictures as a child. Sometimes I would start with an idea about what I wanted the picture to look like, only to find later that certain parts didn't satisfy me. I want something else to be on the picture, so I try to smudge out the previous traces of my thinking and allow the new one to emerge. But the present is affected by the previous picture, and the more I try to rub out the previous one, the more striking it appears. My desire to create something new on the page overrides the previous drawing, but I can still see the previous one, and I take pains to erase it. Perhaps we are doing this all the time-- a thought emerges, then I don't like it, and I try to erase it with another thought. But the second thought is bound to contain a trace of the first.
    The alternative is not to try to 'erase' anything, but to let all the arrays of thoughts to emerge in complex co-existence. I don't pick and choose one idea over the other, but I just allow them to spread out over time and have their own duration. I might see how the thoughts are arrayed together without thinking that one is superior to the other. In this way, I am no longer creating a conflict between the thoughts or perspectives.
    In daily life, I am wondering if the attitude toward our thoughts and emotions might be something more or less like a very wide and large buffet restaurant, with different kinds of tastes and colors. One never says at a buffet, "we need to replace this kind of food with this 'best' food." Rather, we are aware that due to impermanence, people are not going to like the same food all the time. That's why the mind is open to receive all the thoughts, but it doesn't try to identify only with one or perceive one as the best one. In creating a harmonious relationships with one's thoughts, one practices for more complicated social situations where there can be many thoughts that are different and opposite each other. I discover each one and entertain it, but I don't necessarily think that one will always remain forever.

The "Road Maps" of Hell

 I am reading Surangama Sutra Part IX Chapter 6, on the Hells. I have to admit that reading this chapter can send chills down my spine. I don't think it's so much to do with some faraway realm called "Hell" as it does the psychological landscapes that the sutra elaborates. I do believe that human beings often go to a similar place of "hell" many times in their lives, similar to the kinds of Hells that Sartre describes in his play No Exit. The psychological aspect of Hell has to do with how we create traps with our minds, especially when we are complicated by thoughts and desires. And reading about Hell in the sutra creates a contrary longing for a simpler life which arises when a person is able to cut off the complexity of their thoughts through contemplative practices.
  Is it necessary to travel through these hells in order to reach a state of longing for this simpler way of being? Sometimes it can be helpful. I think of it like this: for a traveler to truly know themselves and what journey they are taking, it is often necessary to know what steps they have already taken, even if it's not always pretty or beautiful to trace all the twists and false paths that we have taken on the journey. Unless the twists and turns are somehow illuminated, the way forward will always be tainted by the wrong twists and turns that one has already taken. I am thinking in particular about the mythical equivalent of Theseus and the Minotaur, where Theseus needs to lay out a round of string in order to navigate his way out of the labyrinth after slaying the Minotaur. Without knowing the habits and patterns we have traveled before, there is no way of knowing whether we will get lost or ensnared again in the same way.
  Buddhism has a very multi-layered cosmography of different realms that beings travel, depending on their previous causes and intentions. Sometimes, a practitioner might wonder what this has to do with present moment awareness, and whether mindfulness can be practiced without being acquainted with this system. I start to feel more and more that the system is essential to true self-awareness, because without it, we would not understand how we interact with phenomena and the complex ways we can delude ourselves in the phenomenal world. Hell is not something to fear, but perhaps lacking awareness of Hell is much scarier. This realm needs to have one's respect and attention.

Impermanence Teachers

Whenever I find that my positions in life are on shaky ground, I turn to the idea of the 'impermanence teacher'; someone who is in my life to teach me about the nature of change and what I am most attached to. I think about this particularly in light of the idea that there is no job security in life anymore. Actually, I don't think there ever was as such, but one thing I can learn from it is not to rest on my laurels, and to always know that what feels secure one moment will change to something different later.
   There are two analogies I have lately adopted to understand this principle. The first is that of 'putting money in a savings account'. This has to do with the idea that keeping money just the way it is will not pay off in the future, and will only lead to a depreciation in value. While one has heard the expression "a penny saved a penny earned", in fact, today's earnings will not have the same value tomorrow. Even in the purely economic world, there is nothing whose value stays the same, and one has to keep renewing her or his vows to commit to things.
   The second analogy is more like a slogan or an expression I have learned recently, namely that not doing something is no longer an option. This seems to apply to companies in particular, as they start to face greater competition and need to keep looking for new strategies and solutions. In this case, there is no such thing as 'maintain the status quo', because what works well today is definitely not guaranteed to be just as successful tomorrow.
   Competition is not necessarily good or bad in life (it certainly depends on whether it is friendly or full of avarice and ego), but I wonder if perhaps reframing competition as 'impermanence teaching' might make it more meaningful. That is, by seeing competitors as people who teach us that change is constantly arising and one has to continue to innovate to keep up, could it be that they are teaching us a deep spiritual lesson that is rooted in the cosmos?

Unfinished

 The aspiration to take on long and arduous undertakings is a very noble one, but there are times when I feel that there could be certain joys in leaving things unfinished as well. It leads me to wonder what the true meaning of 'finished' actually is? Perhaps from a Chan perspective we can say that the moment is already complete in itself. In taking up this attitude, maybe things can be delayed and put aside until a later time when the body and mind are stronger.
   One of the things I have observed with reading especially is that I often adopt two different attitudes. One attitude is to treat reading as an exercise in finishing, regardless of where the work takes me--whether there is relevance or irrelevance, arduousness or ease of being. This reminds me of the meditation cushion, where participants are asked to sit in the same place without getting up whenever sitting is considered inconvenient. This approach suggests that reading itself is a discipline in completion, and the journey itself is what is most important, rather than the final 'point' of the book. I tend to like this approach because it asks the reader to suspend her or his judgment on the book's ultimate value, opting instead for a more intimate connection that goes beyond preference.
   There were a couple of books (among many, in fact) which I can remember I was not able to finish in spite of my best efforts. One of them was Thomas Mann's Magic Mountain, while the other (still a work in progress, alas) is Bertrand Russell's History of Philosophy. It's not that I didn't like these books, but that I never found a concrete time to focus on them, considering the attention and effort that they demand. Magic Mountain is actually a book I continue to remember enjoying, up to the time that I chose to abandon it and take it up at a later time! So, does not completing these books make them less savory or worthwhile? Sometimes it's our memory and connection that counts more than our perception of how the experience should have 'closed' or finished. And I don't think that one should let the expectation of closure ruin the enjoyment of the experience of the book itself.