Reading about the early accounts of how bhikkhus (monastics) resolved disputes in the Buddhist sangha, I am lead to reflect on the dialectic relationship between different parts of a community. It's interesting to me to reflect that 'rules' don't just get written down in books and thus become the automatic standard. Even though the early monastics had scriptural authority of the Buddha's teachings and were often well versed and practiced in the principles of dhamma, they still had to meet from time to time in communal groupings to discuss and lay out specific problems, and how the scriptures can be applied to deal with the problem. At times, disputes between the monks would become quite contentious, because not all the monastics could agree on how to apply buddhadharma to the point where majority rule would have to be resorted to. At still other times, the method of 'covering over with grass' had to be used: that is, burying the problem so that the monastics could get on with their lives and stop fighting with each other.
In a way, it doesn't surprise me that this would happen, because again, rules are defined hermeneutically, in discussion with different parts in a whole. The university is one example of a place where there are rules (such as how to complete a degree, what qualifies as a good research, etc.) but there are different stakeholders who relate to these rules in different ways. Those who have more power and experience in adjudicating the rules also have a responsibility to inform those coming into the institutions for the first time. But all the mutual parties are equally responsible for making the educational experience significant and meaningful. If I am on one side of the spectrum and am not aware of the experience of the others who might have less power or voice, then I will miss out on a rich opportunity to see the operating principles and ethics of an organization in a different light. I also miss out on the role of relationships in refining how we apply standards.
Sometimes, I think the best analogy when it comes to conflict in groups is that of 'pieces in a puzzle'. In order for the puzzle to complete itself, the pieces need to be known for what they are and come together to make that whole picture. Without the sense of things coming together to make a whole, there is a tendency to prescribe rules, without knowing who is looking at the rule, from what angle, and what limitations one may have in knowing how to apply them with wisdom and sensitivity.
Saturday, September 30, 2017
Friday, September 29, 2017
The Limits of Symbolic Thinking
Roberto Assagioli's theory of psychosynthesis was conceived a little bit after Freud, as the latter was a disciple of Freud and Jung at one time. Where he departs from both his contemporaries lies in the fact that Assagioli uses active visualization and other techniques to stimulate the integration of personalities in one framework, as well as to go beyond personality altogether through spiritual awakening. Assagioli has many helpful maps of what this connection between consciousness, the unconscious, the super-conscious and the ego look like when interacting together.
What I am learning from Jean Hardy's book Psychology with a Soul is how much Assagioli was fascinated by symbolic representations of the soul, such as through dream analysis and art, and yet how reluctant he was to promote a passive understanding of the unconscious. As Hardy remarks, "The point of therapy is not only that the person should be able to be more fully himself or herself, but that the energy released and the sense of purpose achieved should be grounded by action, positive action, in the world." (p.63) The point here is to say that the 'energy' released in therapy is not meant to be simply admired, the way one looks at a mirror and admires one's figure, smile, and so on. More so, the idea of working with symbols is to create more meaningful, authentic connections to the world and to even become more part of one's lived experience rather than detaching into an abstract notion of it.
I find this point to be rather significant when it comes to the practice of understanding symbolism in daily life. At one time, I used to believe that the world around me could be exclusively read through the framework of a set of symbolic meanings: for example, Jung's archetypes or Freud's drives. Recently, I have found this way of looking at things to be problematic, in part because it may potentially encourage a kind of passivity in the face of life situations which Assagioli cautions. The other reason is that it tends to turn things into rather generic stereotypes. Anyone observing the world closely will recognize that there is hardly any form which conforms precisely to the patterns we might symbolically read into it. Part of the issue is about the ceaseless change of things: since everything interconnects in some way, there is hardly a single element that behaves according to a predefined form. It would be like expecting a bar of soap to look and smell soapy even when it is thrown into muddy water.
The other aspect is that I can't help but wonder if perhaps I relate differently now to the term 'projection' than I did when I was in my teenage years. As a teenager of 17, I had devoured Freud's Interpretation of Dreams, even accepting as fact that dreams could be scientifically studied as manifestations of fixed or discreet symbolic elements and units of meaning. At that time, being able to understand my experiences in terms of my projections was a very fun exercise, though I wasn't so much aware of how isolating it was at the time. In fact, while it was fun to discern 'grand meanings' in the smallest details of frustration, depression, etc., this kind of symbolic exploration had the unexpected side effect of not allowing me to just inhabit the world without any symbolic understanding of it. It was only later when I started to meditate that I could see that I was capable of directly appreciating the world without so much symbolic meaning-making.
I think that nowadays, I don't see projection in the positive and fun way that I did in my teenage years. I tend nowadays to feel that projections need to be seen through rather than 'enjoyed' as a kind of fun game or way of looking at the world through special glasses. I also see the suffering that can arise when a person confused their symbolic workings of life with the lived experience itself, which is always unpredictable. While I think that the guided visualizations and meaning explorations developed by Assagioli would be interesting for teachers in their self-discovery and personal development, I also share Assagioli's concern not to turn it into an intellectual game. All the meaning making, at the end of the day, is to allow people to integrate more fully into the world of differences and others.
Hardy, Jean. (1987). Psychology with a Soul: Psychosynthesis in Evolutionary Context. London: Arkana.
What I am learning from Jean Hardy's book Psychology with a Soul is how much Assagioli was fascinated by symbolic representations of the soul, such as through dream analysis and art, and yet how reluctant he was to promote a passive understanding of the unconscious. As Hardy remarks, "The point of therapy is not only that the person should be able to be more fully himself or herself, but that the energy released and the sense of purpose achieved should be grounded by action, positive action, in the world." (p.63) The point here is to say that the 'energy' released in therapy is not meant to be simply admired, the way one looks at a mirror and admires one's figure, smile, and so on. More so, the idea of working with symbols is to create more meaningful, authentic connections to the world and to even become more part of one's lived experience rather than detaching into an abstract notion of it.
I find this point to be rather significant when it comes to the practice of understanding symbolism in daily life. At one time, I used to believe that the world around me could be exclusively read through the framework of a set of symbolic meanings: for example, Jung's archetypes or Freud's drives. Recently, I have found this way of looking at things to be problematic, in part because it may potentially encourage a kind of passivity in the face of life situations which Assagioli cautions. The other reason is that it tends to turn things into rather generic stereotypes. Anyone observing the world closely will recognize that there is hardly any form which conforms precisely to the patterns we might symbolically read into it. Part of the issue is about the ceaseless change of things: since everything interconnects in some way, there is hardly a single element that behaves according to a predefined form. It would be like expecting a bar of soap to look and smell soapy even when it is thrown into muddy water.
The other aspect is that I can't help but wonder if perhaps I relate differently now to the term 'projection' than I did when I was in my teenage years. As a teenager of 17, I had devoured Freud's Interpretation of Dreams, even accepting as fact that dreams could be scientifically studied as manifestations of fixed or discreet symbolic elements and units of meaning. At that time, being able to understand my experiences in terms of my projections was a very fun exercise, though I wasn't so much aware of how isolating it was at the time. In fact, while it was fun to discern 'grand meanings' in the smallest details of frustration, depression, etc., this kind of symbolic exploration had the unexpected side effect of not allowing me to just inhabit the world without any symbolic understanding of it. It was only later when I started to meditate that I could see that I was capable of directly appreciating the world without so much symbolic meaning-making.
I think that nowadays, I don't see projection in the positive and fun way that I did in my teenage years. I tend nowadays to feel that projections need to be seen through rather than 'enjoyed' as a kind of fun game or way of looking at the world through special glasses. I also see the suffering that can arise when a person confused their symbolic workings of life with the lived experience itself, which is always unpredictable. While I think that the guided visualizations and meaning explorations developed by Assagioli would be interesting for teachers in their self-discovery and personal development, I also share Assagioli's concern not to turn it into an intellectual game. All the meaning making, at the end of the day, is to allow people to integrate more fully into the world of differences and others.
Hardy, Jean. (1987). Psychology with a Soul: Psychosynthesis in Evolutionary Context. London: Arkana.
Thursday, September 28, 2017
"Islands Onto Themselves"
In the Cakavattisahanda Sutta, Buddha is addressing monks to be islands onto themselves, before he launches into a larger discussion on the ideal ruler or monarch. This sutra is very beautiful not only because it talks about the proper social roles of monastics and monarchs alike, but also because it talks about the them of self-governance, a kind of self-discipline which is based on turning inward rather than being propelled by the exigencies of the moment.
Although modern Western society does not appear to have a close connection of religious figures (such as monastics) and political leaders, there is certainly a tension between belonging within society and wanting to turn inward to see beyond it. During our group discussion after the meditation practice tonight, one participant used Facebook as an example of what modern life can often look like when one looks to images to define who they are. Facebook seems engineered to make people feel genuinely liked and attended to, even when getting attention often takes the form of a single click, emotional reaction, or 'like'. In a sense, this kind of interface gives the illusion that people can easily inspire like in others, when in fact it's the technology itself that makes 'liking' something much more disposable than in face-to-face connections. Think of it this way: when is the last time you have ever heard someone say that they like something about someone else, in person? Doing so requires a kind of vulnerability that often doesn't take place in social contexts, unless there is an established bond or understanding between people. On the other hand, the technologies of social media often make it deceptively easy to like something (or press 'like') even though the medium itself isn't transparent about the degree of liking that a person has for something.
As one of the participants in the group meditation observed, it's only when a person can step outside the framework of social media that one gets a real understand of what it means to like one's life or to be content with it. Meditation is certainly one good way to settle the mind and allow things to be more clearly seen. But there are other social rituals, such as walking alone or going into a forest or secluded area, that can sometimes give people opportunities to reflect inward, rather than being carried away by the likes and dislikes of others.
Although modern Western society does not appear to have a close connection of religious figures (such as monastics) and political leaders, there is certainly a tension between belonging within society and wanting to turn inward to see beyond it. During our group discussion after the meditation practice tonight, one participant used Facebook as an example of what modern life can often look like when one looks to images to define who they are. Facebook seems engineered to make people feel genuinely liked and attended to, even when getting attention often takes the form of a single click, emotional reaction, or 'like'. In a sense, this kind of interface gives the illusion that people can easily inspire like in others, when in fact it's the technology itself that makes 'liking' something much more disposable than in face-to-face connections. Think of it this way: when is the last time you have ever heard someone say that they like something about someone else, in person? Doing so requires a kind of vulnerability that often doesn't take place in social contexts, unless there is an established bond or understanding between people. On the other hand, the technologies of social media often make it deceptively easy to like something (or press 'like') even though the medium itself isn't transparent about the degree of liking that a person has for something.
As one of the participants in the group meditation observed, it's only when a person can step outside the framework of social media that one gets a real understand of what it means to like one's life or to be content with it. Meditation is certainly one good way to settle the mind and allow things to be more clearly seen. But there are other social rituals, such as walking alone or going into a forest or secluded area, that can sometimes give people opportunities to reflect inward, rather than being carried away by the likes and dislikes of others.
Wednesday, September 27, 2017
Mystery as a Form of Compassion
Today, during the group meditation practice, I used huatou method in the most relaxed way possible: seeing every moment as an eternal question which can never quite be resolve through any thought. I felt a sense of wonder and calm around me which I cannot quite explain, and my body became very light. The people around me suddenly seemed to be fragile, and I dedicated that moment to helping all sentient beings see this beautiful mystery in daily life.
Is mystery a form of compassion? Actually, the sentence is quite silly, but I thought I would try it out. I think that if we imagine a world where everything is already known and 'finished', we would see that mystery is the ultimate compassion. Without the sense of mystery and wonder, things would already be figured out and people would only be able to occupy fixed stations in life. Such a world would have no sense of creation or newness. In a sense, cultivation of mystery is perhaps the most compassionate gift, and many contemplative practices offer that gift of endless discovery: what is this world, who is this 'me' and am I in this body?
Is mystery a form of compassion? Actually, the sentence is quite silly, but I thought I would try it out. I think that if we imagine a world where everything is already known and 'finished', we would see that mystery is the ultimate compassion. Without the sense of mystery and wonder, things would already be figured out and people would only be able to occupy fixed stations in life. Such a world would have no sense of creation or newness. In a sense, cultivation of mystery is perhaps the most compassionate gift, and many contemplative practices offer that gift of endless discovery: what is this world, who is this 'me' and am I in this body?
Monday, September 25, 2017
Enjoying Confusion
One of the errors that I have noticed in my personal meditation practice occurs when I make meaning or a story around 'confusion' or 'the babbling noise of the mind', aka. wandering thoughts. Is there anything inherently bad about wandering thoughts that we would want to wipe them out altogether? I think what happens for me is that I tack on many storylines about wandering thoughts (I have them because I am a bad practitioner, I am lazy, etc.) and these storylines only worsen the state and power of those thoughts.
Abiding in thoughts means exactly that: a person just 'swims' in them. This is quite different from being averse to wandering thoughts. When I am averse to anything, I am giving it a power and existence that it often does not warrant. A key example might be thoughts about the future. I might worry a great deal about the future, never realizing that this 'future' is only a thought that has arisen and fallen away. But what am I really reacting to? A real 'future' that is 'out there' or is it just a past thought?
It's helpful to perhaps read a lot of 19th century writers like William James and Virginia Woolf, around what they referred to as stream-of-consciousness. By comparing consciousness to a stream, both writers have suggested that thoughts really lack a permanence or an ability to 'stick' to the world. It seems that this is much easier to realize when one is not entrenched in notions of the self that often arise when one has distinct social roles. But still, are any of these social roles permanent or enduring? Why should I assign 'order' to one set of thoughts and 'chaos' to another, when in fact they are all parts of a never ending stream of thought? As long as I differentiate the orderly from the chaotic thoughts, I am bound to create a kind of sense of self that moves toward the order and away from the chaos. But again, is there any difference between ordered and chaotic thinking? If not, why not enjoy the confusing cascade of these thoughts and not get so compelled by them?
Abiding in thoughts means exactly that: a person just 'swims' in them. This is quite different from being averse to wandering thoughts. When I am averse to anything, I am giving it a power and existence that it often does not warrant. A key example might be thoughts about the future. I might worry a great deal about the future, never realizing that this 'future' is only a thought that has arisen and fallen away. But what am I really reacting to? A real 'future' that is 'out there' or is it just a past thought?
It's helpful to perhaps read a lot of 19th century writers like William James and Virginia Woolf, around what they referred to as stream-of-consciousness. By comparing consciousness to a stream, both writers have suggested that thoughts really lack a permanence or an ability to 'stick' to the world. It seems that this is much easier to realize when one is not entrenched in notions of the self that often arise when one has distinct social roles. But still, are any of these social roles permanent or enduring? Why should I assign 'order' to one set of thoughts and 'chaos' to another, when in fact they are all parts of a never ending stream of thought? As long as I differentiate the orderly from the chaotic thoughts, I am bound to create a kind of sense of self that moves toward the order and away from the chaos. But again, is there any difference between ordered and chaotic thinking? If not, why not enjoy the confusing cascade of these thoughts and not get so compelled by them?
Sunday, September 24, 2017
Connecting to Method
One of the most interesting things I learned during the retreat this weekend was related to how one connects to the method of meditation practice. Guo Gu Pusa remarked that the way one connects with method is a kind of reflection of how one treats self and others. I was quite moved by this statement, and I wondered, is it possible that indeed, working on one's meditation method is itself a way to work on one's interactions with self and others?
How I am relating to this statement is quite simple, and that is: the more a person sits down and engages in one sense object or question, etc., the more they can see their own habit tendencies: the tendency to get drowsy, to think that meditation is a chore, to be bored, to get frustrated when they sense they are going nowhere, etc. And as GuoGu Pusa had suggested, these very things are not coming from the method itself but from one's mind. As far as I am not attaching to these states of mind and don't give up on the process, I will find that my relationship to the method grows, because I am no longer allowing these attached or deluded ideas to get in the way of my connection to the method. On the other hand, if I start to take the thoughts and emotions too seriously and assume that they are permanent 'obstacles', then everything about this process of relating will seem heavy and frustrating. Not only that, but it's in the process of reifying these emotions and thoughts that the self starts to appear, and that is also a reification of a kind of fictional subject that stands alone against the world.
What happens when I allow the connection with the method to grow on me, and not to be fooled by wandering thoughts? It seems that when the connection is unobstructed, love and appreciation can naturally arise, no matter what the situation happens to be. This applies to all parts of life, as GuoGu had mentioned. How I see myself, others and the world in general tends to be colored by the way I see them as fixed entities that are unchanging, rather than as part of a changing universe in flux. But what if I let go of the categories and just lived with the method and beheld the mystery and wonder of it? Would this sense of mystery and wonder not enliven all my relations with sentient beings?
How I am relating to this statement is quite simple, and that is: the more a person sits down and engages in one sense object or question, etc., the more they can see their own habit tendencies: the tendency to get drowsy, to think that meditation is a chore, to be bored, to get frustrated when they sense they are going nowhere, etc. And as GuoGu Pusa had suggested, these very things are not coming from the method itself but from one's mind. As far as I am not attaching to these states of mind and don't give up on the process, I will find that my relationship to the method grows, because I am no longer allowing these attached or deluded ideas to get in the way of my connection to the method. On the other hand, if I start to take the thoughts and emotions too seriously and assume that they are permanent 'obstacles', then everything about this process of relating will seem heavy and frustrating. Not only that, but it's in the process of reifying these emotions and thoughts that the self starts to appear, and that is also a reification of a kind of fictional subject that stands alone against the world.
What happens when I allow the connection with the method to grow on me, and not to be fooled by wandering thoughts? It seems that when the connection is unobstructed, love and appreciation can naturally arise, no matter what the situation happens to be. This applies to all parts of life, as GuoGu had mentioned. How I see myself, others and the world in general tends to be colored by the way I see them as fixed entities that are unchanging, rather than as part of a changing universe in flux. But what if I let go of the categories and just lived with the method and beheld the mystery and wonder of it? Would this sense of mystery and wonder not enliven all my relations with sentient beings?
Saturday, September 23, 2017
"Method, Attitude, Skill"
I want to write down a few notes about the 1 day meditation retreat with GuoGu Pusa. Although I consider this to be a kind of retreat reflection, I can't say that it recorded verbatim everything that was taught. I intend this mainly as a way of helping me learn (and potentially embody) what I heard today, as well as spread it to anyone who might benefit from it.
GuoGu taught three main principles of meditation: namely, method, attitude and skill. By "method", GuoGu was referring to a clear understanding of one's own method and how it's used from moment to moment. Unless a person has a specific meditation practice that they have been given clear instructions about, their sitting will mostly be informed by habit tendencies, particularly 'like' and 'dislike', craving and aversion. "Attitude" refers to how we orient to our method. This one really stuck out for me, because I hardly have given much thought to what kind of attitude I should take toward huatou practice. While there have been times when I take a kind of tense, almost confrontational approach to 'wanting to know the answer' to huatou, GuoGu was really encouraging us to look at the method with a kind of gentle love and compassion: not expecting any result from the method, and not being too tense or tight about it. However, to qualify this statement, GuoGu referred to our love of the method not in terms of a desire, but in terms of contentment. What I understand from this is: regardless of what a method 'does' or 'does not do' for me, I am happy with the way it is, and I cultivate not wanting more or less from it. In the case of huatou method, this might involve being more open to the mystery of the huatou, knowing that there is no tangible answer to it, but that it's a kind of existential position (or lack thereof) that needs to be felt entirely. I sometimes fall into the trap of wanting to make a 'deal' with the method: I will stick to you, as long as I have the experience I am looking for. But as GuoGu reminded us today, this is just another form of attachment or greed, and this is the kind of thinking one needs to leave behind on the retreat.
The last part that GuoGu mentioned, skill, is interesting in that it relates to how to use the method at certain specific times in one's life. If I am not skilful enough in my practice and method, I might end up practicing too tensely or not relaxing enough, while at other times I can use more focus.
As for relaxation: well, I do have a lot to learn from that. GuoGu mentioned a practitioner who arches eyebrows and rolls his eyes upward, showing that his eyes are completely tense--and I have to say, that describes me perfectly, because I do that a lot in meditation. After GuoGu mentioned it (to my chagrin), I noticed it more and stopped doing it in the subsequent sittings, or at least did it less. I have to say that I haven't yet completely relaxed in meditation, and for the most part it's due to anatomical issues related to my low back in particular. What helps to mitigate these behaviors is that I focus less on the body as an obstacle, and more on the body as part of an unfolding mystery that can't be labelled. A lot of this also has to do with letting go of the fear of bodily pain, without labeling it as pain.
GuoGu taught three main principles of meditation: namely, method, attitude and skill. By "method", GuoGu was referring to a clear understanding of one's own method and how it's used from moment to moment. Unless a person has a specific meditation practice that they have been given clear instructions about, their sitting will mostly be informed by habit tendencies, particularly 'like' and 'dislike', craving and aversion. "Attitude" refers to how we orient to our method. This one really stuck out for me, because I hardly have given much thought to what kind of attitude I should take toward huatou practice. While there have been times when I take a kind of tense, almost confrontational approach to 'wanting to know the answer' to huatou, GuoGu was really encouraging us to look at the method with a kind of gentle love and compassion: not expecting any result from the method, and not being too tense or tight about it. However, to qualify this statement, GuoGu referred to our love of the method not in terms of a desire, but in terms of contentment. What I understand from this is: regardless of what a method 'does' or 'does not do' for me, I am happy with the way it is, and I cultivate not wanting more or less from it. In the case of huatou method, this might involve being more open to the mystery of the huatou, knowing that there is no tangible answer to it, but that it's a kind of existential position (or lack thereof) that needs to be felt entirely. I sometimes fall into the trap of wanting to make a 'deal' with the method: I will stick to you, as long as I have the experience I am looking for. But as GuoGu reminded us today, this is just another form of attachment or greed, and this is the kind of thinking one needs to leave behind on the retreat.
The last part that GuoGu mentioned, skill, is interesting in that it relates to how to use the method at certain specific times in one's life. If I am not skilful enough in my practice and method, I might end up practicing too tensely or not relaxing enough, while at other times I can use more focus.
As for relaxation: well, I do have a lot to learn from that. GuoGu mentioned a practitioner who arches eyebrows and rolls his eyes upward, showing that his eyes are completely tense--and I have to say, that describes me perfectly, because I do that a lot in meditation. After GuoGu mentioned it (to my chagrin), I noticed it more and stopped doing it in the subsequent sittings, or at least did it less. I have to say that I haven't yet completely relaxed in meditation, and for the most part it's due to anatomical issues related to my low back in particular. What helps to mitigate these behaviors is that I focus less on the body as an obstacle, and more on the body as part of an unfolding mystery that can't be labelled. A lot of this also has to do with letting go of the fear of bodily pain, without labeling it as pain.
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