I was reading a recent article which talked about how many people don't save up very well for retirement, because their thoughts are mainly on how to get through week to week. It's not that it is not possible to save for retirement, but one is often thinking only of the immediate without recognizing that what one does now will have an effect on the future. It does make me wonder, why does the future self not become an object of our compassion as much as the "present" self?
I have a feeling that people have a greater tendency to idealize the future self. Perhaps this is because one always imagines that time is moving "upward", and this is a kind of metaphor for progress. But in a sense, one can also see that the future self depends on this present self, and does not automatically "improve" or progress simply by virtue of time itself. One needs to make preparations now for that future person to grow or have opportunities.
When a person is struck with some decision or behavior they now regret, there is an opportunity there to see the workings of causes and conditions on the person. I might not see the repercussions of my past behavior, but as soon as I do so, I am learning that what I do now also affects the future in turn. This is not a reason to be pessimistic, but it reminds me that everything I do now impacts the future. Nothing is lost in the cracks, and what I am doing now will always have some kind of effect, even if it's not so clearly visible at first.
Friday, June 29, 2018
Thursday, June 28, 2018
A Playful Approach
During the group meditation sitting tonight, I had the distinct idea of meditation as a form of play: a curious exploration of what it is to be truly aware and alive to the moment. It's a different orientation toward meditation for me, since I have often associated meditation with something that is about attaining something. I think this strictness is perhaps a dangerous approach to practice, because it creates all sorts of inner conflicts, such as self-evaluating with respect to the practice. I much prefer that when one approaches practice, one allow spaces for thoughts while keeping the overall vision that the method offers: an overall spacious awareness that envelops the situation and all its nuances. Adopting a spacious and relaxed approach toward doing any one thing is also good preparation for all the number of possible dilemmas that one faces in all their interactions as well.
Many therapies do approach states of mind from the perspective of how much we are allowing ourselves leeway to make mistakes or to simply relax into our different tasks. Rather than adopting all or nothing, perfectionist approaches, such therapies advocate more holistic ways of learning where a person can relax into embodying a certain learning. The problem is that no matter how much meditation stresses embodiment, people are somehow going to think that it's about achieving a special state of being, such as "enlightenment", and this is what sidetracks the moment itself. As soon as I desire anything, I am derailed from the present where the mind truly resides. What results is a perfectionist attitude toward practice itself. I much prefer a less strict, yet principled approach toward practice, where one has leeway to actually explore their own reactions and contemplate how the mind works rather than chaining the mind to a dogmatic or mechanical experiment.
Many therapies do approach states of mind from the perspective of how much we are allowing ourselves leeway to make mistakes or to simply relax into our different tasks. Rather than adopting all or nothing, perfectionist approaches, such therapies advocate more holistic ways of learning where a person can relax into embodying a certain learning. The problem is that no matter how much meditation stresses embodiment, people are somehow going to think that it's about achieving a special state of being, such as "enlightenment", and this is what sidetracks the moment itself. As soon as I desire anything, I am derailed from the present where the mind truly resides. What results is a perfectionist attitude toward practice itself. I much prefer a less strict, yet principled approach toward practice, where one has leeway to actually explore their own reactions and contemplate how the mind works rather than chaining the mind to a dogmatic or mechanical experiment.
Wednesday, June 27, 2018
Tough Compassion
I am reflecting on how the compassionate voice sometimes seems harsh when a person who receives it is not experienced enough to appreciate it. Certain forms of compassion might take the form of harsh or critical words to wake up the mind, such as exhortations to take on bigger challenges than what one is used to. "Compassion" might take the form of harshness, simply because a person has not yet developed the experience to handle it or make good use of what it exhorts us to do. In those moments, it's best to see that compassion as a kind of seed planted in the mind, which blooms at a later time. Rather than trying to resist or battle difficult or harsh voices, it is helpful to see those voices as part of a deepening of the soul.
Harshness doesn't need to include violence, and I think I need to qualify the point that compassion can "awaken" through harsh means. I am not condoning violence as a "compassionate" act, but I suggest that compassion might challenge a person's sense of boundaries or comfort zones. It is similar to any kind of pain that one might experience in meditation: I don't necessarily like it, but allowing space or room for it to grow within me might allow me to deepen my appreciation of things that don't "sit well" with me in general (to use a pun). In other words: just the idea of allowing unpleasant information or thoughts might broaden a person's perspective on it and increase their tolerance of other kinds of frustrations as well.
Harshness doesn't need to include violence, and I think I need to qualify the point that compassion can "awaken" through harsh means. I am not condoning violence as a "compassionate" act, but I suggest that compassion might challenge a person's sense of boundaries or comfort zones. It is similar to any kind of pain that one might experience in meditation: I don't necessarily like it, but allowing space or room for it to grow within me might allow me to deepen my appreciation of things that don't "sit well" with me in general (to use a pun). In other words: just the idea of allowing unpleasant information or thoughts might broaden a person's perspective on it and increase their tolerance of other kinds of frustrations as well.
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
news from a fish bowl
Throughout the day today, I was reflecting on the metaphor of a fish bowl to describe how people often see reality. Part of it might have been the fact that I was at an exotic pet store yesterday, and found many animals peering back at me. I wondered, how do they see me? Does the way I see them match with their own perspective? There can never be a way of knowing the definitive of such questions Similarly, everything we think is always being shaped by impressions that are conditioned. There is never any "bottom" to these endless ways of framing experience, and one does not ever reach the end conclusion.
The search for a definitive answer is like trying to find the "real" reflection in a fish bowl. All the light is continually being curved and refracted in different directions, and one can never fully know what is the "final" way of seeing. Such a perspective does not necessarily mean that one "gives up" establishing an understanding (since such understandings are what connect people), but there comes a humility that is aware the one's impressions are bound to be conditioned and impermanent.
The opposite to this "humility" might be something akin to paranoia. "Paranoia" also accepts that things are not always what they seem, but it adds to this the idea that illusions are the product of "deliberate" plans or aims, usually in the attempt to belittle or step someone down to a lower stature or position. The paranoid perspective accepts the illusory nature of appearances, but adds the additional suspicion that something beneath those appearances is deliberately "throwing up" illusions to fool or to perhaps mislead a person. That might be very much like a fish trying to find the underlying "clear" view outside the fishbowl, thinking that it can still penetrate past the reflections to see the "real" outside world. Is there a real "outside" world after all, and could this paranoia be a projection of one's own desire to control appearances? I see paranoia as something halfway between seeing illusory appearances and clinging to a permanent purpose underneath. It becomes a burdensome quest for an underlying "truth" that perhaps is not "out there" and does not have an independent existence or self-evidence.
The search for a definitive answer is like trying to find the "real" reflection in a fish bowl. All the light is continually being curved and refracted in different directions, and one can never fully know what is the "final" way of seeing. Such a perspective does not necessarily mean that one "gives up" establishing an understanding (since such understandings are what connect people), but there comes a humility that is aware the one's impressions are bound to be conditioned and impermanent.
The opposite to this "humility" might be something akin to paranoia. "Paranoia" also accepts that things are not always what they seem, but it adds to this the idea that illusions are the product of "deliberate" plans or aims, usually in the attempt to belittle or step someone down to a lower stature or position. The paranoid perspective accepts the illusory nature of appearances, but adds the additional suspicion that something beneath those appearances is deliberately "throwing up" illusions to fool or to perhaps mislead a person. That might be very much like a fish trying to find the underlying "clear" view outside the fishbowl, thinking that it can still penetrate past the reflections to see the "real" outside world. Is there a real "outside" world after all, and could this paranoia be a projection of one's own desire to control appearances? I see paranoia as something halfway between seeing illusory appearances and clinging to a permanent purpose underneath. It becomes a burdensome quest for an underlying "truth" that perhaps is not "out there" and does not have an independent existence or self-evidence.
Monday, June 25, 2018
Being Present with the Future
I am reflecting on how most anxieties arise from a sense of the future that hasn't yet materialized. I posed the question to Guo Yuan Fashi during the retreat: how does the practice of Chan relate to planning and making decisions that haven't yet materialized, as well as navigating uncertainty? Fashi replied that making judgments about what to do is about wholeheartedly being present with the decision making itself. In this way, one is being present when they are planning for the future, and are able to face all the variables with a clear mind.
Trying to imagine all the "what ifs" before they actually materialize is one of my tendencies, which seems to be common with many people who suffer from anxiety. It's funny how my mind works, because a lot of times I treat thoughts as though they relate to situations that have already happened. Even though the thought is "just a thought", I am reacting as though a situation that has not happened yet has already happened, and I am wanting to control the outcome in some way.
Different religious practices and traditions seem to address anxiety in similar but also different ways. What they share in common, perhaps, is the need to surrender to a higher principle. Even for those who have no particular belief system, there is often a need to feel that whatever is happening is happening with good reason, or with a substantial learning outcome that has some kind of meaning or value. M. Scott Peck remarks:
Perhaps the choice to die gracefully occurs when we finally learn and accept that all is according to how it should be. Whether one believes in an afterlife or not, to proceed gracefully in the arms of death is the ultimate acquiescence to an abiding conviction--even in the midst of paradoxical uncertainty--that every aspect of life contributes to the meaning of the whole (p.161)
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Perhaps the deepest underlying fear related to anxiety is that life has no meaning if we don't make certain choices in life. It might mean something like, "because nothing is certain and I can't own anything or call anything mine, I don't have a story to tell". From a Buddhist or Chan perspective, how might one look at this fear?
I don't really know the answer to this question, since it's a deep one and involves many paradoxes. As a volunteer with a Buddhist organization, I derive a sense of self from being a volunteer, being able to support the organization, and feeling that I am doing something worthwhile that contributes merit to the whole. But attendant to this sense of self is a fragile sense of attachment, which can be described as "what happens if all these roles I am playing are taken away?" I experienced the anxiety this past retreat, since I didn't play a key role as a volunteer. Guilt also accompanied this experience: the sense that being a volunteer is a good thing, and therefore my non-participation as a volunteer means that I am not doing good things at that time. Isn't it funny how I torture myself with these anxious thoughts?
When I lack a compelling narrative which explains why I am not able to do something, I am left with the guilt (existential) of having the choice yet not taking that choice. I am a person without excuses, even without reasons. But this particular "narrative of choice" conflicts with the narrative mentioned by Peck above, which is that everything contributes to the meaning of the whole, even the moments of "indecision" or "not doing something positive". Perhaps the way I can look at it is that it teaches me to let go of excessive attachment to the role of volunteer. However painful this can be, it can also be a good learning experience not to participate, even though I am willing to help as needed.
Perhaps there is no answer to this paradox, since volunteering is both good in itself and also a potential source of attachment. Learning to live with that paradox is perhaps valuable. But it also might be valuable to let go of all of this, since all self is just temporary, and things are constantly changing moment to moment.
Peck, M. Scott (1997). The Road Less Traveled & Beyond: Spiritual Growth in an Age of Anxiety. New York: Harper Collins.
Trying to imagine all the "what ifs" before they actually materialize is one of my tendencies, which seems to be common with many people who suffer from anxiety. It's funny how my mind works, because a lot of times I treat thoughts as though they relate to situations that have already happened. Even though the thought is "just a thought", I am reacting as though a situation that has not happened yet has already happened, and I am wanting to control the outcome in some way.
Different religious practices and traditions seem to address anxiety in similar but also different ways. What they share in common, perhaps, is the need to surrender to a higher principle. Even for those who have no particular belief system, there is often a need to feel that whatever is happening is happening with good reason, or with a substantial learning outcome that has some kind of meaning or value. M. Scott Peck remarks:
Perhaps the choice to die gracefully occurs when we finally learn and accept that all is according to how it should be. Whether one believes in an afterlife or not, to proceed gracefully in the arms of death is the ultimate acquiescence to an abiding conviction--even in the midst of paradoxical uncertainty--that every aspect of life contributes to the meaning of the whole (p.161)
\
Perhaps the deepest underlying fear related to anxiety is that life has no meaning if we don't make certain choices in life. It might mean something like, "because nothing is certain and I can't own anything or call anything mine, I don't have a story to tell". From a Buddhist or Chan perspective, how might one look at this fear?
I don't really know the answer to this question, since it's a deep one and involves many paradoxes. As a volunteer with a Buddhist organization, I derive a sense of self from being a volunteer, being able to support the organization, and feeling that I am doing something worthwhile that contributes merit to the whole. But attendant to this sense of self is a fragile sense of attachment, which can be described as "what happens if all these roles I am playing are taken away?" I experienced the anxiety this past retreat, since I didn't play a key role as a volunteer. Guilt also accompanied this experience: the sense that being a volunteer is a good thing, and therefore my non-participation as a volunteer means that I am not doing good things at that time. Isn't it funny how I torture myself with these anxious thoughts?
When I lack a compelling narrative which explains why I am not able to do something, I am left with the guilt (existential) of having the choice yet not taking that choice. I am a person without excuses, even without reasons. But this particular "narrative of choice" conflicts with the narrative mentioned by Peck above, which is that everything contributes to the meaning of the whole, even the moments of "indecision" or "not doing something positive". Perhaps the way I can look at it is that it teaches me to let go of excessive attachment to the role of volunteer. However painful this can be, it can also be a good learning experience not to participate, even though I am willing to help as needed.
Perhaps there is no answer to this paradox, since volunteering is both good in itself and also a potential source of attachment. Learning to live with that paradox is perhaps valuable. But it also might be valuable to let go of all of this, since all self is just temporary, and things are constantly changing moment to moment.
Peck, M. Scott (1997). The Road Less Traveled & Beyond: Spiritual Growth in an Age of Anxiety. New York: Harper Collins.
Sunday, June 24, 2018
Three Day Retreat at Bliss Haven: A Reflection
When I came back from this 3 day meditation retreat, I noticed that I hardly had any desire to read the books I was so compelled to read in my "to do list". I wonder what the reason is. Could it be that after 3 days of not reading any books, the craving abates somewhat? I think a more plausible explanation is that when I have meditated for a while, I recognize that one's existential problems in life cannot be resolved through words alone, let alone conceptual thinking. In fact, when enduring even the tiniest leg pain, no amount of philosophizing is going to get me to the stage of really seeing problems as they are: looking at the problems head on, rather than trying to skirt those problems through easy fixes or evasions.
This past retreat was lead by Venerable GuoYuan. In the first two days of the retreat (Friday and Saturday), I had a hard time adjusting my body, feeling all sorts of deficiencies and imbalances here and there followed by the attempt to analyze these imbalances. Interestingly, many of my so-called "explanations" were rather counterproductive. For example, how does acknowledging lack of exercise actually helping me to face the pains in my body at that moment? Nonetheless, my first impulse has been to try to break the problem into parts, without acknowledging that the problem is already composed of so many interlocking factors (or conditions) which are likely to pass over time. And on the third day, I believe that they did indeed pass. Not only was my mind more rested and clear, but also my body felt more balanced. It didn't happen in any way because I "analyzed" the problem and found some kind of underlying "root" cause. Rather, it happened just in the process of me engaging with the experience itself, and letting go of any judgments I was having at the time.
The most important insight I gained from this particular retreat was the realization of how cravings come from a sense of self, and the way most problems deep inside are simply reflections on a false self: a self that somehow wants to be a wave "separate" from other waves. In reality, when I make a "problem" out of something, I am really separating myself from the flow of life. I create this "other" that I somehow need to oppose (such as drowsiness, wandering thoughts, etc). and am not able to see that there is neither a "self" in the phenomena nor a static "self" that is watching this phenomena.
The example I am thinking about is that of nature. Throughout this retreat, I had many opportunities to observe the natural world, such as rabbits, birds, and even a frog croaking very loudly in a small pond What characterized my encounters with these creatures was my desire to "get close to them" and somehow name them or grasp their appearance in detail. Being animals in the wild, however, they of course would naturally freeze and flee whenever I came too close or became more noticed by them. Is it not natural that this would happen? But it's also true of thinking as well. When I try to reach out to a thought and make it some static, unchanging reality, what arises is a sense of suffering. It's as though I am constantly reaching out to "secure" something that is bound to change in time. This is not to be nihilistic, but it's to be prepared that all things are going to change, and to be aware of the instability of things and situations.
This past retreat was lead by Venerable GuoYuan. In the first two days of the retreat (Friday and Saturday), I had a hard time adjusting my body, feeling all sorts of deficiencies and imbalances here and there followed by the attempt to analyze these imbalances. Interestingly, many of my so-called "explanations" were rather counterproductive. For example, how does acknowledging lack of exercise actually helping me to face the pains in my body at that moment? Nonetheless, my first impulse has been to try to break the problem into parts, without acknowledging that the problem is already composed of so many interlocking factors (or conditions) which are likely to pass over time. And on the third day, I believe that they did indeed pass. Not only was my mind more rested and clear, but also my body felt more balanced. It didn't happen in any way because I "analyzed" the problem and found some kind of underlying "root" cause. Rather, it happened just in the process of me engaging with the experience itself, and letting go of any judgments I was having at the time.
The most important insight I gained from this particular retreat was the realization of how cravings come from a sense of self, and the way most problems deep inside are simply reflections on a false self: a self that somehow wants to be a wave "separate" from other waves. In reality, when I make a "problem" out of something, I am really separating myself from the flow of life. I create this "other" that I somehow need to oppose (such as drowsiness, wandering thoughts, etc). and am not able to see that there is neither a "self" in the phenomena nor a static "self" that is watching this phenomena.
The example I am thinking about is that of nature. Throughout this retreat, I had many opportunities to observe the natural world, such as rabbits, birds, and even a frog croaking very loudly in a small pond What characterized my encounters with these creatures was my desire to "get close to them" and somehow name them or grasp their appearance in detail. Being animals in the wild, however, they of course would naturally freeze and flee whenever I came too close or became more noticed by them. Is it not natural that this would happen? But it's also true of thinking as well. When I try to reach out to a thought and make it some static, unchanging reality, what arises is a sense of suffering. It's as though I am constantly reaching out to "secure" something that is bound to change in time. This is not to be nihilistic, but it's to be prepared that all things are going to change, and to be aware of the instability of things and situations.
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
Time Away
A meditation retreat is considered a time away: a time to just be with one's method and not to be tied down by past memories. Perhaps most importantly, it is a time to see things in fresh ways: to keep coming back to a simple method of watching the breath or other meditative practice.
Some people might go on retreats with expectations: they want quick results, or they've heard a lot of things about meditation, including the benefits and so on. I am often like this, because I tend to think that having the isolated time to be with one's method is already an opportunity. However, the point gets continually missed when practitioners come loaded with expectations, and their bodies also become subtly tense in expectation of what they are hoping to find in the process. Sometimes, one's meditative practice is little more than tricking oneself into "setting up" an experience, as when a person hangs on to their method very tightly when practicing. However, all these experiences belittle our sense of being as practitioners, because they set up this kind of perfection that the mind is not going to stick to.
The meditative attitude can be summed up as a combination of maintaining awareness and discovering the present. Maintaining awareness is knowing that from moment to moment, one need only tend to one situation, namely the meditation method. Discovering the present is fostering a non-discursive, present awareness of all the phenomena that arise as a result of the practice. It could be drowsiness, or distractions, but the point is that one has a way of knowing these states, through the method itself. Nothing is discounted from this experience, and nor is anything sought after. This is such an important part of the practice, a kind of acceptance of the Buddha nature that already exists in a person, but is simply changing states, much as water has states of freezing or gas. These states are neither good nor bad, and there is no sense in preferring one state to another since they are all originating from the mind.
This "time away" is actually not a time away at all, but a time that is deeply with one's mind and its phenomena.
Some people might go on retreats with expectations: they want quick results, or they've heard a lot of things about meditation, including the benefits and so on. I am often like this, because I tend to think that having the isolated time to be with one's method is already an opportunity. However, the point gets continually missed when practitioners come loaded with expectations, and their bodies also become subtly tense in expectation of what they are hoping to find in the process. Sometimes, one's meditative practice is little more than tricking oneself into "setting up" an experience, as when a person hangs on to their method very tightly when practicing. However, all these experiences belittle our sense of being as practitioners, because they set up this kind of perfection that the mind is not going to stick to.
The meditative attitude can be summed up as a combination of maintaining awareness and discovering the present. Maintaining awareness is knowing that from moment to moment, one need only tend to one situation, namely the meditation method. Discovering the present is fostering a non-discursive, present awareness of all the phenomena that arise as a result of the practice. It could be drowsiness, or distractions, but the point is that one has a way of knowing these states, through the method itself. Nothing is discounted from this experience, and nor is anything sought after. This is such an important part of the practice, a kind of acceptance of the Buddha nature that already exists in a person, but is simply changing states, much as water has states of freezing or gas. These states are neither good nor bad, and there is no sense in preferring one state to another since they are all originating from the mind.
This "time away" is actually not a time away at all, but a time that is deeply with one's mind and its phenomena.
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