Making Dedications

 I have recently been in the habit of ending translation meetings with a dedication. After I help to edit and translate sections of a sutra, I will improvise a kind of dedication to all sentient beings, which allows me in turn to reflect on the relative value of the activity to which I had been engaged. Surprisingly, even though the dedication might seem hard to generate, I find there is some voice that comes out of me that seems truly genuine and whole. I reflect: there are so many activities that one can do in one's life, so why am I doing this one? What's the real value in it? I can only think that an activity is valuable insomuch as it takes a person truly out of themselves: out of their tendency to feel shut in or lost in self-referential thoughts. And the dedication confirms this idea. It allows me to contextualize the work I had done on deciphering a spiritual text, widening its girth to include all sentient beings. This is truly in itself a liberating perspective which can free a person from small-minded thinking. And I believe that this can benefit anyone, even non-Buddhists, insofar as it widens the scope of one's actions and helps a person to step outside of narrow thinking or constructs.
  The point I am trying to make is that dedication can be a form of mental health and even therapy. It's a therapy insofar as it links what we do as individuals to communities and larger movements in the universe. It can even make a person more cosmic minded, insofar as it takes us far beyond the confines of "this body" and all its small wants and feelings. Finally, it naturally becomes a way of not getting lost in irrelevant thoughts that have no beginning or end.
   I think that this dedication has helped me appreciate the ways that Buddhist teachings have helped me, and to keep learning about Buddhism. It helps me also to understand a deeper meaning to life that is not stuck in the self.

Wandering and Directive Thinking

I have taken to writing some poetry and prose recently, in an effort to return to an old dream I had related to creative writing. Part of the motivation has been the wish to do something slightly less linear than the thesis dissertation I am working on: that is, to explore something a bit off the beaten path in terms of generating creative and new ideas. Another motivation has been my return to reading prose fiction, both in my classes that I teach and in my recent exploration of Philip Roth's Letting Go. Sooner or later, what we read rubs off on us, to the point where we wish to explore it in some way on our own.
  If I freely let my hand travel across the page (or, in this case, the screen), I am inclined to come up with crazy ideas that often bear little logical connection to each other. This is a kind of mind wandering that can induce all kinds of unlikely connections if allowed to run freely. On the other hand--and this is perhaps where I floundered in my early years---too much wandering thinking can lead to an aimlessness, both in writing and in life as a whole. Without a sense of directive thinking to accompany it, the writing not only becomes stale at times, but it lacks a form. Without that directive part, free writing easily devolves into something that is free-floating or even lacks an anchor or substance. I think the second part of this free writing is to go back and ask oneself where they really want to go in terms of their goals with the work itself.
   There is a dialogue that must happen between the non-linear thinking that often brings together shockingly different ideas, and the directive attitude which attempts to shape these ideas into a defined goal. Too much of the former leads to a sad or depressing aimlessness, while too much of the latter is too constricting. Finding that middle balance is the challenge of the writer.

The Effort of Attention

Real attention, for me, seems to require the suspension of a belief that I am fixed in some way. If I only believe certain images that pertain to me, I will not be using my full attention. I have bought into the belief that I am "only this" and should therefore not expect myself to be something greater or better. This "only this" is the enemy of a full attention, and one sometimes needs to have the self-image shattered to be fully attentive.
  In a way, it is like a contemplation I had yesterday during the meditation: mind encompasses each phenomena, yet is not limited to any phenomena. That is, the mind is flexible enough that it fluidly accommodates every thought and appearance, yet it does not confuse the appearances for its true nature. The emptiness aspect of mind is the latter, while the form is the former. If I get caught in the forms and start to identify myself with the thoughts, I will start to lose the sense of totality. I get fixated on appearances rather than seeing these appearances as parts of a vast and always changing landscape.
   Attention is the effort to see the appearances and behold the thoughts, without rejecting or seeking. For someone attached to forms, it would be hard to resist seeking them out and trying to mine them in some ways for whatever insights they might offer. For someone attached to emptiness, thoughts are seen as the "enemy" which need to be spurned somehow or even suppressed. Neither of these approaches is correct; they both lose sight of nature of form as emptiness. When form is seen as emptiness, then all forms can be embraced, because no forms can be obstacles to awareness. Forms can be entertained, and they can be embraced without attachment

Trusting Experience as a Teacher

I have talked about the metaphor of "life as teacher" in my previous blog entries, but I have hardly mentioned the aspect of trust. This is perhaps because it seems rather evident that life "teaches" the very obvious lessons of working hard, mastering certain ways of socializing and getting along in the world, cultivating the virtues of patience and diligence etc. The problem, I think, is that even with these latter 'lessons', it's so easy to get attached to forms. "Patience" always looks a certain way, then takes on an almost stereotypical pattern of behavior, to the point where it even becomes an unconscious habit. But the problem with attachment to familiar forms of being is that it leads to a kind of sleepwalking. A person waiting in a long line up in the supermarket certainly looks the part of "being patient" (he or she hasn't screamed or tried to jump the line), but is this really patience, or is it just a habit that lulls a person int sleep?
  Sometimes pure experience, without form, is an ultimate teacher, but it can only come to a person when familiar patterns of comprehension, "call and response", etc. are subverted. This is truly an ultimate truth which takes people beyond form altogether, and yet it can be so unbearably painful in the face of attachment to forms. A person who is attached to form wants all too badly to find a role within the experience that they can call "themselves" and play out that habitual pattern. It even takes the form of an addiction to feeling certain and standing on a certain ground. But what if there is simply no foundation upon which to be--and one can see that those truth games are just agreed upon roles that are supported by the society?
   Patience is more than just following the pattern of a "patient" person. It means being able to work playfully with something that really doesn't quite have a form. The classic example of this patience is the process of learning itself, which starts in a sea of unknowns, only to later surface into familiar patterns over time. Can this sense of being lost in a sea of learning be borne with equanimity, if not embraced?

Cultivating Impermanence

 During our group discussion tonight after meditation, we talked about how we apply the idea of Master Sheng Yen's quote on impermanence, which I have noted below:

"If one is able to adeptly use the concept of impermanence, then one will live in the midst of the joy of fresh thoughts, peace at every moment, and continuous movement"

One of the insights I found from the group is how impermanence itself needs to be a habit that we almost need to remind ourselves. For instance: sometimes, we think that we know how to handle situations after talking about the theory, only to find that the situation comes up again--and very quickly, we fall back on a habitual way of dealing with it. The concept, on the one hand, is there, but that concept never touches upon the actual ground.
  To give an example: if I don't realize that cause and conditions only temporarily come together this moment to make things as they are, pretty soon, I am going to think there is some solid, permanent "thing" that moves and shapes things. I slip on ice and I think that something or someone "made me slip". Some people might even complain to God or blame karma for slipping, as though God or karma were the prime mover of all those things. I will thus have a tendency to think that something is doing it on purpose or making things a certain way. But when I think deeply about it, or at least from the perspective of impermanence, there isn't really even a solid self that is slipping on the ice. These conditions only temporarily come together. I might feel the pain of slipping and need to recover from it, but the feelings will certainly change over time.
   What's the opposite of impermanence? And does impermanence mean that one should always just be like a rock of equanimity? I don't think so at all. I think that impermanence allows for the flexibility to naturally respond to different conditions in ways that are spontaneous. The emotion is not something that I need take as "I" or as a sign or indication of whether I am good or not good. Instead, it too is a phenomena or a condition that is bound to arise and disappear based on cause and conditions. I need not cling to these emotions or be alarmed by them, or even judge myself based on them. So, this gives my emotions space to breathe without a sense of needing to judge the self based on their arising.

Rush Days

 People often feel hurried in today's world, and I am no exception to that rule. When I am feeling rushed, I often need to remind myself that I am the one who is in charge of my own pace. Even if someone is telling me to do more, I can use awareness to judge just how much effort is needed without tiring myself out.
  Being rushed requires a cognition of another person who is "rushing me". But does anybody rush me? Well, in a way, it is only by consenting to another person's idea about time, efficiency and quantity that I start to experience a discrepancy between how I do things and how the other wants me to do them. "Rushing" is literally giving into a concept of time that isn't fitting my physical and mental processes. I literally "knock myself out" to meet a deadline that might not be that feasible.
  When I was a kid, I remember taking a can of Pepsi to a school trip. Because pop was only provided as a treat at the time, I savored that can of Pepsi. When lunch was finishing up, the other student told me to drink quickly, since we would not be able to take anything to the school yard. I slugged down the last half of the can of pop and felt terrible; it certainly wasn't a speed that was allowing my body to enjoy it. And nor was it that good for my digestion, since I recall having a stomach ache afterward.
  The point of this anecdote is that when I surrender my bodily and mental experiences of time for someone else's concept of time--of what should be done, by what time, etc.--I have to sacrifice a way of being in time. In doing so, I get rid of all the special things that make me part of time, including my sensory and mental processes. This happens if a person tells me "don't think too much--just get it done". "Getting it done" involves a mad dash for quantity, and this can be violent on the mind.
   It's helpful to recognize and honor one's own speed. While we have to make compromises and adjustments, it should probably not be to the point of total exhaustion, burnout or having to risk bodily health or integrity to get a quick result. I think this requires a certain mindfulness that, while speed can be varied, it needs to be accompanied with an embodied awareness of what one is doing.

Devotion

 Every so often, a work of art or piece of music will show me some example of human devotion, and the interplay between "you" and "me" that spins endlessly without beginning. 

    Devotion is paradoxical, precisely insomuch as it can never be paid back. There is no actual reciprocal and symmetrical relationship with devotion, for if this were the case, it would not longer have an unconditional ring to it. For example, if I give to someone knowing that they owe me or need to carry their weight, this is not really a devotional form. Similarly, with the notion of Buddhist devotion, the aim is not to gain merits or have special favors from others; more so, it's to realize emptiness and let go of attachment to self.

   Perhaps it's also possible to say that the devotion of the other, and the care they give to the receiving person, is not immediately recognized or rewarded. Precisely insofar as the receiver might be blind to human devotion that its discovery becomes all the more dramatic and transformative. It gives the receiver of devotional acts the opportunity to see past their feelings of dissatisfaction, and reach a real feeling of gratitude. This, to me, is also a Christian message: it's precisely insofar that humans are lost without God that the unconditional devotion and sacrifice of Christ is all the ore miraculous. It's precisely because of this sinfulness that the devotion stands out as transformative and filling one's heart with a sense of gratitude.