Beginner's Mind vs "Inner Drives"

   The concept of having a beginner's mind often seems to run counter to a tendency to see novelty as a sign of progress. When I am in a bookstore, I have a craving to read every single book I see, knowing that each one contains a certain wisdom. But I feel like this urge to consume more and more is related to a more primitive drive that equates "accumulation" with "success". It's like that old story of Aesop about the Grasshopper and the Ant. While the grasshopper is busy enjoying himself and playing his fiddle, the ants store up their food for the winter and end up prevailing. In the same manner, I have a tendency of equating "more" and "new" with better. It would appear that I, like many human beings, am geared up to prefer both accumulation and novelty.

   The problem with too much of this "drive" is that it sacrifices depth and intensity for superficiality and breadth. But also, it leads to a kind of artificially induced boredom. If I see something I have "seen before" or "read before', I automatically assume that it is already known to me, so I might pass on and read something else. Or, worse still, I will feel that I am missing out on something else that is new to me that happens to be "somewhere else". Truly, however, is any book or paragraph exhaustible, or does it have multiple meanings? Here is where I think the concept of "beginner's mind" can be quite useful and empowering. If I can see that the same paragraph, when read at different times and in different contexts, can give rise to novel meanings, I am no longer bound to the idea of accumulation/novelty. These things cease to matter, in fact, when innumerable jewels exist in the same text. Many expressions tend to circle around this idea, such as how the river is never the same river from one moment to the next. But the point is: it really depends on one's mental attitude. If one's mental attitude is prepared to see newness even when they experience the familiar, then something overrides the habit of classifying similar experiences, and I am then seeing something anew-with a fresh new perspective. This ability to see the same thing through different eyes needs to be trained. It somehow needs to be disciplined. 

        I am not necessarily talking about meditation per se, but there needs to be a mindset or attitude that allows for surprise even when the text appears to yield information that we already know. And here is the point--this attitude must override a habitual way of pursuing only what appears as new or different. 

Self-Soothing in Meditation

  The "self-soothing" system is an idea that has been introduced to me in Paul Gilbert and Chodron's book, Mindful Compassion. The authors describe self-soothing as the part of one's body and mind that is associated with contentment, and which is often linked to the parasympathetic nervous system. Being content with what is: now why would that have ever been an evolutionary advantage for humans? In contrast with the drives toward fulfilment of hunger, status, etc. it would seem that the feeling of contentment would run counter to the drive for survival. However, self-soothing is important because without it, there wouldn't be any foundation for a social life or world. Instead of cherishing what they have in terms of their relationships and things, people would continue to strive for more things, which would certainly upset the ecological and social balance of life. For this reason, being content with what is or with what one has seems like an underrated but necessary element of human survival.

   How does "self-soothing" relate to meditation? The idea is that, by grounding one's experiences in the fundamental processes of the body--the abdomen and breath, for instance--one is tuning into aspects of their being that are not rooted in planning, strategizing or striving. Quite simply, these are the fundamental parts of our being that exist independently of thinking, planning and striving. They are not subject to gain or loss; they simply function to serve the body's survival. By tuning into these processes, people can turn to a more clear-minded, nonjudgmental acceptance of the world that is not subject to the ups and downs of trying to acquire or achieve things or, conversely, try to avoid unwanted things. 

    This idea reminds me that at the end of the day, humans are creatures--they are created and embodied. The body is a miracle, but I so rarely turn to it and see it for its amazing capabilities. Even the process of breathing is very complex and requires that many vital functions are in order, and yet none of these functions really requires my conscious effort, assistance or guidance. Many processes, in fact, work in this way, without the brain having to tell it to do so. For this reason, I have to only marvel at it and observe it gratefully when I am meditating.

Compassionate Balance

 I am reading a book called Mindful Compassion by Paul Gilbert and Choden, which talks about the notion that compassion is not about trying to be calm and serene in the face of difficulties, but more so about facing difficulties squarely and with honesty. This requires a keen mindfulness of "difficult" or problematic emotions that we might wish to best leave behind.The authors poignantly note:

If we set out to get rid of our rage, vengeance, sexual desires, anxiety, and all the other stuff that goes on in our heads, then we will be constantly monitoring if we've been successful or not, and this will undermine our mindfulness practice. Moreover, how can we understand or relate to humanity? (p.173)

The difficulty in relating to this excerpt, for me, is that there is a fine line between beholding pain and suffering and "giving into it" or "reacting to it". I think this is the tricky aspect of compassion practice. On the one hand, there are those who regard aforesaid emotions as "impure" (Buddhists included), and therefore as karmic obstructions that need to be somehow purged. While I think this is an important aspect of Buddhist practice, in fact, there is nothing in mind that is truly impure, if we are able to behold it with a certain detachment that is not self-involved. This is the level of seeing emotions as energies rather than as qualities belonging to the self. It's only when I add the second thought of "this is my emotion" that I start to feed into the sense of self, and therefore start to feel the compulsion to act on those feelings and thoughts.

    On the other hand, spiritual practitioners might also fall into the error of believing that, because phenomenon are "empty" in nature, one does not need to worry about the consequences of acting on those emotions. This is to deny the rule of karma and to get deeper into enmeshment. So I think an important practice is to try to see all emotions with a certain kind of loving presence that does not attach to one feeling or the other, thinking it is "mine". This way of thinking might also include wallowing in emotions: saying, for instance, "this is who I am and there's no way to change me". One has already fallen into the unfortunate trap of confusing emotions for the self.

   Reading novels can sometimes help us practice this art of beholding. Have you ever read a novel and became so identified with one particular character, story, or narrative, that you essentially cut out the rest of the characters as "worthy" of identification? When reading books, one can observe the ways in which some characters stand to represent 'ourselves' while others are marginalized or seen as "others". This mirrors the experience of everyday life, moment to moment. So in those instances, we need to step back and ask ourselves: which one of these phenomena is truly "me', and which are the "others"? Then we can practice somehow not making a hard boundary between self and others: to behold different permutations in how the text might be experienced depending on the reader's identity or the character's identity. But overall, again, the idea is not to judge one character or prefer one over the other, but to try to look at the whole situation with a sort of loving detachment: seeing "this is it" and observing the intricate dynamics without attaching to one particular scene or another.

Gilbert, P. & Choden (2014). Mindful Compassion. Oakland, CA: New Harbinger

Understanding forms

 “Monks, understanding form, having knowledge regarding it, eradicating [desire for] it,21 being free from desire for it, one is able to go beyond the dread of birth, old age, disease and death.22 Monks, understanding it, having knowledge regarding it, being free from desire and lust for it, one will liberate the mind and be able to go beyond the dread of birth, old age, disease and death.23 In the same way understanding feeling ... perception ... formations ... consciousness, having knowledge regarding it, eradicating [desire for] it, being free from desire and lust for it, one will liberate the mind and be able to go beyond the dread of birth, old age, disease and death." (4. [Second Discourse on Not Understanding]19)

On the Five Aggregates (1) — A Translation of Saṃyukta-āgama Discourses 1 to 32

sa01.pdf (uni-hamburg.de)

This passage reminds me of Spinoza, who also attributed passive emotions (like being drawn into something, or desire, or a passion) to a lack of understanding or knowledge. To be drawn emotionally is to be drawn into a specific view of the world that is locked in, or somehow fixed. Liberation from that view often requires stepping away from desire to embrace it in a more distant way.

How does this work? Perhaps what it means is that understanding the impermanent nature of form allows us to feel less desire for forms. Forms, after all, are like images that make impressions on the mind briefly, only to be replaced with other forms. It's when I am less attached to forms that I am also less fearful toward death as well as life itself. If a person is truly in vexation, it means that they are wrapped up in forms: in likes, dislikes, wanting this, not wanting that, and also wanting to protect my body from things I don't want or deem as unpleasant. If I can contemplate all these forms as ever-changing and in a dream, would I be so attached to them? 

To put it in a more practical way, whenever I am suffering or in distress (or anxious) about something, I might ask the questions: what forms am I attached to? What sensations arise as a result of those forms? What do I perceive as happening, and how might these forms relate back to a sense of self that is being impacted by these very same forms?

Impermanence and "Sense of Security"

   I truly feel that, in a world of impermanence, the only security one can truly find is within. Chang Wu Fashi was sharing tonight about how one way that one can be mindful in their day to day life is by always anchoring themselves in the sense of the body, and knowing whether the body is truly relaxed or not. A person may tell themselves that they are "relaxed", but how do they really and truly feel in that moment? Fashi's point is that the body is very honest--it will always tell us what is true of an experience, and does not advertise itself falsely. When you drop a hammer on your foot, you can't "pretend" that the pain is simply not there. One of the greatest sources of security that one can seek is within their heartfelt sense of the body, unadulterated by the swirl of thoughts and imaginary scenarios. No matter where my mind goes and what it thinks, the body is always indelibly here in this moment.

   Another point is that happiness and "security" are not from outside. I have often subconsciously sought out reassurance that I am okay from those around me, leading me to wonder if I am "not okay" when I don't receive such kinds of external assurances. The truth is, this desire for assurance itself is a source of suffering and pain. Even when I do feel secure and reassured that things in my job are okay, this is not a guarantee that I will find that same reassurance tomorrow. I think there's a certain value here in analyzing just what that feeling of reassurance is, and whether or not we can mimic it through a kind of self-talk.

   Reassurance, to me, comes from being grounded. We have all experienced at some point or another, a person who grounded us, by not going along with our anxious thoughts. Instead, that person pointed the path where their feet were firmly pointed. When I am aware that there is no need to entertain every possibility or be a prisoner to reacting to my thoughts, then I am naturally reassured: I am here, and there is nowhere else that I need to be, and no "fire" to put out or fan out. Of course, it may not be as simple as "feeling my body", but this reassurance might take the form of deciding to take things one step at a time rather than entertaining every panic scenario under the sun. It also might mean being happy for the small things. Even if I lose my job tomorrow, I am able-bodied enough now that I can take a new one. Even if I am not able-bodied now, there is no such thing as disabled: all humans are enables in some way or another. So, the point is that there is no point where we cannot hold hope for something or at least find comfort in some simple matter of life.

Form as Impermanent

 “You should contemplate form as impermanent. One who contemplates like this has right insight. One who has right insight arouses disenchantment. One who has disenchantment eradicates delight and lust. One who eradicates delight and lust, I say, liberates the mind" (source : Samyukta-agama, sa01.pdf (uni-hamburg.de)

   What does it mean to contemplate "form" as impermanent? What, indeed, is form? When I think about this question from a Western mindset, I reflect on the difference between form and matter--form being what "shapes" matter into a discernable identity. I am sure that most students have at some time or another come across the metaphor of a potter or sculptor: just as the clay is "formless" unless I actively shape it into a pot or other form, so also form is the requirement of identity. 

   Form is in fact the marker of identity. So what does "contemplate form as impermanent" entail? First of all, forms do not have an underlying, enduring substance. They change from one moment to the next. The "essence", if anything, is mind. This is different from what a materialist might think. For example, I see a chair, and I assume that the form it takes is reflective of some underlying substance that endures, even when I don't look at the chair. From a Buddhist perspective, this is not the case: if there is no mind to contemplate or recognize "the chair", then how might the chair be said to have an independent existence? Here, the form itself is impermanent because it appears in mind when the right conditions emerge. 

Agama Sutra also mentions that the insight into no form "arouses disenchantment" which in turn "eradicates delight and lust". I think this means that when a person recognizes that the forms are arising in mind, there is nothing to hold onto or to chase. In fact, the images don't relate to an enduring external reality or "thing", any more than a chair is thought to have an independent existence. This creates a natural sense of disenchantment, but I don't think this translates to the disenchantment of turning away from things. Rather it is a more grounded and realistic idea that appearances constantly change, and there is nothing graspable within those appearances. If I keep thinking about an earlier thought that has passed, I fail to see that it's already gone.

The Importance of "Awareness"

  When I am thinking about the idea of awareness, I think about the Zen analogy of birds in the sky. In order to see birds as "birds", a person must also see the sky as the background upon which they fly. Without that background, one will get caught up in the details of the birds without properly contextualizing the bird as part of an unfolding background.

   What's the "background" of each thought? It relates to the idea that all of one's thoughts are created by mind, and sustained by mind. In essence, what I think about the world is a reflection of my self and the way I think. I am fond of the idea that no two people see the same painting, the same food, the same television program, etc. in the same way, because what one sees is a projection of all the complex memories and experiences they have had. In essence, not to recognize this is to confuse the phenomena and think that it is entirely external. This also leads to an attitude of taking things to be "truth" without examining the extent to which they are cultural or socially-mediated representations. 

    The value of Buddhist teachings, for me, lies in the reminder that what triggers thoughts are often previous thinking about something--patterns, in essence. I will use the example of someone who is preparing a wedding. When a person typically prepares for a wedding, they are not just shopping for clothes or a dress, or a ring. Instead, they are sifting their thoughts for a particular experience they want to have that they can remember for life. I remember someone telling me that her friend had already prepared her wedding--what it would look like, what dress she would wear, etc.--and all she needed was the person to marry! This is a fitting analogy in essence, for how people might think about their present experiences. I already bring to the present moment my previous expectations and assumptions. The present experience is often simply fit into the past expectations, as a hand would fit into a glove. If those expectations are left unexamined or unexposed, a person will end up imposing a particular view or idea onto something or someone that has nothing to do with it. And these ideas are often connected to one's desires.

   Awareness is the important context to remind oneself: 

a. One's experiences are often colored by previous learning, assumptions, etc. which in turn give rise to expectations

b. One often projects things within themselves which have very little to do with the forms they are observing. In fact, human beings are more complicated than this and cannot be reduced to a person's thoughts or impressions of them.

c. Being aware also means that the thoughts are seen as transient and always changing. I don't cling to thoughts like they are the be all and end all. I practice simply letting go of whatever thoughts come to the imagination, to really get a direct experience that they are always flowing in and out of the mind.

The importance of meditation as a practice of observing the flow of thoughts cannot be overstressed!