A Place to Sit/A Place to Stand

  A rock, a chair or a stool. Recently, I read in TTC that we should always be ready to leave a seat vacant for someone else "if we are able". Then I begin to wonder, what does "able" in this context mean? I suppose that for the majority of people, sitting is entirely an option, but I can imagine in a Kantian universe, everyone's duty is to stand rather than to sit. And how might we know for certain who is able and unable to stand? These are quibbling remarks, but prelude to something else that I am driving at.

    Sitting is often a metaphor likened to stewing or incubating, whereas standing tends to connote a firm conviction or belief. We sit on something when it hasn't yet hatched: an idea, an embryo of a thought, a seed, a notion, etc. We stand, on the other hand, when we are certain that the bedrock under us is sure and clear, hence the term "to take a stand", "stand up for" or "a place to stand". While sitting connotes prevarication, standing connotes authority. Now, to my main point: is it possible that the reason so many people sit rather than stand is that they lack the conviction of their own beliefs, let alone the confidence to feel themselves grounded in the world? I think that the tiredness that I feel is related to the idea that I may not fully know where my feet are planted, and this takes a lot of faith and confidence. It is like saying, "the time for thinking is gone and I have made my decision. I know where I am in the universe". And this is a liberating feeling.

   I suppose there is a point where thinking has to stop and one must know where the gravity points to. And it's acceptable not to have to go further into deliberation. This is about being strong in one's heart, based on what one has learned from past experiences.

The Many Dreams We're In

     If we think about it, we are inhabiting many dreams: some good and some horrific. Nonetheless, they are all dreams. And if we can contemplate that we are not the dreamer--that is, we are not identified with the dream--then we are able to inhabit those dreams and benefit all the sentient beings in them.

    If I feel alarmed by my behavior---it's not who I wanted to be--I must ask myself: is the person I want to be "real" or just a wandering thought? Is the subject or topic I want to learn truly worthy and valued, or is it too just passing fad and fashion? Many thinks can be objects of curiosity, but at the end of the day, they are just like the colors in a kaleidoscope. Though working with them may prove to be valuable to some degree, they are not absolutely necessary or essential. For this reason, we should always meditate on what we are holding onto so tightly in these dreams.

   As for nightmares: knowing their impermanence, do we need to feel that they will go away, or can we ride them out? This is a reflection on the ethereal nature of all dreams, and knowing that there is nothing we need to emerge from at all, because we are not part of the dream itself.

"Love in the Ruins"

  I seem to have remembered reading a book by Walker Percy called Love in the Ruins, back when I was in my 20s. Though I can't quite recall the gist of the idea that Percy wanted to impart, I think that he was trying to suggest that people are most passionate in the moment when they are the least pressured to live up to the aspirations of their civilization. Hence--love in the ruins. But of course, Walker Percy was a Catholic, and no doubt, the symbolism he wishes to impart is far deeply Christian in the sense of seeing the broken Christ "in the ruins" as the consummation of human love and salvation. One would think that the consummation is the mastering of the many laws of God as mentioned in the Old Testament. But the paradox here is that it is precisely in human imperfectability--in sin, in brokenness, or in mortality--that humans can find their salvation and ecstasy. 

     And why is that? I think it's because, like I suggested before, people are literally "ruined" by the achievements of their civilization, many of which are far too high for people to accomplish. We are literally standing on the shoulders of giants. The result is a kind of dizzying despair which wonders, "how can I possibly live up to all that's been given to me in the world?" How can I repay the kindness of the many ancestors that have come before me? In contrast, reveling in the ruins, one comes to realize that in fact it was never the purpose of life to make oneself into an immortal edifice or a statue. To the contrary, it is in demolishing the letter of the law that a spirit can emerge from it that is truly passionate. This passion consists in a certain kind of profound relief, meaning that in spite of all these giants surrounding of me, I am still capable of being redeemed--not through my own effort but through the all encompassing forgiveness of another. It is knowing that there is salvation in brokenness, in imperfection, and in ruins themselves.

Suffering and Gratitude

"If the immediate and direct purpose of our life is not suffering then our existence is the most ill-adapted to its purpose in the world: for it is absurd to suppose that the endless affliction of which the world is everywhere full, and which arises out of the need and distress pertaining essentially to life, should be purposeless and purely accidental. Each individual misfortune, to be sure, seems an exceptional occurrence; but misfortune in general is the rule"

Schopenhauer, "On the Suffering of the World". From Essays and Aphorisms

One of the most startling paradoxes I am trying to explore recently is the link between suffering and gratitude, and how these two states of being go hand in hand. Without suffering, there is simply no grounds for gratitude, and this is one key thesis that I want to explore through the writings of Schopenhauer. But before I even go there, I want to explore the quote that begins "On the Suffering of the World".

Is the purpose of life, as Schopenhauer suggests, to suffer? This seems too pessimistic for some, and even a bit too fatalistic. But contemplating suffering as a kind of purpose can be a sort of relief in a sense. This is because suffering itself becomes more and more part of a bigger plan that has a story and a meaning to it. Suffering, according to this view, is not lacking in purpose, but rather makes a kind of sense as a person progresses through the suffering and sees it to the very end. To really experience suffering is to know what kinds of things one is attached to that is leading one to suffer. And I think Schopenhauer wants to say that the final lesson of suffering is detachment from the desire that gave rise to suffering in the first place.

Suffering, then, is not an accident, and nor is it something that one can sidestep. But only when a person is really and fully reconciled to suffering itself can they directly and fully experience the source of suffering, namely a strong desire that life goes in the ways that we want it to proceed. Rather than simply wanting certain things to happen according to plan, I strongly desire that they go according to my plan. I concretize a strong sense of self around that "strong desire" to have things my way. The opposite of this rigid sticking to desire is a kind of flexibility.

When Schopenhauer remarks about "the endless affliction of which the world is everywhere full", he suggests that we are essentially surrounded by suffering. Like a fish that is surrounded by water, we simply cannot help but suffer from not getting our way, or not fulfilling the many desires that come to mind. But if the world becomes a reflection of this inner suffering, we feel less isolated and more inclined to learn from the world as the mirror of the innermost state of being. Wars, then, are not just senseless clashes between strangers. They are, rather, the result of an inner striving that comes from the craving to exist and thrive. The world becomes a story through which one can connect their innermost vexations and conflicts. In fact, perhaps the world itself is simply a reflection of agonizing desires that people face within.

How is this the ground for gratitude? I think that when we begin to accept the idea of being surrounded by suffering, we might finally accept that there is no way to transcend it. But Schopenhauer generalizes suffering enough that it does not pertain to particular choices I make. Suffering just is, and it envelops the whole of being regardless of decisions made or not made. But rather than being a form of bad faith or irresponsibility, this view of suffering could allow people to become more detached from the consequences of decisions and therefore more able to accept the consequences. Most of all, we don't feel alone in suffering, since it is fundamental to Schopenhauer's metaphysics of the will. 

A Learner Identity

  Throughout my life, I believe I have identified myself as a kind of "lifelong learner". What this means for me is the ability to see myself in different capacities, always challenging myself to expand my problem solving abilities or ability to widen my perspectives. Having a "learner" identity keeps me focused on process (rather than on result) while not tying me to any particular "fixed" sense of identity. For instance, if I see myself as a "learned" person, I might come to the conclusion that I have learned all that needs to be known about a subject or even about life in general. This can lead to stagnation. So I do think it's important to view learning as an ongoing experience, not something that just stops at a certain time. According to this view, learning is not finalistic, and nor is there any final judgment. Instead, we take whatever we can find from our experiences and try to apply it to our unique situations. 

   Part of this also dovetails with my previous discussion about the connection between gratitude and emptiness. If one is not feeling gifted by life, chances are they are stuck in a rigid belief in who they are and what they are supposed to have achieved from a situation. When one is able to reframe the multitudinous possibilities of one's life situation, then there is no absolute "good" or "bad". In fact, this flexibility of mind is in itself a recipe for happiness, because it does not demand that the self be anywhere to have succeeded or to have survived. Instead, the idea is that we are flexible enough to see the possible learning opportunities of a given moment or experience.

Gratitude Not Just About "Having"

  When we think of gratitude, we might describe it as "being thankful for what we have" as opposed to what we might want. This is one way of looking at gratitude which, I think, is perhaps Epicurean in nature, because it rejects extremes in favor of the simple pleasures that come from being present with what we have. I believe there is also an element of anti-consumerism, and the wish to counterbalance a scarcity mindset that positions us as "always lacking". However, is gratitude only about having? 

   What I find a bit paradoxical (and interesting) about gratitude is that it seems to rely on the sense of having that is temporary. For me, the paradox of gratitude is that we feel most grateful when we recognize the conditioned nature of what we have. For instance, if I am feeling ill or in pain, I am much more thankful for times of health, or when the pain subsides for a while. On the other hand, if I am always feeling the same way about something, I might lose the sense that it is conditioned or temporary. In this regard, I lose insight into the emptiness aspect of things and how they are interconnected and therefore only "provisional gifts" provided by life and the world.

   This can create a dilemma for the gratitude practitioner, such as a person who regularly keeps journals or meditates on "what they have". For while gratitude is certainly a celebration of things we have, I reflect that this "appreciating what I own" can have a downside of grasping or trying to conserve something at all costs--even to the point of denying that it was never really "ours" to begin with. The paradox of gratitude is that it comes from the sense of something being a gift. And a gift, by nature, is always provisional, rather than being guaranteed.

    Gifts always point to the relational nature between giver and receiver. In doing so, they suggest that gifts don't really happen as an exchange of effort; instead, they are acts of grace. If a person only gives on the basis that they are required to do so in exchange for some other good or service, then the gifting aspect starts to disappear in favor of a logic of economics. For me to feel gifted by something, I need to also appreciate the fact that the gift could easily not have happened at all. There is something about that gift, in other words, that reminds me that I am not a permanent edifice or a self-sustaining entity. I am sustained by the grace of others, but I am also the grace of others as well.  And this is also the heart of interconnection in Buddhism. Something happens because of this unique coming together of conditions happening in the right moments. That insight into interconnection, for a moment, illuminates a true and miraculous nature of the universe and life itself. But after that moment subsides, one tends to reify the gift into a mere exchange, because one is unable to properly contextualize the gifting moment as an insight into emptiness.

   I will continue this thought later. But the point is that the gift does not simply entail having, as having is only symbolic of an underlying intention and moment that is irreducible and unrepeatable. Hence, we say "it's the thought that counts". But what is that thought? Where does that thought come from?

Do Peak Experiences Require Emergencies?

  When I read the works of Colin Wilson and Abraham Maslow, I am struck by how peak experiences always seem to be accompanied by a sense of relief, particularly in Wilson's examples. Graham Greene's experience of playing a game of "Russian roulette" with a gun prefigures in many of Wilson's writings, being an example of where a sense of exhilaration often follows from the threat of life and death. But this makes me wonder: do we need the threat of danger to encounter peak experience? I almost feel that, in fact, the danger gets overrated, and we are inclined to think that we can manage more "danger" than in fact we can. We can also explain it as being a gratitude that is not based on a real acceptance of the dangerous situation, but a fictitious remaking of the experience. I look back on the experience and think that the grace of God saves me from the dangerous experience--when in fact, the midst of the dangerous experience was quite traumatizing at the time when I experienced it. In a sense, the fictitious remaking only happens after the fact of the experience, so in a sense, we can't say that danger itself is the direct cause of the gratitude itself.

   The problem I see is that, in the midst of uncertainty, there is no way one can know whether she or he will survive the experience. When we do manage to overcome difficulties, we tell ourselves that next time we will know how to avoid them or stop them. Does that mean that the smoker suddenly quits smoking after a heart attack? Well, it should be the case, but is it always the case? Sometimes yes, and sometimes no; it depends on the conditions of one's mind, as well as whether or not the experience had inspired the person to change. We are always narrating an experience in a way that makes for thrilling entertainment, but when we are in the struggle, we don't truly know whether we will be spared in the end.

  It seems that the best solution is not to look for peak experiences at all, but to practice equanimity in the midst of difficulties. Otherwise, one will get ensnarled in expectations and even a sense of control that is not even present in the situations we face. If we knew in advance that we would definitely survive a harrowing experience, then the experience itself would lack a feeling of struggle. In fact, this might lead us to stop struggling altogether! So an element of uncertainty (and surprise) seems necessary in motivating us to creatively extend ourselves in the face of difficulties.