Mist Covered Mountains

 Master Sheng Yen used the analogy of the mist covered mountain to describe a lack of ability to know where one is and whether one has "achieved" any kind of liberation or not. I think that he used this analogy for two (very effective, I believe) reasons. Firstly, he wanted to point out how we should enjoy the process more than the destination, perhaps to the point where we don't even look to the destination any longer. Each step (or even misstep) becomes precisely the destination. Secondly, he wanted to point out how self-evaluation of any kind is futile and often delusory, because any judgment we make about ourselves and our progress is always based on a mere concept of self that is not enduring at all. 

   With this metaphor in view (pardon the foggy pun) I have begun to contemplate how all of my life, I have looked for affirmation from others to know that I am doing "ok" or am an "ok person". And as important as the evaluation of behaviors are (they are feedback that is meant to modify our actions, thoughts, behaviors, etc.), there is no ultimate judgment or final point of self-evaluation. This is because the self, like the mist-covered mountain, is only ever a partial view that is subject to continual amendment, change, modification, influx and outflux. That is to say, the self is more like a function of mind than a static concept. There is no security in the sense of self, any more than one can rest securely in the fact that they were able to find a foothold on the previous step of the mountain. 

    The mountain is unpredictable--and it is precisely this unpredictability that makes the journey one of leveling off all distinctions between self and other. The duality of self-other is a kind of distorted perception that comes from false views of comfort and temporary power. Because of my previous success, I think I am secure, not knowing that success is relative to the environment, the bodily and mental conditions, and other conditions. It is subject to continuous change and feedback. This is why feedback is important but we should take it only as the steps on a mountain--they are needed for the moment, but then get superseded by other moments.

TV Screen Metaphors

 When we see the world as like a television screen--and we are one of many actors on it--what effect does this have on the mind? Does it create a state of denial, in which a person dissociates from the action and doesn't respond as an actor in the story? I think of this as an analogy for karma, in the sense that we are definitely specific actors in the tv screen, yet at the same time, we are the screen as well. And, in a more radical sense, we are also the other actors. This is because, from the perspective of the screen, there is no separation of one actor from the other. All are essentially of the same basic "substance" as it were. So, if this were the case, why is is that when I eat, you don't get full, and vice versa?

   Chan Buddhism, at least as far as I understand, does not deny the existence of karma. What it tries to suggest is that the error of attributing our sense of embodiment to a separate "I", is the real problem. In daily life, there is this pervasive habit of taking the body to be mine, while the things surrounding the body are not me. This is what starts the delusion of becoming defensive when the self feels it is being attacked, and even getting paranoid when it feels that all the others are out to get it. We truly don't need this reified sense of an "I" because at the end of the day, this big ego or I has no real function. It's like an artificial 30 pound gold crown that sits on one's head, thinking it's the "top" of the head and therefore the all-important function, when in fact, it is merely an accessory or thought that continues to change from moment to moment.

   Facing criticism from the perspective of the screen is actually simple enough. It is to go beyond the self as a reference point. If you have ever watched a movie--depending on your level of commitment to the characters--you might be rooting for the protagonist or whomever, but then you forget that this character is not a real person; it's an image reflected in your mind, and it is another image reflected in other viewers' minds. It is so hard to get out of the habit of discriminating the characters one likes and dislikes, but this is because the habit of discrimination is so deeply ingrained. It is that arising sense of I that comes when we feel we are going to be annihilated by a threatening other. If we were even for a moment to transcend that dualism and see that the characters are all thoughts on a screen, we would no longer feel defended anymore. The thoughts would be seen as phenomena only, and we need not be so attached to their impact because there is no "self" that becomes a reference point for these thoughts.

   Put it this way: as long as there is a sense of self, thoughts are continuously judged as good (beneficial to the self), bad (detrimental to the self) and neutral (not really benefitting or harming the self). What happens when we realize no self? Then there is no more reference point by which to compare the different thoughts, and the thoughts are seen for what they are--"just thoughts"--and we function to work with those thoughts with the intention of awakening others to the same conclusion.

Origins of Ignorance

  In the book From Mindfulness to Insight, Rob Nairn, Choden and Heather Regan-Addis notes how Ignorance "gives rise to the assumption that each of us is a solid, independent entity acting with free will in a world of things and people that are separate from us because they are solid and independent too" (p.110). This is so hard to analyze in a sense, because we are so used to thinking of ourselves as "solid" and somehow "separate" from what's around us. For example, we are in the habit of believing that there is an "I" with my own thoughts, feelings, impressions etc. and this distinguishes me from the world. It also gives rise to a sense of greed: thinking that things should be a certain way comes from the illusory notion of a grasping self that reaches out to the external environment and actively shapes it to one's desires. What happens when, instead of identifying with the sense of solidity, I were able to take a step back and see that the entire process of thought itself is just a constructed process that has no end point in the self? This is what the authors above invite us to explore.

   The problem of course is that once we start interacting with others, we have already fallen into the delusion of self-others, whether it's a good delusion (a good dream) or a bad delusion (a nightmare). There is already a solid sense of I that takes ownership or possession of its own thoughts and does not consider the things around it as also one's own mind. But the challenge is to take responsibility for all that happens, in the sense that all is a reflection of one's own mind. How this is done takes a lot of practice. It requires being able to see that all of this is your mind--and nothing is excluded or in the foreground that we can call a self.

Simple Joys of Being

  I contemplate how, even though meditation is done in exactly the same way and at the same time or location, I seem to experience something different each and every time. I have never been bored of meditation, particularly because it involves the deepest form of mind-based inquiry, in which I have tried to explore what emptiness means, how all is experienced as empty, and what is mind or self. Why, then, can we not extend the wonders and joy associated with meditation to daily life? I would like to explore a few reasons here.

   First and foremost is the habitual way we conceptualize our day to day life and efforts. As soon as I engage in an activity that appears even remotely familiar to me, but which has been performed several times before, these habitual concepts start to kick in. Either I go into autopilot, or I subconsciously internalize the idea that "this has been done before", and so I start classifying the experience as something with little or no novelty value left inside of its core. Rather than choosing to let go of those filters and engage the present moment with a sense of adventure, I am using the conceptual mind to imagine that this moment has passed or has been created before.

   Secondly (and this may sound left of center), there's the fear of death. When I am afraid of my life being either incomplete or a "total waste of time", I am comparing my present experience with something I deem as more valuable or "worth my time". This has the effect of dividing and dulling the mind, as opposed to a mind that views this moment as perfectly formed and deserving of the utmost welcome. At the heart of this constant desire to compare one experience to another to rank its overall value or worth is a deep fear of identity annihilation. I truly feel that when we are calculating what we should be doing, we are identifying ourselves with a body which is destined in the end to be extinguished. In this way, we experience great suffering, the antidote of which is to rediscover the simple freshness of being in the present.

  Thirdly, and related to the second, is a kind of self-consciousness. When I am always reflecting on who I should be (some idealized picture in my mind), I fail to accept who I truly am in this very moment, and this creates difficulties for me and those around me. When I am not carrying this standard of how I should be before me at all times, I become more open to seeing both myself and the things around me for what they are and how they feel to me. When I am not fighting these ordinary feelings and experiences, I become a kind of phenomenologist of life: curious about what is happening in the embodied present, as opposed to chasing after abstractions or moral shoulds.

From Conflict to Connection

  There is something about the ability--the experience, should I say--of allowing something unpleasant to appear in the mind that leads from a sense of discontinuity to one of connection. This "allowing the unpleasant" seems to come from a courage of recognizing that present moment "goes on being" even when we have encountered a personal setback or even a feeling of failure. When I morally "condemn" myself, saying that "I should not be this way", I subtly split myself up into two parts--accuser and accused-- and these two parts become at war with each other. But this is also a subtle defense: by making myself both the condemner and the condemned, I am creating a kind of false division. In fact I am both condemner and the condemned, yet neither, because neither exists as a distinct entity.

   The alternative is to simply experience both the shame and the desire to do better as a single whole: they both exist inside of me. Even the resistance to pain exists within me, and is inseparable from me. Knowing that present moment does not fall victim to the onslaught of moral condemnation, I have the courage to face pain, accept it, and transform it into future actions. And I no longer side with either the condemned or the condemner. They are just like the waves in a vast ocean of being. But to really and truly live this way seems to take an incredible amount of courage.

Compassion : A Way of Seeing?

    On my way home from the Buddhist class today, I was thinking about what "compassion" feels or looks like to me. I sometimes find it difficult to relate to compassion, so I have been reflecting on what it means to be compassionate, exactly. The dictionary definition of compassion is the desire to relieve the suffering of all sentient beings. But, in order to truly cultivate compassion, we need to be clear within our hearts that we are suffering, as well as just what we are suffering from. So I think that compassion and wisdom go hand in hand. Without wisdom, there is no real grounds for compassion, since one could argue that we could theoretically end suffering just by having more things, more money and the like. On the other hand, a wisdom lacking in compassion might turn out to be very dry and abstract. It does not have the softness or lightness of being that could accommodate the needs of sentient beings.

    Firstly, I think compassion needs to be gentle. It cannot have hard boundaries around it that are governed by absolute rules, likes or dislikes. This is because a compassionate mentality does not reject a situation as unworkable. It tries to see each difficulty as an opportunity for people to let go of their attachments and connect to a deeper reality. Saying that something is "awful" (to use Albert Ellis's REBT term) or to "castastrophize" about the future, is clearly not compassionate, because it adds misery to difficulties. Making grand statements about how terrible and dark a situation is would be like dropping a large brick on one's foot! It really doesn't help to think in absolutistic ways.

   Secondly, I think compassion needs to be global. It can't just be about the people I happen to "like" or who are similar to me. There has to be some way that all beings fall into the compassionate purview, simply by virtue of how deeply sentient beings' lives are pervaded by suffering. If we visualize even the most abrasive person who causes the most evil and suffering imaginable, we also need to realize the pain that person is in to wreak such havoc, as well as the suffering they continue to create for themselves. There needs to be a broad universality around compassion; it needs to unconditionally envelop all being.

    Thirdly, compassion is unconditional. It does not evaluate one life as somehow more worthy of living than another. Here, I think there needs to be a deep appreciation for life, similar to what Albert Schweiter (another Albert!) refers to as "reverence for life". Do we extend unconditional acceptance to ourselves? I would have to say I don't. This is because I will secretly condemn myself for not doing certain things with a certain kind of intensity, and will even berate myself for not being perfect at something--both of which are attitudes lacking in compassion.

    That all being said, I don't think it is easy for me to cultivate compassion. An anxious person in particular is continually worried about a future that often doesn't happen to come to fruition, yet the anxiety clouds the positive that is in each experience.  Being unconditionally accepting of ourselves and others takes a lot of courage, particularly the courage to break out of patterns of self-criticism---thinking we constantly need to struggle to prove ourselves to the world rather than allow everything to be the way it is, including the painful moments of life, but with an attitude of softness, knowing it's illusion and it's not who we truly are inside. Thus, compassion is a very long and difficult journey which requires a small light of warmth to spark from within and to gradually grow over time.

The "Good" vs "Emptiness"

 One of my favorite essay collections has to be Iris Murdoch's Existentialists and Mystics. I have been taking some notes on this fascinating anthology of some of Murdoch's best essays and lectures. Murdoch is both a critic of 20th Century philosophy as well as a promoter of a somewhat Platonic sense of the Good. She critiques certain strands of modern philosophy as being too focused on the will and "free choice", as opposed to cultivating the proper attention needed to make meaningful choices that are based on clear evaluations of what truly exists. Although Murdoch does not precisely define the Good (any more than, say, Plato does), I find myself making parallels between her notion of the Good and the Buddhist notion of Sunyata, or emptiness. Here are the parallels that I draw between both concepts.

1) Both concepts involve a reality that is independent of "self" or self grasping. Both emptiness and "The Good" are independent of our wants, desires, self-centered tendencies. 

2) Both concepts require contemplation or a disciplined activity of the mind to be fully known or revealed. Murdoch suggests that contemplation of nature, art, or any other discipline such as academic subjects or crafts, can take us effectively out of ourselves and into a realm where values matter. A tradesperson definitely can tell the difference between a quality furniture and furniture that is sloppily made. By analogy, most people have an instinctive sense of values that are conducive to the good. Murdoch also introduces Simone Weil's concept of "attention" to denote a patient and diligent attitude where we humble ourselves before a subject matter--waiting for it to disclose itself rather than trying to impose our prejudices or quick judgments on the thing to be studied. Of course, emptiness is similarly something that requires contemplative awareness to be deeply known or fathomed.

3) Both concepts entail a sense of contingency. Contrary to the human impulse to try to systematize or contain the truth in a single philosophy or work of art. both "the Good" and "emptiness" defy all expectation. This is simply because things operate from endless changing factors, and are constituted by factors that are not contained within neat or predictable concepts. Emptiness is an idea that takes us beyond conceptualization, because it suggests a "thusness" that cannot be controlled, predicted or fully shaped or known by the intellect.

There a lot of other things to say about the parallels between Murdoch and the Buddhist concept of emptiness as I understand it. However, I do want to add that from what I understand of Chan and Zen Buddhism, what we think of as Good and Bad are not absolutes but necessarily co-exist. This is one thing that I don't think Murdoch's philosophy goes into very much, but I am very fond of Thich Nhat Hanh's frequently cited notion of the "lotus" and the "mud", which suggests that all things inter-are. We can't have a beautiful lotus without the ugly and smelly mud, and nor can we have flowers without filth or garbage to fertilize them. 

As much as Murdoch wants to delineate a clear and fixed notion of Good, there is something in what I have read from Buddhism and Taoism in particular that tells me that both good and bad are in the same boat. If something is sinking the boat, good also suffers, and so we had might as well view both good and bad with equal parts care and consideration, knowing that they are not fixed, unchanging entities. They co-exist. A sloppy craftsman sometimes needs to be sloppy before they can become good, since the sloppiness is the grounds through which we practice perfecting our craft. This doesn't necessarily negate the ideal of perfection that the craftsman might aim for, but it suggests that we can't condemn the bad as imperfect or flawed if, in the end, it contributes to the craft. 

Being able to see the good intention in something or someone (and value it) is one expedient way of reminding a person that their actions are a form of light struggling to find itself, even when the behavior seems ostensibly to be destructive. Destructive relative to what? Even the worst forms of destruction can be the grounds for some deep learning or reconstruction. On the other hand, if we try to cut up the world into good and bad, we are not respecting that an organic process is happening and unfolding, often through some dialectic struggle of sorts. Knowing this and acting upon it does not guarantee goodness, but I believe that thinking this way makes goodness more likely, because it does not try to divide the world into unsolvable opposites. And also, thinking this way can keep one's spirits hopeful even in times of darkness and struggle.

Murdoch, Iris (1997). Existentialists and Mystics. Penguin Books