I'd like to add a comment about this dispositional imperative. I'm not advocating passivity; there are times we need to speak out, times we need to fight (those who know me know I'm no pacifist), and times we need to take a stand. I think the disposition of peace and calm is in service to a larger cause, to help reduce the suffering of others and create a space for constructive interaction (between body and mind, in our family, circle of friends, and the larger communities we in-habit). So, in times of conflict, if we maintain calm and clarity, keeping in mind the bigger picture, our conflicts may result in something positive, if not healing. But if we harbor hatred, revenge, and disregard for those with whom we are battling, no matter how "right" we are, destruction will inevitably ensue. IMHO, of course. ;)
PS As contemplatives like Pema Chodron would probably say, attend to the conflict within first ("...be gentle to yourself...").
Enso
Bamboo Enso by Deiryu (1895-1954)
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The Dispositional Imperative I
I think we've all had he experience of someone's attitude affecting others. A joyous atmosphere made suddenly "dark" when an angry person enters a room, or the feeling of peacefulness overcoming us when in the presence of a calm person. It may be that we humans, or even all sentient beings, are connected in some intuitive (subliminal?) way. I'm not trying to make some metaphysical claim about this; I merely want to point out something we've all probably experienced at some point in our lives.
If we are all interconnected at some level of consciousness or awareness, perhaps what is needed in the world--not just "out there" but in our body, family, workplace, etc.--is a calm and peaceful presence. Maybe our call is not to assert some view or opinion, or argue with someone harboring a different political perspective from our own. Maybe we are called to gently affect others (by first affecting ourselves) through the formation of a peaceful and loving disposition. If we think about it, one more angry voice added to the chorus of disenchanted, angry voices, won't change a thing. Perhaps we need to "model" what we know is necessary in the world today: compassion for ourselves and others. Here's a short contemplation on loving kindness I use on occasion (a version of a chant I read in one of Ayya Khema's books, When the Iron Eagle Flies):
(To be repeated gently to one's self in a state of meditative calm)
May I be free from enmity
May I be free from hurtfulness
May I be free from the afflictions of mind and body
May I be happy, healthy and at peace
May all beings be free from enmity
May all beings be free from hurtfulness
May all beings be free from the afflictions of mind and body
May all beings be happy, healthy and at peace
If we are all interconnected at some level of consciousness or awareness, perhaps what is needed in the world--not just "out there" but in our body, family, workplace, etc.--is a calm and peaceful presence. Maybe our call is not to assert some view or opinion, or argue with someone harboring a different political perspective from our own. Maybe we are called to gently affect others (by first affecting ourselves) through the formation of a peaceful and loving disposition. If we think about it, one more angry voice added to the chorus of disenchanted, angry voices, won't change a thing. Perhaps we need to "model" what we know is necessary in the world today: compassion for ourselves and others. Here's a short contemplation on loving kindness I use on occasion (a version of a chant I read in one of Ayya Khema's books, When the Iron Eagle Flies):
(To be repeated gently to one's self in a state of meditative calm)
May I be free from enmity
May I be free from hurtfulness
May I be free from the afflictions of mind and body
May I be happy, healthy and at peace
May all beings be free from enmity
May all beings be free from hurtfulness
May all beings be free from the afflictions of mind and body
May all beings be happy, healthy and at peace
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
On Narrative, No-mind and Non-conceptual awareness
I've been thinking about Nan's comment on my previous post on Pema Chodron, "...I think our lives would be poorer without this [narrative] impulse: it seems so much a part of being fully human."
I've often joked with colleagues and students about the Buddhist doctrines of no-mind, non-conceptual wisdom, and other cognitive transcending terms, asking (rhetorically): if Buddhists really value "not-thinking" why have they composed an unwieldy amount of texts? For instance, in one Tibetan edition of the Buddhist canon (Derge) there are 103 works attributed to the Buddha himself and 213 canonical works of Indian masters and commentaries; for those of you who are mathematically challenged ;) that's 316 rather massive volumes. Not to mention the countless biographies of important Buddhist figures (I just received the latest one: a complimentary copy from the publisher, a biography of the Dalai Lama, _My Spiritual Journey_). So much for conceptual transcendence....
Our compositional impulses, be they narrative, philosophical, or commentarial, seem to be at odds with the goal of attaining a non-conceptual mode of awareness. I've addressed this and related issues before in a philosophical vein (if at all interested, see my article: "Language, Conceptualization and Awakening: On the Paradox of Discourse in Classical Indian Yogacara." I'll send e-copies on request), so no reflections of a theoretical or abstract nature here.
My musings on Nan's comment led me back to Deiryu's enso (zen circle) above; perhaps our narratives (OK, even ones infused with self-pity...) are like the bamboo, a transient, local, and ordinary manifestation in the open field of emptiness (reality). And yet, despite its ordinariness--or because of it?--the simple bamboo adds something to reality; perhaps stories, too, do the same thing, opening us up to experiences of aesthetic pleasure, or of suffering and triumph (Invictus anyone?), something resonant with our condition as human beings, all within the "space" of this moment. I don't know if the Buddhists are correct about us coming back again--you know, rebirth--but for now we are here, in human form. Maybe we should embody our narrative impulses in order to fully experience this life, for like the water in a cracked pot, our life is "leaving us" moment-to-moment, however imperceptively.
I've often joked with colleagues and students about the Buddhist doctrines of no-mind, non-conceptual wisdom, and other cognitive transcending terms, asking (rhetorically): if Buddhists really value "not-thinking" why have they composed an unwieldy amount of texts? For instance, in one Tibetan edition of the Buddhist canon (Derge) there are 103 works attributed to the Buddha himself and 213 canonical works of Indian masters and commentaries; for those of you who are mathematically challenged ;) that's 316 rather massive volumes. Not to mention the countless biographies of important Buddhist figures (I just received the latest one: a complimentary copy from the publisher, a biography of the Dalai Lama, _My Spiritual Journey_). So much for conceptual transcendence....
Our compositional impulses, be they narrative, philosophical, or commentarial, seem to be at odds with the goal of attaining a non-conceptual mode of awareness. I've addressed this and related issues before in a philosophical vein (if at all interested, see my article: "Language, Conceptualization and Awakening: On the Paradox of Discourse in Classical Indian Yogacara." I'll send e-copies on request), so no reflections of a theoretical or abstract nature here.
My musings on Nan's comment led me back to Deiryu's enso (zen circle) above; perhaps our narratives (OK, even ones infused with self-pity...) are like the bamboo, a transient, local, and ordinary manifestation in the open field of emptiness (reality). And yet, despite its ordinariness--or because of it?--the simple bamboo adds something to reality; perhaps stories, too, do the same thing, opening us up to experiences of aesthetic pleasure, or of suffering and triumph (Invictus anyone?), something resonant with our condition as human beings, all within the "space" of this moment. I don't know if the Buddhists are correct about us coming back again--you know, rebirth--but for now we are here, in human form. Maybe we should embody our narrative impulses in order to fully experience this life, for like the water in a cracked pot, our life is "leaving us" moment-to-moment, however imperceptively.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Musings on a Pema Chodron Quote
"The path of liberation depends on not taking everything so personally" (Pema Chodron, July, 2008).
The excerpt from a Pema Chodron talk (posted on FB) which contains this quote, continues on about how we "personalize" the experiences we have by weaving a personal narrative around them.
My musings:
I think that storylines are fine in and of themselves. In fact, I enjoy listening to others' stories; their is a sense of wonder in listening to a person's narrative, the interpretations of events, the particular take on whatever he or she is talking about. But that sense of wonder may have a source other than the story. It may be the act of sharing, the present moment of being together, the mysterious gift of a life "just being here." But to discuss this quality of "just being here" is counter-cultural, and may challenge a deep seated societal "value" that assumes that our stories are what, or who, we are. IMHO, this is not the case; we are not our stories, our viewpoints, our bodily-emotional reactions, our imaginings of what happened. Sharing experiences is one way of interacting, but to take it personally means that the story becomes more important than the living present, the profound simplicity of the moment.
It seems that we automatically respond to the events in our lives with a story or interpretation, with all the attendant emotions, images, and bodily reactions. In a way, we live in a kind of psychosomatic dream state, not that external events themselves are unreal (or the fact that internal states arise), but that after events, etc., take place, our primary concern is with our reactions which are really complex networks that resemble a storyline, or movie.
What would our life be without the stories we tell ourselves (or, without personalizing them)? Without the internal play of competing with one another, of taking a victim's role, of feeling superior or inferior? This is not to deny that wonderful and tragic events happen to us. But to "be present" in the midst of our life, to "surrender to what is" may transform us in ways we cannot imagine.
The excerpt from a Pema Chodron talk (posted on FB) which contains this quote, continues on about how we "personalize" the experiences we have by weaving a personal narrative around them.
My musings:
I think that storylines are fine in and of themselves. In fact, I enjoy listening to others' stories; their is a sense of wonder in listening to a person's narrative, the interpretations of events, the particular take on whatever he or she is talking about. But that sense of wonder may have a source other than the story. It may be the act of sharing, the present moment of being together, the mysterious gift of a life "just being here." But to discuss this quality of "just being here" is counter-cultural, and may challenge a deep seated societal "value" that assumes that our stories are what, or who, we are. IMHO, this is not the case; we are not our stories, our viewpoints, our bodily-emotional reactions, our imaginings of what happened. Sharing experiences is one way of interacting, but to take it personally means that the story becomes more important than the living present, the profound simplicity of the moment.
It seems that we automatically respond to the events in our lives with a story or interpretation, with all the attendant emotions, images, and bodily reactions. In a way, we live in a kind of psychosomatic dream state, not that external events themselves are unreal (or the fact that internal states arise), but that after events, etc., take place, our primary concern is with our reactions which are really complex networks that resemble a storyline, or movie.
What would our life be without the stories we tell ourselves (or, without personalizing them)? Without the internal play of competing with one another, of taking a victim's role, of feeling superior or inferior? This is not to deny that wonderful and tragic events happen to us. But to "be present" in the midst of our life, to "surrender to what is" may transform us in ways we cannot imagine.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Spiritual practice
Many spiritual teachings advocate a letting go of desires, concepts, beliefs, and so on, but I wonder if this is the most effective way to teach a spiritual practice. It seems to me that awareness, the simple act of just observing, of the various phenomena that we experience, either externally (sights, sounds, people, etc.) or internally (images, emotional reactions, internal dialogs, and so on), is the first thing that should be emphasized. Otherwise, the "letting go" may lead to repression, for example, the belief that I should let go of this desire could cause a negative reaction to wants that arise, that is to say, a repression of an internal state. This will only create an internal tension and a stronger re-arising of said want. It seems to me that emphasizing "just being" with whatever arises keeps us from reacting to and reinforcing our constructed, phenomenal world. Of course, this last statement begs the question, why should I not reinforce my constructed world of experience? A topic for another post.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Just Being
Today I had a wonderful discussion with a colleague about "just being." The context was just being there for others, keeping the mind receptive to what the other person was saying... AND simply being aware of their presence. My colleague worked in the nursing profession for many years, and informed me that nursing is now focusing on not just physical healing, but "spiritual" (for lack of a better word) healing; the care giver can cultivate this healing in the patient by simply being there for them, just being fully present. What a concept! Well, not a concept....
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Zen Circles
I've always liked the simple enso (zen circle) paintings. They symbolize the Buddhist idea of emptiness, the ultimate reality according to Mahayana. Most enso paintings are simple circles, but this one by Deiryu (top of the page) has a bamboo stalk in it. My off-the-cuff interpretation of Deiryu's enso is the harmonious interrelation between the phenomenal world and true reality (emptiness). Here, the empty space is "enhanced" by the bamboo, and yet, it is the empty space that allows the bamboo to be (or, emptiness "contains" the tree). In a way, both emptiness and phenomenal reality are dependent on each other, for the aesthetic beauty of the world is only possible when both are present. Another way of putting it is that "form is only emptiness, emptiness is no other than form...,"; this well known (in some circles) quote is from the Heart Sutra.
Reflections on Nishitani's understanding of religion Pt. I
I've been pondering Nishitani's work, Religion and Nothingness, for the umpteenth time (partly for the course I'll be teaching this semester), and without fail, it has provoked me to think of something... this time the nature of temporality (not as an abstract idea, but our experience of it). I'll post my reflections soon, but first a little preamble:
Without going into the details of his arguments, Nishitani claims that 1) religion is an "individual affair," i.e., it is a personal thing, 2) understanding religion requires that the person undertake the religious quest, and 3) the precondition for truly understanding religion is the experience of nihility. Nishitani defines nihility as "...that which renders meaningless the meaning of life (p. 4)." Nishitani claims that we live our ordinary lives within an assumed (and unconscious) framework that places us at the center of things, where everything (and everybody) is seen as meaningful for us. He calls this a "self-centered" view of existence, but Nishitani is not using this term in a pejorative sense; rather, he is referring to a basic Buddhist tenet that one of the primary erroneous views that afflict us humans is the notion of an abiding self (according to Buddhism, the reality is that there is no self... this assertion makes many folks shudder). In the modern context that Nishitani is using this idea of self-centeredness, this assumed framework is teleological in nature, that the objects, events, and people in our worlds become projects for us (I want to buy that car, go to that concert, date that person). When a person's world comes apart, due to, for example, becoming gravely ill, losing a loved one, or failing at some business venture, she or he comes up against nihility, the fact that life is uncertain, transient, and ultimately leads to death. At this point, life, in its telic, self-centered mode of existence, has become meaningless. However, once this nihility is embraced, there is a radical transformation in one's outlook. One's question is no longer, "how will religion, people, etc., serve me?" but rather, "what is the real purpose of my life?" This profound reorientation in outlook is, for Nishitani, the beginning of the religious quest.
One more (lengthy) point before going on to my reflection, Nishitani's concept of the "field of consciousness." This concept is used by Nishitani to describe and critique the Cartesian idea of self. Simply put, the field of consciousness is an epistemic structure made up of an independent (alienated) self or ego, a consciousness that is completely separated from both its body and the world (both body and world are material, mechanistic existences, while consciousness, defined primarily as rationality is not only of a different order, but also that which we are). This epistemic framework structures all experience in the form of a subject/object duality, that is, a separate subject (ego) that observes both objects, etc., external to it and states internal to consciousness. For Nishitani, this mode of consciousness never really perceives anything but representations of "external" and "internal" phenomena; the assumption here is that the "self" that observes and reflects on phenomena is a given ("I think, therefore, I am). In order to see things directly as they are, Nishitani asserts that we should break through the field of consciousness by understanding (not conceptually, but with one's entire being) the absolute subjectivity of the subject. This means that one comes to see the subject in itself, without the dualistic representations--seeing the self as an object of the perceiving ego. Paradoxically, once one sees one's subjectivity in its own home ground, to use Nishitani's phrase, one sees the "home ground" of all things. In other words, "perceiving" without the dualistic and representational "field of consciousness" means to see (understand with one's entire being) all phenomena without duality, which is akin to seeing things as they truly are.
Without going into the details of his arguments, Nishitani claims that 1) religion is an "individual affair," i.e., it is a personal thing, 2) understanding religion requires that the person undertake the religious quest, and 3) the precondition for truly understanding religion is the experience of nihility. Nishitani defines nihility as "...that which renders meaningless the meaning of life (p. 4)." Nishitani claims that we live our ordinary lives within an assumed (and unconscious) framework that places us at the center of things, where everything (and everybody) is seen as meaningful for us. He calls this a "self-centered" view of existence, but Nishitani is not using this term in a pejorative sense; rather, he is referring to a basic Buddhist tenet that one of the primary erroneous views that afflict us humans is the notion of an abiding self (according to Buddhism, the reality is that there is no self... this assertion makes many folks shudder). In the modern context that Nishitani is using this idea of self-centeredness, this assumed framework is teleological in nature, that the objects, events, and people in our worlds become projects for us (I want to buy that car, go to that concert, date that person). When a person's world comes apart, due to, for example, becoming gravely ill, losing a loved one, or failing at some business venture, she or he comes up against nihility, the fact that life is uncertain, transient, and ultimately leads to death. At this point, life, in its telic, self-centered mode of existence, has become meaningless. However, once this nihility is embraced, there is a radical transformation in one's outlook. One's question is no longer, "how will religion, people, etc., serve me?" but rather, "what is the real purpose of my life?" This profound reorientation in outlook is, for Nishitani, the beginning of the religious quest.
One more (lengthy) point before going on to my reflection, Nishitani's concept of the "field of consciousness." This concept is used by Nishitani to describe and critique the Cartesian idea of self. Simply put, the field of consciousness is an epistemic structure made up of an independent (alienated) self or ego, a consciousness that is completely separated from both its body and the world (both body and world are material, mechanistic existences, while consciousness, defined primarily as rationality is not only of a different order, but also that which we are). This epistemic framework structures all experience in the form of a subject/object duality, that is, a separate subject (ego) that observes both objects, etc., external to it and states internal to consciousness. For Nishitani, this mode of consciousness never really perceives anything but representations of "external" and "internal" phenomena; the assumption here is that the "self" that observes and reflects on phenomena is a given ("I think, therefore, I am). In order to see things directly as they are, Nishitani asserts that we should break through the field of consciousness by understanding (not conceptually, but with one's entire being) the absolute subjectivity of the subject. This means that one comes to see the subject in itself, without the dualistic representations--seeing the self as an object of the perceiving ego. Paradoxically, once one sees one's subjectivity in its own home ground, to use Nishitani's phrase, one sees the "home ground" of all things. In other words, "perceiving" without the dualistic and representational "field of consciousness" means to see (understand with one's entire being) all phenomena without duality, which is akin to seeing things as they truly are.
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