Musings

a short reading list

2010-09-15T15:26:00.000-07:00

When you study, study everything under the sun.
When you reflect, keep an open mind.
When you practice, do one practice and go deep.

— Jamgön Kongtrül, 1813-1899

When it comes to practice, advice is ageless. We struggle with the same challenges that practitioners struggled with a thousand or two thousand years ago. Thus, we can read books from any age or any culture and we will find helpful advice.
What to read?
With the plethora of books on Buddhism now available, where do you start? When it comes to practice, it pays to keep things simple and rely on ageless advice. You don't need to read many books, but you do need to learn the ones you do read. Here is a basic reading list that will serve you well. If you really learn these, you will be in very good shape.
All these books are on Unfettered Mind's recommended reading blog. If you purchase them through the blog (it connects directly to Amazon), you will help Unfettered Mind in the process.

Basic Practice

Breath by Breath (Larry Rosenberg's very readable commentary on the Anapanasanti Sutra)
Mindfulness in Plain English (Gunaratana's excellent instructions in basic mindfulness, basically drawing from the Satipatthana Sutra)
Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind (Suzuki Roshi)
How to Cook Your Life (Dogen and Uchiyama, best description I know of how to live in awareness)

Tibetan Mahayana

ONE lamrim text, e.g., Jewel Ornament of Liberation, Words of my Perfect Teacher, Treasury of Precious Qualities, The Three Levels of Spiritual Perception, etc.
(strongly recommend listening to the TAN series of podcasts as you read)
The Way of the Bodhisattva (a solid translation of Shantideva's Bodhicaryavatara)
Wake Up to Your Life (a reference manual for meditation practices, Ken McLeod)
The Great Path of Awakening (THE basic manual for mind training, Kongtrul, trans. Ken McLeod)

Vajryana

The Torch of Certainty (Kongtrul's commentary on ngöndro, trans. July Hanson)
Creation and Completion (Kongtrul's summary of vajrayana practice, trans. Sarah Harding)

Mahamudra

Clarifying the Natural State (excellent practice book for mahamudra, Tashi Namgyal, trans. Erik Kunsang)
Heart Lamp (two excellent short books on mahamudra, Tselek Rangdrol, trans. Erik Kunsang)

Two important sutras

The Diamond Sutra (Red Pine)
The Heart Sutra (Red Pine)

This may seem like a lot. Except for the lamrim text, Shantideva, and Wake Up to Your Life, the books are not long. All of them, however, are dense and potent. Thus, read them carefully, study them with friends or fellow practitioners, and take them to heart.

happiness and completion

2010-08-30T21:08:00.000-07:00

At the end of the last retreat, a student asked, "Why don't you talk much about happiness, as most Tibetan teachers do?"

Why, indeed? Doesn't everyone, in the end, seek happiness?

Perhaps. Perhaps it depends on what happiness means to you.

Happiness, I think, is usually associated with a feeling of pleasure and the absence of pain. As such, I think it is both frivolous and unrealistic: frivolous because pleasure is a transient state, subject to change, and dependent on many conditions, internal and external, and unrealistic because life is unpredictable and pain can arise at anytime.

The spate of books on happiness are particular troubling as they lead people to believe that this is a viable objective in life, and, worse, that one should be happy. Big pharma is no doubt delighted with this trend as they can now happily present themselves as fulfilling a cultural need by peddling drugs for SAD (social anxiety disorder), grief (see this article), and related conditions which are increasingly being regarded as medical and mental pathologies instead of part of the ups and downs of the human condition.

Indeed, the quest for happiness is, in another way, the continuation of the traditional view of religion and spiritual practice, namely, a way of transcending the human condition. Valhalla, paradise, heaven, nirvana all hold out the promise of eternal life, bliss, purity, and union, four basic spiritual longings that are at the heart of all our suffering and struggle.

As Don Cupitt notes in his book The Great Questions of Life, we are at the beginning (possibly in the middle, but definitely not at the end) of a global shift in the concept of religion, a shift away from the view of religion as a way of transcending the human condition and toward a view that religion is about embracing the human condition. He opens this talk with a description of how the use of the language of life has, over the past century, largely replaced the language of religion.

Thus, for me, spiritual practice is now not so much about happiness as about completion, a way of experiencing life that is as complete as possible in each and every moment.

This approach to spiritual practice was not what I initially sought. Like most people, I sought some kind of transcendence, if not in God, then in various god surrogates such as mahamudra, pristine awareness, or dzogchen, though, somewhat ironically, dzogchen means "great completion".

My experience in retreat training was not one of transcendence, but one of descent, a descent into prolonged physical and emotional challenges that left me no option but to experience exactly what was arising. Taking and sending (mahayana mind training) was often the only form of practice I could do, and it worked, not in the sense of easing the pain or finding some transcendent state, but in providing me with a way to be in my experience, not blocking it, nor being consumed by it.

One principle that I learned then, though one I've had to learn and relearn it again and again, is that when we see and accept what is actually happening, even if it is very difficult or painful, mind and body relax, and in that rest, there is an exquisite quality that comes through just experiencing what arises, completely, with no separation.

Some might call it joy, but it is not a giddy or excited joy. Rather it is a deep and quiet joy, a joy that, in some sense is always there, waiting for us, but usually touched only when some challenge, pain, or tragedy leaves us with no other option.

Others might call it truth, but this is a loaded and misleading word, carrying with it the notion of something that exists apart from experience itself. The notion of truth also sets up an opposition, with what is held to be false, and such duality necessarily leads to hierarchy, authority, and institutional thinking and its associated forms of mind killing.

Again, in the three-year retreat, one of the daily prayers contained the line "Though beings want to be happy, they just create suffering." At first, it seemed to me that these lines referred to a lack of skill, that is, if beings understood and applied the principles of karma, then they would not suffer as much. Better, if they experienced the "true nature of things", then they wouldn't suffer at all. But as time passed and I went through my own struggles, I came to understand these lines in a different way: the desire for happiness itself is a form of suffering as it leads to a struggle with experience, e.g., in the context of relationships, the desire for continual happiness undermines emotional connection.

Thus, for me, the purpose of practice is now to be with whatever arises in this experience we call "life", nothing more, and nothing less. Everything we do in practice is aimed at the development of the willingness, skills, and capacities needed to experience life this way.

What are you looking for in a teacher?

2010-07-22T13:06:00.000-07:00

Teacher, guru, or spiritual friend, what are you looking for? The spiritual path has many challenges. There are many things we need to learn or develop. A short list would probably include motivation, skills in meditation and prayer, contemplation, etc. Like music and painting, most of us learn spiritual practice better with someone, rather, than, for instance, by reading a book. When we interact with an actual person, we have to give expression to what we have learned. It becomes alive in us in a way that book learning often does not.

In Buddhism we usually think of a teacher. In Catholicism, the comparable term might be spiritual guide. Whatever term we use, this person has a crucial role in our spiritual growth. Role? Actually, it would be more accurate to say "roles". I came up with a list of nine, probably not exhaustive or comprehensive, but perhaps a good starting point. Here are brief descriptions, in no particular order.

Teacher

A teacher is a person who imparts to you a given body of knowledge, skill or capability. In the spiritual context, this might mean the underlying philosophy, moral principles, and meditation methods. A teacher has to have experience and knowledge to impart and, as a student, your responsibility is to learn from the teacher. The teacher may touch into coach or therapist roles, but only to a limited extent. Change in you comes through your efforts to learn what the teacher is teaching and to put it into practice.

Guru

A guru is a special teacher, a person whom you see as an expression of what it means to be awake and present and who also has the ability to elicit such experiences of awakening in you (i.e., transmission). In addition, he or she may provide instruction in methods of practice and guidance in both life and practice. Such a teacher may place significant demands on you to help you work through conceptual, emotional or spiritual blocks that prevent you from deeper levels of experience. Change in you comes through your confidence (or devotion) to your guru. This allows a deep emotional relationship to form which becomes the means by which you open to deeper levels of experience.

Priest

A priest is a person who, by virtue of his or her training, symbolizes a relationship with the spiritual, or, if you wish, the divine. Interaction with a priest is frequently highly ritualized, the ritual setting and roles providing an environment in which the patterns and prejudices of daily life are set aside and the priest can function for you as a representative of what you aspire to spiritually or religiously. Change comes through your trust in the ritual forms and using them to access what is in your heart.

Therapist

While there are many different approaches to therapy, the aim in therapy is to heal. Thus, a therapist helps you to heal from emotional or psychological wounds that you may have incurred in the course of your life. The therapist provides a healing environment, a place where old hurts can be touched, without your being re-wounded. Change comes through the power of the emotional connection you experience with the therapist. He or she supports you, through presence, attention, and caring, in revisiting old hurts so they can heal.

Coach

A coach is person who helps you change the way you behave, with the aim of making the way you do things more productive, more satisfying, less problematic, etc. A coach may well overlap with a teacher (teaching specific skills) and with a therapist (addressing to some extent the emotional issues that prevent you from changing your behavior). Change comes from your being willing to experiment with the different behaviors that your coach suggests and to see what works and doesn't work for you.

Consultant

A consultant is a person who helps you solve a problem by bringing greater depth and breadth of attention, experience and/or knowledge to the problem at hand. The challenge for the consultant is to avoid being relegated to an ineffectual role (the hand-holder) or being held responsible for the problem if it can't be resolved (the scapegoat). Frequently, the consultant seeks to move to the teacher role in order to help his or her client see the problem (and hence the possible solutions) differently. Change comes from your working with a consultant as a partner, combining his or her knowledge and experience about similar problems with your knowledge of the particulars of your problem.

Mentor

A mentor is a person who has considerable experience, knowledge, and wisdom which he or she makes available to you. Where you learn specific areas of knowledge from a teacher, you learn how to implement that knowledge, how to live it, from a mentor. A mentor may also guide you in your path, in your career, for instance, but more generally, in the area of experience of the mentor. Change in you comes from your listening carefully to your mentor's experience and from the mentor creating opportunities for you to grow and develop.

Preacher

A preacher is a person who moves you emotionally, evoking such emotions as love, fear, awe, or joy through his or her words and presentation. A preacher typically works with groups, often large groups, speaking to them in such a way that they are moved emotionally, inspiring them to go beyond what they ordinarily think themselves capable of. Change comes about either through faith (opening to new possibilities) or belief (solidifying one's convictions) in the preacher or what he or she is saying.

Guide
A guide is a person who knows the territory, is able to find a path, and protects you, as much as possible, from danger on the path. A guide is a good person to be with when you are going into to territory that is unknown or unfamiliar to you. Think of a river guide, or a mountain guide. Change comes from following your guide's directions, not striking out on your own, but absorbing and learning from your guide until you know the territory and its challenges and can be guide yourself.

Now, what are you looking for in a teacher?

Capacity

2010-05-05T17:21:00.000-07:00

Practice Tip: Capacity
In a previous note, I talked about willingness, know-how and capacity as they apply to practice. Here, I go into more detail on capacity.

Capacity has four dimensions: depth, staying power, versatility, and resilience.

To develop depth, let your attention rest on the breath (or other object of attention) and let the object completely absorb you. Do this for short periods, being clear and aware. If you do this for too long, you will likely fall into trance states, a form of dullness, or start to block experience, a form of suppression.

To develop staying power, rest in the experience of breathing, letting the resting become more and more complete, resting with whatever arises, relaxation, tension, etc. You can do this for longer periods, but only as long as actual resting is happening. When you aren't able to rest, take a break and come back.

To develop versatility, rest attention in the experience of breathing in different situations. Begin with easier situations and extend to more challenging ones. Again, short periods of clear stable attention are better.

And to develop resilience, learn to recognize the rhythms of practice, work deeply when conditions are right, and take a break when you feel dull, brittle, or tired. Resilience develops through the combination of making efforts and taking breaks before the effort causes any damage.

Experience

2010-05-03T11:36:00.000-07:00

"I don't know who I am any more. Nothing makes sense. I don't know how to go on. What do I do?"

A couple of months ago, I was leading an informal question and answer session, and after the meditation period, a young woman posed this question. She was clearly in distress about something, a loss, perhaps, a betrayal - she didn't say. Because it was a public forum I didn't ask for any details. Instead, I talked with her about how to meet experience.
Later, she asked, "Is there a way of out of the bitterness?" "Yes," I replied, "but if you look for it, you won't find it." She sat quietly for a few minutes, and then said, "So I have to experience it." "Yes," I said, "you have to experience it and not believe it."

Whenever a powerful experience arises, whether positive or negative, it triggers associations of all kinds, including deep longings and deep fears. The power of the experience says to us, "This is how things are" and we tend to believe it. If the experience is one of transcendence or insight, we may feel that we are one with the world, that we know the ultimate truth, that everything is love, that our search is over and our longings have come to an end, etc. If the experience is one of darkness or depression, we feel disorientation or despair, that all is hopeless, that we are forever alienated from the world, and we will never know joy, happiness, or love. The experience may even trigger both kinds of reactions at the same time. It's easy to fall into belief here, believing what the stories and feelings are telling us about the experience.
Instead, open to the experience and be where you are. Be aware of your body and your surroundings. Know that what is arising is an experience, nothing more, and nothing less.
A student excitedly told his teacher that he had had a vision of the buddhas of the ten directions gathering in the sky, initiating him into the mystery of life, while countless bodhisattvas and their consorts made offerings, sang songs and filled the sky with rainbows.
"Ah," his teacher sighed, "it's been many years now since I've been fooled by that kind of stuff."
As Rangjung Dorje wrote, in Aspirations for Mahamudra,
Since perception is experience and emptiness is experience,
Since knowing is experience and delusion is experience,
Since arising is experience and cessation is experience,
May all assumptions about experience be eliminated.

Faith and Belief

2010-04-05T21:41:00.000-07:00

There are two very different ways to meet what arises in experience.

One is to interpret what arises according to our conditioning. This is a self-reinforcing dynamic and results in a closed system in which everything is explained, the mystery of life is banished, and no new ideas, perspectives, or approaches to life can enter. This I call belief.

The other is to open to whatever arises, to allow the reactions and stories of our conditioning to arise but not be swallowed by them, to open to the possibility of not knowing, and thus making a place in our experience not only for the mystery of life, but for new ideas and approaches. The willingness to meet experience this way I call faith.

In ordinary English usage, the words "faith" and "belief" are often used interchangeably and the difference between these two ways of meeting experience is confused or lost. One of the results is the pseudo-tension between science and religion, where science is presented as the willingness to open to new information in the form of experimental evidence (i.e., faith) and religion is portrayed as relying on fixed tenets that are held no matter what evidence is offered to the contrary (i.e., belief).

Belief kills both science and religion while faith is necessary for both.

If you try to practice meditation by holding to beliefs, you will inevitably come into conflict with your experience. Beliefs are conditioned ways of interpreting experience. As your capacity in attention deepens, you will see beyond your conditioning, and the beliefs you hold will lead you to dismiss what you experience then, or lead you to shut it down.

Start developing a capacity for faith by being willing to experience whatever arises in your meditation practice. Rather than try to control your mind (i.e., your experience), open to what arises without being swallowed by it. This is a practice. You will fail at it ten thousand times. No matter. Just keep going. Use your breath as an anchor. Gradually, you will forge a different relationship with experience, where you can rest in what arises and be clear and at peace at the same time.

Being an Artist in Today's World

2010-03-14T15:07:00.000-07:00

Peter Clothier recently wrote a little book called Persist, which consists of a collection of his reflections on being an artist "in a world gone mad with commerce". His reflections are sprinkled with his experience with meditation and how it has influenced his approach to art and writing.

What I like most here is that Peter sees his meditation practice not as way to heal, nor as a way to live life better or more efficiently, but as a way to appreciate life more deeply.

One example: One Hour/One Painting.

First, choose your picture. It should be preferably an original work of art, but it need not be a masterpiece. This is simply about learning to be available to what's there, not about the finer points of aesthetic discrimination. That can come later, if you wish. This is about allowing the eyes to function, in so far as possible, without interference from the thinking process. You can do this in a gallery, too; all you need it to request the favor of a chair or bring your own folding stool.

Begin, as always, with the breath. Close your eyes, place the feet firmly on the ground with the hands laid gently in your lap. Don't be in a rush to open your eyes: if you take a few minutes to get bodily present, adjust to the breath and empty out the mind of its prejudice and expectations, you'll be astounded by the effect when you open them up to see the painting. It can be as breathtaking as I imagine it would be to step out onto the surface of a newly discovered planet.

From now on, the process will be to simply walk around the surface of the painting. Find a focal point, if that is helpful, and work out from there. Or work from the edges, one at a time, toward the center, simply allowing the eyes to take in what's there. No questions. No commentary. From time to time, allow the eyes to close gently and to rest and refresh for as long as feels comfortable — perhaps until they get hungry again. then feed them. Better if they are greedy!

Keep reminding yourself, when the mind begins to wander, to return the attention to the breath. It's the mind that will keep wanting to ask the questions, or answer them: What in God's name am I doing here, wasting an hour when I could be really working? How is this artist using color, or form, or pattern — and what is he trying to say? And so on. Ignore it. Get back to the breath. Allow the eyes to do the work. Notice how their small muscles change direction and focus.

It's simple but not easy to do if you are not accustomed to sitting for an hour in silence.

Simple, but not easy.

As you read these pages, it's easy to feel that Peter is in the room talking with you — with you, not to you — in a warm gentle cadence in which the conversation unfolds not as a set of polemics, but his experience and thoughts about art, poetry, and writing, about meeting the creative challenge as captured in Duane Michals' line "While I am not afraid...", working from the hurt or difficult places as in Rumi's "Keep your eye on the bandaged place", or about not being a critic but one who translates, taking a painting or a poem, and expressing it in another medium. His skill with this last is something with which I have personal experience: his review of An Arrow to the Heart shows that he understood exactly what I hoped the book would do for people.

By the end, whether you are a writer, a painter, or one who enjoys art, you feel you have been invited into a different way of appreciating and approaching art, and, possibly, life.

Second Life take 2

2009-12-24T15:30:00.000-08:00

For those of you interested in viewing my talk in Second Life, you can watch it here on YouTube.

One of the key questions that arises for me is "How does the visual interface in Second Life affect interaction?" My initial feeling was that it adds a layer and increases the probability of confusion and that Skype, or even phone, despite the limitations, is more direct. The experience of others seems to be different. One person describes how he or she finds the visual interface better than the floating video head that one has in Skype or the disembodied voice over the phone.

This observation set me to thinking. Even though one has set up an avatar and one is meeting with another avatar, the visual interface and the action of two people meeting for a conversation has a potential for ritual that would be more difficult to create in Skype. For formal interviews, as in the Zen tradition, the Second Life setting may actually be richer.

Two other observations may be relevant.

In one session of the teacher development program I have just completed, I had the participants create masks and explore the difference between teaching (and interacting as a student) while wearing a mask and teaching and interacting while not wearing a mask. People's experience varied widely. Some simply couldn't teach if the student was wearing a mask. Others could. Some taught more naturally while wearing a mask. Others taught more naturally when they were not wearing a mask. In our discussion afterwards, I noted that in formal teaching situations in some traditions everyone is "wearing a mask". And, in some sense, we are always wearing a mask. From this perspective, the avatars are a form of mask and may enhance interaction for some just as the inhibit it for others.

Second, given how the human organism depends on visual and physical cues, many of them subliminal, the quality of communication deteriorates when those cues are not present. I certainly find this with phone conversations, and though I can tune into subtleties in voice and the general energy, I still feel that I'm missing a lot. This was confirmed by my interaction with one student. When I met with her in person, I was usually pretty accurate in my responses to her questions. But when we conversed over the phone, which was usually the case, I often found myself guessing as I was missing all the usual cues. She also noticed that my responses weren't as accurate over the phone.

Now, the physical cues supplied by an avatar bear only the most rudimentary correlation (if that) with the person's emotional state, but I'm wondering if the visual image itself facilitates a fuller interaction on levels that are hard to recognize or identify.

A final point. When two people converse, communication takes place not only at the verbal level, but also at the emotional level, as each is continually sensing and responding (or reacting) to the emotional energy in the other and in themselves. How does the Second Life interface affect the ability to sense emotional energy? Does the visual interface mislead or enhance the interaction?

Idle thoughts on Christmas Eve. Have a lovely holiday!

Second Life

2009-12-19T14:08:00.000-08:00

What was it like, to teach the Dharma in Second Life?

That question has been posed to me quite a few times, since Adam Tebbe, founder of Kannonji Zen Retreat in Second Life invited me to teach there on Dec. 16, 2009.

A week before the date, Adam introduced me to Second Life, created an avatar for me, and taught me how to sit down, strike the gong, and other basic movements. I was struck by the tasteful design of the temple. Clearly, care and attention had gone into creating this alternative reality.

At the appointed hour, I came into the temple, more or less materializing à la Star Trek, into a throng of about 30 people (there are 1300 in this particular community). Everyone, except me, had their audio muted to avoid what would otherwise have been a cacophony of feedback. For the first few minutes, I had the same feeling I had when I did a tele-teaching with Tricycle, about three years ago: the disorientation that arises in the absolute absence of any sense of being with other people. I moved to interaction as quickly as possible, to have some sense of who was present (hmmm, interesting context in which to use that word). Responses to my questions came back through instant messages, but the messages scrolled by a little too quickly. This was a small problem, but it did inhibit my ability to respond to all the questions and comments.

During the actual teaching, it quickly became clear that, to judge from the questions and responses, some of the people "present" had a good level of experience. I did my best in my comments and approach to meet them, yet one can't read much in terms of body language or emotional energy from (or through) an avatar, and I could only guess at how to respond.

In comparing Second Life to other online teaching I've done, Second Life, for me, is a bit thin for two reasons: the setting seems to add an additional layer of separation, the appearance of speaking to a group of people sitting, and the interaction is limited to speaking and responding to comments and questions.

I've used a couple of online classrooms (wimb and dimdim). While they don't provide a visual scene as Second Life does, they do allow people to see a video of me, and, in addition to the voice and IM communication in Second Life, I have the use of a whiteboard, slideshow, screen-sharing, and web links to enrich the interaction.

Of course, Second Life provides a completely different experience and was not designed as an interface for teaching, so the comparison may seem unfair. But I was there to teach and that was what I was trying to do.

Having said all this, I was impressed and intrigued by the size of the group, the level of interest, the level of experience, and, not least, the ability to make it sustainable financially, all of which says that something is happening here (but I'm not sure what it is).

Goldilocks and the Middle Way

2009-11-28T12:15:00.000-08:00

Not too hot, not too cold. Not too hard, not too soft. Goldilocks finds that the baby bear’s porridge and bed are “just right” for her.

A few months ago, a friend or a student (and I really can’t remember who) pointed out that most people practice the middle way in the same way. They try to find the path that is the most comfortable, or, failing that, the least uncomfortable. This is how children approach life.

The middle way is not a comfort seeking approach to life. It is a way to open to everything we experience, a way to address imbalances as they arise moment by moment. The key is found in its definition: not to fall into an extreme.

Life is full of polarities: pleasure and pain, gain and loss, fame and obscurity, respect and disdain. Whenever we pursue the “positive” pole, we set in motion forces, internally and externally, that inevitably bring about the opposite pole.

If we look to find comfort in each moment, we end up going to sleep when we find it and then being woken up and chased by changing circumstances, just as Goldilocks was chased away by the three bears.

This illustration came from Steedman, Amy. Nursery Tales. Paul Woodroffe, illustrator. London: TC & EC Jack, n.d.

For a history of the story of Goldilocks, see this article in Wikipedia.

where the rubber meets the road

2009-07-25T22:49:00.000-07:00

Over the last two years, I’ve been meeting three times a year with a group of twelve people, focusing on some of the deeper aspects of practice and teaching. This group, like most of the groups I’ve worked with, has presented me with a consistent challenge: passivity. (For more on passivity, click here.)

Role-playing is a good tool to develop people’s capacity and to put them in touch with their internal material. It’s challenging. It’s revealing. And, yes, it can be frightening, but to be present in fear is a good way to build capacity.

With this group, when I asked for volunteers for a role-play, there was always an awkward silence. Sometimes one or two people would reluctantly step forward, but usually, I ended up picking a couple of people. The air was thick with resistance and discomfort. Once into the exercise, people usually appreciated how helpful it was, but the passivity continued.

At our meeting in June this year, however, something happened that made all the difference.

After lunch one day, when we met for our afternoon session, I again asked for a couple of volunteers. Instead of the awkward silence, every hand shot up! It took me a moment to adjust. This was a completely different situation — or was it?

In one sense, nothing had changed: I still had to pick a couple of people for the exercise. In another sense, everything had changed: I could now focus on picking people who would benefit most from the exercise or who could demonstrate the points I was trying to convey. I no longer had to be concerned about pushing people against their will.

What had happened? Apparently, over lunch, the group had decided that they were fed up with my constant pushing and organized a conspiracy. Everyone had agreed to step forward whenever I asked for volunteers.

The shift in energy was dramatic. The air almost sparkled with the energy of engagement. Most important, we were all able to work at a much deeper level.

The same dynamic applies in other settings. Two or three times a month, I lead Sutra Sessions, at Against the Stream and Insight LA here in Los Angeles. More than the meditation period, the Q&A that follows is where the real learning takes place. The few people who pose questions are not being passive. They are presenting their questions, challenges, or insights, and inviting a response. We go back and forth until they are clear in their experience. The interaction is two-way, not one-way, and this two-way interaction is crucial if one is to deepen practice and make it a way of life.

Most teaching situations are one-way interactions. A person listens to a talk, reads a book, or plays a podcast or other recording. However beneficial a person may feel the talk or the book is, the flow is one-way and it is difficult to say what, if anything, has actually been learnt.

In the two-way interaction, both teacher and student find out very quickly what they know. Does the student stand in his or her own experience and give expression to their understanding? Does the teacher respond to the student without concern for position, identity, status, role or other forms of protection? Is there a meeting of minds? And what happens then?

This two-way interaction is challenging for both parties. Neither one knows where things are going to go. It can be uncomfortable, even frightening, but when minds meet, understanding arises, and with it, a subtle joy. This is where the rubber meets the road — where our practice comes alive and active in our lives.

rules for the road

2009-07-12T21:30:00.000-07:00

I know I can be deceived by patterns. I can feel that what I'm seeing is true and what I'm doing is fair and just, and still be completely wrong. Perception is always limited, by conditioning, by patterns, by circumstances. I cannot know what is beyond and yet, often, I have to act.

Consequently, I've evolved a few principles to help me in such situations. I won't claim that they are exhaustive or comprehensive, but they seem to work pretty well most of the time.

It's never about fairness or justice.
As I said in a previous post, I've consistently found that any clinging to notions of fairness or justice is a way of avoiding some aspect of the situation I don't want to acknowledge. I now take such clinging as an indication that I haven't penetrated my own confusion and projection. Eventually, I come across a pain or a hurt that tells me why a person acted as he or she did, or why a person can't go to a place that I think he or she should.

Equanimity does not mean fairness.

To practice equanimity is to understand that everything everybody ever does — I repeat, everything everybody ever does — is because at that moment, he or she feels that their action will improve their world. In other words he or she is just trying to be happy. The actions may be, and often are, tragically, catastrophically self-defeating, but that is the motivation at the moment of action. Equanimity, then, is a profound acceptance of each person's humanity. Fairness may be the result of equanimity, but it's not the practice of equanimity.

Whatever is there is there, calmly licking its chops.
When I encounter a powerful, overwhelming, painful or massively unpleasant (or pleasant) feeling, it's there and there is nothing I can do about it except experience it. I sit in it using bare attention, do taking and sending with it to form a relation with it, or mix the feeling with awareness — whatever I'm capable of. In all these, the aim is not sitting with the feeling, but sitting in the feeling. There's a difference.

Penetrating so many secrets, we cease to believe in the unknowable. But there it sits nevertheless, calmly licking its chops.
— H. L. Mencken

Go to the body.
When there are feelings of injustice or lack of fairness, stories abound. When there are feelings of being misunderstood or unappreciated, stories abound. The stories are almost always projections, and are, by and large, unreliable. Engagement is fruitless: one inevitably gets lost in them. I go to the body, and sit in whatever physical sensations are there, including the sensation of no sensation.

Not feeling anything is a sensation.
This may seem like a paradox, but not being able to feel your body is a sensation, and often quite a vivid one at that. It usually indicates that one is in some kind of shock. I sit in that experience, too.

Let the sun shine.
A simile I've found helpful is that the feeling at the core of a pattern is like a flower bud and one's attention is like the sun. Let the sun warm the bud, and the flower will open in time. You can't hurry the process. To force the bud to open damages things beyond repair. When an issue is up, I work with it regularly and consistently, but I don't try to work through it in one session or in a limited period of time. In fact, I don't even try to work through it at all. If it's there, that's where I sit. If it's not, then I don't go looking for it.

(If decisions have to be made, I make them, cognizant that they may not be the right ones, and cognizant, too, that I will have to receive the results, whatever they are.)

When you feel resolved, look to the stars.
In astronomy, any observation or theory that places the earth in a privileged position indicates a mistake in the data, the method of observation, or the interpretation of the data. Any resolution of the issue that leaves you in a privileged position (the usual ones are hero or victim) is suspect. These are identities, and are pretty reliable indications that the "resolution" is serving some unacknowledged agenda.

It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings.
The origin of this phrase isn't clear. I remember it from one Salinger's novels, but Wikipedia suggests it came from a sports writer in the '70s. The singer here is an internal admission or allowing of a weakness, a hurt, a prejudice, or an ignoring, that you haven't acknowledged before. It comes with its own set of body sensations, emotions, and stories. In other words, you are back in the mess, or another mess, and all the previous principles apply. How many arias or choruses will she sing? No one knows. That's part of the mystery.

Fairness and Justice

2009-06-29T09:28:00.000-07:00

In societies in which there is one overarching world view, fairness and justice are complex issues. Interpretations of the law, in Judaism, always include the minority opinion, a way of saying that fairness and justice are contingent, not absolute, principles.

In a society in which there is multiplicity of perspectives and world views, different views compete and fairness and justice can become functions of power.

Spiritual practice goes nowhere if it follows this path. Everything gets lost in interpretation, conceptual thinking, unacknowledged prejudice and bias, etc.

In spiritual practice, we have to dispense completely with appeals to justice and fairness, precisely because they are open to interpretation and dependent on position. And if we claim access to a higher truth, we are, in effect, claiming the power and the right to decide for others.

Aside: I dislike and avoid the notion that spiritual truth is a higher truth, in terms of society and the world, etc. Spiritual practice is based on a principles that run counter to many principles of society. To claim that spiritual practice is a "higher truth" is another form of prejudice. Instead, I have to acknowledge that the principles on which I base my decisions are different from the principles that a person in a social context may base his or her decisions.

I now rarely try to persuade people to adopt a specific perspective, Buddhist or otherwise. Rather, I seek to help them find what is true for them in the world they experience. As we explore this together, appeals to justice or fairness are almost always stories that hide or protect unacknowledged hurts or pains. As they open to those pains, people frequently find clarity on their own and know what to do, not because it is "fair" or "just" or "right" (these are, in the end, somewhat childish motivations), but because, when everything, inside and out, is included in awareness, often only one course of action is indicated — the direction of the present, to use Uchiyama's phrase.

In other words, the illusion of choice is an indication of a lack of freedom.

clarifying oranges and deities

2009-06-03T16:38:00.000-07:00

Three words that, clearly, should not be in the same sentence together.

An email exchange prompted by an earlier post.

The question:

Dear Mr. McLeod, I greatly value your teaching but found the latest email about concentration not being meditation a bit odd. My experience with both shamatha and (even more so) deity practice is that they are unequivocally concentration practices. Yes it's important to drop any sense of undue struggle or will but the whole point at least for a long while is to drop (but not supress) thoughts that distract one from focus on the object and return to it. There is a clear preference for one object over all others and an ever clearer preference for concentration over distraction. What am I missing?

And the reply:

I'm not sure you are missing anything. My aim was to move people away from trying to bind the mind to the object by force of will and toward bringing about stable attention by resting with the object (or more accurately, in the experience of the object). This particularly applies to deity practice. Here, one is not actually focusing on an object, but resting in the sense of being the deity. All kinds of internal voices rise up against this (we experience these as distractions). Concentration tends to lead people in the direction of suppressing those voices, creating tension in the system, which undermines stability in attention. Resting in the whole experience allows the emotional material driving those voices to be experienced, releasing the emotional tension, and thus the distractions, and now one can rest more completely as the deity. This way of practicing is not what most people usually understand from the word "concentration".

Concentrate is what we do to oranges

2009-06-01T22:04:00.000-07:00

Several times now, I've had occasion to meet with groups of practitioners whose practice is based on focusing attention on an object or observing thoughts and sensations or watching the breath. They frequently report difficulty, a kind of catch 22: either the effort they make in concentration works against stability or they lose clarity when they try to relax. They are usually trying to control their experience, to make it conform to certain expectations of how meditation should be.

All forms of practice that involve such effort, i.e., "I am doing something", inevitably reinforce that sense of separation from experience that arises as "I".

A monk sat meditating in the courtyard of a monastery.

"What are you doing?" asked the abbot.

"Meditating to attain enlightenment," replied the monk.

The abbot sat down beside him, picked up stone, and started to polish it with his robe. After a while, the monk's patience ran out.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Making a glass tile," replied the abbot.

"You can't make a glass tile by polishing a stone."

"Nor can you reach enlightenment by meditating."

Part of the problem is the word concentration. It has, unfortunately, become an accepted translation for the Sanskrit samadhi, a choice that was made about 100 years ago before many Westerners had much experiential understanding of Buddhism. And it sets up expectations, always a problem in meditation practice.

Samadhi denotes a deep level of attention, usually accessed through some form of meditation. In samadhi, it is said that the mind joins with the object of attention. But this union is not brought about by concentration on the object. That just squeezes the mind. It comes about by resting in the experience of the object.

When I suggest in these groups that, instead of concentrating or observing or watching, they just rest and open to what arises, they have a very different experience. The sense of "I" subsides naturally and they come to rest in experience, not separate from it.

We truly rest only when there is no enemy: we include everything that arises in experience, excluding nothing. We have to build the capacity to do this, of course, but we can build that capacity through resting and opening, not concentrating or focusing.

Catch 22

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.

"That's some catch, that Catch-22," Yossarian observed.

"It's the best there is," Doc Daneeka agreed.

The Stones Stand Cold

2009-05-23T12:14:00.000-07:00

Sisyphus is tired.

Too clever by half, inevitably

He draws the gods' revenge.

Things are the way they are

For a reason.

But he never learns.

Teachers teach.

And they all agree

A quiet colloquy may be desired, maybe needed.

But the fire calls them

To their calling

And they go.

The stones stand cold

As he waits,

Angry and alone.

And the gods have their revenge.

Evolution and Buddhahood

2009-03-31T09:24:00.000-07:00

Let no one suppose that evolution will ever exempt us from struggles. 'You forget,' said the Devil, with a chuckle, 'that I have been evolving too.'
— William Ralph Inge

When I read about the stages of practice and buddhahood in Tibetan texts, I come away with the sense that there is some ideal state to which all paths of practice converge. One finds elaborate descriptions of various stages, culminating in the final attainment of buddhahood. At the same time, I haven't seen any evidence for such a convergence, whether in the various teachers with whom I've studied, my own practice, or the countless hours I've spent with students.

Instead, I've come to appreciate that things just evolve. What went before shapes what follows. One can often and easily trace how a person's way of experiencing life has evolved out of family and childhood experiences. At the same time, something new and unsuspected can arise at any time. Education, social interactions, finding a life partner and other events introduce different strands that mix with what is already there and influence the way we develop. It's rich, it's complex, it can be utterly amazing, and it can be utterly dismaying. Sometimes what happens is all too predictable and sometimes it's completely unexpected.

The Middle Way, not falling into extremes, captures, very simply and very wonderfully, this complexity. We are not just body or just mind; things are neither ordered nor chaotic; the universe is neither one nor many, and so on.

The implications for practice are profound. Systems of practice such as the Path of Purity in the Theravadan tradition or the Graded Path texts in the Tibetan traditition lay out stages of development, types of practitioners, what practices are suitable for whom and when. These are extraordinary collections of the wisdom and experience of masters over the ages, but we can easily feel that something is wrong with us if we don't recognize our experience or can't fit ourselves into those descriptions.

We need to remember one thing: there is no such thing as normal. Normality is an average and no one is actually the average. All classification schemata are after the fact, seeking to ascribe an order to the chaos and complexity of evolution. Such schemata necessarily average things, but there are always aspects of experience that don't fit or lie at one or other extreme of the bell curve.

There are general principles in spiritual practice, just as there are general principles in evolution theory. But each plant, each organism grows its own way, and we need to respect that we, too, will grow our own way.

The Buddhist concept of causality reflects this sense of evolution. It's based on the notions of genesis and conditions. Just as an acorn is the genesis of an oak tree, the genesis of awakening in us is the very awareness that is present in experience. Just as an acorn requires water, warmth, nourishment, and shelter to begin its evolution into an oak tree, we need to provide the conditions for attention, awareness, and presence to grow and evolve in our own lives.

And how we evolve is how we evolve.

2009-03-18T09:27:00.000-07:00

...somewhere behind the most universal comprehension there must be an individual mind...
Clive James, Cultural Amnesia, page 508

We generally think of spiritual practice, and the training it involves, as something we learn from a teacher, a community or a tradition, or some combination of these three. We study texts and teachings. We are taught the particulars of practice, or a particular practice, from someone who is familiar or at least knowledgeable. Our study often includes stories about the struggles, experience, and achievements of others, usually the more famous, the more remarkable, or the more articulate. We are exposed to systems of discipline, systems of practice methods, and systems of philosophy. Our teacher or teachers may require, or we may choose, to discuss our experience with them, formally or informally, and we receive feedback, guidance, suggestions, cautions, etc.

We feel that we are becoming part of something and often forget that every spiritual practice, every teaching, every discourse or explanation began with ONE person's need to come to terms with his or her own experience. It is what worked for him or her, and his experience and understanding is what is being passed down to us.

The task, for each of us, is to ask, "Does this help me to resolve my own questions?"

One way to start is to ask, "For what question about the experience of life is this teaching an answer?" — a spiritual version of Jeopardy, if you wish.

We can begin with the usual suspects, basic meditation, death and impermanence, karma, and then move on to more subtle ones, such as bodhicitta (awakening mind), the two truths (apparent and ultimate), the two kinds of non-self (individual and experience), etc. Rather than give you my thoughts, please add your thoughts about these questions in the comments below.

We generally find that the questions we come up with are universal questions, in the sense that they have been asked for as long as history records (and probably longer). Each of the practices and teachings is how one person came to terms with that question. Maybe others find his or her answer or way of answering helpful, but not everyone, as we have so many different approaches.

The other day I watched Bab Aziz: the prince who contemplated his soul. It's a beautiful movie about a Sufi wandering in the desert with his grand-daughter. The movie opens with this quotation:

There are as many ways to God as there are souls on the earth.

And that is where I close.

Is your hair on fire?

2009-03-14T08:07:00.000-07:00

Practice like your hair is on fire!

A traditional aphorism, which probably goes back to Buddhism in India. Gelek Rinpoche makes it the theme of his recent article in Buddhadharma. And it shows up in the Zen tradition and elsewhere.

One meaning, obviously, is to make full use of this fleeting human experience to wake up. But there are two assumptions here: the experience of being human is but one of many and waking up is the highest purpose of life.

How do approach practice if you don't buy one or other of these assumptions?

Another interpretation is that this phrase expresses the kind of totally awake clarity that one is aiming for in practice. Again, there is an assumption, namely, that this level of attention is to be sustained for long periods, if not indefinitely.

What happens to a person who is not able to sustain such a level of attention but tries to do so anyway? Frequently, he or she tries harder and harder, growing tighter and tighter, moving further and further out of the balance and rest in which clarity and freedom arise. Eventually, he or she is forced to rest, and then something quite different happens. This recognition can, as it did for Buddha Shakyamuni, lead in a very different direction. Or, a student, broken in body and heart, can just give up, and lapse into a cynical view of spiritual practice.

In traditional settings, students, by and large, had access only to instruction appropriate to their level of ability and practice. Often, students had to be encouraged to practice what they were given.

In today's world, we have access to practice instructions at every level. This access creates a different kind of problem, how to know what practice is appropriate for one's level of understanding, ability, and interest. Anyone who has practiced for any length of time knows that what works at one phase of practice may be counterproductive at another.

The consequence is that, ultimately, we have to take responsibility in determining what to practice when and how to practice it.

So, I put the question very simply: is practicing like your hair is on fire a good way for you to practice?

reference and loneliness

2009-03-08T07:26:00.000-07:00

The person without a range of reference is not more authentically human for being so. He is just more alone.
— Clive James, Cultural Amnesia, pg. 391

I picked this book up out of curiosity. In this instance, the curiosity has paid of manifold, for this rich, textured book contains fascinating accounts, observations, and insights into the lives and works of many who formed and shaped our cultural heritage, from Keats to Einstein, from Trotsky to Tacitus, both the famous and, at least for me, the obscure. An added bonus is James' writing style, a marvel of depth, beauty and simplicity on complex and often controversial topics.

This quotation struck me in light of the weight placed on no reference in Buddhist practice, e.g., non-referential awareness, or non-referential compassion. One may perhaps object that the word reference is being used in two different ways, but what happens if what if one considers that there may be something in common in the two phrases awareness that has no reference and the person without a range of reference?

In either case, one has a sense of open space, infinite, without center or circumference, a feeling that reminds me of the location in north-eastern New Mexico where I've taught retreats for the last few years, right at the edge of the Great Plains, where heaven and earth are somehow joined in the dusty blue of a distant horizon. When I walk out into the plains, there is no reference. One is completely alone, and, ironically, the very experience of aloneness is a reminder that this thing we call life consists of precisely of physical, emotional, and mental sensations arising from our interaction with the world around us.

To have no range of reference is to cut oneself off from life.

In an odd way, this quotation embodies the two most salient aspects of human experience: we have no idea what this experience is, yet we meet and respond (or react) to what arises in every moment of our lives.

Awakening? Peace? Truth? Freedom?

2009-03-07T21:23:00.000-08:00

All that is conditioned is impermanent.
All emotional reactions are suffering.
All experience is empty.
To go beyond misery is peace.

The four seals, as these four lines are called, make it clear that the aim of Buddhist practice is peace. It is the end of suffering.

A prevailing myth in Western Buddhism is the maxim "know ye the truth, and the truth will make you free". This misleading Christian myth (John 8:32) can, perhaps, be laid at the door of Socrates and his followers. They envisioned an ideal world of forms in which beauty, goodness, and truth were one and the same. This sentiment has, in our age, led people to ignore the fact that the various values of a democratic society — equality, justice, freedom, etc. — often conflict with one another.

The myth is deeply embedded in the Western thought and, inevitably, has insinuated itself into Buddhist thinking in Western societies.

What leads one to embark on Buddhist practice? There is only one answer: a mind (or heart) that is not at peace. One may call the aim awakening, or freedom, or presence, but these are all misleading terms, each of them implicitly suggesting a "higher" or "truer" way of living, or being, or whatever.

We cannot know what is true. As Chuang Tzu says, "How do I know I'm not a butterfly dreaming that I'm Chuang Tzu?"

Awakening? The best we can do, as Wittgenstein said, is to awaken to the understanding that we are asleep and dreaming.

Freedom? The more clearly one sees things, the less choice one has. The illusion of choice is actually an indication of a lack of freedom.

Presence? When I say that I am present in a situation, I mean that I am not being distracted or torn apart by internal or external tensions, in other words, a kind of peace, no?

If you look at the actual experience that these terms refer to, you find peace, peace from the tension of not knowing what experience is, peace from the tension of feeling bound and conditioned, peace from the tension between subject and object, etc.

another view of tradition

2009-02-16T13:11:00.000-08:00

A tradition is an accumulation through time of inspired works, created by people who do not have tradition on their minds. If they have anything on their minds, it is their own uniqueness: the ways they do not fit in, not the ways they do.

— Clive James

In Buddhism (and elsewhere), much is made of preserving tradition. I've long felt that there was problem with this notion, namely, the things one tends to preserve are dead, perhaps to be eaten later, or only to be viewed in a jar of formaldehyde, or after being subjected to a process that preserves form, shape, and perhaps color but certainly not the thing itself.

This quotation, from Clive James' book Cultural Amnesia, is a delightful reminder that tradition is only a concept applied to a certain phenomenon. The phenomenon itself is created by people doing "untraditional" things — writing, painting, or teaching in ways that generate new energy, new responses, new possibilities.

Recently, an old colleague of mine called to describe how a group of people at a center had asked him to translate a text for their practice, and then had turned around and changed some of the words and phrasings in his translation to more "traditional" vocabulary. The translator here has long and deep experience and has come to understand how the "traditional" vocabulary leads people astray or limits their understanding of their practice (not just the text, but their practice). Against stupidity, even the gods struggle in vain.

In our culture, we try new things, find what works, and discard what doesn't. We go down wrong paths, we get into trouble, but we learn, through experimentation and innovation. When they limit themselves only to what is tried and true, most people in this culture grow restless and impatient, unless they die of stasis and boredom first.

Another one bites the dust

2008-11-30T12:41:00.001-08:00

How many times have you heard that the Chinese character for crisis consists of the combination of the characters for danger and opportunity? Well, I came across this link recently. It effectively blows apart this particular folk etymology.

Folk etymologies play a significant role in Buddhism, particularly in the Tibetan tradition. The written Tibetan language was essentially created in 8th century for the purpose of translating Sanskrit texts into Tibetan. Written Tibetan is a direct import of an 8th century Bengalese alphabet, as you can see from the display of alphabets over the centuries in one of the Calcutta museums.

More significantly, Tibetan Buddhist vocabulary was based on the folk etymologies of Buddhist technical terms in Sanskrit. This development endowed Tibetan with a power to express Buddhist ideas comparable to the power of a high-level programming language to express complex computer commands in succinct form. At the same time, Tibetan technical terms were completely divorced from the true etymological roots of the Sanskrit terms.

A good example is the word bhagavan, usually translated as lord. The original Sanskrit is derived from the root bhaga, which is also the root of the word vagina. The root means source, womb, matrix, etc. However, in Tibetan, the three syllables are given the symbolic meanings of conquer, possess, and transcend, conquering the reactive emotions, possessing the qualities of awakening, and transcending ordinary experience. No doubt this was the how the word was explained to the compilers of the first Tibetan dictionaries.

Of course, this development creates wonderful complications for present-day translators: do you rely on the original Sanskrit meaning(s) or the Tibetan symbolic meanings?

Success in practice?

2008-10-25T08:22:00.000-07:00

But when the buffalo went away the hearts of my people fell to the ground, and they could not lift them up again. After this nothing happened.
— Plenty Coups, Crow Chief

Meaning in life is contingent upon the context in which we live our lives. A meaningful act in one context may not have any meaning in another. This was the dilemma the Crow faced when they had to give up their nomadic life and move to reservations. The actions that defined a warrior — horse-stealing, war, planting a coup stick, making an opposing tribe recognize the boundary of one’s range — no longer had meaning. It was not that one had failed at these actions. These actions had lost any sense of significance.

Such a shift is hard for most of us to imagine, yet, in both social and spiritual matters, we have definite notions of success and failure, of what gives meaning to life.

Socially, we usually define success in terms of happiness, prosperity, reputation, and respect.

What does it mean to “be successful” in one’s spiritual practice? Some might say it means to be awake, to be present. Others might say it means to have passed on faithfully the teachings, practices, understanding, experience, and rituals one received. Others might say it means to have developed a body of teaching and transmitted to a group of students who will transmit it in turn. Still others might say that it means to have lived one’s life without regret.

Is success the same in Zen, Theravadan, or Tibetan Buddhism, or are there differences? What about Buddhism as it is practiced in the West?

Spiritual practice, on the other hand, is concerned with the life we actually experience, the life that consists only of thoughts, feelings, and sensations, and the awareness in which these arise. In this life, what constitutes success or failure.

This is the parallel with Plenty Coups summation of what happened to the Crow. There is an important difference. The Crow did not seek the end of their life as they knew it. It was imposed upon them by the invasion of their territory by a materially more powerful people who had a different view and understanding of life. In spiritual practice, however, we intentionally seek to uncover the knowing in which our life as we know it comes to an end.

Rational Choice Theory and Teaching

2008-05-16T08:36:00.000-07:00

Rational Choice Theory is the basis of much of economic and sociological theory. The theory is highly suspect in most choice situations.

Much of Buddhism is presented and taught on the basis of RTC. Just look at the expositions in Jewel Ornament of Liberation, for instance.

If RTC is bunk, what do you do when teaching?

My sense is we need to move the emphasis to learning and away from teaching.

In other words, the primary task of the teacher is to create situations and environments in which people learn and build:

1. the possibilities and viability (addresses willingness) of venturing into the mystery

2. skills they need to do so

3. capacities they need to do so

What they do, then, is not up to the "teacher". The teacher has done his or her job.

What the teacher should not do is explain or try to convince the student that this is a good idea!

Buddhism and Science

2008-05-13T08:48:00.000-07:00

The so-called debate between science and religion is better viewed as a conflict between modern and traditional cultures, the former looking to individual exploration and agency as guides, the latter relying on examples of past perfection as guides.

Buddhism, it can be argued, was (is) the first modern religion. While in its institutional forms, it echoes the values and processes of traditional cultures, at its core, it's about individual exploration. As Buddha Shakyamuni said just before he died, "I've shown you a way. Work out your own freedom."

Recently, David Brooks, a columnist for the NY Times, wrote:

First, the self is not a fixed entity but a dynamic process of relationships. Second, underneath the patina of different religions, people around the world have common moral intuitions. Third, people are equipped to experience the sacred, to have moments of elevated experience when they transcend boundaries and overflow with love. Fourth, God can best be conceived as the nature one experiences at those moments, the unknowable total of all there is.

Here, in a nutshell, is the core of the tension. Traditional cultures hold their own religions and institutions special and sacred while modern cultures see these religions and institutions as particular expressions of universal principles. Traditional cultures object to the undermining of their specialness. Modern cultures object to the privileged status of a particular formulation in a pluralistic world.

You can read the whole of Brook's piece here.

three roots and teacher roles

2008-01-27T06:38:00.000-08:00

Teachers perform a number of functions. For now, I'll focus on three.

One is to provide transmission, a source of energy for the student. For this, one doesn't need regular contact or interaction. It can be a one-time meeting. The energy may come through inspiration, through resonance, through interaction, or through devotion. In the last, the teacher is a symbol of being awake, on which the student draws. All this helps build capacity.

A second role is training in specific techniques and perspectives. For this, regular interaction is highly desirable, and quite necessary for some forms of training. In order to guide the student, the teacher needs to see and hear what the student is doing and how the skills are developing. This has to do with skill-development, know-how.

The third role is to bring to the student an awareness of the internal material that is getting in the way of the student. The degree of interaction needed here depends on the student capabilities. This often involves addressing willingness in the student.

Non-dualism and ideology

2007-11-24T13:41:00.000-08:00

The following question was posed recently in an email:

In my readings I have learned of many teachers who espouse a 'non-dualist' angle. I would like to hear any comments and opinions you have about non-dualism from "Buddhism is non-dualist" to "Buddhism and non-dualism couldn't be further apart". To me the similarities are greater than any differences: while both point to the non-existence of the person, Buddhist practice at least provides a method while non-dualist teachings are weak on method in favor of sudden understanding and 'shifts' in consciousness.

This question elicited the following reflections:

As with all things Buddhist, the problem lies in positing dualistic vs non-dualistic perspectives, and in doing so, getting lost in yet another, albeit more subtle, contest of ideologies.

The aim of Buddhism is not dualism or non-dualism. Buddhism sees both positions as tools to an end, and the end is, depending on how you put it, compassion or the end of suffering.

Buddhism encourages the development of skill in life. As practice and experience deepen, one naturally sees that attachment to a sense of self prevents one from responding skillfully in many (perhaps most) situations. Thus, one lets go such attachment.

On the other hand, sometimes the expression of compassion or the ending of suffering will require an unambiguous stand, "There is a boundary here and here you have to meet me." Not exactly non-dual.

I find Musashi, the Japanese swordsman very helpful here and have adapted something he said about martial arts to Buddhism:

Buddhism is a way of freedom. Many people, when studying this way, may think that the skills one develops will not be useful in real situations. The true way of Buddha is to train so that these skills are useful at any time and to teach these skills so that they will be useful in all things.

Buddhism puts great emphasis on path, on the cultivation of willingness, know-how and ability. Insight or shifts in consciousness are not enough. The aim is to live, effectively and skillfully, in a way that ends suffering, in oneself and others.

Ideology of any kind is highly problematical as it usually evolves into preference and prejudice, with the inevitable results.

Wash your own dishes

2007-09-30T08:27:00.000-07:00

To teach, do not be a teacher.

As Stephen Batchelor brings out in Verses from the Center, a walker appears only when a person starts to walk. Similarly, a teacher appears only when two people interact in a certain way.

A person may sit in a room and talk about the most profound understandings and insights but there is no teaching (let alone a teacher) if there is no one else present (or no one is listening).

There is no "teacher" as such, but when conditions are right, teaching (and learning) take place. The same, of course, is true for "student".

To see oneself as a teacher is to create an imbalance in the world.

One has only what one experiences. As time passes and one accumulates more and more experience, there is a greater and greater tendency to see the person in the student role only in terms of that experience. Assumptions and projections proliferate, and the results are both inevitable and predictable.

In each encounter, put aside everything you think you know. It won't go away: it will be there if and when you need it. But in forgetting about it, you create the conditions for seeing, to use Uchiyama's phrase, "the direction of the present" and what is to unfold in each moment.

When people thank and tell you how much you've helped them, what they say has nothing to do with you. This is just their way of expressing joy in their own experience. Remember this, too, when people complain or criticize.

Rest deeply in your own experience: you will know, through your body and feelings, whether you respond to the direction of the present, or fall into projection and reaction.

Do not accept special treatment. There is a slippery slope here, because, when teaching, you will sometimes need quiet and space and assistance in routine affairs. Regard these only as things needed for teaching, not as things that are due to you because of a position. In other words, always wash your own dishes.

Some say that it is important to let students treat their teacher as special, as an expression of their devotion and appreciation. Here, the slippery slope becomes a cliff, for in accepting such special treatment, you are confirming an identity in the eyes of such students, instead of pointing them to their own knowing.

Consider carefully the question "Why do I teach?" In the end, it must, in some way, be part of your path—that is, when you teach, you wake up in some way.

sociology of religious movements

2007-06-07T08:37:00.000-07:00

Stephan Fuchs, in Against Essentialism (pg. 61), provides the following summary of Emile Durkheim's analysis of the evolution of religious groups. While the language is somewhat opaque, the essential points seem to shine through.

My interest in this kind of overview is to understand the various influences acting on or in a given individual or group and adapt teaching, advice, coaching, or training to meet the exigencies of that situation precisely and appropriately. A great deal of effort can be expended fruitlessly in resisting a tide of natural evolution, as King Canute of Denmark demonstrated. On the other hand, a clear understanding of the ebb and flow of tides can reveal areas and approaches where the right teaching or advice can open a new level of understanding or new possibilities to the individual.

Isolated groups with high social density and strong moral commitments to tradition tend to reify their sacred cultural tokens in totems and taboos. They do not allow for much internal diversity and dissent. Lacking contact with alternatives, the group's culture acquires logical and moral necessity, mapped onto the very fabric of the world itself. The group's way of life seems to realize the natural order of things.

Such groups have facts and universals, true in all possible worlds. The core cultural possessions are carefully protected and guarded against decay and dissent. Since the important truths are already known, innovators are prosectued as dangerous heretics straying from the righteous path.

As coupling loosens, density declines, and outside contacts increase, more contingency and alternative possibilities flow into the world. The group increases its tolerance for deviance and dissent. Some nonconformity is rewarded as innovation. Some facts become ambiguous, some universals turn out to be historic individuals, and some moral certainties become less sure of themselves. Criticism emerges and no longer indicates moral failure and irresponsibility. The future becomes more uncertain, not just an extension of the good traditions. Instead, the open future promises more innnovations and discoveries; it is a future that needs to be made, and might be made in different ways. More cosmopolitan and decentralized networks sustain more pluralism.

Under certain conditions, loose coupling might lead to decoupling, or fragmentation of communication and interaction. Self-sustaining subcultures emerge, with few or no overlaps. the group's attention space divides into multiple perspectives, who incommensurability increases with decreasing exchange frequency and density across borders and boundaries. Contingency turns into arbitrariness, the historical sesnse into relativism, and each perspective expresses only the idiosyncratic standpoint from which it emerges. Criticism exaggerates into global and foundational skepticism.

The first group condition produces realism about facts and universals. The second favors pragmatic innovation and discovery, while the third one leads to conversational and perspectival relativism.

This overview may help to understand why some groups fear paradigm shifts and others embrace them, why some groups have a hard time distinguishing discoveries and advances from fads and fashions. In particular, when density and isolation are high, one would expect rigid and exclusive cultural classifications and a decrease in doctrinal, moral, and ritual intensity as boundaries become more permeable. While this description was developed from observation of religious groups, the same phenomena and progressions can be observed in a wide variety of settings, from corporate cultures to scientific research communities to academic enclaves.

being awake and healing

2007-04-05T10:15:00.000-07:00

I am often asked about how to use meditation and Buddhist practice to heal old wounds. The question reflects a misunderstanding.

In Buddhism, our intention is to be present in what arises in experience. Healing is often a side-effect of that presence, or a side-effect of the practices we do in order to be present, but it's not the objective. You may think this is hair-splitting, but it's actually quite important. When we are focused on healing, we are inevitably concerned with a result, a goal, and the goal-orientation introduces an appraisal of experience that takes us out of direct experience.

Rather than working toward healing, our effort is to trust what we are. To echo Suzuki Roshi, "Our practice is about absolute confidence in our fundamental nature." I've come to appreciate the depth of this sentence more and more over the years. Absolute confidence in what we are! Then, as Uchiyama Roshi says, "we have neither a need to be swayed by someone or something we think exists outside ourselves nor do we long for things that we project as pbeing apart from ourselves."

From a practice point of view, the key is not to harden when difficult or painful experiences arise. The moment we harden, we have set "I" against "it" and are reinforcing whatever conditioning is generating the difficulty. Thus, Thich Naht Hanh's advice about holding difficult or painful feelings tenderly in attention. Sometimes, this feels like letting the feelings scream while you hold them in attention, not trying to remedy them, control them, make them go away, or change them.

Working with difficult feelings, I've found, is best done for short periods, so attention is active and awake. Too long an exposure and we inevitably fall into conditioning. Hence, the old meditation adage "Short sessions, but many of them". Touch into the feelings for a few moments, then relax, return to the breath, then touch into them again, staying with them awake and present rather than fighting with them.

None of this is easy. Simple and easy are not synonyms. We will fall down again and again, not trusting the open clear awareness that is what we are, not being able to just experience old wounds and pains. But we pick ourselves up, dust off our clothes, patch the skinned knees, and keep going. After all, this is what the word practice means. It's not a test, it's not a contest -- it's our life.

energy or blessing?

2007-03-09T08:22:00.000-08:00

In the Kagyu tradition of Tibetan Buddhism, one of the prayers often used in the practice "Guru Yoga" reads:

Treasured teacher, I pray to you.
Give me energy to let self-fixation go.
Give me energy to be free of need.
Give me energy to stop ordinary thinking.
Give me energy to know mind has no beginning.
Give me energy to let confusion subside on its own.
Give me energy to know all experience is pure being.

I've been asked a number of times why I translate "blessing" as "energy". There is a significant difference in emotional tone and "blessing" is the most common usage (and the one I used in my early days).

The word "blessing" has its roots in sacrifice: from the On-line Etymological Dictionary

O.E. bletsian, bledsian, Northumbrian bloedsian "to consecrate, make holy," from P.Gmc. *blothisojan "mark with blood," from *blotham "blood" (see blood). Originally a blood sprinkling on pagan altars.
This word was chosen in O.E. bibles to translate L. benedicere and Gek. eulogein, both of which have a ground sense of "to speak well of, to praise," but were used in Scripture to translate Heb. brk "to bend (the knee), worship, praise, invoke blessings." Meaning shifted in late O.E. toward "to confer happiness, well-being," by resemblance to unrelated bliss. No cognates in other languages. Blessing is O.E. bledsung.

These associations are all foreign to my experience of guru yoga or other forms of prayer in Buddhism. So, I started to hunt for an alternative.

My experience is one of a kind of energy, through devotion. An emotional energy. And the Tibetan byin.brlabs (pron. jin-lap) itself means "a wave of something given" or "to flood with something given". This does correspond with my experience.

Clearly, translation problems go back a long way, viz., the choice to use the word "blessing" to translate "benedicere", which has a completely different set of associations.

a conversation with Warren Bennis

2007-02-15T16:44:00.000-08:00

You may recall that we started to look at whether institutions inevitably betrayed their values. I put the thesis forward that all institutions are based on a lie, namely, "We'll take care of you." The subsequent discussion brought out the point that institutions are necessary and needed if humans are to live together in the large numbers that they currently do. I proposed the analogy of the body as an institution. It''s basic unit is the cell, but it manages to grow and flourish quite well and is a very robust institution. Somehow, all the cells, and the higher level organizational units, such as the various organs, and the still higher organizational units, the various systems (nervous system, digestive system, circulatory system, etc.) seem to get along without too much conflict.

After our conversation, I continued to ruminate on why I find the emphasis on leadership so troubling.

At this point I have to beg your patience as the two of you have made leadership your chosen areas of study and expertise and my subsequent comments may seem naive or pretentious.

The conclusion that I came to was that an emphasis on leadership may divert attention away from another important question, namely, "How do each of us live and function in a healthy way in a world which is populated by institutions?"

In my limited exposure to leadership studies, one theme keeps coming up: how do leaders create healthy vibrant institutions? Implicit in this question is the fact that leaders of organizations may have to radically alter the size, structure, and direction of organizations to keep them viable, with all the human costs that such changes entail.

Now I'd like to return to the analogy of the body, for a moment. The body routinely kills off thousands, if not millions, of cells every day. This is for the well-functioning of the body. It would be presumptuous of any cell in the body to say that it knew what was needed for the well-being of the body. Indeed, it would be presumptuous of any organ, or any system in the body, to claim that they knew best what the body actually needed. Any group of cells that did so would likely create serious imbalances in the body. And if they monopolized the bodies resources to pursue their agenda, they would, in medical terms, be regarded as causing an illness, perhaps even a cancer.

I wondered, then, if, by putting emphasis on leadership, we are focusing attention (and resources) on a particular group of cells. The attention tends to create and reinforce a myth, namely, that these individuals and the organizations they lead can function in a way that is aligned with our own individual interests. This would be analogous to the body saying that it could function and take care of every cell at the same time. This possibility is, of course, counter to how the body actually functions.

I then moved to the question, "If I'm a cell in this world populated by organs and systems; how do I live my life?" Well, if I disrupt the organs too much, I kill myself. But if I follow the agenda and needs of the organ or system I'm in, then my fate is decided by the needs of the body. In a strange way, perhaps, I find this line of thinking returning to such old themes as free will, determination, responsibilty, etc.

When I look at my work with individuals, I see that much of my work is informed by this second question, "How do I live in a world populated by institutions?" This often leads to the development of leadership skills in the individuals with whom I work, not because they intend to become leaders, but because, by taking a larger and deeper view, they move into leadership positions naturally. Somewhat ironic in the end.