FUNK

 I woke this Monday morning in a horrible blue funk, dreaming of fire lines approaching a city with a mayor who could or would do nothing, and images of a patio covered with fresh dog shit that no one had picked up. Sound familiar? The profound depression in my mind was matched by a body in pain everywhere, mostly (age-related!) aches in every joint, and muscles that felt depleted of all physical strength. 

Not a good way to wake up!

Meditation was a challenge, with words darting everywhere in my head--words trying to describe what it was I was feeling as I sat. Well, "writing." It's my mind's way of dealing with what's troubling it. Namely...

... a country in chaos, with one political party mindlessly obstructing every effort of the other to reach out and help the millions of Americans who are out of work, hungry and, too many of them, sick and dying; with a leader coming in from the golf course to issue senseless and unhelpful executive orders in an attempt to project the impression of powerful action; a leader who so badly needs adulation that he calls in dozens of his hundreds-of-dollar annual fee golf club members to applaud him loudly at a "press conference..."

... a country riven by discord, mutual hatred and mistrust, one-third of them fed on a day-by-day, hour-by-hour diet of misinformation and outright lies, and driven by a hateful fear of the invented specter of "liberals" and "socialism..."

... and a personal sense of dislocation and disorientation: what am I even doing here, in this, my adopted country, that now feels so alien? Where do I belong...? 

I breathe in, I breathe out. That's one saving grace. The other is more mundane: it is that I have enough "English" left in me to get up from my chair and head off to the kitchen to brew up the solace of a morning cup of tea.

THE GREAT BEFORE-YOND

I have been thinking further after yesterday's post about the premature death of our friend and neighbor...

I recall a conversation with him quite a while ago, before he was diagnosed with the affliction that would take his life--and long before he could imagine he would die so young. I was expressing my familiar doubts, I think, about life after death, and about the whole notion that this human life on earth is but a step along a much longer path, the cycle of life, death and rebirth that is central to the teachings of the dharma. Our friend, on the other hand, entertained no such doubts. He was clear in his mind that life in some form persists beyond death and that it is surely, as he put it, "in a better place."

The clarity of this belief gave him a cheerful, optimistic perspective on his life here on earth, and it leads me to wonder whether he is not now in that better place. I hope so, for his sake. After a long period of depression as his health declined, I heard that he spent the last day of his life expressing the gratitude and love he felt for his wife; and that he returned, on that day, to the state of serenity his affliction had denied him. The thinking behind karma, insofar as I understand it, is that choices are made at the moment of death which define the nature of one's future incarnation--choices that also determined the current form of our existence at the end of our previous incarnation. It is important, then, to be prepared to die with ease and grace.

I have also been thinking about another aspect of choice in the moment of one's death: the choice to leave this world. I remember my conviction, now nearly two years ago, when my sister died, that she had in fact chosen to cross the threshold into what she called, fearlessly, "the next great adventure." I am tempted to believe that our friend also made that choice. It was clear that his mind was deteriorating, along with his physical health, and the path ahead promised little but further confusion and pain, both physical and emotional, for himself and those who loved him. In such a circumstance, the choice to step out into that great "before-yond" might be a clear and comforting one.

These are mysteries, of course, that we are not given to understand. When I have expressed my doubts to one much wiser and much further along the Buddhist path than I could ever hope to be, the answer has always been a simple one: it profits us little to spend time worrying about a question to which we know we'll never have an answer. Better to devote your energies to leading a good life here and now, he tells me. And be prepared in mind and body to make wise choices at the moment of your death.

BE A STAND-UP PERSON

I was watching the musician David Crosby interviewed by fellow-musician Wynton Marsalis on public television last night and was much impressed by his humanity and his straightforward wisdom. What to do in the social/political morass in which we find ourselves? Be a stand-up person. Kids, he observed, learn not from what you say but what you do, the choices that you make, the person that you are. They watch you, he insisted. They're always watching you for guidance. Bottom line: be a stand-up person.

Which, after all, is what the Buddha taught and what Buddhism is all about.

I was also reading, yesterday on the elliptical walker at the gym, a fine piece in the current New Yorker about Epictetus, the ancient Stoic philosopher. "The only thing we can totally control," the article's author Elif Batuman wrote, "and therefore the only thing we should ever worry about, is our own judgment about what is good. If we desire money, health, sex, or reputation, we will inevitably be unhappy. If we genuinely wish to avoid poverty, sickness, loneliness, and obscurity, we will live in constant anxiety and frustration."

This, she writes, is what she learned from Epitetus. And what, I ask in turn, could be more Buddhist than that?

There is much that we could fruitlessly worry about for the coming year. We could agonize about national politics, about the international situation, about global warming. But there are things we cannot "totally control." To worry about them is to waste the energy we could better spend on simply being, ourselves, a stand-up person.

Which also means, of course, not failing to stand up and be counted when we see happening what we know in our hearts to be wrong.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

A VERY ODD NIGHT

I tried a couple of Tramadol pills last night before bedtime, thinking to ease the neck pain that has persisted despite all efforts to dispel it--and the result was a very odd night indeed.  I went off to sleep just fine, and woke what seemed like many hours later, only to discover that I'd been asleep for less than an hour.  That heralded a night in which I woke at least once an hour, and seemed only to doze in between times.  Time seemed to stretch out immeasurably.  Minutes went by like hours.  I kept expecting the clock to show a much later time, but no, only minutes had passed since I last looked.

To add to this strange temporal experience, I had none of the fretful wakefulness that I normally have with time moving on in its usual inexorable manner.  I felt gently euphoric the entire time, released from the kind of anxiety that often accompanies sleeplessness.  My mind kept moving in and out of very pleasant dreams, seeming to connect them from one to the next; perhaps they were not sleeping dreams, but waking ones.  I scarcely know.

Clearly, this was a drugged state.  It was, though, nothing like a "high"--more like a persistent sense of cocoon'ed warmth and comfort.  Drug addiction has always puzzled and disturbed me, but last night's experience led me to understand a little better that a person who experiences this kind of pleasure and release from physical (or emotional!) pain might want to repeat it.  For myself, I'll avoid taking Tramadol again before going to bed.  Pleasant though the experience was, I'd not want to repeat it.  I'll get back to things like Aleve and Ibuprofin, which help with the pain but result in none of the effects I describe.

I wonder, do Buddhist monks allow themselves an aspirin once in a while?  After all, the practice is about learning to live with suffering.  Does that include headaches?  I know that pain is inevitable as one ages.  X-rays show that the pain in my neck is caused by arthritis--a condition that is not going to improve or disappear with the years.  Better than drugs is a practice that teaches the avoidance of attachment to that inevitable pain--a skill that has obviously eluded me as yet!

THE BOAT

Re-reading "Reflections on Silver River" in accordance with my promise to myself, (the link is to my review,) I have worked through the Invocation, the Homage and the Intention, and have arrived at Verse I, where I meet a daunting challenge.

I'll paraphrase the predicament  briefly, and far less eloquently than the author.

I am standing at the end of a pier, looking out over the dark ocean.  A well-provisioned boat  is tied up at my feet, ready to carry me out on the great adventure into the unknown, the realm of total freedom and, perhaps, eventually, enlightenment.  Behind me lie all the enticements of the life I have built for myself, all the things I like to think I own, all the experiences I treasure, the identities by which I have made myself known, my pleasures, my relationships, my addictions...

What will it take to step into the boat and cast off, on a voyage with no return?

(Is this, I wonder, Rimbaud's Drunken Boat?)

I think I'm honest in saying that there's not much I could not give up at this stage of my life.  I have come to understand that the "possessions" are all temporary anyway, not truly "mine."  I am fortunate indeed in having acquired so much in the way of material comforts along the way and they are not unappreciated.  But I think it's true to say that it is not these that prevent me from stepping into the boat.  I could let them all go.

The same with pleasures.  In meditating on this challenge, I could think of nothing in the way of all the worldly pleasures that I would not be ready to sacrifice for the adventure of complete, unfettered freedom.  I pondered long and hard about my most valued identity, the one I cling to most obstinately, the writer, and concluded that I have reached a point where even this is something that I'm able to release.

What, then, would it take to step into that boat?  What's the attachment that still holds me back?  It was clear to me, as I reflected on the image of the boat and the great ocean out ahead, that the one thing I am not yet ready or able to surrender is the attachment to family and friends, those closest to me.  It's the love I have for them, and the sense of obligation that I feel I owe them still that I can't let go.

I returned, in meditation this morning, to the understanding that death will come along to resolve this issue for me--and that, in view of the accumulation of years to date, it will not be overlong in coming!  Still, in the meantime, while not yet ready to step into that boat, I am happy to have been challenged to find the clarity in this, and I take it that the point of the exercise was to work toward that clarity rather than step headlong into the boat.  The more I am clear about the attachments that keep me on the shore, the more I'll be ready for the inevitable voyage when it's no longer an invitation, but an imperative.

Reminding myself of the subtitle of Reflections, "Thirty-Seven Practices of a Bodhisattva"--the title of the original 14th century text that it translates, I harbor no illusions about achieving that eminence myself.  The true bodhisattva would have no hesitations about the sacrifices his dedication requires of him--sacrifices that the Buddha himself made in setting out on his own journey, leaving family along with everything else behind.  At least I have the clarity of knowing what I find myself unable to give up. 

A NEW LOOK...

Well, somewhat new.  I hope the links at the top are a little more visible and inviting now.  The "Buddhist Connections" now lead to a number of the Buddhist blogs that were in the blogroll before, and the blogroll itself is much abbreviated for this reason--and also because we have cleared out a few blogs that were defunct.  The order of things in the right-hand sidebar has been changed, in the interests, I hope, of clarity and priority.  If you find any glitches or inconsistencies, I'd love to hear from you.

This goes along with a major effort to clean out my office space, which had become so cluttered I'd begun to avoid going in there--choosing, instead, to take a laptop to some other part of the house!  Too many old files, to much old computer stuff that I'd not thrown out for fear of losing something important, too many books, too many unused office supplies, much too much of everything.  With Maggie's help, I have slowly been creating space and hope, by the new year, to have an office with room for breath and new invention.  There's still a ways to go, but we're getting there.

It seems that Ellie, in her office upstairs, is moved by the same uncluttering spirit.  It's a small house.  We moved here from a much larger one and, this past year, gave up the commercial storage space we had been renting.  It's the garage, now, that has become the repository of decades of family papers, photographs, books, memorabilia, all stashed in boxes I doubt will ever be opened.  What's to be done with all this stuff?

There's a good lesson here, I know--a familiar one to all those who can't bear to get rid of the things that we accumulate alone the way.   All this stuff is a reflection of, and on, the clutter in the mind.  If I were a better Buddhist, I would have chucked it all long ago!

An Exchange

I had a question for Ken McLeod about Reflections on Silver River and he was kind enough to respond.  Here is the full exchange.  

Hello, Ken,

I'm immersed in your enormously helpful book.  Can I ask you a question?  Perhaps it's the most common and basic of all.

Reading the book, I am constantly--often distressingly--aware of how far I have to go.  Here's the (a) sticking point for me: when I ask, "Who is doing the giving?", "Who is doing the thinking?" as you suggest, I still persist in seeing… not nothing, as you say, but me, Peter.  I keep trying to remind myself, This is not me, this is not mine, this is not who I am.  I keep looking and looking and hoping to arrive at a sense of no-self, but there I am, always, obstinately in my own way.  

I may have missed something along the way as I read, or passed over it, but I have not found a passage in the book to walk me through this all-important transition.  That sounds too easy, "walk me through."  I mean really, to guide me.  I have the feeling that it's one of those thresholds that, once passed, look simple and obvious.  

I suspect your answer will be that old Carnegie Hall advice.  Or: keep looking.  

I trust you're well, and that my question is not an intrusion.

With warm wishes, Peter

No intrusion at all. But let me ask, "When you say you see Peter, what exactly do you see?" K

Oh, nothing.  I see.   Or rather, I don't see.  Got it.  So obvious.  Thank you! Cheers, Peter

I guess, actually, I see what I think I see.

You were right the first time. When you look at "Peter", you see nothing. But that "nothing" is deeply terrifying, so we lapse into thinking almost immediately. That's when you see what you think you see, because you have lapsed into thinking. Look, and then rest immediately. Then look again. Don't try to sustain looking once thinking has started. Just drop it all and start again. In the beginning, the looking will last for only a fraction of a second, but you will gradually build capacity and be able to rest there for short periods, i.e., a few seconds or so. Once you can do that, then you can start resting in the looking and looking in the resting. Okay? K

Okay, something to work on.  You don't make things easy!  I noticed, by the way, that it made sense immediately at the moment I read your first response.  I looked, saw nothing, and actually laughed in relief because it was so obvious.  But then it was only a split second before the thinking started and "Peter" showed up again.  I do value this additional guidance, thank you.  Cheers, Peter 

You are welcome. "Peter" is a thought. It's not a thing. You might open to the body sensations that accompany "Peter" and rest there. K

I'll work on this… and will continue to work on "Reflections."  Thanks again, Ken.  Best, "Peter"

"Unmistaken Child," on Independent Lens

This PBS special brought me back to thinking once again about why I have not been able to call myself a Buddhist. Than Geoff (Thanissaro Bhikkhu) would tell me—has told me—not to worry my little head about such things, but the belief in reincarnation does seem to me to be the point at which Buddhism ceases to be the most healthy, rational, ethical way to live one’s life and becomes instead a religion. I struggle with this.

I hate to harp on about it, and realize that I speak out of very limited knowledge and understanding of these things, but I keep coming back to the position that everything about the teachings makes wonderfully good sense until we reach this ultimate point. As I have said perhaps too often in the past, I cannot wrap my mind around the notion that we keep returning to this world in a different incarnation after death until we reach enlightenment. It makes sense as a beautiful metaphor; not, to me, as a belief.

These thoughts inevitably occurred to me once again the other night as Ellie and I sat watching a recorded replay of “Unmistaken Child.” It’s the very beautiful, deeply moving story of a Tibetan monk, Tenzin Zopa’s search for the reincarnation of his beloved spiritual master Geshe Lama Konchong in the mountain villages of Tibet. After a long, arduous journey and many false leads he discovers, in a modest rural family, a chubby year-old boy who appears to recognize and “claim” the departed lama’s beads and other ritual objects. The boy‘s credentials are reviewed by the senior leaders, his astrological chart is examined, and he is eventually certified by the Dalai Lama himself as the authentic reincarnation of the master. The story ends with the tot’s richly ceremonial enthronement as the spiritual leader of his own monastery.

There is something extraordinarily compelling about this story. The majestic, snow-capped mountains and the green valleys of the region have something to do with it: the grand supremacy of nature over puny human beings is overwhelming. Unquestionable, too, is the faith of the villagers and the monks. Their faces radiate with it, and with the happiness it appears to bring them. To the Western mind, the circumstances of life are unimaginably bleak: tiny cottages of stone and wood, with only the barest of essentials; frigid temperatures and, in warmer weather, mud everywhere—most notably on the faces of the children! For heat, there are wood fires, and rough cots for beds. To most of us, it might seem impossible to find happiness in such harsh circumstances—but the eyes shine, the faces glow. Or am I projecting, along with the film-maker, my own patronizing and romantic dream about the uncomplicated rustic life?

The faith is touching. It is also omnipresent. We find ourselves on Tenzin Zopa’s journey in a world quite different from ours, where faith is less a matter of the loud profession of beliefs, of Sunday suits and sermons, and more a matter of the way life is lived, of daily ritual and observance. The monk’s profound love for his master amounts to a consuming passion, reflected in his dedication to the search. The faith of those he encounters along the way is clearly an essential part of their lives, and he is received everywhere with unquestioning respect for his spiritual status. There is a symbiotic relationship between the religious and the lay people that accords each his or her own standing—though it’s notable, as in all (?) religions, that the male predominates. The power rests clearly, in this Buddhist hierarchy, in the hands of men.

Religion as a way of life is one thing. It’s when it gets carried over into dogma and hierarchical structures—along with ostentatious ritual and what psychologists refer to as “magical thinking”---that my inner skeptic takes over. And all those things abound, it seems to me, in Tibetan Buddhism. True, there is something irresistibly appealing about those saffron robes and the colorful headgear, the chanting that seems to come from imponderable inner depths of being, the bowing and prostrations, the flapping prayer banners, the constant exchange of those white blessing scarves… There is something enchanting about the sober consultation with astrological charts, something seductive about a paternalistic authority that confers certainty and blessing, relieving us of a certain measure of responsibility and doubt…

And I do realize, of course, that this form of Buddhism is by no means the only one. There are many more “plain” practices than this, many more down-to-earth teachings and expressions of faith. But all of them, it seems to me, circle back to reincarnation and its companion concept, karma. Otherwise, there is nothing so far as I can tell to distinguish it from a philosophical understanding and a way of life—in which is suffices, amply, for me.

So I squirmed, in this story, to see a man as rational and enlightened as I believe the Dalai Lama to be, giving his seal of approval to those astrological charts submitted to him to validate the identity of this “unmistaken child.” I squirmed at what seemed, to my Western mind, an act of child abuse in snatching this child from his mother’s arms and his father’s loving care; at the sight of the little boy screaming as his head was forcibly shaved by the monks, despite his protests; at his bewilderment as the newly enthroned lama, approached for his blessing by untold masses of worshippers.

There is more to my skepticism, of course, than what I have touched on here. It reaches to religions other than Buddhism, and surely says as much about me as about the religions I mistrust. I plan to explore it further in another essay I have planned. Enough to say, at this point, that I loved "Unmistaken Child" despite—or perhaps indeed because of—the resistance that I felt.