Meditation/Contemplation

Very

This very
morning
as I sat
in meditation
I heard the very
first tiptoe
of the rain
drops as they
fell, a very
lovely sound


Sangha, yesterday. Always a joy, to sit in the company of our band of meditators on a Sunday morning. It's a different feel from the lone weekday sits, a common energy generated in that hour of delicious silence.

Afterwards, in our discussion, I picked up a useful piece of guidance, relayed on to us by one of our number from a conversation with our teacher. There are times when the contemplation of an issue becomes an important part of a meditation sit; it's not always just a matter of training the mind to steady its attention on the breath, because we each have hindrances that stand between us and that desired goal. Sometimes it becomes necessary to examine what it is that distracts the mind and prevents us from achieving the serenity and the equanimity we strive for.

At such moments, a focused, thought-ful contemplation is what's needed to help sort things out, to come to an understanding that can release us from the grip of unhelpful patterns of mind activity. Now, I have made a practice of starting right in on that process after my few minutes of metta--sending out goodwill. Not the best way to go about it, says Than Geoff (that's Thanissaro Bhikkhu). Better to prepare the matter for examination before the sit and have it in mind as one goes about the meditation in the normal way, excluding thought where possible and, when the matter at hand comes up, postponing it gently with a simple "Not now," as one redirects the mind's attention to the breath. Then, later, toward the end of meditation only, one can allow the thoughts to surface and explore the associated thoughts and insights them at will.

A fine clarification. What is likely to happen, of course, in following this process, is that the unconscious mind will get to work while the consciousness is observing each movement of the breath. Much of the work, then, will have been done by the time I get around to that contemplation I have determined in advance to be needed, and insights are more likely to follow effortlessly when the moment comes. The hard part of course, as always, is the "Not now," because the mind is a stubborn faculty that delights in going its own way, no matter what I ask of it.

A Sunday Sit

What a pleasure to be sitting once again with Than Geoff (Thanissaro Bhikkhu) late yesterday afternoon, after a long period of absence. Than Geoff (more properly Ajahn Geoff, since he has been for some time now not just a monk, but the abbot of the Metta Thai Forest monastery in Valley Center, north of San Diego. Long-time readers of The Buddha Diaries may recall that he comes up to Laguna Beach on the second Sunday of each month to lead and teach our little "Laguna sangha." Ellie and I have been away so much in the course of our remodel, and often simply unable to spend our weekends down here, that we have missed his regular sessions, as well as his occasional weekend retreats. And while I have been able to maintain my own daily sits, the sangha sits each Sunday and the monthly sessions with Than Geoff have been an important part of my practice since the mid-90s, when I first joined the group.

A glorious pleasure, then, to arrive at sunset for our hour-long sit and to be enchanted, first, by the lovely spectacle at the wide window across from where I sat, of the red glow of the setting sun over a deep purple ocean. Dark clouds and the outline of the eucalyptus trees gave depth and contour to the vista--a sight to rouse the soul before even closing the eyes for meditation. Eyes closed, I found it easy to be guided by Than Geoff's steady, familiar voice, the depth of his calm, and the knowledge of his long dedication to the practice. As usual, he guided us through the observation of the breath for a half hour, then left us in silence for the remainder of the time. It has been quite a while since I reached so intense a meditative state and so profound a relaxation.

Our hour's sit is followed by a question time, and I led off with a question about healing. During meditation, my mind had wandered off frequently to a friend who is fighting off a severe attack on her health, and had been formulating my question despite my best efforts to keep it focused on the breath. Addressing it to Than Geoff, I gave that context, along with the memory of my father's powerful (Christian) belief in the laying-on of hands and my understanding of the Tibetan healing practice of tonglen, and asked whether, in his own tradition, there was any similar healing ritual and, more particularly, whether there was anything I could do in my practice to be of benefit to my friend.

I could actually have predicted Than Geoff's response before I heard it. To his way of thinking, it's more about the state of mind than it is about the illness. Healing, then, is about developing a state of mind that serves to reduce the suffering rather than cure the disease. The practice of metta--sending out thoughts of goodwill--can facilitate the more peaceful state of mind required for a return to health. I responded that it felt somehow impertinent, to me, to wishing happiness for a person experiencing so much pain, but he reminded me that "happiness", in its broader context, embraced the notion of physical well-being, of health itself.

Still, I wondered, were there any rituals in his practice related to the healing of the sick, as in so many other spiritual beliefs? Had he himself had any personal experience of healing? Than Geoff smiled as he recalled an episode when, during meditation, he felt the pain of a bite on his finger. In the dark, he was not able to see what creature had bitten him, but within a few minutes his finger began to swell, then his wrist, then his arm... In some alarm, he consulted with his abbot, who gave him an amulet blessed by his teacher, Ajahn Lee, to place against the wound. In short order, the swelling was reduced.

Amulets, then. I suppose it is the blessing that infuses such ritual objects that is the source of their power.

As usual, though, Than Geoff had neatly turned my question back into myself. The mind, certainly, is the most powerful weapon that we have in and and all contingencies--a weapon that we too often forget when pain comes along and we turn to others to relieve it for us. It happened, yesterday, that I had put my back out earlier in the day, and I found the meditation period useful in relieving the pain. It was afterward that it began to make its presence known again. Ironically, I have found that sitting is the very thing that is the worst for a bad back--especially when the time comes to attempt to stand! Better to keep it warm, I find, by keeping it in motion. Thus it was that I decided to leave the session before the whole two hours were up. But I was extremely glad that I had decided to go.

Dying: A Challenge, Part II

A couple of weeks ago, I posted this challenge on death and dying from Joan Halifax Roshi, along with the promise that I would return to steps two and three in the process she proposed. As a reminder, the first challenge was a meditation on this question: "What is your worst-case scenario of how you will die?" I offered my own worst-case scenario, and received several others in return.

I've had plenty of opportunity to ruminate on death and dying in the past week: the history that abounds in Savannah and Charleston almost demands it. In touring the houses of the one-time wealthy, the visitor can't help but sense the ghosts of those who lived and died there--both the wealthy and the enslaved peoples whom they owned. Death, the greatest of all equalizers, visited them all regardless of wealth or color, social standing or religious conviction. Those who were abominably unequal in their lifetimes suffered equally at the approach of death. I've heard that the Civil War, fought in these territories, brought dreadful ends to more Americans than any other war, before or since. And the epidemics of yellow fever and malaria took the lives of many thousands more before their time. Life expectancy was much shorter than it is today, and much that has been learned about medicine, personal hygiene and health care was unknown to these earlier Americans.

So, yes, I could not prevent myself from thinking how it might be to die of yellow fever, in one of those spacious bedrooms in a rice plantation mansion--or in one of the bleak cabins deemed fit for slaves. I could not prevent myself from imagining myself wounded, fatally, by some stray bullet in the chaos of battle. The spirits of those who died in these ways, so many years ago, seemed awfully close to me. It seems entirely imaginable that those whose lives were taken from them before they reached completion would find it hard to consent to the finality of death.

But back to Joan Roshi's challenge, part the second, her next topic for meditation. Here it is: after meditating on your worst-case fears, "How do you really want to die?"

Some, I know, envy those who slip away quietly in their sleep. I don't know about you, but my own great wish is to die conscious, at home, in my own bed. To still be fully in command of all my senses and bodily functions, to be alert in mind and aware of each stage of the process, surrounded by those I love--and those who love me. To be strong enough to keep sending out loving-kindness to all living beings. To be so fully conscious and to have reached a state of such equanimity that I have no fear, and can simply watch and treasure my presence in those very last moments here on earth. My heroes are those monks reputed to have died sitting up, in the meditation posture, conscious to the end; and perhaps, who knows, beyond, through every one of the bardos described in the Tibetan Book of the Dead--though I don't wish this for myself.

The challenge, then, is to meditate on those last moments as one would wish to experience them--a much more pleasant prospect, I think you will agree, than the preceding one. If you're up for it, I'd certainly be interested to hear how it works for you.

"Fierce Grace"

It's wonderful how things come together with mysterious and impeccable timing, just exactly when they're needed. We received in the mail the CD version of "Ram Dass: Fierce Grace," which had arrived fortuitously at the head of our Netflix "queue" at the end of the very week in which I had written the "Dear Ram Dass" letter that follows. The film retraces the path that took Ram Dass from childhood privilege to an Ivy League professorship; from Tim Leary/LSD-inspired explorations into the workings of the human mind to the feet of the guru, Maharaj-ji, and a life devoted to teaching and the cultivation of love in a Western world where the worship of reason seemed to have left it far behind. It also describes the devastating stroke, that "fierce grace" he understood as a "stroking" from his guru, which arrived to shake up all his preconceptions about how he himself would reach old age and die. It was the ultimate "gift wrapped in shit" about which I have been thinking and writing all week, as I pursued plans for the "Accidental Dharma" site that I've been planning for.

There are many moving moments in"Fierce Grace," but the most powerful of all is surely the reading of a letter that distills all the wisdom, love and understanding that Ram Dass has come to represent for so many throughout the world. The Rachel letter, as it has come to be known, was written to the parents of a girl who died in a senseless accident caused by a drunk driver. Listening to it read aloud by the girl's mother, Ellie and I were brought to floods of tears by the parent's suffering and by the profundity of compassion from which Ram Dass's words arose. It's an extraordinary piece of wisdom, and it describes better than I could what is meant by the concept of that "gift wrapped in shit."

While I'm still not there with Ram Dass in his ecstatic vision of the universal force that he calls God, he provided me with some wonderful guidance along the path that I have been following in my life. I wrote my letter simply to say thank you to a man whose words and example have given so many cause for gratitude. Here it is:

Dear Ram Dass,

I woke this morning with the realization that I have never done the graceful thing and paused for long enough to express my gratitude for your help in turning my life around at a time when I was in deep distress and trouble.

I met you in 1994. Not in the flesh, of course, but in the mind. It happened following a workshop in which I participated at the Esalen Institute with Dr. Ron Alexander, a psychotherapist who was profoundly influenced by Buddhism and other Eastern religious teaching. After the weekend workshop, I made an appointment with Ron in hopes of getting some clarity in the darkness that seemed to be closing in on me, and he suggested that I read your book, “The Only Dance There Is.”

I did. I think what impressed me most was your joy, mixed with the simple realism with which you viewed the world. The blend of the two seemed quite extraordinary to one who had been looking at a bleak and problematic world with something closer to despair. A friend loaned us a collection of your tapes—yes, this was the way we listened to sound recordings, back in those days!—and my wife Ellie and I played them in the car on our weekly pilgrimages to our weekend retreat. Together we chanted along with you those words from the Heart Sutra: gate, gate, paragate, parasumgate, boddhisvaha for an hour at a time. I had no idea what the words meant, and I have to tell you I felt more than a little foolish at first, but the chant did work, mysteriously, to alleviate the pain.

I had first heard of you much earlier in my life. Back in the early 1970s, remember, you had become quite the fad—so I judged—with one of your other books, “Remember, Be Here Now.” It was a book for that historical moment, appealing to the flower child generation and to those who opposed the Viet Nam war. In my ignorance, however, I was far too smart to be seduced by what I judged to be your simplistic view of the world, and my intellectual roots in the cultural traditions of the Western world had me rationalizing that it was a kind of arrogance to poach on the religious traditions of the East. Ram Dass, I was content to tell myself, is a fraud, a Pied Piper leading the flower children off into some impossible enchanted garden. What a farce! (I also had my judgments about all those drugs...)

That was then. I was not ready, obviously. I was blissfully unaware of my own ignorance and self-delusion. I was stubborn in my rejection of anything the smacked of soul or spirit. I was, as I have written elsewhere recently, embarrassed by my heart and especially by the whole idea of the "love" you preached. Life could not be that simple.

But in 1994, “The Only Dance There Is” was a revelation. It came when I was more than ready, desperate, even, for some kind of a perspective on the world, the suffering I was experiencing, and the suffering I saw around me. I found an extraordinary opportunity in the words you wrote, in the joy that they expressed, in their simple clarity and sanity. They opened the door for the meditation practice that has been my daily anchor ever since.

Then, soon after I had “discovered you,” you were stricken. But that stroke in 1997, it seems, failed to destroy your spirit. By the year 2000, I was far enough along the path to be reviewing books with spiritual content for the Los Angeles Times, and "Still Here: Embracing Aging, Changing and Dying", the book about your stroke and its aftermath came into my hands. I was astounded by your ability to find the grace in your misfortune, and to find a powerful—even joyful—life lesson in the state to which you were reduced, needing help with the most elementary tasks in taking care of yourself.

I woke thinking of you today, perhaps, as a result of a conversation with Michael, a visiting artist friend last night. Michael is a man who has suffered extraordinary pain for years, and has undergone more back surgeries that most of us could bear. Our conversation took place in the context of the article by Daniel Bergner in last Sunday’s New York Times about the right to choose death with dignity over prolonged, incurable debility—the right to commit suicide rather than endure suffering. My Western, rationalist instinct is to support such choices, and the right to make them… until I think of your example.

Ellie asked me on our walk today about animals. We have put a number of them to sleep when the time seemed right. I still think those decisions were right: how could we stand by and watch the innocent suffer? What about people then? Ellie asked if I would “encourage” her to seek a peaceful death if she were ever in such a situation. No, I would not encourage her. But I would be there, I hope, to help her come to her own decision, whatever that might be.

So this will express my gratitude, Ram Dass, for both your example and your teaching. Both have been an inspiration to me, as I suspect they have been to many millions of others on this planet. I trust that you continue to prosper in adversity, and send with this note the love and admiration of a stranger.

In gratitude, Peter

Forgive my wordiness today, friends. And thank you, if you have taken the time to read thus far. Have a great weekend.

Peace of Mind

I have been noticing that my mind has been more than usually restless in the past couple of days, during meditation. It has been busy trying to write, while I have been busy trying to bring its attention to what I want it to attend to: the breath. I attribute this in good part to the recent conflict of opinions on The Buddha Diaries, in consequence of which I have been questioning my meditation practice, and what purpose it serves.

The simple conclusion that I reach, time and again, is that it works. I have a limited amount of time left to me in this life—and I’m still unable to jump that hurdle into belief in another, or other lives—and a limited amount of energy. Ahead of me lies the strong possibility of some form of illness or debility, and the certainty of continuing aging and death. I want to experience these parts of life with as much clarity and forbearance as I can muster, and that requires peace of mind. When I say that meditation works, I mean that it teaches me the path toward peace of mind.

I do need, still, to be engaged. I need to be engaged in books and movies, in the visual arts which have been the focus of much of my writing over the years, in politics and culture… My mind is still capable of learning, my heart still capable of growing when I immerse myself in such things.

What I don’t need, though, is a restless mind. I’m finding that I can engage just fine without it. For me, intellectual curiosity is not necessarily fed by battles over rights and wrongs or goods and bads. I believe that I have largely surrendered the need to be right, and that position feels comfortable to me. I am not averse to being in a place of comfort.

These quiet thoughts an observations, for a Saturday morning. Metta, then. I wish the world a peaceful weekend, filled with true happiness. And that would be enough, for me.

Buddhism and the Pacificst Dilemma

I finished Aidan Delgado's book, "The Sutras of Abu Ghraib" over the weekend, and I do want to give it some thought in these pages. I need to take a bit more time, however, to let it all sink in, and don't want to write about it under the kind of pressure that Monday morning inevitably brings as we prepare for the return to Los Angeles from the beach. So please stay tuned. I know that I'll have something to say a little later in the week.

In the meantime, yesterday was the monthly visit to our sitting group from Thanissaro Bhikkhu. It's always a great pleasure and a great learning experience when Than Geoff comes. He leads us into an hour-long sit with guidance that is by now long familiar, but which is still a helpful reminder of the meditation practice that he teaches. After the sit, he answers questions for another hour--always with patient wisdom, a profound sense of humanity, and often just plain good sense. Gifted with a wry and generous sense of humor, he often has us laughing at the predicament of simply being human, at ourselves and our pretensions, even at himself.

He brings books, too. He has written so many of them that I sometimes suspect that he's up every day at four and has another one ready for the press by eight. They are all give-aways, their production and distribution made possible, I suppose, by the generosity of those who support the Metta Forest Monastery of which he is the abbott.



(This beautiful photo comes from the monastery's website.) Aside from the books, Than Geoff's articles are constantly appearing in Tricycle--and probably other journals of which I'm unaware. A naturally quiet and scholarly man, he seems to have some kind of inner fount of wisdom that is inexhaustible. Added to which, I'm sure that the focus and concentration developed through years of intense meditation practice enable this incredible creative flow.

I asked him about Buddhism and warfare and, thinking of Aidan Delgado and, of course, Burma, whether it would ever be permissible for a practicing Buddhist to engage in military action. His answer was a clear "No." He was critical of those Burmese monks for stepping beyond that line in marching in the streets. The monk's true moral authority, he said, comes from the ability to turn his bowl upside down in a gesture that refuses alms--and the blessings and implicit approval that the donor can expect to receive in return. That gesture, in a Buddhist country like Thailand or Burma, is itself sufficient reproof and political protest. To march in the streets, as Than Geofff sees it, is to sacrifice a good part of that moral authority.

A fellow sitter asked about the history of the samurai warrior and Zen Buddhism: was this not a warrior tradition with Buddhist underpinnings? Than Geoff argued that the samurai myth was an invention of 19th century Japanese revisionists, who needed for political reasons to discredit the pacifism inherent in Buddhist teachings. Interesting. Was there anything, ever, I wondered again aloud, that would justify a true Buddhist taking arms? Than Geoff remained clear and unambiguous: nothing. Ever.

A Metta Game Board

An interesting day, yesterday, at the workshop to which we were invited by our friend from the Laguna Beach sangha, Dr. Barbara Wright, who has devised an ingenious game board based on the metta practice. Most readers will already know that metta is the practice of loving kindness and compassion. As commonly used as a part of meditation, it asks us first to direct compassion to ourselves, with the understanding that unless we can first be at peace with ourselves, we'll lack the goodwill to extend to others; then on to family and close friends, to those we know and like, to those we know those less well, to those we don't know at all, and even those we dislike; and then on to all people--and not only all people, but all living beings.

It's a wonderful practice, and one that I incorporate every day in my meditation. What Barbara has done is to extend the principles of metta and apply them to a large, human-scale game board, on which participants can actually act out the challenges they are facing in their lives and understand how to deal with them more skillfully. At the center of it all is compassion, the place of the heart, and the idea--as I understand it--is to reach that place by coming to a full awareness of the obstacles the mind sets up to distract us from it. As Barbara demonstrated though a series of examples, it can help both in personal and interpersonal relationships, and equally well in the business and corporate world. True compassion can make us not only happier in our lives, but also more skillful and successful in dealing with the world out there.

Yesterday's workshop was offered as just a foretaste of how the "game" might work. Had there been more time, I would like to have been out there on the board myself, to "get it" in a more experiential way--because I'm sure that this is how it is intended. The goal, as with meditation, would be to get to the bottom of my own intentions and understand my actions well enough to be sure that, whatever I do, my action rises out of awareness and from my own skillful choice--and in this way becomes the full expression of my human freedom and of my compassion for my fellow beings.

I think that we'll all be hearing more of Barbara's "Wright Formula Institute" and its "Compassionate Conflict Resolution Workshop." I hope so. I can think of at least one world leader who might profit from a session or two on the game board--and whose brush with enlightenment in this manner might open a threshold to a better world! As yet, I can't link you to any further information, since the Institute is still in its infancy. But I'm sure that a website will be available in good time, and will let you know about it when I hear more.

The Local News: It's Murder

Saturday. Over my morning cup of tea, I stumble sleepily into the "California" section of the Los Angeles Times. Front page: a husband and two boys, 7 and 3, murdered--supposedly by their mother in Rowland Heights. Page 3: "2 deny guilt in OC slayings"--a father and daughter killed, allegedly by two men, because they tried to end a relationship between one of the men and another daughter, because the family was Hindu and the suitor a Muslim. Page 7: "Victims are remembered in Burbank: Two apartment complex residents were shot dead Thursday and a third wounded. Then the shooter turned the gun on himself." That's the local news. The first instinct, of course, is to blame the killers. Please instead send metta to these--and all those many other--unhappy and ignorant human beings, who seem to know of no other way to solve their conflicts than to kill their neighbors and their loved ones. Including those who wage war. As our teacher says, the world would be a better place if they could find true happiness and the source of happiness.

And have a good weekend.