Church of the Churchless

Everyone is a creator, says Rick Rubin

I've done a lot of creating in my life. But I've never thought of myself as an artist. Artists create paintings, music, sculptures, pottery, all that stuff that most people, including me, think are art'y.

Rick Rubin is leading me to expand that limited point of view. Recently I encountered Rubin when I was watching some episodes of 60 Minutes that I'd recorded and hadn't gotten around to viewing. The segment on Rubin was fascinating.

Here's a guy who claims to know nothing about music, yet is a highly successful record producer. (These days maybe it's more accurate to say recordings producer.) The Wikipedia page for Rubin says that he has meditated since he was 14.

The 60 Minutes episode was the first time I've ever seen an interview start with the interviewee requesting it begin with a bit of meditation. There's a short video on You Tube of about a third of the 60 Minutes piece that captures the essence of what Rubin is all about. Basically, he's into feeling. (I couldn't embed the video in this post, as it needs to be watched on You Tube.)

Wanting to know more about Rubin's outlook on life, I bought his book, The Creative Act: A Way of Being. I'm enjoying it. The many chapters are pleasingly short and written in an engaging style. Here's the first chapter where Rubin talks about creativity and art.

Those who do not engage in the traditional arts might be wary of calling themselves artists. They might perceive creativity as something extraordinary or beyond their capabilities. A calling for the special few who are born with these gifts.

Fortunately, this is not the case.

Creativity is not a rare ability. It is not difficult to access. Creativity is a fundamental aspect of being human. It's our birthright. And it's for all of us.

Creativity doesn't exclusively relate to making art. We all engage in this act on a daily basis.

To create is to bring something into existence that wasn't there before. It could be a conversation, the solution to a problem, a note to a friend, the rearrangement of furniture in a room, a new route home to avoid a traffic jam.

What you make doesn't have to be witnessed, recorded, sold, or encased in glass for it to be a work of art. Through the ordinary state of being, we're already creators in the most profound way, creating our experience of reality and composing the world we perceive. 

In each moment, we are immersed in a field of undifferentiated matter from which our senses gather bits of information. The outside universe we perceive doesn't exist as such. Through a series of electrical and chemical reactions, we generate a reality internally. 

We create forests and oceans, warmth and cold. We read words, hear voices, and form interpretations. Then, in an instant, we produce a response. All of this in a world of our own creation.

Regardless of whether or not we're formally making art, we are all living as artists. We perceive, filter, and collect data, then curate an experience for ourselves and others based on this information set. Whether we do this consciously or unconsciously, by the mere fact of being alive, we are active participants in the ongoing process of creation.

To live as an artist is a way of being in the world. A way of perceiving. A practice of paying attention. Refining our sensitivity to tune in to the more subtle notes. Looking for what draws us in and what pushes us away. Noticing what feeling tones arise and where they lead.

Attuned choice by attuned choice, your entire life is a form of self-expression. You exist as a creative being in a creative universe. A singular work of art.

Here's an excerpt from his "Tuning In" chapter that describes more about how Rubin views creativity.

We are all translators for messages the universe is sending. The best artists tend to be the ones with the most sensitive antennae to draw in the energy resonating at a particular moment. Many great artists first develop sensitive antennae not to create art but to protect themselves. They have to protect themselves because everything hurts more. They feel everything more deeply.

Often art arrives in movements. Bauhaus architecture, abstract expressionism, French New Wave cinema, Beat poetry, punk rock to name a few from recent history. These moments appear like a wave; some artists are able to read the culture and position themselves to ride that swell. Others might see the wave and choose to swim against the current.

We are all antennae for creative thought. Some transmissions come on strong, others are more faint. If your antenna isn't sensitively tuned, you're likely to lose the data in the noise. Particularly since the signals coming through are often more subtle than the content we collect through sensory awareness. They are energetic more than tactile, intuitively perceived more than consciously recorded.

Most of the time, we are gathering data from the world through the five senses. With the information that's being transmitted on higher frequencies, we are channeling energetic material that can't be physically grasped. It defies logic, in the same way that an electron can be in two places at once. This elusive energy is of great worth, though so few people are open enough to hold it.

How do we pick up on a signal that can neither be heard nor be defined? The answer is not to look for it. Nor do we attempt to predict or analyze our way into it. Instead, we create an open space that allows it. A space so free of the normal overpacked condition of our minds that it functions as a vacuum. Drawing down the ideas that the universe is making available.

This freedom is not as difficult to achieve as one might think. We all start with it. As children, we experience much less interference between receiving ideas and internalizing them.

We accept new information with delight instead of making comparisons to what we already believe; we live in the moment rather than worrying about future consequences; we are spontaneous more than analytical; we are curious, not jaded. Even the most ordinary experiences in life are met with a sense of awe. Deep sadness and intense excitement can come within moments of each other. There's no facade and no attachment to a story.

Artists who are able to continually create great works throughout their lives often manage to preserve these child-like qualities. Practicing a way of being that allows you to see the world through uncorrupted, innocent eyes can free you to act in concert with the universe's timetable.

Meditators need to avoid mistaking subtle dullness for meditative joy

As noted in a previous post, I've been re-reading the first part of a book by Culadasa (John Yates), The Mind Illuminated: A Complete Meditation Guide Integrating Buddhist Wisdom and Brain Science for Greater Mindfulness. 

I'm almost back to where I stopped my reading about six years ago for a reason I can no longer recall. The book is an amazingly detailed and comprehensive approach to Buddhist meditation. I find it refreshing, because there's hardly any mention of Buddhist scriptures, Buddhist terms, or Buddhist stories. 

The whole focus is on guiding the reader through ten stages of meditative practice. So far I've read about  the first five, each of which I'm fairly competent at. Which shouldn't be surprising, since I've been meditating every day for about 55 years.

Stage One: Establishing a Practice
Stage Two: Interrupted Attention and Overcoming Mind-Wandering
Stage Three: Extended Continuity of Attention and Overcoming Forgetting
Stage Four: Continuous Attention and Overcoming Gross Distraction and Strong Dullness
Stage Five: Overcoming Subtle Dullness and Increasing Mindfulness

There's also Interludes in-between some of the stages where Culadasa discusses general principles that apply to various stages. I've read these.

First Interlude: Conscious Experience and the Objectives of Meditation
Second Interlude: The Hindrances and Problems
Third Interlude: How Mindfulness Works
Fourth Interlude: The Moments of Consciousness Model

I find the discussion on dullness both interesting and helpful. Here's how strong dullness is described.

Dullness occurs when we turn the mind inward, which reduces the constant flow of thoughts and sensations that usually keep the mind energized and alert. Therefore, the overall energy level of the mind drops. With less stimulation, the brain winds down toward sleep, and the mind grows dull. This normally happens when we're fatigued or at bedtime.

In meditation, it's not just turning inward that decreases mental energy, but when we focus on the breath too intensely and for too long, we are also excluding the thoughts and sensations that usually keep the mind alert. This is another reason why "looking beyond" the meditation object with peripheral awareness is so important. When we stay aware of things in the background, we continue to stimulate brain activity and won't sink into dullness.

This helps explain why some meditators practice with their eyes open, and why it isn't important to block out noises, like in my case, the sound of our heat pump blowing air into the room or a dryer/washing machine operating in the nearby utility room. When I'm meditating, those sounds are part of my peripheral (background) awareness, while my main focus is on my breath.

Subtle dullness is, not surprisingly, not as easy to recognize as strong dullness. That makes it more difficult to deal with. This is discussed in the Stage Five chapter.

This new level of stable attention is precisely what makes us more vulnerable to slipping into a deeper state of sustained subtle dullness. That's because the mental agitation that stimulated the mind and helped keep us awake in the earlier Stages has subsided. As subtle dullness deepens, it causes both peripheral awareness and subtle distractions to fade. 

If we don't recognize this as a sign of subtle dullness, it can easily be mistaken for the strong exclusive focus of Stage Six. The pleasant feelings that accompany subtle dullness can also be misinterpreted as first signs of the meditative joy of advanced stages. Without guidance, meditators often confuse a deeper state of subtle dullness with having achieved the more lofty states of later Stages.

We can sustain this type of subtle dullness for very long periods. It's often described in these kinds of terms: "My concentration was so deep, an hour seemed like only minutes." Or, "I don't know where I went, but I was just gone, and felt so peaceful and happy." 

When the pleasure of dullness is particularly strong and our peripheral awareness of thoughts and sensations fades completely, our meditation can even seem to fit the description of a meditative absorption (jhana). We can quickly get attached to such experiences, prizing them as proof of our meditative skills. Yet, relative to the practice goals in this book, they are complete dead ends. It's crucial we learn to recognize and overcome subtle dullness to progress in your practice. Therefore, do not skip this Stage!

...At first, it may be difficult to distinguish between the wholesome pleasure of stable attention and the pleasure of subtle dullness, but in time, you will recognize the warm, soft, quiet pleasure of subtle dullness as something quite different from the bright, alert enjoyment of being in the flow of mindfulness.

There are various ways to detect and combat subtle dullness. Here's a couple of them.

Remember, dullness arises when perceiving moments of consciousness become non-perceiving mind moments. A strong intention to perceive actually reverses this process by producing more perceiving moments of consciousness. By just setting the intention to observe the breath clearly and vividly while sustaining introspective awareness, you directly influence the root cause of dullness.

Sharpen up your observation of the meditation object when you notice a decrease in the quality of awareness and attention. Use the techniques of following and connecting. Follow the sensations of the breath while intending to perceive the details as clearly and vividly as possible. It's especially important to connect changes in the breath with the degree of alertness or dullness of the mind.

When you're more alert, does the breath tend to be deeper or shallower, longer or shorter, and how do the pauses change? What about when you're dull?

Another way to counter subtle dullness is by expanding the scope of your attention to include the sensations of the body. This works to energize the mind because we automatically use more conscious power to observe sensations in a larger area. You will even find that your scope of attention tends to spontaneously expand at this Stage. 

For instance, you might find yourself observing the sensations of the breath in both the chest and abdomen when you were intending to focus only on the nose.

...You've mastered this Stage when you're able to consistently sustain a high level of intense and clear perception -- of both attention and introspective awareness -- during most or all of your session. 

Attention will gain intensity, making all the details of the meditation object quite vivid. It will also gain in clarity, so you experience the actual arising and passing away of individual breath sensations.

There's a place for intelligent thinking. But we should be aware of its limitations.

I feel bad that my previous post caused some people to get the wrong impression of one of my favorite authors. In "Everything is spiritual" says Joan Tollifson. I heartily agree I shared quotations from one of Tollifson's books that were unbalanced in a certain sense.

While I understood that Tollifson is a big fan of reason and science, taken by itself this paragraph could be taken to be a putdown of reason and science.

Our brain sees patterns where none actually exist. It turns chaos into order. But the order is imaginary. We are always clueless. Life is an unresolvable, incomprehensible, indeterminate mystery. And that's not a horrible or depressing thought, but rather, a liberating and beautiful realization.

From a neuroscientific perspective, Tollifson is absolutely correct. The human brain is incapable of perceiving reality directly, being encased in the dark confine of our skull. So the brain makes best guesses as to what is happening in the world (and also within the mind) from inferences based on current perceptions and past experiences.

The brain is a prediction machine. It fashions order out of the raw material of life, in somewhat the same fashion as several American election models that I follow use mathematics and statistics based on political polls, economic data, prior election results, and such to come up with predictions (updated daily) as to the chance Kamala Harris or Donald Trump will be elected president next month. 

The actual reality obviously is much different from what those models are able to capture. I know that. But when I see that Harris is leading Trump by 57% to 43% in Nate Silver's prediction model, I'm pleased because I want Harris to win. It's easy for me to forget that Silver's model is a crude reflection of political reality, and could be far off the mark -- as his model was in 2016, when it predicted that Hillary Clinton had a much greater chance of winning and Trump won.

So Tollifson is simply reminding us that models aren't reality. Whatever conceptual models we have in our mind about the way things are, the one thing that's certain about those models is that they're flawed. While correct in certain ways, they're incorrect in other ways. Problem is, it can be devilishly difficult for us to know the difference, in part because no one, absolutely no one, has a perfect grasp of reality.

(Assuming such is even possible, when I suspect it isn't.)

Here's some additional Tollifson quotations that give a fuller picture of her attitude toward thinking and reason. As I said in my previous post, I don't agree 100% with what Tollifson says in her writings, but in general I believe she is right on in her viewpoint. This quotation is from Death: The End of Self-Improvement, the book I quoted in that previous post.

Self-improvement is rigid and perfectionistic, driven by beliefs, expectations and old answers, while genuine transformation is flexible, open to new discoveries and rooted in not-knowing. Genuine transformation listens for what life itself wants, while self-improvement imagines that "I" know how everything "should" be. 

Self-improvement is judgmental, self-righteous and narrow-minded, while happiness and real change are the release of all that. Self-improvement is primarily thought-based, while genuine transformation emerges from aware presence. Thought divides; awareness joins. Thought is dualistic; awareness is nondual.

Of course, there is a place for intelligent thinking -- reason, intellect and analysis are marvelous tools. I'm not in any way disparaging thinking. I have great appreciation for the scientific method and for human reason. But awareness is upstream from thought. And in many situations, thought is the wrong instrument.

These quotations are from Nothing to Grasp.

When we try to figure out "the meaning of life" or "the nature of reality," or when we try to come up with a conceptual understanding of Consciousness, Totality, God, or the Ground of Being, we inevitably end up frustrated and confused. Any conceptual picture of reality is always subject to doubt, and no metaphysical formulation ever satisfies our deep longing for Truth.

What satisfies that deep longing of the heart is the falling away of the attempt to make sense of everything. Of course, that doesn't mean we don't still make relative sense of things in a functional way in daily life. But we stop trying to take hold of Totality, or grasp the Ground of Being, or figure out the meaning of life.

Instead, we relax into simply being life. We learn to recognize (to see, to sense) when we're beginning to grasp or fixate, and in that recognition, quite naturally there is an ability to relax and let go. When we stop trying to figure it all out, we discover that it doesn't need to be figured out, and in fact, can't be figured out. 

When we stop desperately trying to get a grip, we find nothing is lacking and there is nothing to grasp.

...Thought and language are wonderful tools. But words are inherently abstract and representational. Even when they are trying not to, they inevitably tend to freeze and divide the seamless fluidity of life, creating the mirage-like conceptual appearance of separate, independent forms that persist through time. So whenever we try to think about life, we tend to get easily confused. 

We get confused because we are thinking about and trying to reconcile "things" that don't actually exist. Whatever verbal formulation we use to describe reality is never quite right. Thought can never get hold of the actuality of this-here-now. Reality itself is too fluid, too immediate, too dynamic to be divided up and caught in the conceptual net of words.

If we say, "This is it," the words create the very split they attempt to point beyond. If we say "All is One," it is one too many. If we call it "nothing," it seems to deny the undeniable presence of everything. If we assert that "there is nothing to do," it seems to overlook the necessity of doing whatever we are moved by life to do. If we assert "there is something to do," it makes it sound as if something else is required in order to be what we already are.

Love is keeping your mind open for other people and things

I love my wife. Which is why last night was so disturbing.

It was deeply painful to know that soon I'd be holding my wife's hand for the last time, because she was about to die. The more I thought about this, the more distress I felt, until I was on the verge of crying a massive amount of tears.

Thankfully, my wife was fine.

Her death was a product of my imagination, which ran away with me while I was brushing my teeth after we'd finished watching an episode of Shogun on Hulu where a man committed hara-kiri, ritual suicide, because a disagreement with his Japanese lord left him no other choice if he was to maintain his honor.

Death was on my mind, which probably explains why I suddenly began thinking about how sad I would be when my wife died. 

The relevance of this to my rediscovery of Douglas Harding's book, On Having No Head, which I wrote about a few days ago, is that I was almost totally immersed in my own thoughts about my wife dying, to such an extent that they seemed real, until I focused my attention on the world outside my head.

As soon as I returned to looking at the white porcelain of our sink, and the toothbrush filled with toothpaste that I was holding in my hand, the sorrow I had conjured in my mind vanished. The world was much more real than my imagination, and I reacted accordingly.

What this taught me -- and this is a lesson that I keep learning over and over -- is the difference between how I imagine the world to be versus how it actually is. 

I worry about lots of stuff that never happens. I also find that lots of stuff happens that I never worried about, but disturbs me when it rears its unpleasant head. So in my wiser moments, I try to live in accord with what Harding says in On Having No Head. (By Space, he means the capacity for knowing that is awareness.)

This unknowing has no limits. It extends beyond what we perceive to all we feel and think and do. It is ceasing to know how to cope with life, where we are going, what to do after this immediate task is done, what's going to happen to us tomorrow, next week, next year.

It is walking one step at a time and blindfolded, in the assurance that the Space here -- which is nothing and knows nothing but Itself -- will nevertheless come up, moment by moment, with what's needed. It is living like the lilies of the field, taking no thought for the morrow, trusting our Source.

This is where Harding and I begin to part company, when he talks about the Source and God rather than sticking with the bare facts of open-minded awareness. Harding is on solid ground when he speaks about the phenomenology of "having no head," of our sense that consciousness itself is empty and pristine, while the contents of consciousness are full of diverse qualities. 

But when he crosses over into religious territory, drawing implications about the meaning of his "headless way" that aren't part of that experience itself, that Harding is on shaky ground. 

Nonetheless, I enjoyed the way he looks upon love in another of his books that I recently ordered from Amazon, Face to No-Face. In the first chapter, Harding talks about how as a youth brought up by a rigid fundamentalist Christian father who forbid him from reading anything but the Bible, he had come to believe that love is the cornerstone of life and the universe.

Sentiments like that usually leave me cold. They sound nice, but lack substance. I'm not attracted to a philosophy that sounds like it was written on a Hallmark Card. I liked what Harding says about love though, viewing it as the result of a mind, or awareness, focused on a person or thing in the world, not on our own inward self. 

In other words, we are headless for the object of our beheaded love. Our emptiness meets their fullness, and if they return our love, their emptiness meets our fullness. 

You want to love well the person you love. There's only one way truly to love that person. It is to disappear in his or her favor. We are built to give our lives for one another. This is an exquisite design for living, that we give our lives for one another.

I look at my young friend next to me here. The only way that I can receive his face is to die as Douglas and be resurrected as him. I guess it is the same for him. His gives his life for Douglas; I give my life for him. 

We are disappearing in each other's favor. We are built for loving. I'm not talking about the feeling. I'm talking about the ground from which love can grow and flourish. Here, I really am in receipt of him, not because I am a nice person, because I'm not.

Douglas is not a very nice person. My friend is not a perfect person, either. He looks pretty good, but he's not perfect. But he's built for loving.

This disappearance is real disappearance because when I look Here, not a molecule is left, let alone a cell, let alone some goo or chemical stuff -- as you saw for yourself when you looked at the Clarity where you are. There's no dust on this clear Window.

This is real death. It's a more complete death than the one the mortician deals with because he's left with some mess, something to get rid of. There's nothing to get rid of here. "Greater love hath no man than this, that he gave his life for his friend."

Well, those are lofty words, a bit too lofty and abstract for my liking. I look at things more simply and practically. 

When my wife has something to say to me, my loving response is to stop whatever I'm doing, try to shut up the chatter inside my head, and listen to her with an open attentive mind. Same applies to my Tai Chi class. Today, as every time I go to the class, I try to focus on what our instructor is saying, and what we are doing.

Sure, I also wonder about what I'm going to have for dinner, and I'm aware of the sciatica pain in my right leg which is worse when I'm standing still rather than moving. But in general, I figure that since I love Tai Chi and I love my Tai Chi class, the best way to express that love is being attentive to what's happening in the class, not to the going's on inside my head that are unrelated to Tai Chi.

Look without, not within, is the best spiritual advice

For thirty-five years I belonged to a guru-centered religious organization, Radha Soami Satsang Beas (RSSB), whose teachings centered around a meditation approach aimed at "going within." 

Through the repetition of a mantra, visualization of the guru, and observation by one's inner senses of theorized divine sound and light, the promise was that realms of reality beyond the physical would be experienced on the road to God-realization.

Nice idea. Never happened to me. Nor did it happen to anyone else associated with RSSB who I talked with over those thirty-five years. And believe me, I talked with lots of RSSB initiates.

Now, the whole notion of going within doesn't make much sense to me. I meditated in that fashion for over three decades. Eventually I realized that this sort of meditation can lead to concentration, but it isn't a useful means of living a more satisfying life, since life is lived without, not within.

Buddhist'y meditation, which typically involves following one's breath, being mindful of external perceptions, and having the eyes open at times and closed at times, strikes me as a wiser form of spirituality.

In Thomas Metzinger's book, The Elephant and the Blind, which is about the experience of pure awareness either in meditation or in everyday activities, he makes an astute observation in the "Coming Home" chapter.

For now, we can simply conclude that on this reading -- treating it as something aimed at successful practice (not as metaphysics) -- the classical motif of "recognizing your own true nature" would really describe the possibility of a shift in the unit of identification: the possibility of pure awareness becoming that from which the world is now experienced, as opposed to that at which the meditating self looks.

Metzinger says that a common mostly unconscious belief in the brain holds that (1) we have a preexisting, perhaps innate, true nature, and (2) this nature can be recognized. This certainly fits with the RSSB meditation I was taught which theorized that our true nature is soul, but soul is disguised by coverings of mind and matter that need to be removed so our pristine immaterial nature is recognized.

Maybe, but I deeply doubt it. 

What seems much more likely is that we do not possess any sort of enduring, unchanging true nature, commonly termed the Self. Instead, we are an ever-changing collection of qualities that arise from countless causes and conditions extending for vast periods of past time -- all the way back to the big bang, really.

As I frequently say to myself, No self, no free will, no problem. 

If I look within, I won't find anything very interesting. Just more of me. Thoughts, emotions, memories, anticipations. When my mind is silent and still, there's a certain peace, but this is an absence, not a presence. Deep dreamless sleep is peaceful also, as is death. Why would I want that before I die?

I enjoy a certain state of pure awareness where I feel what Metzinger said in the quotation above: becoming that from which the world is experienced. It's hard to put into words what this feeling is like for me. 

One way to put it is Douglas Harding's well-known adage of having no head. At first this seemed ridiculous, since obviously I and everybody else has a head.

But what he means is that when we look with eyes open, what we see is the world, not a head. A head only appears when we look in a mirror, or at a photograph of ourself, which entails making an object of ourself.

Our subjectivity, our consciousness, has no head. There is no place where we could "go within." That's a fantasy, an abstraction with no basis in reality. What is real is our awareness from which the world is experienced. It makes no sense for awareness to be that at which the meditating self looks, because awareness is what is doing the looking, and we can't look at what is doing the looking. 

Expressed in words, this sounds confusing. But in my actual life, it is very simple. At times throughout the day, I feel the breath passing in and out of my nostrils. Centered in that physical sensation, I view the world as if it were my head. Which indeed, it is, for the only way I can know anything is by being aware of it.

Looking without rather than within feels better to me. Again, the world is much more interesting than I am. My thoughts and feelings are very familiar to me. I much prefer to have the world be my head, rather than my head be my head.

That may sound crazy to you. It does seem that way when I read the words I just wrote. All I can say is that it reflects how I feel, albeit imperfectly. That's the problem with words. They aren't reality.

Hey, turns out I'm enlightened! Just not all the time.

Enlightenment is a word that gets thrown around a lot in spiritual circles, even though it's rare that anyone can clearly say what makes someone enlightened, or how it's possible to tell a person is in this supposedly exalted state.

Often enlightenment is viewed as something ineffable that only another enlightened being can recognize. You know, an exclusive club where the members know each other but us ordinary people can only do our best to peek through the curtained windows in a vain attempt to see what's going on inside.

Another problem with the notion of enlightenment is that even when it's described somewhat specifically, there's a curious non-coincidence I've observed: enlightenment just happens to be a spiritual state that the person describing it says they've achieved. 

In other words, when someone has an experience, or transformation, that they consider spiritually significant, frequently they give it a name: enlightenment. Then they can market their accomplishment to others who desire to be enlightened. 

Now, this might be what's going on with Joan Tollifson's take on enlightenment. She's a spiritual rebel of sorts who has studied Zen Buddhism, nonduality, and other pursuits, yet has developed her own original manner of speaking about them in a way that I find appealing. 

While I readily agree that how Tollifson looks upon enlightenment flows out of her own personal experiences (but doesn't that apply to everyone?), what she says in her book Painting the Sidewalk with Water: Talks & Dialogues About Non-Duality makes sense to me -- in part because her definition of enlightenment applies to everyone at times, though not always. 

I've only read about half of the book. However, I've found enough references to enlightenment to make me confident that these passages accurately reflect Tollifson's perspective.

Enlightenment is the recognition that there is no "me" behind the mask of any persona, and that no person exists as a solid, continuous, separate, independent entity. Enlightenment is seeing that I am everyone and no one. I include everything and I am no-thing in particular. Enlightenment sees from the perspective of unicity. [defined as: the quality or state of being unique of its kind : ONENESS]

...Above all, awakening is seeing through the "me" who wonders if "I' have had an awakening or not. This waking up is very simple. It is not some fantastic, spectacular, one-time event with trumpets blaring and fireworks exploding. Nor is it a personal achievement. We miss it because we're looking for something extraordinary, something that will enhance "me."

...We often seek the experiences we have been led to expect, and then we often frame our experiences according to what we have learned. Christians see Jesus and get born again. Buddhists discover emptiness and the present moment. Satsang people have awakenings. Nondualists imagine a moment when "the self" drops away forever.

People who expect dramatic enlightenments often have them! When I hear some of the big bang enlightenment stories on offer, I sometimes wonder if the teachers in question haven't constructed the whole experience out of thin air, convinced themselves of its validity, and now they're using it to sell themselves or make themselves special.

...The whole notion of a final breakthrough, in which all sense of being an encapsulated individual permanently vanishes forever and ever, never to return, is a total myth. That encapsulated "me" is never really here, ever, and the idea or sense of encapsulation vanishes in any moment that's it's clearly seen for what it is. 

...Enlightenment is Now. It's not a possession or an achievement. There is no final enlightenment. And an enlightened person is a total oxymoron. Enlightenment is the popping of the bubble of separation. It leaves no person to be enlightened or unenlightened. 

As I've said, I think there is often a tendency to confuse unicity, which is all there is, with enlightenment, which is the absence of delusion. Unicity includes both enlightenment and delusion, both Ramana and Hitler. But Hitler was not enlightened. Enlightenment sees unicity. Delusion imagines separation. The very idea of permanently enlightened people is delusion. 

...There are characters running around in the movie of waking life claiming that they no longer experience fear or desire. Whenever I hear this now, it immediately activates my bullshit alarms. Maybe it's true, I don't know. 

But it seems to me that instead of seeing what is going on, many people who swallowed the "I Am Enlightened" story may now be busy denying delusion, even to themselves. This is like putting on blinders. It's all about a new and improved identity -- Me the Enlightened One -- an identity that needs to be defended. 

...Awakening is not a flashy experience. It's very ordinary. It's simply seeing through false ideas. What remains is the ever-present, ever-changing aliveness of Here/Now. And that is actually never not here. 

We and the world are plenty strange as is, no need to look afar for strangeness

I've got solid evidence for my affinity for strangeness: 49 Strange Up Salem columns that I wrote for our alternative newspaper, Salem Weekly, in 2013-2015.

Here's how my second column, "Strange is Life," started out.

Life is strange. From birth until death, mysteries abound. No one -- not scientists, not religious leaders, nobody -- knows everything about anything.

This is a good thing. Certainty is for machines that act robotically. For four billion years or so, life has evolved in unpredictable, though natural, ways. So let’s invert my words:

Strange is life. At the core of each of us beats a marvelous heart of strangeness. We feel it pulsating in ooh! and ah! moments when a burst of mysterious beauty breaks through the mundane veil that often shrouds our consciousness.

I still feel this way.

That's why, even though I'm enjoying reading Eric Schwitzgebel's book, The Weirdness of the World, which I have written about here and here, I have some problems with his "1% Skepticism" chapter.

His basic idea, as reflected in the chapter title, is that it makes sense to be approximately 1% skeptical that our habitual way of looking upon the world truly is the way things are. Meaning, reserve 1% of your judgement about reality for the possibility that, say, we could be living in a simulation conjured up by a bored teenager in an alien civilization with powerful computer technology, or that we're dreaming.

Schwitzgebel recommends the 1% be adjusted by an order of magnitude lesser, 0.1%, if 1% seems like too high a probability for the world being Really Weird. Well, my own take on this is that there's a 100% probability -- absolute certainty -- that the world is Really Weird, or if you like, Really Strange.

This applies to each of us also, since we're part of the world.

I can make this bold claim, which carries with it that absolute certainty, because while Schwitzgebel is talking about the nature of objective reality, I'm speaking about the nature of subjective reality. Meaning, reality viewed from a certain perspective: my own. 

But I don't think I'm the only person who sees things in the Really Strange way that I do. Not constantly. Not every waking moment. Just often enough for me to realize that strangeness is an ever-present component of my mind that, now and then, moves into consciousness from wherever it lurks at other times.

Today I was driving home after getting an acupuncture treatment for my sciatica/leg pain (having needles stuck into you for an hour or so is strange in itself) when I suddenly sensed the utter improbability of everything around me -- trees, pavement, sky, vehicles, and so on. 

It struck me that out of the 100 billion or so galaxies in the universe, with our Milky Way galaxy containing about 100 billion stars, here I was, driving my Subaru Crosstrek while listening to the news being discussed on a satellite radio station.

That seems mundane to me most of the time. However, when the Really Strange bug bites me, I envision an alien being from a galaxy far, far away looking upon our world and thinking, in its alien fashion, "Wow, this planet is amazingly bizarre!" 

Because everything we look upon as normal, to an alien being would be astoundingly different and unique. 

But even if we accept that the probability of our world being as it is is 100%, since what is, is, this neither takes away from the Really Strange fact that it is this way, nor from the Really Strange fact that each of us possesses an awareness capable of knowing that the world is as it is. 

This awareness, or consciousness, is completely private and subjective. No one other than us has direct access to it. At this moment I know what I'm feeling, what I'm aware of. Out of eight billion people on this planet, only I have this knowledge. 

And the same is true of you. So I agree with Schwitzgebel that how our mind relates to the world is an unexplained weirdness that no one fully understands, and perhaps never will -- at least not in the immediate future. 

His emphasis on consciousness will keep me reading the rest of his book. After all, I like his title, The Weirdness of the World, a lot. I just find weirdness/strangeness everywhere, when I'm in a certain frame of mind.

What we do, think, and feel comes not from us, but the cosmos

The title of this blog post, though a statement, actually is a proposition, a hypothesis, a possibility. It fits with a heck of a lot of spiritual teachings, and it fits with a heck of a lot of scientific teachings.

I've been pondering the source of my actions, thoughts, and feelings more intensely now that I'm reading Joan Tollifson's provocative book, Nothing to Grasp. She's a spiritual teacher and writer, with a background in Zen.

But below I'll share some passages from her book that are closely akin to a central message in biologist Robert Sapolsky's book, Determined, where he expertly demolishes arguments in favor of free will from a scientific perspective.

Sapolsky considers, with good reason, that our behavior today flows from influences acting on us seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, centuries, and even longer ago -- potentially going all the way back to the big bang some 14 billion years ago.

So it isn't crazy, from either a spiritual or scientific perspective, to say that what we do, think, and feel comes not from us, but the cosmos. 

I find this to be an uplifting and optimistic point of view. It's something that not only appeals to me, but also something that reflects how I am. More and more, I don't worry as much as I used to about whether I'm doing the right thing, making correct choices, being a good person. 

I feel that my intentions are just the tip of an iceberg of influences acting upon me that is much vaster that my conscious awareness. I'm increasingly comfortable with not planning my life in any sort of detail, since whatever will arise in my future is only slightly of my own doing, and much more in the hands of forces much larger than me.

This is closely related to a sense of no-self. For the more I feel like an isolated individual with a well-defined identity who necessarily has to make his own way in the world, the more pressure I feel to have that way turn out well.

On the other hand, when I relax into a sense of being a minute piece of the unimaginably vast machinery of the cosmos, that pressure and stress is considerably diminished. That's why I enjoyed reading these passages in Tollifson's Nothing to Grasp.

If we look closely, we discover that thinking happens by itself. Waking up from thoughts and fantasies happens by itself. Paying attention happens by itself. Making decisions happens by itself. Even what appears to be deliberate, premeditated, intentional action happens by itself.

Thoughts arise, impulses arise, interests arise, action arises. Everything is one whole movement -- the clouds, the street traffic, the thoughts, the blood flow, the galaxies deep in outer space, the infinite subatomic universes on the head of a pin -- all of it is one undivided choiceless happening. 

There is no actor apart from the action, no doer apart from the deed, no thinker apart from the thought, no "awarer" apart from awareness. 

There is a functional identification with a particular form, a thought-sense of identity and location that coalesces and appears intermittently as needed (and sometimes dysfunctionally, when not really needed). 

...As Jane Doe, you appear to think things through, make choices and perform actions. That appearance is part of the functioning of life. You know whose name to answer to, which mouth to put the food in, how to cut the carrot and not your finger. 

If you had no functional sense of identity as Jane Doe, none of this would be possible. But this functional sense of identity, which appears intermittently as needed, is not the problem. The problem -- the source of our human suffering -- is overlooking the bigger picture, the context in which this functional identification is occurring. 

We suffer because we imagine that we really are Jane Doe and nothing but Jane Doe, that what "I" truly am is a discrete unit of consciousness located inside a perishable and vulnerable body, located on one side of the room and not the other, struggling to survive as this separate fragment.

We overlook our true identity as the awake space that is beholding and being both Jane Doe and Tom Brown and the entire universe, the seamlessness from which nothing stands apart, the unborn and indestructible boundlessness that is our True Nature. 

...This mirage-like appearance of being a separate person is, in fact, absent much of the time in ordinary, everyday life.

For example, as one is absorbed in reading a good novel, or driving down the freeway, or washing the dishes, whenever there is no thought-story about "me" playing in the mind, there is simply the happening of the moment: pages turning and the plot-story of the novel unfolding in the imagination, or cars and landscapes rushing past on the freeway, or soapy water sliding over dishes -- sounds, sensations, movements of the bodymind all happening effortlessly.

The "me" shows up only with the arising of a thought that posits a subject, for example, "I need to wash these dishes more quickly," or "I don't think I really understand the meaning of this novel." Prior to those thoughts, there was no "me" in the picture, but this me-less experience in between thoughts is so ordinary that it is easily overlooked. 

Spaciousness of awareness is a nice thought, but not reality

Buddhism, like all "ism's", can be irritating. But that's the case with everything in life, really. Too much of a good thing can be a bad thing.

I resonate with Buddhist teachings.

However, as I make my way through Rob Burbea's in-depth examination of the Buddhist notions of emptiness, dependent arising, suffering, and such, some chapters in Seeing That Frees are too Buddhist-geeky for my taste.

Burbea, like some practitioners who are really into Buddhist teachings, strikes me as being akin to a car enthusiast who wants to fine-tune every aspect of a vehicle's operation. So his book goes into great detail about some issues that don't concern me much.

But Burbea is speaking in large part to readers who, like him, are really into Buddhism. He often refers to meditation during a lengthy retreat, something I've never done or wanted to do.

That said, I should give Burbea some slack.

For everybody in my Tai Chi class, which has no beginners, is really into Tai Chi, as is my instructor, naturally. Thus the details about weight distribution and placement of the body in Tai Chi moves we examine would annoy someone who just wants to relax and move in a flowing manner. 

Which makes my Tai Chi about as geeky as Burbea's book about Buddhist teachings is.

Today, though, my interest in Seeing That Frees perked up again when I got to a chapter on "Emptiness and Awareness." Awareness fascinates me because awareness, or consciousness, is all we are, really. 

No awareness, no us. No awareness, no connection with either the world within or the world without. Even if our heart beats and our lungs breathe, without awareness we are essentially dead. Unconsciousness is an inkling of death if it is temporary; truly death if it is permanent. 

Burbea has a pleasingly subtle take on awareness. I'll try to describe the "Emptiness and Awareness" chapter as briefly as possible, though "brief" is often hard for me to attain in my posts about this book.

He starts off with the notion that many forms of spirituality make a central part of their teaching: awareness is like the vast empty sky that contains clouds and other phenomena, yet remains apart from what appears within it.

As it opens and becomes more steady, it can seem more and more that all phenomena appear to emerge out of this space of awareness, abide for a time, and then disappear back into it, while the space itself can have a sense of profound stillness, or imperturbability, to it. 

Burbea then talks about the benefits this view of awareness as a vast empty space can have for us, as people trying to understand ourselves and as meditators. Awareness as the container that can hold any kind of object of awareness is a simple, appealing notion.

Yet there is a "but" to this.

When the perception opens in the kinds of ways described earlier, the tremendous sense of peace, freedom, and beauty that it may involve can often affect a meditator profoundly. It can be very tempting then to suppose that what is experienced is somehow ultimate.

...Perhaps it is surmised to be truly transcendent, truly free of all conditions that arise in it. The notions of emptiness and the space of awareness may get equated, so that the space of awareness itself is regarded as 'Emptiness'.

Similarly, because the experience of the space seems to accord with various descriptions one might have heard or read, it is also relatively common for this awareness to be referred to, for example, as the 'Ground of Being', as the 'Cosmic Consciousness', 'Big Mind', 'The One Mind', 'The Absolute', 'The Unconditioned', or 'the Unfabricated'.

And since a sense of divinity often permeates experience, a practitioner may begin to speak in theistic terms.

Burbea then makes the entirely reasonable point that having a thought or feeling about the "vastness of awareness" is still an object in awareness, not awareness itself. In fact, he believes, as I do also, that it is impossible to be aware of awareness itself, for we only can be aware of contents of awareness.

Can you imagine being aware of pure awareness? I can't. For awareness without an object or content of awareness would be a void, a cipher, a nothing. There would be no difference between it and death.

So almost certainly "pure awareness" is a fantasy, for a fantasy can be an object of awareness.

Burbea then says that there's an alternative approach to viewing awareness as an empty space that holds all objects of awareness. 

All things can seem at that point to share the same 'substance' as awareness, and all experience may be seen as essentially a 'manifestation of awareness'. Then, not just the knowing, but the content of experiences too is sensed as having the nature of consciousness, being made of the same 'stuff' as awareness.

In other words, says Burbea, moments of consciousness can be seen as having both a knowing and a known aspect, with the knowing (consciousness) and the known (the perceptual object) lacking any essential difference.

This makes sense to me.

Again, there is no way to know anything about an object without awareness of the object. So awareness does seem to take on the qualities of the object. Even if a mechanism like a telescope, microscope, or whatever captures the perception of an object, unless a conscious knower is aware of that perception, it doesn't exist for us humans.

Burbea writes:

Whether the attention is wider or more narrow, the key to this way of looking is to recognize that what is seen or experienced is just that -- an experience -- and then see it that way -- as an experience, a perception -- rather than in the usual way of looking, which carries with it the imputation of a solid object 'out there'.

However, in the end Burbea says while both ways of looking at awareness are useful for a practitioner, they make awareness into something it is not: an entity with inherent existence. Meaning, actually awareness is fabricated or constructed just as everything else in existence is.

Both of those views are available to us. In practice, we may sometimes have, and encourage, a sense of awareness as separate from its objects, and this view can be very helpful; and at other times we may have, and encourage, a sense of the sameness of objects and awareness, and this view too may be helpful.

In both cases, however, as part of this view, a nature of awareness has been asserted which will not ultimately stand up to scrutiny. We will see, eventually, that the nature of awareness is neither the same as nor different from its objects of perception.

...Even though it may be regarded nominally as 'not a thing', because it is not materially substantial, an intuitive belief in the inherent existence of awareness has not been destroyed yet. Nevertheless, this fundamental omission does not alter the fact that both views may be ways of looking that support a great deal of letting go, of freedom, peace, and heart opening.

And they may, if employed skillfully, act as stepping-stones to deeper insight and a fuller realization of emptiness.

Phenomenology can deconstruct religious dogma

While I said in my last post that I'd be moving on from the subject of predictive processing, I'm only going to go halfway there. Because I want to explore something that stood out for me in one of the slides I shared in that post from a talk by Shamil Chandaria about "The Bayesian Brain and Meditation."

This is how I described the blue box with various terms for Non-Dual Awareness and its associated orange'ish note in my previous blog post.

Emptiness, in the Buddhist sense, is one of the spiritual notions (in the blue box) that Chandaria says are similar phenomenology (meaning, as experienced) yet with different metaphysical narratives. That's for sure. Brahman, God in Hinduism, is very different from Buddhist emptiness -- which means the interdependence of all things, none of which possess inherent existence in their own right.

Now, I'm not sure how similar the phenomenological experiences of non-dual awareness actually are. But before talking about that, here's a definition of phenomenology.

The discipline of phenomenology may be defined initially as the study of structures of experience, or consciousness. Literally, phenomenology is the study of “phenomena”: appearances of things, or things as they appear in our experience, or the ways we experience things, thus the meanings things have in our experience. Phenomenology studies conscious experience as experienced from the subjective or first person point of view. This field of philosophy is then to be distinguished from, and related to, the other main fields of philosophy: ontology (the study of being or what is), epistemology (the study of knowledge), logic (the study of valid reasoning), ethics (the study of right and wrong action), etc.

So assuming non-dual awareness does exist, where basically there is just a unity of experience instead of (1) an experiencer and (2) something being experienced, Chandaria considers that those experiencing non-dual awareness who use terms in the blue box from various spiritual and philosophical traditions all are having pretty much the same subjective experience, even though the terms point to different metaphysical narratives or dogmas.

I like this idea.

It rings true to me, though given the inherently personal nature of subjective experience, it would be difficult to prove that a Christian who feels the presence of Jesus when she stands on top of a  mountain, totally absorbed in the majestic beauty of her surroundings, is having the same non-dual experience as a Buddhist atheist who feels the emptiness or interdependence of those same surroundings.

In other words, it is when we frame a non-dual experience of unity between subject and object within a theological, philosophical, or some other system of thought that differences appear, even though the phenomenological experiences themselves may be very similar, if not identical.

I can't resist relating this to the criminal indictment of Trump that the United States Justice Department released a few days ago. Sure, it's quite a jump from non-dual awareness to serious legal charges against an ex-president, but my mind, like all minds, works in mysterious ways.

Political junkie that I am, I've been avidly following the reactions of Republican and Democratic leaders to the news of the indictment. Let's assume that they all have read the indictment, which runs 49 pages, but doesn't take very long to read given copious white space in the pages.

The indictment is akin to low-level phenomenology. It lays out some basic evidence about the case against Trump. The details and photos in the indictment are damning. Anyone who cares about national security and keeping our nation's military secrets safe should feel alarmed at what the charges against Trump are, and the evidence backing up those charges.

(This isn't all the evidence the government has. More surely will be revealed at Trump's trial.)

However, many if not most Republican leaders, including Trump himself, have been focusing on higher-level dogmas. I call them that, because there's really no facts to back them up. They're just ways of looking at the indictment that distract from the evidence presented in it by the Justice Department.

So Trump calls it a witch hunt. Other Republicans decry the weaponization of the Justice Department to go after Trump in an unfair manner. There's false claims that Biden ordered the indictment, ignoring that a special counsel was appointed to oversee the investigation into Trump's handling of secret documents, and a grand jury authorized the indictment.

Thus while there is little debate about the facts in the indictment, which are virtually indisputable, there's lots of debate about what the indictment means. Is it a valid way of holding Trump accountable for his willful retention of sensitive documents (my view), or is it a nasty way for Democrats to punish Trump because they hate him? (the view of most Republicans)

My point here is that the closer we come to raw experience and raw facts, the more agreement there should be on those low-level aspects of life. When we enter the realm of higher-level abstractions and dogmas, there is more room for disagreement.

At any rate, I like the idea that underneath all of the differences between the world's religious theologies and philosophical ways of looking at the world, there's a fundamental human unity that manifests when experience enters a state that is variously described as flow, absorption, non-duality, and such.

More simply put, a mother who can't stop gazing at the newborn she holds in her arms, so absorbed in the infant that the two of them appear to her to be one, is having the same experience as other mothers, whether they be committed Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, or atheists.

What if religions are wrong and there's nothing to find?

In my experience, the most difficult part of writing is the first sentence and the last sentence. With one, there's nothing that comes before. With the other, there's nothing that comes after. So those sentences are unique.

I struggled with the first sentence in my book, Return to the One. Until finally, a sentence popped into my head that seemed just right to me.

If something has been lost and you're not sure where to look for it, there's good reason to start searching right where you are rather than far afield.

Then I spoke about the familiar situation (familiar to me, at least) of looking for your car keys only to discover that they were sitting unnoticed in a pocket or purse the whole time.

But let's think about what's necessary for a search to make sense. To begin with, you really need to have lost something. Meaning, it was in your possession at one point, and now it isn't. Then there has to be a decent probability that you can find that thing you used to possess.

If you're on a cruise and drop your glasses into the ocean while leaning over a railing, you know what you've lost, but for all practical purposes you have a zero chance of finding that item.

In Return to the One I argued that we have a sense of loss, yet most of us don't understand what we're longing to recover: God, or the One. I feel like I did a pretty good job making that argument, yet in my current frame of mind I no longer find what I wrote to be persuasive.

I still like my first sentence in the book, though. But now I see it as pointing toward the desirability of living in the here and now, rather than a there and then. After all, where we are, where everyone is, without exception, is the present moment.

No searching required. Just be here now.

This, of course, is the essence of mindfulness. And of the non-religious aspect of Buddhism, which includes Zen. Such distinguishes these forms of spirituality from the seeking forms of spirituality and religion where there is much talk of a path to be followed, and signs of progress along the way.

Here's some illustrative passages from Jon Kabat-Zinn's book, Mindfulness for Beginners: reclaiming the present moment -- and your life.

Not only is it always now. The "curriculum" of this adventure we call living, where mindfulness can play such a pivotal role, is always what is unfolding in this moment, whether we like what is happening or not. 

Whatever is arising in this moment becomes the curriculum for liberating ourselves from the shackles of greed, hatred, and delusion. We do not need some ideal or romantic fairy tale of what would be best for us. What we most need is what is already given to us: the actuality of things as they are in the only moment we will ever have -- this one.

...So as we have already seen, the notion that in meditation practice there is no place to go, nothing to do, and nothing to attain can be quite strange and mysterious -- even foreign -- to our striving temperaments and our need to always be getting better.

...Non-striving is not trivial. It involves realizing that you are already here. There's no place to go, because the agenda is simply to be awake. 

It is not framed as some ideal that suggests that after forty years of sitting in a cave in the Himalayas, or by studying with august teachers, or doing ten thousand prostrations, or whatever it is, you will necessarily be any better than you are now.

It is likely that you will just be older. What happens now is what matters.

If you don't pay attention now, as Kabir, the great Indian poet of sixteenth-century India said, "You will simply end up with an apartment in the City of Death."

...Awareness itself is what mindfulness is about. It is not about achieving an ideal, or a particularly desirable or longed-for special state.

If the mind is thinking: "If I meditate I'll always be compassionate. I'll be like the Dalai Lama. I'll be like Mother Teresa" or whoever your spiritual guru/hero of the moment is, it may help to remind yourself that you don't stand a snowball's chance in hell of being like the Dalai Lama or Mother Teresa or anybody else. Nor do you know what their interior experience is.

The only person that you have the remotest possibility of being like is yourself. And that, when it comes down to it, is the real challenge of mindfulness: the challenge to be yourself.

The irony, of course, is that you already are.

Mindfulness and cognitive behavioral therapy

I got a Master's Degree in Social Work way back in 1973 that exposed me to the fundamentals of counseling before I headed off in the direction of health services research and planning.

Then I married my second wife, Laurel, in 1990. She also had a MSW, but unlike me, pursued a career in social work, ending up after our marriage by starting a private psychotherapy practice.

Laurel would talk about how cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) was used in her practice, since it is fairly short-term and insurance companies don't like paying for lengthy psychotherapy aimed at delving into the root causes of someone's problems.

They want results. Which is what everybody wants, really.

So when I saw that a series on "Mindful CBT" by Seth Gillihan had been added to Sam Harris' Waking Up app, I decided to listen to what Gillihan had to say. I've finished Part 1 of Mindful CBT, which includes eight short (8-10 minutes) talks by Gillihan. 

Here's some of what Gillihan had to say. I took notes, most of which I can actually read -- my handwriting is terrible, even to me -- but these aren't verbatim quotes.

In Fundamentals of CBT, I learned that traditionally thoughts, feelings, and actions comprise CBT. These interact with each other. You can change any one and affect the others. Integrating mindfulness introduces depth to thoughts, feelings, and actions. 

The quality of changes is based on the quality of attention. How do we relate to our thoughts, feelings, and actions? Instead of pushing away anxious thoughts, give them less weight. We shift from "should" to mindful acceptance. 

In Finding Leverage, Gillihan said that we have to match our intention with the right tools. Advice alone isn't very helpful. Willpower alone is a recipe for failure. For example, if someone is afraid of spiders, they need to start small and work up from there -- not by letting a giant tarantula crawl on your arm right off the bat. A ladder is a series of small steps. The question isn't why did I fail, but what can I do to succeed?

In Working With Thoughts, I heard that thoughts can cause anxiety and affect actions. But thoughts often are misguided in some way. We ask, what story is my mind telling me? Not objective facts, often, but a subjective story.

Examine the evidence underlying thoughts, like a scientist. What evidence is for and against the thought? What's true in the situation? Is there a more realistic way of thinking that fits the data better? 

These are some some common cognitive disturbances: (1) Fortune telling -- making predictions about a future that hasn't happened yet; (2) Catastrophizing -- seeing things in the worst possible light; (3) Mind reading of another person -- believing we know what someone else is thinking.

In Addressing Core Beliefs, Gillihan says that you become more aware of negative thoughts. Our core beliefs drive thoughts. These are regular patterns, a lens that guides how we see the world. Example: seeing disapproval everywhere, even though you're doing a good job. 

Thoughts can feed back into a core belief and strengthen it. This is circular, yet completely convincing. Instead, focus on what is actually happening right now. Minds invent stories that often aren't true. Be in a situation as it is. Brush off unhelpful thoughts.

Not "oh no" but "oh well." Just a mental event. One core belief might be that wellbeing depends on things working out for us. Don't assume how life has to go. Life doesn't have to meet our expectations.

In Thoughts Support Mindful Presence, I learned that mindfulness supports thinking and thinking supports mindfulness. Thinking is just what the mind does. We don't have to take thoughts too seriously. Thoughts can play a positive role in our lives. Meditation is being present with what is, noticing what's already there.

In Working With Behavior, I heard about Pavlov's dogs. Animals learn certain things go together. Ringing of a bell is followed by food. Dogs salivated just with the bell. This is classical conditioning. A baby begins to cry when at the doctor's office because previous visits were disturbing.

We also learn by consequences of actions. This is operant conditioning. We learn patterns in the world and outcomes of our behavior. Classical and operant go together. A cat goes to the kitchen after hearing the can opener.

Make it easier to do what you intend to do. Make exercising rewarding, right-sized, starting easy. Put things in place to guide actions when motivation leaves you.

In Mindful Action, Gillihan says that mindfulness determines the quality of actions. With more awareness, you experience a walk more fully. But beware of this taking on a moral quality: you're bad if you're not mindful. 

Sometimes it's helpful to be on autopilot, like while driving, when you can carry on a conversation or listen to the radio. But there are costs when we're in divided attention much of the time. We'll have richer memories if we're more present.

Act in ways that align with reality. Mindful action doesn't try to force an outcome. Stop struggling against what is. Notice when your actions are at odds with reality.

In Working With Distress, I learned there are three ways to feel better in Mindful Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Shift thinking. Act differently. Practice mindfulness. However, sometimes these tools don't work, so we need to make peace with discomfort. 

Respond with openness and curiosity to discomfort. Maybe it will feel interesting, not bad. Mindful acceptance helps us endure uncomfortable situations. Stop fighting against reality. Change your life to match your limitations. 

Focus on what's happening right now. Don't subject yourself to future pain that you're anticipating, but hasn't happened yet, and may never happen. Be present with uncomfortable feelings. Stand up for issues you care about even if it upsets some people.

Wellbeing doesn't depend on eliminating stress. Can I open to this?

Once again, pure awareness strikes me as a meaningless notion

I don't expect people to be perfect. Everybody is flawed. To be human is to be imperfect. And since people write books, I don't expect the books I read to be perfect. I just hope for them to make sense.

Having finished The Mindful Way through Depression: Freeing Yourself from Chronic Unhappiness, I can say that this is a very good book about both mindfulness and meditation. 

But I came across a few things that made me go, Huh, that doesn't make sense. Notably, some mentions of pure awareness, since I don't see how such can exist, as noted in a post from a few months ago.

I doubt there is such a thing as pure awareness, or pure consciousness. Anyone who claims to have experienced such a state, including Sam Harris, almost certainly is mistaking a feeling or thought of pure awareness for the actual thing. 

So my attitude is that one part of my conscious brain is aware of other parts of my conscious brain, which could include a sensation of Wow, I'm experiencing pure awareness! My meditation rocks!

This leaves mindfulness as an activity, or ability, to be aware of the contents of consciousness, with mindfulness being part of those contents. Thus Harris is on the right track when he says that mindfulness practice leads us to see that the contents of consciousness are constantly shifting and changing within our mind.

Where I disagree with him is his assumption that somehow we are clear pure consciousness. This is at odds with modern neuroscience, as I wrote about in Brain's "dark energy" casts doubt on pure awareness. 

I wrote about my problem with Harris' claim of pure awareness in this post. What I said in 2016 still makes sense to me now.

The authors of The Mindful Way through Depression also elevate awareness into something that almost certainly it isn't. Sure, I like the metaphor of awareness being the clear sky and contents of consciousness being akin to clouds that appear and disappear in that sky.

Metaphors aren't reality, though. I see no solid evidence, or even semi-solid evidence, that awareness exists separate from what we're aware of in the same sense that the sky is there even when clouds aren't.  Here's some excerpts from the book about choiceless awareness, a notion I do think makes sense if it's viewed as being aware of everything within our experience, rather than focusing on certain things.

It's always possible to jump to choiceless awareness at any moment, simply by letting go of any and all objects of attention. This sounds easy, but it is in fact a very challenging practice because we have nothing specific to focus on.

We rest in awareness itself, without any attempt to direct our attention toward anything other than awareness itself. There is no need even to think that you are meditating or that there is even a "you" to meditate. Even these are seen and known as thoughts by awareness, and in the seeing, in the knowing, they are seen to dissipate, again, like touching soap bubbles.

OK, I don't have much of a problem with these paragraphs. Well, aside from the mention of "awareness itself." What the heck would that be? How is it possible to be aware, yet aware of nothing but awareness itself?

And even if this was possible, how could someone know they were aware only of awareness itself without a content of awareness that, at minimum, includes a thought, intuition, or sensation of "I'm now aware only of awareness itself" -- which obviously wouldn't be true, given that thought, intuition, or sensation being an object of awareness, not awareness itself.

The book then engages in some speculations that struck me as being at odds with the general theme of being mindful of what is actually present within one's consciousness.

As we engage in this practice, we may become increasingly aware of the distinction between the objects to which we can direct our attention, if we choose, and the space of awareness in which all experiences arise.

The objects could be thought of as celestial bodies hanging in space. In choiceless awareness, we become the space that holds whatever condenses momentarily within it. Awareness, like space, is boundless, having no edges or limits.

The invitation is to settle into this awareness, to be the knowing, the nonconceptual knowing that pure awareness actually is. Awareness is not itself subject to pain, although it bears profound and empathic witness to pain.

And so once we have become acquainted with it, we may find it easier simply to hold even the most difficult and painful of our experiences within it. We may even make the curious, but profound, discovery that awareness is already free, intrinsically whole, and deeply knowing.

I think this passage is wrong. There's no evidence that pure awareness exists. The authors make awareness, or consciousness, into a thing rather than an activity. I suspect they fell prey to echoing Buddhist/Hindu teachings here, rather than sticking with the science of secular mindfulness.

Yes, it's true that the human brain doesn't feel pain. That's why surgeons can operate on the brain while a patient is conscious. But that's much different from claiming that the awareness/consciousness created by the brain is not subject to pain.

Again, that claim assumes that awareness is a thing that somehow exists separately from what we humans are aware of. It's crazy for the authors to say that awareness bears "witness to pain." Everybody who has experienced pain, whether physical or psychological, knows that's bullshit. 

It is possible to endure pain. It is possible to deal with pain in a way that lessens its impact on us. But pain is a valuable signal that something is wrong. Evolution has given us pain because an inability to feel pain is exceedingly dangerous. People who don't feel pain typically don't live very long, since they're prone to ignore harmful situations, like a hot fire.

This pure awareness part of the book struck me as undercutting their main theme, as stated in this quote. Clinging to the notion of pure awareness is an attempt to make reality into something that it isn't.

As we said toward the end of the preceding chapter, mindfulness is the awareness that arises from paying attention on purpose, in the present moment, non-judgmentally, to things as they are. It's a way of shifting from doing to being so that we take in all the information that an experience offers us before we act.

Being mindful means that we suspend judgment for a time, set aside our immediate goals for the future, and take in the present moment as it is rather than as we would like it to be.

The brain creates the mind, which is us

Today Ron E. left a comment on a recent churchless post that I like a lot and share below.

I readily admit that my fondness for the comment, which extends to almost all of the comments Ron leaves on this blog, largely is based on the fact that he and I look at reality in much the same way.

In a word, naturalistically. Meaning, we as human beings are not separate from the natural world, but are an integral aspect of nature. Nature is us, to put it in three words.

But since we're Homo sapiens, not a rock, a bolt of lightning, or some other non-sentient aspect of nature, we're a part of nature with a mind. But mind isn't something ethereal. Consciousness isn't either. 

Mind and consciousness, which may be the same thing, arise from the physical goings-on of the human brain. No need to posit a soul or any other supernatural entity. The brain creates the mind, which is us. So it makes sense to say, the brain is us.

This is both really obvious, and really controversial -- for those who believe (without any demonstrable evidence) that humans possess some special ingredient that isn't physical, survives the death of the body, and/or has a connection with God or some other form of divinity.

Sure, awareness or consciousness does seem ethereal. But the Earth seems flat; the Sun seems to rise and set; matter seems solid; time seems separate from space. All of those seemings aren't true, so there's no reason to assume that the seeming transcendent nature of mind and consciousness is true either.

Many findings of science have come to be accepted by the vast majority of people. However, it's going to take quite a while for the near-certain fact that you and I and everyone else are made of meat, with the brain being a special form of meat, to become a truth that resonates intimately with most people.

It might be that this won't happen until advanced artificial intelligences are commonplace, being indistinguishable or even superior to human intelligence. Perhaps only then will humans truly understand that what we are is no different from what everything else in nature is: natural, not supernatural.

Here's the comment from Ron E. Courtesy of Amazon, I've ordered the book he's reading. I like that Barrett takes a contrarian approach to emotions and the mind. Maybe she's right. Maybe she's wrong. But her book seems to be well-written, thoughtful, and provocative, reason enough for me to buy it. 

I have recently been reading Lisa Fieldman Barrett’s, "How Emotions Are Made." Her research describes how the brain constructs everything we experience, including emotions. She states: “Its story features unfamiliar characters like simulation and concepts and degeneracy, and it takes place throughout the whole brain at once.”

I mention Barrett’s studies because similar to the studies described in Brian’s latest blog on the Self-Reference Effect which states that “SREs then, are a way to investigate how our sense of self emerges from the workings of the brain—something that multiple research groups have studied intensely”, it is another study that points to the brain as being the source of all that we experience.

For years, studies have revealed how much of what we experience results from the brain, including how the self emerges from the brain and builds our identities. By now, it should be pretty obvious that the brain creates the mind with its entire cognitive repertoire – and basically operates not through actualities but through predictions.

But apparently, the brain is not alone in creating the wonder that is us, simply because the brain's responses are dependent on the body and its senses and its environment – which importantly includes other people. The self then is a construct of all the on-going variables that our organism exists with and encounters every moment.

How revelatory it would be to realise the disconnectedness that we are and how we create our own worlds. How ‘heavenly’ it would be to be able to drop systems of belief that serve to separate and alienate us from each other and the world around us.

Prior experiences and assumptions determine how we view reality

As I've noted previously on this blog, one of the spiritual phrases that now irritates me, yet used to make sense to me, is "as it is." 

There's a mistaken notion that it's possible to see reality as it is, objectively. That notion gets elevated into various sorts of mumbo-jumbo where this or that meditation technique, or whatever, supposedly gives someone the ability to perceive what is actually there with no trace of illusion.

Today I finished reading another chapter in David McRaney's book, How Minds Change. "Socks and Crocs" was super-fascinating. I'll try to do the chapter justice in this summary of it.

He starts off by telling the familiar story of The Dress -- which some people see as white and gold (that's me) and others as black and blue.

There were various theories about why this occurred. A neuroscientist, Pascal Wallisch, is quoted in the chapter, having done extensive research on The Dress and similar images. He wrote a Slate piece, "Two Years Later, We Finally Know Why People Saw 'The Dress' Differently."

Even outside of vision scientists, most people just assume everyone sees the world in the same way. Which is why it’s awkward when disagreements arise—it suggests one party either is ignorant, is malicious, has an agenda, or is crazy. We believe what we see with our own eyes more than almost anything else, which may explain the feuds that occurred when “the dress” first struck and science lacked a clear explanation for what was happening.

Two years later we have a much better idea of what may have been a reason for the varied perceptions: People’s perceived color is also informed by their perception of lighting. And the image of the dress, taken on a cellphone, contained a lot of uncertainty in terms of lighting conditions. Was it taken inside or outside? This matters because it implies artificial or natural light. Was the dress illuminated from the front or the back? This matters because if it was back-lit, it would be in a shadow, otherwise not.

The brain cannot be accused of epistemic modesty. It is well-known that in situations like this—where it faces profound uncertainty—it confidently fills in the gaps in knowledge by making assumptions. Usually, its assumptions are based on what it has most frequently encountered in the past. For instance, if the sensory information is more uncertain, observers will estimate object speeds to be slower than they actually are, presumably because slow objects are much more common in the environment than fast ones. (Indeed, most objects in any given field of view don’t move at all.) Color and lighting are no exception.

As the illumination conditions are impossible to clearly assess in the dress image, people make assumptions about what they are. Different people do this in differing ways, which is what causes the different interpretations of color. At least, that’s what my research shows, thanks to 13,000 people, including many Slate readers, who took surveys on what they saw when they saw the dress and also compiled other information about how they generally perceived the photo and the world.

The dress actually is blue and black. But most people see it as white and gold, at least initially. Why? Well, the more time someone had spent exposed to natural light, the more likely they saw the dress as white and gold. The more time someone had been exposed to artificial light, the more likely they saw the dress as blue and black.

McRaney says:

Either way -- and this is the important point for us going forward -- the ambiguity never registered. Whatever colors people saw subjectively, the image never seemed ambiguous because consciously people experienced only the output of their processes, and the output differed depending on a person's prior experiences with light. The result was a lie told to them by their brains that felt obviously true.

...When we encounter novel information that seems ambiguous, we unknowingly disambiguate it based on what we've experienced in the past. But starting at the level of perception, different life experiences can lead to very different disambiguations, and thus very different subjective realities.

When that happens in the presence of substantial uncertainty, we may vehemently disagree over reality itself -- but since no one on either side is aware of the brain processes leading up to that disagreement, it makes the people who see things differently seem, in a word, wrong.

...In psychology, there's a term for this cognitive blind spot, for when your disambiguations feel undeniably true. It's called naive realism, and it's the belief that you perceive the world as it truly is, free from assumption, interpretation, bias, or the limitations of your senses.

The late psychologist Lee Ross, who helped popularize the term, told me that it leads many of us to believe we arrived at our beliefs, attitudes, and values after careful, rational analysis through unmediated thoughts and perceptions.

Unaware that different priors can lead to different disambiguations, you believe you've been mainlining pure reality for years, and it was your intense study of the bare facts that naturally led to all of your conclusions. According to Ross, this is why people on each side of any debate believe their side is the only one rooted in reality.

...The truth is that we are always reaching our conclusions through disambiguation, but all of that work is done in our different brains without us knowing it. We just experience, in consciousness, the result.

You think you are experiencing the world as it truly is, and when a lot of people are sure their version of reality is the really real version at the same time that a lot of other people are sure that no, in fact, their version is, you get arguments that break the internet (like The Dress), but also the Inquisition, the Hundred Years' War, QAnon, and anti-mask protests during global pandemics.

Here's a figure in the chapter that apparently came from Pascal Wallisch.

McRaney summarizes this approach, called SURFPAD.

When you combine Substantial Uncertainty with Ramified (which means branching) or Forked Priors or Assumptions, you will get Disagreement. 

In other words, when the truth is uncertain, our brains resolve the uncertainty without our knowledge by creating the most likely reality they can imagine based on our prior experiences. People whose brains remove that uncertainty in similar ways will find themselves in agreement, like those who saw the dress as black and blue.

Others whose brains resolve that uncertainty in a different way will also find themselves in agreement, like those who saw the dress as white and gold.

The essence of SURFPAD is that these two groups each feel certain, and among the like-minded it seems those who disagree, no matter their numbers, must be mistaken. In both groups, people then begin searching for reasons why so many people in other groups can't see the truth without entertaining the possibility that they aren't seeing the truth themselves.

Lose yourself to find yourself

For a long time, over three decades, I assumed that a central goal of my life was to know myself. Another way of saying this was self-realization. The idea was that somewhere hidden away in my psyche was a True Me who was different from the current Untrue Me.

So I diligently meditated every morning. Sometimes as long as two and a half hours, sometimes for a shorter period, but never less than an hour. 

I don't regret all that meditating, which totaled well over 20,000 hours. Plus, I've continued to meditate every day since the end of my religious phase some 18 years ago.

Now, though, I'm much more inclined to believe that (1) I don't have an enduring self, so (2) being mindful of what I'm doing in the world, and what the world is doing to me (could be the same thing) is the best way to know who I am at any given moment.

This attitude is in line with a story in the March 5 issue of New Scientist, Lose Yourself. A subtitle says, "Transcendent experiences, where our sense of self takes a back seat, seem to be good for us -- and there is no need to go to extremes to get the benefits, finds Jess Craig."

The story starts out by describing a study by Roland Griffiths where fifty-one people facing imminent death were given the psychedelic psilocybin, which the state where I live, Oregon, voted to legalize for therapeutic purposes. Sixty-0ne percent had a clinically significant reduction in depression symptoms and 51 percent had a reduction in anxiety symptoms.

 Craig writes:

Frederick Barrett, part of Griffith's team at Johns Hopkins University in Maryland, says it isn't clear that the therapeutic effect was entirely down to the transcendent experience. But "a lot of people believe that is the case," he adds, "and I am one of them."

If he is right, it is a striking example of how self-transcendent experiences, though temporary, can provide a lasting boost to well-being. And they don't have to be the intense experience induced by psychedelics. Just staring in awe at magnificent trees or concentrating intensely on a challenging task also seems to have the capacity to make you happier, less stressed and kinder to others.

The story includes a quote from William James: "We can experience union with something larger than ourselves and in that union find our greatest peace."

In my experience, that's absolutely true. But union comes in many forms. It doesn't mean totally losing yourself in another entity, such as someone on LSD feeling they've become a giant oak tree. That way lies madness, were it to continue.

Rather, greater peace and pleasure comes from any degree of moving away from a focus on our own self. For most of us, that involves inward-directed thinking and feeling. 

What makes self-transcendent experiences so beneficial? At first blush, you might think it would be unsettling, even terrifying, to suddenly lose your sense of self. Indeed, many people report that intense transcendent experiences are "psychologically challenging and difficult," according to Yaden. For that reason, clinical trials aimed at inducing these states are under close supervision.

But there is ample evidence from clinical psychology to demonstrate that excessive self-focus can have negative effects -- it is a hallmark of depression, for instance -- which could explain why reducing that focus, even temporarily, can be helpful.

When I'm not feeling very positive, I find that going for a walk with our dog in nature (we live in the country) helps a lot. So does going to my Tai Chi class, which requires concentration on what my body and the bodies of others are doing, which is akin to dancing. 

Even simply washing the dishes can improve my mood. That gets me out of my head and into soapy water, a sponge, the drainer, and such. Writing a blog post makes me feel better also, since I can't be thinking about my problems when I'm focusing on what to say about some subject outside of me.

If being inside our own head was so great, prisoners would want to be in solitary confinement, rather than fearing it. Sure, meditation can seem like an inward pursuit, but usually it isn't. When I'm focusing on my breathing, I'm aware of something that's happening in my body.

That awareness obviously is part of my subjective consciousness. However, what I'm aware of is part of the objective world. Breathing is real in a way that a thought or emotion isn't. It anchors me in outward reality, while my thoughts can rattle around in the confines of my mind with little purpose or meaning.

When I used to play competitive club tennis, a ploy was frequently used when, if we were playing doubles, one of the guys on the other team was serving really well. During a changeover of sides, my partner or I would say to that guy, "Hey, your serve is great today. Wow, no double faults."

Often that not-so-innocent statement would cause the person who had been serving so well to start thinking of his serve, rather than simply serving. Then his serve went downhill. This relates to the notion of "flow," something mentioned in the New Scientist story.

Supposedly a state of flow happens when we're competent at something, yet find it challenging. There's truth in that. However, I find that flow can also occur in unchallenging situations, such as raking leaves or mowing grass. 

It's getting out of our head and into the world that's important. Which is my cue to share one of my favorite dance videos, Alex and Twitch dancing to "Outta Your Mind" on So You Think You Can Dance. Absolutely mesmerizing. 

Calm acceptance of what is -- my newest adage

I enjoy coming up with new pieces of advice that I can tell myself. They become temporary mantras, something I can repeat in my mind now and then to keep myself as centered as possible in an unpredictable world.

Calm acceptance of what is. This is my newest adage. 

I've always been impressed by people who can stay calm in stressful circumstances. Soldiers fighting in war. Emergency room doctors and nurses. Parents of a two year old having a temper tantrum. So many other examples of humans handling difficult situations with poise and competence.

That requires a certain detachment from a natural impulse of fear, anxiety, freaking out. "Calm" doesn't mean Buddha-like serenity. The way I see it, calm is founded on an ability to stand back a bit from whatever storm is raging around us, sort of like a lighthouse on a rock in the middle of the ocean.

The massive waves break upon the rock, but the lighthouse keeps on shining a light all around itself, illuminating what is there. That's the "what is" part of my adage.

It doesn't do any good to be calm if we're not in touch with reality.

For example, even though the United States intelligence services were warning that Russia was poised to invade Ukraine, in the period before the invasion President Zelensky and other top officials in his country were discounting the possibility of an invasion.

They didn't prepare the Ukrainian people for this. They didn't move military assets in preparation for war. The calm being preached by Zelensky was a false calm that wasn't based on the what is known to American intelligence, but on an attitude of I hope this turns out to be based on wishful thinking.

Another example is the raid of Seal Team Six into Pakistan that resulted in the killing of Osama bin Laden. This mission succeeded because the highly trained special forces operatives kept their calm in the face of serious problems, such as one of their helicopters being disabled, and were completely in touch with the reality of what they faced in bin Laden's compound. 

Regarding "acceptance," I don't see this as being content with a bad situation.

That's the way I used to view the word, perhaps because one of the stages of coming to grips with grief, or one's impending death, is acceptance -- which connotes a sort of grudging realization that nothing can be done about what either has happened, or will happen.

Instead, acceptance is better thought of as an embracing of reality. It doesn't mean we don't want to change reality, to alter what is into what could be. But before we can make things better, we need to understand how things are now -- both within and without us.

Yesterday our local newspaper, the Salem Statesman Journal, had a nice piece by Leah Burkhart, a Salem Health educator. Here's part of what she said in "When it comes to stress, begin with acceptance." 

Fun Fact: April is Stress Awareness month (as if any of us needed help being aware of our stress).

Search any wellness book, online video or social media outlet and you’ll see all sorts of techniques for combatting stress, reducing stress, or even numbing it. You’ve seen the headlines: “Feeling stressed? We have the answer!” All you have to do is drink more of this, eat more of that, practice more of this, or give more of that. Easy peasy. Right?

We are bombarded with images of smiling faces — people who have found “the way” and are now liberated from the shackles of anxiety, fear and frustration. They are either peaceful and serene or blissed out, giggling with joy.

Naturally, then, we are left wondering why we aren’t stress-free, too. What are we doing wrong?

The answer is … nothing. You are doing absolutely nothing wrong. Stress, loneliness, frustration, sadness — these things are hardwired into the human body. Stress doesn’t have to be the enemy. At the very least, it can be considered a messenger. It can even be a powerful ally.

The key to making friends with stress is to first incorporate the practice of acceptance.

What is acceptance?

To be clear, acceptance does not mean saying, “Oh, well. There is nothing to be done. I guess I’ll just be miserable.”

Acceptance is being able to simply look at how something is without immediately seeking to change it.

In your mind, acceptance sounds like:

“Huh, I’m feeling really lonely right now.”

“I am feeling overwhelmed. There is a lot to do, and I don’t think I can get it all done as quickly as I would like. No wonder I am so tense.”

“I am really tired right now.”

“Yikes! I’m angry right now. I mean really, REALLY angry. I’m enraged.”

Why on earth might this be helpful? Because acknowledging where we are is the first step to understanding what needs to come next. Trying to reduce stress without first accepting it is like trying to read a map in a theme park without having a “you are here” dot. Acceptance represents the place to start.

Once you see, clearly, that you are overwhelmed or tired, it’s easier to ask questions like, “Okay, I’m exhausted. What is the next right thing I can do (or not do) now?” The answer might be to recruit support from people around you, get up and take a walk or go home early. But the answer is not the important piece. The important piece was being clearheaded enough to ask the question.

What can help you reach acceptance and identify what needs to come next? Often the best answer is to learn the art of slowing down and engaging in a moment of mindfulness. That might look like:

Practicing a few moments of slow, deep breathing.
Taking a moment to pull up a guided meditation practice.
Going outside and sitting still for a few moments and simply observing your surroundings.

In other words, the best way to learn acceptance is to practice slowing down.

A guided meditation by Sam Harris about the open sky of consciousness

Below is a transcript of a guided meditation by Sam Harris that I listened to recently on his Waking Up app. I enjoyed it a lot. His guided meditations last either 10 or 20 minutes, depending on how much non-speaking time you choose.

So the words by Harris should be experienced, not just thought about. Of course, there's quite a bit to ponder in how Harris views consciousness and its contents.

What he says reminds me of what I read about Descartes and his famous Cogito, ergo sum, I think therefore I am,  in an intriguing new book by David Chalmers that I'm reading, "Reality: Virtual Worlds and the Problems of Philosophy."

Chalmers writes:

More deeply, Descartes reasoned that he could not doubt that he's thinking. Even if he doubted that he was thinking, his doubt was itself a sort of thinking. To doubt that one is thinking is internally inconsistent: The doubting itself shows that the doubt is wrong.

Once Descartes knew he was thinking, it was a small step to knowing his own existence. Where there is thinking, there must be a thinker. So Descartes concludes: Sum! I exist!

Plenty of philosophers have tried to poke holes in Descartes's Cogito ergo sum. Some question the cogito part. How can Descartes be so sure that he's even managing to doubt? That is, how does he know that he's not a mindless automaton?

Others question the step to sum. Is it so obvious that thinking requires a thinker? According to the 18th century German philosopher Georg Lichtenberg, Descartes should have said, "There is thinking, therefore thought exists." 

That way, he could have known that thoughts exist, but he should not have been so sure about himself. 

...Speaking for myself, I don't think there's anything special about thinking per se. Descartes could have said, "I feel, therefore I am," or "I see, therefore I am." All of these are claims about his mind that he can be certain of and that aren't threatened by the evil demon.

At least, he can be certain about these claims if they're understood as states of consciousness, or subjective experience. If we understand "see" as referring simply to the subjective experience of seeing, then Descartes can be certain he is seeing.

In my view, the best statement of the cogito is "I am conscious, therefore I am."

Here's the guided meditation by Sam Harris. It echoes how David Chalmers views Descartes.

OK, just find a comfortable seat, and take a few deep breaths. See if you can recognize a sky-like nature of your mind, right at the outset.

There's just this vast, open, undefined, centerless condition in which everything is appearing, all by itself.

Sights, sounds, sensations, smells, tastes, thoughts, moods, emotions -- everything you can notice, along with the noticing itself, is simply springing into view in the space of awareness. 

Just drop back and rest as that. 

Any thought about the past is simply appearing in this space. Any thought about the future, any reaction to the present -- everything you can experience is a modification of this condition to which you are identical.

There's nothing to do here to meditate. There's nothing to focus on or to improve. Simply rest as this openness. Grasping at nothing, pushing nothing away.

It's as though you're watching a movie. And everything, including the watching itself, is on the screen. Just recognize as a matter of experience, you're identical to the screen.

You are the condition in which everything that appears, appears. You're not outside it. You're not on the edge of it. You're not merely observing it. 

You're it.

See if you can recognize what that feels like. That openness, that boundarylessness, that centerlessness. Notice how it transcends any object or process that appears within it. 

Does it feel like "I"? Or "Me"? How could it be a self? How could it be personal? How could it be happy or sad? 

At the moment you notice a thought, recognize the condition in which it already is unraveling. Rest as that. 

In the last minutes of the session, pay careful attention to the breath. See if you can refine your mindfulness, just for a minute. 

OK. Again, thank you for your practice. And I wish you much happiness for the rest of your day. I'll see you back here next time, for the next session of Waking Up.

The best spiritual practice could be...nothing

Here's some thoughts about the value of basing your spiritual practice on... drumroll please... absolutely nothing. But I'll introduce this topic by sharing an anecdote.

Yesterday I took our dog for a walk around the community lake near our rural property. A house is for sale that overlooks the lake. A woman and two children were walking down from the house toward the lake, seemingly because the family was looking into buying the house.

A young boy came up to the fence that our dog and me were on the other side of. He pointed and said, "nice lake." Then he crawled through the fence with no problem.

His mother, I assume it was, came over to him. "Look," she said, "there's some barbed wire on this fence. You could have gotten caught on it. There's a gate over there. I'll show you the proper way to get through the fence." 

The gate, with a kayak peeking from the side

I said, looking at the boy, "Proper? That's no fun." As dog and I continued on our walk, I thought about my own boyhood days growing up in a rural area in the foothills of California's Sierra Nevada mountains. 

Barbed wire was used in all the fences on the land where my friends and I played and cattle roamed. Rarely were there gates. Early on I learned various tricks to get through a barbed wire fence.

If the wire was tight, stand on the strands next to a post and hop over the fence. If the wire was loose, put your foot on the bottom strand and crawl through the fence. Or have a friend pull up on a strand while you step on the bottom strand while you crawl through.

Telling the boy that only a gate is the proper way to cross a barbed wire fence not only isn't true, it prevents the boy from learning other ways. The mother could have said, "Let's think of some ways to get through the fence safely without using a gate."

I was right when I said Proper is no fun. Often we have to act properly to fulfill a societal expectation. But I've found that improper behavior tends to be more enjoyable, because it flows from our natural inclination, not someone else's view of how life should be lived.

Anyway, back to the best spiritual practice being nothing. I can relate this to what I wrote above with just a little cramming of the fence/gate metaphor into the subject at hand. 

Religions are fond of gates. They like to control who passes through their gate that supposedly leads to God, heaven, enlightenment, or some other elevated state. So there are requirements to approach the gate.

For example, the Eastern religion I was a member of for 35 years, Radha Soami Satsang Beas, required initiates to be vegetarian, meditate 2 1/2 hours a day, not use alcohol or recreational drugs, abstain from having sex outside of marriage, and follow a vaguely stated pure and moral life.

Members of other religions follow other sorts of rules. The underlying rationale is that the spiritual seeker is different from what is sought. So the gap between seeker and sought has to be bridged by a gate that leads between what a person is now and what they hope to be.

Thus almost all religions have a dualistic philosophy. Humans are on one side of a cosmic fence -- the worldly, physical, limited, time-bound side where suffering is commonplace. Religions promise a way to get through that fence into a very different supernatural, spiritual, expansive, eternal side of the cosmos.

But what if that side doesn't exist? After all, there's no proof that it does. Then we're left with two basic approaches to spirituality, one that isn't based in reality, and one that is.

(1) There's much to do and become (non-reality based)
(2) There's nothing to do and become (reality based)

Yet here's why (2) still exists in the form of Zen Buddhism, Taoism, Advaita, and similar non-dual approaches to spirituality. Religions who preach (1) are so ubiquitous, and have been so for thousands of years, currently billions of people are lined up in front of gates that don't lead anywhere.

So they need to be told, "Hey, guys, wanted to point out that there's no need for those gates that you wrongly believe lead to divinity. Actually, you can just walk right around them, since there's no fence either."

Meaning, reality isn't divided into a natural world and supernatural world. There's just one world, and it isn't supernatural. It's right here, right now.

Thus nothing needs to be done to be "spiritual," viewed as being in touch with how you and the world really is, other than giving up the erroneous belief that you're separate from reality.

This is akin to someone being afflicted by a psychosis of sorts where they imagine being judged by an outside power, told by that power that they lack something without which they can't live a meaningful life, and instructed how to search for it under the guidance of people in tune with that power. 

What that person needs is the ability to recognize that what they imagine to be true, actually is false. They don't need to do anything. They need to stop believing in a fantasy.

Sam Harris likes to say in the guided meditations on his Waking Up app, "Rest in the condition in which everything is appearing." That condition is awareness, or if you like, consciousness. Without awareness/consciousness, there is no reality capable of being known.

So in that non-dual sense, the observer isn't separate from what's observed; the thinker isn't separate from what is thought; the hearer isn't separate from what is being heard. Alan Watts speaks of this when  he says, "We don't come into the world; we come out of the world."

In other words, we aren't separate from the world.

I'm reading Stephen Bodian's book, "Wake Up Now: A Guide to the Journey of Spiritual Awakening." There's many places in the parts of the book I've read so far that echo the notion that the best spiritual practice is nothing.

Here's an example:

From a direct intuition of the imminent availability of the truth of your being, you've been lured into the spiritual marketplace, where well-intentioned vendors hawk their wares, promising enlightenment somewhere in the distant future as the result of years of effort if you're willing to buy their product, take their course, join their community, and invest thousands of hours of your time.

The innocent initial impulse to orient, listen, and move toward truth the way a child naturally returns to its mother or a bird to its nesting ground has been co-opted by an established tradition and turned into a circuitous path to spiritual realization. Welcome to the progressive approach!

Progressive paths are extraordinarily appealing because they've been so carefully elaborated, often over many centuries. Bearing the imprimatur of an established tradition, they suggest that if you just follow the instructions wholeheartedly, the results will take care of themselves. 

If you listen to enough teachings, spend enough hours in meditation, attend enough retreats, cultivate enough of the right attitudes and qualities, you'll one day discover the truth of who you really are. As inspiration, the progressive scriptures are filled with exhortatory tales of masters who began as seekers just like you and me and eventually achieved enlightenment through prolonged and concerted effort.

...Eventually, after giving up the effort and the formal practice of meditation, I met a teacher who told me, "The seeker is the sought, the looker is what he or she is looking for." My mind couldn't wrap itself around these words, but one day soon after, in a moment out of time, the seeker and the sought collapsed into one another, and I knew who I was once and for all.

The one who had been looking so hard for true nature was the very true nature I had been looking for. Truth had been playing hide and seek with itself. As long as I continued focusing so much on searching, I couldn't possibly stumble backward into the silent presence that was the source of all searching.

...In fact, the prolonged practice of a particular technique may have the opposite effect, deadening and habituating the mind, rather than making it more open and accessible to truth. If you want to know how a progressive path might affect you, spend some time at one of the tradition's residential meditation centers or ashrams.

Do the longtime practitioners appear happier, freer, more peaceful, more enlightened? Or do they seem rigid in their adherence to structures and rules, lacking in spontaneity, proud of their spiritual progress or stature, addicted to control?

Every center, tradition, and practitioner is different, of course, but many of the ashrams and monasteries I've visited lack the joy and aliveness one would expect to find there; instead, they exude a quality of emotional repression and subservience to form.

Which is why I started off this post by saying, Proper is no fun.

 

Be thankful for nothing. Which means, everything.

I'm not a grinch about Thanksgiving. I enjoy this holiday. 

My wife just finished making an apple pie. Soon I'll prepare our main dish, a vegetarian Trader Joe's Turkey-Less Stuffed Roast, which requires all of my cooking skills: heating the oven to 375, basting the roast, and cooking it for 45 minutes. 

Whew! I feel exhausted already.

I'm also totally fine with feeling thankful. I just have a different view about what thankfulness means. Last night I saw people interviewed on the evening news about what they're thankful for. Family. Friends. Having a job. That sort of thing.

OK. Totally understandable. Around millions of dinner tables today, there will be similar talk of what everybody is thankful for. 

But here's my problem with singling out certain aspects of life for a blue ribbon thankfulness award. This leaves out most of what we experience each day. 

I'm a big fan of mindfulness, even though I often suck at it.

Basically this is non-judgmental awareness of the present moment, accepting whatever lies within and without ourselves. If we're angry, we know we're angry. If we're stuck in traffic, we know we're stuck in traffic.

We don't push what's happening away. We embrace the good and bad, the beautiful and ugly, the pleasurable and painful.

This doesn't mean fatalism. We still try to fix things, improve our condition, help others in need, fight injustice. Mindfulness just leads us to a understanding that we've got to accept what is before we can move toward what can be. 

Thanksgiving is a holiday that encourages positivity. Nothing wrong with that. But with all the pressure to have an absolutely wonderful Thanksgiving, maybe some people would resonate with this perspective: 

Be thankful for nothing. Which means, everything.

I'll explain why I like this notion. In my everyday life, I'm simply living my life. I don't divide my life into what I'm thankful for, and what I'm not thankful for. I do say "thank you" occasionally, but that's different from putting things in thankful and not thankful buckets.

I have some health problems. I deal with those. I guess I'm thankful that I'm alive, since being dead would be worse than having those problems (though it would eliminate them). But that doesn't come to mind as I go about my day.

Our dog usually is a pleasure to have around, but sometimes she can be annoying. Ditto with my wife. The same is true of me. I'm sure our dog gets annoyed with me calling her when she's engrossed in hunting mice or moles. And I know my wife finds me annoying at times.

Such is the nature of life. It's a whole, not a bunch of separable things.

If I could eliminate everything unpleasant about life, it wouldn't be life anymore. Living is a combination of what we like and don't like, of pleasure and pain, of happiness and sadness. Living life mindfully means being aware of everything, not just the part of life we'd say we're thankful for if someone asked.

I love our property, ten natural acres in rural south Salem. Our house is surrounded by large trees. They're beautiful. They're also annoying when they drop leaves, branches, and needles where we don't want them.

But I can't separate what I like about the trees from what I don't like. They're just trees, doing their tree thing. I have to accept everything about the trees. That means not thinking of them as something I'm thankful for, because they're a combination of annoying and pleasurable -- as is life as a whole.

I both like and dislike dealing with leaves.

So rather than being thankful about some aspects of the trees, and not thankful about other aspects, I prefer to be thankful for nothing particular about them, which enables me to be thankful for everything about them -- though the whole notion of thankfulness then becomes irrelevant. 

This afternoon I did what I usually do on Thanksgiving: pick leaves out of bushes in our yard, since by now almost all of the leaves have fallen and been blown into the brush, so I'm into the refined part of dealing with the leaves.

So there the leaves are, something to be dealt with, but not something I classify as "thankful" or "not thankful." They're simply a chore, which is quite pleasant on a dry fairly warm day like today.

And when I looked around the back of this bush, I saw flowers blooming that I hadn't noticed before. Again, this wasn't something I was thankful or not thankful for. It was simply part of what I was doing.

Life is just what life is. We can try to categorize and divide life in a myriad of ways, but in the end, our life is a whole. 

Which is how I look upon thankfulness.

When we're thankful for nothing in particular, the door is opened to being thankful for everything -- even though "thankful" ceases to be a word pointing to something special, since all of life becomes special.

Know that you know a lot less than you think you know

I subscribe to The Atlantic, so I'm going to take the liberty of copying in a great piece from the online The Atlantic, "How to Know That You Know Nothing." 

(Maybe it's available to non-subscribers, but not knowing for sure that it is, I thought I'd take the advice put forth in the piece and realize that since I'm not confident that I know, I might as well share it this way.)

This shows that Harvard psychology professors can sound a lot like Zen masters. Which isn't really all that surprising, since Zen possesses a lot of psychological wisdom.

Enjoy.

If there’s one thing we might regret at the end of life, it’s that we missed out on moments that mattered—not because we weren’t physically there, but because our mind wandered off to some unknown place.

In this episode of How to Build a Happy Life, we explore why it’s uniquely challenging to “live in the moment,” how we limit our own curiosity by assuming that we know best, and why the illusion of stability pulls us from living every day fully, and in the moment. A conversation with the Harvard University psychology professor Dr. Ellen Langer helps us think through a daily struggle: How do I stay present?

Arthur C. Brooks: A big part of happiness is learning to live in the moment. What does that actually mean? And more importantly, how do we do it? It turns out that living in the moment, or at least being fully alive right now has two components: mindfulness and curiosity.

You need to figure out a way to focus on the present, to be really experiencing your current time frame, as opposed to thinking about the past or thinking about the future. Now, there’s a reason that that’s hard to do. The human brain makes it possible for us to be in other time periods than in the current moment. I can imagine that I’m in the future, practicing future scenarios in my life. That’s called prospection. That’s about living in the future.

Other people tend to think about the past a lot, and one of the things that we know from research on the elderly is they tend to be kind of retrospective, thinking about the past. The problem is, if you’re excessively prospective and/or retrospective, it can crowd out your ability to be alive right now.

Dr. Ellen Langer: Lots of people confuse what I do with meditation, but meditation is a practice; mindfulness is the result of that practice. The mindfulness that we study is immediate. It’s simply noticing new things. And in the process of noticing new things, that puts you in the moment. You have all these people who say “be in the present,” and that’s great, but it’s an empty suggestion. And even simpler than this, if one deeply appreciates uncertainty—recognizing everything is always changing, everything looks different from different perspectives, so you can’t know. And when you recognize that you can’t know or you don’t know, you tune in. When you think you do know, you don’t pay any attention.

Brooks: The big theme that I really want to talk about here is how to enjoy our lives more. One of the things that you emphasize in your work a lot is that we don’t enjoy our lives enough, because we’re not actually there. What does that mean?

Dr. Langer: Over these 40-some-odd years, we find that mindlessness is pervasive. Most of us are not there, and they are not there to know they’re not there. You know, the only way some people realize they experience this is imagine you’re driving and you want to get off at exit 28, and all of a sudden, you see you’re at exit 36. So then you say, Wow, where was I? What I mean by “you’re not there” is that you are more or less behaving like a robot. Everybody has had that experience.

You know, you are miserable, and somebody says, “Hi, how are you?” And you say, “Fine, thank you.” And you’re not aware of it, and you’re not trying to hide it. Most of what we do is done on, as it’s called, automatic pilot, but the mindlessness goes far beyond that.

I wanted to write a book a long time ago, Arthur—I never wrote this one—that was called Is There Life Before Death?, because I found, you know, all these people worrying about life after death. Many people come alive, sadly, after they get some terrible diagnosis or they have a stroke or they find out they have cancer. When I speak to people who are miserable or whatever, I simply tell them that all you need to do is take care of the moment, just right this second. And if you keep doing that, then over the course of the day, you know, you’ve had a fine time.

Brooks: Why is it that we’re so distracted from the present? What is distracting us from actually noticing things around us?

Dr. Langer: Well, we have an illusion of stability. We think things are staying still. So if you’ve seen it once, you’ve seen it; you don’t need to keep paying attention to it. But there’s something I think that needs to be added, which will explain why people keep doing this. Many people pretend because they think they should know. They think, You know, so therefore, I don’t want you to know that I don’t know. And here’s the big secret for everybody: Nobody knows. You change from making a personal attribution for not knowing—I don’t know, but it’s knowable. Therefore, I’ll pretend; I’ll feel stupid, insecure—to a universal attribution: I don’t know. You don’t know. Nobody knows. Okay, so now let’s find out together and explore together. If you think you know something, there’s no reason to pay attention.

Anything can be made exciting; anything can be made boring. I picked up these kids—this is back years ago, when it was okay to pick up hitchhikers. And I was in Italy, and they were wearing nyc T-shirts, so you knew they weren’t from New York.

And so I picked them up, and I asked them, “How did you like New York?” And one of them answered right away and said, you know, he didn’t like it at all. It was boring. There was nothing to do. There are few places, to my mind, that are more exciting. And if you took me and you put me in the middle of a wheat field, I probably would look at it like, Well, it’s all the same, but not to a farmer.

Brooks: Let’s go to the future. So, you know, one of the things that I talk an awful lot about with Marty Seligman is prospection, and Marty believes that we shouldn’t be called Homo sapiens. We should be called Homo prospectus.

One point, he had this dispute with His Holiness the Dalai Lama, where the Dalai Lama was talking about mindfulness, and he said, No, Your Holiness, it’s natural that we live in the future, especially people who are ambitious and go-getters. And it’s actually important because we have to practice future scenarios, et cetera. How can we live enough in the future to be successful but, at the same time, enjoy our lives? How do we get that balance right?

Dr. Langer: I think that everything that you’re doing because of the future is based on a mistaken notion about predictability. Prediction is an illusion. Now, I know Marty doesn’t believe that. Let me convince your audience just quickly. I do this with my advanced decision-making class, and I say to them, “I’ve been teaching a version of this class for the last 40 years. I’ve never missed a class. What is the likelihood I’m going to be here next week?”

It’s a small class; we go around the room. These are Harvard kids, so they don’t say 100 percent. They say ridiculous things like 97 percent, as if there’s some calculation, but essentially they’re all saying I’ll be there. Now I say, “Okay, I want each of you to give me a good reason why I won’t be there.” The first one always says, “Well, you’ve been doing it for 40 years; you’ve been there. You deserve the time off.” The next one says, “Your dog has to go to the vet.” The next one says, “You’ve got a flat tire.” And they easily come up with things.

Then I say to them, “Okay, what is the likelihood I’m going to be here next week?” And it drops to 50 percent. And when you fully realize that we don’t know, that you can plan all you want for some future event and then something else will happen that pulls you away. But if the planning for the future is giving you a happy present, that’s fine; there’s nothing lost by it. When you stick to your predictions, you’re limiting yourself rather than expanding your universe of possibilities.

Brooks: From your perspective, goal setting is valuable to the extent that it enhances the quality of your life right now.

Dr. Langer: At the moment, yes. And I think that what we want to do, and the way I describe being mindful, is to be rule, routine, and goal guided. Most of us are mindless, so we’re rule, routine, and goal governed. You don’t want to have a rule that says you do something at time one—that’s when you’re committing to that rule—when at time two, it’s totally irrelevant. Recognize that outcomes are in our heads. They’re not in events.

A simple example, you know, if you and I go to lunch and the food is good, that’s great. You and I go to lunch and the food is awful. That’s great. Presumably, I’ll eat less, and that’ll be better for my waistline. If I take the view that the event is good or bad, then I’m in this position where I do everything I can to get the good, and I run away as fast as I can from anything bad. And once I recognize that the good/bad is in my head, I can be still and just enjoy whatever happens.

Brooks: So you and I are going back to the classroom in person for the first time in a super long time, and let’s say that your fall class, weirdly unexpectedly, goes really, really poorly. What’s your strategy then, because you’re not going to get stressed?

Dr. Langer: I have a one-liner that friends of mine put on their refrigerators, which is “Ask yourself, is it a tragedy or an inconvenience?” Too often we respond to things. You know, if the class didn’t go well, Oh my God, my life’s going to be—no, of course not. Let’s say you and I are going out and we have a bad conversation and it’s Oh my God, that’s going to destroy the relationship! No. No relationship is going to be made or fall apart based on one situation. No life is going to depend on failing one test or giving one bad class.

Brooks: Ellen Langer. What a joy. What a gift that you’ve given to our audience today, and what a gift that you’ve given me. So thank you very much.

Dr. Langer: It’s my pleasure, Arthur. Stay well.

Better self-awareness comes from sharing our self with others

For many years I wrongly thought that the way to "know myself" was to engage in several hours a day of solitary meditation. Sure, I did learn some things about myself in this way and developed a lot of discipline by meditating every morning whether or not I felt like it.

Now, though, I've come to realize that it is easy to fool ourselves when the only conversation we're having is within our own mind -- I talking to me; us speaking to ourself; one part of our psyche conversing with another part.

As noted in my previous post about a book I'm reading, Stephen Fleming's Know Thyself: The Science of Self-Awareness, the  outside environment provides important feedback about how well we're in touch with reality. For example, inside my own head I can fantasize that I'm in contact with higher realms of reality.

Out in the world, imagining that I'm in touch with something that isn't really there is much more difficult, because "there" is apparent to other people also. 

In a chapter called "Learning to Learn," Fleming describes the benefits of explaining things to others and communicating our thoughts in writing or out loud.

This helps to explain why I enjoy writing so much. By getting what is inside my head out into the world, I not only learn more about what I really think, I gain the benefit of other people being able to provide feedback to me about those thoughts.

We can understand why teaching and advising others can be so useful for our own learning by considering how it helps us avoid metacognitive illusions. 

When we are forced to explain things to others, there is less opportunity to be swayed by internal signals of fluency that might create unwarranted feelings of confidence in our knowledge. For instance, the "illusion of explanatory depth" refers to the common experience of thinking we know how things work (from simple gadgets to government policies), but, when we are asked to explain them to others, we are unable to do so.

Being forced to make our knowledge public ensures that misplaced confidence is exposed. For similar reasons, it is easier for us to recognize when someone else is talking nonsense than to recognize that same flaw in ourselves.

...External props and tools can also provide a new perspective on what we know. Rather than monitoring murky internal processes, many of which remain hidden from our awareness, getting words down on the page and speaking them out loud creates concrete targets for self-reflection.

...We naturally extend our minds onto the page, and the extensions can themselves be targets of metacognition, to be mused about and reflected upon just like regular thoughts and feelings. 

"On Having No Head" has a few simple truths

On Having No Head is a book by D.E. Harding. I'd bought and read it quite a few years ago. Then, when I needed to weed out unwanted books to make room for more, On Having No Head was given away. 

Recently, though, I heard Sam Harris speak about the book in his Waking Up iPhone app, so I decided to re-buy and re-read it. Here's my review, which is of a second edition of the book that contains a "Bringing the story up to date" section that was written over forty years after Harding wrote the first edition.

My main problem with On Having No Head is the problem that I have with all books about personal spiritual breakthroughs or realizations. In the early days of my churchlessness, I was more interested in stories of how someone uncovered the Secret of the Universe. 

As late as 2006 I was recommending books that now I'm much more skeptical about. Why? Because I've got a better understanding of how the human mind works -- the result of both my own experiences with meditation, and a lot of reading about modern neuroscience and psychology. 

Here's the short version of what Harding experienced on a walk in the Himalayas, after he realized that he wasn't seeing his head (excerpt for a part of his nose).

It took me no time at all to notice that this nothing, this hole where a head should have been was no ordinary vacancy, no mere nothing. On the contrary, it was very much occupied. It was a vast emptiness vastly filled, a nothing that found room for everything - room for grass, trees, shadowy distant hills, and far above them snowpeaks like a row of angular clouds riding the blue sky. I had lost a head and gained a world.

It was all, quite literally, breathtaking. I seemed to stop breathing altogether, absorbed in the Given. Here it as, this superb scene, brightly shining in the clear air, alone and unsupported, mysteriously suspended in the void, and (and this was the real miracle, the wonder and delight) utterly free of "me," unstained by any observer. It's total presence was my total absence, body and soul. Lighter than air, clearer than glass, altogether released from myself, I was nowhere around.

Yet in spite of the magical and uncanny quality of this vision, it was no dream, no esoteric revelation. Quite the reverse: it felt like a sudden waking from the sleep of ordinary life, an end to dreaming. It was self-luminous reality for once swept clean of all obscuring mind. It was the revelation, at long last, of the perfectly obvious.

OK. I have no doubt that Harding had a breathtaking experience. But here's the thing: like he said, his revelation was of the perfectly obvious. Yesterday I jotted down a note about something Sam Harris said in lesson 28 of the guided meditations in his  Waking Up course.

You're the space in which everything appears. Everything is already happening. All you are is consciousness and its contents.

These three sentences are pretty much the gist of Harding's book. They indeed are perfectly obvious. Everything in the world, or indeed the entire universe, the Himalayas included, has to appear in our consciousness if we are to be aware of it. How else would we know anything?

But here's some facts about the human brain and mind (the mind is the brain in action, basically) that Harding doesn't address in On Having No Head, either because he wasn't aware of them, or chose not to mention them. 

(1) The brain has no feeling. This allows surgeons to operate on the brain while a patient is conscious. So we aren't aware of what our hundred billion or so brain cells are doing in the same way we feel our muscles contracting, our fingers touching something, or our stomach digesting a heavy meal. 

(2) In the quotation above, and elsewhere in his book, Harding speaks of a "vast emptiness" of consciousness. This may be how it feels to us, but that isn't reality. When Harding looked at the view of the Himalayas, his brain was busily piecing together data from his optic nerves, integrating it with past memories/experiences, and presenting him with what he calls a "superb scene." Visual perception isn't a passive mirroring of the world. It involves a lot of brain activity. 

In the updated part of his book, Harding does speak about some neuroscientific truths: there is no evidence for an independent "self" within the brain/mind, nor does it appear that we humans possess free will, which seemingly would require the aforementioned self that doesn't exist. 

Here's what Harding says in his Bringing the Story Up to Date section about his final stage of "The Eight Stages of the Headless Way." It's called (8) The Breakthrough.

This amounts to a profound declaration of intent. It is the realization at gut level (so to say) that one's deepest desire is that all shall be as it is -- seeing that it all flows from one's true Nature, the Aware Space here. 

How is this breakthrough actually made? What can one do to bring it nearer?

In a sense, nothing. It's not a doing, but an undoing, a giving up, an abandonment of the false belief that there's anyone here to abandon. What else is there to do?

After all, one's initial in-seeing -- no matter how "brief" and "shallow" -- was already total self-surrender: everything here went: or rather, it was clear there's nothing here to go. It was the essential quantum leap from the fiction of egocentricity to the fact of zerocentricity. 

And for sure the faithful day-to-day seeing put in since then -- the seeing that already one is Nothing and Everything -- is a most valuable preparation for the discovery that at the deepest level one already wills Nothing and Everything. 

Now, Harding goes on to talk about an unconditional surrender to God's will in which we welcome all that the world is bringing to us. But as noted above, his insight also can be framed as a realization that there is no self residing within our psyche, and there is no free will belonging to that nonexistent self.

Which is fully in accord with how Sam Harris understands the human brain/mind, which explains why Harris is a fan of Harding's book.

Awareness is a process, not a thing

I'm aware of typing on my laptop right now.

And after writing those words, I'm also aware that I'm aware of typing on my laptop. This second type of awareness is called meta-awareness, a term I came across in a book I'm reading, "Altered Traits: Science Reveals How Meditation Changes Your Mind, Brain, and Body."

The authors, Daniel Goleman and Richard Davidson, write:

When we did our first vipassana courses in India, we found ourselves immersed hour after hour in noting the comings and goings of our mind, cultivating stability by simply noticing rather than following where those thoughts, impulses, desires, or feelings would have us go. 

This intensive attention to the movements of our mind boils down to pure meta-awareness.

In meta-awareness it does not matter what we focus our attention on, but rather that we recognize awareness itself. Usually, what we perceive is a figure, with awareness in the background. Meta-awareness switches figure and ground in our perception, so awareness itself becomes foremost.

I consider this a deeply false way of looking upon awareness.

Goleman and Davidson appear to view awareness as a thing, rather than as a process. How else would it be possible for them to say, "we recognize awareness itself"? 

But awareness isn't a thing. It is part of what the mind does, and the mind is the brain in action. So how could awareness either be in the background or the foreground of consciousness, if awareness isn't a thing?

Further, the authors seemingly believe in what neuroscience rejects, that there is a "self" somewhere inside our head that looks out upon the world via the senses like a submarine commander looking through a periscope. 

I say this because of the phrase they use, "...we recognize awareness itself." Who the heck is "we"? It must be someone or something that is separate from awareness, because if it wasn't separate, recognizing awareness wouldn't be possible.

We can recognize objects in the world, or other people, because they aren't us.

But since awareness is closely akin to experience, if not identical with it, I find it difficult to conceive how anyone could be aware of awareness, or have an experience of experience. 

I suspect that Goleman and Davidson are fans of "pure awareness," though so far I haven't come across this term in their book. They do quote Sam Harris in their chapter on Attention, and Harris is a believer in pure awareness. I wrote about this in "Questions I had in Sam Harris' 'Waking Up' meditation chapter."

Talking about himself in meditation, he [Harris] writes:

There were periods during which all thought subsided, and any sense of having a body disappeared. What remained was a blissful expanse of conscious peace that had no reference point in any of the usual sensory channels. 

Many scientists and philosophers believe that consciousness is always tied to one of the five senses -- and that the idea of a "pure consciousness" apart from seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, and touching is a category error and a spiritual fantasy. I am confident that they are mistaken.

It's hard to believe this passage made it into Harris' book. I guess he didn't have a good editor. Or maybe any editor. It simply is non-sensical.

Sam, you have a Ph.D. in neuroscience. You also go to sleep every night. So you know about dreaming. We are conscious when we dream, but we don't have a "reference point in any of the usual sensory channels." 

So who are these scientists and philosophers who supposedly believe consciousness always is tied to one of the five senses? Methinks you made them up. Dreaming proves it isn't.

However, this talk of a "blissful expanse of conscious peace" is very different from "pure consciousness" -- unless that term simply means consciousness that isn't aware of, or paying attention to, external sensory inputs.

Obviously Harris' consciousness was impure in this sense: it contained various internal mental objects. Bliss, an expanse, and peace. Harris also had to feel separate enough from this internal feeling to be able to remember it. So some sense of "I" apart from the blissful expanse of conscious peace must have been present also.

Dualism is hard for us humans to give up when it comes to our own minds.

It feels like consciousness, or awareness, is something ethereal, clear, separate and distinct from matter, even "pure." But almost certainly that feeling is an illusion, since there is no evidence that awareness can exist apart from being aware of something.

Again, awareness is a mental process, not a thing. Alan Watts got this right way back in 1951, in one of my favorite books, "The Wisdom of Insecurity." Here Watts gets it exactly correct, in my opinion:

While you are watching this present experience, are you aware of someone watching it? Can you find, in addition to the experience itself, an experiencer? Can you, at the same time, read this sentence and think about yourself reading it? You will find that, to think about yourself reading it, you must for a brief time stop reading. 

The first experience is reading. The second experience is the thought, "I am reading." Can you find any thinker, who is thinking the thought, "I am reading?"

...When you were thinking, "I am reading this sentence" you were not reading it. In other words, in each present experience you were only aware of that experience. You were never aware of being aware. You were never able to separate the thinker from the thought, the knower from the known. All you ever found was a new thought, a new experience.

To be aware, then, is to be aware of thoughts, feelings, sensations, desires, and all other forms of experience. Never at any time are you aware of anything which is not experience, not a thought or feeling, but instead an experiencer, thinker, or feeler. If this is so, what makes us think that any such thing exists?

Great question.

Daniel Goleman and Richard Davidson should have asked it of themselves before claiming that it is possible to "recognize awareness itself." Actually, this isn't possible, as Watts cogently points out.

Awareness always is aware of something, because awareness is a mental/brain process, not a thing. Awareness really is us, not something separate from us, since without awareness we don't exist as conscious beings.