Church of the Churchless

Spiritual illusions are as deceptive as worldly illusions

I enthusiastically embraced spiritual illusions for 35 years.

I believed in God. I believed that God could be found by following the teachings of divine incarnations, God in human form. I believed I'd live on after my death. I believed in an eternal heaven beyond time and earthly tribulations. I believed spirituality required following certain commandments.

This sounds like I was a Christian, right? No, wrong. I was a member of Radha Soami Satsang Beas, an Eastern form of religion known as Sant Mat. Its headquarters were in India, and the organization was led by a guru.

Eventually I came to realize that what I believed was real actually was an illusion. I simply wanted to believe so badly, it took three and a half decades for the truth to break through the dogmas that I held on to so tightly. 

Today I finished reading "No Self, No Problem," a Buddhist book by Anam Thubten that talks a lot about illusions. My first post about the book is here.

I liked the book a lot. I don't agree with everything Thubten says, such as the supposed ability to go beyond pain and suffering by realizing that the notion of a permanent self is an illusion. But I agree with him that our sense of being, or having, a self that's independent of the goings-on in our brain is the most important illusion to come to grips with.

Why? Because our exaggerated sense of ego is the cause of many of our problems. (Thubten might say all of them, but I wouldn't go that far.)

A key reason I deconverted from religiosity to atheism is what Thubten speaks about in his book. Just because someone is on a supposedly "spiritual" path doesn't mean anything. They can still be ignorant, self-centered, and full of themselves. All that changes is that now they believe it is OK to be that way, because God is on their side.

Below are some additional excerpts from the last chapters of "No Self, No Problem." Like I said, I think most of what Thubten says is true. Meditation for me now is exactly what he speaks of: doing as little as possible so I can be in contact with what is true to the greatest degree possible.

I'm no longer aiming at self-realization, because along with modern neuroscience and Buddhism, I no longer believe that my self exists (at least, not as a detached conscious observer separate from the physical brain). And I no longer aim at God-realization, because I no longer believe in God.

This makes me a semi-Buddhist, I guess. But since Buddha himself wasn't a Buddhist -- Buddhism came along long after his death -- I suppose I'm in good company. 

Here's the excerpts from Thubten's book.

When we come to the spiritual path we have to be very cautious. We have to be certain that we are not adding another illusion on top of the illusions we already have. When we look into our consciousness we see that we have many illusions.

Everything is an illusion, especially this notion of "I."

The story of my life is an illusion, my birth, my relationships, and so forth. They are all a story just like a movie. If something happens to my brain, much of this story will be immediately forgotten. Therefore in the ultimate sense it is not truly existent. It is illusion.

We have to be careful when we come to the spiritual world so that we do not fall into the trap of accumulating new illusions. Believe it or not there are very beautiful illusions along the path, the journey, and the practices. Sometimes celebrating illusions can be very entertaining but the problem is that sooner or later illusions collapse.

...Here in the West many people like Eastern illusions because they have already become disillusioned with American illusions. Now they are going around trying to buy Eastern illusions. These new illusions may work for a while because we don't have any heartache associated with them, no bad memories.

But ultimately we must dissolve every illusion: American illusions, Eastern illusions, European illusions, and finally our own illusions.

What is our main illusion? The illusion is that I am real. I am truly existent. This final illusion is the one we want to hold on to.

...We are all carrying this imaginary self around day and night. We are trying to secure it at any cost. Sometimes, the spiritual path that we are on might be just another way to enforce it.

Obviously people have been using the notion of God or eternal life as a way to solidify this illusion. Eternal life in heaven somewhere means that this "I" never has to die.

The idea of surrender itself can be very beautiful. It is the direct doorway to the truth. It is the powerful art of dropping the self right away. 

People often have the tendency to surrender to something or someone outside of themselves. Surrendering to the guru is not true surrender, because then you become the surrenderer, which is another version of self. For that very reason, Buddha discouraged people from surrendering to his personality. Of course, we always surrender to his wisdom. 

The problem is that when we surrender to his personality we don't surrender to his wisdom. He told devotees not to take even his words on blind faith. He said we should question them before accepting them as such. 

...So meditation ultimately stops everything. We stop pushing that rolling snowball and we stop pedaling the bicycle. We don't do anything because there is nothing we can do. From that moment on, we are no longer in charge. The truth is in charge, From that moment on truth is going to voluntarily destroy the foundation, the basis of all sorrow, all misery. 

Truth does that work for us. All we have to do is stop everything. That is what meditation is all about. 

In the ancient times, spiritual seekers used various methods to practice meditation, Yet, there is only one meditation. That is a state of nondoing. When we stop trying to get somewhere and let go of all of our inner exertions, surprisingly the ineffable truth reveals itself to us.

Then that's it. There is nothing else to be found.

...We have a egoic mind that is trained and habituated to do something, to construct this world of illusion. Ego is working very hard. Ego is always talking. Ego is making up stories for the sake of perpetuating all of the stories of the notion of "I." "I" am meditating. "I" am truly existent. "I" am truly meditating and now "I" am getting somewhere. "I" am chasing enlightenment. 

This very thought is just ego's way of perpetuating itself.  

Buddhist wisdom: pay attention to the breath until the self dissolves

My spiritual evolution has been a lot like my marital arts evolution. I'll explain.

For about nine years I practiced traditional Shotokan karate. I got to the brown belt level, and did quite well in tournaments where I sparred against black belts with considerably more experience, and who were much younger than me. But when it came to testing, I was stuck. I wasn't being advanced from the initial brown belt level.

Eventually it dawned on me that I was learning martial arts skills.

But what I was learning wasn't what the Shotokan higher-ups wanted to see when it came to testing. So I switched to a more flexible style of karate. It was a big relief to realize that for those nine years, I'd been learning about martial arts. What I was learning just wasn't what traditional Shotokan karate expected me to learn.

Likewise, for about 35 years I practiced a form of meditation that involved devotion to a supposedly "perfect guru." The technique involved repetition of a mantra with a focus on the center of the forehead, drawing attention away from the body and external world. The goal was to "go within" and experience realms of existence beyond the physical.

I learned a lot during those years of meditating from one to two-and-a-half hours a day.

Eventually, though, it dawned on me that what I was learning wasn't what this particular spiritual path of Radha Soami Satsang Beas wanted me to learn. So for quite a few years I've shifted to a Buddhist style of meditation centered on awareness of the breath -- along with whatever else is happening within me and without me.

There are various forms of Buddhism, of course. I don't have much use for the more religious forms. But I very much enjoy the forms that are either wholly secular, or keep the supernatural side of Buddhism to a minimum (such as rebirth).

I'm about halfway through a book that I saw mentioned in a comment on this blog, "No Self, No Problem," by Anam Thubten. I agree with the positive Amazon reviews. Even though Thubten appears to believe in rebirth, he puts very little emphasis on this. Rather, Thubten has an engaging, honest, direct way of speaking about spirituality and meditation.

What I most like about this book is that it reassures me that the meditation path I'm on is the path taught by the Buddha. Not that I revere the Buddha, since I don't know the guy, and one of my favorite Buddhist adages is "If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him!" 

Not literally, of course. But in the sense of not being led astray by theological or religious concepts, or bowing down to an external authority, trusting instead in your own experience.

Here's excerpts from the first half of "No Self, No Problem" where Thubten talks about how a true spiritual path doesn't involve devotion to dogmas, concepts, complex belief systems. Rather, the Buddhist approach is to observe the breath, and everything else in this world, in a wonderfully simple fashion until the illusion of the self dissolves.

This opening, this receptivity, is basically related to our ability to resist arming the ego with concepts and ideas. A true spiritual path transcends all concepts and belief systems. It is not about reinforcing the mind's illusion of self as an identity. It is not about being a Buddhist, a saint, or a better person. It is really about deconstructing all of our illusions without any mercy.

...Sometimes our ego convinces us that we are realizing this sense of no fixed self at the same time we are holding on to another concept like trying to be sacred or spiritual. Holding on to conceptions such as "sacred" or "spiritual" while we are working toward transcending self-attachment is very subtle.

...Often we discover that we have been chasing illusions. Sometimes they are beautiful illusions like the illusion of enlightenment and spiritual transformation. Nevertheless, as long as we allow our mind to chase such illusions, there is no true liberation.

...On the spiritual path people sometimes get attached to all kinds of sacred and bizarre concepts to make sense out of their place in this giant mysterious universe. 

...Nirvana is not some kind of beautiful, celestial garden filled with peaches and mangoes, a place where everyone is walking around with beautiful halos... It's not a place, a destination we are going to travel to. It's not even a transcendent state of mind that we are going to achieve. It is not a beautiful, ecstatic, trancelike state of mind we can cherish. That's not really nirvana. Rather, nirvana is a great cessation of the separation between us and the truth. It is the mere acknowledgement of what has been the case all along. It is like waking up from a nightmare. It's a great relief to discover that nothing has to be done.

...Sometimes the spiritual search itself prevents us from seeing the truth that is always with us. We have to know when to stop the search. 

...When we meditate, when we sit and simply pay attention to our breath, we begin to see that there is an "I, a self, who is searching for enlightenment and liberation from suffering. But if we keep paying attention to our breath and body sensations, then eventually all of those ideas, concepts, and illusions begin to dissipate one after another and truth reveals itself.

...Nobody is there. "I" is completely nonexistent in that place. There is no separation between samsara, bad circumstances, and nirvana, good circumstances, and there is nobody pursuing the path or chasing after enlightenment. In that moment we realize the essence of the Buddha's teaching.

...Believe it or not, we often use the spiritual or religious path to construct ego identity, even when this is not conscious at the time.

...Sometimes the very self that is fighting ego is actually ego and that's even trickier. But sometimes we can just look directly into our consciousness and ask, "Who is fighting against ego?" Often everything collapses right there. Therefore the path of bliss is really not about declaring war on the ego in order to get rid of anything we see as a stumbling block on the road to our imagined final destination. Rather, it is about allowing the self to dissolve spontaneously by giving up nothing and going nowhere.

...Ego is trying to seduce us into chasing some beautiful exotic illusion. But if we just surrender and remain in that present awareness, paying attention to our breath, amazingly the self dies. There is no longer a self who says, "I don't like what is going on. I don't like this ordinary moment. I don't like just sitting here paying attention to breath." The "I" who doesn't like what is unfolding is completely gone and that is all that matters in the ultimate sense.

...When self dissolves, everything is already awakened. 

...The hindrances to inner awakening can be so subtle they are almost unperceivable, and usually they sneak in through the back door. Many spiritual traditions teach us that we cannot be free in this lifetime. But even if they teach us that it is possible, they make it sound like it is some kind of a super attainment unlikely for us to reach. Some even go to the extreme of saying that it can only be achieved by surrendering to an outer authority. As long as we believe those rumors, we're not going anywhere but in circles. Our practice won't amount to anything more than a dog chasing its tail.

...Therefore, the essence of all spiritual paths is about dissolving everything here and now without waiting. And again, how do we dissolve that self ecstatically? We are just present, paying attention to the breath, and then the self begins to dissolve. This sounds so simple.

...As long as we are building defense mechanisms, transformation will be exiled to the realm of improbability. And these defense mechanisms, wearing a spiritual mask now, comprise layers of denial, each one more subtle than the other. It is like finding a new cradle where we can be infantile again and have no responsibility for ourselves. Mommy and Daddy are projected onto an omnipotent god or guru who will take care of us eternally.

...True meditation is nothing but the art of abiding, without effort, where you don't try to get rid of anything. If you leave your mind as it is, you will see that nothing can bind you. 

...So whatever arises in your consciousness, bad thoughts, good thoughts, don't try to catch them. Watch them. It's like watching the waves on the surface of the ocean. They arise and they always go back. In the same way observe your mind without any effort. Remember that this is called the method of effortlessness. Don't try to alter or change the natural state of mind.

My "spiritual" Theory of Everything is coming along nicely

Once in a while I get a glimpse of how things really are, or ideally are, spiritually speaking.

Now, I put "spiritual" in quotation marks in the title of this post, because the way I use the word, it has nothing to do with God or the supernatural -- which in my view don't exist.

Rather, when I speak of spirituality, I mean a quest to understand how best to live life. The ancient Greeks called this philosophy, literally "love of wisdom." However, these days philosophy usually is considered to be not a way of life, but an academic discipline.

So for me spiritual points to an attempt to live life fully, happily, wisely, compassionately. And since I'm a lover of science, I enjoy thinking of my personal form of spirituality as a Theory of Everything that applies to me -- yet might have some appeal to others as well.

This post is just a first attempt at laying out an outline of how I'm seeing things. The pieces I'm trying to fit together include:

-- Reactivity
-- No-self
-- Responding to a totality of circumstances
-- Objectivism within subjectivity
-- Detachment
-- Nirvana

It probably is obvious (to some, at least) that my inspiration is a blend of Buddhism and Taoism, two philosophies that I have a lot of fondness for when they're stripped of supernatural mumbo-jumbo.

Rather than describe how those six notions listed above relate, which I'll try to do in another post, for now I'll simply describe an everyday event that's a broad-brush illustration of my personal Theory of Everything.

I'm driving along on the two-lane, curvy, hilly road that leads from our home in rural south Salem to the city limits about five miles away. The speed limit is 55 mph. I come up behind a car that's traveling much more slowly than I am, 35 mph.

There's no doubt about the objective reality here. My VW GTI is following another car. We're both going 35 mph, which is about 20 mph slower than what my car was traveling at before I caught up to the other car. However, my subjective reality could take several turns at this point.

One way it could go would be to get irritated at the person driving the car ahead of me. I'm late for my Tai Chi class, per usual, and I don't need a slow driver making me later. Irritation would be a form of reactivity that wouldn't change the objective situation, just my subjective feeling.

I could, though, simply observe, "That car is going quite slow."

I also could realize that the amount of time I'd save by driving a few miles at 55 mph rather than 35 mph is minimal. Coming to a bunch of red lights when I got to town, or not being able to find a parking space close to my Tai Chi class, would affect my arrival time much more.

Thus I could detach from a view that following a slow car is a bad thing.

Instead, it is just a thing, a happening, an event tossed up by a wide variety of circumstances that together, resulted in me ending up behind the car in front of me at this particular time, in this particular place. I wouldn't see this event as having any special significance.

This person driving the car ahead of me isn't trying to slow me down. They may not even be aware of me, if they fail to check their rear-view mirror. They're likely just driving as they typically do, slower than I like to drive. 

I could even try to imagine that I'm experiencing the vehicular version of a Taoist tale about a man rowing across a lake who becomes angry when he sees another boat coming right at him, as if he wasn't even there, forcing him to take evasive action to avoid a collision.

Then he sees that no one is in the other boat. It's drifting on its own. His anger subsides.

So I could envision that I and the driver of the other car are powerless to do anything than what we are actually doing. The universe has conjured up chains of causes and effects that have led each of us to be driving in a certain fashion on the stretch of road that leads to town.

Thus those six notions I listed above can lead me to a calm acceptance of the situation, rather than an irritated response. This may not seem like nirvana, but actually it is quite close to how Buddhists view this state of non-reactivity. 

Anyway, naturally there's more to say about my personal Theory of Everything. Being a wordy person, I'll probably be doing that saying before too long.

(By the way, even given what I said above, I could still calmly pass the slow-moving car when it was safe to do so. Which I do frequently, since my VW GTI is a joy to drive on hilly, twisty roads. And everywhere else, really.)

Nirvana: the moment reactivity stops

I'm attracted to Buddhism, along with Taoism, because these are forms of spirituality that can be viewed without a lens of fantastical supernaturalism.

Sure, many Buddhists and Taoists do embrace mystical mumbo-jumbo, but it is entirely possible to be a Buddhist or Taoist who considers that this earthly existence is the one and only life each of us will ever live, and that's just fine.

Stephen Bachelor is a pleasingly secular Buddhist who has written several books from the standpoint of Buddhism as a practical way of living, not as a religion that demands belief in unbelievable stuff -- such as reincarnation and the survival of consciousness after death.

In his book "After Buddhism: Rethinking the Dharma for a Secular Age," Bachelor has some interesting observations about nirvana. Prior to saying that nirvana can be understood in one of two ways, as either the ceasing of reactivity or as freedom and independence from reactivity, he gave this view of reactivity:

We tend to regard the appearance of such a fearful world as a projection of our mental state.

But this reading of the situation is based on the cultural habit of interpreting experience psychologically. No matter how much we tell ourselves that the fearfulness of the world is just a projection, such reassurance does not significantly alter either how the world appears to us or how we feel about it.

From the perspective of a dharma practitioner, the task of "letting go of what arises" entails releasing one's grip on the whole picture: angry-me-facing-hostile-situation. 

Letting go is not simply a question of breathing deeply to calm my rattled mind; I need to cleanse the doors of my perception. This requires suspending the default habit of seeing the world as being hostile, desirable, or boring. One of the most effective ways of suspending that habit is to train yourself to comprehend the world as an infinitely suffering world.

Now, I don't claim to fully understand what Bachelor means.

However, I have at least an indistinct grasp of what he's getting at, and that's good enough for me. The way I see it, Bachelor doesn't view life as ever being free of suffering. But it is possible to lessen the impact of suffering.

Channeling my inner Alan Watts, we don't have to find suffering insufferable; we don't have to be anxious about our anxieties; we don't have to worry about being worried; we don't have to be happy about our happiness. We can simply suffer, be anxious, worry, and be happy.

(To name but a few possible states of mind.)

In other words, we still react to what life brings us. But we understand the nature of this reactivity. Like everything else in life, it is changeable, ephemeral, something to be experienced before another experience comes along. Even if suffering always is with us, the form of that suffering changes shape continuously.

This seems to be in line with the second sort of nirvana Bachelor speaks of above: as freedom and independence from reactivity, as opposed to the ceasing of reactivity. Here's some additional quotes from his book.

The first sense of nirvana is traditionally understood as a quasi-mystical experience in which an accomplished meditator achieves sufficient calm and insight to bring his reactivity to a complete stop. But this interpretation makes nirvana accessible only to trained meditators, thus conflicting with the account of it as "immediate, clearly visible, inviting, uplifting, and personally sensed by the wise."

...For the second sense of nirvana as freedom from reactivity, we again need to turn to the dialogues with Mara. Here, one becomes aware of nirvana whenever one understands reactivity for what it is and thereby gains freedom from its control. In this case, the experience of nirvana becomes possible even while in the throes of reactivity itself. 

Along this line, I'm up to Day Forty Four in Sam Harris' fifty-day guided meditations in his Waking Up course that I listen to on my iPhone. So I'm damn close to graduating! 

So far I've been getting some fresh insights from Harris, even though most of what he says is familiar to me from other mindfulness exercises. However, Harris has some ways of putting things that are unique to his take on the mind, consciousness, and meditation.

Of late, he's been directing my attention to noticing whether there really is anybody paying attention within my mind. This is nicely Zen, of course. Who is the thinker of my thoughts? Who is the feeler of my feelings? Who is reacting to my reactivity? 

Answer: no one, since an unchanging self who sits in my cranium and observes what's going on in my consciousness doesn't exist. And naturally the same is true of you and everybody else.

Here's some notes that I've taken after listening to Harris' guided meditations.

-- Recognize that the sense of subject and object, that too is an appearance in consciousness.

-- Simply look for the subject. See if there is something to be found.

-- Look for the one who is seeing. Then rest your mind wide open.

-- Every goal, every regret, is nothing but this: consciousness and its content.

-- Look for the thinker of a thought. Is there anyone the thought is occurring to or coming from?

-- Contents of consciousness appear and disappear on their own; you can't choose them.

-- The self's struggle to control is itself an appearance in consciousness.

-- There's no inside or outside of consciousness; things are just appearing. 

-- Is there a hearer in addition to the fact of hearing?

-- Feeling there is a subject, a self, observing the screen of consciousness is just another experience on the screen.

-- Anything you can notice is not what consciousness is, since consciousness is doing the noticing.

These observations fit nicely with the Buddhist notion that while we continue to react to what we're experiencing, it is possible to diminish the sense that someone inside our head is responsible for those reactions.

This allows us to gain a wiser perspective on reactivity.  It isn't something to be done away with, but rather something to be accepted as simply as possible by lessening our reactions to our reactivity.

Nirvana! Without the pressure to achieve it.

 

Thoughts about enlightenment from a Church of the Churchless visitor

I like to hear from people who read my blog posts -- especially when what they say is supportive of my churchless un-preaching.

Here's an email message that I got today from John. After I asked if I could share his message, he said "sure." I like John's perspective on things. He and I carry on a fairly regular correspondence. 

Hey Brian.  Wow.  I really enjoyed reading your latest post on enlightenment!  To me, that is so freeing!  I’ve pretty much come to the same conclusion.

There is a lot of pressure involved in trying to become “enlightened”.  You know what I mean?  In my Christian days, it was either trying to walk in the spirit and not in the flesh, or trying to be more like Jesus, or not sinning, or whatever.  Then you get into, what is sin?  There are the biggies; don’t kill, steal, cheat, lie, etc. 

But some believe that wearing shorts is a sin.  Or having musical instruments in the church is a sin.  And so forth.  Depending on how strict the group was, we never would consistently live up to that and we just felt bad a lot of the time.  So you mix the stress of just living everyday life on this planet with chasing enlightenment or salvation or whatever… And it really can become unbearable.

I haven’t really consciously chased enlightenment that I can remember.  From what I’ve read, it’s hard to get two people to agree on what exactly enlightenment is or what it means. 

Some say it’s the cessation of suffering.  Others say it’s some kind of realization and living out of your “God self”.  Both of these are pretty vague.  LOL  Others say it’s just being present or mindful.  I guess in that case, you can have moments of enlightenment? 

Kind of like you said in your post;

…some Buddhists view enlightenment as being totally immersed and accepting of the present moment. I, and everyone else, am capable of doing this. Not always, but often. So this makes me "enlightened" at times, along with everybody else in the world."

Also from your current post, I read this and went, Yes!

Because there is no way to tell whether someone is enlightened. This is an intellectual concept made up by certain religions and spiritual paths to justify their specialness. They've made up a word, "enlightenment," then claimed that if devotees do such and such, they can become enlightened.

Whatever that is.

That’s so true!  It’s almost like marketing.  LOL  If you join us, and do our thing, you can become more enlightened than the other guys...  And I love the addition of, “Whatever that is”.  

I’ve gone through periods of reading a lot, so I can’t remember who said this or the exact wording. 

But it went something like, you can have various experiences for various reasons.  One experience may even seem like what you think is enlightenment.  But don’t try to hang on to any of them, including what you thought was enlightenment.  Experiences come and go.  Let them come and go.

Another one said that when you think a person is enlightened, ask their spouse if that is true.  LOL

I guess all these different opinions and points of view keep the world a more interesting place.  If we all believed the same thing, I guess it would be boring.  Right? 

But I am grateful for the, what I would consider, solid and more down to earth influences that I have had.  Whether meditation, or yoga, or tai chi, it seems that most of the books that I’ve read and people I’ve practiced with have all stressed being here and now.  Not chasing some undefinable enlightenment. 

I look at these things as simply tools that help me get through life a little more smoothly.  When I’m meditating on a regular basis and practicing tai chi as well, I do seem to handle stress better, respond to difficult situations better, etc.  But I don’t really see it as a spiritual thing, like many of my friends do. 

The general idea of many folks that I know is that when you do some kind of “spiritual” practice, then you live more out of your spirit man than you do this earthly man. 

Well, I no longer think that I’m divided like that.  I think what you see is what you get.  When I do my practice, I just think that my mind is less cluttered and distracted, and my body is more relaxed, so it’s just naturally easier to process life in a way that seems a little smoother.  If that makes sense?  

Thanks again for the great posts. 

I hope you and yours are doing well.

John

"Enlightenment" is a meaningless concept

Over on this post of mine there's been a comment conversation about enlightenment. "JB" left this cogent comment, which I agree with.

Tim Rimmer said: "Wasn't that the nature of the Buddha’s realisation? - All is Dukkha, yet ‘one’ is able to remove/get past it?"

That one is able to remove/get past suffering is unadulterated mythology. The hero, the savior, the enlightened person- these are all variations on a theme. This is the mythical theme that has encapsulated humankind's greatest hope. It is a dead giveaway that the "enlightened masters" are all from the ancient past. Those that claim to be enlightened today are invariably discovered to have the same neuroses and foibles as the average person, sometimes far worse. Instead of realizing that enlightenment is the stuff of legend, we radically redefine enlightenment to accomodate them.

There are no enlightened beings and never were.

"Manjit" left a reply, which I found unconvincing.

Basically it was that because lots of people claim to have "enlightenment" experiences, that means there is such a thing as enlightenment. Well, lots of people claim to have been abducted by aliens, which doesn't mean this actually happens. 

Here's an excerpt from Manjit's comment.

So, are you here REALLY stating that YOU have never had any experiences of "enlightenment" or, say a "kundalini awakening" or "absorption in the sound-current" or inner "communion" with "love" or "light", or "astral projection" etc etc?

So again, Manjit is arguing that because people say there is such a thing as enlightenment, this means there is such a thing as enlightenment. Which, of course, is untrue, since people often say things that are false. (Just watch President Trump talk.)

Here's the comment I left on this subject.

The best argument against there being such a thing as "enlightenment" is that it is entirely possible and valid to have arguments about whether there's such a thing as enlightenment.

There aren't arguments about whether there are rich people, artistic people, musical people, mathematically-gifted people, lazy people, productive people, or a myriad of other kinds of people.

But there are indeed arguments about whether there are enlightened people. Why?

Because there is no way to tell whether someone is enlightened. This is an intellectual concept made up by certain religions and spiritual paths to justify their specialness. They've made up a word, "enlightenment," then claimed that if devotees do such and such, they can become enlightened.

Whatever that is.

Here's a challenge to anyone who believes that enlightenment is real. Describe how it is possible to distinguish an enlightened person from an unenlightened person.

Imagine the spiritual equivalent of a police lineup. You're presented with a dozen, or a hundred, or a thousand, or seven billion, people. Your job is to point out the "enlightened" people.

How would you do this? What questions would you ask them? What answers would you find persuasive, and why? What behaviors or actions they perform would you want to observe? Which of these behaviors or actions would show they're enlightened, and why?

My strong suspicion is that believers in the reality of enlightenment would say that this is an ineffable personal experience, or state of being, that can't be described or observed.

OK. Fair enough.

This sounds like the dreams that I have every night. Or the feelings I have throughout the day. This would make "enlightenment" one of a myriad of personal experiences that only have reality within the mind of the experiencer.

But this means that enlightenment isn't anything special. In fact, it may not even exist as a genuine subjective reality, since it could refer only to a normal state of being that certain religions or spiritual path have elevated to a special experience.

For example, some Buddhists view enlightenment as being totally immersed and accepting of the present moment. I, and everyone else, am capable of doing this. Not always, but often. So this makes me "enlightened" at times, along with everybody else in the world.

The fact that there's no agreement about what enlightenment means is strong evidence that it doesn't really exist except as a religious/spiritual concept.

"Teaching is impossible." An excerpt from The Wooden Bowl book.

People often make spirituality into something complex, argumentative, esoteric. They consider there's a right and wrong way to meditate, to worship, to live life. 

I used to be one of those people. I'm a lot less dogmatic now. 

Recently, like today, which is pretty damn recent, I've been both entertained and bemused by a rash of comments on this blog where people have been arguing about this and that. 

I enjoy those sorts of interchanges. Except when I don't. 

In those latter times, I try to remind myself of how simple spirituality can be. And how it really isn't necessary to bring in that often-contentious word, spirituality. 

Why not just say, how simple life can be.

I've started reading The Wooden Bowl, a book recommended to me by a visitor to this blog who emails me interesting messages about what's going on in his life from time to time. 

It's out of print, but I found a used copy on Amazon that cost me just a few bucks. It took a while to arrive by media mail, but it was worth the wait. 

I really like the down-to-earth approach to meditation, and life, that the author, Clark Strand, describes. Here's the first chapter, "Teaching is Impossible."

"Meditation cannot be taught." So said my first teacher, Deh Chun, an elderly Chinese hermit who lived the last years of his life in Monteagle, Tennessee. "Only learning is possible," he said, "sometimes."

What he meant was that meditation can only be practiced. If it is taught, then, by definition, what is taught is not really meditation at all, but something else. Some method or philosophy, but not meditation itself.

When I consider the years of our association, the most remarkable thing is that I cannot recall any particular thing I learned from him. I can't point to a particular conversation we had and say, "Well, you know, then Deh Chun said such and such and everything was clear."

At the time, nothing was clear. When I think back on it now, I realize that his entire teaching consisted of being in the present moment, with nothing else whatsoever added on.

Being with Deh Chun was like dropping through a hole in everything that the world said was important -- education, progress, money, sex, prestige. It was like discovering that nothing else mattered and all I needed was now -- the moment -- to survive. 

Sitting there in the little house, listening to the water boil, to the twigs crackling in the wood stove, I was temporarily removed from the game. That was the genius of his teaching, that he could bring forth that transformation without even saying a word.

His was a state of complete simplicity. Like water, the direction of his life was downward, always seeking lower ground. When I met him he lived in a ramshackle two-room house heated by a wood stove the size of a typewriter. There was no furniture, only a few turned-over crates and several cardboard boxes in which he kept his clothes.

His bed consisted of two sawhorses on top of which he had placed a 3 x 5 sheet of plywood. and a piece of packing foam. I remember thinking once that this bed suited him perfectly, his body was so light and small.

A similar structure in the other room served as a desk for writing letters and for painting his ink-wash Chinese landscapes. Propped against the back door were spades, a shovel, and a rake, tools he used to tend a plot of land the size of two king-size beds laid end to end.

With the exception of tea, soybeans, peanut butter, molasses, and occasional wheat-flour, whatever he ate came from there.

We would sit in his little house without saying much of anything. Early on I learned that he was not disposed to give instruction in any formal way. He would serve me lunch, or sometimes breakfast if I'd managed to get there early enough, and then I'd wash up. 

Afterward we would talk about his garden, or more likely we would remain silent for a long while and then it would be time to leave.

Nowadays, in books on meditation, it has become standard practice to say that your teacher was a mirror that allowed you to see your true self. But that was not my experience with Deh Chun. It was more like floating weightless on the Dead Sea and looking up at an empty sky.

There was a feeling of tremendous peace and freedom, but that was all. I didn't know anything after I was done. Trying to pin him down on some aspect of meditation was as pointless as trying to drive a stake through the air. He taught one thing and one thing only, and that he taught to perfection: meditation happens now.

After the first few visits to his house, I realized nothing pivotal was going to happen, but I kept returning anyway without knowing what it was about him that held my attention.

I was a college student, and fairly typical of other nineteen-year-olds in that I was not particularly interested in spending time with someone four times my age. Especially someone who by ordinary standards was little better than a bum.

Deh Chun was completely simple. He lived on fifty dollars a month. He was a Buddhist monk who never spoke of Buddhism, an accomplished landscape painter who never sold his work. He wore only secondhand clothes and was without pretension of any kind. 

Long after his death, it is finally clear to me that he taught only by example. 

Recently, a friend of mind said of a certain Catholic priest, "He practices what he preaches, so he doesn't have to preach so loud." Deh Chun practiced so well he didn't have to preach at all. 

Nice quotes from "Confession of a Buddhist Atheist"

I'm a big fan of Stephen Bachelor, who writes about Buddhism from a pleasingly non-religious, non-supernatural perspective.

I didn't like "Confession of a Buddhist Atheist" as much as his other books, but some quotations from this book that someone emailed to me resonated with my psyche. 

Here they are. The boldfacing was added by the person who sent me the quotes.

To be conscious of what is happening in the present requires training in mindfulness, which Gotama described as “the one way” to achieve the kind of focused presence and responsiveness needed to function optimally on a groundless ground.

Indeed, he spoke of mindfulness (sati) as being grounded (pat hāna) in whatever occurs in one’s body, feelings, and mind as well as in the world about one. Mindfulness is to be aware of what is happening, as opposed to either letting things drift by in a semiconscious haze or being assailed by events with such intensity that one reacts before one has even had time to think.

Mindfulness focuses entirely on the specific conditions of one’s day-to-day experience. It is not concerned with anything transcendent or divine. It serves as an antidote to theism, a cure for sentimental piety, a scalpel for excising the tumor of metaphysical belief.

“When a monk breathes out long,” said Gotama, “he knows: ‘I am breathing out long.’ Breathing in short, he knows: ‘I am breathing in short.’”

Such a person acts in full awareness when looking ahead and looking away, when flexing and extending his limbs, when wearing his robes and carrying his bowl, when eating, drinking and tasting, when defecating and urinating, when walking, standing, sitting, falling asleep, waking up, talking and keeping silent.

...There is nothing so lowly or mundane that it is unworthy of being embraced by mindful attention. Mindfulness accepts as its focus of inquiry whatever arises in one’s field of awareness, no matter how disturbing or painful it might be. 

One neither seeks nor expects to find some greater truth lurking behind the veil of appearances. What appears and how you respond to it: that alone is what matters.

The person who sent me these quotes added some thoughts of his own.

A Buddhist friend of mine whom I used to meditate with talked this way about meditation. It makes a lot of sense to me and also takes the frustration out of it. 

Instead of going away from a time of meditation thinking that I didn’t get anything out of it because I didn’t have some “experience," now I see it as there is no wrong way to meditate or a “bad” session. 

Because I’m just paying attention to what is actually happening. If that makes sense?

Yes, it does make sense. This is the way I meditate now also. Or at least, how I try to meditate.

It's difficult to break past habits of believing that certain kinds of experiences are to be sought for in meditation, like a calm mind. 

But I'm getting better at this, in part through the guided meditations I listen to every morning via the Calm app on my iPhone. They're very much in line with the Buddhism Stephen Bachelor is talking about.

After listening to a guided meditation, I then engage in my own "free-form" meditation. 

Zen's tiger and strawberry story is about dealing with death

The older I get -- I'm 69 -- the more I resonate with the Zen story of a man who had a bad day when he was chased by a tiger. Which turned into a much worse day when another tiger and a couple of mice showed up. 

A man was walking across a field when he saw a tiger. Fearing for his life, the man fled, but the tiger gave chase. The man reached the edge of a cliff, and just as he thought the tiger would get him, he spotted a vine growing over the edge of the cliff. Grabbing on to it, he swung himself over the edge to safety.

The tiger came to the edge and snarled at him from above. While precariously perched like this, the man saw another tiger growling at him from below. Trembling, he held on to the thin vine that was keeping him from being dinner for the tigers. What could be worse than this, he wondered.

Just then, two mice scampered out and began gnawing at the vine. As they chewed and the man pondered over his fate, he saw a juicy, red strawberry on a ledge next to him. Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other. Ah, how sweet it tasted!

Now, some Googling revealed to me that there are different views of what this story is intended to teach us. Live in the moment is a common interpretation. A contrary perspective is don't be distracted by pleasure. 

I'm much more in favor of live in the moment than don't be distracted by pleasure.

Whoever thought the man paid undue attention to the strawberry obviously hasn't spent much time clinging to a vine that's being chewed by mice while tigers await above and below.

You might be thinking, who has experienced this? To which I reply to that thought: Everyone. Without exception. 

Because my view of what the story is all about is that the tigers represent the fear of death, and the mice represent death itself. After all, virtually everybody does their best to run from death when the specter of it appears before us. We cling to whatever life-giving alternative is available.

But in the end, the mice of human mortality are going to nibble through the vine of living, 100% guaranteed. The only question is how long it will take them.

The strawberry represents... a strawberry. (I have strawberries on my oatmeal almost every morning, and I live in Oregon, which has some of the best-tasting strawberries in the world.)

Not only a strawberry, of course. The strawberry is everything in existence.

Or at least, that portion of everything that we humans can be aware of. So long as death hasn't completely nibbled through the vine of our life, we should taste every bite of existence with gusto.

What gives the strawberry an extra dose of sweetness is precisely the fact that our ability to taste it is limited. Nobody lives forever. In fact, nobody even lives very long, by cosmic standards. The universe is about 14 billion years old. We're lucky if we can live to 80, and very lucky to live to 100.

This being a Church of the Churchless blog, I'm going to conclude my interpretation of this Zen story with some jabs at religion. 

There's zero demonstrable evidence, nada, zilch, that anyone has ever cheated death. Those damn mice can't be stopped. Death is an unavoidable eater of life. Death can be postponed, but only for a while.

Given the inevitability of death, and the near-certainty that when we die, we're dead forever (being scientifically-minded, I realize that nothing is 100% certain, including what I just said), it makes sense to get as much sweetness from life as possible while we're still able to cling to its vine.

So here's a Big Problem with religion: every major religion, and most minor ones, claim that another life awaits after we die. Meaning, no mice! Death is a fiction. Thus tigers are optional, since fear of death is justified only if death exists.

This makes strawberries, and the rest of life, less sweet. 

In fact, religions are notorious for urging people to shun many of life's pleasures, such as sex, alcohol, recreational drugs, sensual indulgences, partying-on. They claim -- again, with zero evidence -- that a gigantic heavenly strawberry awaits those who obey whatever restrictions a particular religion enjoins.

Thus the way I see it, the Zen story only has meaning for those who reject religiosity.  

Mindfulness has become my meditation

Back in my true-believing religious days, when I embraced an Eastern form of mysticism that espoused several hours of daily eyes-closed meditation, I thought that the ultimate aim of life was to experience higher realms of reality beyond the physical.

Of course, I had a job to go to, a wife and daughter, worldly activities I enjoyed. But I viewed these as mostly distinct from my spiritual goal of god-realization -- those things were part of my karma; important, yet not what my life's highest purpose was all about.

I'm grateful that my eyes have been opened to the flaws in this point of view. 

Since there is no demonstrable proof that God or other supernatural entities exist, and clearly this world does exist, it makes sense to focus first and foremost on what is right before us rather than on some imagined immaterial domain. 

This is why, even though I'm by no means a practicing Buddhist, I find a lot to like in Buddhist philosophy that's been stripped of supernaturalism. Mindfulness has become my current preferred form of meditation.

Of course, mindfulness doesn't have any inherent connection with Buddhism, a point Jon Kabat-Zinn makes in his engaging book, "Mindfulness for Beginners: Reclaiming the Present Moment -- And Your Life."

In essence, mindfulness is universal because it is all about attention and awareness, and attention and awareness are human capacities that are innate in all of us. Still, it is fair to say that, historically speaking, the most refined and developed articulations of mindfulness and how to cultivate it stem from the Buddhist tradition, and Buddhist texts and teachings constitute an invaluable resource for deepening our understanding and appreciation of mindfulness and the subtleties of its cultivation.

On page 1, Kabat-Zinn describes what mindfulness is.

Mindfulness is awareness, cultivated by paying attention in a sustained and particular way: on purpose, in the present moment, and non-judgmentally. 

It is one of many forms of meditation, if you think of meditation as any way in which we engage in (1) systematically regulating our attention and energy (2) thereby influencing and possibly transforming the quality of our experience (3) in the service of realizing the full range of our humanity and of (4) our relationships to others and the world.

Today, in the late afternoon on a sunny June day here in rural south Salem, Oregon, I had just set out on a walk through some paths on our ten acre property that lead to a community lake not far away.

I was idly thinking about what I was going to write about in a blog post when I got home. Which, as you might suspect, meant my mind was filled with thoughts about mindfulness. 

I wasn't being mindful. I was planning what to say about mindfulness, a whole other thing. But a flash of white caught my attention off to my left. Suddenly I had jumped into being aware of the present moment, not a future blogging moment. 


Either I had missed the daisies on previous walks, or now simply was the time for the daisies to blossom forth. Regardless, I was pleased to be jolted out of my mental machinations into an appreciation of beauty in the world outside my cranium.

A bit further along, the setting sun illuminated the fronds of ferns that grow copiously here in Oregon.

I always enjoy this part of the path that leads to the lake, because it disappears around a bend. Like life itself, the path only shows what is close at hand, not what is around the corner. 

Ah, the shape of trees, backlit by the setting sun. I've seen this sight so many times in the 28 years we've lived where we are now. But that word, now, means that never before had I seen this sight, in this way, on this day.

Which made it magical. In a supremely ordinary fashion. Such is the power of mindfulness, which really is nothing more than what Kabat-Zinn speaks about in his first mini-essay, Beginner's Mind.

Suzuki Roshi, the Japanese Zen Master who founded the San Francisco Zen Center and touched the hearts of so many, is famous for having said, "In the beginner's mind, there are many possibilities, but in the expert's there are few."

Beginners come to new experiences not knowing so much and therefore open. This openness is very creative. It is an innate characteristic of the mind. The trick is never to lose it.

That would require that you stay in the ever-emerging wonder of the present moment, which is always fresh. Of course, you will lose beginner's mind in one way, when you cease to be a beginner.

But if you can remember from time to time that each moment is fresh and new, maybe, just maybe, what you know will not get in the way of being open to what you don't know, which is always a larger field. Then a beginner's mind will be available at any moment you are open to it.

Can't stop quoting from "Ending the Pursuit of Happiness: A Zen Guide"

Zen, along with Buddhism in general, teaches that nothing is permanent, everything changes.

So even though right now I feel like I can't stop sharing quotes from my re-reading of Barry Magid's book, Ending the Pursuit of Happiness: A Zen Guide, clearly I will at some point. 

Like maybe tomorrow, not today. Here's more passages from the book that appealed to my churchless consciousness. Which follow a Zen cartoon.

"Karma means "cause and effect," which is another way of describing interconnection and change. Enlightenment is the realization of our being the ongoing product of interconnection and change -- it is not the cosmic equivalent of the Monopoly card, "Get Out of Jail Free." We transcend nothing and nothing lasts, no matter how much we'd like to believe the opposite."

"There is nothing permanent, not even 'enlightenment.' As soon as we think we have achieved some new, perfect, permanent, and invulnerable state, we have betrayed the very essence of our realization."

"We have to kill off any notion we have that there is something to attain, something to hold on to, something special we can become once and for all. Enlightenment is not a 'thing' we 'get' from practice. Anything we think we've gotten -- even if it's made of gold -- can only get in the way. Only when there is nothing and nobody left to obstruct it will the clear breeze blow freely in every direction."

"Now Buddhism has given an altogether different answer to the question of what we essentially are. And Buddhism's answer is 'Nothing.' There is no essential true, inner nature at all."

"Although zazen is often described as a spiritual practice, 'spiritual' is not a word I like very much. Too often, 'spiritual' is explicitly contrasted with 'material' as if it represented another separate (usually higher) order of reality. In the Christian tradition, the spiritual is the realm of the soul, which is believed to have an existence separate from the body, and because the soul is not material, it is not subject to change and death like the body. This idea of a separate non-material soul is regularly conjoined to the idea of a soul that is likewise immortal."

"Yet no matter how illogical, humankind has a long history of fantasizing a separate, ethereal inner essence and imagining that, in total contrast to bodies that are all mortal, this disembodied breath or spirit is somehow immortal. It is a fantasy that exists across cultures, even persisting within Buddhism, which would seem, by the law of emptiness, to insist that there is no personal essence that could be immortal. It is hard not to conclude that a universal fear of death gives rise to an equally universal fantasy of spiritual immortality that denies its finality."

"In our daily practice, we must discover and express for ourselves the fundamental truth that this mind, this body, this moment is all that we have, is all that there is. We come to practice believing that our minds as they are, our bodies as they are, are the problem. Who wants a wandering mind or aching knees, let alone a body that is growing old or has a serious illness? But practice will never teach us to exchange this mind for another one or to substitute this body for someone else's."

"We want to escape something we believe is wrong with who we are, to escape whatever lays us open to suffering. We don't realize that the attempt at escape is itself an engine of our suffering."

"Be careful what you wish for. Only when our hopes are completely smashed will we be free. It's not the 'freedom we started out looking for at all."

But it sure sounds like something Janis Joplin sang about.

(I could listen to this song a million times and still want to hear it again. Janis Joplin was one of a kind. I got to see her perform in 1966 and will never forget that moment.)

 

 

Great quotes from "Ending the Pursuit of Happiness: A Zen Guide"

I'm a big fan of Zen, though I've never actually practiced with a Zen teacher, and I'm turned off by overly dogmatic or religious versions of Zen Buddhism. 

Yesterday I was idly glancing at the Zen section of my bookcase and noticed a book that I'd read nine years ago and blogged about in "Search for happiness (and self) called off."

I'm enjoying a re-reading of Barry Magid's Ending the Pursuit of Happiness: A Zen Guide. Magid is a psychoanalyst with an appealing take on Zen. He founded the Ordinary Mind Zendo in New York City and still teaches there.

Here's some quotes from the book that resonated with me, because I agree with them. 

"Meditation can create an oasis or bubble of clarity or calm or concentration that simply excludes all the messiness of our everyday emotional reality. Under the illusion that we are cultivating a higher spiritual self, we merely end up avoiding what is emotionally painful. I have seen this take place at every level of practice from beginning students to what I had imagined were seasoned teachers."

"Zen students, especially those who have had some realization, are in grave danger of imagining that they now are somehow 'seeing reality directly,' just as it is -- without acknowledging all the ways that unconscious processes and organizing principles continue to operate, both on a personal and cultural level."

"Zazen [meditation] is not a technique. It is not a means to an end. It's not a way to become calmer, more confident, or even 'enlightened.' Indeed, our whole practice can be said to be about putting an end to self-improvement, an end to our usual compulsive pursuit of happiness -- or its Zen equivalent, the pursuit of enlightenment. Not that we can't be happy (or enlightened), it's just that we'll get there by a very different route than we once imagined -- and it may not look anything like what we expected when we started out."

"Which is the 'true' self? That question, the basis for so many Zen koans, immediately leads us astray. Instead of fully experiencing ourselves in the very act of asking the question, we imagine there's another more real, truer, more essential self hiding somewhere out of sight that we have to go search for. Not surprisingly, we can never find it."

"Zen practice can redeem the ordinariness of our lives and return us to a natural richness, simplicity, and creativity that we have long imagined could only be ours by becoming special, by attaining enlightenment or some other exotic state of consciousness that once and for all will turn us into a wholly different kind of being."

"In the traditional Zen literature, we read of the Absolute and the Relative. Here, the Absolute refers to the experience of no separation between ourselves and this moment just as it is, of no separation and therefore no sense of a separate 'self' and instead just the oneness of the whole universe. The Relative refers to our ordinary world of distinctions: good and bad, self and other, special and ordinary."

"Many forms of traditional meditation practice are initially geared to pushing students to have some experience of the Absolute -- which can feel like a very special experience indeed. But Zen has also stressed that that is only the first step, and the student must go on to experience the identity of the Absolute and the Relative, the sameness of the special and the ordinary, as paradoxical as that may sound."

"Having lost that original identity of the ordinary and the special, we typically give up on the ordinary and look to new special experiences to compensate for our loss. Although what we've lost is the most ordinary thing in the world, we go looking for something special to replace it. And thus, by pursuing the special, we are, in effect, forever condemning ourselves to be looking in exactly the wrong place for exactly the wrong thing."

"It's a little harder for most people to realize that not only is the mind that I'm trying to escape the only mind I have, but that the mind that I'm seeking is also the mind that I already have. The perfection that we're so busy pursuing is to be found nowhere but right here in the very moment, regardless of its content. This is the most basic spiritual insight that we can have. This moment is it! What we've desperately been seeking is already here."

What is enlightenment good for?

David Chapman, a philosophically-inclined Buddhist'y guy I follow on Twitter, raised an interesting question:

It sure is a reasonable question. But I'd like to go further by ditching the word "practical." Which makes the question, in statement form, Show us some thing this "enlightenment" is good for.

Meaning, the way I see it, how would anyone know whether someone is enlightened? 

Substitute a wording of your choice for enlightened, if you like. Spiritually advanced. God-realized. Possesses an elevated consciousness. The point is, well, to be able to point to some characteristic of such a person that distinguishes them from an unenlightened person.

If there isn't any differentiating characteristic, if there's no way to tell whether someone is enlightened, then isn't "enlightenment" just like any other abstraction that fails to point to anything demonstrably real? 

Like God or heaven. Or fairy dust. 

If someone is enlightened, or God-realized, shouldn't there be some way of telling them apart from other people? If there isn't, then how is enlightenment or God-realization a thing to be sought after? 

A baker can bake. An artist makes art. An auto mechanic fixes cars. A teacher teaches. And an enlightened person... what? ... enlights? What the heck does that mean?

I've heard devotees talk about a supposedly God-realized guru in ways like these: He's so inspiring. I feel elevated in his presence. His eyes looked right through me. I had all my questions answered. 

OK. There's lots of people who don't claim to be enlightened who merit these sorts of statements. So again, what really distinguishes an enlightened person from an unenlightened person?

If there's no outward characteristic, only a supposedly inward subjective essence, then enlightenment truly isn't good for anything. Each of us already possesses an inward subjective essence. It's called human consciousness. 

Donald Trump has some (mild) Buddhist leanings

OK, I get what this guy is saying in "Donald Trump, Accidental Buddhist." Let's just stress the accidental. Have a read on the New York Times site. 

Or, the piece is short, so I've shared it below. 

      Donald Trump, Accidental Buddhist

By BEN DOLNICK
DEC. 7, 2017

Donald Trump is the contemporary master of a little-used literary device: the narcissistic third person. On the indictment of Paul Manafort: “There’s not even a mention of Trump in there.” On the possibility of Russian interference in the 2016 election: “Perhaps Trump just ran a great campaign?” Even his very first tweet, back in the innocent days of 2009, employed this peculiar mirror-gazing perspective: “Be sure to tune in and watch Donald Trump on Late Night with David Letterman ….”

Like so much else that Mr. Trump favors — red baseball hats, caps lock — referring to oneself in the third person has, these past few years, come to seem tainted, almost pathological. It has entered the cultural lexicon — suitable only for the toweringly grandiose (LeBron) or the deeply immature (Elmo). When the writers of a drama wish to signal that someone is soon to die of tuberculosis, they have her cough blood into a handkerchief. When they wish to signal that someone suffers from a terminal case of self-regard, they have him refer to himself in the third person.

Which accounts for the sheepishness I feel when I tell you about my recent discovery: that referring to yourself in the third person is, well, kind of wonderful. Lately I’ve been walking around with an inner monologue that runs something like this: Ben is feeling tired; Ben is considering blowing off the gym; Ben is feeling regret about eating that entire baguette while walking home from the grocery store.

And I’ve not only found my ego swelling from all this Ben-ing. I’ve also found it tamer than ever before, as manageable and mild as a baby panda. Much as it pains me to admit, I’ve come to believe that our egotist-in-chief may have stumbled onto something profound.

Allow me to explain.

At the core of Buddhism is the concept of non-self. The idea, basically, is that the thing you think of as you — the entity whose well-being occupies your every waking thought — is an illusion. This doesn’t mean that your body is a hologram — that Uniqlo-clad lump of meat is indisputably there. What non-self refers to, rather, is the thing that you think of as your true self — the little captain who lives somewhere behind your forehead and looks out through your eyes. The thing that says, “I hope people like me” or “I can’t stand another minute on this train” — that, Buddhists believe, is what needs to be seen through and rooted out.

This teaching, Buddhists insist, has the potential to eliminate your suffering entirely. But it is destined to remain so much inert philosophy, no more life-changing than the quadratic equation, until you’re able to actually glimpse your little impostor, to fix him in your mental cross hairs. Which is where the Trumpian third person comes in.

Because it turns out that what we refer to, when we refer to ourselves in the third person, is the very thing that Buddhists believe causes us so much trouble. When I say, “Ben can’t stand the taste of turnips,” I am forcing myself, at grammatical gunpoint, to inhabit a perspective outside my usual one. From this new vantage point, my feelings about turnips — not to mention the very thing that I’m used to thinking of as myself — appear as objects, separate from the one doing the speaking. Which means that I, just by shifting into the speech patterns of a narcissistic lunatic, have stationed myself out in the hard-to-describe spaciousness where Buddhists say we’d do well to set up shop.

All of which is to say that referring to yourself in the third person — if you do it thoughtfully, and probably silently — need not be a step on the path toward “Celebrity Rehab.” It can instead be a means of finally realizing a life-altering truth. You are not your thoughts; you are not your feelings. Now that my inner narrator has alternatives to I think and I feel, these seem not like self-help platitudes but like observable facts.

Does this mean that Donald Trump, when he goes on and on about “Donald Trump,” is demonstrating his enlightenment? That when he refers to himself in the third person, he is expressing not a personality disorder but an intuitive grasp of the subtlest Buddhist teachings? Ben highly doubts it.

Meditation practices only "work" in specific cultural settings

Some people claim that specific sorts of meditation practices are akin to a science that produces the same results, no matter who is doing the meditating or where the meditation is being done.

A thoughtful piece by David L. McMahan, "How Meditation Works: Theorizing the Role of Cultural Context in Buddhist Contemplative Practices," casts doubt on this claim.

I came across McMahan's essay in a re-tweet by David Chapman of someone else's tweet:

I had to jump through some online hoops to download the PDF file. Here it is:
Download How_Meditation_Works_Theorizing_the_Role

The general thesis seems totally believable to me.

People who meditate are influenced by the culture in which they live, which includes the context of the religion or spiritual approach that their meditation practice is embedded in. So there's no such thing as a "pure" form of meditation that stands apart from the mind of the meditating person.

Here's some quotes from the essay that will give you a feel for McMahan's approach. His "Two Meditators" introduction sets the stage for later arguments.

I would like to begin with a simple proposition: meditation works. Now to a qualification that makes things more complicated: what it means for meditation to work—the work meditation does—is different, sometimes radically different, in diverse contexts.

Let me illustrate this by imagining two practitioners of the basic Buddhist meditation practice of mindfulness of the breath. One is a contemporary American female professional who practices modern insight meditation (vipassanā) and modern secular mindfulness practices.

The other is an ancient monk—let’s say around the beginning of the common era—in the movement established by Gautama the Buddha. Both are serious practitioners, and both are drawing from the same text, the locus classicus of Buddhist meditation, the Sutta on the Four Foundations of Mindfulness.

They both sit down in the same posture—legs crossed, back straight, hands in the lap—and bring their attention to the movement of their breath. If we could secretly scan their brains, the same parts might be lit up with activity, while blood flow to other parts is slowed to a trickle.

The goals of these two meditators are very different. The modern woman is trying to relieve stress, get along better with other people, achieve more mindfulness in her daily life, and so on, all within her family life. The ancient monk is seeking to enter a transcendent state beyond rebirth and suffering while living in a monastery and being celibate.

But more to the point, similar meditation practices are apparently accomplishing aims—for example, “engag[ing] the world rather than withdraw[ing] from it”—nearly the opposite of the ideals of ancient meditation practices, which explicitly recommended withdrawal from the world. The work meditation does, therefore, is determined by the surrounding ideas, aims, attitudes, and cultural context of the practitioner.

Again, such practices do not simply produce particular, precisely reproducible mental “states” that are the same across time and space. They are part of larger complexes of ways of being in the world in particular social imaginaries.

We all make maps of the world. Not geographic maps, but a mapping of how reality is and how we fit into it. Meditation isn't separate from these maps; it is part and parcel of how we view the world. So the idea that meditation shows us reality "as it is" is false. 

As McMahan says, there's a strong inclination to have experiences that conform to our map of reality. How often do Buddhist meditators have a vision of Jesus and convert to Christianity? How often do Christians have a meditative insight that leads them to convert to Islam?

Very rarely, if ever.

Most meditators have likely considered their maps to correspond to a pre-existing architecture of the mind and reality; therefore, they have considerable incentive to interpret and produce experiences that conform to the map.

Buddhist meditators, therefore, have striven to identify the markers of transition between the first jhāna and the second, to look for signs that they have attained stream entry, or to discern whether they have truly had insight into the Buddha’s teachings on impermanence.

They have questioned basic intuitions, like that of a continuing, enduring self, and instead have tried to isolate and identify the five aggregates in their own experience. In later traditions that insist that all phenomena are illusory, practitioners must train their minds to see the world itself as a dream. In some traditions, they must try to imagine the world and themselves as having Buddha nature, perfect and already awakened, despite the ample evidence to the contrary.

They must, in other words, reimagine themselves and the world in ways suggested by these maps, not only interpreting but also cultivating their experiences accordingly.

Near the end of his essay, McMahan revisits the two meditators.

Are the modern professional and the ancient monk doing something utterly different? Certainly there is overlap: both follow their breath, calm their minds and bodies, try to cultivate compassion and avoid hatred, greed, and delusion. But the familial, institutional, social, cultural, civilizational, and cosmic contexts in which they enact these values could hardly be more divergent.

The modern professional has a family to which she is deeply committed, a job that sustains her, arts and entertainment, and broader commitments to gender equality, human rights, individual choice, and many other non-negotiable goods. She lives, in other words, in an entirely different social imaginary with different default intuitions and a different repertoire of possible ways of being.

Some of the things that mindfulness helps her with are expressly forbidden the monk: parenting, money-making, love-making, play-watching. So mindfulness and meditation help to cultivate a very different kind of person in this case than in the earliest contexts (as well as monastic contexts today).

Moderns have discovered new uses for ancient tools. Clearly these are flexible practices that have been adapted today to quite different ends within very different lifeworlds.

Of course, if you really want to understand the subtleties of McMahan's excellent essay, read the entire piece.
Download How_Meditation_Works_Theorizing_the_Role
I've just shared an overview of some key concepts. Here's a quote from the end of the essay that points to McMahan's emphasis on looking at both the "inside" of the meditator and the "outside" of cultural influences to grasp what works and doesn't work in meditation.

By all means we should measure what is measurable, but we should not think that such measurements—be they oscillating brain-waves, blood flow to various parts of the brain, respiration, and so on—get down to the real “facts” about meditation to which all other “data” (beliefs, social situation, cultural factors, relations of power) are extraneous.

We must understand all of these factors together systemically. The study of meditation should not succumb to the modern cult of calculability in which something is only real when it is measurable and measured. 

No need to have a "calling." Just live your life.

Someone emailed me a link to a short essay on the Secular Buddhist Association site, "What's your  calling or purpose in life?" I like the author's conclusion: there's no reason to feel that you have a special calling.

After all, where would that come from? 

The notion of a calling or purpose in life presupposes that such exists somewhere outside of the person's own mind, that somehow we're supposed to identify what we're meant to do with our life as if that was a law of nature akin to gravity or electromagnetism. 

Or maybe a better analogy is finding our life's compass, which would point us in the direction we're meant to go. But again, this presumes that there's a "magnetic" purpose that is separate and distinct from our everyday choices about what to do.

Here's an excerpt from the essay that makes a lot of sense to me.

I feel fortunate where I am now in life. I have no desire to look for purpose in my life. I don’t feel the compulsion of a calling. I am content to follow this journey we call life and see where it leads moment by moment. It is a feeling of peace, of openness that I didn’t have while being driven by goals, by a calling, by a purpose in life. I’m relieved to have dropped such notions, and for me they really were notions, and instead just be in whatever life brings each day.

I worry when I hear “spiritual leaders”, people regarded as sages and full of wisdom, speak in terms of finding purpose, finding your calling. What if there is no purpose? What if you don’t have a calling? Are you going to be the dog chasing his own tail? Do we have to have a purpose? Does our life have to have “meaning?” I think we should asks ourselves what we really mean by all that. What is driving the need for meaning?

That’s not to say there is something wrong with goals or direction, intent. Having short term goals and direction is useful, as long as we aren’t clinging to expectations, as long as we are open to changes and shifts that will inevitably occur. Life can throw a rock in the waters of resolve at any minute.  Expect change, because change is the norm.

Maybe it’s ok to be without purpose or calling and see what life hands you.

 

Buddhism doesn't believe in a soul, which is fine with soulless me

During my religious days I took solace in feeling that I had, or was, a soul that would survive my bodily death. Now, I'm more attached to truth than to fond beliefs, even when they feel good. 

So I enjoy many Buddhist writings (just not the ones that talk about reincarnation and other supernatural stuff). 

Back in 2012 I resonated with Owen Flanagan's naturalistic take on Buddhism, as I wrote about in "Buddhism says I'm a soulless Heraclitean river. Cool!"

So everything is changing. Including me, you, beliefs, brains, selves, Mt. Everest, ants, galaxies, subatomic particles, who is ahead in the latest presidential poll. Heraclitus sure seems to have gotten that right.

If we hope to base our happiness, our well-being, our satisfaction, on something immutable, unchanging, and eternal -- that hope is going to be still unfulfilled on our death bed. Better to accept that we're all Heraclitean rivers in a Heraclitean universe. 

By contrast, I heartily disagreed with an attempt by an author to misleadingly cram the soul into Buddhist teachings. His book published by Radha Soami Satsang Beas deserved the title of my blog post: "RSSB 'Buddhism' book distorts Buddhist reality."

I'm fine with books which accurately describe a religion or philosophy, and then attempt to show how its tenets relate to some other belief system. But it deeply irks me when an author distorts a religion or philosophy in order to cram it into the confines of his/her favored world view, like RSSB's Sant Mat.

After reading only one chapter, I can tell that this is what K.N. Upadhyaya is up to with his "Buddhism" book. It was difficult for me to recognize the Buddhism that I've come to know (and sort of love) in his discussion of how Buddhists look upon soul and God.

Over and over, Upadhyaya cited the Upanishads and Bhagavad Gita, Hindu holy books, in his effort to show that the Buddha's teachings basically are the same as Hinduism's central tenets of atman (soul) and Brahman (God).

Well, if the Buddha was so up with Hinduism, why did he head off in a different spiritual direction? I'm no expert on Buddhist lore, but I've always thought that the Buddha was critical of Hindu dogmatism and urged his followers to leave all of that supernatural theorizing behind.

I thought right. More evidence of this is coming from Stephen Bachelor's new book, "After Buddhism: Rethinking the Dharma for a Secular Age."

Bachelor says that he's trying to recover the Buddha's original teachings before they became hidden under layers of dogma and confusion. After all, the Buddha, like Jesus, never wrote anything. So what we have in the Buddhist canon are oral traditions that  must imperfectly represent what the Buddha originally taught. 

The earliest Buddhist writings, Pali, seemingly would come closest to those teachings. Further, Bachelor tries to separate out influences from Brahmanic/Hindu philosophy -- which do posit a soul (jiva)  that can unite with God, or Brahman.

I'm about halfway through After Buddhism. Here's some quotations I've come across so far on the subject of whether the Buddha taught about soul.

A topic upon which Gotama refused to comment was whether body (sarira) and soul (jiva) are identical or different. Sarira refers to the inanimate matter of which the body is composed rather than the living and breathing body (kaya). The term later came to denote the bones and material relics of deceased monks and saints.

Jiva (a cognate of the English "quick") is, by contrast, the animating principle that "quickens" dumb matter. While this kind of dualism is in keeping with the Brahmanic view that soul is essentially other than the material world, neither term has a central role in Gotama's lexicon.

He refused to get drawn into speculation about the relation between body and soul, nor did he consider such a dualistic distinction a useful starting point for understanding human experience.

Gotama likewise considers consciousness to be inseparable from the rest of the physical, emotional, perceptual, and intentional bundles of which it is an integral part. He makes the point emphatically: "Though someone might say: 'Apart from form, apart from feeling, apart from perception, apart from inclinations, I will make known the coming and going of consciousness, its passing away and rebirth, its growth, increase and expansion' -- that is impossible."

In contrast to widespread Buddhist beliefs to the contrary, he refuses to grant consciousness any separate or privileged status within experience.

...By implication, for Gotama there can be no such thing as "pure" consciousness, an unconditioned or pristine "knowing" that exists independently of the phenomenal world of discrete physical things and mental processes. 

...To consider awakening in terms of the workings of the five bundles marks a departure from Brahmanic orthodoxy, where the goal of the path is to achieve union with a transcendent and unknowable consciousness or God. If nothing else, Gotama's emphasis on the five bundles points to a practice that from the outset is engaged with the specificity and diversity of the world of human experience rather than seeking an ultimate truth that lies hidden from view.

Two books about whether there's a science of Buddhism

I don't read every article in The New Yorker. But when I got near the end of the latest issue and saw this image, along with "American Nirvana: Is there a science of Buddhism?" by Adam Gopnik, I knew I'd peruse every word. 

(The online version has a different title.)

Gopnik's piece was a review of two recent books: "Why Buddhism is True: The Science and Philosophy of Enlightenment" by Robert Wright, and "After Buddhism: Rethinking the Dharma for a Secular Age" by Stephen Bachelor.

Naturally I've ordered both books from Amazon. I say "naturally," because I'm a big fan of Buddhism -- but only when Buddhism is stripped of religious supernaturalism, dogmatism, and mysticism. Bachelor has done this in several previous books that I've enjoyed, so I figured it was a no-brainer to buy his newest book.

I'm less familiar with Robert Wright. However, as soon as I got a few paragraphs into Gopnik's review, these passages told me I'd be ordering his book also.

He [Wright] thinks that Buddhism is true in the immediate sense that it is helpful and therapeutic, and, by offering insights into our habitual thoughts and cravings, shows us how to fix them. Being Buddhist—that is, simply practicing Vipassana, or “insight” meditation—will make you feel better about being alive, he believes, and he shows how you can and why it does.

Wright’s is a Buddhism almost completely cleansed of supernaturalism. His Buddha is conceived as a wise man and self-help psychologist, not as a divine being—no miraculous birth, no thirty-two distinguishing marks of the godhead (one being a penis sheath), no reincarnation. 

Great. I've always had the feeling that, like Jesus, whoever the Buddha really was isn't at all like the mythical person he is now imagined to be. Here's how Wright speaks about the Buddha.

...a wealthy Indian princeling named Gotama (as the Pali version of his name is rendered) came to realize, after a long and moving spiritual struggle, that people suffer because the things we cherish inevitably change and rot, and desires are inevitably disappointed.

But he also realized that, simply by sitting and breathing, people can begin to disengage from the normal run of desires and disappointments, and come to grasp that the self whom the sitter has been serving so frantically, and who is suffering from all these needs, is an illusion.

Set free from the self’s anxieties and appetites and constant, petulant demands, the meditator can see and share the actualities of existence with others. The sitter becomes less selfish and more selfless.

Sounds good. I've written a lot on this blog about how modern neuroscience agrees with ancient Buddhism (and Taoism) that a notion of an independent, unchanging, separate "self" is indeed an illusion. So, of course, is the related notion of a unitary "soul" with pretty much the same attributes. 

Rather, we're a conglomeration of all sorts of psychological/mental traits that usually fit together more or less coherently, causing us to mistakenly believe that a self or soui is inhabiting the body we call "me." Gopnik says;

Wright, like his Bay Area and Boston predecessors, is delighted to announce the ways in which Buddhism intersects with our own recent ideas. His new version of an American Buddhism is not only self-consciously secularized but aggressively “scientized.”

He believes that Buddhist doctrine and practice anticipate and affirm the “modular” view of the mind favored by much contemporary cognitive science.

Instead of there being a single, consistent Cartesian self that monitors the world and makes decisions, we live in a kind of nineties-era Liberia of the mind, populated by warring independent armies implanted by evolution, representing themselves as a unified nation but unable to reconcile their differences, and, as one after another wins a brief battle for the capital, providing only the temporary illusion of control and decision.

By accepting that the fixed self is an illusion imprinted by experience and reinforced by appetite, meditation parachutes in a kind of peacekeeping mission that, if it cannot demobilize the armies, lets us see their nature and temporarily disarms their still juvenile soldiers.

I used to believe that meditation could lead to knowledge of higher realms of existence by separating our eternal soul from our time-bound body/mind. Now, I'm firmly in accord with Wright's secular Buddhism.

Meditation, in Wright’s view, is not a metaphysical route toward a higher plane. It is a cognitive probe for self-exploration that underlines what contemporary psychology already knows to be true about the mind.

“According to Buddhist philosophy, both the problems we call therapeutic and the problems we call spiritual are a product of not seeing things clearly,” he writes. “What’s more, in both cases this failure to see things clearly is in part a product of being misled by feelings. And the first step toward seeing through these feelings is seeing them in the first place—becoming aware of how pervasively and subtly feelings influence our thought and behavior.”

Our feelings ceaselessly generate narratives, contes moraux, about the world, and we become their prisoners. We make things good and bad, desirable and not, meaningful and trivial. 

For sure. I doubt that anyone can completely break the habit of creating narratives about the world. But we can make our stories less rigid, ego-centered, and unproductive.

Meditation shows us how anything can be emptied of the story we tell about it: he tells us about an enlightened man who tastes wine without the contextual tales about vintage, varietal, region. It tastes . . . less emotional. “All the states of equanimity come through the realization that things aren’t what we thought they were,” Wright quotes a guru as saying. What Wright calls “the perception of emptiness” dampens the affect, but it also settles the mind. If it isn’t there, you don’t overreact to it.

Then Gopnik moves to an examination of Stephen Bachelor's book. Since I don't believe in free will, probably I'll like Wright's treatment of this subject more than Bachelor's. Still, I agree with the basic thrust of how Bachelor sees things, based on this passage from the review.

Where Wright insists that the Buddhist doctrine of not-self precludes the possibility of freely chosen agency, Batchelor insists of Buddhism that “as soon as we consider it a task-based ethics . . . such objections vanish. The only thing that matters is whether or not you can perform a task. When an inclination to say something cruel occurs, for example, can you resist acting on that impulse? . . . Whether your decision to hold the barbed remark was the result of free will or not is beside the point.” He calls the obsession with free will a “peculiarly Western concern.” Meditation works as much at the level of conscious intention as it does at the level of unreflective instinct.

Having read other books by Bachelor, I already knew that he likes his Buddhism with supernaturalism on the side. But as Gopnik notes, this requires Bachelor to show that the "main dish" of secular Buddhism hasn't been made untasty by a mixture with religious superstition.

Batchelor also tackles the issue, basically shelved by Wright, of whether Buddhism without any supernatural scaffolding is still Buddhism. As a scholar, he doesn’t try to deny that the supernaturalist doctrines of karma and reincarnation are as old as the ethical and philosophical ones, and entangled with them. His project is unashamedly to secularize Buddhism. But, since it’s Buddhism that he wants to secularize, he has to be able to show that its traditions are not hopelessly polluted with superstition.

l really liked the following passage in Gopnik's piece. I get the absurdity he speaks about below frequently in comments on my blog posts. Because nothing is 100% certain, not even the best proven scientific theory, religious believers often try to equate faith in some supernatural entity with faith in a law of nature. 

Um, there's a lot of room between 0% and 100%.

A belief in the truth of electromagnetism warrants 99.9% faith in it. A belief in the truth of Jesus' resurrection and ability to save souls warrants a much lesser faith, like 0.1% -- given the demonstrable evidence for each.

Then there’s the shrug-and-grin argument that everyone believes something. Is it fair to object that most of us take quantum physics on faith, too? Well, we don’t take it on faith. We take it on trust, a very different thing.

We have confidence—amply evidenced by the technological transformation of the world since the scientific revolution, and by the cash value of validated predictions based on esoteric mathematical abstraction—that the world picture it conveys is true, or more nearly true than anything else on offer.

Batchelor tap-dances perilously close to the often repeated absurdity that a highly credulous belief about supernatural claims and an extremely skeptical belief about supernatural claims are really the same because they are both beliefs.

And this is a great section of the review that I've quoted at some length. It is indeed amazing that so many "spiritual" people who claim that living in the moment, now, is the best and highest use of human consciousness, unabashedly embrace scientific, cultural, and other truths that only exist because people put a bunch of moments together to fashion a greater understanding of both the past, present, and future.

A deeper objection to the attempted reconciliation of contemporary science and Buddhist practice flows from the nature of scientific storytelling.

The practice of telling stories—imagined tales of cause and effect that fixate on the past and the future while escaping the present, sending us back and forth without being here now—is something that both Wright and Batchelor see as one of the worst delusions the mind imprints on the world. And yet it is inseparable from the Enlightenment science that makes psychology and biology possible.

The contemporary generation of American Buddhists draws again and again on scientific evidence for the power of meditation—EEGs and MRIs and so on—without ever wondering why a scientific explanation of that kind has seldom arisen in Buddhist cultures. (Science has latterly been practiced by Buddhists, of course.)

What Wright correctly sees as the heart of meditation practice—the draining away of the stories we tell compulsively about each moment in favor of simply having the moment—is antithetical to the kind of evidentiary argument he admires. Science is competitive storytelling. If a Buddhist Newton had been sitting under that tree, he would have seen the apple falling and, reaching for Enlightenment, experienced each moment of its descent as a thing pure in itself.

Only a restless Western Newton would say, “Now, what story can tell us best what connects those apple-moments from branch to ground? Sprites? Magnets? The mysterious force of the mass of the earth beneath it? What made the damn thing fall?” That’s a story we tell, not a moment we experience. The Buddhist Newton might have been happier than ours—ours was plenty unhappy—but he would never have found the equation.

Science is putting names on things and telling stories about them, the very habits that Buddhists urge us to transcend. The stories improve over time in the light of evidence, or they don’t. It’s just as possible to have Buddhist science as to have Christian science or Taoist science. But the meditator’s project of being here now will never be the same as the scientist’s project of connecting the past to the future, of telling how and knowing why.

Lastly, Gopnik ends his piece with the stark truth that everything ends. After birth, death. In between, we're continually introduced to the reality of loss. Which is the root of sadness. Whatever helps us deal with loss and sadness, this has to be good, Insofar as Buddhism and meditation can do this, they're worthy of our embrace -- along with much else.

The larger problem we face is not suffering but sadness, and the sadness is caused by the fact of loss. To love less in order to lose less seems like no solution at all, but to see loss squarely sounds like wisdom. We may or may not be able to Americanize our Buddhism, but we can certainly ecumenicize our analgesics.

Lots of different stuff from lots of different places which we drink and think and do can help us manage. Every faith practice has a different form of comfort to offer in the face of loss, and each is useful. Sometimes it helps to dwell on the immensity of the universe. Sometimes it helps to feel the presence of ongoing family and community. Sometimes it helps to light a candle and say a prayer. Sometimes it helps to sit and breathe.

Flexible improvisation is a better way of living than rigid religion

Rules are fine. Except when they aren't. 

For me, one of the most enjoyable things about giving up on the ridiculousness of religion is no longer having to comply with rigid rules, dogmas, commandments, rituals, and such. 

Every religion has its own peculiar absurdities. Of course, what is absurd to an outsider will make sense to an insider. At least if the insider doesn't think about what's being required too much. 

Here's an example: the mystical meditation path I followed for about thirty years demanded that followers be vegetarians. This wasn't a problem for me, since I'd stopped eating meat before I learned about Radha Soami Satsang Beas (RSSB), an Indian spiritual organization led by a guru who was considered to be God in human form. 

At some point in the 1990s, I believe it was, the guru decided to raise the bar on vegetarianism. Now animal rennet, a frequent ingredient in cheese, was a no-no. So RSSB followers were supposed to make sure that cheese they ate didn't contain animal-derived rennet.

Now, even though I was a strong believer in not killing animals for food, it was a stretch for me to accept that eating a minuscule bit of forbidden rennet in a pizza, say, was going to be a big drag on my spiritual evolution.

But since at that time I was a devoted devotee of the guru, I did my best to eliminate cheese with animal rennet from my diet. RSSB followers put a lot of work into compiling lists of "good" and "bad" cheese brands. Eating out at a restaurant, though, often required some decidedly awkward encounters with serving staff.

"Does the cheese on this veggie pizza have animal rennet in it?" us rigidly obedient RSSB'ers would ask a hapless waiter. Not surprisingly he'd say, "I have no idea." "Please check," we'd say. 

The poor guy would be forced to disappear into a backroom and try to read the label on a cheese container. Or at least he'd pretend to do this before returning to our table with some sort of answer. Which often was "I couldn't tell for sure." 

We felt that we were acting in accord with God's will, since the guru's edict against eating animal rennet supposedly had a divine foundation, given his status as God in Human Form (akin to a living Jesus). I'm not sure what the waiters and waitresses who had to deal with our no animal rennet! demands thought about us. 

"Crazy religious fanatics" would have been a reasonable assessment, one which I now agree with.

Today I was browsing the online New York Times opinion page and came across a piece by Stephen Asma with a great title: "Was Bo Diddley a Buddha?"

If you don't know who Bo Diddley is, this probably means you're a lot younger than I am. Here's a video of him from 1965, when I was a junior or senior in high school. 

Asma relates how he used to play guitar with Bo Diddley, and what this taught him about improvisation. Asma now is a philosophy professor, so his piece has some depth to it. It's nicely written, so I invite you to read the whole thing. Here's some excerpts:

Before my first gig with Bo, I spent a full week of intense preparation, learning and rehearsing his songs. On the opening night, he arrived to the venue five minutes before showtime. As he walked onstage in front of 500 shouting fans, I tried to tell him all the songs I’d prepared.

He just looked at me blankly through his Coke-bottle glasses, plugged into his amp and launched into a loud, rhythmic riff on his trademark rectangular guitar. He never bothered to tell me what song we were playing, what chord changes were coming, what key we were in, or anything. But, as every blues and jazz musician knows, that’s how it goes.

After the first tune, he realized that I could follow him, and he cryptically shouted, “This monkey is tied, now let’s skin it!”

Bo and the other greats I played with often worked this way, and it was a hair-raising on-the-job education. These musicians never told me what was coming next, partly because they didn’t know themselves. They were masters of the art of improvisation.

...Improvising, in music, is the act of composing and performing simultaneously, and it is difficult to master. But it is also universal, and despite the powerful human impulse to plan and program, integral to nearly every aspect of our lives. No matter who you are — a welder, philosopher, a guitarist or a president — you are in some sense simultaneously making the map of your life and following it. It is not an exaggeration to say life itself is one long improvisation.

...In music, at least, improvisation sometimes gets a bad rap, usually from the precincts of classical or other formal Western styles that rely on notation. It is sometimes looked down upon with a “my kid could do that” kind of dismissive attitude. But the ability to improvise is not just “winging it.” It is built on foundations of study and practice that prepare the improviser for the moment of action.

“Wu-Wei” is a Chinese word that is often translated as “non-action” but more accurately means “natural action,” or action in accordance with nature. The idea, dominant in Taoism and Zen, is that one should try to find the natural way of doing something and then simulate, or align oneself to it, as opposed to forcing it.

For example, the butcher should carve the animal at its joints, not in arbitrary locations. A carpenter should work with the grain of wood, rather than against it. A martial arts master should find the most economic use of his energy, and turn his opponent’s own force to his advantage, and so on.

Finding this natural way is not effortless, but requires great practice. Once it has been mastered, however, it is possible to find a unique presence of mind in these activities. The mundane actions are turned into artistic and even spiritual expressions. Playing a musical instrument, boxing in a competition, and even folding your laundry can be Zen-like improvisations.

Zen Buddhism and Taoism focus more on the method of your life rather than the content of your life. It’s not so much who you are, or even what you do in life. Rather, it’s how you do it. Since, in these practices, the present moment is ultimate reality (albeit usually obscured and hidden in regular consciousness), all one needs to do is shut off the babble of discursive thought and sink into one’s present activity.

According to this view, the meaning of life is not found in rules, formulas, commandments, categorical imperatives and cultural norms.

For sure. 

Obsessing over eating a few specks of animal rennet that are part of the cheese in a vegetarian pizza is rigid religiosity. Laughing about whether the cheese has rennet -- who gives a shit! -- while taking a big bite would have been flexible improvisation.

But I didn't know that at the time.

So, accept my belated apology, all you waiters and waitresses who had to check cheese ingredients because my friends and I were in the grip of playing life as if every note on the guru's music sheet had to be followed exactly.

Which, as Bo Diddley and Stephen Asma knew, goes against the grain of an improvisational understanding of life. 

Eating, drinking, shitting, fucking -- the most "spiritual" aspect of our reality

Religions typically disparage our animal and vegetative nature. They urge us to embrace soul, mind, spirit -- whatever immaterial essence supposedly lies within us and connects us with a higher divine reality.

Re-reading the first chapters of Hubert Benoit's marvelous book, "Zen and the Psychology of Self-Transformation: The Supreme Doctrine, " I was struck again by how brilliantly Benoit talks about Zen. His outlook is pleasingly fresh.

In The Existentialism of Zen chapter, Benoit says that we mistakenly value living more than existence.

We aren't content with just being an integral part of a much larger reality. No, we seek to elevate that part -- our individuality -- above a status commensurate with the way things really are. So figuring out how to live life fully and meaningfully to the greatest possible extent becomes an obsession, while simply embracing our everyday existence is seen as not enough, too obvious, insufficient for the Fulfillment Task at hand.

Benoit wrote in French, which was translated. He's intellectual. He's a psychoanalyst. He's philosophically sophisticated. So it can take a bit of effort to absorb his words. But I've found that the effort is worth it. 

Here's some passages from the above-mentioned chapter. I've bold-faced some passages that I really like:

A man declares, "My life is insipid and monotonous; I do not call that living; at most it is existing." Everyone understands what this man means to say, which proves that everyone carries in himself the idea of this distinction. At the same time, everyone feels that "living" is superior to "existing"; and this opinion is so clear, so categoric, in the mind of man, that he comes to regard to "exist" as nothing, and to "live" as everything.

...However, when man places living so much above existing the frontier of this preferential distinction does not lie between their vegetative phenomena and their actions; it lies within the domain of action, and in the following manner: among my actions some have for object the service of my vegetative life (to eat, to repose, to perform the sexual act by pure animal desire); these actions affirm me (that is to say maintain my creation) in so far as I am an organism in all respects similar to the other animals, in so far as I live from the point of view of the universe, as a cosmic cog-wheel, in so far as I am "universal." 

But every day, besides these actions, I perform others which do not serve my vegetative life, which often even impede it, and whose aim is to make me appear different from every other man, that is to say affirm me as distinct from every other man, as a particular man.

Between these two kinds of action lies the frontier which we are studying. My egotistical state, which carries the fiction of my personal divinity, makes me regard as senseless my vegetative life and all the actions by which I serve this life (it is this ensemble which constitutes in my eyes the contemptible notion of existing) and leads me to see sense only in those actions which distinguish me (there, in my eyes, is the precious, estimable notion of living).

I do not count in my own eyes in so far as I am a universal man; I only count in so far as I am the individual "I." According to my fiction of personal divinity, to found the sense of my life on my vegetative phenomena and the actions which serve them is absurd, while to found this sense on actions which tend to affirm me as separate is sensible. This view is profoundly rooted in the mind of man.

It is evident to anyone who thinks about it impartially that it is this opinion which is absurd. 

... My organism is a link in the immense chain of cosmic cause and effect, and I can only perceive its real sense by considering it in its real place, in its real connexion with all the rest, that is to say by considering it from the point of view of the Universe, in my capacity as universal man and not particular man, in so far as I am similar to all other men and not in so far as I am different.

Man achieves existence, but only (as he thinks) because existing is a necessary condition for living. He eats, he rests, but he does so uniquely because he cannot otherwise affirm himself egotistically, as distinct; he only performs commonplace actions, common to all, in order to do something that no one but he will ever do, he exists in order to live. Basing, thus, the idea of existing on the idea of living he runs counter to the real order of things since he bases the real on the illusory. 

... The natural man is only conscious of images, so it is not astonishing that he should be unconscious of existing, which is real, which has three dimensions. In short, I am unconscious of that in which I am real, and that of which I am conscious in myself is illusory.

The attainment of satori is nothing else than the becoming conscious of existing which is actually unconscious in me; becoming conscious of the Reality, unique and original, of this universal vegetative life which is the manifestation in my person of the Absolute Principle (that in which I am and infinitely more than I'; imminence and transcendence).

It is that which Zen call "seeing into one's own nature." One understands the insistence with which Zen keeps coming back to the maintenance of our vegetative life. To the disciple who asks for the way of Wisdom the master replies: "When you are hungry you eat; when you are tired you lie down."

There is therein the wherewithal to scandalise the vain egotist who dreams of "spiritual" prowess and of "extatic" personal relations with a personal "God" whose image he creates for himself. 

I love Hubert Benoit and his book. Writing in 1951, his words speak as strongly and persuasively now as then. 

Both science and everyday experience tell us that the natural, physical, material, evident world is the ONLY WORLD THERE IS. Yet we humans place so much importance on our vaunted capacity to imagine, to conceive of worlds that don't exist, but could, if our individual imaginations were to be converted into universal reality. 

There's nothing wrong with thought and imagination. After all, nature evolved us Homo sapiens, who do that stuff. But Zen, and Benoit's take on Zen, remind us that the best form of spirituality is accepting that there's no need to be spiritual. It is letting go of the unnecessary. 

The Zen master is too intelligent to advise the natural man to suggest to himself, when he satisfies his hunger, that he is at last in contact with Absolute Reality; that would be to replace the old imaginative reveries by a theoretical image of cosmic participation which would change nothing whatever. 

The natural man has not to revalorise his vegetative life, he has only to obtain one day the immediate perception of the infinite value of this life by the integral devalorisation of his egotistical life. The necessary inner task does not consist in "doing" anything whatsoever, but in "undoing" something, in undoing all the illusory egotistical beliefs which keep tightly closed the lid of the "third eye."

Here's some of my previous posts about Benoit's book:

Letting go -- the essence of Zen
"The Supreme Doctrine," 36 years overdue
Centering in on "The Supreme Doctrine"

Meaningness site well worth an (uncertain) read

Back in 2011 I discovered David Chapman's "Meaningness" writings. In a blog post I praised Chapman's dizzying thoughts about what life is, and isn't, all about. 

And shared what I said to the person who turned me on to the Meaningness site.

Thanks a lot for the link. I've read several posts/chapters and am blown away by this guy. He's like a more intelligent, more scientific, more coherent, more wise version of me who also can write a heck of a lot better. And has a great sense of humor. I'm an instant David Chapman fan.

Since, I've gotten Meaningness updates as Chapman continues to work on his online work in progress. It is vaguely Buddhist'y, but in a pleasingly non-dogmatic sense.

(Yes, Buddhists can be dogmatic, sometimes irritatingly so; Chapman isn't.)

A recent update resonated with me, "The Promise of Certainty." Here's some excerpts.

What we want most from meaning is guarantees.

Life is nebulous: chaotic, risky, and confusing. Efforts that should work fail. The good suffer and wrong-doers prosper. The world does not make sense. Each of us is torn by uncertainties, conflicting desires, and impossible decisions.

We want assurance that this is all just an illusion. We want to hear that the real world is—somehow—orderly and consistently meaningful. We want answers—sometimes desperately.

Eternalism promises to deliver those answers, and to guarantee them. It cannot; and so it lies.

...Eternalism is at its most glorious in a conversion experience, during the honeymoon after you have first committed to a system. That can last for a few weeks to a few years; for as long as you can silence your internal voices of doubt.

Eventually it becomes impossible to not-see the evidence against the system. You may remain committed, but it can only be a wavering commitment. The honeymoon turns into a warm memory, cherished on Sunday mornings but increasingly distant from everyday experience.

Alternatively, seeking renewed certainty, you may search for a new system. Some people become serial conversion junkies.

But as with opiate addiction, it becomes harder and harder to recreate the first high. And the periods of doubt between commitments, like heroin withdrawal, turn increasingly into nihilistic anxiety and despair.

...The complete stance recognizes that certainty is impossible, but that meaning is real. If we set aside the futile hope for absolute answers, we can find patterns of meaning that are usually good enough to navigate our lives.

No ultimate, perfectly reliable foundation for morality or purpose is possible—but we do regularly solve problems of ethics and direction; and therefore we can!

In Buddhism, ultimate truth is an absence, not a presence

Yeah, I'm on an emptiness roll, Buddhism style. Three blog posts in a row on this fascinating subject (see here and here for #1 and #2).

Having finished Guy Newland's "Introduction to Emptiness," I ordered a roughly similar Newland book, "Appearance & Reality." Both books are giving me new insights into what Buddhism is all about. 

There's very little religious supernaturalism in them, a big reason why they appeal to me. I'm fine with philosophical Buddhism, which by and large is compatible with modern scientific understandings of reality.

Once we get into rebirth, omniscience, and additional other-worldly stuff, though, I part company with Buddhism.

Newland makes a few references to "liberation from cyclic existence" and other religious'y aspects of Buddhism, but I just put a question mark in the page margin when I come across such mentions and move on.

To his core theme, emptiness. 

The normal meaning of that word is an absence. Same applies in Buddhism.

What we need to do to become enlightened as to the nature of reality is give up the notion that anything (including us) exists permanently, fixedly, unchangingly, independently.

Yes, we are real. A chair is real. Dogs are real. Everything in everyday existence is real. There isn't any reality beyond the conventional world, no hidden realms of existence in some far-off heaven or spiritual realm.

Our problem isn't that we aren't in touch with ultimate reality.

Our problem is that we fail to see it as it is -- empty of inherent existence. Actually, everything is interconnected, interdependent, interwoven. But we wrongly consider that things (including the human self) possess their own inherent nature.

In the book I'm reading now, Newland writes:

The Great Vehicle tenet systems teach that the subtle and profound emptiness realized on the bodhisattva path is an ultimate truth. This ultimate truth is a negative phenomenon -- the mere absence of a certain type of self (i.e., a certain kind of existence) in phenomena.

The various Great Vehicle systems disagree about the kind of existence that emptiness negates. The Mind Only system, for example, says that emptiness is the absence of a difference of entity between an object and the mind apprehending it, while the Middle Way Consequence system says that emptiness is the absence of inherent existence.

Still, however they define it, Great Vehicle tenet systems agree that the subtle emptiness is (1) an ultimate truth, and (2) a quality present in all phenomena. That is, everything that exists (including emptiness itself) is devoid of whatever type of existence emptiness negates.

Back in my mystical meditation days -- which lasted over thirty years -- I was super-fond of the term ultimate reality. But then I viewed ultimate reality, or ultimate truth, as something positive that could be known. 

So it's been a refreshing eye-opener to get exposed to a fuller and clearer explanation of how Buddhism views emptiness as ultimate truth. I really like the idea that what separates us from ultimate truth is the presence of a false notion: inherent existence.

Which Newland defines as "the existence of something by the power of its own intrinsic or essential character."

This is how soul, God, and other supernatural entities are viewed by most religions. And how everyday existence is viewed by almost everybody in the world. Meaning, we see things -- like a table and chairs -- as possessing inherent existence rather than being brought into being by dependent arising. 

Which Newland defines as:

The core teaching that "in dependence upon this, that arises," which is the heart of the Dharma. Since there is nothing that exists in and of itself, all existents are dependent arisings.

Reality, then, is "synonym for emptiness, the ultimate truth." And Newland says emptiness is...

The sheer nonexistence of intrinsic nature. For example, the table's emptiness is the table's lack of existence by way of an intrinsic nature.

For me, the beauty of this Buddhist philosophy is that it negates the search for a True Self.

In the Indian philosophy I previously embraced, but have now discarded, there was the notion of coverings of mind and matter that obscured the primal soul-consciousness of who we really are. Supposedly these coverings could be removed through spiritual practice, meditation, and God's/Guru's grace.

Mahayana Buddhism seems much closer to the truth. Here's a few more Newland definitions.

self -- sometimes refers to the person -- that is, to something that does conventionally exist. However, often refers to a reified nature that does not exist at all but is wrongly superimposed on persons and other things.

selflessness -- the nonexistence of a reified nature that ignorance wrongly superimposes on persons and other things. In Prasangika Madhyamaka, the nonexistence of intrinsic nature in a person or other existing things.

Beautiful!

Suffering, distress, unhappiness, and ignorance arise from adding an "extra" on to things that exist: unchangingness, permanence, independence. We worry about not knowing our True Self when, actually, the truth is that we don't have a self.

Nothing does. 

Including emptiness, because emptiness isn't something that exists; it is the absence of inherent existence.

So what we need to be fulfilled isn't something; it is giving up a belief in "things," understanding that, as Newland puts it, "there is nothing that is truly or ultimately existent."

 

Buddhism: the illusion of life is believing in a fixed reality

For many years -- decades, really -- I believed that the everyday world in which we live was an illusion. Meaning, there was an unseen truly real realm beyond the bounds of ordinary consciousness. 

Changeable matter and mind weren't part of this ultimate reality. Only the eternal unchanging soul, our true self, was able to be aware of it. 

Now, I understand that I had things completely backward. Such is how science comprehends the world. Also, Buddhism.

As noted in my previous post, the Buddhist notion of "emptiness" is that nothing -- including us, and even emptiness itself -- has an intrinsic unchanging nature.

So while the idea of an unchanging eternal soul is appealing (most people find the prospect of dying and being gone forever extremely bothersome), it is a purely human concept, not reality. 

Here's some additional quotes from Guy Newland's "Introduction to Emptiness" which point to the illusion of believing in an unchanging essence that underlies our ever-changing body and mind.

Tsong-kha-pa notes that non-Buddhist philosophies about an eternal and essential self arise when their proponents realize that the essential self really cannot be identical to the flux of mental and physical aggregates.

Reaching the wrong inference, they then teach about the existence of a metaphysical self that is essentially different from the mind and body. 

However, their own ordinary and conventionally valid consciousnesses never perceive any essence or intrinsic self that is different from the mind and body. This is simply an imaginary construct. 

Instead of assuming that there must be a permanent self and then locating it as an essence distinct from the mind and body, they should realize that since an intrinsically existing self can be found neither as one with nor as different from the mind and body, it simply does not exist.

...A person appears very vividly to have intrinsic nature, just as the reflection of a face may appear very vividly to be a face. If we come upon a reflection of ourselves unexpectedly, in a very clean mirror, we may for a moment be startled. We may feel strongly that we are seeing another person.

While this appearance as a person is completely false, the reflection does exist and does function effectively as what it actually is. It arises, functions, and passes away depending upon conditions. 

Likewise, the person is completely devoid of any shred of the intrinsically existent nature that vividly appears to our minds. Such a nature is unfindable because of being utterly nonexistent, just as there is no actual person in the mirror.

On the other hand, just as a reflection does exist as a mere reflection, a person does exist as a mere person. And, as it turns out, that is exactly the kind of person one needs to be in order to make choices, to act and to change, and to bring help to the world.

...The Buddha is not a God issuing the great commandment: Do not grasp. Nor is he a judge who stands ready to condemn those who violate this commandment. Rather, the Buddha is our spiritual physician, giving us healthy advice.

If happiness could be attained by grasping things, there would be no need for Buddhism. All of our needless miseries arise because we continue to grasp after things that are in fact completely ungraspable -- because they have no pith, no innermost core, no fixed essence. 

...Because they have no ability to set themselves up and exist on their own, we and the things around us are in flux, changing as conditions change. 

With no essential nature, neither our own selves nor the things around us have any inner handle by which we can grab and hold them. We are afraid to face this lack, this emptiness.

Our fear arises from and feeds our grasping, and in this way we build a prison for ourselves, moment by moment. Yet by bravely facing the reality of emptiness, we can let go of our fear, anger, and greed.

We can be free.

Emptiness is ultimate reality: nothing, including us, has an intrinsic nature

I run hot and cold about Buddhism, depending on what sort of Buddhist writing I'm reading. Religious Buddhism turns me off, but I like philosophical Buddhism that doesn't fall prey to unfounded supernaturalism. 

Recently I've been re-reading Guy Newland's "Introduction to Emptiness." It's a clear and persuasive description of the core notion in Mahayana Buddhism, emptiness. 

In the first few pages of his book, Newland explains what emptiness is all about. First, he speaks of the suffering that arises because we wrongly believe that we are something we're not.

We suffer unnecessarily because we do not know ourselves. Like addicts fiercely clinging to a drug, we cannot let go of the sense that we are substantial, solid, independent, and autonomous... Like an addict's drug, the false notion of an independently existing self is the source of great misery for ourselves and others.

For example, humans make up myths about an eternally existing soul. Religions tell us that when we die, we aren't really dead, but live on as some sort of indestructible essence. Newland says:

To be real, to be alive, we feel that we must deep down somehow exist in a solid and independent way. Death tells us a very different story, but for that very reason we find a million ways to avoid hearing the message of death. That message is that we are impermanent. 

Our bodies are disintegrating moment by moment, right now. And though we desperately wish to believe otherwise, the truth is that beneath our ever-changing minds and aging bodies there is no eternal and essential self. We have no natural existence, no independent way of existing.

So how do we exist?

Well, as natural beings who are part and parcel of everything in the world. Our existence is the result of previous causes and conditions, all of which are equally interdependent and without a permanent essence.

We exist contingently, interdependently. We exist, but only in dependence on our ancestors, our body parts, our food, air, and water, and the other members of our society. We could not and do not exist otherwise. Devoid of any independent or substantial nature, our existence is possible only because it is far less rigid, less concrete, than what we imagine it to be.

This leads Newland to a description of what emptiness is... and isn't.

Rather than seeing things as they are, we superimpose upon ourselves -- and on things around us -- a false existence, a self-existence or essential reality that actually does not exist at all. In the Buddhist philosophy explained here, the ultimate truth is the sheer absence, the lack, of any such essence.

This is emptiness (stong pa nyid, shunyata). While this may sound bleak, disappointing, or frightening, it is the very nature of reality. And it is reality -- not fantasy -- that is our final hope and our refuge. The path to freedom from needless misery, for ourselves and others, is through profound realization of this fundamental reality.

...The Tibetan and Sanskrit words that we translate as "emptiness" do, in fact, literally mean "emptiness." They refer specifically to some sort of lack or absence in things. But it is not a lack of meaning or hope or existence. 

It is the lack of the exaggerated and distorted kind of existence that we have projected onto things and onto ourselves. It is the absence of a false essential nature with which we have unconsciously invested everything. It can be quite frightening as we start to have doubts about this "heavy duty" kind of reality. We will feel that things cannot exist at all if they do not exist in the solid way we are accustomed to seeing them.

Jumping to another chapter in the book, here Newland explains that conventional reality is the only reality there is. This explains the Zen Buddhist emphasis on "chop wood, carry water." 

There is no supernatural world. There is no true self that we need to find. There is no hidden soul or state of consciousness we have to realize. 

What we are aware of here and now is ultimate reality: emptiness. Newland writes:

Because it is the final nature of every existent, emptiness that is the sheer absence of intrinsic nature is the ultimate reality. While this reality is very important -- because we all suffer immeasurably through clinging to intrinsic nature -- it is not something rare that we have to look for far away.

This ultimate reality is always immediately present as the final nature of every thing in every moment. What is very rare and very precious is the wisdom consciousness that understands this reality.

...When the mind of ultimate analysis looks at a cup, it finds only the emptiness of the cup. When it looks at this emptiness, it does not find some essentially real thing called emptiness as the basis of all. Emptiness, like all other existents, lacks intrinsic nature.

This is a profound point in Madhyamaka Buddhism. It is not that everything else is unreal as compared to the one real thing, which is real in and of itself. There are other philosophies which teach this.

But in Madhyamaka there is only one level of existence or type of existence: conventional existence. One particular conventionally existing phenomenon -- emptiness -- is the utter absence of any other level or type of existence.

Among all the things that exist conventionally, things' lack of existing on their own, in and of themselves, is called the ultimate truth because it is the truth realized by a mind that analyzes how thing ultimately exist.

Beautiful!

Difficult to understand. Also, easy to understand. 

Asked to say something about love, I'm pretty much speechless

Yesterday I got an email message:

Dear Mr. Hines ,

Your blog is very honest and nothing is more beautiful save love itself. Please tell us more about self-less and mutual love  and your views on the subject.

Sincerely, __________

Reading those words, I realized that I haven't written much explicitly about love during the eleven years this blog has existed.

This will be post # 2,140. When I used the search box in the right sidebar to see what popped up when I put in "love," almost all of the Google results for my two blogs were on my more personal and political HinesSight blog.

I've written about loving my iPhone, a Salem outdoor store, taxes, the "24" TV show, and other things. On this churchless blog, the most relevant post seemed to be "I'd love my self if I had one."

Which started out...

Proving, or not, that profound insights are found in the strangest places, I'll share some of the lyrics to an atonal song that I made up and love to "sing" (using that word in its absolutely loosest sense) in the shower.

I love my dog.
I love my cat.
Only problem is, 
I don't have a cat.
It's hard to love
What you don't have.

This is how I also feel about loving God. Or, my self. 

Except seemingly there's more evidence for a "self" than for "God." Buddhism, though, seizes on that seemingly and runs with it to an intriguing, reasonable, and scientifically defensible conclusion.

I don't have a self. No one does. Meaning, as agnostic Buddhist Stephen Bachelor says in his wonderful book, "Buddhism Without Beliefs":

As a human being I am more complex than a pot or a daffodil, but I have also emerged from causes and am composed of diverse, changing features and traits. There is no essential me that exists apart from this unique configuration of biological and cultural processes.

This helps to explain why I haven't written much about love. I agree with my email correspondent that love is beautiful. But I have no idea what those three words, love is beautiful, really mean. 

Nor would it help to delete "beautiful" and substitute any other word after love is...

Love, like me or you (as Stephen Bachelor said), isn't something separate and distinct from the beings who feel this ineffable emotion. Whatever love is, it is an ever-changing process, not a static entity. Especially, it isn't an other-worldly entity.

So my feeling is, the less we analyze and speak about love itself -- as contrasted with talking about what we love -- the better. Abstracting love diminishes this way of experiencing reality.

Meaning, I don't believe that love exists without a lover and an object of adoration.

How could love exist as a free floating something-or-other? This would be like being angry, yet not being angry about anything. At the least, an angry person would be angry about being angry, which counts as being angry about something.  

I'm not really a Buddhist, but I resonate with certain Buddhist principles -- such as the selflessness and mutuality mentioned in the email message I got.

As was noted in the above-linked post, we don't have to do anything to be selfless. This, it seems from both a Buddhist and neuroscientific perspective, is how we are: without an enduring changeless self. Such is the Buddhist notion of "emptiness."

Here's another quote from that post:

Emptiness is Buddhism's shorthand term for this absence of intrinsic selfness or thingness. Living and lifeless entities are equally devoid of independent, free-standing, unchanging existence.

The world is interconnected, with never-ending matrices of causes and effects stretching back to the big bang, and likely beyond. Out of this creative ferment arises...

Me. You. Religious beliefs. Scientific discoveries. Blogs. Books. Life. Death. Joy. Pain. Questions. Answers. Everything.

It isn't exactly true that we are all one, because obviously there are lots of different things that have manifested as Everything. But it's clear that the cosmos is a whole, so now I worship at the altar of scientifically defensible wholeiness rather than imaginary holiness.

Everything is interconnected. Everything is dependent on other things for its existence. No thing and no one is an island, compete unto itself. Reality is an interwoven web with no dangling threads. 

So the way I see it, love is an integral aspect of the way things are.

Meaning, reality (including us human beings) is bound together by unbreakable connections. We can't escape being attracted to this and that, because such is the way of the world, of the universe, of the cosmos.

And so is hate: lack of attraction, disengagement, disinterest. It isn't possible to have love without hate, just as there is no such thing as up without down, or hot without cold. 

We can't be equally connected or attracted to everything in existence. Neither can unconscious entities. If this were the case, reality would be a featureless blob. Life is a flux, a flow, an ever-changing dance. 

We come closer; we grow apart. We smile; we frown. We feel at peace; we feel at war.

For me, "love" points to all of this.

It is the way things are: interconnected, in relationships, yet with no fixed essence or state of being. There's no way to put words to this, because it's what reality is, was, and always will be absent human conceptions.

That said (or unsaid), maybe it makes sense to say, "love is acceptance of everything that really exists." I used the word love in the title of my post, "Respect reality, not religion, if you love the Ultimate."

At every moment, each of us is enjoying a great gift: reality.

Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and touches connect us with a world that exists independent of our subjective consciousness. The proof of this is that we can say to someone else, "Do you see that? Do you hear that? Doesn't this taste great?", and learn that what we consider to be real, actually is.

For me, mindfulness of the present moment has become my religion (speaking loosely; mindfulness is far removed from traditional religiosity). I try to separate my senses from my stories. Reality is different from our beliefs. 

Tantra vs. Buddhist ethics (Tantra is a lot more fun!)

I don't know much about Tantra. I've had the impression that Tantra was all about wild spiritual sex -- which might have some truth to it, but possibly just a little.

David Chapman, though, knows a lot about Tantra. The real Tantra. Also, Chapman is an expert on Buddhism. So he's just the guy to write a post called "Buddhist ethics": a Tantric critique.

The post, like all of Chapman's writings (I'm a fan), is clear and nicely composed. Still, it will strike people not into this subject as rather Buddhist-geeky. 

Which isn't a criticism. Just an observation. 

I read some parts of his piece carefully, and other parts less carefully. The whole essay, though, merits reading. Though focused on Tantric and Buddhist ethics, Chapman addresses issues that are relevant to anyone seeking to live a happy, meaningful, ethical life.

Which is just about everyone, right?

Here's some passages that I particularly liked, which will give you a flavor of David Chapman's piece.

A highlight of my time as a Wiccan Neopagan was the culminating ritual of a week-long retreat. The ceremony evolved by stages into two hundred witches dancing naked around a bonfire for hours after midnight. It was a sublime, transformative experience.

It is unthinkable that anything similar might happen on a Consensus Buddhist retreat. But why? What Buddhist principle would it violate?

The ritual violated every principle of Sutrayana. But nobody practices that in America. What of Consensus Buddhism? That is not anti-nakedness, anti-dancing, anti-bonfires, or anti-staying-up-late. Or is it?

Such a ritual would be too much fun. You might have frighteningly strong emotions. You might lose control. That would be undignified and awkward. Someone might see you having too much fun, and would judge you for it, and you’d feel awful the next day.

These are not Buddhist criteria. They are Puritan criteria. They are American middle class public morality—which is mainly Puritanism, lightly revised to reflect improved contraceptive technology.

...Two puritan fears inhibit us. The first is that intense enjoyment must lead to harm. “That ritual sounds extremely problematic. Probably everyone drank way too much, and some had inappropriate sex they regretted in the morning. You should be mindful at all times, lest you harm yourself or others. That was the traditional meaning of the Fifth Precept.”

Tantra emphasizes personal responsibility, and basic sense and sanity. Tantra is not hedonism—the antonym of puritanism in current usage—but only because it recognizes actions have longer-term consequences. Seeking immediate pleasure without regard for consequences is simply stupid.

If you drink too much, expect and accept the result. Don’t blame the ritual’s leaders; no one forced you to do that. You should know your own limits and act accordingly. “We shouldn’t hold revels on Buddhist retreats because some people would do stupid things” gives stupid people veto power over the religious practice of responsible people. That’s morally wrong, in my opinion.

The second fear is social judgement. Puritanism encourages everyone to police everyone else’s enjoyment. I think that is also morally wrong.

If I can offer just one piece of ethical advice, from this whole series on “Buddhist ethics,” it is this:

Do not judge, censor, condemn, or ridicule anyone else (not even those bad people!) for enjoying things you consider “problematic,” “inappropriate,” or just don’t like yourself.

“Problematic” could be an expression of genuine moral concern. Too often, though, it’s just an expression of self-righteous judgmentalism. Those bad people enjoy the wrong things, and too much. “Inappropriate” may conceal simple envy.

Learn to accept other people enjoying things you dislike—or that your social group rejects. Then learn to enjoy their enjoyment of those things. This is entirely possible! You may then come to enjoy those things, too—if you have the courage to engage in pleasures your social group disparages.

You may find the only reason you thought you disliked them is that “people like you” aren’t “supposed to” like them. You may also find you truly don’t like them—and that’s also fine. You can still enjoy other people’s enjoyment of them. 

30-plus days into Headspace meditation, I'm liking it a lot

A bit over a month ago I discovered Headspace, which was founded by Andy Puddicombe, a British guy who trained as a Buddhist monk before starting this online meditation site.

My first free trial experience on July 7 led me to write "Yikes! I actually like a guided Headspace meditation."

I'm not a big fan of guided meditations. Usually they irk more than relax me. I get annoyed with the (usually) New Age'y tone of the person doing the guiding.

Hey, if anybody is going to annoy me while I meditate, I'm perfectly capable of filling that role myself. After about 45 years of daily meditation, that's one thing I've learned from contemplating the workings of my mind.

(Maybe the only thing... but at least that's one thing.)

A few minutes ago, though, I actually enjoyed a ten minute guided meditation. Listening on my laptop while sitting outside on our deck, I made it through the first Headspace lesson with essentially zero annoyance.

With the aid of a discount "coupon" code I found through the grace of the great god Google, after trying out ten free 10-minute guided meditations I decided to sign up for a full year's worth of Headspace. I think the cost was around $70-80. 

Seemed like a fair price for enlightenment. Which isn't really what I'm after, though. Not now, in my current churchless frame of mind.

For about thirty-five years I used to meditate from an hour to two and a half hours a day, using a mixture of mantra meditation and open awareness techniques. I gained a lot from all that meditating. However, I'm finding the Headspace approach to be more appealing.

Again, for the person I am now.

Before, I was very mystically inclined. I believed it was possible to detach my consciousness from my bodily being and enter higher supernatural realms of reality. The Sant Mat meditation I practiced was founded on a theology that viewed this world as an illusion, a pale reflection of much more vibrant spiritual dimensions.

Over time I grew disenchanted with this dualistic philosophy. Not only wasn't there any demonstrable evidence that it was true, it didn't even make sense. 

Sant Mat taught that supposedly the lower mental and physical realms of creation were under the control of a Negative Power, Kal, who -- yeah, I know this sounds really weird -- stood on one foot for eons, impressing "God" (Sat Purush) so much he got the right to oversee our universe.

Which means our goal should be to get out of this wretched dump of materiality and become pure soul again. Psychologically, this isn't a healthy way to live. I knew quite a few Sant Mat devotees who were disgusted with their own body and mind, seeing them as obstacles to becoming a pristine spiritual being.

By contrast, Puddicombe's Headspace meditations are pleasingly here-and-now centered. I've completed the first 30 days of guided meditations. This unlocked the full panoply of Headspace content. I'm now into a Self-Esteem series. 

A recent New Yorker article, "The Higher Life," describes how trendy mindfulness is in today's high tech world, and how the Headspace approach to meditation has become so popular. The piece is well worth reading in its entirety.

Here's a description by author Lizzie Widdicombe (interesting that she wrote about Andy Puddicombe) of how her Headspace experience went.

The basics of mindfulness meditation are easy to find—you can download instructions from the Web. But, Puddicombe told Brzezinski at THRIVE, “I liken it to driving a car. It’s helpful to have someone sit there with you at first.” With noise-cancelling headphones, the app creates a surprisingly intimate experience—Puddicombe could be whispering in your ear.

He starts each session with a “checking in” routine, the contemplative equivalent of buckling your seat belt and adjusting the rearview mirror. He tells you to take a few deep breaths, to notice any background noise (instead of blocking it out, or screaming at its creator to shut up), and to become aware of “the different physical sensations . . . the weight of the body, the contact between the body and the chair.”

Slowly, he draws attention to your breath, which you count in sets of ten. Puddicombe savors the breath the way some people do wine. He talks about it appreciatively, pointing out its protozoan wisdom (“Remember, the body knows how to breathe”), its soothing rhythm, its oceanic rise and fall.

The seconds pass slowly. You seem to drop, briefly, into another dimension—the realm of quiet walks and kindergarten nap time. Like travel, the chief boon of meditation might be the way that it throws the place you came from into relief.

I’d never noticed what an incredible racket was going on in my mind: to-do lists, scraps of conversation, ancient memories. Sometimes Puddicombe’s voice would register as a distant peep. As calm set in, I’d occasionally achieve a few seconds of relaxed concentration—the meditative grail—which felt as if I were walking on a balance beam.

Just as often, I’d lose the thread and nod off completely, or begin composing angry e-mails. Puddicombe’s voice would interject. “It’s perfectly normal to be distracted,” he’d say. “Just bring the attention gently back to the breath.”

Puddicombe's Headspace guided meditations are, bluntly put, Buddhism without the bullshit.

Meaning, without the religious'y stuff that turns me off about traditional Buddhism. Karma. Rebirth. Eightfold path. Dharma. I think the Buddha correctly recognized some important facts about how the human mind works.

But he didn't have the benefit of our modern scientific understandings.

Sure, Buddhism's contention that we don't have a self or soul in the sense most people believe they do -- a steadfast ongoing ethereal consciousness largely or entirely distinct from the workings of the physical brain -- is remarkably consistent with 21st century neuroscience.

This doesn't mean that the rest of Buddhism deserves to be incorporated into someone's meditation practice. I was pleased to see in the article that Headspace irks some traditional Buddhists. 

Mindfulness and Meditation are only two of eight life-style choices that the Buddha instructed his followers to practice, in order to break free from the cycle of suffering and rebirth. The others involve a code of ethics. They include Right Understanding, Right Motivation, Right Livelihood (not making a living in a way that harms other beings), Right Action (not killing or hurting people), Right Speech, and Right Effort (diligence).

To pluck some things from the list, while ignoring others, strikes many Buddhists as absurd. McMahan said, “It would be as if somebody went to the Catholic Church and said, ‘I don’t buy all this stuff about Jesus and God, but I really dig this Communion ritual. Would you just teach me how to do that bit? Oh, and I want to start a company marketing wafers.’ ”

Well, if someone doesn't want to embrace the whole Buddhist thing, or the whole Catholic thing, or the whole thing of any other religion, there's nothing wrong with picking and choosing the parts they do like. 

Mindfulness and meditation really don't have anything to do with theology or supernatualism. All that counts is if these mental exercises have positive effects, in the same way as physical exercises do.

A final observation: during my more than three decades as a member of a mystical spiritual organization, I was struck by how many people in the group really didn't progress much as caring, compassionate, calm, centered human beings.

They were so focused on getting out of this world and entering a hypothetical "heaven," they pretty much ignored what it takes to be a normal happy, healthy person.  The term Spiritual Bypassing nicely captures their condition -- which I shared to some extent.

Spiritual bypass is a defense mechanism. Although the defense looks a lot prettier than other defenses, it serves the same purpose. Spiritual bypass shields us from the truth, it disconnects us from our feelings, and helps us avoid the big picture. It is more about checking out than checking in—and the difference is so subtle that we usually don't even know we are doing it.

The shorthand for spiritual bypass is grasping rather than gratitude, arriving rather than being, avoiding rather than accepting. It is spiritual practice in the service of repression, usually because we can not tolerate what we are feeling, or think that we shouldn't be experiencing what we are feeling.

The Headspace guided meditations are completely different from this.

They're about being here, not somewhere else. About being who we are, not someone else. About being in the present moment, not sometime else. 

Yikes! I actually like a guided Headspace meditation

I'm not a big fan of guided meditations. Usually they irk more than relax me. I get annoyed with the (usually) New Age'y tone of the person doing the guiding.

Hey, if anybody is going to annoy me while I meditate, I'm perfectly capable of filling that role myself. After about 45 years of daily meditation, that's one thing I've learned from contemplating the workings of my mind.

(Maybe the only thing... but at least that's one thing.)

A few minutes ago, though, I actually enjoyed a ten minute guided meditation. Listening on my laptop while sitting outside on our deck, I made it through the first Headspace lesson with essentially zero annoyance.

Enlightenment Diploma, please! 

However, I don't think I'm going to get one so fast, since I've got nine more free guided ten-minute meditations on my enlightenment plate, after which, from what I've learned so far on the Headspace website, I'll have to subscribe to get super-duper-even-more enlightened.

Which I may actually do.

I'm always open to new insights into meditation and my mind's mysterious workings. I've fallen into some ruts after all those years of meditating each morning on my own. It'll be interesting to see how mindfulness expert Andy Puddicombe (great name) approaches things.

I came across Puddicombe via someone's Twitter tweet today. Clicking on the Ted talk link, I watched his "All it takes is 10 mindful minutes" presentation. Pleasingly, it lasts 9:24. Here's the You Tube version.

 

I wasn't overwhelmed by this talk.

In fact, I planned for tonight's blog post to be mostly a critique of what Puddicombe said. But when I browsed through the comments on the You Tube video, several people mentioned how much they liked his Headspace site -- which isn't mentioned in the talk.

That led me to Headspace, which led me to scan through an easy-to-read "The Science Behind Meditation" piece, which led me to click on the "Sign up for free" link, which led me to my first enjoyable ten minute guided meditation.

Puddicombe is an intriguing guy. So I'm looking forward to trying out some more of what he has to offer. Here's his bio:

Andy Puddicombe is a meditation and mindfulness expert. An accomplished presenter and writer, Andy is the voice of all things Headspace.

In his early twenties, midway through a university degree in Sports Science, Andy made the unexpected decision to travel to the Himalayas to study meditation instead. It was the beginning of a ten year journey which took him around the world, culminating with ordination as a Tibetan Buddhist monk in Northern India.

His transition back to lay life in 2004 was no less extraordinary. Training briefly at Moscow State Circus, he returned to London where he completed a degree in Circus Arts with the Conservatoire of Dance and Drama, whilst drawing up the early plans for what was later to become Headspace.

Idea of no-self doesn't translate into no-fear-of-death

Over on Slate there's an interesting piece by Nina Strohminger, Jay Garfield, and Shaun Nichols, "Buddhism and the Loss of Self." I've copied it in below for easy reading.

Surprisingly, research seems to show that Buddhists who don't believe they have (or are) a continuous self are more fearful of death than Hindus or adherents of the Abrahamic traditions (Christianity, Judaism, Islam).

Buddhists also were less generous in a thought experiment about giving away a single dose of medicine that could extend either their own or someone else's life.

But I guess this really isn't so surprising. After all, our sense of self appears to persist even though we may think we've left it behind.

The way I think about this is, how would a supposedly "selfless" person feel if someone came up behind them on a dark sidewalk, put a gun to their head, and said I'm going to kill you.

I suspect they would react as anyone else would: with fear and trembling.

However, those who believe in an eternal soul will have the comfort of expecting that even if their body dies, their soulful conscious essence won't. So this could explain why Buddhists who embrace a doctrine of no-self are more afraid of death than Hindus, Christians, Jews, and Muslims.

Here's the essay:

Buddhism and the Loss of Self
by Nina Strohminger, Jay Garfield, and Shaun Nichols

Unlike Hinduism and the Abrahamic religions, Buddhism embraces the idea that there is no self, only a sequence of ever-changing and impermanent psychophysical processes. Just as one cannot step into the same river twice, there is no such thing as a continuous self, a single “me” that persists over time. Because there is no continuous self in life, there is no self to preserve in death.

The Buddhist no-self doctrine is sometimes said to alleviate a familiar source of suffering: fear of death. By focusing early and often on how the self is continually dying, many Buddhist scholars argue, one is able to make peace with death of the physical body. Buddhists also believe that embracing the no-self doctrine is central to the elimination of suffering: when one does away with the self, egocentricity and selfishness go with it.

Though the benefits of Buddhism have been oft-repeated, until recently there had been almost no empirical work on whether Buddhists actually are less selfish or less afraid of death. Our research team recently traveled to Nepal and India to examine the impact of these religious teachings on their adherents.

We measured responses from displaced Tibetan Buddhists and Indian Hindus. We also surveyed Americans who were raised in Abrahamic religious traditions (Christianity, Judaism, and Islam). Unlike Buddhism, Hinduism and Abrahamic religions characteristically subscribe to the belief that there is a self that persists over time (an ātman or soul), which survives the body in rebirth or the afterlife.

Our data show that Buddhists have internalized the no-self doctrine. While Americans and Indians indicate a high belief in the connectedness of the self and an essential core self that persists across the lifespan, Buddhists strongly disagree with these statements. This was true whether our test subjects were Buddhist monks and nuns or Buddhist laypeople. Buddhists also believe in greater impermanence of the world and everything in it.

We also asked these populations if they coped with death by embracing the no-self doctrine. While almost all Tibetans affirmed this coping strategy, virtually none of the Americans said they did. (Abrahamic religions rely on other means for coping with death, such as belief in an afterlife.) Indian Hindus were somewhere in between.

The no-self doctrine is deeply insinuated into the Tibetan Buddhists, but how do these beliefs affect anxiety about death and selfishness? We gave our subjects the fear of personal death scale to fill out, which contains a series of statements about different kinds of reasons one might be afraid of death, to which subjects rate their level of agreement. The scale allows us to measure both the overall fear of death and the reasons for this anxiety.

We were particularly interested in the items related to self-annihilation, which include, “Dying one year from now frightens me because of the loss and destruction of the self,” and, “Dying one year from now frightens me because of the destruction of personality.” When we asked prominent Tibetan scholars how a good Buddhist ought to respond to this scale, they said that one should have little to no fear of destruction of the self.

Nonetheless, Buddhist monks and nuns—those who were steeped in these religion doctrines day in and day out—exhibited significantly more fear of self-annihilation than Americans or Indians. Buddhist laypeople, who were less versed in the details of the doctrine of selflessness, also exhibited less fear than the monastics. If we consider only the other possible reasons to fear death, such as fear of the unknown, Buddhists were no less fearful than anyone else. In short, the no-self doctrine, rather than equipping the Tibetan lamas with serenity regarding end of life, seems to provoke a deep-rooted anxiety of self-annihilation, and does nothing to reduce overall fear of death.

In another survey, we gave participants a tradeoff task to measure generosity in end-of-life decisions. Imagine, we said, that you have a terminal disease that will kill you in six months unless you take a medication. There is only one dose of the medication available. If you take it, it will prolong your life by six months. If you don’t take the medication, it will go to someone else who has the same condition and, like you, will die in six months. If the medicine would prolong his life by twelve months instead of six, would you still take the medicine? What about two years? How much more life would the stranger have to receive before you would give up your medicine?

What we found surprised us. While Abrahamic and Hindu populations chose to give their medicine away when the stranger would live an additional couple of years, Buddhists were exceedingly reluctant to give their medicine away under any circumstances. If there is a ceiling on how much Buddhists value their lives over others, we never found it. Our scale only went up to “more than five years”—more than 70 percent of Buddhists selected this option.

Much of Buddhist philosophy and religious practice is aimed at cultivating selflessness, rechanneling concerns to the larger moral universe around us. But we did not find this effect in our studies. Ironically, it seems that these teachings, instead of mitigating fear of death and nurturing generosity, engender some of the behaviors and thought patterns they seek to destroy. These effects are especially strong among monastics who have the deepest understanding of these doctrines. They are the most fearful of self-annihilation, and the least generous with their lives.

This cross-cultural research highlights that religious teachings can have a deep and lasting impact on precisely the sort of moral and existential quandaries that religion is designed to help us navigate. However, these beliefs will not always have the impact on practitioners that we intend—and may in some cases even be counterproductive.

Sam Harris' "Waking Up" video is well worth $4.99

I've read Sam Harris' book, Waking Up: A Guide to Spirituality Without Religion. I've written four blog posts about his book (see here, here, here, and here). 

So when I learned that Harris was offering a $4.99 video -- an hour of him talking about the message of "Waking Up" plus an hour or so of audience Q&A -- I wondered if it was worth five bucks to me.

Turns out, it was. 

I came away with a deeper appreciation for Harris' central theme: the supernatural side of religions is bullshit, but a secular understanding of how human consciousness functions isn't.

Meaning, basically, that we can live a happier and more fulfilling life by being more mindful. Near the start of his talk Harris says this is "a passion for observing what is subjectively real in this moment."

I like that word, subjectively.

This seems key to me, because otherwise mindfulness and meditation can be used to justify religious dogmas that assume it is possible to know the truth about objective reality through higher states of awareness.

Harris doesn't really mean this, though he does say in the video that it is possible to make objective statements about human consciousness. For example, he puts up a photo of Abraham Lincoln and observes that almost certainly nobody in this auditorium was thinking of this man until now.

My overall impression of the video is that Harris does an excellent job explaining important philosophical, scientific, and religious issues in an appealing way.

His extensive experience both as a neuroscientist and long-time student of Buddhist meditation make him well-qualified to tread a middle ground between the extremes of unfounded religious belief and a disregard of the potential to explore what Harris (problematically) calls "spirituality." 

Harris' use of that word was questioned by an audience member in the Q&A portion of the video. Harris acknowledged its limitations, but said he couldn't think of a better one. 

What he means by "spiritual" is a realization of the selflessness of consciousness. It has nothing to do with supernatural realms, psychic phenomena, the soul, God, or such.

In the video a man tells Harris that, as an avid hiker, he experiences a state of selfless awe and connection with the world when he is in the majesty of the high Sierra mountains. Harris responds that what he means by "spiritual" is something deeper than that.

Well, as I said in my final post about Harris' book, I'm not so sure. 

Buddhist meditation -- Harris favors the Dzogchen variety -- surely is a proven way of experiencing more fully the reality of no-self. Simply living life with eyes wide open is another way. I doubt that sitting at the feet of a Dzogchen master is necessary to realize there is no self or soul inside my head.

Harris writes:

We have long known that how things seem in the world can be misleading, and this is no less true of the mind itself. And yet many people have found that through sustained introspection, how things seem can be brought into closer register with how they are.

Well, not only through introspection. Extrospection -- diving into the world -- can do this also. 

Dance. Run. Ski. Surf. Walk. Gaze. Love. 

Harris correctly says, "Subjectively speaking, there is only consciousness and its contents; there is no inner self who is conscious." 

Other audience questions addressed this issue in various ways: if we don't have a separate "self" that is conscious, then why is Harris so big on achieving a mindful state where part of human consciousness is having an experience, and another part is aware of "I'm having this experience."

This was brought out in a Q&A about Harris' movie projector analogy. We can either (1) watch a movie and forget that it is a movie, or (2) be aware of the projector and screen, along with the movie.

In another post I'll talk about another author's knowledgeable perspective on this that makes more sense to me. It's more Taoist than Buddhist, which is Harris' leaning. I prefer to see "immersion" and "detachment" as possibilities open to human consciousness, neither of which being better than the other.

Sometimes it's good to be fully immersed in an experience, forgetting everything else, pretty much. Other times it's good to be aware of what you're aware of, so to speak.

Harris repeatedly says in the video that the sense of "I" is thinking without knowing that you are thinking.

In other words, habitual, scattered, Monkey Mind, rambling thinking. I can resonate with this perspective, since thinking in this way does seem to narrow us into focusing on the content of our own mind, while we lose touch with the outside world. The "I" is enlarged, while everything else is diminished.

However, watching a movie with very minimal awareness that I'm watching a movie -- that seems to me like a great way to watch a movie. Just as dancing without knowing that "I'm dancing" is a great way to dance. 

I'll end this post with a countervailing message from Harris that I did completely agree with. A man asked a question about whether doing what Harris advised would lead to a feeling that life is more meaningful.

Harris responded, "When you're immersed in a deeply satisfying experience, you're not worried about what it means."

So true.

Meaning is a concept. Experience is, well, experience.

A fulfilling sexual experience doesn't require an extra conceptual topping of meaning to be pleasurable. Harris went on to say something like, "Finding an answer to a question about meaning is less interesting than an interesting present moment."

I've got more notes from my watching of Harris' video scribbled on some scraps of paper. I'll probably share some of them later.

Why an experience of "pure consciousness" says little about reality

As I said in a previous post, I've dug David Loy's book, "Nonduality," out of a forgotten book bag and have gotten back to reading it after a several-year break. 

A few days ago I read his chapter, The Mind-Space Analogy. Pretty damn brilliant. Of course, this book is based on Loy's philosophy doctoral dissertation, so I guess the brilliance isn't surprising.

Below I've shared Loy's analogy in his own words, albeit condensed. I've left out F and G of his analogy, which are another form of Mahayana Buddhism and Theism. 

As you'll see, what Loy has done is imagine that something akin to "pure consciousness" actually exists.

This is more than an individual consciousness; it is an all-pervasive Mind-space that bears considerable resemblance to how the Absolute is viewed in the Eastern philosophies of Hindu Vedanta, Buddhism, and Taoism.

Forms of theism, of course, view the Absolute or God as an entity that is distinct from everything in existence. So the inclusive emptiness of Mind-space doesn't fit well with theism (though they can be crammed together with a bit of effort).

What I like most about Loy's analogy is how it points to this: a supposed experience of the Absolute can be interpreted in various ways. Meaning, this experience isn't revelatory of The Way Things Are, though religious true believers imagine that it is.

In my college days, for example, I had numerous psychedelic experiences that gave me a profoundly different view of the world. But I just looked upon these as impossible-to-describe experiences, not a glimpse of an objectively true alternative reality. 

Everybody, repeat, everybody, has ineffable personal experiences. In fact, it can be argued that each and every experience is ineffable, since it is ours alone.

What Loy has done is point out how the same experience of his hypothetical Mind-space can be interpreted in various contradictory ways that correspond to how differing Eastern philosophical/religious perspectives view reality. 

In short, it may indeed be possible for people to have a "non-dual" experience of the world, but this tells us little or nothing about what the world is like.

Here's a shortened version of Loy's Mind-Space analogy.

Comparing the Absolute to empty space is a metaphor that naturally suggests itself when we want to describe "something" which in itself has no characteristics. 

...Thus space seems to be an excellent analogy for "empty nonduality." The analogy breaks down -- that is, we are reminded it is only an analogy -- in that our usual understanding of space conceives of it as an objectively existing medium that things are "in" and as having neither life nor awareness, whereas sunyata for Mahayana, Brahman for Vedanta and the Tao for Taoism are the ground of everything including all consciousness.

Of course, this is nothing other than the two sides of our familiar duality, the commonsense but problematical bifurcation between object (in this case, "material" space) and subject.

But let us use our imagination to eliminate this duality, by supposing that space is conscious. Let us suppose that as a result of some experience I realize that "my" consciousness is not mine at all but is an aspect of space itself.

...this experience of Mind-space seems to reveal "The Way Things Really Are." But if "I," having had this experience, were to be asked what I had realized, how would I answer? The point of this chapter is that this "Mind-space experience" lends itself to very different and contradictory descriptions.

In the following section I imagine some of the responses that might occur during a conversation among people who have had this experience and who have drawn metaphysical conclusions from it.

Speaker A [Sankkya-Yoga]: "There are two very different substances, both of which are uncaused and eternal and omnipresent, although they do not seem to interfere with each other or even interact. One is immutable and attributeless consciousness (Mind-space), which, I now realize, is what my mind always has been. The other is more difficult to characterize. I suppose we can call it an 'energy-stuff' or perhaps a fine 'matter-stuff'... now I realize that immutable consciousness and the constantly changing energy-stuff are quite different from each other and always have been."

Speaker B [Advaita Vedanta]: "Speaker A is mistaken. Only one thing is real: this immutable, attributeless Mind-space, which is what I and everything else really are. The constantly changing forms that arise within and from this Mind-space are simply illusions which delude us about what really is: they have no substance or reality of their own, for they are only phenomena that represent nothing but merely manifest the Mind-space... There is only this Mind-space, which is birthless and deathless and has no characteristics of its own."

Speaker C [Early Buddhism]: "What the others have called 'Mind-space' cannot really be said to exist, because it has no characteristics at all. It is so 'empty' that it is literally nothing, and how can nothing be 'real'? What 'I' have realized is that there is no 'I' and never was. All that does exist are those constantly changing phenomena -- or rather the 'attribute-elements' of which things are composed and which are now experienced clearly... However, it doesn't matter anymore what attributes arise or pass away, now that the sense of 'I' has evaporated and there is the deep peace of emptiness in its place."

Speaker D [Mahayana Buddhism]: "I agree with speaker C that speakers A and B, by referring to mind-space, have made something out of nothing -- that is, they have hypostatized emptiness into a substance. Yet I must also agree with speaker B that phenomena are not real, for they too are empty... Except for speaker A, we all agree that these appearances [of phenomena] do not represent any material substratum, but speaker C still tries to make these attributes into little substances of their own... Phenomena are illusory only if we are deluded into taking them as self-existing: now that we have realized they are empty appearances, we should accept them for what they are and be able to play with them freely. The dance may have no meaning, but there is still the empty dance."

Speaker E [ Taoism]: "I agree with speaker D, but he does not go far enough. He too is still one-sided. We have realized that the world is nondual, but we should not be so infatuated with this new way of experiencing that we become prejudiced against the more usual dualistic mode... Subject-object duality and the plurality of phenomena are also aspects of the world, and we should not dualistically reject one mode in favor of the other. Let us accept that there are these two ways of experiencing, without prejudice against either. Our aim should be to understand fully the relation between these two modes in order to be able to experience both."

Loy summarizes these perspectives by their answers to two questions: 

Is Mind-space real?
Are Phenomena real?

Here's the answers.

A. Sankhya-Yoga: Yes, both Mind-space and Phenomena are real.
B. Advaita Vedanta: Yes, Mind-space is real. No, Phenomena are unreal.
C. Early Buddhism: No, Mind-space is unreal. Yes, Phenomena are real.
D. Mahayana Buddhism: No, both Mind-space and Phenomena are unreal.
E. Taoism: duality and nonduality are both "Real"

So take your pick.

A "mystical" experience of nonduality or cosmic oneness can be interpreted in various ways. We can accept the validity of the experience, yet be no closer to knowing the nature of absoute reality.

Nothing special: lucid dreaming and mindfulness

I dream a lot, as we all do. Lucid dreaming, though -- very rarely. That's when you're aware that you're dreaming, while still in a dream.

Maybe I've had a couple of lucid dreams in my entire life. Three years ago I blogged about a semi-lucid dream experience in "I dreamed within a dream. Felt a lot like reality."

The title of that post points to a notion Evan Thompson talks about in his book, "Waking, Dreaming, Being." It's the familiar philosophical conundrum: how can we be sure that we're not dreaming in everyday life, since dreaming while we're asleep seems real while we're in that state of consciousness?

(See another post, "On waking up twice," for more along this line.)

Thompson writes about how being mindful while awake can be viewed as akin to lucid dreaming. In each case, a part of us becomes aware of what and how is being experienced.

How the world shows up for us depends on how we imaginatively perceive and conceptualize things. What we experience cannot be separated from how we experience. 

The thoughts, images, and emotions we bring to whatever we encounter, as well as the meanings we mentally impose, condition what "reality" can mean to us. In this way, the waking world is mind-involving and mind-dependent. 

Realizing this fact -- waking up to our participation in the creation of our world -- resembles becoming lucid in a dream. Dream yoga encourages us to cultivate this critical mindfulness in waking life and to carry  it into dreaming.

Well, I'm sure this approach works for some people. I'm just not one of them. Not so much because I feel that I can't be mindful while awake and learn how to dream lucidly; it's more that I don't want to.

Seems like too much work.

Also, habitually looking upon myself looking upon the world strikes me as unnatural, unnecessary, and unappealing. How about if I just experience things, and not worry about being aware of how I'm experiencing?

For me, I'm happiest when I lose myself in doing something.

This is the feeling of flow that's prized by athletes, musicians, dancers, and ordinary folks. Raking leaves here in leaf-strewn Oregon this time of year is much more pleasant when, as the saying goes, I just do it, rather than observing myself being the raker.

Taoism seems to have the edge over Buddhism in this regard. I resonate with the non-religious side of both philosophies. But Taoist writings urge naturalness and letting go, whereas Buddhist teachings usually strike me as being overly serious and disciplined.

Thus I was pleased when I got to a part in Thompson's Imagining: Are We Real? chapter where he says:

The view that lucid dreams are better than nonlucid dreams, however, isn't empirical; it's evaluative or normative. It places different values on different kinds of human experience. I find myself unable to accept this. It seem to diminish the worth of something natural in our experience; it seems to go against the grain.

He then relates the famous Butterfly Dream parable of the classical Taoist/Daoist philosopher Zhuang Zi, also known as Chuang Tzu.

Once Zhuang Zhou dreamt -- and then he was a butterfly, a fluttering butterfly, self-content and in accord with its intentions. The butterfly did not know about Zhou. Suddenly it awoke -- and then it was fully and completely Zhou.

One does not know whether there is a Zhou becoming a butterfly in a dream or whether there is a butterfly becoming a Zhou in a dream. There is a Zhou and there is a butterfly, so there is necessarily a distinction between them. This is called: the changing of things.

See, Taoists are fine with being one thing, then being another thing, without being continuously mindful or lucid about the transitions between the experiences of "one thing" and "another thing." 

Now I'm awake. Now I'm dreaming. Now I'm mindful of being awake. Now I'm lucidly dreaming. To a Taoist, there's no higher or lower here. It's just the changing of things. A Buddhist, though, would be inclined to look upon mindful awareness or lucid dreaming as a more elevated state of consciousness.

I like how Thompson puts it:

In this Daoist version, accepting each phase as equally real, along with accepting the natural distinction between waking and dreaming, is what enables one to be fully present in the here and now.

Being aware of the butterfly dream as only a dream would prevent its being an experience of being fully and completely a butterfly, "self-content and in accord with its intentions." Remembering the dream -- thinking back to it -- would prevent the waking state from being an experience of being fully and completely human.

The fullness of each experience requires not violating the natural borders between dreaming and waking, not supplanting forgetting with remembering. Transgressing these borders means fighting against change ("the change of things") -- a losing battle that detracts from reality rather than bringing about a higher reality.

Detracting from reality inevitably leads to suffering, not happiness. Thus the Daoist, in a gesture of radical acceptance, embraces dreaming and forgetfulness without judgment or qualification.

...Lucid dreaming belongs to human experience, so for the Daoist, it's something we should embrace too. Instead, the moral is that our experience necessarily includes forgetting as well as remembering, dreaming as well as lucid dreaming, and so we devalue our experience and distort our nature if we set one kind of experience above the other.

...We need to be able to let go of lucidity and release ourselves to the full presence of the dream. If we can't, then we deprive ourselves of certain natural and valuable experiences. The point isn't to make a forced choice between lucidity or nonlucidity according to some imposed standard; it's to be able to move flexibly between them without attachment.

The Daoist sage embodies this flexibility. The sage doesn't go against the grain and make distinctions between high and low; he responds fluidly and effortlessly according to the circumstances and what's appropriate.

Along this line...

My Tai Chi class is made up of people with a Taoist mentality. Tai Chi, after all, basically is Taoism in motion. This is a big reason why I've enjoyed Tai Chi so much during the ten years I've been practicing it: we don't take ourselves or Tai Chi seriously, neither the students nor our instructor.

Yesterday we were doing the Yang Long Form.

I was on the far left side, so when we headed to the left I couldn't see everyone else very well. Since I know the form quite well, I just assumed that I was doing the correct moves when the rest of the class was out of my vision, and they were doing the same -- per usual.

But when I got to an early three-kick sequence, I realized that "usual" had turned into "unusual." I was doing one thing; the rest of the class was following the instructor (who was behind me) and was doing a different thing.

No problem. This happens occasionally. I just gave up my idea of the Long Form and went with what everybody else was doing.

When we finished the form, our instructor light-heartedly said that he'd had a brain freeze at that point in the form and left out the sequence that I'd started doing. Again, no big deal. This led to a discussion about how there's no right or wrong in Tai Chi, and how doing a form differently can lead to fresh insights.

Meaning, the 108 moves in the Long Form weren't given by God on stone tablets.

They were made up by human beings. The moves can be changed, as we did yesterday via some forgetfulness. My instructor encourages us to play around with the traditional forms on our own -- adding new moves, leaving out old ones, since the goal of Tai Chi is flexibility, openness, flow.

There wasn't any sense that we'd done anything wrong by screwing up part of the Long Form. It was just something that happened, a new experience. A few minutes later we did the form again. Correctly this time. 

But it wasn't a better or higher form the second time around. Just a different form.   

Genuine enlightenment is a simple intellectual understanding

Ooh! I bet the title of this blog post will irk spiritual types who believe that enlightenment is some sort  of mystical transformation of consciousness requiring lots of meditation and/or other practices to achieve.

I certainly would have felt that way myself prior to my enlightenment about enlightenment.

But as noted in this recent post, I've come to the understanding that spiritual realization (if this term really means anything) involves seeing through the illusion of a soul/self that is separate and distinct from the body and brain.

In short, there is no self.

No soul. No person sitting inside our head and watching what is being experienced. This is Neuroscience 101. Also Genuine Spirituality 101. (See "Real spirituality is realizing you aren't a soul, or self."

So when non-dual authors and speakers blab on about how there is nothing to do or become in order to realize the truth of non-duality, they're right. In fact, they're so right, they shouldn't be charging for this oh-so-obvious insight.

It's like saying, "Nothing needs to be done to realize the truth of gravity." OK, no argument there.

Gravity is a physical fact, a law of nature. So is non-duality. The human brain isn't divided dualistically. Again, there is no detached observer inside the head who is observing experience. Experience and the experiencer are a single entity: the brain doing its thing as what we call "mind."  

I've begun to lean toward the attitude that, contrary to what Harris and De La Rouviere say in their books, it isn't necessary to engage in meditation practices aimed at a direct intuitive experience of non-duality.

Rather, I argued:

When I look at the Sun set or rise, I still have the sensation that it is moving, while the Earth stands still. However, science tells me this is an illusion. I believe science. My mental image is of the Earth orbiting the Sun. It is only my eyes which deceive me.

Likewise, I don't believe that I have a self or soul. I haven't for quite a while. Yet I still feel like I am looking out at the world in the same way as a rider looks out from his position astride a horse: in control, separate from body.

...Again, after I understand that the Earth revolves around the Sun, I won't look upon a sunrise or sunset in the same way. Eventually that cognitive understanding may morph into an experiential realization of Earth moving and Sun staying still.

Buddhist meditation -- Harris favors the Dzogchen variety -- surely is a proven way of experiencing more fully the reality of no-self. Simply living life with eyes wide open is another way. I doubt that sitting at the feet of a Dzogchen master is necessary to realize there is no self or soul inside my head.

It's always nice to come across someone else who agrees with this basic outlook. My most recent find in this regard is Evan Thompson, the author of "Waking, Dreaming, Being: self and consciousness in neuroscience, meditation, and philosophy."

Thompson's introduction to the book said that it's fine to jump around in it, since the chapters were written to stand by themselves. So I've done just that. After reading about consciousness, pure awareness, and deep sleep, I headed to the final chapter, Knowing: Is the Self an Illusion?

These excerpts from the last few pages of the chapter, and the book, seem right-on to me -- from the perspective of both non-religious Buddhism and modern neuroscience. Enlightenment is a cognitive understanding about the nature of the self, nothing more and nothing less.

The illusion -- or delusion -- is taking the self to have an independent existence, like taking the mirror image to be really in the mirror. Notice that the image as such isn't an illusion; it's the taking of the image to exist in the mirror that's the illusion.

Similarly, it's not the appearance of the self as such that's the illusion; it's taking the self to exist independently that's the illusion.

...Another important point is that undoing this illusion -- through highly developed meditative concentration combined with acute analytical insight -- doesn't mean destroying the appearance of the self as independent; it means not being taken in by the appearance and believing that the self is independent.

This ignorant and deep-seated belief, not the appearance of the self as such, habitually deludes us into thinking, feeling, and acting as if the self were independent.

in my view, the appearance of the self as independent is entirely natural. Whenever we perceive a mind-body stream, either from within or from without, the idea of self -- a subject of experience and an agent of action -- naturally arises.

And when this happens, the self must appear as something distinct from the stream, because that's precisely what a self is -- the dependently arisen and constructed appearance of an independent subject of experience and action.

What I take from this perspective -- and here I state my own view and make no claim that any other Indian yogic philosopher would agree -- is that "enlightenment" or "liberation" -- at least in any sense I would want to affirm -- doesn't consist in dismantling our constructed sense of self, as may happen in certain meditative states.

Rather, it consists in wisdom that includes not being taken in by the appearance of the self as having independent existence while that appearance is nonetheless still there and performing its important I-making function. 

Nor does "enlightenment" or "liberation" consist in somehow abandoning all I-making or "I-ing" -- all self-individuating and self-appropriating activity -- though it does include knowing how to inhabit that activity without being taken in by the appearance of there being an independent self that's performing the activity and controlling what happens.

We could say that the wisdom includes a kind of awakening -- a waking up to the dream of independent existence without having to wake up from the dreaming.

Early on in his book, Thompson discounts the possibility that a non-material self or soul exists. Thus whatever the self is, it is a process, not a thing. Meaning, the self is produced by the actions of a brain/mind/body. It isn't anything independent.

But as he says above, the appearance of an independent self is entirely natural, albeit illusory. It is very much like the appearance of the sun setting: our eyes and brain naturally come to the conclusion that the Earth stands still and the sun moves. 

Through knowledge, though, we can achieve the wisdom to understand that what appears to us as real, actually isn't.

It isn't necessary (or perhaps, possible) to do away with the illusion. However, we can understand its unreality for what it is -- just as shimmering pavement on a desert road is recognized as a mirage, not a pool of water, even though this recogniton leaves the illusion intact.

So if you seek enlightenment, you're better off reading books on neuroscience (along with secular Buddhism, if you like) than sitting at the feet of a guru or meditating a long time. The truth about our "self" isn't hard to find.

The self exists, but not independently of its parts

My journey from churched to churchlessness pretty much can be summed up in this fashion:

I used to believe that I had (or was) a distinct, unified, immaterial soul or self. Now, I rejoice in the understanding that there's no non-physical "pearl" of Me; I'm a collection of material stuff just like everything else in the universe is.

Julian Baggini says this in his terrific book, The Ego Trick: What Does It Mean to Be You?

A cart is not an illusion just because it has no existence other than by the correct arrangement of its parts. The only thing that doesn't exist is an object which is somehow independent of its parts. In the same way, the self clearly exists, it is just not a thing independent of its constituent parts.

I borrowed the "pearl" imagery from Baggini, who contrasts this with the more accurate notion of a "bundle"  in explaining the nature of the self.

Image courtesy of MyPoolSigns.com

This, of course, is very much in line with the essence of Buddhist philosophy.

Baggini just bases his view of the self on solid neuroscientific and psychological evidence, whereas Buddhism is prone to mix valid semi-scientific insights with metaphysical speculation. Buddhism and Baggini agree, though, on the ever-changing, dynamic, relational, interconnected nature of what we call "self."

Here's a good summary from Baggini.

To put it another way, the self is a construction of the mind, one flexible enough to withstand constant renovation, partial demolition and reconstruction, but one that can be brought down if the foundations are undermined.

The idea of the self as a construction is one that many want to resist, because it seems to imply that it is not real. But of course constructions can be perfectly real. It is important to distinguish between "mere constructs," which exist solely as ideas, and real constructions, which we pick up, use and live in.

The "average American family" is a mere construct, but the house at 127 Acacia Avenue is a real construction.

There's much beauty in this bundle understanding of the self. More so, really, than in the religiously-based pearl conception of an enduring soul or self. 

And this isn't only because almost all of the demonstrable evidence, both experiential and scientific, testifies to the truth of the bundle theory (truth is more beautiful than falsity).

There's something inherently appealing about perceiving myself as a humble interrelated part of the whole that is our universe, rather than a lofty independent bit of being whose genuine home lies in a separate supernatural realm.

This is tough stuff to talk about. Hard to express even to myself; harder still to convey in words to someone else.

My main point is this: sometimes commenters on my blog posts accuse me of giving up on the spiritual search. That's absurd. I've been looking for truth my entire life. (As have we all, right?) 

After about forty years of believing that through meditation and other means it was possible to cast off crude layers of materiality -- body and mind, basically -- and reveal the pristine pearl of the soul that was my genuine immaterial self, I realized this conception was almost certainly wrong.

I'm nothing special. I'm not separate from everything else in the universe. I'm transitory, not eternal. A complex collection of physical parts and processes, not a pure pristine blob of godly something or other.

I can relax. Let go. Let be. There's no mystery of self or soul to reveal, no journey back to heaven to fret about, no worries about salvation or sinning.

I've talked about this before in several previous posts about Baggini's book. Probably will again. Like his subtitle says, What does it mean to be you? is an all-important question. See:

"The Ego Trick" -- selves exist, but not as we believe
How to be happy without a soul

 

Sam Harris talks about mindfulness without religion

One great thing about being churchless is that you don't have to sit through long boring sermons. You can pick and choose your sources of inspiration and information. 

Here's a recommendation. Watch a new 7-minute talk by Sam Harris, atheist author of "Waking Up: A Guide to Spirituality Without Religion." (See my posts about this book, here, here, and here.)

 

Harris makes some great points about mindfulness and meditation. He says that religiosity, whether Buddhist or any other kind, shouldn't be mixed up with understanding how the mind works.

Just as there is no Christian physics, just physics, neither is there a Buddhist science of consciousness, just a science of consciousness.

From the partial transcript on You Tube:

The enemy of mindfulness and really of any meditation practice is being lost in thought, is to be thinking without knowing that you’re thinking. Now the problem is not thoughts themselves. We need to think. We need to think to do almost anything that makes us human – to reason, to plan, to have social relationships, to do science.

Thinking is indispensable to us but most of us spend every moment of our waking lives thinking without knowing that we’re thinking. And this automaticity is a kind of scrim thrown over at the present moment through which we view everything. And it’s distorting of our lives. It’s distorting of our emotions. It engineers our unhappiness in every moment because most of what we think is quite unpleasant.

We’re judging ourselves, we’re judging others, we’re worrying about the future, we’re regretting the past, we’re at war with our experience in subtle or coarse ways. And much of this self-talk is unpleasant and diminishing our happiness in every moment. And so meditation is a tool for cutting through that.

It’s interrupting this continuous conversation we’re having with ourselves. So that is – that in and of itself is beneficial. But there are features of our experience that we don’t notice when we’re lost in thought. So, for instance, every experience you’ve ever had, every emotion, the anger you felt yesterday or a year ago isn’t here anymore. It arises and it passes away.

And if it comes back in the present moment by virtue of your thinking about it again, it will subside again when you’re no longer thinking about it. Now this is something that people tend not to notice because we rather than merely feel an emotion like anger, we spend our time thinking of all the reasons why we have every right to be angry. And so the conversation keeps this emotion in play for much, much longer than its natural half-life.

And if you’re able, through mindfulness to interrupt this conversation and simply witness the feeling of anger as it arises you’ll find that you can’t be angry for more than a few moments at a time.

If you think you can be angry for a day or even an hour without continually manufacturing this emotion by thinking without knowing that you’re thinking, you’re mistaken. And this is something you can just witness for yourself. This is – again this is an objective truth claim about the nature of subjective experience. And it’s testable. And mindfulness is the tool that you would use to test it.

If I'm not the one inside my head, then who is?

I enjoy Zen.

But I have no desire to actually practice Zen. Not formally. Too much work. Too much discipline. Too much bowing before a master who, you eventually realize, doesn't deserve veneration.

I prefer the idea of being my own Zen teacher. That way, I can do as much Zen-stuff as I want, in the way I want to, when and how I want. 

Which includes giving myself koans to solve. This is my new one:

If I'm not the one inside my head, then who is?

l really like this koan. I'm SO happy I thought of it. Or rather, that someone inside my head thought of it. If I was sure who it was, I wouldn't have gotten this koan, would I?

It sends a pleasing tickle up my psychological spine when I try to grok it. Kind of like when you're at the top of the first big hill on a roller-coaster ride, and you know that the bottom is going to drop out of your gut soon.

I come to this koan after spending thirty-five years devoted to an Eastern form of mystical meditation. Then spending the past ten years in a churchless de-conversion from a bunch of stuff I no longer believe in.

Such as the existence of a self or soul.

The Sant Mat faith I used to follow, being based on Hindu and Sikh sorts of teachings, posited the existence of an eternal soul. The goal was to merge the drop of the soul in the ocean of God. Which only makes sense if there is such a thing as a soul.

I talked about this in "Not-self a teaching of Buddhism, not HInduism."

In other words, Buddhism doesn't consider there is any unchanging, permanent, foundational aspect to reality. Rather, everything is interconnected, "empty." 

Not empty in the sense of nothingness, a void. Empty in the sense that every seemingly separate entity lacks a distinct individuality, a quality unique to itself, an eternal aspect, a being-ness all to its own.

However, Hinduism and other like-minded faiths (including, as mentioned above, Christianity) posit the existence of Atman, or soul. Atman supposedly is an everlasting drop of the spiritual ocean, Brahman, our real self.

Modern neuroscience, of course, agrees that we don't have, or are, an enduring self.

Sam Harris hammers on this theme in his new book, "Waking Up." For him, real spirituality (and also science) is knowing that you aren't a soul or self. (Along this line, see also here, here, and here.) 

But the illusion persists, likely for good evolutionary reasons.

Our marvelous human capacity for abstraction, creativity, envisioning alternative futures, and such requires a splitting-off from the evident here-and-now to ponder a possible there-and-then. Other animals probably don't consider they have a self or soul. 

They also don't consider much of anything, compared to humans. 

So I roll that koan around inside my head, where, almost certainly, there is actually nothing like the sense of "I" that seems so real to me. 

My favorite aspect of the koan is the concluding then who is? 

If I'm not the one inside my head, then who is? 

Best I can tell, nobody. There's something like 100 billion neurons in the human brain, each connected to many others -- maybe 100 trillion connections in all. Wow. That's a hell of a lot.

More than enough to make a who is? 

And more than enough to fashion a form of consciousness able to wonder who is doing the wondering about who is?

When my koan reveals more about itself, readers of this blog will be the second (or maybe the first) to know.  

I've finished Sam Harris' "Waking Up." Guess I have, sort of.

Well, Sam Harris' new book "Waking Up," a guide to spirituality without religion, was about what I expected. Interesting. Inspiring. Well written. Not hugely enlightening. 

I've already blogged about some key themes in the book here and here.

Like I said in the second post, there are subtleties in Harris' message that require some pondering -- as would be expected for such ponderable subjects as the nature of consciousness and the self.

Having read a bunch of neuroscience books, I wasn't surprised by reading this.

Once one recognizes the selflessness of consciousness, the practice of meditation becomes just a means of getting more familiar with it. The goal, therefore, is to cease to overlook what is already the case.

Meaning, it is virtually certain that nothing like an eternal soul or enduring self exists in (or as) us. So since spirituality is all about realizing this fact, there isn't anything we have to become in order to be spiritual. 

Many religions, spiritual paths, and mystic practices place a lot of emphasis on self-transcendence and doing away with ego. But since there is no self to transcend, nor any separate ego, this goal can be checked off by everybody.

Done! 

Now, back in the long-ago times when Buddhism and HInduism started out in India, modern neuroscience obviously didn't exist. Almost everybody took it for granted that consciousness was separable from the body, and that the feeling of an "I" residing between and behind the eyes reflected something real: a soul or self. The Buddha blew minds by saying otherwise.

So I finished the book wondering if Harris' emphasis on meditation as a way to realize the reality of selflessness was justified. He has done a lot of meditating and spiritual searching in India and elsewhere. 

This renowned atheist even speaks approvingly of finding a meditation teacher who can help dissolve the illusion of a dualistic soul or self that is separate from mind/body. Which, for Harris, is close to an indisputable fact.

Although we are only beginning to understand the human mind at the level of the brain, and we know nothing about how consciousness itself comes into being, it isn't too soon to say that the conventional self is an illusion. There is no place for a soul inside your head.

OK. LIke I said, done. I'm convinced, in much the same way I'm convinced that the Earth revolves around the Sun, rather than the other way around. 

When I look at the Sun set or rise, I still have the sensation that it is moving, while the Earth stand still. However, science tells me this is an illusion. I believe science. My mental image is of the Earth orbiting the Sun. It is only my eyes which deceive me.

Likewise, I don't believe that I have a self or soul. I haven't for quite a while. Yet I still feel like I am looking out at the world in the same way as a rider looks out from his position astride a horse: in control, separate from body.

What I'm unsure about is whether it is really necessary to engage in all of the meditative work Harris considers to be necessary to lessen one's feeling of being a self or soul. If this is such a good thing, then why shouldn't I also labor at trying to experience the Earth moving at "sunset" rather than the Sun going down?

Evolution wouldn't have left us with the feeling of being a self if it wasn't good for something. Likely, a lot of something. 

That said, I can understand the Buddhist-like perspective Harris shares in his book. It is possible to live life in a more meaningful and happy way if we tinker with how we experience ourselves and the world. Sensations of suffering and lack can't be eliminated, but they can be much reduced.

How?

This is the question. Harris is big on meditation. I think that thinking is another way: understanding the reasons why a self or soul almost certainly doesn't exist can lead to an intuitive experience of selflessness. 

Why not?

Again, after I understand that the Earth revolves around the Sun, I won't look upon a sunrise or sunset in the same way. Eventually that cognitive understanding may morph into an experiential realization of Earth moving and Sun staying still.

Buddhist meditation -- Harris favors the Dzogchen variety -- surely is a proven way of experiencing more fully the reality of no-self. Simply living life with eyes wide open is another way. I doubt that sitting at the feet of a Dzogchen master is necessary to realize there is no self or soul inside my head.

Harris writes:

We have long known that how things seem in the world can be misleading, and this is no less true of the mind itself. And yet many people have found that through sustained introspection, how things seem can be brought into closer register with how they are.

Well, not only through introspection. Extrospection -- diving into the world -- can do this also. 

Dance. Run. Ski. Surf. Walk. Gaze. Love. 

Harris correctly says, "Subjectively speaking, there is only consciousness and its contents; there is no inner self who is conscious." 

So...

The form of transcendence that appears to link directly to ethical behavior and human well-being is that which occurs in the midst of ordinary waking life... The freedom from self that is both the goal and foundation of spiritual life is coincident with normal peception and cognition -- though, as I have already said, this can be difficult to realize.

Maybe. Maybe not. 

Here's a 7 minute video featuring Sam Harris talking about consciousness and the self. Pretty good summary of the core theses of his book.

 

Real spirituality is realizing you aren't a soul, or self

Just as predicted, I'm really enjoying reading Sam Harris' new book, "Waking Up: A Guide to Spirituality Without Religion."

I'm about a third of the way through. Which is far enough to have discovered the central theme. Harris writes:

My goal in this chapter and the next is to convince you that the conventional sense of self is an illusion -- and that spirituality largely consists in realizing this, moment to moment.

...Most of us feel that our experience of the world refers back to a self -- not to our bodies precisely but to a center of consciousness that exists somehow interior to the body behind the eyes, inside the head.

The feeling that we call "I" seems to define our point of view in every moment, and it also provides an anchor for popular beliefs about souls and freedom of will.

And yet this feeling, however imperturbable it may appear at present, can be altered, interrupted, or entirely abolished. 

...Subjectively speaking, the only thing that actually exists is consciousness and its contents.

Wow. 

Now, I realize that some people would say "Yeah, makes sense, no big surprise" to the above scientifically- and experientially-persuasive truths.

But I spent decades as a devotee of a mystical philosophy that, like many others, taught that we humans have, or are, an eternal soul. The soul supposedly could return to God through meditation at the "eye center" -- that place behind the eyes and inside the head Harris, a neuroscientist and Buddhist practitioner, says doesn't house a self or soul.

So it sure seems like those who claim that this world is an illusion, with soul-realms being true reality, are the ones who have gotten it wrong. 

There is no enduring soul or self to be liberated. As Harris says in his book, genuine spirituality is realizing this. Thus a belief in the existence of soul leads one farther away from the truth, not closer. This is basic Buddhism, yet even many Buddhists still harbor fantasies of living on after death as... something or other.

I'll share more from "Waking Up" in other posts. So far, I can highly recommend the book. Harris has a knack for saying familiar things (to those, like me, who have read similar books) in a fresh way. 

For example, I've read most of Derek Parfit's "Reasons and Persons." A Wikipedia article describes a Parfit thought experiment.

At time 1, there is a person. At a later time 2, there is a person. These people seem to be the same person. Indeed, these people share memories and personality traits. But there are no further facts in the world that make them the same person.

Parfit's argument for this position relies on our intuitions regarding thought experiments such as teleportation, the fission and fusion of persons, gradual replacement of the matter in one's brain, gradual alteration of one's psychology, and so on.

For example, Parfit asks the reader to imagine entering a "teletransporter," a machine that puts you to sleep, then destroys you, breaking you down into atoms, copying the information and relaying it to Mars at the speed of light.

On Mars, another machine re-creates you (from local stores of carbon, hydrogen, and so on), each atom in exactly the same relative position. Parfit poses the question of whether or not the teletransporter is a method of travel—is the person on Mars the same person as the person who entered the teletransporter on Earth?

Certainly, your replica on Mars would remember being you, would remember entering the teletransporter in order to travel to Mars. Part of the problem here is that the teletransporter on Earth doesn't have to destroy the person who enters it, but instead can simply make infinite replicas, all of whom would claim to remember entering the teletransporter on Earth in the first place.

Using thought experiments such as these, Parfit argues that any criteria we attempt to use to determine sameness of person will be lacking, because there is no further fact. What matters, to Parfit, is simply "Relation R," psychological connectedness, including memory, personality, and so on.

Harris describes the thought experiment in a similar, though somewhat different, way. In his variation, the copy of you is transported to Mars, while the "real" you awaits confirmation that the duplication is complete before being destroyed. Harris then writes:

To most readers, this thought experiment will suggest that psychological continuity -- the mere maintenance of one's memories, beliefs, habits, and other mental traits -- is an insufficent basis for personal identity. It's not enough for someone else on Mars to be just like you; he must actually be you. 

The man on Mars will share all your memories and will behave exactly as you would have. But he is not you -- as your continued existence in the teleportation chamber on Earth attests.

To the Earth-you awaiting obliteration, teleportation as a means of travel will appear a horrifying sham: You never left Earth and are about to die. Your friends, you now realize, have been repeatedly copied and killed.

And yet, the problem with teleportation is somehow not obvious if a person is disassembled before his replica is built. In that case, it is tempting to say that teleportation works and that "he" is really stepping onto the surface of Mars.

...Parfit believes that we should view the teleportation case in which a person is destroyed before being replicated as more or less indistinguishable from the normal pattern of personal survival throughout our lives. 

After all, in what way are you subjectively the same as the person who first picked up this book? In the only way you can be: by displaying some degree of psychological continuity with that past self. Viewed in this way, it is difficult to see how teleportation is any different from the mere passage of time.

...Parfit's view of the self, which he appears to have arrived at independently through an immensely creative use of thought experiments, is essentially the same as the one found in the teachings of Buddhism: There is no stable self that is carried along from one moment to the next.

Far from being scary, this is a big relief. The self or soul religious people believe needs saving... it doesn't exist. 

The egotistical belief that an immaterial "I" will endure forever while everything else in the physical world will change and die... it isn't true. 

We can relax into reality.

The world is us and we are the world. Yes, there is something it is like to be a conscious part of the world called "me." However, I, and you, and everybody are ever-changing aspects of the world, not an eternal soul-drop destined to return to a godly ocean. 

Whateven heaven might be, it is right here, right now.

Buddhist "emptiness" appeals to my churchless non-soul

When true believers (as I was at one time) start to give up religiosity, often they pass through various stages of withdrawal from their addiction to dogma.

For me, one stage is an admiration of Buddhism and Taoism, spiritual philosophies which have an affinity with modern science and secular ways of looking upon the world. I'm still in that stage. I may never leave it.

Yesterday I picked up Stephen Bachelor's "Verses from the Center: A Buddhist VIsion of the Sublime," after a long absence. It's Bachelor's interpretation of Nagarjuna's teachings about emptiness, a core Buddhist concept. 

Well, non-concept. Because if you think you know what emptiness is all about, you don't. (I have another Buddhist book aptly titled "The Emptiness of Emptiness."

I must have first read Bachelor's book in 2005, since I mentioned it in a blog post I wrote that year, "Search for self called off." It was stimulated by a classic Onion piece -- which I bet Nagarjuana would have liked a lot.

Talking about what emptiness is and isn't gets us into some pretty damn deep, as well as shallow, philosophical, spiritual, and scientific thought-waters.

Rather than run the risk of getting readers of this post lost in my own meanderings about what Bachelor says, I'll simply share some excerpts from his book that resonate with me. 

That which is negated by emptiness is an instinctive sense of selves and things existing in their own right. From the point of view of common sense, a thing such as a vase appears to stand out vividly on its own, apparently independent of its causal conditions and components, not to mention the various conceptual and linguistic conventions that humans use to identify vases.

Tsongkhapha [an Indian commentator on Nagarjuna's Verses from the Center] insisted that emptiness was simply the absence of such a sense of "inherent existence." Rather than representing a doorway that opens to a mystical, transcendent sphere hidden beneath the surface of everyday reality, emptiness merely removes the false veneer of inherent existence, thereby enabling a vision of the essential contingency of life.

...Nagarjuna's vision is one of uncompromising immanence. What keeps one locked in repetitive cycles of anguish has nothing to do with being cut off from a transcendent God or Absolute or Mind. The classical Buddhist notions of buddhanature and nirvana are treated as metaphors for a freedom that occurs in the very world of sense and reason.

...To elevate anything, however noble or exalted, to the status of a transcendent reality beyond this world is fixation's final and yet perhaps most seductive strategy of all. 

...Just as a path is nothing but a space that has been cleared of those obstacles that prevent freedom of movement across a terrain, so emptiness is nothing but a space cleared of those fixations that prevent freedom of movement through the dilemmas and ambiguities of life. To follow the track of emptiness is to discern the living contours of contingency as they unfold from moment to moment. 

...Fixations imbue self and things with a tightness, solidity, and opacity. Instead of experiencing the world as an uncertain play of conditions, we prefer the safety of one that appears to be clearcut, predictable, and manageable. 

Yet the price to pay for this preference is that life is rendered dull and repetitive. To reduce the tedium, we find ourselves driven to ever more intense moments of experience (food, shopping, drugs, sex, vacations, movies, religion). For Nagarjuna, the problem lies not in the way the world is but in the way we have construed it.

...To recognize that things are contingent is the key to understanding what it means for them to be empty. A self, a plant, a body or a time is empty because it is incapable of being neatly circumscribed as a thing cut off from other things.

Selves, plants, bodies and times are utterly contingent on the complex interplay of conditions, attributes and language with which they are not identical and from which they are not different. To know emptiness is not to negate these things but to be dumbfounded by the sheer fecundity of life.

...You are unique not because you possess an essential metaphysical quality that differs from the essential metaphysical quality of everyone else, but because you have emerged from a unique and unrepeatable set of conditions.

The Amazon reader reviews of Bachelor's book are worth reading, whether or not you buy "Verses from the Center." Most are quite perceptive. This reviewer hit upon something that bothered me: Bachelor's seeming contention that freedom is possible for humans.

Given the interdependence of everything, this seems at odds with Buddhism and Nagarjuna. Here's what Norman Bearrentine said in his review. I like the last part.

Nagarjuna, Batchelor, the other reviewers and I share a common problem: our grasp of reality is hampered by our brains' conceptual and perceptual limitations. Nagarjuna's attempts to deal with those limitations have affected millions of people through various translations and interpretations, and Batchelor's version will no doubt affect many who would be untouched by the others.

His comparison of Nagarjuna to thinkers from different times and cultures serves to show that all have struggled with the limitations that are common to all human beings--the brains in which we live are quite similar.

In one review, Batchelor is faulted for failing to note the implications of Nagarjuna's writing for "realization of the unconditioned (absolute)... that which does not arise and pass away." Indeed, Batchelor proclaims that Nagarjuna's key insight was that emptiness is "inseparable from the utter contingency of life itself," it is "contingently configured" rather than absolute.

Whether this interpretation is consistent with Nagarjuna's thought in the context of Buddhism as it was in his time or not, it is certainly consistent with the human condition: we are constitutionally incapable of apprehending anything that might be called "absolute." It seems that space itself, used for thousands of years as a metaphor for emptiness, is not empty at all, but chock-a-block full of dark energy, dark matter, and who knows what else.

The absolute, the unconditioned, the other shore, emptiness, the self, the soul, etc. are all human conceptions, and all human conceptions arise from our perceptions. As instruments expand our perceptions, our conceptions try to keep pace, but in many cases we have come to the point that the only way to express reality is through mathematical formulas--none of our perceptual metaphors can be stretched to fit: light seems to be neither a wave nor a particle, leaving us with something inconceivable. The only adequate response to this predicament is, as Batchelor says, "to be dumbfounded by the sheer fecundity of life."

Unfortunately, Batchelor cannot sit content with being dumbfounded, but somehow finds in emptiness, "the freedom to configure oneself..." as if one's self could somehow act independently of the contingencies that created it. The only freedom we have is to gaze in amazement at the things we think, say, and do, and it's quite enough, really.

Scattered thoughts about mindfulness

These thoughts are powered by (1) a 16 ounce can of Mike's Harder Margarita, which I've never tried before, but surely will again, and (2) a 16 ounce serving of the Sisters blend from the Sisters Coffee Company in central Oregon.  

This blend of alcohol and caffeine is guaranteed to produce a magnificently coherent amalgamation of scattered thoughts about this evening's chosen blog topic: mindfulness.

In my own mind at least, the only mind I really give a shit about, being clueless about all others.

Regarding mindfulness, I started meditating in 1969, so I've got 45 years of daily experience in observing the intricacies of what goes on inside my head. After all this time, I am pleased to report that I am now working on the greatest koan known to Zen pseudo-practitioners like me: What the fuck is going on? 

Beyond this non-realization, there is nothing more to be known.

Thank you for your adoration. Email me for instructions about how to contribute to my Dharma Fund, which, after today's shopping experience, will mostly go to buying more of Mike's Harder Margarita.

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Recently the dog and I were crossing a small creek on our property. I heard a rustling sound, then saw a dark shape zooming off a few feet above the water, heading downstream. At that moment I was in my elevated state of non-dual awareness, which I like to call "enlightenment" but my wife persists in calling "spacing out." 

Almost instantly, alas, my analytical, Western, dualistic, conceptual, abstract mind thought "Duck!" That destroyed the pure unfiltered awareness I had enjoyed a mere second before. However, it really was a duck. Regardless, this shows that my enlightenment has a few wrinkles to iron out before I can call myself Totally Nonconceptual Dude. 

This, undoubtedly, also will be what my colleagues in the mental hospital call me when I am unable to utter coherent sentences. "Tall. Round. Sweet. Metal. Yum-Yum" "Nurse, I think the Totally Nonconceptual Dude is asking again for a Mike's Harder Margarita."

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I have become adept at being mindful of what I am doing. Like, I am typing these words on the keyboard of my MacBook Pro. But I am not the typing of those words. I am the mindful observer of those words being typed.

More than that: having written that last sentence, it is clear that I also am mindful of myself being the mindful observer of typing these words on the keyboard of my MacBook Pro. Yet I am not the mindful observer of a mindful observer. I am more than that.

For I also am mindful of myself being mindful of being the mindful observer...

Oh, fuck. Where does it all end! At the bottom of the can of Mike's Harder Margarita, I can only hope.

Or maybe this mindfulness crap is just the same as my 1967 hippie pothead days (and nights), when we'd sit around blowing smoke rings, musing about how this whole universe could be a speck in the joint of a stoned dude, who lives in a universe that is just a speck in the joint of another stoned dude, who is... 

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In my happiest moments, to which I can now add while drinking Mike's Harder Margarita, I don't really know what the fuck it is I'm doing because I've just doing it, not being mindful of me having a happy moment. 

Like, when I first jump on my much-beloved StreetStrider (outdoor elliptical bike) and head off down a multi-use trail in Salem's beautiful Minto Brown Island Park. I'm just doing it. I'm doing what I've done since mid-December, three times a week, 7-8 miles at a time, so I'm in the StreetStrider groove, flowing along with my body moving the StreetStrider and the StreetStrider moving me.

Am I mindful? Hell if I know.

I'm not mindful of what I'm doing, because I'm just doing it. Once I start being mindful of doing my StreetStrider thing, I'm doing two things: StreetStriding and being mindful of StreetStriding.

Now I don't claim to be some non-dual Zen enlightened sage -- just someone who is one sip of Mike's Harder Margarita from fucking being sure that I am. (brief pause... done! I'm there!) But it seems to me that awareness of my StreetStriding awareness is one step removed from my actual experience.

So what's the point in me washing the dishes, while being aware of "I'm washing the dishes"?

Have I wasted my freaking time reading all those goddamn Zen books urging me to simply chop wood and carry water? Or simply update my Facebook feed and Twitter account with a link to another marvelous Church of the Churchless blog post?

Which, come to think of it, is the most enlightened thing for an enlightened being like me to do right now. 

Oh, after saying this to the guy who stole my idea for this blog post title from an advance look at the space/time continuum back in 2012. 

Dude, you think too much. You are too conceptual. You are too wordy. You need to be more like me. Your own "scattered thoughts about mindfulness meditation" clearly do not possess the pristine cosmic wisdom mine do.

And, yeah, that's the Mike's Harder Margarita speaking.

Readers of this blog post are just fortunate that I've stopped writing before finishing the last third of the can. Remember the Total Perspective Vortex? Man, that's what you'd have been sucked into if I had written anything after drinking the whole 16 ounces. 

TOO MUCH TRUTH! 

The Embodied Mind -- interesting interview with Evan Thompson

Neuroscience. Buddhism. Meaning. Consciousness. Brain. Body. Culture.

There's a lot of threads woven into a pretty persuasive view of things in a Tricycle interview with Evan Thompson:

Thoroughly grounded in Western and Buddhist philosophy and learned in science, Thompson has been dedicated to cross-cultural and interdisciplinary dialogue between Buddhism and cognitive science for over two decades.

Give it a read. The piece is just the right length. Not too long. Not too short. Readable in a single spiritual philosophical sitting. The only reader comment (at the moment) also is perceptive.

I liked how Thompson is skeptical about the whole Buddhist "as it is" thing, the mistaken notion that somehow it is possible to look upon our own mind as if we were peering through a microscope at something outside of ourselves.

It was early in your career—you were a doctoral student—when you cowrote The Embodied Mind. Looking back, do you have any regrets—things you would have changed, knowing now what you didn’t know then? There was a certain way we talked about mindfulness that I now think is wrong. Sometimes we described it as a special kind of inner observation that lets you see the way your mind really is apart from being mindful—as if your mind were a box and your looking into it revealed what was there all along.

...I object when people reduce practice in this rich sense to a tool or instrument. Some people use the analogy that meditation is like an inner telescope: Outer science uses physical telescopes for looking at the stars, and inner science uses meditation for looking at the mind. I don’t like that analogy. It makes you think of your relationship to your own mind in an instrumental way.

Your relationship to yourself is precisely not an instrumental one. A telescope is a tool for looking at something separate and distant. Meditation isn’t like that. If you think that awareness is an instrument that enables you to look within, on that analogy you’re thinking of the inner realm as one of objectivity—except it’s not, because it’s subjectivity.

If you think of meditation that way, you can’t help turning your mind into an object, which is precisely what the mind is not. So here I think there is an important difference between meditation and scientific observation, despite the importance of concepts for making sense of both. Meditation can be very powerful and transformative: it can be very generative of insight, deep understanding, and connectedness. But not because it’s an instrument or tool that enables you to see a hidden inner realm.

Thompson also scoffs at the possibility of always, or maybe ever, experiencing reality without concepts or mental frameworks. That idea, of course, itself is a concept, a mental framework. There's no getting outside culture, upbringing, prior experiences, habits, learning.

Is the problem you are getting at the widespread assumption that mindfulness meditation is not mediated by concepts? Experience and concepts are interdependent. Whether there are nonconceptual modes of experience is a complicated matter that both Buddhist and Western philosophers have argued about a lot. But in most cases of human experience you can’t have one without the other.

Take science. Here you observe things, of course, but you can’t see them properly unless you have the right concepts. If you just look through a microscope with no guidance on how to look at what you see, you have no clue what you’re looking at. Even if you’re doing high school biology, you need to have concepts like “cell wall” or “organelle”—to say nothing of what’s happening at the edge of scientific discovery, where you’re using new imaging technologies and learning to see things. So observation is happening there, of course. But also a lot of conceptualizing.

Similarly, if you go on a Vipassana retreat, you may spend the first day or so watching your breath, but then you’re given a system of concepts for practicing mindfulness—concepts like “moment-to-moment arising,” “pleasant versus unpleasant,” “sensation,” “intention,” “attention,” and maybe some categories from the list of elements, or dhammas, in Theravada Buddhist philosophy.

It’s a silent retreat, so this is the only thing you hear, and everyone else around you is doing the same thing, so this shapes how and what you experience. You get a powerful and socially reinforced conceptual system for making sense of what you experience. That system in that context may help to bring about certain nonconceptual experiences, but the minute you start thinking about them—which there’s no way to avoid doing—you’re back in the land of concepts.

Don't be Big Brother to yourself, "I" watching "me"

Non-religious Buddhism and neuroscience agree on this: there is no such thing as a "self." Meaning, there isn't an "I" who is separate from "me," a soul separate from body, a mind separate from brain.

Understanding this -- no, more, intuitively experiencing the truth of this -- cuts through mountains of religious, spiritual, mystical, and philosophical crap. It also makes life way simpler. 

It's crazy that we humans look upon ourselves as if we are an object to be manipulated, like a smart phone or chainsaw. We're always asking ridiculous questions like, "Why don't I feel better about myself?" 

There is just feeling. This is Buddhism 101. Also Neuroscience 101.

Nobody is sitting inside your head watching your brain do its thing. You are your brain doing its thing. Part of that thing it does is generate self-reflective complexity. (See my post, "What we are: a strange loop in an ego tunnel.")

Thus spirituality, a word that should be done away with but won't be anytime soon, has two basic directions -- one truthful and one imaginary.

The truthful way to go is founded on a recognition of no-self, thereby melding the best of ancient traditions like Buddhism and Taoism with findings of modern neuroscience. The imaginary spiritual path envisions an enduring self at the end of the road, an eternal soul, a timeless drop in a divine ocean.

Such is what Chögyam Trungpa critiques as spiritual materialism. Or spiritual egoism. Most religions, whether of the Eastern or Western variety, fall prey to this. They teach that we humans aren't our bodies, nor our brains. 

Rather, our essence is something indestructible and eternal, not subject to the laws of nature that govern the observable cosmos.

This leads to the mistaken belief that "I" am separate from "me." Some ethereal consciousness, my deepest reality, is able to look upon other aspects of me as if it were a mountain top observatory studying far-off stars.

Not true, says Trungpa. Here are some passages from his book, "Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism."

This is the self-consciousness of watching yourself, observing yourself unnecessarily. Whatever we do is constantly being watched and censored. Actually it is not Big Brother who is watching; it is Big Me! Another aspect of me is watching me, behind me, just about to strike, just about to pinpoint my failure. There is no joy in this approach, no sense of humor at all.

...There is a sense of seeing oneself as an external object, which leads to the first notion of "other." One is beginning to have a relationship with a so-called "external" world.

...Once we have taken away this preconception of the existence of mind and reality, then situations emerge clearly, as they are. There is no one to watch, no one to know anything. Reality just is, and this is what is meant by the term "shunyata." Through this insight the watcher which separates us from the world is removed.

...When we experience shunyata, we are completely involved, without the subject-object division of duality. We are also free from confusion.

This sounds a lot like the flow so beloved of athletes, dancers, musicians, and indeed, all of us. In our most joyous and productive moments we aren't aware of our awareness, of acting out our actions, of being mindful of our mindfulness.

We're just doing and feeling whatever is being done and felt. Pretty damn simple. 

I'm liking Chögyam Trungpa's take on spiritual materialism

Somehow I'd read a lot of books on Buddhism without ever becoming familiar with Chögyam Trungpa. I'd heard the name before, but had no idea who the guy was.

Recently one thing led to another, which led me to buy his "Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism." I'd read a short essay of his in a book on mindfulness.

That spurred me to Google him, where I found that Trungpa was a Buddhist meditation master who, among other things, had sex with students, abused alcohol and cocaine, and had other endearing qualities (to someone irreligious like me).

So I bought the above-mentioned book. I'm liking it, though parts of it don't appeal to me.

Trungpa, though dismissive of many aspects of traditional Buddhism, still believes that a guru is necessary for spiritual development. Not in any esoteric supernatural sense; the guru simply is a "spiritual friend" with no special qualities other than an ability and willingness to help someone realize that, basically, there is nothing to realize.

The meeting of the two minds really takes place very naturally. Both the instructor and the student meet in a state of openness in which they both realize that openness is the most insignificant thing in the whole world. It is completely insignificant, truly ordinary, absolutely nothing.

OK. Having a spiritual friend sounds fine.

It just seems to me that in this instance, Trungpa is a captive of the Tibetan Buddhism teachings. He had a teacher; he acted as a teacher himself; so he feels it is necessary to have a spiritual friend. I don't agree. And other themes in Trungpa's book argue against his "must have guru" advice.

For example, here is a Q and A where Trungpa does the answering.

Q: What guides you on the path?

A: Actually, there does not seem to be any particular guidance. In fact, if someone is guiding you, that is suspicious, because you are relying on something external. Being fully what you are in yourself becomes guidance, but not in the sense of vanguard, because you do not have a guide to follow. You do not have to follow someone's tail, but you sail along. In other words, the guide does not walk ahead of you, but walks with you.

ln another place Trungpa says:

Reinforcement is provided by the situation automatically. When things must be conducted in a tough manner, you just do it because the situation demands your response. You do not impose toughness; you are an instrument of the situation.

Now, this probably sounds like just common sense, and it is. For those sucked into strange Buddhist beliefs though, or esoteric religious beliefs of any sort, Trungpa offers up some antidotes to what he calls "spiritual materialism."

We have many expectations, especially if we seek a spirtual path and involve ourselves with spiritual materialism. We have the expectation that spirituality will bring us happiness and comfort, wisdom and salvation. This literal, egocentric way of regarding spirituality must be turned completely upside down. Finally, if we give up all hope of attaining any sort of enlightenment, then at that moment the path begins to open.

...Self-deception is a constant problem as we progress along a spiritual path. Ego is always wanting to achieve spirituality. It is rather like wanting to witness your own funeral.

...Self-deception seems always to depend upon the dream world, because you would like to see what you have not yet seen, rather than what you now are seeing. You will not accept that whatever is here now is what is, nor are you willing to go on with the situation as it is. 

Thus self-deception always manifests itself in terms of trying to create or recreate a dream world, the nostalgia of the dream experience. And the opposite of self-deception is just working with the facts of life. 

If one searches for any kind of bliss or joy, the realization of one's imagination and dream, then, equally, one is going to suffer failure and depression. This is the whole point: a fear of separation, the hope of attaining union, these are not just manifestations of or the actions of ego or self-deception, as if ego were somehow a real thing which performed certain actions.

...So the real experience, beyond the dream world, is the beauty and color and excitement of the real experience of now in everyday life. When we face things as they are, we give up the hope of something better. 

...You drop searching for anything altogether, drop trying to discover anything, trying to prove yourself. 

"Beat Zen, Square Zen, and Zen" -- great Alan Watts essay

Back in 1958 Alan Watts wrote a classic essay, "Beat Zen, Square Zen, and Zen." Beat and square, back in the 50's, were words roughly equivalent to our "cool" and "lame." Or "hip" and "traditional."

A beatnik bore some resemblance to today's hipster. I was just ten years old in 1958, so wasn't able to embrace the beat generation thing. Had to wait until the 60's to dive into the next counter-cultural evolution: hippies.

A few days ago I came across Watts' essay in a compilation of three of his writings, "The Wisdom of Insecurity" (one of my all-time favorite books; see here and here), "The Way of Zen," and "Tao: The Watercourse Way."

It was a pleasure to rediscover it after a cursory reading years ago. The version of the essay I read is considerably expanded and amended from the original.

I've never done any formal Zen training (Square Zen), but from my college days on I've enjoyed paddling around the edges of the Beat Zen pond. This essay helped me realize the difference between the two, and what plain Zen is all about.

Here's some passages from the essay on interesting subjects:

Chinese humanism vs. Indian supernaturalism.
Here is a view of the world imparting a profoundly refreshing sense of wholeness to a culture in which the spiritual and the material, the conscious and the unconscious, have been cataclysmically split. For this reason the Chinese humanism and naturalism of Zen intrigue us much more strongly than Indian Buddhism or Vedanta.

These, too, have their students in the West, but their followers seem for the most part to be displaced Christians -- people in search of a more plausible philosophy than Christian supernaturalism to carry on the essentially Christian search for the miraculous.

The ideal man of Christian Buddhism is clearly a superman, a yogi with absolute mastery of his own nature, according perfectly with the science-fiction ideal of "men beyond mankind." But the Buddha or awakened man of Chinese Zen is "ordinary and nothing special"; he is humorously human like the Zen tramps portrayed by Mu-ch'i and Liang-k'ai. 

We like this because here, for the first time, is a conception of the holy man and sage who is not impossibly remote, not superhuman but fully human, and, above all, not a solemn and sexless ascetic... They are just like us, and yet much more at home in the world, floating much more easily upon the ocean of transience and insecurity.

Human life no different from great universe.
For there is a standpoint from which human affairs are as much beyond right and wrong as the stars, and from which our deeds, experiences, and feelings can no more be judged than the ups and downs of a range of mountains. 

Though beyond moral and social valuation, this level of human life may also be seen to be just as marvelous and uncanny as the great universe itself. This feeling may become particularly acute when the individual ego tries to fathom its own nature, to plumb the inner sources of its own actions and consciousness.

For here it discovers a part of itself -- the inmost and greatest part -- which is strange to itself and beyond its understanding and control. Odd as it may sound, the ego finds that its own center and nature is beyond itself. The more deeply I go into myself, the more I am not myself, and yet this is the very heart of me.

Here I find my own inner workings functioning of themselves, spontaneously, like the rotation of the heavenly bodies and the drifting of the clouds. Strange and foreign as this aspect of myself at first seems to be, I soon realize that it is me, and much more me than my superficial ego.

Beat Zen and Square Zen.
But the Westerner who is attracted to Zen and who would understand it deeply must have one indispensable qualification: he must understand his own culture so thoroughly that he is no longer swayed by its premises unconsciously.

He must really have come to terms with the Lord God Jehovah and with his Hebrew-Christian conscience so that he can take it or leave it without fear or rebellion. He must be free of the itch to justify himself

Lacking this, his Zen will be either "beat" or "square," either a revolt from the culture and social order or a new form of stuffiness and respectability. For Zen is above all the liberation of the mind from conventional thought, and this is something different from rebellion against convention, on the one hand, or adapting foreign conventions, on the other.

Living beyond anxiety.
At this level, human life is beyond anxiety, for it can never make a mistake. If we live, we live; if we die, we die; if we suffer, we suffer.; if we are terrified, we are terrified. There is no problem about it.

A Zen master was once asked, "It is terribly hot, and how shall we escape the heat?" "Why not," he answered, "go to the place where it is neither hot nor cold?" "Where is that place?" "In summer we sweat; in winter we shiver."

In Zen one does not feel guilty about dying, or being afraid, or disliking the heat. At the same time, Zen does not insist upon this point of view as something which one ought to adopt; it does not preach it as an ideal. 

For if you don't understand it, your very not-understanding is also IT. There would be no bright stars without dim stars, and, without the surrounding darkness, no stars at all.

Faults of Square Zen.
For square Zen is the Zen of established tradition in Japan with its clearly defined hierarchy, its rigid discipline, and its specific tests of satori... it is still square because it is a quest for the right spiritual experience, for a satori which will receive the stamp (inka) of approval and established authority.

...The faults of square Zen are the faults of any spiritual in-group with an esoteric discipline and degrees of initiation. Students in the lower ranks can get unpleasantly uppity about inside knowledge which they are not at liberty to divulge -- "and you wouldn't understand even if I could tell you" -- and are apt to dwell rather sickeningly on the immense difficulities and iron disciplines of their task. 

...Thus for beat Zen there must be no effort, no discipline, no artificial striving to attain satori or to be anything but what one is. But for square Zen there can be no true satori without years of meditation-practice under the stern supervision of a qualified master. 

...Foreign religions can be immensely attractive and highly overrated by those who know little of their own, and especially by those who have not worked through and grown out of their own. This is why the displaced or unconscious Christian can so easily use either beat or square Zen to justify himself.

The one wants a philosophy to justify him in doing what he pleases. The other wants a more plausible authoritative salvation than the Church or the psychiatrists seem to be able to provide.... But the true character of Zen remains almost incomprehensible to those who have not surpassed the immaturity of needing to be justified, whether before the Lord God or before a paternalistic society.

Zen without fuss.
The old Chinese Zen masters were steeped in Taoism. They saw nature in its total interrelatedness, and saw that every creature and every experience is in accord with the Tao of nature just as it is. This enabled them to accept themselves as they were, moment by moment, without the least need to justify anything.

They didn't do it to defend themselves or to find an excuse for getting away with murder. They didn't brag about it and set themselves apart as rather special. On the contrary, their Zen was wu-shih, which means approximately "nothing special" or "no fuss."

But Zen is "fuss" when it is mixed up with Bohemian affectations, and "fuss" when it is imagined that the only proper way to find it is to run off to a monastery in Japan or to do special exercises in the lotus posture for five hours a day. And I will admit that the very hullabaloo about Zen, even in such an essay as this, is also fuss -- but a little less so.

Having said that, I would like to say something for all Zen fussers, beat or square.

Fuss is all right, too. If you are hung on Zen, there's no need to pretend that you are not. If you really want to spend some years in a Japanese monastery, there is no earthly reason why you shouldn't. Or if you want to spend your time hopping freight cars and digging Charlie Parker, it's a free country.

In the landscape of Spring there is neither better nor worse;
The flowering branches grown naturally, some long, some short.

     -- Alan Watts

Reduce the chatter of your inner anchorperson

The 24 hour cable news channels are a fairly recent invention. But the voice inside our head that chatters away almost non-stop likely is as old as modern human consciousness.

There's a lot of similarity between so-called news anchors and our own inner commentator.

(Who is it? Me? But it's giving me advice, berating me, encouraging me, talking to me. So how could it be me? Assuming there even is a "me" for the voice to be or not to be.)

They both spend a lot more time recollecting the past and musing about the future than reporting on what actually is going on. That's why I added "so-called" before "news anchors."

What passes for news these days is mostly speculation. Nobody knows who is going to win the 2016 presidential election, how the stock market will perform this year, or whether Kim Kardashian is going to stay married. But a lot of people pretend that they do.

Likewise, none of us knows what is going to happen in the next moment, much less the next day, next week, next month, or next whenever.

Yet our desire for security and illusory knowing leads us to make up stories about possible futures, along with selectively re-telling the past in ways that please us. Is this necessary? Does it serve much of a purpose? Would we miss our minds' inner anchorperson if it shut the fuck up?

I've finished reading Dan Harris' "10% Happier," a book I blogged about before.

Interestingly, Harris is both an ABC anchor and a student of meditation/ mindfulness. Initially skeptical about the whole tame the monkey mind thing, he comes to realize the benefit of reducing the chatterbox that sits inside his cranium, talking about crap it knows nothing about.

Harris learns from a Buddhist teacher, Joseph Goldstein, that thinking isn't the problem. Non-useful thinking is. Here's a report on Day 9 of a mostly-silent ten day meditation retreat Harris goes on.

As he [Goldstein] presses his case, he says something that bugs me. He urges us not to spend too much time thinking about the stuff we have do when the retreat is over. It's a waste of time, he says; they're just thoughts. This provokes me to raise my hand for the first time.

From the back of the echoey hall, in full-on reporter mode, with my over-loud voice apparently not atrophied one bit from disuse, I ask, "How can you advise us not to worry about the things we have to do when we reenter the world? If I miss my plane, that's a genuine problem. These are not just irrelevant thoughts."

Fair enough, he concedes. "But when you find yourself running through your trip to the airport for the seventeenth time, perhaps ask yourself the following question, 'Is this useful'?"

His answer is so smart I involuntarily jolt back in my chair and smile.

"Is this useful?" It's a simple, elegant corrective to my "price of security" motto. It's okay to worry, plot, and plan, he's saying -- but only until it's not useful anymore. I've spent the better part of my life trying to balance my penchant for maniacal overthinking with the desire for peace of mind.

And here, with one little phrase, Goldstein has handed me what seems like a hugely constructive tool for taming this impulse without throwing the baby out with the bathwater. 

I also liked this advice from a how-to-meditate section at the end of the book.

Write down this quote from Jon Kabat-Zinn and put it up on your wall: "Meditation is not about feeling a certain way. It's about feeling the way you feel."

It's amazing how many times I can hear this message and yet forget it when I sit down to meditate. You don't need to achieve some special state; you just need to be as aware as possible of whatever's happening right now. This is what the Buddhists mean by "letting go" -- better translated as "letting be."

Halfway through "10% Happier." I feel 5% better now.

I'm glad my Amazon guilt led me to buy Dan Harris' "10% Happier" in the charming Paulina Springs Bookstore in Sisters, Oregon. 

Whenever I visit the bookstore, usually once a month in spring and summer, I do my best to buy something. This assuages the guilt I feel from buying books via Amazon the rest of the time. So when I saw a copy of "10% Happier" last Sunday, I ended up purchasing it after thumbing through the book.

Previously I'd read reviews of Harris' book that made me wary of adding one more meditation/ mindfulness title to my extensive collection. I've been meditating every day since 1970, so to me most books in this genre have a "been there, done that" quality to them.

Harris, though, has a refreshing take on the taming the monkey mind thing.

He's a television journalist with ABC News. Not surprisingly, he's an excellent writer. Honest. Direct. Humorous. Best of all, he doesn't have a fawning attitude toward the spiritual "gurus" he comes across after deciding that his anxiety-prone mind (his father is a Jewish worrier) could benefit from some mindfulness training.

I'm about halfway through the book. Harris called it what he did because he doesn't believe meditation can completely change a person. He figures that if it makes him 10% happier, meditation is worth pursuing. 

Sounds about right to me. 

During the 35 years or so I was heavy into a guru-centered form of Eastern meditation, I never met anyone who struck me as enlightened -- whatever that word means. There was a lot of talk about "perfect masters" and "God-realization." But nobody, including the guru, manifested what supposedly was possible.

One of the first self-help teachers Harris comes across is Eckhart Tolle, the power of now guy. His reaction to Tolle fits with my impression of him.

The real mindfuck, though, was this: almost as soon as he [Tolle] said something brilliant, he would say something else that was totally ridiculous. The man was toggling seamlessly between compelling and confusing, incisive and insane.

Later Harris gets interested in Buddhism and links up with a fellow Jubu (Jewish Buddhist), Mark Epstein. Epstein wrote "Thoughts Without a Thinker." I blogged about the book in "No-Self" isn't a spiritual goal -- it's what we already are.

Like Harris, I also find the non-religious, non-supernatural side of Buddhism to be appealing. Here's some excerpts from his "The Jew-Bu" chapter.

As best I could understand it, the Buddha's main thesis was that in a world where everything is constantly changing, we suffer because we cling to things that won't last.

...The Buddha embraced an often overlooked truism: nothing lasts -- including us. We and everyone we love will die. Fame fizzles, beauty fades, continents shift.

...We may know this intellectually, but on an emotional level we seem to be hardwired for denial. We comport ourselves as if we had solid ground beneath our feet, as if we had control.

...Unlike many of the faiths I'd come across as a religion reporter, the Buddha wasn't promoting salvation in the form of some death-denying dogma, bur rather through the embrace of the very stuff that will destroy us.

...Waking up to the reality of our situation allows you to, as the Buddhists say, "let go," to drop your "attachments." As one Buddhist writer put it, the key is to recognize the "wisdom of insecurity."

Well, Harris must be referring to Alan Watts. I love his book by that name.

Expressed that love in a blog post last year. I'd say that Watts is as much a Taoist as a Buddhist though, not that there is a lot of difference between Taoism and Buddhism when the religious'y aspects of each are stripped out.

Harris correctly calls out Eckhart Tolle as having taken a lot from Buddhism without admitting his quasi-plagiarism.

Very quickly it became blazingly clear. The best parts of Tolle were largely unattributed Buddhism.

Tolle had not, as I'd assumed when I'd first read A New Earth, made up his insights out of whole cloth. Apparently  he'd appropriated them, and then effected a sort of intellectual elephantitis, exaggerating their features in the most profitable of ways.

Two and a half millennia before Eckhart Tolle started cashing his royalty checks, it was the Buddha who originally came up with that brilliant diagnosis of the way the mind works.

l'm sure I'll have more to say about "10% Happier" once I've finished the book. So far I seem to be on track, feeling about 5% happier.

We have a conventional self, but not a soul-self

For good reasons I don't believe in a human "self." Or a non-human self either. But this doesn't mean that I deny people exist. 

This notion of no-self can be confusing.

To some, no-self implies oneness. Yet it is obvious that I am me and you are you. We have different bodies and different brains. There are connections between us, but we are distinct entities.

I've found it difficult to explain both to others and myself how the non-existence of a self is compatible with the existence of individual human beings.

Re-reading part of "Living As a River" today, I found that the author, Bodhipaksa (born Graeme Stephen), did a good job delineating the difference between a conventional self, and the sort of soulful entity that generally is viewed as our "self," especially by religious believers.

When we're talking about a conventional self, then, we mean one where the individual recognizes him or herself as an individual and acts in accordance with that recognition. In other words there is some degree of reflexive recognition and reflexive action.

...Our assumptions about our selves, however, transcend mere self-recognition. The understanding of the self against which the Buddha argued vigorously, and which many contemporary scientists and philosophers also dispute, is the notion of a self which is unchanging and separate.

We assume those qualities belong to the self, not so much as part of a thought-out philosophical standpoint arrived at after careful deliberation, but as an instinctual response. This response is at least partly based on the fear of acknowledging our existential situation as fragile and transitory creatures, but also based on a number of perceptual distortions that we'll examine shortly.

...If we identify certain attributes of the self as "essential," then it stands to reason that the core self must be something unchanging. After all, if something is essential, it must be permanent. Although this kind of thinking predominated at the time of the Buddha, he disagreed that there was an unchanging core to the self. Instead he saw the self as composed of a number of ever-changing processes.

...So in effect we own nothing, and therefore nothing that constitutes us can be seen as constituting a self.  So this is the kind of self I do not believe in. I do believe I have a conventional self, which right now is busy typing words on a keyboard. I see my body and recognize it as me rather than you. I experience a flow of experience that is unique to me.

But what of anything beyond that? I do not believe that I -- or you, for that matter -- have a self that is permanent and separate. And when I talk about belief and non-belief I am not talking about "blind faith." I mean to say that my experience is that I do not have a self of this sort.

This also is the experience of neuroscientists who fail to find anything permanent about human consciousness/personality, whether we call this "soul" or any other word, that is separate and distinct from the goings-on of the brain. 

Thus the self is, basically, the mind and body in action. The self is an ever-changing process, not a static thing. I wrote a blog post about Bodhipaksa's book called "Live as a river -- fluid, dynamic, interconnected." Here's some Bodhipaska quotes from that post.

...The self is, in a simile I'll return to frequently, like an eddy in a stream. It has the appearance of being a separate thing and of having permanence, but in what sense can an eddy be permanent? There's no borderline we can say for sure marks where the eddy stops and the river begins.

...We are not separate from the world around us; we instead exist as the sum total of our relationships with a vast web of interconnected processes.

...Consciousness is not an entity that sits within us, awaiting contact with the outside world; rather it's a series of activities that arise in dependence upon contact with the world.

...I will not be suggesting to you that you do not have a self. I will simply try to demonstrate that the self is not what you take it to be, and that it's our idea of having a definable self we must let go of.

...I'll suggest that we cease clinging to the idea of having a self so we can embrace a life that is spontaneous and flowing, like an athlete "in the zone," with a mind clear, focused, and non-grasping.

This morning, during my re-reading of Living as a River, I came across a passage that reminded me of a video I shared recently on my other blog. Bodhipaksa said:

Instead we find ourselves living attentively, spontaneously, and joyfully. Creativity wells up in us without conscious intervention. We know what to do and what to say without even knowing how we know. And we weave around life's obstacles joyfully, with, in the words of Montaigne, minds that are "universal, open, and ready for all things."

Oh, yeah.

That's how I felt land paddling on my longboard at the Venice Beach (California) boardwalk last Saturday. I had to weave around a lot of obstacles -- people, bikes, medical marijuana salesmen, all kinds of things.

As noted above, mostly I didn't have time to consciously think about what direction I was heading or how fast I should go. I just flowed with my experience of the boardwalk.

Fun time. Life goes better with no-self. I only ran gently into one person, my wife, though I had some close calls -- as the video shows.

 

 

"Buddhist Biology" book paradoxically embraces free will

This happens to me a lot, in my now-churchless frame of mind. I'll buy a book that seems to be in my sweet spot: scientific, yet also philosophical, with just enough of a spiritual-but-not-religious tone. 

Like Goldilocks, not too much, not too little. Just right.

I don't mean to sound like a crotchety literary perfectionist. I realize that the reason I like to read books is because they're written by people who aren't me.

I enjoy reading stuff I don't agree with. So long as I can understand the author's reasons for saying what he or she does.

With "Buddhist Biology: Ancient Eastern Wisdom Meets Modern Western Science," I was rocking and rolling along with David Barash's explanations of how pared-down Buddhist teachings, stripped of their supernatural elements, are right in line with modern biology.

(My previous posts about the book are here, here, and here.)

But then I came to the final chapter, Meaning (Existential Bio-Buddhism?). Here Barash says that he will present his personal perspective "rather than attempting to describe objectively the interface between Buddhism and biology."

That's where my enjoyment of the book went downhill. Not all the way to the bottom, not even close. I still enjoyed "Buddhist Biology" a lot and can heartily recommend it.

I just wish that Barash hadn't interjected his personal belief in free will into the book, because free will is very much at odds with both Buddhism and modern science. 

In a footnote early on in the last chapter, Barash writes:

Personal note: my literary agent suggested that I refrain from introducing existentialism into this book, worrying that it is not only passé but also too highbrow. Although he is very intelligent and wise in the ways of Western publishing, my hope is that you, dear readers, will prove him wrong, at least in this regard.

Well, this reader thinks the agent was exactly right. Not for the reason Barash states; I enjoy existentialism; in my college days I embraced Sartre, Camus, and other existentialist thinkers. 

What irked me about the final chapter was how it contradicted so much of what Barash had argued persuasively in favor of before. Here's how I summarized this in one of my blog posts about the book:

The core of Barash's book, which I've almost finished, is that three principles underly Buddhism in all of its varied forms. However, lots is added on to these principles that can't be defended scientifically.

But this much can. Definitions are from the book's glossary.

(1) Anatman -- not-self; denial that things, animals, or people have an independent, substantial nature. In particular, neither humans nor anything else have an eternal non-material soul. Neuroscience supports this.

(2) Anitya -- impermanence; a state of constantly becoming. Change happens. Everywhere. All the time. No exceptions. Except maybe the laws of nature that proclaim "change happens." Evolution is one example.

(3) Pratitya-Samutpada -- connectedness; the dependent co-arising of all phenomena; dependent origination; interdependence of all things. Fundamental premise of ecology, biology, systems thinking.

So we humans don't have an independent nature, or self. We are constantly changing, as is everything else. We are part of an interconnected, interdependent universe where no entity is an island, complete unto itself.

Where in this view of the cosmos is there room for free will? Logically, nowhere. But I guess Barash's fondness for existentialism overrode both his scientific and Buddhist sensibilities, because his last chapter included passages that made me pen in large question marks in the book's margins.

The concept of choice turns out to be especially important here, because in the view of the existentialists, we are free; indeed, in Sartre's paradoxical words, we are "condemned to be free."

...Thus, Buddhist thought diverges from materialist biological science in asserting that genuine intentionality exists even though strict cause-and-effect thinking (supported by biology) insists that free will is an illusion.

...But that does not mean that we are stuck with an atomized, un-Buddhist mind-set, since to a large extent, minds are among those things that we are free to make up for ourselves...admittedly with a gentle shove from that array of genetically inspired tendencies that we designate "biology."

...In any event, "going with the flow" of our biologically generated inclinations is very close to existential "bad faith," wherein people pretend -- to themselves and others -- that they are not free, whereas they in fact are.

...We are free, terrifyingly free, to make these decisions, to keep the ball in the air.

Look: I'm not bothered by a belief in free will. To me, it is like a belief in God. Almost everybody in the world considers that they have free will, and also that God exists. 

Heck, I feel as if I have free will also.

I also feel that the sun rises and sets. But science tells me that the Earth rotates as it orbits the sun. Science also tells me a lot about the nature of the human brain. To me, believing in free will is as scientifically indefensible as believing that the Earth stands still while the sun moves around it.

Tellingly, Barash presents zero scientific evidence in support of his contention that "we are free, terrifyingly free." He says that "in fact," we are free. But doesn't offer up any facts in defense of that statement.

I found this deeply irritating.

Again, not so much as to detract markedly from my enjoyment of his entire book. I just mentally erased Barash's last chapter from the substance of what he said, viewing his personal belief in free will as one of those paradoxes that make people so entertainingly interesting. 

I used to work with a statistician who was fond of quoting Emerson:

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines."

Absolutely.

We are all multitudes, full of messy seeming contradictions, paradoxes, inconsistencies. Yet, I'd argue (because science supports me in this) that the human brain/mind is a entity founded on and formed by causes and effects, not the free will of an independent self.

Which is what Barash also argued up until his last chapter, where he flipped over into his existentialist mode. 

I might have been able to accept an existentialism that was consistent with Buddhism, though not with biology, even though this would have gone against the theme of Barash's book: that the core of Buddhism is compatible with modern biology.

However, it sure seems that free will is at odds with Buddhism also. I offer up the Great God Wikipedia's article on "Free Will." Here's what the Buddhism section says. Pretty involved; I don't claim to understand it completely.

This Zen Buddhist perspective on free will (and the lack thereof) is easier to comprehend. 

Free will is “the freedom of humans to make choices that are not determined by prior causes or by divine intervention.” We don’t talk much about divine intervention in Buddhism, but we definitely talk about prior causes.

So, if we go with that definition, it doesn’t look like there is free will in the view of Buddha-Dharma because everything that happens, including “choice” is determined by conditions. Volition is a mental factor that arises dependent upon conditions, which is precisely what makes it not an independent self.

If there were an independent self, then it could have free will, and in fact that’s what we feel to be true as humans. We believe that “I” as a free agent can, within the limits of conditions imposed by the world, decide what to do now. Don’t we think so?

Free will may sound like a really great thing to have, but it seems to me that it would be kind of a burden to have free will. A question you can contemplate is: If it feels like “you” have to decide anything, do you feel a little bit of unease with that “freedom” of so-called free will?

If you open to the possibility that the boundless totality of conditions is determining your every move, that your “self ” is receiving its function from myriad conditions, do you feel some ease with that sense of “being controlled”?

It sure seems like Buddhism doesn't share Barash's view that "we are free, terrifyingly free." Nor, obviously, does science, including biology.

So Barash's contention that humans have free will isn't founded either in Buddhism or in biology, the twin subjects of his book. Rather, it is founded in his own feeling that he has free will -- a feeling, like I said before, that is shared by most other people.

Fine. I just would contend that Barash's belief in free will, along with my non-belief in free will, are both the result of causes and effects occurring in a marvelously complex interconnected cosmos. 

Not the result of free will. (I just had to say that.) 

Spirituality should be based on reality

Since I bought it, my go-to book for reading prior to my morning meditation/quiet time has been David Barash's "Buddhist Biology: Ancient Eastern Wisdom Meets Modern Western Science." 

My previous posts about the book are here and here. 

For me, it's a home run in the spirituality without supernaturalism ballpark. In the same genre of Stephen Bachelor's "Buddhism Without Beliefs," yet more satisfying in certain ways, being based on solid science. Albeit with a healthy dose of modern secular Buddhism viewpoints.

The core of Barash's book, which I've almost finished, is that three principles underly Buddhism in all of its varied forms. However, lots is added on to these principles that can't be defended scientifically.

But this much can. Definitions are from the book's glossary.

(1) Anatman -- not-self; denial that things, animals, or people have an independent, substantial nature. In particular, neither humans nor anything else have an eternal non-material soul. Neuroscience supports this.

(2) Anitya -- impermanence; a state of constantly becoming. Change happens. Everywhere. All the time. No exceptions. Except maybe the laws of nature that proclaim "change happens." Evolution is one example.

(3) Pratitya-Samutpada -- connectedness; the dependent co-arising of all phenomena; dependent origination; interdependence of all things. Fundamental premise of ecology, biology, systems thinking.

Here's a passage from the book that says a lot in a few sentences:

Evolutionary biologists typically attribute convergence among living things not to mere coincidences but to an underlying similarity in ecological niches. 

If two species -- say, whales and sharks -- appear very similar despite being unrelated, the likelihood is that both are adapted to a similar marine environment, which of course they are.

In the same way, we also have both placental mice and marsupial mice, and the wings of birds and those of bats.

The shape and structure of wings speaks eloquently about the physical properties of air and about how the experience of air is shared by flying birds and flying mammals, just as fins are eloquent about water. 

Likewise, the extraordinary parallels between Buddhism and biology, independently captured by seemingly disparate perspectives, may also be due to the nature of their shared reality.

Well, I'd change that "may" in the last sentence to "almost certainly." At least, this is the conclusion I've drawn after reading most of Barash's book.

Once Buddhism is stripped of its supernaturalism, such as a belief in transmigration or reincarnation (which is at odds with its not-self principle), it does indeed seem that Buddhist philosophy is a fairly accurate reflection of reality as modern science has come to know it.

Imperfectly and incompletely to be sure. But a heck of a lot more accurately than religions have been able to comprehend the cosmos. 

So why might someone want to overlay a reality-based philosophy like modern secular Buddhism over what science has learned about reality? Good question. I suspect Barash will answer it in the book's final chapters. 

My personal take on this is that we humans are complex creatures. We aren't just rational thinking machines, and we aren't just intuitive emotional beings. There is a multitude within us.

Those 100 billion neurons in the brain with trillions of connections produce some pretty weird shit, to put it crudely but accurately.

I love to read hard-core popular science books. But they leave me with a wanting for something more. That more is emotional, meaningful, quasi-poetic, uplifting. The sort of thing that, when I have it, makes me feel that life is good and I'm an integral part of a wonderful reality.

Barash does an excellent job of describing how the three principles above -- not-self, impermanence, connectedness -- do indeed lead to a understanding of how to live life happily, meaningfully, productively.

But that's the subject of another blog post, after I finish the book.  

Not-self a teaching of Buddhism, not Hinduism

It is extremely simplistic to speak of "Eastern" religions as if they all are much the same. Actually, they aren't. For example, in some regards Hinduism is closer to Christian theology than to Buddhist teachings.

Case in point: not-self. Buddhists call this anatman. 

The doctrine of anatman (or anatta in Pali) is one of the central teachings of Buddhism. According to this doctrine, there is no "self" in the sense of a permanent, integral, autonomous being within an individual existence. What we think of as our self, our personality and ego, are temporary creations of the skandhas.

Hinduism also uses this term. But in this religion the word means something very different. 

Anātman (Sanskrit: अनात्मन्) in Sanskrit means not spiritual, corporeal, unreal, something different from spirit or soul, not self, another. In Advaita Vedanta this word is used to indicate Samsara i.e. the world - existence or the world phenomena, which is the unreal projected by ignorance on the real, that is, on Brahman who is the Absolute.

In other words, Buddhism doesn't consider there is any unchanging, permanent, foundational aspect to reality. Rather, everything is interconnected, "empty." 

Not empty in the sense of nothingness, a void. Empty in the sense that every seemingly separate entity lacks a distinct individuality, a quality unique to itself, an eternal aspect, a being-ness all to its own.

However, Hinduism and other like-minded faiths (including, as mentioned above, Christianity) posit the existence of Atman, or soul. Atman supposedly is an everlasting drop of the spiritual ocean, Brahman, our real self.

Here's how David Barash describes the contrast between Buddhism and HInduism in his fascinating book, "Buddhist Biology." 

Some of his [Buddha's] impatience was evoked by the ancient Brahmanical texts known as the Upanishads, which predated Buddhism by a thousand years or more, and against which the then-emerging tradition of Buddhism had to define itself -- not unlike Christianity struggling to distinguish itself from its ancestral Judaism.

The Upanishads promote a very different conception of the self, or atman, as an unchanging substance (not altogether different from the Christian sense of a soul) that is eternal and uniquely associated with each individual.

For Hindus, atman is not only indestructible but also beyond description as well as beyond suffering. 

...This atman, in classical HIndu thought, is connected to the underlying ground substance of all reality, namely brahman. For the Upanishads, it isn't too much of a stretch to suggest that atman = brahman. Buddhists, as we have seen, view things differently as reflected in the alternative designation, anatman or "not-self."

...Let us stipulate yet again that Buddhists are not fools. They realize that each of us experiences a degree of continuous memory as well as some continuity of body. They are not claiming that there is literally "no self," but rather that the various aggregates of personhood are not one's self. Buddhists certainly know the difference between the "you" who is reading these words and the "I" who has written them (or the other way around).

But when we introspect -- and also when we consider the objective biological facts -- neither you nor I can find a solid, unchanging "me" aside from the feelings, sense data, ideas, and so forth that are apparent to our selves at any given moment.

The great philosopher David Hume -- who, after all, was renowned as a hard-headed empiricist, not as a mystic or in any other way a devotee of Eastern thought -- described in A Treatise on Human Nature the following widely shared experience, one that could as well have come from a Buddhist master:

When I enter most intimately into what I call myself, I always stumble on some particular perception or other, of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or pleasure. I can never catch myself at any time without a perception, and never can observe any thing but the perception.

I've been having an interesting comment conversation over on this blog post, which has quite a few comments (scroll in the comment section down to the January 2014 interchanges between "devpaul" and me). 

At first I thought that devpaul's commitment to one wife, one car, one bicycle, one job, one religious belief, and such throughout one's life was based on Indian culture. He is critical of my contention that it is normal to change all of these things, and so much more, during one's lifetime. 

Or, if not exactly critical, devpaul contends that it really isn't possible to make spiritual progress without an enduring commitment to a single religious perspective, sticking with it through thick and thin, good times and hard times. 

Like marriage, I guess. Of which I have had two. And he, one (an arranged marriage).

There are undoubtedly cultural factors influencing how devpaul and I look upon the world. I'm pretty sure there also are philosophical differences impacting our worldviews. Though I'm not a Buddhist, I resonate with the "not-self" perspective. 

As Barash argues in his book, it is pleasingly scientific, being in tune with modern neuroscience, biology, and psychology. Not to mention common sense, as Hume pointed out. Where is the "me" separate from my experiences?

So I have no problem embracing all the changes I've experienced in my life, including changing my religious perspective from believer to churchless. After all, I don't consider there is any "me" or "I" other than those experiences.

Thus there is no self that I can be untrue to, or let down. If I change my mind, I realize there was no enduring me which possessed a mind. I'm just my mind, my body, my experiences, my sensations, my thoughts, my feelings.

In fact, I could have left out all the "my's" in that last sentence. Force of habit to write it the way I did.

I like this passage in "Buddhist Biology."

Ambrose Bierce, incidentally, modified Descartes's dictum to cogito cogito ergo cogito sum -- "I think I think, therefore I think I am" -- arguing that this was as close to certainty as philosophy was likely to get.