9/21

I've been missing your prose and thought I would simply check in and see what images your prism of reality might be creating these days.  It seems as if many have been experiencing a brief period of transition lately.

As the northwestern winds mark the changing of the seasons, I hope they will carry in what thoughts are in your heart.

Hypnogogic.  This is the space of sleep, of unawakening, of samsara. This is the dream of the matter, the heart contracted by unknowing, “wandering the landscape” of mind.  To open with dreaming “as us” “about the dust,” rather than as dust about us, there is a going inward as opposed to emerging from.  The biblical reference of “dust” is apt and does indeed speak to impermanence, but also something more: the permanence of change and thus the opportunity for deepening awareness, for example, in Noah’s case, going inward. For he knows you can’t circumvent the psychological, even though it hurls him into terror.  For Noah, it is always the body, the deep body of the unconscious from which he will make sense (notice the double-meaning of “sense” here).  The primeval images and collective archetypes swirl around consciousness seeking recognition and reified appearance so as to order reality, give it coherence through language.  This is the poem.  Language began with a thud, that is, after silence, for silence is the first language.  But then the thunder and the desire to name it.  To name, from a spiritual perspective, is double-coded: it attracts and detracts.  It creates a binary of form and points to the nondual of emptiness.  It encases “the transcient substance of the world before burning” and brims with light, the impermanence of which will never change, for the light of rigpa is permanent, even in its emptiness.  And if we get this, as Noah is trying to do as he slowly and painstakingly bakes his way along, we create an atmosphere free from all negative afflictive emotions, and are no longer “swept away,” because “nothing comes as no surprise.”  But, most importantly, Noah knows that, until he sits and finds the silence, the poem, though a poem, will yet to be a poem.

I sent three responses to your questions and would love to hear your insights.

 I learned recently that James is at Columbia taking a course on Buddhism with the world renown Buddhist scholar Bob Thurman.  As part of the course, there is a required reading list and a web "bulletin board" for students to post.  Following are james' posts to other students regarding the Vimalakīrti Sutra.  he wrote to me:

"i'll try and take some of this energy to the blog. these, of course, are w/o the context of the original posts, but i don't think it'll matter much to you. at times the context will be clear from my phrasing, at all times methinks the context won't much matter for your understanding. and, of course, i can send you w/e if you'd like to see it. they all wrote great posts. the questions are often the wrong questions ;) but of course they are! and anyway, the nature of all things is liberation..."
 
----
 
 

I'd like to respond to a number of the posts I've thus far read.

What a gem we have here! Vimalakīrti -- holy teachings indeed. In my estimation, we have in front of us the key to Buddhism/Buddhist teaching. It's really quite simple, and yet…Vimalakīrti tells the frightened Subhūti,"All language does not ultimately exist, except as liberation. The nature of all things is liberation" (28). Wow! Or, in other words--- What?

Vimalakīrti is telling us to chill out, not take things so seriously. Yet, he warns, we also must be more diligent, take things more seriously. How is this possible? You see, Vimalakīrti is large, he contains multitudes. On the one hand we take language (for example!) too seriously-- we become attached to one meaning, and when that meaning is challenged (as it is for Subhūti by Vimalakīrtis strange words) we become frightened and often angry. In moments such as these one can physically feel one's attachment, as one's body constricts around the meaning with which one is comfortable, protecting it fiercely from the confusing challenge assaulting it. 

Yet, on the other hand, we do not take language seriously enough. You see, we fail to recognize that the nature of language is liberation. This is no small thing to be taken lightly! This is not something to be tossed about without care. One must pay diligent care and attention to language -- that which we speak and that which is spoken to us -- in order to recognize what is present with and as it at all times: liberation. If the nature of language is liberation, really we must not be paying very close attention. We speak and speak and speak and yet-- none of us is liberated!

So one must be very careful -- both to take things (such as language, or oneself) both less and more seriously. Because nothing ultimately exists, except as liberation.

And so: onto the posts of my curious classmates!

T: In Sanskrit, bodhisattva literally means "One whose essence is perfect knowledge." Yes, there is perhaps a distinction between a Buddha and a Bodhisattva… but, what is that distinction? What, really, is the difference? E.g., in response to some of S's pondering, if the Buddha did not in fact attain parinirvāṇa, do you suppose this is because he failed to? Or do the Mahāyānists want you to see the Buddha as having chosen -- as he did initially after his enlightenment -- to remain in the world out of compassion for others? There is an important distinction here. Surely the Buddha could have extinguished his karmic stream had he so wished. But if he chose, on the other hand -- emphasis on choice--, to remain eternally, as long as there are sentient beings experiencing suffering, out of a wish to see an end to their suffering (i.e., compassion), he is surely exhibiting supreme compassion. How, T, is this different from a bodhisattva? We can distinguish between various enlightened beings, and perhaps there is some difference, but if we become too attached to these distinctions we may lose sight of the liberation found therein. All language does not ultimately exist!

A, I think you ask an extremely important question, one which I believe should be re-asked over and over again, even by fools like me who mistakenly believe they understand the answer. You can find, with me, the enormous gulf between intellectual understanding and experiential understanding. Hence: I suffer. But: what are we? We are certainly no thing, but that does not mean that we are nothing. Form is emptiness, yes (aka "matter is voidness" -- but isn't that so ugly sounding?), but remember, emptiness is form. Form is not other than emptiness. But: Emptiness is not other than form. That is to say, all is not nothing, nor is anything something. I know, I know, paradox again. But if things are paradoxical, what can one do but speak paradox? You speak on behalf of the many billions of people on the planet-- yet I would ask you, does majority necessarily denote authority? In 1984 the protagonist finds himself "a minority of one." That doesn't mean his thoughts are misguided… But, more importantly, is the important distinction I made earlier between "no thing" and "nothing." "Nothing" implies nihilism: nothing exists. That is not what the Buddha is saying. What he is saying is that nothing ultimately exists, or, as you put it, nothing has "inherent existence." Ergo, all things have only relative existence. You exist, just not inherently. Let me try to be less enigmatic. If the Buddha passed you by on the road he would say, "Hello A." But how? If you don't exist inherently, how could he refer to you in this way? Because "A" refers to what you experience as "I." The difference between the Buddha and you is simple: he recognizes that "A" is merely a convenient designator of an aggregation of causes and conditions, and thus he can refer to and converse with you without mistaking you for an inherently existing being. You, on the other hand, mistake "I" for something real. Surely you exist, but notreally. I know, this isn't much clearer. But all I can do is point -- there's a good reason I'm not as eloquent as Vimalakīrti! Just remember, language does not ultimately exist.

A: can a fairy tale help guide you towards enlightenment? If not, I would ask if your comparison holds up. If so (as perhaps Vimalakīrti would maintain), I would ask whether it matters whether these are words spoken by Gautama Buddha or, on the other hand, "merely fairy tales." If words had to have come from Śakyamuni Buddha's mouth to be considered authentic Buddhist teachings, perhaps we are at a complete loss. We better just forego the entire process altogether!

I would suggest -- as I believe Professor Thurman would -- that the notion of a bodhisattva ideal is already present in Theravāda Buddhism (or, perhaps I should call it "Dualistic Buddhism"). The Buddha did not commit religious suicide after his enlightenment. At first he was reluctant, but then he realized that he could indeed spread his message. But you see, even the Buddha at first was unsure how this would be done. He had to meditate on it for a long while, and only then did he become confident that he could begin to teach other humans -- defiled though our minds may be -- that which he learned under the bodhi tree. He had to uncover many ways of teaching many different humans. You see, all language does not ultimately exist.

And so we come to M's question: do we have no free will? Are we slaved to the voices in our heads? And, further, will our thoughts and decisions ever become our "own"? What I love best, M, is how you put 'own' into quotation marks. What would the difference be between, say, our thoughts becoming our own, and on the other hand, our thoughts becoming our "own"? Perhaps you are reluctant to leave off the quotation marks, knowing some clever trickster like me will come along and say, "To what does this 'own' refer? Where is your self?!" Again, one must remember that language does not ultimately exist, except as liberation. And so, how does one help to liberate one who is so enmeshed in the Western mindset? This, after all, is the task of Thurman's "Inner Revolution." First, perhaps, one must unsettle the outermost layer of ignorance. Can one pierce straight to the core? Perhaps a supremely advanced teacher could bring a willing student very far very quickly… but a multitude? This is very difficult. Professor Thurman wants to challenge us, to unsettle us, and yet to inspire us all at once. If we had no free will, what would be the point of his book? How could we ever aspire to destroy our self-imposed enslavement to the thoughts of other, if we are not ever capable of deciding? I believe that we in the West require something different than, say, a Tibetan Buddhist monk would in order to spur us onto the path. You see, we must ultimately destroy our false notion of self (as independent, isolated, inherently existing), but we must have a strong notion of self first if we are to destroy it. This is where something like therapy comes into play. All things are conditioned. We are no different, and the conditions of our mind include the instructions (both intentional and unintentional) of our parents, our community, our friends. But if these have led us astray, we must learn to quiet their voices. But when we learn to still the voices of other in our minds, will we discover our own voices, or that we have misunderstood the nature of our minds? I'm not sure. Perhaps at this point different people will be at different levels. But, you see, all language does not inherently exist, except as liberation. Read "Inner Revolution" with this in mind, and perhaps you will find you can take it both less and more seriously at once. (Although, I am largely just being provocative-- questioning in response to reading "Inner Revolution" reflects, I think, a good level of seriousness :)

Finally, S: Yes! One must understand reincarnation (and subscribe to the view that we are reincarnated) if one is to understand birth. A question: why is it that I was born in a small town in Queens full of confused and misguided people, whereas Tenzin Gyatso was born in Tibet and recognized as the Dalai Lama and thus instructed in the Dharma since he was a very young child? The only answer can be karma. Otherwise one would say either that God made it that way (which I would then respond to by saying, "Why?" or "What does that mean?"), or that it's sheer dumb luck. But neither position is ultimately tenable. Hence: reincarnation. Of course, I don't imagine I've suddenly convinced you, but certainly we can agree that, indeed, the explanation for the impurity of the human mind already present at birth is karma. It is my personal belief that even those who are not very spiritually achieved in a way choose their parents. It is not so clear-sighted and willed a choice as, say, the Buddha's choice to be born as Siddhartha Gautama, but we do seem to find ourselves in curiously fitting situations when we are born. We are born, it seems to me, to that situation (e.g. our parents) in which we will best be challenged. It's a sort of cosmic samsaric skillful means, whereby no external source selects our birth (there would be a morality inherent in this), but our karma determines that which we most need to bring us further along the path. This, then, would clarify some of the troubling notions of heaven and hell realms. One would no longer need to ask, "Who determines that I am going to a hell realm?" Well, I do, in a way. Lots of curious thoughts, eh? Well, all language does not ultimately exist, except as liberation. Who needs morality if the nature of all things is liberation? Sinning, God would say, is inherently wrong. Sinning, Vimalakīrti would say, is not inherently wrong. This does not make it simply acceptable. What it means is that it does not exist inherently. Sinning is liberation. This does not mean one can sin all one wants without consequence. Sin necessarily has consequences because, like all else, it is empty. If you can see through the Buddha's eyes, however, you recognize that sin is liberation. How? Good question.

I know I just wrote a very long post, and I hope that's okay… Vimalakīrti excited me very much! It's all empty words, anyway. I must of course add that I am primarily inspired by Tibetan Buddhism, and thus I'm likely to "side with" the Mahāyānists. Though, I don't think there's as huge separation between the vehicles as those enmeshed in them seem to. Perhaps I'm mistaken. Any challenges?

"The nature of all things is like illusion, like magical incarnation. So you should not fear them. Why? All words have that nature, and thus the wise are not attached to words, nor do they fear them. Why? All language does not ultimately exist, except as liberation. The nature of all things is liberation."

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Uh oh; more posts. Now that I've gotten going, I wonder whether I'll be able to stop. This is an addendum to my previous post, and thus I hope that if you are reading this you get a chance to first look over my previous post (though, I understand, that one was rather verbose...)

So, three more posts, three more paragraphs. A, I was struck very deeply by your question regarding mental illness. This is a powerful reminder that, playful though I am with this material, it is not to be taken lightly. The one thing I would like to point out-- and this is something I will most likely repeatedly stress throughout the semester-- is that the Buddha is not making a moral claim. That's what "The Secret" offers, and "The Secret" is very very misguided. (Says me.) Thus if one is limited by one's mental illness (as I would imagine many, if not most, affected by mental illness are), it is not the result of being bad, and it is not inherently so. The nature of all things is liberation, and so even very debilitating mental illness is, somehow, liberation. This is a very beautiful message, not a mean, ugly one. And yet, it is very hard to understand. But what I can offer, at least, is what I have already said: the theory of karma is not a moral theory. There is an ethics (hence the early and oft-continued insistence upon Buddhism's "ten commandments" -- but the distinction between the Judeo-Christian moral commandments and the non-moral Buddhist ones is huge), but not a morality. Mental illness does not reveal "badness," nor does it necessitate limitation. Perhaps one specific being is protected and nurtured from within the situation of mental illness. Perhaps another is deeply challenged according to her deepest (karmic) needs. Perhaps another is severely limited. All of this is okay, even if it is sometimes frightening and sad. 

S: I very much dislike the word "voidness." It strikes me as extremely ugly, and I greatly prefer the term "emptiness." I'll ask ProfT why he goes with the former. What, I would ask you, is infinity? Does the Buddha teach infinity? If so, in what way? And thus, what would it mean in a Buddhist context? I love your question. "Why can we not use matter to refer to [the table] without including voidness?' Well, the table is matter, that is clear. But it is also voidness. That is to say, it is also emptiness, which is to say it is empty of inherent existence. A quick thought experiment, courtesy of Thich Nhat Hanh (see: "The Heart of Understanding" -- a very quick read). Can you see the clouds in the table? You see, the table is made of wood, which was once a tree. While alive, this tree was fed by the rainwater which was, before it became rain, a cloud. The tree is also fed by the sun, and thus the sun is also in this table. You, too, are in this table. And thus the table does not exist on its own, separately from everything else in the universe. It is interconnected with all else, and thus we say it has the nature of voidness, or emptiness. As Vimalakīrti would point out, all language does not ultimately exist, and thus we must not become attached to words. "Voidness" does sound like "the void," but we must be careful. Voidness is matter, but matter is also voidness. Voidness is not other than matter; yet we must not forget, matter is not other than voidness. One cannot separate the two. Thus, I think, we must do a better job in class of clarifying the terms "voidness, emptiness," because I believe the answer to your question (or, perhaps, the answer to the question you would otherwise be asking--) is to be held therein…

O, you also have many interesting thoughts. I cannot help but respond to everything I have seen written on this discussion board. It is all so rich and thoughtful. (I'm so excited!) I would ask you what you suppose Prof.T is doing here. Is he expressing disapproval -- which is to say, is he pitting the "politic of enlightenment" completely against "the modern human rights tradition"? Are they pitted against one another, is he expressing disapproval (and thus a moral judgment), or is he pointing out the limitations of the modern human rights tradition in the light of a politic of enlightenment? Perhaps the modern human rights tradition is well-guided, but limited. I would ask the same about the interest in Western interest in Buddhism (which, unless I am mistaken, you seem to conflate with the modern human rights tradition). Is Thurman disapproving of this interest, or is he eager to dispel misunderstandings which lead to a limited approach? Of course, these questions are a bit loaded, and I apologize for that. Even so… all language does not ultimately exist. Even loaded language.

Now, S, you ask further juicy questions. I would like to suggest a hypothesis which would perhaps surprise some people in my life who accuse me of being a Buddhist and fear my becoming a monk (they should do no such thing; there is no danger of such a renunciation occurring). My suggestion is the following: some Buddhist texts are propaganda. In the same breath I would assert that all language does not ultimately exist, except as liberation, and thus even seemingly transparent moral injunctions against those damn Hinayānists (as the mean Mahāyānist might say) may perhaps contain something deeper than its ostensibly propagandistic message. But onto other things… Whence this enormous difference?! (If it's propaganda, perhaps the difference is exaggerated -- I would suggest such a thing is occurring.) Just a quick thought on your last question -- you say, "If someone is just able to transfer their suffering…" and I think this is a telling re-wording of the original phrasing. One is not transferring one's own suffering; rather the bodhisattva is taking the other's suffering upon him/herself. Though your challenge still stands, in a sense, what I would like to underline is the enormity of the bodhisattva's action. This is what is being emphasized here. Yes, I would agree the suffering individual must still have to do the work to attain enlightenment… but imagine the power of the bodhisattva, to be able to work such magic! How is it possible? Is it? Perhaps not… but it's nice poetry, at least, eh? And certainly a pretty inspirational idea. What compassion! No, but really. Maybe we can get real mystical with this and find bodhisattvas everywhere by recognizing that the nature of all things is liberation...

Now, Om, I have not yet read this fairly new text, and I hope to soon rectify that deficiency. But allow me to question your argument a little bit anyway.

You call this a vote of confidence from the Dalai Lama, but I'm not yet convinced. He "admits" here that there is an ostensible deficiency in Buddhist texts, an oversight, if you will, of the developmental process. And perhaps he would even (and perhaps even does!) go on to agree that more attention to this aspect of experience would be helpful. But, to keep it simple, would this then mean, for the Dalai Lama, that meditation practice and Buddhist teachings, when diligently practiced and studied, are not sufficient on their own to bring a Westerner to freedom from negative afflictive emotions?

Emily, I am eager to hear about your weekend experiences.  What was it like to listen and sit with the Dalai Lama.  Please forgive me for being envious.

I do have a question for you regarding community.  I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be part of a community, as well as, how to step into one.  Any thoughts on this topic which you might like to share.

My head is swirlling with the leaves this morning and I am not doing half of what I need to be doing.  Just one of those internal, I need to rest kind of days - used to need them more often, but now, only once in a while.  I gave a talk last night on death, grief, and it went very very well - I was relaxed and present, but everything leading up to that moment was like the final hike up a steep mountain.  I knew once I arrived it would be exhilirating, that it is what I have been in training to do, and now, if there is a next time, it will be easier  It was as if I have been waiting all my life for this moment, and it was, just as I hoped, just one moment - no greater no lesser than any other.  What an amazing journey to the present.

So much of my talk was informed by my sitting practice.  Afterwards a bereaved parent came up to me and said to me that she is taking away two things: be present and be honest.  I saw such suffering last night, real grief, and lots of lingering unresolved grief from people who have been struggling for decades.  At the end one person asked me what I felt like now,  all these years after my sister died. I said," I am so sorry that she died and I am so happy to be alive."  And at last, I feel, at rest.

 "Just think of the beautiful garden which could be created if the collective wasteland from all egos could be transformed from manure into fertilizer for growth. :)"

It sounds like this past weekend.  As I'm breaking ground for the vegetable gardens at the retreat, I take in this strangely odiferous fragrance that, of course, is either horse or cow shit, and I say, "Ooh, Heaven made it down."

alchemy

it’s like an emptying… what crows caw to

tossing what was heaped out onto a pile

like compost, how it takes

what needs to burn

and works it with heat

water, air and earth;

and like a chocolate mouth

sucking it down whole

shitting out what something else can use;

the heap that once was turns to gold.

Bodhi, thanks for sharing that poem--it was the perfect message for me to find today.  As the last leaves blow off the trees here, and the dark skies open up to release pelting sheets of cold rain, it seems that images of dying are everywhere.  But reading the poem I realized that there are bulbs in my garden planted deep beneath the soil that are safe from the brutal elements and that will make their way to the surface again in the spring.  The new buds will form and finally bloom.  And until then I will simply be present to what's happening on the surface--the swirling chaos that belies changes taking place where no one can see them.

 "Everything flowers from within, of self-blessing."  This reminds me of two things.  The first is from the Gospel according to Thomas, where Jesus says, "If you do not draw forth what is within, what is within will destroy you.  If you draw forth what is within, what is within will save you."  The flowering within, what Kinnell speaks of, is that potentiality we al have.  But, what he doesn't make clear is the intensive work that goes into that self-blessing.  As a poem, it is inspirational; and inspiration is just that, it breathes into being that which is what Zen calls Our Original Face.  Self-blessing indeed.  Evolution realizing itself.

I then thought of Wallace Stevens again.  In Stevens' `The Snowman,' like Kinnel's poem, self-blessing is our Buddha nature, that which is, as it is. That blessing, paradoxically, is the blessing when "self" drops out into the"nothing that is not there, and the nothing that is."  Blessing is the cognizance of Emptiness, for in that understanding, all suffering ceases.  That is, in that understanding, we create an atmosphere free from all negative afflictive emotions.  Not a very poetic way of saying it, but it is the poem that points, through our hearts, to that which is, as it is.  After Stevens' poem, I would like to share a poem I wrote inspired by a teacher of a very dear friend of mine.  I try to capture how this "self-blessing," like all things spiritual, is deeply rooted in relationship.

One must have a mind of winter 

To regard the frost and the boughs 
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time 
To behold the junipers shagged with ice, 
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think 
Of any misery in the sound of the wind, 
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land 
Full of the same wind 
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow, 
And, nothing himself, beholds 
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is

        ------------------------

Portraits of My Teacher, Tulku Urgyen

                    1

Are all things holy so bright?

The softness of wafting air

and willows in the silver sky:

ethereality and a heron

over an early morning

lake as prayer begins.

                    2

Your eyes glance upward in flight

brown almonds of Tibetan sky

your glasses the sun's rays--

you can raise Lazarus again

  if you will.

                     3

I am emptiness gathering form

forming emptiness in your smile--

you hold me, a mother blessed

with gifts of tiny stones.

                 4

I walk across you feigning

wakefulness, and you laugh

like a father whose baby takes

his first steps, then falls.

                  5

Your hands are the hands of saints

and peasants and little girls

picking daisies.

                      6

I lie under the arch of your care

gently bringing back the sound

vibrating through the beaks

of birds and wings of bees.

I raise the trees as they raise me

from despair and human things

from dreams and dreaming

and your hands fragrant and free

grasping cloth, and nothing.

                7

Not even you can save me

but those eyes, those eyes

of eternal grace embrace

my longings

and gentle thoughts

gentler now.

                8

The roundness of your head

like a stone fallen from sky

and with no weight

but perhaps weight enough

for me to hold you in my hands

and stroke and wash time

from your day

and the beads of water

on skin misty

from the motion

of frail limbs

        8

let me soothe

and hold you

as you have held me

with love and care

I have only my touch

to give.

          9

I am the mourning dove

cooing to you

your heart the seed

your hand will feed me

for it is the earth

and the unfurling

bud

your eyes the sun

coloring the rain

and the seed

and bluing the sea

surround me

              10

and there was silence

that once wrestled

in my throat

knotting and rotting

until I sat and waited

as it emptied into the green

and blue against a coral sky. 

          11

In my silence I don't ask why

I sit and like a child and lover--

and reach into your eyes

still and clear.