by Domyo Burk | Mar 6, 2012 | Your Zen Toolbox
When someone wishes to become a Buddhist, they “take refuge” in the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha, after passing through the “gateway of contrition.” Yet Buddhism is not a theistic religion, and the Buddha’s last teaching was “be a lamp unto yourself.” Who or what is providing refuge to a Buddhist, and to whom are we confessing our shortcomings? How are the acts of taking refuge and being contrite compatible with being “a lamp unto yourself”?
Some people have no trouble summoning devotional spiritual feelings, but many of us are too much a product of our skeptical culture to readily give ourselves over to something that seems “outside” of ourselves. Whether the thing inviting surrender is a religion or a person, we want to preserve our dignity and autonomy. We feel some alarm, if not outright aversion, when we read the phrase in our scripture containing the Zen Buddhist precepts, the Kyojukaimon, “We should repeat with bowed heads… I take refuge in the Buddha, I take refuge in the Dharma, I take refuge in the Sangha.” (The Buddha is the historical Buddha but also our own ability to awaken; the Dharma is the Buddhist teachings but also the truth; the Sangha is the community of Buddhists but also all living beings.) Why are we bowing? Does this bowing imply unworthiness? Doesn’t “refuge” imply these things will give us something we can’t give ourselves? Why can’t we just meditate and try to be a good person?
The answer to that last question, of course, is that we can just meditate and try to be a good person, and that in itself is of essential importance. However, we will be missing an extremely valuable and potent aspect of spiritual practice if we skip too quickly over the paradox of refuge.
Essentially, human beings can rarely tap into their full potential if they do not, in some way, acknowledge and align themselves harmoniously with That Which Is Greater, with the Ineffable that inspires our deepest hearts. Even our individual life is much, much greater than the part we usually identify as “self,” or “I, me and mine.” We are supported by, challenged by, and influenced by an infinite number of causes and conditions. In a very literal way, we are only who we are because of where we stand in relationship to the rest of the universe.
When we get some inkling that there is something beneficial, beautiful, noble or even benevolent in the “rest of the universe,” we can turn toward it with interest at the very least, and perhaps even with gratitude or devotion. This is what Huston Smith calls turning toward the “more.” Fortunately, this does not require belief in a deity, or even in something good that is inherently separate from ourselves. As Huston Smith describes in Why Religion Matters:
“…the finitude of mundane existence cannot satisfy the human heart completely. Built into the human makeup is a longing for a “more” that the world of everyday experience cannot requite. This outreach strongly suggests the existence of the something that life reaches for in the way the wings of birds point to the reality of air…
“The reality that excites and fulfills the soul’s longing is God by whatsoever name. Because the human mind cannot come within light-years of comprehending God’s nature, we do well to follow Rainer Maria Rilke’s suggestion that we think of God as a direction rather than an object.”
If you can imagine the wonder and order of evolution proceeding without a being to direct it, why not imagine a moral and spiritual order in the universe without a being to oversee it?
Still, although “It” might not be a “being,” it is important to bow our heads and take refuge. Isn’t part of you touched when you place your hands palm-to-palm in reverence? Such reverence is about acknowledging connection and aspiration, amongst other things. It gets us past our limited self and allows us to access a greater energy and potential. This is what has been proved again and again in 12-step programs; there is usually a limit to the change someone can make until they surrender, in some way, to a “higher power.” This step has been troubling to many addicts who are agnostics and atheists. Buddhism offers a way to take refuge without belief in a deity – but it’s not the no-deity part that is important, it’s the emphasis on refuge itself. The act of taking refuge is consistent with a profound aspect of our humanity, or of our being part of this amazing universe.
by Domyo Burk | Feb 16, 2012 | Karma Relationship: Taking Care of Your Life
When you want to make a change in your life, have you ever wished you skip over the willpower part? If only you could leap directly to that deep conviction that you are intimately connected to all beings, so anger wouldn’t arise in the first place and you wouldn’t have to resist indulging it. If only you could suddenly find yourself four months into a new exercise routine, when you would be very familiar with how good it makes you feel and you would naturally be motivated to do it.
Sadly, in the midst of a discussion about willpower and its relationship to Lojong, Buddhist mind training, Yangsi Rinpoche warned us that Lojong is not about forcing oneself to do something or to refrain from something. It is not a fast-acting remedy to laziness or a lack of self-control that is meant to be applied in emergencies. Rather, he said, it is like a holistic approach to health that requires time to have an effect, and this effect is based in understanding, not in our ability to force ourselves to act in a particular way.
Rinpoche’s teaching is certainly consistent with my own experience of Buddhist practice. At first – and sometimes for a very long time – it takes a great deal of effort to conform to a particular practice, such as not misusing sexual energy. Our habits and desires pull us in one direction, while our aspiration to change pulls us in another. Over time, though, by carefully observing the workings of cause and effect in our life, we see clearly how misusing sexual energy leads to suffering for ourselves and others. We become converted to the teaching; it takes less effort to conform to a particular practice because we understand its relationship to suffering or happiness, and we naturally seek happiness and want to avoid suffering.
However, according to the Buddhist teachings there is no way around having to use and cultivate energy if we want to make any progress on a spiritual (or any) path. To use an analogy from physics, the energy (force) we apply to something multiplied by the progress we make (the distance we move it) equals work. Spiritual practice can be hard work. The effort and energy required to create change – to stop something already in motion, such as a habit, to redirect energy, or to start something new – Buddhists call Virya, translated as energy, effort, zeal, vigor, vitality, or perseverance. It is listed as one of the Mahayana perfections, or paramitas, which are necessary for awakening oneself and others. It is also listed in the Theravadin tradition as one of the five spiritual faculties necessary for spiritual progress.
To me the “willpower” described in psychological terms by Baumeister and Tierney is synonymous with Virya, and I appreciate the light their books shines on this sometimes elusive human faculty. The research they describe clearly proves that willpower is, or acts like, an energy, in that it can be depleted and replenished. Like our physical energy it seems to build up naturally over time with rest and nourishment, and gets used up when we apply ourselves to certain kinds of tasks. What is particularly fascinating to me is that willpower is depleted in many different ways (keeping track of tasks undone, dealing with physical pain, and making decisions, for example) and that its supply never appears to be infinite.
It makes sense that Virya or willpower is an energy – after all, “energy” is one of the translations of Virya. This is a good argument for using Virya, like all energy, wisely. Ideally we will apply our energy to things that will lead to “progress” – healthier habits, better states of mind, more harmonious relationships, etc. – but also to a situation what will require less energy, and perhaps even increase our overall supply of energy.
Buddhist practice is aimed at doing exactly this. As Rinpoche said, the long-term change comes from a change in our understanding. In my experience, this is that process of conversion, seeing and experiencing the value of a certain behavior of body, speech or mind oneself, in a very personal and real way. In the context of Lojong this might be taking on the practice of imagining all beings have been one’s loving and nurturing mother in a past life, and working diligently at it until one is so convinced of its beneficial effects that one would not want to live without such a view. It would not take so much energy to maintain the practice, because the motivation to do so would arise naturally. The stronger this practice got, the less often anger or greed would arise in response to other beings, and the less energy would be expended in restraining anger and greed.
But… it still takes energy/willpower/work to get there, although many of us (like me) secretly hope for a clever way to get to the place where we are “converted” with a minimum of the grueling, exhausting, often frustrating and uninspiring work. The folly of this hope is illustrated in the following story. Tenzin Palmo, a nun in the Tibetan tradition, encountered Togdens during her training. The Togdens were ordained monks who engaged in particularly rigorous practices like living as hermits, taking almost no food, or sitting out in the cold wrapped in wet sheets and drying the sheets with an energy they summoned from within. They were renowned as spiritual adepts, but one the Togden once told Tenzin Palmo:
“You think we yogis are doing some very high, fantastic, esoteric practice and if only you had the teachings you also could really take off! Let me tell you, however, that there is nothing I am doing that you have not been taught. The only difference is that I am doing it and you aren’t.”1
1. Mackenzie, Vicki. Cave in the Snow: Tenzin Palmo's Quest for Enlightenment. Bloomsbury Publishing, 1998.
Willpower: Rediscovering the Greatest Human Strength by Baumeister & Tierney
by Domyo Burk | Feb 14, 2012 | Adjusting Your Attitude: Changing the Heart as well as the Mind
Much of the time we observe the world around us and pass judgement on it. Something we observe may appear good, bad or neutral, but we usually feel like we are simply drawing a conclusion from the data of our experience. We may qualify our judgement by acknowledging it is “just” our opinion or preference, but usually we have a sense that we can’t do much about our opinions and preferences. We either like something, or we don’t. We believe people can usually be trusted, or we don’t. We are convinced the world is going to hell in a hand-basket, or we aren’t.
When someone suggests the “power of positive thinking,” we may think it is something we are supposed to do in our minds to make ourselves feel better. We may think it involves choosing to take a “positive spin on things” rather than listening to our discriminating wisdom when it says something is amiss. Correspondingly, we usually figure that this effort to draw positive conclusions instead of negative ones doesn’t change the reality outside of us, except when we interact differently with that reality because of our new, positive attitude (which, of course, is no small thing).
The Buddhist view on the relationship between positive mind-states and reality is different. Buddhism acknowledges the effect of positive mind-states on our subjective experience; it is more pleasant and less stressful, for example, to feel relaxed than it is to feel angry. When we feel grateful, our chests feel warm and energy flows through us, but when we feel suspicious and stingy, our chests feel tight and our body feels tense. So there’s a good argument for cultivating positive feelings over negative ones if you can. But feeling good isn’t all there is to it.
In the Buddhist view, when we are able to consciously transform the way we relate to an experience, we can change the very nature of that experience. This is because “reality” doesn’t have the hard edges we usually think it does. For me there is no reality “out there,” separate from my mind; I will never be able to perceive a thing without the involvement of my mind. And what is the use of any reality “out there” that can’t ever be perceived? In a sense, reality is born as we perceive it. Don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t mean nothing exists except what sentient beings have perceived, as if only the subjective is real. Rather, it is that reality arises in the encounter between subject and object.
This may seem overly philosophical, so here is a concrete example. Say a woman butts in front of me in line at the grocery store. She’s busy talking on her cell phone and clearly in a big hurry, and takes the opportunity of a few extra, ambiguous feet of space to nudge her cart into the line in front of me. It is possible she just didn’t notice me, but that hardly seems like a good excuse. My first reaction is to get angry and defensive, and to curse the woman’s selfishness and self-absorption. My own self-concern arises, and I press my cart in a little closer, to guard against any other people who might want to get ahead of me.
Then I try the Buddhist exercise of imagining that each person I encounter has, in a previous life, been a kind, nurturing mother to me. And I recall the Buddhist teaching that all beings just want to be happy and avoid suffering (even if they go about seeking what they want in ignorant or destructive ways). Now I notice how anxious and tense the woman in the grocery line is. I know what it feels like to be in a hurry and overwhelmed, and I have no difficulty imagining that in certain circumstances I would at least be tempted to act like she just has. I feel a certain connection with her, and certainly some compassion for her. After all, is it likely she would be so pushy if she was spiritually at peace? Some of my anger and tension dissipate.
Now, what is reality in this example? A selfish, pushy woman butted in front of me? A suffering sentient being, just like me, acted out the age-old drama of seeking happiness and avoiding suffering? Is “reality” only the objective observation that a woman pushed her cart into a few feet of space in front of me in a line? Or all of the above? Reality turns out to be fairly flexible, or at least full of possibilities.
Fortunately, Buddhist mind training does not involve denying or suppressing experiences or reactions we might categorize as “negative.” I don’t have pretend that it isn’t rude to butt in front of someone at a grocery store. I don’t even have to pretend I don’t care about someone butting in front of me. Without turning away from any aspect of our experience (internal or external), we have some options about how to relate to that experience. We can follow trains of thought that take us deeper into emotions like anger or despair, or we can get creative and apply some other techniques and tools.
Another example of a technique aimed at “positive thinking” is to give something away when you are feeling a sense of lack. It’s best if you give exactly the kind of thing you feel you are lacking, such as paying some personal attention to someone else if you are feeling rather unappreciated by the people in your life. Your generosity will probably be appreciated and will generate some connection and warmth, which might be nourishing for you. For a moment you step out of a sense of powerlessness, waiting for the attention of others, and into a position of strength, where you have something valuable to offer others. This is not a panacea for relationship problems (if there is a real issue to be addressed it will still be there after your act of kindness), but it could get you into a better space for dealing with problems. Or it could jar you out of a neurotic, pessimistic habit of mind that is primarily about your skewed interpretation of the actions of others.
I will close with the Buddha’s own words on this very challenging Buddhist practice of positive thinking, from the Dhammapada:
“All that we are is the result of what we have thought: it is founded on our thoughts, it is made up of our thoughts. If a man speaks or acts with an evil thought, pain follows him, as the wheel follows the foot of the ox that draws the carriage.
“All that we are is the result of what we have thought: it is founded on our thoughts, it is made up of our thoughts. If a man speaks or acts with a pure thought, happiness follows him, like a shadow that never leaves him.
“‘He abused me, he beat me, he defeated me, he robbed me’ – in those who harbor such thoughts hatred will never cease.
“‘He abused me, he beat me, he defeated me, he robbed me’ – in those who do not harbor such thoughts hatred will cease.
“For hatred does not cease by hatred at any time: hatred ceases by love – this is an old rule.” (translation by Max Müller)
by Domyo Burk | Feb 7, 2012 | Samadhi Power: Stopping and Seeing
When the ability to be fully present in our life eludes us, it is usually because we cannot possibly believe the mundane or frustrating experience in front of us merits our attention. This bowl of cereal? This tax form? This stop-and-go traffic? This irritating co-worker? Surely these are just experiences we have to pass through on the way to what really matters.
This approach to life ends up feeling profoundly dissatisfying when a) we realize we are “just passing through” a majority of our experiences, and b) when it begins to seem like “what really matters” is beyond our grasp, impermanent, or not quite what it was cracked up to be.
Zen recommends that we remedy this situation by turning our attention toward every moment of our life, without discriminating about which moments are mundane or frustrating, and which ones really matter. Zen suggests they all matter. But what does this mean?
In Zen mindfulness practice we turn our attention toward our lives, trying to notice the sensations in our hands as we wash the dishes, the feeling of our breath as we wait in traffic, or the parade of emotions that goes through our minds as we have a difficult encounter with someone. At times it feels like we have been “given back” moments of our life that would otherwise have slipped away unappreciated. At other times we encounter resistance from our own mind as it relentlessly jumps away from our present experience to something that seems more exciting, rewarding or significant.
After all, what is the point of paying attention to this present moment, no matter what is going on? That’s fine with we’re gazing at a beautiful sunset, but when we’re waiting in line at the grocery store?
The point of paying attention to this present moment, no matter what is going on, is a radical reorientation of our entire way of being. When we are fully present in our life, we stop interpreting the present moment in terms of its utility in bringing us closer to our desires. Our dreams, goals, hopes and ambitions still exist, but for a moment they are not our frame of reference. We are not gazing past our present experience in anticipation of future pleasure or pain. In this sense mindfulness is not a skill we cultivate with our brains; rather, it is a surrender we make with our whole being.
And when we are able to be fully present for a few moments? What’s good about it?
Amazingly, life experienced without interpretation in terms of our desires is… precious beyond description. Sages have used all kinds of words to describe it: perfect, luminous, complete. But in most of our daily experience this preciousness is experienced as simultaneous with mundane or even frustrating or painful. Full presence doesn’t transform our experience into something “special” – as in different from the usual. It allows us to perceive the sacred in the mundane that is always there.
The ability to be fully present in our life is as much about what we don’t do as it is about what we do. As Zen Master Dogen says in Fukanzazengi, “Why leave behind the seat in your own home to wander in vain through the dusty realms of other lands? If you make one misstep you stumble past what is directly in front of you.”
Image courtesy of rakratchada torsap / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
by Domyo Burk | Feb 2, 2012 | Understanding: Fundamental Teachings to Investigate
Last week our Sangha worked with the mindfulness task of watching our hands as if they belonged to a stranger. This reminded me of the Buddhist teaching of not-self.
As I did this task, I noticed that it was very easy to imagine my hands belonged to a stranger. They seemed to move on their own, or at least they were usually one step ahead of me. They performed their complicated maneuvers with amazing grace and precision, before I had even consciously formed any intention to complete the task they were undertaking.
When I say that my hands seemed to perform their tasks without “me,” I am describing an experience of not-self. As I observe them, my hands do not seem to be part of my self-identity. For most of us this begs the question, “Where or what is my true self, if it doesn’t (for example) include my hands?” Or, “Who directs the hands?” Or, “What is the nature of the self if so much of it is unconscious?” We might turn toward those actions of body, speech and mind that feel unambiguously self-generated and try to trace the intention back to locate our self.
This is a natural response when we endeavor to understand our true self-nature. It is probably impossible not to try and locate a self within us, just as it is nearly impossible not to flinch if something is headed for our face. Over the course of spiritual practice we will search for our self again and again, even when we try not to.
The tricky thing is that our self cannot be located. Our true self-nature is no-nature, to quote the Zen masters. Our life is a flow of dependently co-arisen phenomena that features a certain continuity due to the law of cause and effect. This continuity can be mistaken for an inherently-existing, independent, substantial self, and that mistake is the source of suffering. As long as there is a substantial “me,” that “me” needs to be protected and maintained against a universe that frequently seems to be against me.
To be liberated from the delusion of an inherently-existing self, we do not find our “true self,” because there isn’t one. Rather, we recognize in phenomena over and over again, “Not-self, not-self, not-self.” We turn the light of awareness on our experiences and recognize that none of them qualify as being part of the inherently-existing, independent, substantial self we so dearly hope exists.
Eventually, having failed to find a single thing that confirms the existence our inherently-existing self, the thought occurs to us, “What if there isn’t one? What if I made the whole thing up?” For a moment we dare to drop the paradigm of self, and the world appears to make a whole lot more sense. Many of the questions and issues that plague us when we are caught up in self-identity view simply drop away. Our attention turns toward the miraculous unfolding of this experience we call a human life.
It takes countless instances of recognizing not-self before we can loosen our grip on our conviction that the self inherently exists. A moment of noticing the fact that our hands seem to move without “us” becomes a moment of teaching.
by Domyo Burk | Jan 1, 2012 | Things to Understand About the Nature of Practice
If "koan" was a more widely used and understood word in English, I would have described this blog as "Essays on the Koan of Life." In Zen, a koan is a question, problem or situation that requires (sometimes demands) resolution, but cannot be resolved through reason. According to the Shambala Dictionary of Buddhism and Zen, "a koan requires a leap to another level of comprehension."
I like the understanding of conundrum as "a logical postulation that evades resolution, an intricate and difficult problem," but feel ambivalent about the more classical definition of the word as a "riddle whose answer is or involves a pun or unexpected twist."1 I do not mean to imply that I think life is a joke. Life has its moments of lightness and humor, but to summarize it as a riddle with a pun for a punchline suggests a sad cynicism with spiritual desperation at its core.
Still, there is a sense in which "a riddle whose answer involves… [an] unexpected twist" is appropriate when we are talking about the Koan of Life. Life offers us countless koans. How do I live each day to the fullest? How do I avoid being paralyzed by fear of illness, loss and death? How do I deal with that co-worker that sets my teeth on edge? Who am I, really? Is there anything in this universe upon which I can rely? When we resolve these koans for ourselves (and yes, it is possible!), inevitably it requires a radical shift in perspective reminiscent of the one required to answer the conundrum, "When is a door not a door?" with "When it is ajar!"
One last note about koans, from E.F. Schumacher's Small is Beautiful:
"G.N.M. Tyrell has put forward the terms 'divergent' and 'convergent' to distinguish problems which cannot be solved by logical reasoning from those that can. Life is being kept going by divergent problems which have to be 'lived'… Convergent problems on the other hand are man's most useful invention… When they are solved, the solution can be written down and passed on to others, who can apply it without needing to reproduce the mental effort necessary to find it. If this were the case with human relations – in family life, economics, politics, education, and so forth – well, I am at a loss how to finish the sentence."
A koan is a divergent problem as faced by an individual, who must live out the answer him or herself.
1 Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conundrum
