ON NOT PACKAGING THE SKY

Bamboo Grove, Hasedera Buddhist Temple, Kamakura, Japan
Photo by Urashimataro

Imagine a world in which you are liberated from all of the labels that have been imposed on you throughout your life.  Imagine a world in which that elusive experience we call "enlightenment," "awakening," or "higher consciousness" is not to be found in another time and place, but, instead, is to be found right under your nose — in this moment, this place, with all of your imperfections.  

These are two of the matters discussed by Alan Watts in his introduction to Zen: The Supreme Experience.  Having just reread that portion of the book, I am providing a few quotes that I find extremely liberating.  

I must begin with a word of explanation.  Some time ago I was in a radio station as a participant in a panel discussion on man and religion.  Before we went on air, the moderator asked all the participants around the table to introduce themselves.  I was sitting on his left, and the man on his right began: Rabbi So-and-so, Jewish; Reverend So-and-so, Protestant minister; Father So-and-so, Catholic priest; Doctor So-and-so, logical positivist and so on.  When it was my turn, I said, 'Alan Watts, no label." Immediately, there was an outcry: "You aren't being fair."

     I say 'No label' sincerely, because although I speak a great deal about Zen, I never refer to myself as a 'Zen-ist" or as a Buddhist because that seems to me like packaging the sky.

     There is an excellent reason for the absence of a definition of Zen.  All systems that have preconceived views of what the human being is and what the world ought to be categorize existence under labels.  People who have Jehovah-like ideas of an order that they wish to impose on reality also use labels.  But when one's concern is not to order the world around but to understand it, to experience it and to find out about it, you give up this superior attitude and become receptive.

     Then, instead of knowing all about it, you come to know it directly.  But this 'knowing' is difficult to talk about because it has to be felt.  It is the difference between eating dinner and eating the menu.

•  •  •  •  •

We may in the past have had marvelous spiritual experiences — almost everyone in this world is lucky enough to experience satori once in their life . . . Ever afterwords, you search for that experience again: 'I want it that way.'  You once had a wonderful girlfriend, and now you want another just like her.  That way of thinking blocks the possibility of meeting with life.  This is why meditation for Zen practitioners and Taoists means affirming that your everyday mind is the way — not the mind you ought to have or the mind you might have if you practiced acceptance or concentration.  We want you to look at it just the way it is right now — that's Buddha.  Just like that.

     Of course, many will say this is nonsense.  'The way I am now is degraded, ordinary, unevolved, not spiritual, decadent.'  Yet remember this phrase from the Zenrin poem:  'At midnight, the sun brightly shines.' All right, it is midnight now.  This, at this moment, is the awful dark thing we think we are.  Yet the poem also says, 'This is Buddha.' 

     A monk once asked a Zen master, 'What is Zen?'  The master replied, 'I don't feel like answering now.  Wait until there is nobody else around and I'll tell you.'  Some time later the monk returned to the master and said, 'There is nobody around now, Master.  Please tell me about Zen.' The master took him into the garden and said, 'What a long bamboo this is!  What a short bamboo that is!'

     So you may be a long bamboo, you may be a short bamboo.  You may be a giraffe with a long neck or a giraffe with a short neck.. What you are now is the very point.  There is no goal because all goals are in the future. There is only the question of what is.  Look and see; see how, of its own accord, it comes to your eye. 

Alan Watts, No Label 

                      

                         

DETACHMENT: AT THE CENTER OF THE CIRCLE

The perfect man employs his mind as a mirror; it grasps nothing; it refuses nothing; it receives, but does not keep.

Chuang-tzu 

"Detachment" is not a term that is greeted with much favor in American culture.  In common parlance, the word suggests aloofness, emotional frigidity, or insensitivity to the concerns of others or one's community.  Zen Buddhism, however, does not view detachment with such negativity.  Indeed, detachment is regarded as central to the preservation of one's core balance and integrity.  In his fine book, Become What You Are, the great Zen teacher Alan Watts explained it this way:

Detachment means to have neither regrets for the past nor fears for the future; to let life take its course without attempting to interfere with its movement and change, neither trying to prolong the stay of things pleasant nor to hasten the departure of things unpleasant.  To do this is to move in time with life, to be in perfect accord with its changing music, and this is called Enlightenment.  In short, it is to be detached from both the past and future and to live in the eternal Now.  For in truth neither past nor future have any existence apart from this Now; by themselves they are illusions.  Life exists only at this very moment, and in this moment it is infinite and eternal.  

The old sage Lao-tzu was, of course, the master of detachment.  "Just stay at the center of the circle," he said, "and let all things take their course." Tao Te Ching (translation by Stephen Mitchell).

THE ANSWER AT 3:00 A.M.

Small Room in Hermitage Near Assisi

Where St. Francis and His Followers Often Dined and Meditated

Here is a small confession from one who aspires to move through life with the calm equanimity of a Zen master.  In recent weeks, I have allowed events beyond my control to send me into a small tailspin of despair.  It began with the unexpected death of a childhood friend whom I loved dearly, and it picked up steam with a back injury, a troublesome vitreous detachment in my right eye, an insane political season, and a number of ensuing questions in the pathetically self-centered category of "what the hell is happening to this world and my life?"

I recognize, of course, that absolutely nothing is happening in my life that has not happened before or which will not continue to happen for as long a mankind has a foothold on this fragile earth.  Everything is constantly changing and the cycle of life and death continues in ways both large and small.  The changes are increasingly personal, however, and this is why I found myself awake at three o'clock this morning, pondering the question of what I can do, other than become frustrated, angry, depressed, or all of the above.

The practical answers from Buddhism are always wise and helpful — just let go of the craving to possess that which is transitory, which is to say anything and everything.  The answers of Zen provide similar guidance — just remain detached, suspend all judgment, and allow everything to pass like water flowing over a rock. This is all great advice, undoubtedly, but at three o'clock this morning, I needed something more, something that would allow me to take a more active role in the world without trying to control things beyond my control.  It was at that point that my mind shifted to a framed prayer that has remained on a wall above my desk for almost twenty years. It is the incomparably beautiful prayer that is well known and widely attributed to Saint Francis of Assisi.  

A Simple Prayer

                               Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

                               Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

                               Where there is injury, pardon;

                               Where there is discord, unity;

                               Where there is doubt, faith;

                               Where there is error, truth;

                               Where there is despair, hope;

                               Where there is sadness, joy;

                               Where there is darkness, light.

                               O Divine Master, grant that 

                                  I may not so much seek

                               To be consoled as  to console;

                               To be understood as to understand;

                               To be loved as to love.

                               

                               For it is in the giving that we receive;

                               It is in the pardoning that we are pardoned;

                               It is in the dying that we are born to eternal life.

I acquired my hand-lettered copy of this prayer on my first visit to Assisi many years ago. Since that time, I have been blessed to find great wisdom in various religious and spiritual  traditions.  At no point, however, have I found a better blueprint for life than is found in the words of St. Francis.  My life, of course,  continues to fall woefully short of the noble ideas set forth in the prayer.  It continues to inspire me, however,  and I am convinced that it provides a path that can lead anyone — Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim, atheist, or otherwise — beyond darkness and despair.

PEACE TO EVERYONE!

KAZANTZAKIS ON FEAR, HOPE, AND FREEDOM

Grave of Nikos Kazantzakis, Heraklion, Crete
Photo by Christos Tsourmplekas (2009)


"I hope for nothing.  I fear nothing.  I am free."
Epitaph of Nikos Kazantzakis

Like many others of my generation, I was introduced to the works of Nikos Kazantzakis through Michael Cacoyannis's 1964 film version of the author's great novel, Zorba the Greek.  I saw the film for the first time in the early seventies at an old Washintgon movie house that featured foreign films.  Soon thereafter, I stuffed a duffel bag with several Kazantzakis books and headed off for a month in Greece, hoping to find Zorba's spirit — and perhaps my own — among ancient stones and the mysterious waters of the Aegean.

After more than two weeks of traveling from one island to another throughout the Greek archipelago, I reached Heraklion, Crete, where Kazantzakis was born in 1883 and buried in 1957.  On the first day after my arrival in Haraklion, I arose early and walked through half-deserted streets to the Kazantzakis grave site, just outside the city walls.  It was quiet place, and beautiful in its  simplicity — a plain, rough-hewn wooden cross, a few large stones covering the grave, and a topstone on which Kazantazkis' chosen epitaph was engraved:

Detail From Photo by Frente (2003)

The most common English translation of the epitaph is: "I hope for nothing.  I fear nothing.  I am free."  Other translators, however, have insisted that a more accurate translation is:  "I expect nothing.  I fear nothing.  I am free."

The first translation may be the most literal, but the second — at least in my view — is the one that best captures the true spirit of Kazantzakis' philosophy.  Influenced by Buddhist teachings, Kazantzakis was not opposed to that form of hope that is often coupled with faith and optimism.  He was opposed to hope that is based upon desire and  expectations of favorable outcomes, because he believed that desire and expectations, like fear, keep people focused on future events, rendering them incapable of living and experiencing life in the present moment.

The ten words of Katzantzakis' epitaph — so spare, so unambiguous, so courageous — were a bit of an epiphany for me.  For the first time in my life, I realized that freedom — my lodestar from an early age — was not a place, not a level of financial security, not some type of achievement;  it was, instead, the ability to abandon expectations and to live fearlessly in the ebb and flow of every moment. It was one of the most liberating messages I have ever received, and though I often fall short of the mark, I have never doubted the wisdom of what I learned on that morning thirty-eight years ago.

I still have the tattered paperback copy of Zorba that was in my rucksack on that sun-drenched morning that I stood before the grave site of Kazantzakis.  Looking now at the passages that I underlined when I first read the book, I find nothing that does not still resonate with me.  I offer some of these passages below in the hope that others may also find something of value.

That's what liberty is, I thought.  To have a passion, to amass pieces of gold and suddenly to conquer one's passion and throw the treasure to the four winds.

* * * * *

Everything in this world has a hidden meaning . . . Men, animals, trees, stars, they are all hieroglyphics; woe to anyone who begins to decipher them and guess what they mean . . . When you see them, you do not understand them. You think they are really men, animals, trees, stars.  It is only years later, too late, that you understand . . . 

* * * * * 

Zorba sees everything every day as if for the first time.

* * * * *

The house appears empty, but it contains everything, so few are the necessities of man.

* * * * *

The greatest prophet on earth can give men no more than a watchword, and the vaguer the watchword the greater the prophet.

* * * * *

While experiencing happiness, we have difficulty in being conscious of it. Only when happiness is past and we look back on it do we suddenly realize — sometimes with astonishment — how happy we had been.

* * * * *

Everything seems to have a soul — wood, stones, the wine we drink and the earth we tread on. Everything, boss, absolutely everything!

* * * * *

I felt once more how simple and frugal a thing is happiness: a glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. Nothing else.  And all that is required to feel that here and now is happiness is a simple, frugal heart.

* * * * *

What a voluptuous enjoyment of sorrow those hours of soft rain can produce in you!  All the bitter memories hidden in the depths of your mind come to the surface:  separations from friends, women's smiles which have faded, hopes which have lost their wings like moths . . . 

* * * * *

This was true happiness:  to have no ambition and to work like a horse as if you had every ambition.  To live far from men, not to need them and yet to love them. To take part in the Christmas festivities and, after eating and drinking well, to escape on your own far from all the snares, to have the stars above, the land to your left and the sea to your right: and to realize all of a sudden that, in your heart, life has accomplished its final miracle: it has become a fairy tale.

* * * * *

It is a mortal sin to violate the great laws of nature.  We should not be in a hurry, we should not be impatient, but we should confidently obey the eternal rhythm.

* * * * *

I looked at Zorba in the light of the moon and admired the jauntiness and simplicity with which he adapted himself to the world around him, the way his body and soul formed one harmonious whole, and all things — women, bread, water, meat, sleep — blended happily with his flesh and became Zorba.

* * * * *

Every man has his folly, but the greatest folly of all, in my view, is not to have one.

* * * * *

[Zorba] is dominated by the basic problems of mankind.  He lives them as if they were immediate and urgent necessities.  Like the child, he sees everything for the first time.  He is forever astonished and wonders why and wherefore.  Everything seems miraculous to him, and each morning when he opens his eyes he sees trees, sea, stones and birds, and is amazed.

* * * * *

"The idea's everything, he (Zorba) said.  "Have you faith?  Then a splinter from an old door becomes a sacred relic.  Have you no faith?  Then the whole Holy Cross itself becomes an old doorpost to you."

* * * * *

That is what a real man is like, I thought, envying Zorba's sorrow.  A man with warm blood and solid bones, who lets real tears run down his cheeks when he is suffering; and when he is happy he does not spoil the freshness of his joy by running it through the fine sieve of metaphysics.

* * * * *

Each time that within ourselves we are the conquerors, although externally utterly defeated, we human beings feel an indescribable pride and joy.  Outward calamity is transformed into a supreme and unshakable felicity.

Nikos Kazantzakis
1883 - 1957

It has been said that Kazantzakis was the most important and most translated Greek writer of the 20th century.  He didn't win the Nobel Prize for Literature when he was nominated in in 1957 — having lost by one vote to the French novelist and philosopher, Albert Camus — but he is clearly worth reading for those who strive daily to make sense of man's struggle in what often appears to be a chaotic world.

They think of me as a scholar, and intellectual, a pen-pusher.
And I am none of them.
When I write, my fingers
get covered not in ink, but in blood.
I think I am nothing more than this:
an undaunted soul.


Words Nikos Kazantzakis
used to 
describe himself in 1950. 

  

WABI-SABI

Old Peacock Feather

One of the books that has captured my imagination in recent weeks is Wabi-Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets and Philosophers.  Published in 1994, this small book was written by Leonard Koren, a trained architect who, according to the publisher's note, had never previously built anything, except an eccentric Japanese tea house, "because he found large, permanent objects too philosophically vexing to design." 

Wabi-sabi is a Japanese aesthetic ideal that is rooted to some extent in Zen Buddhism.  Like Zen, it is difficult to precisely define because it abhors structures, criteria, and formulas. According to Koren, however, wabi-sabi encompasses --

     the beauty of things imperfect, impermanent,
     and incomplete;

     the beauty of things modest and humble; and

     the beauty of things unconventional.

Looking around the outside of my home in the last few days, I have found several objects or groups of objects that seem to radiate wabi-sabi beauty: the remains of a weathered peacock feather that was arbitrarily stuck in a flower pot several years ago; odd pieces of colorful sea glass gathered by my wife from various beaches; a weathered stone with interesting patterns; a bird's abandoned nest still containing a broken shell that once contained new life; and a metal lattice strip succumbing to rust. Each of these objects is imperfect and each is a testament to the impermanence of all things.

Pieces of Weathered Sea Glass

In its celebration of things that are imperfect, impermanent, incomplete, modest, humble, or unconventional, wabi-sabi stands in opposition to the western aesthetic ideal.  With its Greek heritage, the western ideal reveres perfection and disparages "flaws"; venerates that which is perceived to be permanent and frowns upon that which is perceived to be transitory; and favors "completed" things over those that are slow works in progress.  Westerners may occasionally find the modest and humble to be charming, but we seldom equate it with beauty.  Nor are we inclined to ascribe beauty to unconventional things; more often than not, the unconventional is suspected of "ugliness," the cardinal aesthetic sin.

Weathered Stone

Understandably, the western aesthetic ideal may seem more rational to westerners, particularly Americans. Like Zen, however, wabi-sabi is decidedly anti-rational, which is to say that it abhors any habit of systematic, conditioned thinking that separates the thinker from the reality of the present moment.  As a result, the focus of wabi-sabi is never on some abstract, intellectual notion of what could be or should be, but rather on the singular beauty emanating from that which is at any given point in time.

Bird's Abandoned Nest with Cracked Shell

While wabi-sabi is often associated with ambiance, the physical environment, or the beauty of things, it is anchored in larger philosophical propositions that can also provide the framework for one's entire life.  Those propositions, as I understand them, would include the following:

-- One should accept and embrace impermanence, not only because it is the undeniable state of all things, including the universe, but also because it is the condition that gives value to anything at any given moment.

-- One should see and appreciate the beauty of every stage of transition, the old no less than the new, the broken no less than the whole, the tarnished and tattered no less than the slick and fine.

-- One should discover wonder and beauty in unexpected places and things, perhaps even places or things that are suspected of being "ugly."  As Koren says, "beauty can be coaxed out of ugliness," and is often found in "the minor and the hidden, the tentative and the ephemeral: things so subtle and evanescent they are invisible to the vulgar eye."

-- One should live simply, modestly, and frugally by getting rid of everything that is unnecessary, including nonessential material things as well as illusions of wealth, success, status, power, and luxury.

-- One should always favor the intuitive over the logical, nature over technology, the present over the future, natural materials over the man-made materials, modesty over ostentation, and the inner life over the outer life.

None of this is meant to suggest that wabi-sabi would require one to live in a perennial state of austerity or deprivation; indeed, Buddha himself advocated "the middle way."  The key, as Koren essentially states in his book, is to pare down to the essence of life without removing its poetry.

Rusting Metal Lattice Strip

TRUTH AND PARADOX

In Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Persig's memorable philosophical inquiry into values, the narrator is often perplexed by the obstinate refusal of people to see what is right before their eyes: 

The truth knocks on your door and you say, "Go away, I'm looking for the truth," and so it goes away.  Puzzling.

The problem, I believe, is that the truth itself of often puzzling.  It offers the promise of something we seek -- for example, living in harmony with the universe -- but it then recommends a path that usually makes no sense, at least at first glance, to our logic-oriented brains. Suggest to someone that the greatest among us should be a servant or slave to others, as Jesus recommended, and you will likely encounter a stare of disbelief.

As Lao Tzu wrote in the Tao Te Ching, "the words of truth are always paradoxical."  We may be attracted to a noble idea of the truth, but our egos usually reject what the truth calls upon us to do.  Many people, for example, profess to be Christians -- but how many are willing to act in accordance with the paradoxical teachings of Jesus?  Who is willing to lose his or her life in order to find it? Who is willing to love the enemy, pray for those who spitefully use us, turn the other cheek when assaulted, and rejoice when others revile or persecute us?  And what would the elite of our society think if the first really became last and the last became first?

Many profess to be followers of the Tao, but who is willing to act in accordance with the teachings of Lao Tzu (left) in the Tao Te Ching? Who is willing to yield to force, rather than respond in kind?  Is anyone willing to empty himself or herself in order to become full?  Willing to give up everything in order to gain everything?  Willing to allow the death of one's self in order to be born again into a higher consciousness? 

And what about the noble truths of Buddhism?  How many followers or admirers of Buddhism are willing to relinquish the cravings and desires that underpin all suffering?  How many are willing to abstain from harmful conduct, including gossip and other harmful speech?  How many are willing to resist any act, including war, that involves the taking of a life?

My point here is not to take a moral, political, or religious position on what we should or should not be doing with our lives.  It is understood, I hope, that such positions are off limits in this online journal.  What I do want to emphasize, however, is that spiritual truths are seldom comfortable, because they usually call upon us to do something that is counter-intuitive, at least initially.  Indeed, the truth to which we are drawn often seems inherently contradictory, and therein, of course, lies the paradox.

Many withdraw from the truth at the first hint of paradox. For thousands of years, however, the great teachers of wisdom have repeatedly told us that the things we most desire -- love, peace, happiness, and true security -- can only be discovered by actions that, paradoxically, seem inconsistent with those objectives. The question that always remains, however, is whether we have the courage to press through the walls of fear that surround our lives.

My decision to post something on the relationship between truth and paradox was precipitated several days ago by the rediscovery of a passage from T.S. Eliot's great poem, The Four Quartets.  That passage is set forth below, together with some other relevant observations by Anthony De Mello, Lao Tzu, Mother Teresa, Carl Rogers, C.K. Chesterton, Jack London, and Madeleine D'Engle.  Read and enjoy.

Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there.

To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
  You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
  You must go by the way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
  You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
  You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.

                           T.S. Eliot
                           The Four Quartets

All mystics . . . no matter what their theology, no matter what their religion -- are unanimous on one thing: that all is well, all is well.  Though everything is a mess, all is well.  Strange paradox, to be sure.  But, tragically, most people never get to see that all is well because they are asleep.  They are having a nightmare.

                       Anthony De Mello
                       Awareness




           If you want to become full,
           let yourself be empty.
           If you want to be reborn,
           let yourself die.
           If you want to be given everything,
           give everything up.

                      Lao Tzu
                      Tao Te Ching

I have found the paradox that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.
          
                        Mother Teresa


The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.
        
                        Carl Rogers


The paradox of courage is that a man must be a little careless of his life even in order to keep it.
          
                         C.K. Chesterton

There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise.  And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive . . .

                          Jack London
                          The Call of the Wild

The world of science lives fairly comfortably with paradox.  We know that light is a wave, and also that light is a particle.  The discoveries made in the infinitely small world of particle physics indicate randomness and chance, and I do not find it any more difficult to live with the paradox of a universe of randomness and chance and a universe of pattern and purpose than I do with light as a wave and light as a particle.  Living with contradiction is nothing new to the human being.

          

                          Madeleine D'Engle
                          Two-Part Invention

MEMENTO MORI

For the most part, nature speaks to us in whispers -- a good approach, I think, because it keeps the cows in the pasture and the reptilian parts of our brains in check. Occasionally, however, nature brings out the the trumpet and gives us a stentorian blast, telling us to stop and behold! Something important is happening.

That is what I experienced yesterday on my morning ramble. As I walked down the edge a small but well-traveled road, I was startled to discover the strangely configured remains of a small deer that had fallen very recently into the ditch, the probable victim of an automobile or a hunter's bullet. At first glance, my conditioned mind said "gruesome," and I turned away in disgust. Circling back, however, I witnessed something that was both odd and interesting. Except for a cathedral of spine and ribs that lay arched in the ditch, the entire lower torso of the doe had been taken away and reprocessed by other creatures, presumably the turkey vultures that circle this area constantly in search of their daily bread. The head and face, however, remained largely intact, with the eyes still open, staring wistfully toward the quivering sunlight. It was an eerie sight, part architecture and part animal, something that might occupy a dream but not an April morning.

This is a memento mori, I instantly thought, something placed here by the universe to remind me of the impermanence of life. Most people fear death, of course, and they turn away from anything that would remind them of its inevitability? Others, however, prefer that the undeniable realities of life and death be served straight up, preferably with a twist of good humor. We agree with the Buddhists that occasional meditations on death serve to quicken life and give meaning to our journeys. As the poet and chronicler Mary Sarton has written, "one must live as though one were dying -- and we all are -- because then the priorities become clear."

We are such stuff as stars are made of, and like deer and the stars under which they sleep, we will eventually return to stardust. Knowing that, we not only seize the day, we embrace it, point-blank and without fear. Well-served is the person who can follow Dryden's counsel in Imitation of Horace:

"Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He who can call today his own,

He who, secure within, can say,

Tomorrow, do thy worst, for I have lived today."