Dew on the Grass is the coming together of four Dharma friends who wish to express their lives as Buddhists through their writing, photography, art and other projects
Fear and despair, palpable where ever you turn. To not contribute to despondency, to remain present, focused, open and grounded in trust is a contribution towards peace that should not be underestimated.
Peace does not mean an absence of conflicts; differences will always be there. Peace means solving these differences through peaceful means; through dialogue, education, knowledge; and through humane ways.”
– Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama
Daizui MacPhillamy
I remember meeting Rev Master Daizui in the year 2000 at Throssel Hole Buddhist Abbey in Northumberland. On leaving he said ‘ play your part partners’. I have always remembered those words and believe it is important for each of us to individually act in ways which serve the sangha or any community or family to which we belong.
For a Zen Buddhist, to nourish ourselves and others means a daily practice of meditation, aligning with the Precepts, study of the Buddhist Teachings , including the Four Noble Truths, Eightfold Path and doing our best to train and guard the underlying values of Buddhist Teaching. For those of us who train in the laity the values we develop and learn to treasure are naturally expressed in our daily life.
‘Harmony is called the sangha Treasure’ Dogen
When there is disharmony in a sangha or other kind of community, it has consequences for everyone.. Doubts and suffering may arise in different ways and each of us can feel pain based on our own memories, experiences and tendencies. Recently, I have been reflecting about how I can serve others in terms of helping to create harmony or at the very least not cause harm. For me, this involves sharing what I know through experience and speaking what I see as the truth even if this is not easy.
When I observe or intuitively sense an uncomfortable truth, I have a tendency to stay silent and mistake not speaking out and backing down for kindliness and compassion towards others. I am learning this may be a distraction from speaking the truth in a skilful way (and not getting upset by doing so). In realising and accepting the truths I observe, there is a sense of learning to stand my own ground and to risk speaking out, otherwise am I living a lie? Guarding against my own assumptions and projections is a priority, otherwise confusion between what I ‘know’ and what I ‘don’t know’ can affect my response to what life brings. There’s much I don’t know, however understanding and accepting ‘unknowing’ is part of the practice too, how can we ‘know’ in an interconnected world, where all is flow and change and at the same time, use logical thought and its synergy with life, as equally important to express things in a wholesome way?
I believe all of these things based on practice and values can be offerings towards a cohesive sangha, constantly contributing to transparency, inclusiveness, trust and openness which serve to bring people together. From my experience, secrets can actually cover up lies and not only disturb one’s mind, but disturb the whole group in which we belong.
In my view, this is why ethics and boundaries are essential in order to inform, and protect members. Rules don’t have to be severe, but can function to gently point to what is expected from members of communities in a kindly, firm and respectful way. This contributes to people feeling safe and able to speak out.
I believe an essential part of community life or any group involvement is acceptance of individual differences. I was once part of a work group in which one person was clearly wanting things to be done their way, without listening to or taking into consideration what others were willing to offer. People gradually disappeared or made excuses to go and do something else and the person who had taken over the group seemed unaware of how their actions had affected others. I believe it is important for vigilance and self enquiry about one’s own intentions and motivation towards others needs and getting to know people is imperative and helpful in seeing those who may not be serving the community and causing harm. In this kind of supportive environment, daily life can be conducted in a transparent and open way, with people being aware of their own and each other’s needs, speaking out and being supportive when needed.
Face to face embodied communication is a wonderful way to live a life of offering to others. Actually ‘showing up’ at group retreat in person, to practice with others, is an opportunity to manoeuvre around challenges of disagreement, dislike and personal preferences. Learning to listen to yourself and others and to observe one’s own responses, not disappearing or avoiding when feeling uncomfortable is a real sangha treasure. From my experience it’s kind of experiencing your sitting place on the move. Then as lay practitioners our practice can be expressed in the wider sangha, local communities, family and work groups, all teaching us to be still with daily life and allowing the opportunity to share our ‘sitting place’ in daily life.
But what of ‘indirect’ communication? We are living in a world of amazing technological systems, AI with chat boxes, instant news, texting, podcasts, social media groups and zoom, all bringing different pressures and challenges. I have experienced being part of virtual zoom groups with fellow practitioners and have enjoyed communication with a small team. From the beginning a bond was quickly formed and communication flowed easy with a sense of ‘knowing’ each other due to our common practice.
I know there is an active development of online Buddhist communities both global and local and wonder how well people get to know and learn about each other? How are newcomers introduced virtually to Buddhism? Some of these zoom groups have between 40 and in some webinars 10,000 virtual attendees! Can you imagine Shariputra teaching on zoom and meeting members in breakout groups, unmuting yourself to ask a question? Responding on screen in a type of ‘edited reality’ can be a barrier rather than a bridge to building trust and communication. At the same time, there can be many benefits from making connections with others in that way, especially for those who are housebound or living in isolation.
Virtual reality can be viewed as neither good nor bad, it’s challenges can be addictive, obsessional and a distraction from the reality of daily life. I observe this in many as their mobile phone appears to have become part of their hand, with continual texting and surfing Facebook or other social media, often seemingly oblivious to what is happening around them. Being mindful of choosing virtual options aligned with the values and principles of non-harming can be difficult, but can be part of helping to deepen practice, so, even online sangha has the potential to be wholesome with wise discernment.
This brings me back to the importance of the communities in which we belong and being vigilant to remember to prioritise self-enquiry in relation to how we express our daily practice. In my view accepting differences and trying to contribute by sharing truths in an appropriate, open and translucent way is beneficial and a treasure for everyone.
For the last year and a half, I have been involved in a long – well I don’t know what to call it really. I don’t think it’s a row if I haven’t responded in kind, so ‘trouble’ from my husband’s family is perhaps the only word. I have never experienced anything so unpleasant and with it the whole range of emotions and feelings: deep hurt, grief, loss and bereavement, rage, a sense of injustice, despair.
Eventually, after a drawn-out and careful negotiation, during which my husband’s family called all the terms and I worked very hard at ‘letting go’, we met up for what they called ‘peace and reconciliation’, although I couldn’t see quite how this might happen if any mention of what had gone on before was expressly forbidden. So it was very unlikely there would be any resolution, it seemed to me. But I tried to let go of that ‘opinion’ too.
But, for my husband’s sake, who felt he was losing or likely to lose his family, I found I could agree to almost anything and we met for dinner. It was a surreal experience, sitting chatting and exchanging pleasantries, whilst all the time unable to blank out, completely, the way I had been treated and the things that had been said and written. These were people whom I had genuinely loved and trusted and whose support I had greatly valued. They had devastated me, but finally I found I felt nothing for them and I left the restaurant feeling a free woman. Which led me to explore the whole business of feelings and emotions and maybe relationships.
I read a bit and searched on the internet, finally coming across this, which I more or less agree with ‘Emotions come first, followed by feelings. Emotions are the body’s initial reactions to a stimulus, like a sudden rush of adrenaline or a physical sensation. Feelings, on the other hand, are the subjective experiences we have after interpreting these bodily reactions and thinking about them.’
I remember a monk once saying that the feelings of excitement and fear are almost indistinguishable, physiologically. It just depends on you knowing what you are expecting to be experiencing and then giving them a label.
And in that situation, I found I didn’t really feel anything very much. It was socially not difficult. But the relationships which we had, and which I had treasured, had been destroyed and there was simply nothing there. So what does a relationship need to ‘work’? It was so odd to be in the presence of people about whom I had once cared deeply and to feel absolutely nothing.
It seems to me that every genuine relationship is based, if not on love, at least on trust. If there is no trust, it is impossible to have a relationship. And also, following that old ‘I’m OK, you’re OK” theory, you need to know that the other person does at least have some positive regard for you. That they ‘like’ you and interactions with them leave you with a good feeling. I had none of that with these people. I suspected they strongly disliked me, they certainly had expressed distrust of me, and they had treated me in a way I would not have thought possible.
So I was left that evening with this rather odd feeling of being on a film set, where nothing was real. I was just glad to escape unscathed, though I think they’ve lost their appetite for a fight.
Being able, even in the toughest times, to know how to be still with the situation is invaluable. And not to hit back, particularly when you know that the person attacking you is likely to lose control, be abusive or storm out of the house.
I have not so far had a lot of success in feeling genuine compassion for them. Nor have I been able to bow to them as Buddhas. Work in progress I suppose. But for the moment I am enjoying the peace of being free from so much emotion. I am transformed (people tell me!) and energised. I don’t think I realised quite what a toll this was taking on me. I was a broken woman, but I am healed. To be relieved of such a burden is a truly wonderful thing.
Last week, a survey of England’s non-woodland tree population, commissioned jointly by the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (DEFRA) and Forest Research, revealed that trees which stand-alone make up to 30% of the nation’s tree cover. These trees, which live and grow in parks, gardens, hedgerows, fields and streets, have significant value in improving our air quality, capturing carbon, regulating the climate and giving us humans protection against emissions from cars and industry.
A map of these benevolent trees, outside of woodlands (TOW) has been created, using aerial and satellite technology, which can inform the Government and other agencies about where the gaps in the tree population are and how best to support conservation in the future.
It got me thinking that the value of lone trees, apart from being rather beautiful, is perhaps underappreciated. Their underground mycelium transfers water, nitrogen, carbon and other minerals in the same way that larger groups of trees do and are just as valuable, if not more so, to creatures, including us humans, that do not live near forests or larger wooded areas.
It also started me thinking about people who, either by choice or through circumstance, stand alone. The single parent, going it alone for their children; the reclusive artist, producing paintings that thrill the soul; the shy, neurodivergent person, who cannot face the outside world but who uses their talents, creatively ; the night porter, asleep in their chair; the meditator, rising in the early dawn to reflect upon themselves; the checkout operator in the all night supermarket; the solitary gardener, who weeds at twilight; the potter alone in their shed; the writer working into the night, not to create a bestseller but nevertheless transferring minerals of thought from inner consciousness onto the page, not worrying whether their words will be read; the cleaner, alone in the deserted office block; the delivery driver, on the long-haul trip. These are the singular, stand-alone people who contribute to the whole in their solitariness: their mycelium invisible but nevertheless doing its work, underground. You are valuable and as upright as trees and you are very much appreciated.
Half-term and I am waiting at a bus stop, in the centre of Shrewsbury, with my granddaughter, Nel. She is staying with me for the regular school holiday sleepover, with Nan and Granddad and her Telford cousins. But before that sleepless night of sugar fuelled frivolity, we sneak a morning together, just Nel and me, and visit Paws Cafe, where we have languished on deep leatherette sofas, drunk coffee and cola, eaten cake and spent a feline filled hour with the many cats that live there; nonchalant but friendly, indifferent yet seeking the attention of the many hands that reach out and stroke them, we leave relaxed and smiling and ready for the journey home.
There is no queue at the bus stop and no sign of a bus, either but a woman in a wheelchair, ensconced below the awning of a nearby shop, shouts out cheerily to passers by. She talks to babies, cooing and reaching out a hand to touch them. She comments on the weather and wishes people a nice day. Every so often, she asks if anyone has any change. No-one has, but she persists. People carry plastic these days. Whatever happened to cash? I listen with my back towards her – my sight is firmly focused on the approach of the midday traffic – and slowly gather the drift of her story.
Still no sign of the bus. “We must have just missed one”, I tell Nel, apologetically. I’m not quite sure why I feel the need to apologise for something out of my control but I am sorry and concerned, too – I so want her to have a nice time.
The schedule for the rest of the day starts to niggle in my brain and I begin to rearrange future events in my mind to make the day work as planned. I have left my husband, who is particularly unwell right now, in the capable hands of my daughter but she will have to leave him soon, to get on with her own plans. There is an anxiety somewhere in my chest. I notice it, I embrace it, I become internally still. Out of this turning towards the worry comes a more settled state and then practical solutions start to dart from my head into my hands: text messages are sent, reassurances received. It is all fine. I look up the street in the direction that the bus will travel and mutter more apologies to Nel, who probably hadn’t factored this long wait into her vision of time spent with Nan. She is fine, too; alternating between texting photographs of the cats and chatting to me about school.
And all the while, the woman in the wheelchair, sits underneath the awning and calls out, “I need seven pounds for seven days.” I park my concern about the late bus and getting home and listen, without turning to face her, while she explains to a passing shopper that there is a homeless shelter nearby but to gain entry she has to raise seven pounds for seven days stay. The passer by is polite, “I hope you get it” she says and leaves without depositing any money in her cup.
My mind less clouded by worry about getting home, now, I remember that I have a small change purse in my bag, kept for parking payments, supermarket trolleys and ice creams, in the park. I take it out and Nel and I exchange a glance, our thoughts are aligned. “Would you like to give her this?” I ask and bypassing the crumpled five pound note that has previously been stuffed , hurriedly between the seams, I take out a two pound coin and hand it to Nel. She smiles and nods. The woman thanks her, says “bless you” when she receives it. But, it is not enough. It is not merely maths, my heart knows it.
Surely she will raise the rest by nighttime, I think. Still, I face the direction that the bus will travel and ponder the five pound note, secure in my bag. I really want to give it to her. It is my natural inclination but I am fighting it. I can feel the imprint of fear in my chest. I listen to the fear and the sound of the woman’s voice, explaining again and again why she needs to raise seven pounds for seven days to a constant stream of people who wish her well but do not give her what she needs. I don’t give her what she needs, either.
I take a few moments to breathe and, contrary to the busyness around me, settle into the quiet of meditation and I ask myself, ”Why?” I look at those fluttering feelings of fear and remember the young girl that I once was: the fresh faced adolescent who gave without hesitation; who responded to disasters by raising money from jumble sales and raffles; who gave her pocket money, without a moment’s hesitation, to anyone who needed it; who listened to people’s troubles; who sat on a grass verge with a dying pheasant and stroked its wing but who slowly got a reputation for being too kind and then, into adulthood, picked up on the subtle feedback, from society, that somehow kindness is synonymous with weakness and that to give freely is naive and demonstrates a personality that is not able to take tough decisions – as an employee too gentle to be effective (I have debunked this myth many times) and a mother too soft with her children for their own good (my adult children are upright, kind, talented and wise).
Our true nature is kindness, pure and simple, but non of us is immune to the cynicism of those that we come into contact with, throughout our lives. Maya Angelou said, “It takes courage to be kind”. Those words are true more so now than ever. It does not seem fashionable to care. For those who do, it takes a certain amount of courage to go beyond social conditioning and respond to the needs of those around us. For, “Tenderness and kindness are not signs of weakness and despair, but manifestations of strength and resolution “ says Kahlil Gibran.
On that day in late February, I open up my little change purse, take out the crumpled five pound note, smooth it out a little and hand it to Nel. She knows what to do. The woman thanks her and then shouts her thanks to me, too.
“I’ve got it!” she cries as she turns her wheelchair in the direction of the centre of town “I’ve got my seven pounds!”
The bus arrives. Nel and I go home.
“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”
— Dr. Seuss
There are many different kinds of love – romantic, physical, spiritual, universal – each kind prompting a connection with something both inside and outside of ourselves. But love can also be ‘tricky’, requiring a certain groundedness and insight, as Chris Yeomans explores in her piece, Love is Universal Migraine
“Love is universal migraine,
A bright stain on the vision
Blotting out reason.”
I found myself recently quoting this poem by Robert Graves to a friend and it set me pondering. Love, being ‘in love’, seems to cause more problems than it solves. Nigel Slater recently said in a radio interview that the thing he most didn’t want to be was ‘in love.’
Like so many I guess, I fell in love and got married (albeit at an unusually advanced age!) and slowly, or not so slowly, the shine wore off. It became possible to see how far I was projecting qualities onto someone, based on the flimsiest of evidence, that I couldn’t possibly know for sure. And that in its turn leads me to the thought that we can’t possibly know anything for sure, least of all the shifting and changing realities of another person.
I am ‘in love’ with Stanley Tucci. I am ‘in love’ with Monty Don. I was once ‘in love’ with Inspector Morse and he is a completely fictional character. All of this is fantasy, based on an idea of what those people would be like if I were to meet them or marry them. I am inclined to be hard on myself and dismiss it all as rubbish, but the same friend referred to above suggested that it would be more helpful to look at the triggers behind these thoughts. What is it that hooks me in to certain individuals and what might it show me about myself?
The same can also happen with spiritual teachers, particularly those who wear robes or other garments that signal their spiritual authority and the promise of some form of ‘enlightenment’. All sorts of different feelings get conjured up (robes being much like uniforms and we know that “every nice girl loves a sailor.”). But when we see these scarlet and gold robed beings in their slightly old-fashioned, brown,‘going out’ clothes, we sometimes get a very different idea. There is a balance of course, a middle way. Awareness must, as with most things, be the key.
But how much does this happen all the time in daily life? We meet someone and we decide instantly whether we would get on with them or not. John Cleese in his book ‘Families and How to Survive Them’ says that we pick up tiny signals that give us clues about what we might have in common with a person, even ‘across a crowded room.’ If this is true, then our reactions might not be so random.
But the interesting part is discovering what can be relied upon and what cannot in the picture that we have built up of another person. Years of friendship uncovers what seems genuine and real. A brief acquaintance may never reveal any truths, relative or not.
So the moral to all this? We will probably always judge a book by its cover, but it’s worth reading a few chapters before we are sure of what we are dealing with.
In part 2 of Anna Alyssa’s article On Acceptance: How do I accept World War 3?, she continues her investigation into how to transition from resistance to acceptance in the face of the state of the world. This week she looks at the role that imagination and fear play in the arising of resistance.
Imagination & delusion | The rope & the snake
The ability of the human mind to imagine and create mind projections is unique to our species. It is the source of all creativity. Imagination enables us to envision realities that are beyond sense perceptions. Imagination enables us to envision a bridge that connects two riverbanks; to envision spaces that connect people; to envision art that expresses subjective realities; imagination enables us to express human experience – from suffering to redemption – in literature, poetry, scriptures. Our imagination gave rise to everything from the invention of the wheel, the aeroplane, space travel to buzzing metropolises enabling billions to live and interact together. Our imagination is an extremely powerful tool that has shaped the world we live in.
Imagination and delusion are one and the same creative force with a single difference: with imagination I know I am dealing with the creative power of my mind, with delusion I am being tricked by that creative power into believing that the creation of my mind and senses is reality. The metaphor of mistaking a rope for a snake is about this extraordinarily creative power of our imagination which can and does produce very evocative projections of fear. These anxiety driven projections are very powerful as they partly tie in with the body’s survival mechanism.
By the way, fear driven projections can also cause the reverse, that is, mistaking a snake for a rope. In that case we remain in a situation that is unsafe and toxic because we believe the anxiety driven mind projections about leaving the situation. Mistaking a snake for a rope is probably far more common, in any case it is is far more detrimental. Fear is central to imagination becoming delusion, one way or the other.
Fear
It is important to differentiate between psychological fear and what I call primal fear for lack of a better word. When someone is coming at you with a knife, that triggers primal fear, that is the instinctive survival mechanism of the body – the result of thousands of years of evolution – that is being activated. In survival mode, thought processes are halted, instinct takes over, it is all in the now and resistance does not arise. In contrast, psychological fear is very much the result of thought processes of the mind creating an evocative projection into the future and believing that projection to be reality. This gives rise to rejection and resistance.
Hyper vigilance is a state of perpetually activated primal fear caused for instance by trauma at an early age. The existential terror and the accompanying panic attacks are not caused by thought processes like with psychological fear nor are they caused by imminent danger. This makes coping extremely difficult. Meditation is not conducive to coping with perpetual primal fear, a fact that is unfortunately not much known in the spiritual community. The prevailing belief is: if you’re experiencing fear without imminent danger, that is all caused by your own mind, keep meditating! Primal fear makes it almost impossible to meditate, making meditation practice a harrowing ordeal at times. Only imagination and creativity can forge a way out of the debilitating state of perpetual primal fear.
Meditation is, however, an excellent tool for dealing with psychological fear. Being established in mediation enables you to catch mind projections and the accompanying resistance early on, learn to drop it and be fully present in the now.
Acceptance & World War 3
The fear for the state of the world, the fear of war is the result of the same process as the fear of falling into the precipice; it is the mind creating a projection into the future. Meaning, it is not reality in the now. Being aware and being present – that is the heart of zazen – is all that is needed to come back to the reality of the now.
Contrary to a fear driven projection into the future, the reality of the now can be acted upon, can be dealt with. The next step at hand – possibly moving my right foot two inches to the left – is something that is always doable. Applying myself to the next step as best as I can is trust actualized. Being grounded in the reality of the now, being grounded in trust, being grounded in not-knowing, and having the focus centered on the next step, leaves no room for fear and despair. Thus actualized trust is undeterred and imperturbable, no matter the situation. It may not look or feel like anything heroic, it may in fact feel clumsy and inadequate. Nonetheless, the power that is in fact being actualized through an act of faith is far greater than the capabilities of the limited individual.
The countering of suffering can only be done from a position of open acceptance, of trust, of not-knowing. Resistance and rejection – which at maximum intensity is hate – are symptoms indicating that we have been tricked by the power of imagination and have mistaken the rope for a snake, or worse, mistaken the snake for a rope.
Skillful means
Learning to recognize mind projections and to drop resistance is part and parcel of becoming established in meditation. There are however skillful means that can also help indirectly with getting a grip on psychological fear. This may be as simple as concentrating on the breathing; maybe you need to talk to yourself as if to a child from time to time; maybe you need to reduce your news consumption and set yourself on a media diet, shunning click-baits and limiting your news consumption to reputable sources.
The form doesn’t really matter. Whatever works to weaken the belief in the fear driven, compelling mind projections and dissolve resistance will help loosen the grip of psychological fear, ground you in the now and help to focus on the next step, help to discern right action, whatever the life situation.
The radio show I was listening to recently had a guest on who spoke about her experience of a panic attack during a hike, alone in the mountains, while descending a particularly challenging and steep section. As she heard the sound of dislodged small rocks rapidly falling into the precipice next to the narrow path, she froze and started to experience racing thoughts: “Oh this is bad.. I don’t want this.. I am going to fall, I am going to die in a minute… no.. no.. no.. oh I want to get out of here…get me out of here..”. At some point she recognized her thinking was not very helpful and she intuitively started to talk to herself out loud as if speaking to a toddler, saying: “Its Okay Jane, just breath now and see if you can feel your feet, are they both on the ground? Yes they are, good, excellent! Now, put your left hand on the rock beside you, yes very good! Okay, see if you now can move your right foot two inches to the left, yes, excellent!”. This way she was able to get herself out of the panic state and safely make the difficult descent. She said that speaking to yourself as if talking to a child helps you to get a grip on fear because it is a form of positive thinking and positive motivation.
The path from resistance to acceptance
Focusing on the positive can of course be good in dealing with challenging situations, I feel however that what truly worked here was the simple fact that this hiker was able to stop resisting. What she describes is the transition from: “No.. no.. no..I don’t want this, get me out of here!” to “Okay, lets look at this situation right here, right now, and see; what do I need to do?” The first position is fear, despair, resistance, rejection, the second position is open acceptance, trust, not-knowing.
Notice that it is not about acceptance of “I am going to die” – that thought is a mind projection into the future – rather it is the acceptance of reality in the now – standing with both feet on the ground in this case – and just leaving the projection for what it is for a moment. Notice also that trust is a state of open willingness, not ” trust in Something”. The state of open acceptance comes about by recognizing thoughts / mind activity for what it is, ceasing resistance, and simply being fully present in the now: “What is good to do now? What is the next step?”. The path from resistance to acceptance is the way to discern right action.
The News
We are facing bleak times which may even get bleaker. Listening to the news seems to hold the same challenges as standing on the edge of a precipice. News about wars that are ongoing or that have recently erupted, more escalations on the horizon for the very near future, with political leaders fueling divisiveness. Even the possibility of a World War 3 is now being mentioned . All this easily triggers fear driven projections, which are further multiplied by a media that has an incentive to exactly do that, as fear commands attention and increases news consumption, which in turn serves the underlying revenue model.
So what do you do when you find yourself in the grip of fear for the state of the world, for the possibility of World War 3? What do you do when your thought process echos: “Oh this is bad.. no.. no.. no.. I don’t want this.. get me /us out of here!”? How do you transition from resistance and rejection to open acceptance in the face of war, in the face of atrocities?
To investigate these questions, it is helpful to have a brief look at the three main aspects that are involved: acceptance, imagination and fear.
Acceptance | What it is not
Acceptance may be one of the most misunderstood terms in the Buddhist teaching. Most of us may have tried to practice acceptance in one or more of the following ways only to realize that it doesn’t quite work that way.
First of all, acceptance is not the same as passivity; If I am able to act and change a situation for the better but I remain passive, that doesn’t sit right. Acceptance is not subservience either; Accepting everything my guru, my master or my tradition tells me without questioning, without investigating is not acceptance, it is dependency. Subservience combined with inadequacy is often mistaken for acceptance but is far from it; To think: “I am going to die, I don’t want that, but Buddhist teaching / my master says I must accept, so I must somehow learn to accept death.” is not acceptance, it is delusion. When I fail to accept death – and I will because accepting a mind projection as reality cannot be done – I feel inadequate because I erroneously think: it is just me who is failing, everyone else seems to be perfectly able to do it. Now I have completely lost my way in trying to follow Buddhist teaching.
Acceptance
Ultimately, acceptance is about reality. The thought “I am going to die” is not reality in the now – I am not dead or I would not be heaving a thought – it is a mind projection into the future and needs to be recognized as such. Trying to accept a mind projection as reality is a fools errand.
An arising thought – be that a projection or otherwise – can and should of course always be acknowledged and accepted as an activity of the mind. The problem arises when we mistake a thought for reality and then convince ourselves that we can accept that so called “reality”. That is not accepting reality, we are simply being tricked by the creative power of our own mind, tricked by the power of imagination.
Part two will continue the investigation on how to transition from resistance to acceptance in the face of the state of the world, and the role imagination and fear play in the arising of resistance.
It has been six months since we last posted on Dew on the Grass. Life has been busy for all of us, in different ways. The summer seems to be a time for outdoors and family and then there are the general ups and downs of the everyday that draw on everyone’s energy. Still, as autumn begins to wrap us up in her “mists and mellow fruitfulness”, I have a sense of returning home, here to our little blog, and to the words that are waiting patiently to be written.
It has been a revelation to me, in recent years, to realise that the creative parts of our nature are expressions of our spiritual journey. That may surprise the reader who has always known this, or in fact, does not yet know it. I have had an impetus to write since I could first hold a pen and join words together into sentences. In infant school, I was encouraged by my teacher when I wrote short stories and I often got to perform them in front of the class. I attempted to write a novel, when I was nine, sent articles to magazines, which were rejected, and in my early teens, wrote poems that I showed to no one for fear of judgment.
Like many people, especially women, perhaps, as I emerged from the creative freedom of childhood, through adolescence, and into adulthood, crushing self-doubt stoked the belief that writing was a waste of time when I could be doing something more productive and this halted the creative flow, tied me in knots and generally crushed the intuitive knowledge within me that writing my thoughts down on the page was a means of spiritual self-discovery. Furthermore, it took many years to understand that revisiting those words, moulding them like wet clay, and presenting them to a wider audience was not necessarily a pretentious act but one of trust in a process of growth that goes deeper than the words, themselves.
Of course, life is busy and always will be, there are many pulls on our time, but neglecting the creative life within us, whether that be writing, drawing, sculpting, or other form of creativity such as sewing or knitting, if that is our means of expression, is like shutting off our air.
Artists who write about writing not as a commercial enterprise but as a way of delving deeper into the human heart and consciousness, such as Natalie Goldberg and Julia Cameron, have long advocated for spending time each day simply spilling out onto the page without premeditation of what gets written. The key to this method is to allow the words to arrive on the page, without letting our inner judge impede them. We sit, without expectation, in a space that is simultaneously empty and ripe with the potential for insight. It is a revelation to bring this type of trust to our relationship with creativity, whether it is writing or any other form of art. It lays us bare, all quest for accomplishment is necessarily dropped and we release that which needs to be seen.
This is akin to sitting on our meditation cushion, facing the wall. We have no warning of what thoughts or emotions will arise. We can do this anywhere and at any time, of course, but, as with any practice, creating an environment that is conducive to the process is helpful. Sometimes, what comes is a need to change something in our lives. Even if the change is small, it can be profound. It is the space that speaks and connects us to our true nature.
One afternoon, quite recently, after carving some time into my day for reflection and writing, I knew that I had to do something quite specific to support myself emotionally and spiritually. Previous visitors to this blog, and to entries that I have posted, may have picked up on the fact that my husband is chronically ill, and requiring a lot of care. He lives and sleeps on the ground floor of the house, whilst I slept upstairs in an enormous double bed, a relic of a former time in our marriage. The bed filled the room. I struggled to find a bit of wall space to place my meditation bench. The room was cramped and I felt cramped, along with it. It seemed to represent my feelings of being squashed: of being held hostage in a situation that I felt I could not escape from. Of course, being in these ‘no escape’ situations can, of themselves, be a catalyst for spiritual awakening and I did not want to turn away from any part of my situation. At the same time, I felt I needed the air to move and to unblock some energy. I needed to create space in the physical environment to breathe my way back to a regular writing practice.
So, with help, I moved the enormous bed into a spare bedroom and replaced it with a far less grand single bed, which I placed against a wall, found a lovely desk on an online auction site, which now sits, catching the morning sunlight, in the bay window, and, importantly, there is also wall space for my meditation bench. The centre of the room is empty. I may dance in it if the mood takes me!
The late Thích Nhất Hạnh once said that we have a right to meditate. I think we have a right to write, too. Or, sculpt, sew paint or practice whatever connects us to our inner life and spiritual home. To do this makes us richer, more integrated human beings – we just have to show up and let go.
References:
Writing Down the Bones – Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg – Shambala Press
The Artist’s Way – A Course in Discovering and Recovering Your Creative Self by Julia Cameron – Macmillan Press
As a fifteen year-old teenager I wrote in a dairy entry that my greatest wish in life was to become as transparent as fine cloth.
That wish was born out of the experience of the body* as dense, dark, heavy, claustrophobic. It was born out of the experience of being trapped in this limited form that was being judged, mistreated, medically probed, jabbed, grabbed, pushed and pulled; that was being restrained by plaster casts, by cold hard gripping metal drilled into it; that was being subjected, many times over, to the deep slicing of the surgical blade, slicing-drawing broad, indelible lines of considerable yardage, creating intricate cord like scars, with a halo of crude stitch marks, as scattered grains of rice. I would often dissociate and retreat from the body so as not to feel the pain that was being inflicted on it. To this day, it does not come naturally to say “my body”, although perhaps it is partly for different reasons now than it was in the past. This type of detachment from the body is a mode of survival, induced when the current experience is felt to be too overwhelming, when the current experience is existential terror.
A few years after writing down my greatest wish in life and as a slightly older teenager, I traveled to a Buddhist monastery to learn to meditate, led by a deep intuition that the key for realizing my life’s wish and overcoming the shadow world of the body, may lie there. It was surprising to learn that Buddhists deem a state of detachment as something desirable, something to aspire to. It would long remain a mystery as to why.
Localization in the body
The experience of being localized in the body is a difficult conundrum to crack. Our senses seemed to reinforce that “I” is localized “here” behind the eyes and the world is localized “over there” outside “I”, creating the dichotomy of self and other, the duality of subject and object. Ideas like “a healthy mind in a healthy body” reinforce the belief that we are localized in the body. This mainstream belief is challenged when suffering becomes so excessive that it forces a disconnect. Existential terror induced at an early age is one of the causes for such a disconnect. It results in a debilitating state of affairs. Nowadays, terms are used like childhood trauma and PTSS. Information and research in that area can very much help understand and deal with the impact of certain experiences on the body-mind, even though solving the root cause falls in the spiritual domain.
The Immovable One
Becoming established in the unmoving, unflinching presence of Zazen meditation – vividly personified by Achalanātha, The Immovable One – makes it possible to face debilitating states.
It took more than 35 years of remaining present in the experience of being trapped in this body, being in chronic pain and in existential terror, to realize the simple, glaring truth: the body is within “I”, not the other way round. The erroneous belief that the self is trapped in the body, and shares the limitations of the body is a contraction and that contraction is at the root of suffering.
The unbound state
The body being within “I” is glaring because it is our direct experience all along. All that we know of the body is bodily sensations, that is, how the body feels on the inside and sense perceptions of how it appears on the outside. Both sensations and sense perceptions arise within the space of awareness, the space of stillness. This collection of bodily sensations and sense perceptions we call “my body” is an activity within the space of stillness, which is the true “I”. The activity of bodily sensations and sense perceptions is ‘the contained’, not ‘that which contains’. Ignorance, that is the ignoring of this reality, is the root cause of suffering. Ignorance obscures the true “I” but it can never obscure it completely. Even in the midst of deep suffering, the truth remains as the deep wish in the heart to be free of the contraction, to be free of the belief of being a limited entity. The deep wish in the heart to dissolve the contraction is like a beacon directing ships at night, it guides us through suffering to return to our true home, the unbound state, which was never lost to begin with.
Effortless detachment
Coming back to detachment, the disconnect caused by suffering shatters the belief of being localized in this body but it does not eliminate that belief altogether. Even without trauma, the idea that the body is an obstacle; the experience of being a limited entity and the wish to overcome that limitation, are all forms of disconnected detachment, are forms of suffering. The detachment the Buddhist teaching speaks of is not a disconnection, rather it is the natural outcome of seeing the truth of the matter, which is: the true self does not share the limitations of the body. The body is not an entity in its own right; the body-mind is the activity of the true self. Seeing it for the activity it is, seeing that the body cannot impact the self, puts the body in its rightful place in the wider perspective. This natural detachment is effortless and intimate.
Buddha recognizes Buddha
The realization that the body-mind does not contain but is the contained, that it is within the space of awareness, the true self, is a major shift that has far reaching implications. It is not just this body-mind that is the activity of the true self; the whole universe is contained as activity of the true self, therefore the universe is our true body. The expression: “Buddha recognizes Buddha” does not mean: “I as Buddha recognize you as another Buddha”. This had been the underlying assumption. The teaching does not say: all beings are Buddha’s. The believe that there are multiple Buddha’s is duality, is still the believe of being a separate finite entity. All body-minds, all beings, the whole universe, is the activity of a single, universal True Self. The teaching says: All beings are Buddha. There only ever is one indivisible Buddha. Buddha recognizes Buddha is the true self recognizing no other than itself. To reconcile this reality with the sensory experience of a world “out there” is the work at hand
Old habits
The ingrained thinking, sensing, feeling based on the belief of being localized in this body-mind, of being a limited object in time and space, are conditionings that have deep roots. These patterns have been reinforced over a lifetime, are still reinforced in the world. The work of re-examining these ingrained habits whenever they arise, aligning them with the truth and allowing them to dissolve is a long process. Some conditionings laid very early on at the time of infancy may never dissolve completely as the imprint is too deep. That is okay. It does not obscure the inherent transparency of the fine cloth.
This article is a brief write-up about an ongoing, non-linear process, I hope it may be of benefit to others.
* Wind from the Sea by Andrew Wyeth: The curtain in the painting represents the “fine cloth” in the article. The transparency and the gentle flowing in the breeze of the illuminated curtain evokes a sense of spaciousness and freedom that is not inhibited by the dark frame. This represents the wish to be free of the contraction that shines brightly as the truth which cannot be obscured within the experience of the body as dark and heavy, within suffering.