a reflection within a water drop

in this world

i have found

no perfect drop of dew-

not even on the lotus ~Issa*

 

As I sort through the various threads of thought, imaginings, memories and beliefs I have woven into a tapestry that illustrates my companionship with a silent sense of saudade, I come to see a life colored by attempts to evade or expunge an underlying current of dissatisfaction. This discontent is generally felt as a yearning for something undefined, or a vague sense that things are not quite right.  It comes in the wake of the realization that dreams are unreachable, and expectations only create more turmoil. Sometimes it erupts as sorrow, grief, anguish, or despair.  As a result, I question where is the wellspring of this homesickness for a place, a person, a time that that I continue to search for despite a knowing that it simply cannot be?

Buddhist psychology seeks to uncover the truth of human suffering and to find a path that leads to the cessation of suffering.  The first two truths speak of suffering and its nature, while the third and fourth truths outline a life path that will bring about the cessation of suffering.

The First Noble Truth nudges me out of my own immersion within the misery of suffering through its validation that suffering is a universal occurrence despite one’s race, culture, or affiliations.  Even those who say, “all’s right with the world,” are impacted by the constant state of flux within their life and thus experience anxiety.

To be born is to struggle with physical changes that occur in conjunction with developmental milestones, to feel the pain that accompanies physical and medical frailties, and to wrestle with the process of dying and with death itself.  To be human is to be dissatisfied with the wanting and obtaining of that which is pleasant, to know the fading of initial pleasure, as well as to experience the discomfort of unpleasant sounds, sights, scents, tastes, physical sensations, and thoughts.  To be open to life is to experience the range of human feelings, be it fear, anger, sadness, and joy.  To be with others is to know the distress of – real or imagined and spoken or unspoken – inclusion and exclusion.

The first truth also extends these truths of suffering to the unsatisfactory nature and general insecurity inherent in the law of impermanency.  That is, all the phenomena of existence whatsoever, even the awe-inspiring and the horrifying, are subject to change and dissolution. Those who know the pleasures found within substances also are acquainted with the unease that accompanies excess. We all intimately know the truth of this impermanency in our longings to feel emotionally close to others, which soon changes into a yearning for separation. Consequently, without exception discontent does arise.

Suffering is clinging to the illusion of an unchanging self; that is, to a belief there is a permanent self within the ongoing process of physical and mental occurrences which constantly arise, disintegrate, and dissolve. Hume wrote that self is a “bundle or collection of different perceptions, which succeed each other with inconceivable rapidity, and in a perpetual flux and movement.”  He further suggested that we create an idea of self as we processes our perception of events and things.  Thus, there is not a tangible sense of self that remains consistent from one moment to the next. To desire, crave, or cling to a solid consistent self where there is only a changing psycho-physical complex is to create conditions that generate sorrow, grief, and dejection.^[1]

The feeling of an “I” emerges from a reflection of the stream of experiential consciousness that awakens when one becomes aware of being observed by an internalized watcher or seer who is felt but never known.   Therefore, there is no denying that there is a wavering consciousness, an “I”, that knits together streams of memories, thoughts, feelings, and interactions in such a manner that we are able to formulate an awareness of identity, continuity, striving, as well as an sense of ourselves and others.

Memory bridges our past with the present

and brings us to an awareness that life is a cyclic process

that demonstrates the dynamic forces of togetherness and separation;

therefore, this moment is but a reflection within fragments of a past

and of a self revisited while in this process.

sources:

* The Year of my Life

trans: Nobuyuki Yuasa

[1] B. Russell, A History of Western Philosophy (New York, 1945).

through darkness to darkness

The way I must enter

leads through darkness to darkness.

O’ moon above the mountain’s rim,

please shine a little further 

on my path.

                   ~Izumi Shikibu*

…”through darkness to darkness” refers to a passage from the Lotus Sutra: ‘The long night further curses our fate: we pass into darkness from darkness.’  Michi, ‘way’ is the word commonly chosen for a literal path, but it has the dual meaning of Buddhist practice, the Way; mountain,…can be a symbol for death…The mountain, the path, the moon all work to present image entirely true to the physical world…the poem becomes a deeply moving call: as she moves from the darkness and confusion of human life and suffering towards the darkness of the unknowable future, Shikibu asks for the clarifying moon of enlightenment to remain with her for a few moments longer before disappearing. (page 208)*

*reference:

The Ink Dark Moon

trans: Jane Hirshfield

mental hindrances V

I once saw a dancer on stage sit in the meditative posture …

In a few seconds, thoughts of passion began to arise.  The dancer moved through the process, becoming more and more frenzied as just a tiny glimpse of passion began to escalate until it was a full-blown sexual fantasy.  Then a small bell rang, and a calm voice said “thinking,” and the dancer relaxed back into the meditation posture.  About five seconds later, the dance of rage began, again starting as a small irritation and then exploding more and more wildly.  Then came the dance of loneliness, then the dance of drowsiness, and each time the bell would ring, and the voice would say “thinking,” and the dancer would simply relax for a little longer and a little longer into what began to feel like the immense peace and spaciousness of simply sitting there.*

Over time, with consistent meditation practice,  one will begin to notice that the mind lessens its tendency to wander and remains more attentive to the object of concentration.  At the same time, there is an increased awareness of the body-mind relationship and an understanding of the multiple activities we undertake throughout the day to ease various discontents; that is, hunger, boredom, physical aches and pains, loneliness, inadequacy, worries, conflicts.   This opens the door to knowledge that the dynamics within our mind-body structure are not governed by our desires.  This is the beginning of insight into suffering.

What may interfere with one’s mindfulness practice is the hindrance identified as sloth and torpor.  This is a heaviness of mind equal to dullness, apathy, lethargy, or rigidity.  When one is overcome with lethargy it is like trying to see the life below the surface of a pond that is covered with moss and water plants.

To become mindful of lethargy one must first accept its arising without sinking into its heaviness with, “fatigue is rising within me.”  As it is abandoned, “fatigue within me is abandoned.” While it is fading, “fatigue is ceasing within me.”  When it is gone, “there is no fatigue present within me.”

To dispel dullness and drowsiness it is suggested that one visualize a brilliant ball of light, undertake brisk walking meditation, reflect on death, or meditate with a firm determination to break through this mental fatigue.

*reference:

Pema Chodron

When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times

mental hindrances IV

As long as we have some definite idea about or some hope in the future, we cannot really be serious with the moment that exists right now.  You may say, “I can do it tomorrow, or next year,” believing that something that exist today will exist tomorrow. Even though you are not trying so hard, you expect that some promising thing will come, as long as you follow a certain way…there is no way set up for us.  Moment after moment we have to find our own way.  Some idea of perfection, or some perfect way which is set up by someone else, is not the true way for us.*

A heart and mind overwhelmed and lost within clouds of uncertainty and confusion will be hindered in developing clarity regarding personal life goals and will often find that they have, once again, failed to follow through with a personal commitment with self or others.  There is an anxiety that arises when one feels pulled in two opposite directions especially those associated with expectations of self regarding family and friend roles/responsibilities that run counter to employment/financial security.  When one’s mind is clouded gray by shades of confusion it is like seeing one’s reflection muddled by internal conflict and mistrust.

Our mental qualities color the way we see the world; therefore, they are an integral aspect of our nature.  Within Buddhist thought, these qualities are identified as either detrimental or beneficial.  They have the potential to torment and comfort our minds and by extension people within our field of connection.

The importance in acquiring and using techniques that assist with the removal of detrimental thoughts is found within the analogy of the dandelion.  That is, when thoughts arise seeds burst free like the wished-upon dandelion and replant themselves in our mental mind stores.  Therefore, it is recommended that repetitive unwholesome thoughts be removed as if they were weeds by: embracing small incidents of positive memories, reflecting upon the negative consequences of these thoughts, shifting attention to specific body movements, letting go of the thought, and pushing them away.

To contain uncertainty and confusion, one must first note its arising as it is appearing, “indecisiveness and dividedness is rising within me.”  As they are abandoned, “indecisiveness and dividedness are abandoned.” While they fade, “indecisiveness and dividedness are ceasing within me.”  When they are gone, “there is no indecisiveness and dividedness within me.”

When indecisiveness and dividedness cloud the intention within one’s meditation practice, they are most effectively countered through the connection with a qualified teacher, an investment in time to study, as well as time engaged with noble friends and suitable conversations.

*reference:

Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind

Shunryu Suzuki

mental hindrances III

don’t swat the fly

who begs your pardon

wringing his hands and legs ~Issa*

The arising of ill will hinders one’s interactions with self and others. Ill will is a synonym for aversion.  It is felt as hatred, envy, anger, self-pity, and resentment.  It is seen in the repulsion we have towards others, objects, situations, and ourselves.  An introspective mind that is overcome with ill will can be equated to a person looking for her reflection in a pot of boiling water.

The goal of metta meditation (a meditation of loving-kindness) is to wish happiness for all beings.  This practice begins with first extending love to one’s self by saying, “I will rid my mind of anger, hatred, ignorance, fear, greed, and craving.  I will make my mind clear, fresh and pure.  Like a transparent window is my mind and I pour out thoughts of love and kindness to myself.”

The practice moves you to another as you recall a mental image of someone dear to you.  Imagine yourself within their being, feel his or her personality, enter your own being and direct loving-kindness into the mind and heart of that person.  Repeat this with other people with whom you feel emotionally close.  In time extend this warmth and kindness to others in your life; for example, people who live in your neighborhood, the grocery clerk, your co-workers, and eventually all beings on earth and beyond.

If you find during this practice that disturbing thoughts and feelings arise in conjunction with an image of a person, take this as a message that it is not the right time to extend loving-kindness to this particular person. With soothing self acceptance, return to extending warmth and loving-kindness to your self.

I find it amazing to acknowledge the strength by which our ego holds onto our feelings and beliefs as if they were objects to possess or tangible entitlements to protect despite their potential to consume or destroy.  It is as if feelings have the creative ability to create story lines and to take our mind hostage while formulating validation, rationalization, and justification for their continued presence.  For example, anger once awakened by other feelings—such as, pride, jealousy, fear, or grief—seems to have an uncanny ability to recall historical events to justify its continued presence as well as to drawn upon an unlimited supply of resources to insure its survival.

To become mindful of ill will one must first discern it arising without acceptance of its justifications with, “ill will is rising within me.”  As it is abandoned, “ill will within me is abandoned.” While it is fading, “ill will is ceasing within me.”  When it is gone, “there is no ill will present within me.”  To ease anger and ill will, one is directed to meditate on loving-kindness.

 cited in:

Inch by Inch

trans: Nanao Sakaki

 

the arising of saudade

Reading is an exterior exercise; meditation belongs to the interior intellect.  

Prayer operates at the level of desire.  Contemplation transcends every sense. ~ Guigo

The arising of saudade* has the power to imprison me to its feelings of anguished desolation. Underneath this homesickness is a calling for a disciplined courage to help depart this state of mind and to wait beside a tranquil pool of water, alone, with a redefined faith that a guide, teacher, companion, savior will arrive to accompany me on a journey of reconciliation.

Within this waiting, I hear a whispered invitation to engage in a mindfulness practice guided by the art of Lectio Divina, a very ancient Christian practice that has been kept alive in the Christian monastic tradition.  Lectio Divina, a Latin term meaning “divine reading”, is a practice that involves a slow, reflective reading of the Scriptures wherein one listens, reverently, for the still voice of God. This spiritual activity is one that includes mindfulness, meditation, insight, and contemplation.

The practice begins with quieting the mind and cultivating the ability to listen deeply. In the twelfth century, Guigo, a Carthusian monk, described the four stages he considered essential to this practice.  He identified the first stage as lectio (reading) where the Word of God is read, slowly and reflectively.  Lectio opens the door to understanding. The second stage is meditatio (reflection). When a word or a passage is understood, the text is memorized while the reader gently repeats the words.  The repetition interacts with one’s thoughts, hopes, memories, and desires.  Through this process of rumination, the deepest aspects of self absorb the text’s meaning. (The image of the ruminant animal quietly chewing its cud was used in antiquity as a symbol of the Christian pondering the Word of God.)

The third stage is oratio (response), during which thinking subsides and one engages in a dialogue with God.  That is, there is a transcending of self with a power beyond oneself in such a way that the absorbed meaning transforms the self in a profound and deep manner.  From this, conscience guides one to a life lived more fully and intently.

The final stage of Lectio Divina is contemplatio (rest) where all thoughts, understandings, and meanings subside.  One is invited to simply rest and listen in silence as one is embraced by God, is home, once again.

Lectio Divina is not a goal-oriented practice in which one reaches unity though a step-by-step, technique-by-technique process.  It is a journey that awakens me, as a lay-person, to the arising and vanishing of thoughts and feelings, and to the ebb and flow between speaking and listening, between questioning and reflecting.

The worldviews of Christianity and Buddhism, as I presently understand them, converge with the suggestions that this sense of homesickness that arises and then fades may be a trace memory of wholeness—of pure emotional connection—and that this sense of home will arise again, and again it will vanish.

From a Western point of view, representing something with words and focusing on them is an “intellectual” process, while representing something through a feeling or image and focusing on through these senses is an “intuitive” process. Intellectual understanding united with intuitive awakening opens doors to greater insight.

The Buddha said that the ultimate truth of things is directly visible, timeless and calling out to be approached and seen.  This reality is always available to us, and that the place where it is to be realized is within oneself.  The ultimate truth is not something mysterious and remote, but the truth of our own experience. It can be reached only by understanding our experience, by penetrating it right through to its foundations.  This truth, in order to become liberating truth, has to be known directly.  That is known by insight, grasped and absorbed by a kind of knowing which is also an immediate seeing.

Wakefulness naturally radiates out when we are not so concerned with ourselves and are able to truly acknowledge the interdependence and connectedness of all that is.

I feel an invitation to be in the moment with stilled silence, I am home.

The still center of being . . . whispers, “Realize Me.”  No sooner is it glimpsed then it is gone. ~ Guigo

*Saudade is a unique Portuguese word that has no immediate translation in English. In the book In Portugal of 1912, A. F. G. Bell writes: The famous saudade of the Portuguese is a vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist, for something other than the present, a turning towards the past or towards the future; not an active discontent or poignant sadness but an indolent dreaming wistfulness.  (cited in http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saudade)

who on earth was she

But what made the greatest impression during those early days was the man who employed her at the bakery.

“What’s your name?”

Hanna hesitated for a while before answering, “Hanna, Lovisa, Greta . . . Broman.”

“Married?”

“Yes, but my husband’s dead.”

“Widow, then,” said the man, noting it down.  “Date of birth?”

She was silent.  She’d never heard anything so silly.  He had to repeat it.

“When and where were you born, woman?”

She stated both year and parish, got the job . . . she never forgot the foreman’s questions and repeated themselves to herself every evening for a long time afterwards.  Name, married, born?  To her it was if she’d fallen into a gigantic hollow on Wolf Mountain.

Who on earth was she when no one knew she was Hanna Augustdotter from Braten, granddaughter of the rich Erik of Framgarden, and who become the miller’s wife at Norakvattnet?

Fortunately she wasn’t given to brooding.  But many a time over the next few years she had to fend off the feeling of having lost her foothold.

 Marianne Fredriksson, Hanna’s Daughters

entangled by our individual kammic threads

Closed minds and hearts are the result of a failure of trust.

As my reflective mind enters the memories of my childhood self, the words of Padmasiridi De Silva come to mind: “Death of a loved one disturbs the relationships that sustain a person’s sense of ‘identity’ and the high level of binding and cathexis concentrated on the person who is lost is suddenly disrupted . . . there is a close link between the doctrines of egolessness and suffering.”  Through this lens of Buddhist thought, I begin to feel an understanding of how my father’s absolute and final absence from our lives disrupted the multiple relationships between my father, mother, sister, and me.  Besides the sudden severing of the identity I was forming via my father, the connecting emotional threads between those of us that were left, although still intact, were unknowingly stretched and pulled by our own individual fears of egolessness.

My father’s death left my mother, a young woman deaf from infancy, with two daughters and pregnant with her first son.  I do not recall whose idea it was to wander outside the house early that morning as my mother slept.  I can, however, imagine my young self following my older sister as if an invisible thread that tied us together tugged me along as she, with her five-year-old world view, undertook an emotional duty to find our father.  Did we believe we could find our father fly fishing in the creek that ran alongside the house? Or was there something about the water that enticed us into abandoning our search? I can recall to this day the cessation of anxiety and arising rapture that coincided with my surrender to the inevitable. Two young men, I am told, rescued us both from this search.

Shortly after the death of my father my mother remarried, and by the time I was seven years old, she was divorced and pregnant with her fifth child.  Her fourth child, taken by his father in the dark of night, vanished within the tangled web of adults who regressed into childlike behaviors under incompetent custody laws.

My reflective mind recalls the unbound inquisitiveness that carried my seven-year-old emotional self into the house from school knowing on that day my mother’s fifth child was to be born.  I can still feel the internal rebound that coincides with walking into an unseen plate of glass as my being absorbed, not the tone of grief, but the intensity of frustration within my grandmother’s assertion, “The baby died!”

The Buddha’s recommendation to abstain from false speech is found in the position that people connect with one another within an atmosphere of mutual trust, where each draws upon the belief that the other will speak the truth.  It is suggested therefore that families and societies will fall into chaos as one untruth shatters trust, as it is the nature of lies to proliferate through attempts to weave a harmonious tapestry of reality.

When I reflect upon those times in which I experience an intense urge to say other than what I believe is true, I know it is fed by the anxiety intrinsic to uncertainty, and inherent with the aloneness of expulsion. At other times, the drive seems to come from a sense of nothingness that seeks validation through inclusion with others or continuity within mangled and haphazard memories. It feels as though it is an act that preserves or ensures a sense of control, power, or protection.

What this force blinds me to is the powerlessness that coincides with the telling of an untruth, as well as the emotional separation that overlaps the fear of discovery.  It also creates the need for another story to support the one prior.  Therefore, the beliefs that compel me to lie are but a layer of lies within a lie.

The intensity of my grandmother’s words served to erect an unbreakable barrier: “This is not to be spoken of,” and thus a door of understanding remained closed between us throughout the remainder of her life.  It is her handwriting within a book authored by one of her older sisters that allowed me to come to to an understanding of her as a woman who suffered less at the hands of others than from an unforgiving ego fettered to her own grief, shame, remorse, and guilt.  Therefore, I have become acquainted with a woman whose own suffering blinded her to the threads of grief and loss my three-year-old self had previously woven into a tapestry of death and to the subsequent re-weaving of the incongruence between my father’s going to heaven, my brother’s disappearance, the baby’s death, and the near-drowning of my older sister and I.  Two weeks after my grandmother declared the baby dead, my infant sister–but not my father or my brother–returned to the family.

Thus, one false belief in a series of untrue concepts begot a childhood paradigm of ignorance derived from hearts and minds closeted by anxiety, shame, guilt, and anger.  Another aspect to this recollection is the total absence of my mother within the series of events surrounding my sister’s birth, death, and resurrection. It is as if she was seated in the audience, unseen and unknown, while my grandmother, my baby sister, and I were string-puppets entangled by our individual kammic threads.

accept the seasons of the heart

And a woman spoke, saying, Tell us of Pain.

And he said:

 

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.

Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.

And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.

And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

 

Much of your pain is self-chosen.

It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.

Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility.

For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen.

And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.

 

Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

weekly photo challenge: home

In this  new WordPress weekly challenge   share a picture that evokes HOME for you.

A Meditative Journey Home

 

Before me I see a clearing illuminated by the rays of the morning sun.  As I step into the clearing, I feel warmth of the sun’s touch and see a house centered within a field of harvest-ready wheat and question, “is this home?”

As I make my way through the wheat field, I find three ancient keys lying within a dust-filled furrow.  Silver is the first key.  A knowing tells me it opens a door to a space of tranquil abiding.  Gold is the second key.  It gives admission to a room of healing serenity.  Diamonds make up the third key.  It unlocks a keepsake of my remembrances.

The awakened groan of the wood planks welcome me as I step onto the weathered porch that surrounds the house.  I find that the silver key fits the lock of an entryway door.  Before I open the door and step over the threshold, I feel compelled to turn around and, with non-judgmental awareness, attend to and then put aside all that I see within and beyond the wheat field.

My consciousness rides upon my in-breath like a white kite riding upon the breeze traveling through a cloudless blue sky. It momentarily pauses in midair as my mind touches the in-between.  Consciousness rides upon my out-breath like a red kite riding upon the breeze traveling through a cloudless blue sky.  Again, it waits in midair as my body senses the in-between.  Together, consciousness, body, and mind move in unison with the spirit of my breath.

I step over the threshold and feel an inviting atmosphere of affectionate acceptance that encourages me to wander unencumbered throughout the interior of the house.

I find myself at the bottom of a stairway, which I ascend. On the second floor I enter a room lightened by the light of the midday sun entering a picture window painted by the landscape that extends to where the blue ridge of the sky touches the earth’s multi-green jagged horizon.  Opposite to the window is a ceiling-to-floor bookcase lined with books, aged and worn.  The warmth within this room embraces me with stillness, silence, and clarity.  My eyes light upon a small trunk and I know that it is for me.  As I pick up the trunk I find that it is light and fits with ease into the cradle of my arm.

I leave this room and again walk about the house.  I find that the gold key opens a door to a central room of calm solitude.  Stepping into this room I sense the presence of a compassionate being who introduces herself as Sophia, the aged guardian of the innermost things, “my heart hears the wordless tears and fears within your heart and feels the quiver of your heart-filled joys.  You have entered the hearth of your home, an ancient site of healing.”

I sit comfortably on the floor and open the trunk with the third key.  As I explore the contents, I understand that they are mementos of my life’s journey.  My consciousness, mind, and body move in unison with the moment of my breath’s spirit as I hold one keepsake after another. I acknowledge the memories, images, feelings that each memento evokes with the reminder that I am in a space of healing serenity and that I am not alone.

I feel a slight tugging within my heart as dark memories hidden within darker shadows accept the invitation to ride upon the in-breath of the compassionate guardian.   With their departure, my body releases long-held tears.  With my in-breath, I hear her whisper, “This is a time of healing transformation”, and I feel a wondrous golden energy spread throughout my body.

A calling beckons me from beyond this house that feels like home. I hear permission to leave with a chosen remembrance or to place whatever arose back in the trunk.  I step over the threshold; I feel an invitation to return whenever I wish.

The porch step invites me to engage in a mindful transition.  My consciousness rides upon my out-breath like a white kite riding upon the breeze traveling through a cloudless blue sky. It momentarily pauses in midair as my mind touches the in-between. My consciousness rides upon my in-breath like a red kite riding upon the breeze traveling through a cloudless blue sky. Again, it awaits in midair as my body senses the in-between.  Together, consciousness, body, and mind move in unison with the spirit of my breath.

The ancient wisdom of the hearth invites me to portray this meditation through a form of artistic expression of my choice; e.g., drawing, poetry, quilting, collage, needlework, story writing, painting, sculpture, gardening, weaving.  I place my creation within the pages of this book.