11/1/14

Yesterday, instead of going out with friends, I went to PFoD to see Ajahn Thanissaro, who's visiting from Wat Metta. The night followed the general schedule when monks visit: tea, casual discussion, meditation, Dhamma talk and Q and A. Being Halloween, the topic of the talk was fear, but with a Buddhist twist. Rather than being afraid of things outside, like ghosts, goblins, zombies, or even wild animals, we should really fear the unskillful things that come up in the mind and how acting on those things harms ourselves and others.

At one point, he said that one of the reasons zombies are so popular right now is because of our culture and how we're afraid, unconsciously or otherwise, of consumerism and other memes infecting us and turning us into zombies. He compared these things to the parasites in nature that infect other animals and make them do things that aren't in their best interest, but are in the best interest of the parasite. In the same way, things like greed, hatred, and delusion, or the things in society that arise out of and prey upon the greed, hatred, and delusion in our minds, make us do things that aren't in our best interest. When walking down a grocery store aisle, what makes us grab the things that we know aren't good for us?

In a sense, our minds can be our own worst enemies, and it's within our minds that real suffering arises. To help counter the influence of greed, hatred, and delusion, as well as to distill fear, Buddhism offers four guardian meditations to put the mind in the present, nourish it, and help it discern which ideas are worth listening to and which aren't: recollection of the Buddha, goodwill, foulness of body meditation, and recollection of death. From a transcript of a similar talk given at Wat Metta:

There's a series of meditations called guardian meditations, which are very helpful in using skillful perceptions to get the mind in the right mood, in the right attitude, with the right understanding, as you come into the present moment. You'll often find, as you're sitting here meditating on the breath, that the problem is not with the breath. It's with the mental baggage you're carrying with you. So you want to open up the bags and throw out all the unnecessary weight. There's an image they have in Thailand of the old woman who carries around a huge bundle of straw on her back. She's always bent over because she's carrying so much straw. People ask her why she doesn't put it down, and she says, "Well, someday this straw's going to come in handy, so I'm carrying it for the day I'll need it." So she carries it wherever she goes. Of course there are many other things she could be carrying, but she can't because the straw is such a huge bundle, and of course it's pretty useless.

So you want to look into your baggage to see how much straw you're carrying around, so that you can lighten your load. Then you can replace it with better things, things that really will be useful. And the guardian meditations are a good way of sorting things out in your baggage.

The first guardian meditation is recollection of the Buddha, keeping in mind his Awakening, reflecting on it as a central event in the history of the world. The fact of his Awakening shows that through human effort true happiness can be found. It's an important point to keep in mind because so much of our modern culture tries to say, "Hey. You can't have an ultimate and deathless happiness, but you can have the happiness that comes from our eggbeater with an MP3 player built right into the handle," or whatever. In other words, they keep you focused on what you can get out of buying their stuff, which is all pretty miserable. How many articles in The Onion are based on this: "Woman discovers that buying that new mop did not deliver the fulfillment that she hoped it would bring to her life." In other words, our culture keeps us aiming pretty low: "Go for the quick fix. Go for something that doesn't require any effort or skill on your part, just money." They dress it up, make it sound like you'll be really happy if you buy their stuff.

So it's important to keep in mind that there was someone in the past who found true happiness and it was through his own efforts. And, as he said, it wasn't because he was a special god or anything. It was simply through developing qualities of mind that we can all develop — man, woman, child, lay or ordained: ardency, resolution, heedfulness. We all have these qualities to some extent. It's simply a matter of developing them. The same with virtue, concentration, discernment: These are things we all have to some extent. It's simply a matter of learning how to make them all-around.

So when you're tempted to go for the quick but short happiness, remind yourself, "The Buddha says that true happiness is possible, and that it can be gained through human effort." Do you want to live your life without exploring that possibility? Or do you just want to write it off?

In this way, keeping the Buddha's Awakening in mind is an important perception, an important perspective, to bring to all of your experiences. And there are many other things that you can gain by thinking about the Buddha's life: the sort of person he was, his last message to be heedful. He was the sort of person who had already found true happiness. He didn't need to gain anything from anyone else, but he went out and he taught for 45 years, walking around Northern India. Wherever there was someone who was ready to be taught, ready to benefit from his teachings, he would walk there. That's the kind of person who taught this Dhamma. Not someone who was running a retreat center and needed to bring in cash, and who was willing to say anything to attract clientele, but someone acting totally out of pure motives, pure compassion. So that's the kind of practice we're practicing as we follow his path. And it's ennobling for us to practice in that lineage.

So these are good perceptions to hold in mind. Especially when you're getting discouraged or tempted to give up on the practice, or if you think, "Well, maybe I'm not up to this": Remember that the essential qualities for Awakening are qualities that everybody can develop. But we have to develop them ourselves. We can't depend on anyone outside to come and do it for us. That's the other part of the message of the Buddha's life, the part that keeps you on your toes.

The second guardian meditation is goodwill. You want to bring an attitude of goodwill to everybody around you. When the Buddha talked about goodwill in the brahma-viharas, it wasn't ordinary, everyday goodwill. It was goodwill all around, without limit. That's not easy. It doesn't come naturally to us. We tend to have goodwill for certain people, and not so much for other people. As a result, our actions very easily turn unskillful. It's very easy to do harm to the people we don't care about or who aren't on our list of people who deserve to be happy. And it's also easy to drop people from the list when the mood strikes us, to treat even the people we love in unskillful ways.

So to protect yourself from that kind of unskillful action, you've got to learn how to make your goodwill all-around, 24/7. That doesn't mean creating a cloud machine that sends out billowing clouds in all directions to hide your lack of goodwill. When you start spreading thoughts of goodwill, first you spread it to people who are easy — the people you already love and like — and then to people who are harder. Even though you don't like them, you can ask yourself: "Why would I not want this person to be happy?" After all, when people aren't happy, they can do cruel and miserable things. The world would be a better place if everyone could find true happiness inside, regardless of whether you like them or not, or whether they've been good or not, or whether they're on your list of the "deserving." And besides, who made you the National Bureau of Standards? Why should your likes and dislikes rule the world? In this way, goodwill meditation is meant to be a challenge for you to really think through why you'd want to limit your goodwill, and to remind yourself of why it's good to have goodwill for everyone. You can't act on harmful intentions if your goodwill is all around. This is why it's called a guardian meditation.

The third guardian meditation is of the foulness of the body. A lot of people don't like this one. If we took a poll of meditators here in the West, we'd probably find this at the bottom of the list of popular meditation topics, yet it's very useful. Some people say, "Hey, I've already got a negative body image. Why do you want me to make it even more negative?" Well, there's healthy negative body image, as well as an unhealthy one. Unhealthy is when you see that your body is ugly, but other people have beautiful bodies. Healthy is when you see that we all have the same garbage inside ourselves: Nobody's liver would win the Miss Universe contest. This contemplation is helpful because it's a guardian. It protects you from inappropriate lust. There are so many people out there you could feel lust for, but if you acted on it you'd create a lot of trouble. Even if you're not practicing celibacy, you need a way to guard yourself against that kind of vagrant lust. So the next time you see an attractive person, instead of weaving all sorts of narratives from the ideas and associations you've developed around beauty, it's good to teach yourself other narratives, other associations. Right under the skin, what have you got? You've got all these blood vessels and nerves and uck! And as you go deeper, it's gets more uck! And what do you gain out of lusting for that? Why would you want it?

This sort of contemplation really goes against the grain, which is one of the reasons why it's useful to reflect on over and over and over again. Ajaan Maha Boowa keeps making the point: Don't count the number of times you've reflected on the foulness of the body. Just keep doing it until it's done its job. After all, our lusting after the human body is what led us to be born. This is what keeps us wanting to come back, and it makes us do really stupid things. So this contemplation is a useful tool to have in your arsenal. It's a useful new set of perceptions to develop. Our perceptions of beauty are dangerous, so it's good to learn how to see that beautiful bodies are not really beautiful. All you have to do is look inside a little bit and you see all kinds of stuff that can kill the lust if you really allow yourself to look at the body as a whole, and not just at the few parts you tend to focus on as being attractive.

The fourth guardian meditation is recollection of death. For most people this is pretty disturbing and depressing, but it's meant to be used in a way that's inspiring, that helps us to follow the path beyond death to the deathless. Remind yourself that we've got this practice that allows us to prepare for death and transcend it. Have you fully developed it? Are you really prepared? And the answer is almost always No. Okay, then, you've got work to do.

This is a good antidote for laziness. There's a great sutta where the Buddha talks about eight reasons for laziness and eight reasons for being diligent, and for both lists the external conditions are the same. You can be lazy because you're feeling sick; you can be lazy because you are about to go on a trip; you can be lazy because you've just gotten back from a trip; you can be lazy because you just recovered from an illness; you can be lazy because you haven't eaten enough; you can be lazy because you've eaten too much. But you can also use those circumstances to remind yourself: "I don't have much time." When you just recover from an illness, instead of saying, "I'm still weak, I'm not quite well yet, let me rest," you remind yourself: "I could get sick again. I could have a relapse, but at least now I've some strength, let me give this strength to the practice." If you haven't eaten enough, remind yourself, "The body is light; I'm not spending all that time and energy digesting my food, so I've got more energy now for the practice." You've got the right conditions for sitting very quietly, very still.

So your attitude is what's going to make the difference between whether the circumstances you've got right now are reasons for laziness or reasons for diligence. When you remind yourself that you don't know how much time you've got, it should stir you to action — so that when the time comes, when you really do have to go, you're ready, prepared. You've got the concentration, you've got the power of discernment, you've got the strength of mind to deal with whatever comes your way.

If you sit around saying, "Please may I not die, please may I not die," someday you'll still have to die no matter how much you plead. A wiser attitude would be: "Please may I be ready when the time comes. May I have the strength to deal with any difficulty that might come my way." Then you realize that this is something you have in your power: to work on those strengths. After all, we've got the example of how the Buddha died. This is why these two recollections — recollection of the Buddha and recollection of death — go well together. The Buddha shows you how you can prepare. You look at the way he died: one last trip through all the jhanas. He died with no suffering at all and gained total release. It's possible for a human being to do this. If you think that comparing yourself to the Buddha is too much of a stretch, think about the members of the Sangha. You can read the verses of the elder monks and the elder nuns. Some of them were pretty miserable, total losers in meditation at first, and yet they were able to pull themselves together. They could do it; you can do it.

So these four contemplations are guardian meditations to bring wisdom into your perception of things, the labels and ideas you bring to your experience. The more you develop them, then the better the set of associations, the better the set of narratives you bring to, say, just the fact you're breathing, or the fact you're seeing, hearing, tasting, or touching things in the present moment. In other words, what you bring into the present moment is going to make all the difference.

Today, Ajahn Thanissaro hosted a daylong retreat on 'recognizing the Dhamma' based on a study guide by the same name. The first half of the day was devoted to meditation, while the remainder was dedicated to covering the material. There were a lot of things covered throughout the day, and I've forgotten more than I remember, but the framework of the material was helpful. One of the strong points of Buddhist contemplativism, in my opinion, is the depth and structure with which the Buddha's contemplative practices and the ideas underlying them are laid out in the Pali Canon; and Ajahn Thanissaro is particularly skilled at collecting complementary teachings together in a clear, concise, and practical way.

The daylong both reaffirmed my appreciation for Buddhism and made me feel a bit discouraged by highlighting the sheer amount of work I still have to do. For me, the main thing I got from it all was that I really need to motivate myself more. Going through the passages in Recognizing the Dhamma, everything sounded so simple. But I know from experience that putting most of these things into practice is a lot easier said than done, and I felt a sense of shame in how lazy I've been in my practice. I feel like I've let myself down. And worst of all, I feel like I've let others down. I want to get serious about my practice, but at the same time, there are so many TV shows I need to catch up on and I can't stop thinking about what I'm going to do for breakfast tomorrow before mass. It seems like my life revolves around sensual pleasures and planning for the next pleasant experience.

Just about everything I do, in some shape or form, revolves around pleasure, even my suffering. It's not a novel thought by any means; but it's the first time I've really understood it on an intuitive level. Take something simple and innocuous like bike riding, for example. Riding in and of itself is pleasurable, especially on a nice day and a pleasant trail. Working out my body is pleasurable too, getting me in better shape — making me feel better about myself, which is psychologically pleasurable — and producing endorphins, which is both physically and psychologically pleasurable. But when biking ceases to be pleasurable, that absence of pleasure is a form of suffering. If I start to develop pain while riding, I suffer. If the trail is too busy, I suffer. If the weather changes for the worse, I suffer. My pleasure is interrupted or transformed into its opposite.

Same with just about anything, really. When I go out with my friends, it's with the expectation that their company is going to be pleasurable, as is the food we're going to eat, the beer we're going to drink, etc. But if the wrong people are around, or they don't have the particular kind of beer I like, suffering, unsatisfactoriness (a mild form to be sure). And when I decide to stay home, it's generally because I'm feeling down or depressed or generally just shitty and the thought of being around people at that moment in time seems like anything but pleasurable.

I used to think Epicurus' hedonist philosophy was overly simplistic, reducing everything to the pleasure principle; but the more I think about it, the more profound and pragmatic I find it to be, and I find a lot of similarities between the middle way of Buddhism (i.e., the middle way between the two extremes of self-mortification and self-indulgence) and the hedonism of Epicurus.

Epicurus' philosophy, for example, was aimed at attaining ataraxia, peace of mind and freedom from fear, and aponia, the absence of pain, via a system of ethics, rational thinking/contemplation, and a secluded, moderate lifestyle. His hedonism wasn't so much unlimited indulgence in sensual pleasures as it was about balance. Epicurus himself held that the absence of pain was the highest pleasure (compare that to the idea of nibbana being the highest bliss a la Dhp 202-04), and he favoured static pleasure over dynamic pleasure. The difference is explained by Bertrand Russell in A History of Western Philosophy using hunger as an example:

Dynamic pleasures consist in the attainment of a desired end, the previous desire having been accompanied by pain. Static pleasures consist in a state of equilibrium, which results from the existence of the kind of state of affairs that would be desired if it were absent. I think one may say that the satisfying of hunger, while it is in progress, is a dynamic pleasure, but the state of quiescence which supervenes when hunger is completely satisfied is a static pleasure. Of these two kinds, Epicurus holds it more prudent to pursue the second, since it is unalloyed, and does not depend upon the existence of pain as a stimulus to desire. When the body is in a state of equilibrium, there is no pain; we should, therefore, aim at equilibrium and the quiet pleasures rather than the more violent joys. Epicurus, it seems, would wish, if it were possible, to be always in the state of having eaten moderately, never in that of voracious desire to eat. (233)

This doesn't mean, of course, that you constantly stuff your face, but that you eat moderately, just enough to keep the body from experiencing the pain of hunger but not so much that it experiences the pain of overeating. In fact, Epicurus himself, contrary to popular belief, bordered on asceticism, renouncing sex and living off of little more than bread and cheese. The Buddha had a similar attitude towards food (among other things), as well. For example, from AN 4.37:

And how does a monk know moderation in eating? There is the case where a monk, considering it appropriately, takes his food not playfully, nor for intoxication, nor for putting on bulk, nor for beautification, but simply for the survival & continuance of this body, for ending its afflictions, for the support of the holy life, thinking, 'I will destroy old feelings [of hunger] & not create new feelings [from overeating]. Thus I will maintain myself, be blameless, & live in comfort.' This is how a monk knows moderation in eating.

Just as we seem to instinctively avoid pain because it's unpleasant and causes us suffering (motivating us to be rid of it if at all possible), indulging too much in sensual pleasures can quickly become unpleasant, a source of suffering. I eat too much delicious food, my stomach hurts. I drink too much delicious beer, my head hurts. And it can even get more complicated when we derive pleasure from pain itself. But at the heart of it is our desire for pleasure, and boredom is one of our biggest enemies, forever driving us to seek new pleasures—an endless cycle of grasping at shadows to fill a primordial void that can't psychologically or physiologically be filled. Thinking about it this way, though, is a little depressing.

Sure, we may find new and entertaining things that give us some happiness and pleasure and help the time go by; but in the end, it's really the same old shit that never truly satisfies us. Not only do we have to endlessly consume food to keep our bodies alive, eventually getting bored of eating the same things, and often eating things that might taste good but aren't particularly good for us (causing us ill health and suffering in the future), we also endlessly consume experiences that eventually bore us and/or aren't good for us in the long run. And none of them, in the final analysis, are truly satisfying—we go on craving and consuming, craving and consuming, until our bodies/minds just eventually give out.

Our thirst for pleasure seems unquenchable, and realizing this on a deep, existential level makes me appreciate philosophies that try to steer the ship of our desires away from the rocky shores of sensual pleasure and towards a true and lasting happiness that isn't dependent on any conditions whatsoever. Pleasant experiences aren't evil in and of themselves, of course; but if we spend most of our time and energy planning for them and acquiring them rather than training our minds, we're ultimately setting ourselves up for disappointment, something I think consistent with the spirit of James 4.

10/26/14

People seem surprised when they find out I've been spending a lot of time at a Catholic church lately, and I can't blame them. It's definitely not something people expect of me, nor something I ever expected from myself. Explaining why, though, is difficult.

The easiest way I can describe it is that I've felt like there's been something missing in my life for as long as I can remember, something grand yet subtle and elusive at the same time, and going to church is part of my ongoing journey of finding that thing.

Ever since childhood, my heart has ached with a deep sadness and loneliness that isn't easy to put into words, like some kind of existential emptiness at the core of my very being that I've never been able to fill. It's this feeling that, long ago, motivated me to start exploring philosophy and spirituality; and it was especially palpable today as I was sitting in the pews of St. Philip before mass.

As I was sitting there observing this feeling and contemplating it, however, I was also watching everyone as they arrived, and I realized that they were there, worshiping the divine, by gathering together as a community, to support one another, to forgive one another, and to love one another (or at least try to in their own imperfect ways). It was a touching and comforting realization.

Basically, I realized that I wasn't alone in this search. There were others looking for the same thing, as well. And whereas my Buddhist practice helps me look for it inside of myself, my budding Christian practice is helping me look for it outside of myself, in the people and experiences around me. Today's Gospel reading and Fr. Charlie's homily both drove that point home further.

The reading, Mt 22:34-40, was the famous passage where Jesus is asked by one of the religious authorities of his day which commandment is the greatest, and Jesus answers: "You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and the first commandment. The second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. The whole law and the prophets depend on these two commandments."

Fr. Charlie began his homily with a story adapted from a popular folktale about an old man (rather than a farmer) and two travellers:

A traveler came upon an old farmer hoeing in his field beside the road. Eager to rest his feet, the wanderer hailed the countryman, who seemed happy enough to straighten his back and talk for a moment.

"What sort of people live in the next town?" asked the stranger.

"What were the people like where you've come from?" replied the farmer, answering the question with another question.

"They were a bad lot. Troublemakers all, and lazy too. The most selfish people in the world, and not a one of them to be trusted. I'm happy to be leaving the scoundrels."

"Is that so?" replied the old farmer. "Well, I'm afraid that you'll find the same sort in the next town. Disappointed, the traveler trudged on his way, and the farmer returned to his work.

Some time later another stranger, coming from the same direction, hailed the farmer, and they stopped to talk.

"What sort of people live in the next town?" he asked.

"What were the people like where you've come from?" replied the farmer once again.

"They were the best people in the world. Hard working, honest, and friendly. I'm sorry to be leaving them."

"Fear not," said the farmer. "You'll find the same sort in the next town."

The moral was that we tend to view people as we are, through our own lenses. Similarly, the way we treat others is often reflected in the way we treat ourselves. So to truly love others, we have to first learn to love ourselves. Only then can we reflect that love onto others. (It's somewhat similar to the underlying theme of Ud 5.1, I think.)

In other words, a fruitful spiritual practice isn't wholly contemplative, nor is it wholly active, it's a mixture of both. There's the contemplative aspect, characterized by the commandment, "You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind" and learning to love ourselves as God loves us; and then there's its expression, which is characterized by the second, "You shall love your neighbor as yourself."

True love of self overflows into love for others, a vast, compassionate love, not a restrictive and possessive one. Or something like that.

As I said, it's hard to put into words, but whether it's going to mass or the B- group or the inquiry class, I feel at home at St. Philip. I feel less lonely, less sad, and more loved. Part of it is the people, I'm sure; but a lot of it is internal, a sense of strength and refuge inside of myself that I'm gradually getting in touch with thanks to my experiences here.

10/22/14

Yesterday, I grabbed a fortune cookie on my way out from work that said, "Be thankful for the experience you encounter tomorrow." Even though I don't put much stock in that kind of thing, I spent most of the day looking out for said experience just for fun (and just in case).

I definitely don't think it was referring to my experience at work, which was dreadful, and the only thing thankful about it was when it was over. I suppose it could have been one of those learning experiences, where you learn a lot about yourself and the nature of suffering through experience, but the only thing I got from it was frustration.

Coincidentally, though, today is the new moon, one of the quarterly uposatha days observed in Theravada Buddhism. The uposatha, according to the Buddha, is "the cleansing of the defiled mind through the proper technique" (AN 3.70); and the traditional way of observing the uposatha for lay-followers is to observe the eight precepts for the day and spend as much time as possible meditating, emulating the monastic way of life and/or temporarily increasing one's practice of renunciation.

Admittedly, I don't observe the uposatha that often these days. But this morning I got a message from someone on the PFoD e-group who, needing a little more support and structure in their daily life to stay mindful, invited anyone who felt similarly inclined to practice with the eight precepts on the quarter moon days until the end of the year, and I felt inspired to start again.

Today was also the third inquiry class at St. Philip, and it was a somewhat unexpected and rewarding experience. The topic was stories of faith, and we were encouraged by Fr. Bill to tell our own stories of why we were there at the inquiry class. When my turn came up, I wasn't sure what to say, but I said that it basically started with my search for something deeper in life. In that search, I spent a lot of time practicing Buddhism, and recently got serious about what the Catholic tradition has to offer after my visit to Our Lady of Guadalupe.

It was interesting to hear everyone's stories and questions. Thinking about my own spiritual journey, I was surprised at how natural and comfortable the direction it's taken has felt, and I found myself wondering if it wasn't the 'holy spirit' guiding me. I mean, to think that I'm attending RCIA classes after so many years of nonbelief and being critical of the Catholic Church...

At one point, I was asked if I felt any conflict between the practice of Buddhism and Christianity, and I explained that I found them entirely compatible. Buddhist detachment isn't so different from the Christian 'dying to self.' The Buddhist teachings on loving-kindness and compassion aren't much different from Jesus' teachings on the same. The idea that we can wake up to our inherent nature through the cessation of the defilements of greed, hatred, and delusion isn't unlike the idea in 2 Peter that we "may come to share in the divine nature, after escaping from the corruption that is in the world because of evil desire." Etc.

To me, God is like the pure Mind of Zen, the substance of all phenomena, out of which all experience unfolds. And awakening is simply Mind recognizing itself, divine nature partaking of divine nature. Jesus, then, is like a buddha or bodhisattva, that very same Mind pointing us towards itself. I think this is especially true if one considers texts like the Gospel of Thomas.

And when the discussion turned towards talking to God and how/why everyone did that, I confessed that I often found myself talking to God even when I was atheist, despite not having a clear picture of who or what God was. I still don't, but I think I'm open enough now to my experience of what I feel to be God immanent in myself and the world around me that it's taken the form of what Christians typically call a 'personal relationship.'

It was slightly difficult for me to articulate a lot of this in any coherent way, though, since I'm still working it all out myself. There's a feeling tone involved in my experience, something visceral, as well as an intuitive synthesis of it all; but I'm not sure I have the vocabulary to put it all into words yet, if ever.

But telling my story and listening to those of others, I realized that I've always had an intuitive sense of something more underlying reality, and I'm drawn towards things that help me connect to that as well as help me feel the joy and peace that arises from that connection, whether it's connecting with other spiritual people, meditating, listening to music inspired by Sufi poetry, gazing at the night sky, or whatever.

Coming back to why I was there, I think the people have a lot to do with it. The kindness of Dorothy. The wisdom and humour of Fr. Michael. The openness and genuineness of Barbara. All these people and more pull me back in every week, happily, just like the community of PFoD does. But there's something more, too. Something I can't quite put my finger on. I just feel like I need to be here right now, and I certainly can't deny how much I'm getting out of my experience at St. Philip thus far.

So, in the end, it was kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Because of that fortune cookie, I paid a little bit more attention throughout the day. And in doing so, I was able to more fully appreciate the experience of the spiritual things in my life and the happiness they give me.

10/19/14

Today, thanks to the generosity of two acquaintances, Paddy and Colin, I went to the Pacific Hermitage Pah Bah ceremony in White Salmon, WA.

Pah bah means 'forest cloth' in Thai; and the festival comes out of the ancient tradition of leaving cloth in the forest for monks to find for them to make their robes after the end of the three-month rains retreat. It's a time for the lay-community to 'draw close' and offer the monastic community gifts of cloth and other supplies they'll need for the coming year as they rely totally on the generosity of the lay-community.

This year's event was rather special in that both Ajahn Amaro and Ajahn Pasanno were there. Both were students of Ajahn Chah, and both were at one time co-abbots of Abhayagiri until Ajahn Amaro was asked to take over Amaravati in England. It was a very auspicious reunion, and I'm glad that I had the opportunity to be there.

The day began with the afternoon meal, which was first offered to the monks, and then shared by everyone. Next was some traditional paritta (blessing) chanting followed by the actual alms giving and a Dhamma talk, which was split up. Ajahn Pasanno gave a short talk first, followed by Ajahn Amaro. The place was decorated in traditional Thai style, with saffron-coloured towel gibbons strategically placed all over as if in a forest.

One of the overarching themes was anumodana, which means 'rejoicing together' in goodness and generosity and/or offering encouragement. Gathering together and giving our time and support to one another produces a field of merit or goodness that brings happiness to everyone, those who give as well as those who receive.

Just as charity plays a big role in Christianity, the Buddha placed a lot of importance on dana or generosity as well. Generosity arises out of wholesome mental states, and gives rise to numerous benefits on its own. In addition, generosity is considered a requisite for spiritual development. I've always found it interesting that the Buddha begins most of his discourses on the gradual training with teachings on generosity.

After the ceremony, a group of us drove the short distance to the hermitage for a tour. The main building, a small house, has a kitchen, an office area, and a shrine where the monks gather for chanting and meals. Then there's a guest house, for the abbot or visiting monks, and a couple of small dwellings for the monks to sleep and meditate.

I felt bad that I missed mass in order to go to the Pah Bah, but I'm glad I went. It was a beautiful event. And in many ways, it felt kind of the same.

10/18/14

I went to my first Saturday service at St. Philip today, which I thought I'd check out since I won't be able to make it tomorrow. Fr. Bill was officiating this time. Fr. Bill is the youngest of the three priests at St. Philip, and his role is to help reach out to young adults and get them interested in the Catholic Church. He seems like a nice guy, but to be honest, I prefer the approach of the older priests, especially Fr. Michael.

I suppose part of it is because I'm already an old man at heart (my nickname isn't Jiji, Japanese for 'old man,' for nothing), but I feel like I connect more with Fr. Michael. We're on a similar wavelength, and I get the sense that his spiritual life is both practical and contemplative. His secret, which isn't much of a secret since he mentioned it during the last B- meeting, is a combination of his experience with AA and his willingness to incorporate other spiritual practices with Christian contemplativism.

I guess what attracts me to the Church, and to the people in it, probably isn't the same as what attracts most younger adults. It's not that younger people aren't altogether interested in the more contemplative side of Christian spirituality, but my level of interest in that and Christian monasticism seems rather unique among people my age. What's drawn me to the Church is its mysticism and the spirit of contemplation and renunciation underlying it, the willingness to give up rather than acquire.

But it got me thinking about what kept me away for so long, and the first thing that came to mind is the Catholic Church's stance on women ordination, birth control, same-sex relationships, etc. Most young adults in my generation are decidedly against any kind of discrimination. Things like the refusal of the Catholic Church (among others) to even consider women priests (gender discrimination) and its opposition to same-sex relationships (discrimination based on sexual orientation) immediately put off many young adults, and rightly so in my opinion.

Bridging that gap is difficult. Because of the way it's structured, the institution of the Catholic Church takes a long time to change, even when prompted by the pope. Old habits die hard, and old prejudices and traditions remain long after they should, becoming obstacles to growth and relevancy. Reaching out to young adults and getting them interested is a good start, but I think it's going to take a lot more to keep them involved.

10/17/14

Both Ajahn Amaro and Ajahn Pasanno were at Portland Friends of the Dhamma tonight leading the Friday meditation and Dhamma talk. It was Ajahn Amaro's first visit to PFoD's new centre, and my second time seeing him.

The first time I saw Ajahn Amaro was about eight years ago on Magha Puja, the day tradition holds that 1,250 arahants spontaneously gathered at Veruvana Temple, Rajgarh city. It was a pretty amazing experience, and I still remember it fondly. This time around, the circumstances were less unexpected, but they were no less meaningful.

After tea and some casual discussion, we all requested the refuges and precepts, and Ajahn Pasanno gave a short talk before meditation about the precepts and what we're taking refuge in: the Buddha, who personifies the qualities of awareness, wisdom, compassion, and purity; the Dhamma, which is the nature of truth, the nature of reality; and the Sangha, the realization of that nature, and the arising of those qualities within us.

My meditation was better than I expected from not having done much since the retreat at the end of September, and the talk helped. Instead of taking refuge in my daydreams or complaining mind, I attempted to take refuge in awareness. Whatever came up, I tried not to grasp it and get carried away by it, but simply stay grounded in the present moment. Afterwards, Ajahn Amaro gave the Dhamma talk, which mainly focused on the nature of things as they are, using the five subjects of frequent reflection as a foundation.

A few of the things that stood out to me during the night were: the precepts seem restrictive, but they're meant to free the heart; we take refuge in things that are insecure, courting disappointment; all things are nature, Dhamma, and wisdom or enlightenment is waking up to that nature—you don't gain anything, you simply realize what's already there; if you don't own anything (through non-clinging and the cessation of self-identification, not in a conventional sense), then you have nothing to lose or to cause you suffering.

Both Ajahn Amaro and Ajahn Pasanno are inspiring teachers, and it was wonderful having them here tonight. I'm so fortunate to be here, now, in this place and have the opportunity to be near so many wise spiritual teachers in this tradition.

10/16/14

Yesterday's B- group was in many ways a continuation of the last meeting, with many of the same topics being revisited: evangelism, the Eucharist, etc. Fr. Michael started off by giving everyone a handout of one of Richard Rohr's daily meditations titled "The Gate of Heaven is Everywhere: The Infinite in the Finite," which I rather liked:

Francis of Assisi knew that if you can accept that the finite manifests the infinite, and that the physical is the doorway to the spiritual (which is the foundational principle we call "incarnation"), then all you need is right here and right now—in this world. This is the way to that! Heaven includes earth. Time opens you up to the timeless, space opens you up to spacelessness, if you only recognize them as the clear doorways that they are.

There are not sacred and profane things, places, and moments. There are only sacred and desecrated things, places, and moments—and it is we alone who desecrate them by our blindness and lack of reverence. It is one sacred universe, and we are all a part of it. The Christ Mystery refuses to be vague or abstract, and it is always concrete and specific. When we stay with these daily apparitions, we see that everything is a revelation of the divine—from rocks to rocket ships. Our only blindness is our own lack of fascination, humility, curiosity, awe. The only thing needed is a willingness to surrender to the naked now which God always inhabits, where the incarnation is always taking place and always mysterious, where God in every moment is perfectly hidden and at the same time perfectly revealed. Hold that paradox together. Those who have eyes to see can allow both to be true.

He then offered some of his thoughts about the Eucharist and its meaning. For example, he repeated something he said last time about the Eucharist not simply being a prize to be handed out, but the food we eat to be healed, i.e., it's ultimately a rite of reconciliation. He also gave some background to the Eucharist, saying that the Last Supper took place on Passover, a Jewish holiday where bread was blessed, broken, and shared in commemoration and remembrance of going from slavery to freedom. But to celebrate the 'new covenant' between God and humanity, Jesus told his disciples to do this in remembrance of him, the 'passover' of his death and resurrection, the connection of the finite and the infinite.

Fr. Michael stressed the importance of remembrance for the Jewish people, which for them was dynamic, about making the past present. It brought to mind the importance of mindfulness in Buddhism. Sati, the Pali word that's often translated as mindfulness, basically means to keep something in mind. Mindfulness is arguably the cornerstone of the Buddhist path of practice, the noble eightfold path.

This led into a discussion about the celebration of mass, which Fr. Michael said was something to be participated in, not just watched. He said that over time, the mass got so loaded with things that it became more something to be watched than a communal activity, which is one of the reasons they changed things during Vatican II. Ideally, communion should be 'stunningly simple,' a celebration of the mysteries of life and the wonder and awe all around us, where the finite and infinite consociate. The Eucharist, then, is both the source and summit of the Christian spiritual practice, and is akin to an awakening experience, removing our blindness to "the naked now that God always inhabits."

I still find it rather difficult to believe that God literally becomes manifest, in the flesh, in bread and wine. But thinking about it in this way — that there's a divine nature in everything, and that the physical is the doorway to the spiritual — I find it easier to understand: we all have a divine nature within us; and through the mystery of the Eucharist, the finite manifesting the infinite, our divine nature becomes one (reunites?) with the divine nature underlying all things. Communion as a contemplative act.

From that perspective, the idea that God became human in order to show us how to unite with that divine nature doesn't seem so crazy to me. What Rohr says, at any rate, about the finite manifesting the infinite, the physical being the doorway to the spiritual, time opening you up to the timeless, space opening you up to spacelessness, etc. reminds me of the Buddha's words to Rohitassa in AN 4.45:

I tell you, friend, that it is not possible by traveling to know or see or reach a far end of the cosmos [a metaphor for the five aggregates, the six sense spheres, and/or the internal world of fabricated experience] where one does not take birth, age, die, pass away, or reappear [i.e., attain the deathless]. But at the same time, I tell you that there is no making an end of suffering & stress without reaching the end of the cosmos. Yet it is just within this fathom-long body, with its perception & intellect, that I declare that there is the cosmos, the origination of the cosmos, the cessation of the cosmos, and the path of practice leading to the cessation of the cosmos.

The conversation then shifted towards the need for synthesis between the teaching side and pastoral side of the church. Fr. Michael mentioned the recent interview of a cardinal who, when asked about the current synod, said that he thought the teaching and pastoral sides of the church are moving closer together. He also touched upon the idea of graduality that's emerged.

Graduality is basically an extension of the idea that conversion (coming closer to God, realizing the divine nature) is an ongoing process, that the spiritual life is also a spiritual journey. In that sense, graduality refers to the practical side of the spiritual life, the 'how to' if you will. There's a similar idea in Buddhism, that of "a gradual training, a gradual performance, a gradual practice, with a penetration to gnosis only after a long stretch" (Ud 5.5). From the Christian standpoint, the divine is everywhere; and our participation in the Eucharist helps us to become more awake, more aware of that divine indwelling.

I find it rather similar to the Mahayanin idea of buddha-nature, in fact. Buddha-nature, like the divine indwelling of God within us, isn't something we create or gain through our development of moral conduct and contemplation, it's something we wake up to that's always there in the present moment, "where God in every moment is perfectly hidden and at the same time perfectly revealed." Buddhism achieves this, in part, by stressing the non-selfness of conditioned phenomena (i.e., the aggregates), while Christianity does so through the similar idea of 'dying to self' (e.g., see In the Spirit of Happiness, The Monks of New Skete, p. 86).

The more I explore Christianity, the more I'm coming to see that, although there's a deeply devotional aspect to it, there's an equally deep and rich contemplative side to it as well. And it's the latter I'm principally drawn towards. I read this in Merton's The Sign of Jonas today and found it exceptionally relevant:

[Quoting from a letter he received from Dom Porion]: "Most people find their balance in doing, in creating something, mere contemplative life requires a special grace—and a special fidelity. It requires a ripeness too, a maturity of soul which is not often to be met (with)in converts. ... But to contemplate in the first meaning of the word; to look directly at God and keep quiet—calm and purity being at once the condition and consequence of the vision—this indeed seems to me the true life, the life everlasting we are made for. The modern world seems to fly from that ideal: but I am convinced that mankind in the end will find again the way of contemplation—nature and surnature, in their deepest, leading to this divine joy." (176)