“Why do you meditate?”
It’s a simple enough question, and you
would think that after spending the greater part of nine hours in sitting and
walking meditation, I’d have a great answer. Its origin was innocent enough,
not meant to stump me: I was talking to a friend of mine this past Saturday,
after Shambhala Level One training had been adjourned for the day. I returned
to my apartment that evening with the idea of going out to a local theater
performance. When I arrived at the venue, however, I felt overwhelmed by the
crowds and the noise, so I simply went home and struck up a conversation with a
friend that I knew I could rely on for open, honest dialogue. I was not,
however, expecting to be floored by such a direct inquiry.
The truth is that I never asked myself
“why.” I was introduced to Buddhism in my late teens by a friend who
recommended the work of Alan Watts. In college, curiosity led me to a Zen
meditation group, and to take classes on Buddhism and world religions. Over the
last few years, I’ve visited local monasteries, been privy to the Zen jukai
ceremony, and read numerous texts on the subject. Thinking on it now, I suppose
that I saw meditation as a natural extension of my intellectual curiosity, a
way to act on the fact that I sensed in Buddhist teachings a font of wisdom. As
a relatively young person just starting to build a life, I look to Buddhism and
meditation as a guidepost, or a teacher of sorts - something to clarify my
intuitive feelings and serve as a catalyst for positive action in the
world. Without the act of sitting meditation, Buddhism is mere theory,
words on a page. Meditation is a way to directly experience the
fundamental emptiness and impermanence of all phenomena.
I didn’t say this to my friend, however. I
started by trying to correct the popular misconception that to meditate
“correctly,” your mind must be completely clear, a blank slate for the entirety
of the process. This is nearly impossible for almost everybody, including
seasoned meditators. While mental stillness and inner silence is indeed an
objective of meditation, it is my experience that the crux of meditation is in
the observation of one’s own thoughts. Although I understood in a very cerebral
way that subjective thinking is the basis for one’s experience of reality -
i.e., who we are can essentially be chalked up to the way we think about
ourselves and our lives - it was not until Level One training that I came to
truly feel this. Once you have spent several hours at a time simply
watching your own thoughts as they come and go, their inherent shallowness and
illusory nature becomes quite evident. Ultimately, you can think whatever you
choose about anything you wish: “I am good at this,” or “I am bad at that.” And
whatever story you tell yourself about who you are is woven into the fabric of
your reality. You come to realize that thoughts are the most powerful things in
the world, and there is a certain clarity and basic sanity that comes with
understanding just how impermanent and malleable they are.
For him, I came up with the analogy of a
rainstorm: imagine that the constant barrage of words, images, impressions and
feelings - those mental activities that comprise what I refer to as “thoughts”
- is a violent rainstorm. Now imagine that one’s typical state is to walk
through that rainstorm without any umbrella, seeking shelter but rarely finding
it - and when you do find it, it isn’t very long until you are out in the rain
again! I see meditation like driving a car through the rain instead: you cannot
make it go away, but you can move through it swiftly and effectively, with
headlights and protective covering. You might be able to find more stable
shelter that way, or to more deeply appreciate the beauty of the rain. Either
way, it protects you from getting wet.
I find Shambhala Buddhism particularly
appealing because of its fundamental directive: “creating an enlightened
society.” It is not enough to simply sit on a cushion and observe your
thoughts. The truly important element of this practice, at least for me, is in
the fact that it empowers you to act as a more loving, peaceful,
ethically-minded citizen. When you remove the attachment to negative or
destructive thoughts, you begin to recognize your own basic goodness, which in
turn inspires you to do more good in the world. This might be something as
simple as smiling more often, or vowing to be more compassionate toward others
(and yourself!) on a daily basis. It doesn’t have to be grandiose, and it’s not
a form of self-improvement; it’s just an extension of who you are, already,
unclouded by a storm of subjective thoughts.
Each of the levels of Shambhala training
is centered around a different element of the teachings. The first level, “The
Art of Being Human,” occupies itself with this idea of basic goodness. To me,
the recognition of “basic goodness” is all about self-trust. To acknowledge
your own basic goodness is to know that, without measures of self-improvement,
self-adornment, or elaborate demonstrations of benevolence, your nature is
essentially good. This is not about blind or irresponsible optimism; in fact,
it’s the opposite of self-delusion - it’s about uncovering a simple but very
powerful truth. And it is not to say that human beings are gods or martyrs, or
that we don’t make mistakes, but rather that humanity is grounded in a sane and
basic sort of goodness that we would all benefit from experiencing directly.
Meditation facilitates this direct experience.
It’s somewhat difficult for me to say
this, because I recognize that there is an air of mysticism and partiality in
saying “humanity is basically good.” Trained as I’ve been, through my
education, to look at things from a rational, scientific point of view (as
opposed to an intuitive or spiritual perspective), it feels more comfortable to
me to say “humanity is neither good nor bad.” But it doesn’t feel right - not
anymore. I’m going out on something of a limb, here, but I can feel I can make
the bold affirmation of goodness as the natural state of humanity.
Here is something I wrote that Saturday
night. I don’t think I need to indicate its relevance:
It just occurred to me that I often force
myself to do things just a means of justifying my existence and prior work,
i.e., “I have to write, because I’ve spent so much time writing before - I have
to build up a sense of self around this idea that I’m a writer, because I need
something to hold onto, some way of describing myself, if only just to me.” But
nobody is going to think any less of me if I let creativity flow naturally and
at its own pace, or if I stop defining myself in X, Y, and Z terms. Like: even
if I did none of that, guess what? I’d still be a good person - a genuinely
good person - and I wouldn’t need to add anything to that to justify taking up
room on this Earth.
It seems to me that many people get
tangled in this web of self-definition, of attempting to find oneself through
identification with specific vocations, causes, beliefs, aesthetic expressions,
so on and so forth. When the basis for any of these is shifted - say, you find
yourself questioning your ethical or political beliefs, or you lose a job
you’ve had for decades - your very sense of being human is rattled. Likewise,
we form strong attachments to people in our lives - friends, lovers, family
members - and their loss completely reframes the way we think about ourselves.
To be a human in this world entails a certain degree of attachment, certainly
to other people, and for most, to a set of features (such as your job,
spiritual beliefs, tastes, etc) that comprise your identity. Being that most
people do not pursue the life of the ascetic or the monk, the holy person who
practices radical non-attachment, I think it is fair to say that this is normal
and natural. I would also venture to say, however, that most of us are a little
too attached to some idea of ourselves or another; we are too fixed in our
habitual patterns, too inclined toward the neurosis that develops as a result
of over-attachment.
I meditate because the practice provides
me with a perspective beyond this entanglement. It’s not as if, sitting on the
cushion, you simply forsake your worldly connections and concerns. Instead, you
begin to see them for what they are, to understand the lightness inherent in
the reality that all phenomena is transient. Things come and go, and they just
are what they are. I take this to be a very positive thing, although I suppose
it could be devastating for the person who ascribes an enormous degree of
importance to life’s minutiae. The idea here isn’t that you stop caring about
the things that define you, but that you approach them in a more calm and
balanced way, knowing that the loss of this, that, or the other will not alter
the very roots of your existence.
This explanation might seem high-flung or
unnecessarily complex, but I realize a direct relationship between the
philosophy and its practical application. “Enlightened society” does not look
like groups of people sitting on cushions in monasteries across the world. It
looks like people who recognize the goodness in all people, and who promote
this reality by acting positively in the world.
These are my reasons for meditation, and
why I choose to study Buddhism and maintain a regular meditative practice. It
looks a little bit different in everybody, and of course there is much more to
meditation than just sitting - you can do almost anything with the mind of
meditation, from singing and dancing to painting, cooking or running -
whatever! As long as you’re present and aware of your mind, you’re on the right
path.
So it is with a clear head and an
optimistic outlook that I continue my practice and studies. I’m glad to have
the opportunity to share my experiences with other people; I think it can only
be beneficial.
Warmly,
Emma
