The temple bell stops.
But the sound keeps coming
out of the flowers.

Basho

I’ve been immersed in books lately.  More so than usual.  Unfortunately these are not books I’m reading but books that are arriving, arriving at the door.  Books to be reviewed, books to be read, books to be studied.  Chaplaincy books, poetry books, psychology books, Buddhist books – all clamouring for attention.  And dare I mention the pixelated books in my e-readers that are sending me subliminal messages via 3G?  I can skate by with some of these by scanning the text and getting a feel for the author’s message.  Others are denser woods to navigate through and I risk not seeing the forest through the trees.

In some genres more than others, seeing the trees without losing sight of the forest is important.  The specifics of the book are critical to understanding the teachings they impart.  They must be practiced to be embodied and only then does a reflection on them have legs.  In particular, every book about Buddhism is a book with which one practices.  I’ve yet to find a book of this genre that didn’t demand this singular, whole-hearted commitment from the reader.  So, I quiver in fear at the number of Buddhist-y books stacking up on my shelf – I cleared out a single shelf solely populated by Buddhism-books-to-be-reviewed – because there are not enough life-times to practice what is contained between the covers of these volumes.

Somewhat disheartened, I stumbled around the megalithic bookstore in town wishing every sheet of paper bound between glossy laminates would leap up and flap their way up through the vents in the ceiling.  I stared at volumes of books by the Dalai Lama, Thich Nhat Hanh – two of the most prolific authors.  I rolled glassy-eyeballs over titles that proclaimed liberation and peace were possible.  And I bought one of them.

I can justify this!  Really.  It comes to me unburdened by any publishing company’s publicity agent.  In fact, Parallax Press is rather firm in ignoring my offers to review Thich Nhat Hanh’s books despite the sycophantic waving of my brown Order of Interbeing jacket.  So, blessed by such ignominy, I feel free to recommend this book, unhampered by any need to please anyone.

Awakening of the Heart: Essential Buddhist sutras and commentaries initially looks like a compilation of Thấy’s various sutra commentary books.  It’s not.  It is 608 pages of revised translations and new commentaries on key sutras.  The Anapanasati, Satipatthana, Knowing a better way to live alone (my favourite and a life-changer), Better way to catch a snake, On the Middle Way, On Happiness, Eight Realizations of the Great Beings represent the Pali Canon.

The Heart and Diamond sutras bridge us into the Mahayana teachings.  Each sutra is given a clearer translation and deeper treatment in commentary than the previous single volumes.  This is followed with a series of sections focused solely on practice.  New and detailed exercises for the Awareness of Breathing and the Four Establishments of Mindfulness sutras are available in this voluminous text along with histories of and other texts related to the sutras.  The commentaries of the Diamond and Heart sutras are vastly expanded and directly connected to everyday life.

There’s a contemplative feel to the writing (though I admit often having trouble getting into Thấy’s style) and it promises to challenge anyone attempting a sutra study.  If ever there was a book that qualified being called a Buddhist Bible, this might be it.  I’m looking forward to practicing with it over my lifetime.

At the end of a retreat conducted in the tradition of Thich Nhat Hanh, retreatants are invited to take the Five Mindfulness Trainings.  These are the lay precepts cast in terms of positive engagement by Thich Nhat Hanh.  At one level that is so; at another, they continue to contain elements of the “do not” found in all calls for ethical behaviours.  While the terminology is not as directive, the commitment to not kill, not steal, not engage in sexual misconduct, not speak in anger or untruthfully, and not to use intoxicants is very much evident.  It’s unavoidable really.  The first step of any practice whose intention is well being begins with restraint.

This aspect of ethics is a touchy one for many of us.  We don’t like being told what to do; even more, we dislike being told what not to do.  And yet, in the liminal space between moving forward and holding back, there may be something valuable that can emerge.

So today, I’m watching the many ways in which I can act with restraint, hold back, pause.  Not as a process of denying myself or others but rather as a practice of awareness, of not obstructing the possibility of something different arising.

The Dalai Lama came to town on Saturday and 7,000 people filled the stands at the Civic Center.  I had my typical and very individual response to seeing him; 6,999 others did too.  In sangha, I shared what my responses teach me when I feel a deep emotional surge to the presence of  people like the Dali Lama.  I’m grateful because it means I’m still human.  It means I haven’t fallen into a cynical, skeptical, hyper-rational dismissal of all that’s possible, a reaction easily triggered by the industry of the celebrity-teacher.  As we explored together this difficult edge of discerning the celebrity-teacher from the buddha-dharma, it seemed we all had a healthy resistance and fear of becoming celebrity-teacher groupies.

That being said, what is wrong with having celebrity-teachers in our spiritual universe?  At one level, it’s an entry point for those who need the magnetizing effect of a bright star to begin their practice.  And yes, there will always be those who need to position themselves as part of the constellation by their language: “I was trained by Thich Nhat Hanh” is one of my favourites.  Oh let’s be honest, I envy the hubris of such folks who not only speak it but can put these claims down on their websites and resumés.  But that’s a sidebar and different soap-box of mine.  Celebrity-teachers also bring awareness and galvanize support for important causes as does the Dalai Lama.  They offer hope for the possible end of suffering as does Thich Nhat Hanh.

So what’s the down side?  Well, we become disillusioned with our stars when they don’t meet our needs, when the time they require to forward their cause interrupts the time we want for our personal cause.  I will admit to feeling a bit put upon as the videos and calls for action went on and on at the show on Saturday.  As an opening act for the Dalai Lama, I would have preferred to have been called up to the stage to dance with Richard Gere.  Yes, it’s true; in the battle for self or others I am easily comprised by a pretty face.

Another downside is that we become needy; we want to be the one who is in that inner circle, protected from the danger of remaining one of the unwashed masses.  I will fully admit to pangs of jealousy when four people got their white scarves blessed by HHDL and I didn’t.  As we exited the arena, it struck me that I personally wasn’t selected for the neglect; there were 6,996 of us who were teeming out sans white scarf and looking quite radiant and joyful regardless.  In a less humorous vein, I’ve spent years coming to terms with the capricious nature of being part of an inner circle and am only too happy to be well-distanced from the cloying stickiness of that mess.

And, likely the most difficult of the downsides is the confusion we feel when we are taught that the dharma is based on the concept of no-self and we find ourselves caught in being defined by the celebrity-teacher-star with whom we are aligned. In this I am grateful that I haven’t run into anyone calling themselves a Dalai-Lamarian or a Thich-Nhat-Hanhian but I’ve certainly had to struggle with the “Do-you-know-so-and-so-ians?”  The question is rarely about sharing the wisdom of the celebrity-teacher as it is about the lift in status it gives to the person asking.

These are challenging dances yet compelling because the natural need to feel connected can mask the natural need to compete for safety, identity, and nourishment.   And they are made all the more painful and dangerous when the celebrity-teacher is more celebrity than teacher, reducing the system to drama and not Dharma.  That’s a far more complex discussion.

For now, how do we resolve this approach-avoidance we can feel about teachers like the Dalai Lama who occupy such a bright place and exert a powerful pull in our spiritual universe?

The unattainable celebrity-teacher is likely the best teacher we can have in this age of name-dropping and aura-clinging. The immense social light-years that stretch out between the giant star of such a teacher and my little social asteroid is important in understanding the ultimate truth of the dharma.  When they teach, they speak to the ultimate aspect of life, to the guiding North Star.  Practices of generosity, compassion, love, and so on are held up in a clear light which can be supportive.  We can see the template for cultivating our practice and feel encouraged to persist despite the never-ending re-visitations of old, painful habits.

At the same time, with our bent for doubt, we also can feel challenged by the lack of street creds in someone who may never have had to struggle with work, family, bills, and in-laws.  This too is a teaching; it is a litmus test of the celebrity-teacher’s capacity to span those light years between us and place a gentle, acknowledging hand on our struggle.  When the Dalai Lama answered a question about raising a compassionate child, his answer was text-book with a nod to the sensorimotor theorists.  Then, as would a speaker wise to Western skepticism, he said (I paraphrase): “What do I know?  Unless I stop being a monk, get married, and have children, I don’t know what to do with a child.”  To which I wanted to cry out, “Accomplishing the first two is still no guarantee!”

But in the end, I prefer that the celebrity-teacher, since we have them, stay unattainable, untainted by the mundane of our lives.  I prefer that they keep their eyes fixed on the luminous nature of the Dharma and trust its application to those of us grounded in the practice of living with ourselves.

Perfect Joy

Here is how I sum it up:

Heaven does nothing: its non-doing is its serenity.
Earth does nothing: its non-doing is its rest.
From the union of these two non-doings
All actions proceed.
All things are made.
How vast, how invisible
This coming-to-be!
All things come from nowhere!
How vast, how invisible
No way to explain it!
All beings in their perfection
Are born of non-doing.
Hence it is said:
“Heaven and earth do nothing
Yet there is nothing they do not do.”

Where is the man who can attain
To this non-doing?

Chuang Tzu

I searched for the shop

Where the merchant would say,
“There’s nothing of value here.”

I finally found it and stayed,

A richness of not wanting wrote these poems

Kabir

Obsessed by the disparity between his beliefs and the reality of life, Siddhartha is said to have become despondent and emotionally numb.  Unable to love his wife and son, unable to take part in the things that once gave him pleasure, at the age of 29 years he resolved to leave behind his royal life to seek the truth of human existence.  However, his decision to leave behind family and privilege may not have been unusual or solely motivated to seek a spiritual path.  Both Armstrong (2001) and Nakamura (2000) point out that the social climate of the times were challenging.  Political upheaval and societal change were harbingers of the eventual destruction of kingdoms and traditional values.

In the face of this erosion of power and culture, Siddhartha stepped into a growing movement against clannish warfare and exploitation.  Although Nakamura (2000) states that he chose to engage in a greater good by deciding to forego his life of privilege and take up the robes of a mendicant, it is difficult to say whether he set out to transform the world and later scriptures suggest altruism was not likely his motivation or intention.  Whatever the rationale, his decision reflects the difficult choice between maintaining the status quo through a wilful blindness to reality and cultivating a willingness to bear witness to the truth of life as it is.  In the context of resolving a values conflict, his decision to seek a deeper truth points to engagement in and not withdrawal from life as the potential resolution to the imbalance.

After many years of practice, Siddhartha, now referred to as Gotama, began to understand the truth he sought was as inaccessible through severe ascetic practices as they had been through a hedonistic lifestyle.  In fact, the process of denying the fundamental reality of nourishing the body was an obstacle to calming the mind and seeing into phenomena with clarity (Hanh, 1991).  Continuing the theme of facing incongruent values, Gotama recognized that living by the values of his rigidly ascetic community had lead to his weakened state; in a moment of physical exhaustion, he accepted nourishment from a young woman and incurred the censure of his ascetic community.  Nevertheless, gaining strength, he resolved to attain deep insight to the truth of living life in balance and sat in meditation until he achieved the realization that he and all beings are already enlightened to the truth of the world (Lopez, 2001; MN 36:12 in Nanamoli & Bodhi, 2005).

He became a Buddha, one who is awake.

from Burnout and Spiritual Incongruence, Lynette Monteiro 2012©

          The story of Buddhism is at once the story of an individual’s lived experience of his spiritual unfolding and the larger unfolding of a paradigm shift in conceptualizing suffering and its transformation (Suzuki, 1996).  For the purpose of this thesis, the unfolding of the Buddha’s life serves as an exemplar of experiencing and transforming value conflict, the trigger for burnout symptoms. Twenty-six hundred years ago, Gotama, also referred to as Sakyamuni (Humphreys, 1987; Nakamura, 2000), is believed to have lived and taught on the existence, cause, cessation, and transformation of suffering (dukkha).

Given the name Siddhartha, his coming into being was a paradox of loss and gain. His mother died giving him life and, at his naming ceremony, the Brahmins declared him to be one who had achieved the spiritual purpose of all beings (Nakamura, 2000).  They prophesied that if he stayed in a secular life, he would become a great monarch; but if he renounced the world, he would become a Buddha – one who will remove the veil of delusion.  Suddhodana, Siddhartha’s father and ruler of the kingdom of Sakka, having no wish to lose his heir to a life of a recluse, asked what would lead to his son’s renunciation; he was told that Siddhartha would see four signs: an old man, a sick man, a dead man, and a renunciate.  In an attempt to prevent this loss, Suddhodana ordered that all such persons be kept from the sight of the young prince.  Although more legend than fact, this story of the future Buddha’s developmental years is an exemplar of way in which reality can be constructed for an individual and how it subtly creates a resistance to change.  Old age, illness, death, and the need to release ourselves from all forms of bondage become natural transitions we deny and life is lived as if youth, well being, mortality and possessions are eternal.

Siddhartha, growing up in his father’s kingdom, was sheltered from these realities and groomed for a life of statesmanship and power.  In his position of heir, he would have been trained in the craft of caring for the people in his kingdom although distanced and disconnected from them.  Politically and culturally, it is likely that Suddhodana and Siddhartha ruled not as protectors of their citizens but as protectors of the land and commodities they possessed (Armstrong, 2001) against the neighbouring kingdoms.  In that sense, their world would not have been very different from that of a corporation whose mission is to provide care to those in their jurisdiction but whose actions may not account for the human face of the organization.  However, Siddhartha inevitably encountered the human face of his kingdom in the form of an old man, a sick man, a dead man, and a renunciate (Lopez, 2001).  The cocoon constructed by his father fostered a hedonistic lifestyle and it is likely this lifestyle cultivated a set of values removed from the attitudes and struggle of the ordinary person (Wallis, 2007).  Unable to reconcile his life of protected splendour with the harsh truths of aging, illness, and death, Siddhartha found his worldview challenged.  As his realization deepened he understood that despite his privilege, he was not immune to the way life unfolds; he and all beings suffer the same fate (AN 3:35, I 138-40 in Bodhi, 2005; Nakamura, 2000).

from Burnout and Spiritual Incongruence, Lynette Monteiro 2012©

Two poems by Rumi

This is love: to fly toward a secret sky,
to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.
First, to let go of life.
In the end, to take a step without feet;
to regard this world as invisible,
and to disregard what appears to be the self.

Heart, I said, what a gift it has been
to enter this circle of lovers,
to see beyond seeing itself,
to reach and feel within the breast.

 The Divani Shamsi Tabriz, XIII

—

Love is reckless; not reason.
Reason seeks a profit.
Love comes on strong,
consuming herself, unabashed.

Yet, in the midst of suffering,
Love proceeds like a millstone,
hard surfaced and straightforward.

Having died of self-interest,
she risks everything and asks for nothing.
Love gambles away every gift God bestows.

Without cause God gave us Being;
without cause, give it back again.

 Mathnawi VI, 1967-1974

The one who bows and the one who is bowed to
are by nature boundless.
That is why the communication between them
is inexpressibly perfect. 

This gatha is chanted at the beginning of the ritual of touching the earth (prostrations).  Thich Nhat Hanh writes in Teachings on Love that when we practice touching the earth, we

surrender our pride, notions, fears, resentments, and even our hopes,
and enter the world of ‘things as they are.’ 

On Monday, I described a breathing meditation that began with opening to the entirety of our experience; an expansive bowl in which everything sits, non-judgmentally, non-preferentially.  The second stage of the breathing meditation is to bring our attention to the breath at the nostrils.  Rest there, allowing the bowl of awareness to simply sit on the rise and fall of the breath.  In this stage, we rest.  Awareness rests.  Thoughts, desires, wilfulness, control all rest.  There is nothing made, nothing contrived, nothing given, nothing taken away from the experience in this moment.  This is equanimity.

The practice of equanimity is a practice of love.  It is another chamber in the heart that beats for all beings.  Like lovingkindness and resonant joy, it is a practice of surrender.  We are asked to hand over all our ideas and opinions about this moment, this person.  The stories of attachment and betrayal, the tales of joy and woe – check them in at the cloakroom and don’t ask for a ticket to reclaim them.

Only then can we enter the boundless nature of relationship.