tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41314580889785103072024-03-13T11:22:40.283-05:00awake n missouriThis blog is about exploring spiritual awakening in an ordinary Midwestern life in Columbia, Missouri. Insight Meditation and other Buddhist practices are discussed as well as other spiritual traditions leading to enlightenment or awakening.Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-88983674260879224692012-02-28T11:32:00.000-06:002012-02-28T11:32:40.430-06:00Sacred<div style="font-family: Verdana;">Many of us involved in this practice use words like "sacred" and "spiritual" as a way to point to what we hope to find, how we hope to live and what we find helpful or supportive of our effort to live in a way that contributes to inner and outer harmony, compassion and peacefulness. So I was surprised by the strength of my reaction this month when I came across this in a book review in Tricycle magazine: </div><div style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> "The central message of Jack Kornfield's <i>Bringing<br />
Home the Dharma: Awakening Right Where You<br />
Are</i> is that every part of your life is sacred." </div><div style="font-family: Verdana;">What rose up in me was that this was not true.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana;"><br />
<div>As I reflected on this reaction what came to mind was a conversation I had with Ginny Morgan in 1993. We were driving down a hot Kansas highway after attending a retreat in the Colorado mountains with Joseph Goldstein and Sharon Salzberg. Ginny had been talking about "spiritual" off and on throughout the trip. Finally I admitted, with a bit of shame, that although I was quite committed to meditation after about six years of practice, I had no idea what the word "spiritual" meant, what it referred to. </div><div><br />
</div><div>After about another twenty years of practice, and after having used the world "spiritual" many, many times myself —and knowing I will use it many times more— I still have to admit that I really don't have any idea what it means. But there's no longer shame in admitting that. Instead, there's a sense of relief. This is part of what the practice has done for me. Helped me to see that there is not a reality –sacred or spiritual– where we can live our lives in some way separate or distinct and preferable to this one.</div><div><br />
</div><div>There can be a shift in perception or glimpses of something undefinable. If this happens, our perspective on life can change radically.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But <i>this life</i> is the one we have. It may not be the most convenient or the most preferable life. It may not be the one we thought the practice was going to bring to us. But it is our life. It is the one we have.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Our practice isn't to become some kind of superior spiritual being or to attain some special, preferable kind of reality. Our practice is to more fully become a human being living this life, the only life we have, as fully and completely as we can. Our practice is to find a way to be present in, intimate with, the life we have. When we live in this way the mental chatter that keeps us separate simply blows on through and the heart is open and responsive.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But these are just words, creating another idealized reality. The only way to be intimate with our lives, to realize <i>this</i> is to do the work ourselves, to see when we're distracted from this, whether by greed, by aversion, by thoughts that there is some perfection to attain, or maybe even by thoughts that we've arrived, that we've finally got it.</div><div><br />
</div><div>There's no sacred, no profane. There's nothing to attain. And of course, everything.</div></div>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-52409863771598813552011-04-25T13:39:00.000-05:002011-04-25T13:39:59.605-05:00Passover and Easter: A Buddhist PerspectiveIt began with a leg of lamb. Gail, who grew up raising lamb and loves the taste of it, saw a good bargain on a leg of lamb. She decided she had to have it to test a new recipe in her smoker. <br />
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It was too much for the two of us, so we needed to invite guests and what better time for a lamb dinner than Easter. So plans were made for dinner with some friends and family whose children have left home. Some of them were active Christians (Roman Catholic and Episcopalian), some were Unitarians, some inactive Christians, one was Jewish, and then there was me. <br />
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This mix of people and events brought a question to mind. Are there any commonalities between Passover, Easter and a Buddhist approach to life? Three themes came to mind: remembrance, faith and resurrection.<br />
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Passover and Easter are, among other things, rites of remembrance. Remembering the spirit of God passing over the children of Israel while bringing the slaughter of the first born to their Egyptian slave masters. Remembering the passage to freedom that resulted for the Israelites. Remembering the death and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth. Remembering all of the meals and family times shared to mark these events. Remembering the funny custom of coloring eggs, hiding them along with candy eggs and chocolate bunnies and the joy of children discovering them. Remembering, at least in the northern hemisphere, the renewal of Spring after the darkness and cold of Winter.<br />
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In Buddhist practice the Pali word <i>sati</i> is usually translated as mindfulness, the quality of non-judgmental attention or awareness that is so central to the practice. Yet another definition of <i>sati</i> is to remember. In this case what is remembered is to pay attention. To pay attention to what is happening in one's life right now, in this moment. To pay attention without judgment and with acceptance or friendliness towards whatever comes or goes. Or if we're meditating, to remember to pay attention to our meditation object.<br />
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The message of Easter certainly seems to be about faith, having faith that if you believe in God, if you put your trust in God, that there is hope for an eternal life that is free of the travails and suffering of human life. Passover also seems to be about faith, about putting one's trust in God as one takes the leap into the unknown, whether individually or as a people.<br />
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Faith also plays a part in Buddhist practice. Faith is one of the five faculties of mind and heart that are essential if one is to awaken to the truth of life and to being at peace with life. But this faith isn't about belief. It is a quality that has to be balanced with wisdom, with understanding how things really are. Faith becomes balanced as one does the practice. Then one discovers for oneself whether it is true that holding on or wanting things to be other than the way they are is what leads to discontent and mental and emotional suffering in life. Then one discovers for oneself whether it is true that opening to life and letting go really do lead to peace, contentment and happiness. Interestingly, the Pali word <i>saddha</i> that is usually translated as faith can also be translated as conviction or confidence, which is, perhaps, what develops as faith becomes balanced by the wisdom of one's own deep investigation.<br />
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The message of Easter most certainly has to do with resurrection, with the possibility of being reborn to a better life both in this human life and in an eternal life to come. Passover marks the resurrection of a whole people as they arose from bondage to a new life in a new Promised Land.<br />
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And the Buddha's teachings also contain a message of resurrection. But it is not about a resurrection at some time in the future. It is a resurrection that can happen now. Each moment of our lives is an opportunity to start anew.<br />
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In each moment when there is sensory contact, depending on our previous experiences (our karma) there is often a tendency to react to this sensory experience with grasping, pushing away or confusion. When we react in these ways we continue to be caught in the rut of thoughts, perceptions and behaviors that leads to discontent and suffering. But each time we remember, each time we meet this sensory experience with mindfulness, we break out of the rut of suffering. We let go of our struggle. We awaken to life. Our senses awaken and we become more intimate with life. Our hearts open, our minds become silent and spacious and we experience a moment of peacefulness and deep happiness.<br />
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When that moment passes, we may forget and begin to cling and suffer once again. But each time we remember and respond with an open heart and with mindfulness, our faith becomes further strengthened by our momentary resurrection, our awakening. And over time this can increasingly become our way of living this life. A life lived fully.Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-11636807087268053752011-02-20T12:46:00.000-06:002011-02-20T12:46:49.403-06:00Onions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1nw7AmEd8Jo/TWFe3pK3pgI/AAAAAAAAADQ/nL8lt_BvPgk/s1600/Onions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1nw7AmEd8Jo/TWFe3pK3pgI/AAAAAAAAADQ/nL8lt_BvPgk/s320/Onions.jpg" /></a></div><br />
A re-creation of the talk I gave this morning:<br />
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Practice is like peeling an onion. We peel away one layer and then there's another one and another one. As we sit quietly, one thing and then another arises to awareness. We meet one thing with an open heart and mindfulness, it passes away and something else comes asking for attention.<br />
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Peeling an onion is usually not a pleasant experience. Our eyes often sting and there may be tears. Similarly, in practice as we sit quietly the mind or heart often gets stuck on something—a sensation, a thought, a memory—that is not so pleasant. Then the question is, how do we deal with this? How do we deal with the stinging eyes? How do we deal with this unpleasant visitor? This unpleasantness, whether the onion's effects or the visitor to our peaceful meditation, is what our life is in this moment. Are we able to just be this life? Or is there some resistance to it? Can we just meet it with an open heart and with clear seeing and knowing and then letting it go?<br />
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When we peel an onion layer by layer to its core, we find that at its center it is empty. It was simply layers grouped together. As we open to the visitors that come to our hearts and minds both on and off the cushion, we come to see that they too are lacking in any enduring core. They were just a set of conditions that came together in a particular way to create the unpleasantness we found. <br />
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After we've peeled layers from the onion we can use them to create something that is delicious. Something that brings us some moments of sensual happiness. When we meet, with mindfulness, acceptance, friendliness and courage, the unpleasantness that arrives in meditation, when we open fully to it, when we become intimate with it, it passes on through. And often one of the results is that our spirits are lightened, our hearts feel more open and our minds are more peaceful.<br />
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<span style="font: 10.0px Gentium Book Basic; letter-spacing: 0.0px">Photo: Onions.jpg on Wikipedia by Fir0002, flagstaffotos.com.au, <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Commons:GNU_Free_Documentation_License_1.2">GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2</a> </span><p></p>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-42834955845151464912010-12-30T10:29:00.005-06:002010-12-30T13:13:46.998-06:00The Pleasure of PracticeYesterday I was talking with someone who is leaving for a retreat today. She commented "I really need a retreat." As I reflected on this it reminded me of the many times I have thought the same thing. What is it about retreat practice that we would look forward to it? From the outside it certainly doesn't seem like a very pleasant experience, spending days not speaking to anyone, spending hours sitting in the same position hardly moving at all or walking very very slowly, sometimes being confronted by painful memories. My first retreat was extremely painful physically. Yet I and many others are drawn to return to retreats again and again.<br /><br />This also brought to mind the memory of my early years of meditating. I had minimal instruction in how to practice, was practicing mostly by myself and certainly, in retrospect, didn't seem to experience any significant insights. Yet I was drawn to spending 20-30 minutes of my very limited "free" time sitting silently with attention turned inward day after day. What kept me going during this time?<br /><br />I think the truth is that spending some time with a concentrated mind is actually a pleasant experience. In a practice that has "insight" in its name, we may get the message that insight or wisdom is all that matters. Yet it is this quality of serenity that comes from concentration that often sustains us and draws us deeper and deeper into the practice. In the Dhammapada, v. 372, the Buddha pointed to the complementary role of wisdom and concentration:<br /> There is no concentration without wisdom,<br /> No wisdom without concentration.<br /> One who has both wisdom and concentration<br /> Is close to peace and freedom.<br /><br />This experience of serenity is what is called a spiritually pleasant experience, something more refined than the sense pleasures of everyday life. Because it is more refined, it offers a satisfaction that everyday pleasures do not, so it's refreshing. Of course it's important to understand that this serenity associated with a concentrated mind isn't the end of the path. But it's also important to acknowledge how valuable it is, how it nurtures and supports us through the ups and downs of this human life. It may not be the ultimate refuge of peace and freedom that the Buddha pointed to, but it certainly is a comforting refuge nevertheless.Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-35291164322811711092010-11-14T19:31:00.002-06:002010-11-14T19:32:06.009-06:00Interdependence and the Delusion of Radical IndividualismAfter spending the last four weeks in SE Asia, I found myself waiting for five hours in the Seoul-Incheon airport for my flight to Chicago. It's a super-modern and highly efficient airport that offers wonderful amenities for travelers like free wi-fi, free showers and quiet spaces where travelers can rest while in transit. While waiting I reflected on some of the stories I had heard on this trip and also on a trend of American culture over the last thirty years. <br /><br />During this trip, and our previous one to Cambodia, I heard horrific and sad stories of the "Cultural Revolution" that swept China, Cambodia and to some extent Vietnam during the late 60's to 70's. Stories of the abuse so many experienced. Stories of people who were killed and of families broken apart. Stories of people who couldn't follow their dreams and make use of their educations and training because the government or party ordered them to do something else. Stories of what happens when a society gets unbalanced and emphasizes the "good of the group" (i.e. nation, party, etc.) to an extreme.<br /><br />But I also found myself wondering, as I sat in Seoul-Incheon, why it is that the great cities of the US don't have an airport like Seoul's? Why is it that Europe and Japan have highly developed networks of superfast trains for transporting people, but the US doesn't? Why does the US have one of the most powerful economies in the world and yet our roads and bridges are crumbling? Why does the US have such a high standard of medical innovations and yet so many people who can't receive the most basic kinds of health care?<br /><br />I know that there are many causes for each of these differences between the US and other countries, but I can't help but feel that underlying them is the shadow side of what makes the US such a great and vibrant culture. Probably more than any other culture in history we have been able to empower individuals to pursue their dreams. The result has been a high level of individual satisfaction and the innovation and the vibrancy of our culture. But when we only see the individual, when we fail to see the ways that we are interconnected and the ways that we are responsible for each other, we go to the opposite extreme of the Asian countries I mentioned earlier. We neglect the common good for what is only good for me, me, me. It seems to me that this has been a strong trend in the US since the 70's or 80's and the result has been a growing disparity between the richest and the poorest, a distrust of the mechanisms of government that support us and a failure to invest or re-invest in the infrastructure that made us strong.<br /><br />Some may wonder what these comments have to do with the Dharma, with awakening. But awakening is about seeing things as they are. It is about seeing the views, beliefs and assumptions that are outside of awareness and yet influence our behavior. So it seems to me that it is important for us to notice when our emphasis on the social group or on individualism is out of balance otherwise we'll get caught sacrificing individual welfare or the common good for a perfectionistic ideal.Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-83576125771495863842010-11-01T20:19:00.005-05:002010-11-03T08:20:20.932-05:00Many BuddhismsI'm currently traveling in SE Asia with my wife. On this trip we've visited central Vietnam and Thailand. On previous trips we visited northern Vietnam, Hong Kong, Cambodia and Laos. Each country has a strong Buddhist tradition. As we've traveled and met people, my wife has frequently announced that her husband is a Buddhist. (I'm more reticent about making that statement, but the reasons for that might be another blog entry.)<br /><br />Usually the initial reaction to Gail's statement is surprise and some curiosity. In Laos, Cambodia and Thailand, the interest seemed to stop there. In Vietnam and in Hong Kong I found some assumptions being made about what it would mean if I were Buddhist. Sometimes there's an assumption that I'm vegetarian even though few of the lay people in these countries seem to be. Actually they often seem to eat a wider ranger of living creatures, and parts of living creatures, than I do. In Vietnam and Hong Kong there's also been an expectation that I will want to visit the temples, pray and perhaps offer incense. <br /><br />The practices in Cambodia, Laos and Thailand have been closer to my own experience with Insight Meditation and Theravada Buddhism in the US. But in these countries monks and temples are the most obvious expression of Buddhism. Lay people seem to focus on ethical behavior, making merit through generosity and supporting the monks and temples, being protected from evil spirits and making their way in the world.<br /><br />Although my understanding of the Buddhist practices and beliefs in these different cultures is pretty superficial, getting a little sense of how popular Buddhist practice has been influenced by the history and culture of each country has also given me a little perspective on "American Buddhism." Buddhism in Hong Kong and in Vietnam seems to have been strongly influenced by Confucian beliefs and practices that play such a strong part in Chinese culture, while in Cambodia, Laos and Thailand, areas where Hindu civilizations once ruled, Buddhism seems to retain some of those Hindu influences and along with beliefs in spirits.<br /><br />So what about American Buddhism? What will it be like? Some people like to spend a lot of time and energy thinking about this, apparently believing that we can consciously control the outcome. I tend to think that the outcome will be influenced by our conscious choices about how to practice — for instance maybe a "stripped down" Buddhism based on the suttas of Early Buddhism — but that our hidden, and not so hidden, cultural values — things like our scientific, materialist orientation, a pragmatic emphasis on what works, a non-hierarchical orientation and gender equality — will more profoundly shape American Buddhism than any conscious choices we might make.<br /><br />Those influences are already occurring. Though they may not be obvious to us, perhaps they are to visitors from other Buddhist countries. It would be interesting to know.Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-54638516975312673972010-09-01T10:17:00.014-05:002010-09-02T14:01:19.077-05:00Freedom in Your HeartWhen I read the newspaper or follow the news on tv or the 'net, I'm constantly confronted with the difficulty and suffering of human existence. The awful flooding in Pakistan. The grisly bombings, poisonings and deaths from many other causes in the Middle East, South Asia and Africa. The still looming world-wide economic crisis. The simple difficulty that people all over the world, even in this country, have in getting enough food to eat. Of course the list could go on and on.<br /><br />And then there is all of the fear, hatred and distrust in this and in many other countries. It often seems that the world is just spinning out of control. It brings to mind the first stanza of William Butler Yeats' poem "The Second Coming":<br /><br /> Turning and turning in the widening gyre<br /> The falcon cannot hear the falconer;<br /> Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;<br /> Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,<br /> The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere<br /> The ceremony of innocence is drowned;<br /> The best lack all conviction, while the worst<br /> Are full of passionate intensity.<br /> <br />At times of uncertainty and hardship like these, the human mind and heart seem to just naturally move towards more simplistic, black-and-white and fundamentalist views of life, as though security can be found through these. But I've been reminded by two teachings that true security and peace lie elsewhere. <br /><br />The first teaching has to do with the way so many people are responding to the heightened sense of uncertainty in their lives. It has to do with the response of hatred, and also with how we deal with hatred. In the Dhammapada, the Buddha said: <br /><br /> Hatred never ends through hatred. <br /> By non-hate alone does it end. <br /> This is an ancient truth. <br /><br />Hatred never ends through hatred. By non-hate alone does it end. We can investigate this in our own experience. I find when I'm caught up in hatred, my heart is contracted, my body is tense, my mind is obsessed with and narrowly focused on the object of my hatred. There's little space for anything else other than my hatred. Then when a little mindfulness kicks in and I'm able to get a little space around the hatred, I can notice that it feels pretty awful to be caught up in it. The mind and heart are agitated, tight, and the body is tense. It certainly isn't a peaceful state of being.<br /><br />When the mind and heart are filled with non-hatred, another way of saying unconditional love, there is a relaxed and spacious feeling, sometimes with joy, sometimes with equanimity, in the mind, heart and body. There's a simple trust in life and an opening to whatever is in this moment. It is quite a contrast with the inner experience of hate.<br /><br />Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King both understood this lesson quite well. They understood that the battle for social change and justice has at it's core the hard work of inner transformation, meeting hatred with determined non-hatred rather than with more hatred.<br /><br />Which brings us to the second teaching on true security and peace. This is a teaching from Thich Nhat Hanh who said: <br /><br /> The amount of happiness that you have depends on the amount of freedom you have in your heart.<br /><br />Freedom in your heart: what does this mean? What is this freedom like? We've already touched on this in exploring the Buddha's teaching on hatred. One of the characteristics of a free heart would be one that is filled with non-hatred, a heart and mind that is filled with an unconditional receptivity towards whatever is encountered.<br /><br />Another quality that fills our hearts and minds so that there is no space for anything else is the quality of greed. When this mind and heart are caught up in greed, there is a burning quality of wanting but also a deep feeling of being unsettled, of being agitated. Being caught in greed really isn't a very pleasant experience. There's also a belief that we can escape from the burning and agitation, if only we can get what we want. Sometimes we can be so driven by this that we are willing to run right over other people, other forms of life, just to get what we think will make us happy, what we think will make the burning of greed go away. And if we feel that someone or something is standing in our way of getting what we want, the intensity and passion of the greed can easily flip into hatred.<br /><br />So another characteristic of a heart filled with freedom, and capable of true happiness, is the quality of non-greed, which we can also call generosity, an attitude of generosity towards oneself and others.<br /><br />The Buddha was very clear that what keeps us from experiencing the happiness of a free heart is not seeing things as they really are. Not clearly seeing the world of experience and how the mind and heart operate. When we investigate our own experience with this quality of mindfulness, with non-judgmental and receptive kind of awareness or attention, one of the things that we begin to see is that things are always changing. For example, we have an intention to meet life with an open and loving heart, but the next thing we know we're feeling angry about something. Or, we have an intention to keep our attention focused on the sensations of breathing and the next thing we know we're thinking about the vacation we have planned for next year. Or, we still think of ourselves as being relatively young, but then we look in the mirror and see the body of our mother or father with gray hair and wrinkled skin. Or, we think we have our personal finances in good shape and then we discover that the bottom has dropped out of our investments.<br /><br />It is said that the Buddha's very last words to his disciples were about the reality of change:<br /><br /> Now, monks, I declare to you: all conditioned things are of a nature to decay — strive on untiringly. <br /><br />All conditioned things are of a nature to decay. If we really got this, do you think there'd be the anger, the fury about the changes that have happened in our society in the last couple of decades? If we really got, deep in our minds and hearts, that everything is in a constant state of flux, would we keep fighting so hard to have or to not have certain experiences? Or would we set goals and strive for them untiringly while also understanding that everything we want and do is subject to change, other than the peace that the Buddha called "the unconditioned", the peace that Christians call "the peace beyond all understanding"?<br /> <br />When we investigate our own hearts and minds and see for ourselves how greed and hatred, grasping and pushing away, lead to agitation and suffering, it becomes easier to let go and let be. This is the opportunity that meditation offers us, whether on the cushion or in daily life.<br /><br />In two well know verses from the Dhammapada the Buddha said:<br /><br /> Mind precedes all phenomena,<br /> They are led by mind, made by mind.<br /> Speak or act with an impure mind,<br /> and suffering follows<br /> as the cartwheel follows the foot of the ox.<br /> <br /> Mind precedes all phenomena,<br /> They are led by mind, made by mind.<br /> Speak or act with a pure mind,<br /> and happiness follows<br /> as a shadow that never departs.<br /><br />The impure mind and heart that the Buddha speaks of is filled with greed, hatred and confusion about the way things really are. And the pure heart and mind is filled with unconditional love, generosity, compassion, equanimity and a clear seeing how things really are. When we investigate our own experience and find for ourselves whether the words of the Buddha are true or not, then we also have the possibility of finding at least a moment or two of freedom, maybe even more. And through the goodness of these moments, we help to transform this world.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font: 10.0px Gentium Book Basic; letter-spacing: 0.0px">Quotation Sources:<br />- The Second Coming: <span style="font-style:italic;">Selected Poems and Two Plays of William Butler Yeats</span>, edited by M.L. Rosenthal, Collier Books, The MacMillan Company, 1966, p. 91.<br />- The Buddha on Hatred: Dhammapada 1.5, Gil Fronsdal trans., Boston: Shambhala Publications, 2005, p. 2<br />- Thich Nhat Hanh quote: found in the Upaya eNews, August 30, 2010, http://www.upaya.org/newsletter/view/2010/08/30<br />- The Buddha's Last Words: Dīgha Nikāya 16.6.7, Mahāparinibbāna Sutta, Maurice Walshe trans., Boston: Wisdom Publications, 1987/1995, p. 270.<br />- The Buddha on the Role of the Mind: Dhammapada 1.1, 1.2, adapted from translations by Pariyatti.org and by Gil Fronsdal</span><p></p>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-74753155263241645742010-07-25T19:38:00.003-05:002010-07-25T19:43:25.237-05:00Becoming HumanThe Zen teacher Shunryu Suzuki Roshi said "The goal of practice is always to keep our beginner's mind. …In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities; in the expert's mind there are few. … The beginner's mind is the mind of compassion. When our mind is compassionate, it is boundless."<br /><br />Joseph Goldstein has said "There are many different descriptions of awakening, but all Buddhist traditions converge in one understanding of what liberates the mind. The Buddha expressed it clearly and unequivocally: 'Nothing whatsoever is to be clung to as "I" or "mine."' … Our unfolding experience keeps changing—sometimes it is pleasant, sometimes unpleasant—but the practice of freedom is always the same, namely, liberation through nonclinging."<br /><br />And, Ajahn Sumedho has said "These are the things we can contemplate. We can’t control what arises in the mind, but we can reflect on what we are feeling and learn from it rather than simply being caught helplessly in our impulses and habits. Even though there is a lot in life that we can’t change, we can change our attitude towards it. That’s what so much of meditation is really about—changing our attitude from a self-centered, "get rid of this or get more of that" to one of welcoming life as it is. … Welcoming discomfort, feeling fed up, wanting to run away. This way of welcoming life reflects a deeper understanding. Life is like this. Sometimes it’s very nice, sometimes it’s horrible, and much of the time it’s neither one way nor the other. Life is like this. "<br /><br />It seems to me that we often approach our lives and our practice from a position of self-improvement. We believe that if we only practiced hard enough, if we only had enough clarity, if our hearts were only a little more compassionate, or maybe a lot more, then we would no longer experience difficulty in our lives. Yet as the Buddha pointed out in his First Noble Truth, human life is inherently <span style="font-style:italic;">dukkha</span>. It can be difficult, problematic, and sometimes filled with suffering and is ultimately unsatisfactory.<br /><br />We can think we understand this Noble Truth and end up living with a kind of grimness. Gritting our teeth and bearing our way through life. Living with a quality of tension which few of us were seeking when we began this practice. But this grimness is a sign that we aren't quite there yet. There's still some resistance.<br /><br />Yet really, we don't have to do anything to change things even if there is still this resistance. Can we be curious about resistance? What is it really like to feel resistance for the way our life is? Can we feel it, can we allow it to be known in our hearts as well as our mind?<br /><br />Suzuki-roshi, Joseph Goldstein and Ajahn Sumedho are all pointing towards this ability to just be curious and open to what it is that we are experiencing in this moment. I've noticed that for me one of the most interesting things that happens when I can really just accept that this is what is right now in my life is that it leads to a real sense of intimacy with life that wasn't there before. Not just an intimacy with my own life, though it most assuredly does that, but also an intimacy and compassion for the life of others.<br /><br />This practice of non-clinging, of seeing that this is the way life is right now, is really a process of opening up to what it really means to be human, what it means to lead a human life. As the Taoists say there are ten thousand sorrows that we open to, but there's also ten thousands joys. And this quality of intimacy is a surprising joy.<br /><br />The Buddha said "Ehipassiko" which means "Come and see." It seems to me that each moment of our lives, whether easy or hard, gives us just this opportunity to come and see for ourselves what it means to be truly and fully human.<br /><br /><br /><br />SOURCES FOR QUOTES:<br />Goldstein, Joseph. One Dharma. New York: HarperCollins, 2002, p. 134.<br />Sumedho, Ajahn. "Life is Like This," from Fearless Mountain Newsletter, Summer 1999, Vol. 4, No. 2.<br />Suzuki, Shunryu. Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. New York: Weatherhill, 1970, pp. 21-22.Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-2989029390688438622010-04-12T06:36:00.013-05:002010-04-12T09:03:52.081-05:00Tuning In<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/S8MdCe1vgkI/AAAAAAAAAC0/DoetkJbLUXs/s1600/JGS_Tuning.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/S8MdCe1vgkI/AAAAAAAAAC0/DoetkJbLUXs/s320/JGS_Tuning.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459239101778592322" /></a><br /><br />I was walking upstairs yesterday when my wife asked me to tune in the radio in the kitchen. She was preparing dinner and her hands were covered with food. The radio's tuning seemed to be just a little bit off; sometimes the signal was very clear and at other times there was a lot of static. So I adjusted the dial a bit and when it seemed clear I headed back upstairs only to notice that there was a lot of static once again. I came back down and readjusted it, only to have the same results. Eventually I realized that my body moving up the stairs was actually what was altering the signal and causing the static. The radio was already tuned in.<br /><br />Practicing with mindfulness is similar to tuning the radio. Initially we turn the dial this way and that trying to locate the signal. Once we find the signal we try to calibrate the dial with very minor turns until the signal is as clear as we can make it. Then we stop adjusting the dial and listen, even if the signal wavers occasionally. <br /><br />With mindfulness, first we have to locate it, get a sense of what it is. Then we spend a lot of time tuning in and calibrating the dial: recognizing when there is judgment, decision-making or storytelling about a moment of experience and letting go of our identification with those qualities so that what is left is bare attention. Eventually we reach a point where we have to stop doing mindfulness, where we stop trying to be mindful. The effort to keep adjusting the dial, to be mindful, actually begins to interfere with the ability to be mindful. So we begin to trust that the signal is there, though it may waver at times as conditions change. All we have to do is listen without trying to make the signal be any particular way.<br /><br />As we listen, we notice sensation arising and passing, thoughts coming and going, moods settling in and then evaporating. In time we may recognize that the sense of some one listening is just another song playing on the channel, no different from the other sensations, thoughts or moods that take a spin. Eventually we may even realize that it's not the radio that carries, or knows, the songs. It's the signal. It's the signal that is there whether the radio is turned on and tuned in or not. We may realize that there is something greater than the radio or the song, something that we can't locate but that always is.<br /><br />Just tune in and relax.Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-47886956943579916192010-02-03T08:44:00.004-06:002010-02-03T11:34:33.511-06:00The Cup Is Broken<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/S2myStS0L4I/AAAAAAAAACs/svC3W_AbkYE/s1600-h/Broken+Cup.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/S2myStS0L4I/AAAAAAAAACs/svC3W_AbkYE/s320/Broken+Cup.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434070459865116546" /></a><br /><br />This morning during breakfast my wife grasped her coffee mug for the first sip of the day. Instead of that warm and comforting taste, she received a surprise. As she lifted the mug, the handle rose with her hand while the mug full of coffee stayed on the table. Although she was startled, she burst out laughing at the bizarreness of what had just happened.<br /><br />We had had that mug for a few years but it certainly didn't seem that far gone or fragile. As I reflected on it, what came to mind was a comment from Ajahn Chah, the 20th century Thai Buddhist teacher. He offered a teaching by holding up a tea cup and commenting that "this cup is already broken." In other words, its very nature is impermanence so don't get attached to it.<br /><br />In the practice of Insight Meditation we are often encouraged to watch the rise and fall of whatever has our attention in each moment. Over time, as we increasingly see the impermanence of this or that moment of experience, we slowly relax our grip on life. We become more comfortable with life as it is. We don't struggle with life so much and the mind becomes more silent while the heart opens more and more. In time, as we rest in this silent mind-open heart there are longer periods of just seeing rising and falling and knowing the joy that comes with non-grasping.<br /><br />Although the cup is already broken, the coffee tastes great!Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-29528825175991072612010-01-10T13:17:00.016-06:002010-01-10T14:36:17.573-06:00Day by DayBeginning on January 16 I'll be offering <a href="http://www.talkshoe.com/talkshoe/web/talkCast.jsp?masterId=72419&cmd=tc">daily meditations</a> on the internet for 38 consecutive days as part of the<a href="http://www.winterfeastforthesoul.com"> Winter Feast for the Soul</a>. The meditations will be 40 minute recordings of short talks about meditation followed by meditation instructions and a period of silent time for meditating. The instructions will be progressive, beginning with how to meditate and then gradually progressing to some of the most advanced practices of the Insight Meditation/Theravāda Buddhist tradition.<br /><br />The Winter Feast for the Soul was begun by Valerie Skonie, a woman in Idaho who was inspired by her own experience and by a verse of Rumi's to support others in developing a daily spiritual practice. The verse is:<br /><br /> What nine months does for the embryo<br /> Forty early mornings <br /> Will do for your growing awareness <br /> —Jelaluddin Rumi<br /><br />The Winter Feast will be doing one joint meditation session on the first day, Jan. 15, and another one on the last day, Feb. 23. Combined with my 38 meditations that will make 40. There are people from a number of other spiritual traditions also offering meditations for the "middle" 38 days.<br /><br />I have to admit that offering 38 consecutive days of meditations is a big commitment. I did it last year too and there were days when I wondered if I would be able to complete it. Part of what kept me going was remembering the effect that daily practice has had on me.<br /><br />I began meditating in 1987, I think, and began doing it on a daily basis shortly after I began. From the beginning there was something about meditation that appealed to me. Maybe it was the quiet time or the opportunity to just listen to my mind and heart for a while. Maybe it was just a peaceful way to begin days that were filled with the demands of a young family and hours of doing psychotherapy. But I also meditated every day because everything I read said that one should do it every day. So I did. I liked it, so it wasn't so hard. But it was hard giving up sleep time so that I could find the time to do it.<br /><br />Over the years since then daily practice has carried me through the highs and lows of my life. It's been part of learning that Awareness is large enough to hold whatever comes. Daily practice has helped me integrate the insights gained during retreats and has helped me to see the challenges of life that were/are still a struggle for me. And daily practice has sustained me between the periods of intensive retreat practice.<br /><br />I hope you'll join me in the <a href="http://www.talkshoe.com/talkshoe/web/talkCast.jsp?masterId=72419&cmd=tc">banquet of daily practice</a> during the <a href="http://www.winterfeastforthesoul.com">Winter Feast for the Soul</a>.Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-16687874082446987172009-12-13T07:54:00.029-06:002009-12-21T08:15:37.186-06:00Sound of SilenceLast week I was on a meditation retreat. One of the meditations we practiced used the sound of silence as its focus. Doing this meditation led to memories, not of the old Simon and Garfunkel song, but of earlier experiences with the sound of silence which may give some idea of what it is and how it can be of use.<br /><br />After a few years of attending Insight Meditation retreats, I first began to notice the sound of silence. As the mind became more quiet, usually after being on retreat for a few days, I would hear a high pitched sound in the background. It had a wavering quality to it similar to the sound of cicadas during the summer, though a higher pitch and not deafening the way cicadas can be. At first I thought it was a whistling in the ventilation system of the meditation hall. But then I heard the sound during meals and while falling asleep as well. After I returned home I noticed that for the first few nights I also heard it as I was falling asleep. So it couldn't have been something at the meditation center. And since the sound would disappear after I had been home for a few days, I figured it must have been something odd going on with my body.<br /><br />Immediately after one retreat I happened to see my family physician for my annual physical and casually mentioned this sound to him. He was a concerned about it and referred me to an audiologist. After several tests in a soundproof room, the audiologist said that the physician had been concerned that the sound might be an indication of a brain tumor but that it was actually a condition known as tinnitus. Since I wasn't going to die from tinnitus, the audiologist suggested that I should protect my hearing from loud and high-pitched noises in the future. Other than that I'd just have to live with the sound, unless it got a lot worse.<br /><br />Each time I was on retreat, as the mind became quiet and concentrated I'd occasionally notice this sound. It didn't annoy me and I didn't struggle with it. It was just an experience that would occur sometimes and hearing it just seemed to be an artifact of retreat practice.<br /><br />Once, though, I read about a Buddhist monk, Ajahn Sumedho, who often meditated on what he called the sound of silence, the sound when the mind is quiet, open and receptive. I wondered whether it was what I had been experiencing. So I tried to find the sound so that I could meditate on it. When I tried to find it, the sound was never appeared. When I wasn't looking for it and when my attention wasn't caught up in a story about my life or absorbed in a strong sensation or mood, then the sound of silence was there like a loyal dog, always beside me in the background. But if I tried to focus on it like on the sensations of breathing, it would disappear.<br /><br />Once I mentioned this to a meditation teacher. He told me that it sounded to him like it was tinnitus. He said that I should just keep noticing the impermanence of the thoughts, feelings and sensations that came into awareness, which is the standard practice of Insight Meditation. <br /><br />Over the years of practice, the mind became more open and relaxed, quiet yet alert and receptive, not only on retreat but during everyday life at home and at work. And wherever I was, there was the sound of silence. As long as I stayed relaxed but alert and just let the sound be, it was easy to hear. And I noticed that other than the wavering quality of the sound that never changed, the sound of silence didn't seem to be impermanent. It didn't come and go. It just stayed there constantly in the background.<br /><br />This past weekend as I was flying home from the retreat, the sound of silence was there once again. Although the sound of roaring engines and whining ventilation were quite loud, too loud for me to listen to music, the sound of silence was easy to notice.<br /><br />As I investigated the sound of silence during the meditation this past week, I noticed that if there was open and non-judgmental, relaxed but alert attention, then the sound of silence was there. I also noticed that if I was hearing it, then it was impossible to be caught up in stories or strong emotions or sensations. When the sound of silence was present, a thought might bubble up into awareness but before attention was caught up in it the thought would disappear. Like a bubble bursting, the thought would show its impermanent and insubstantial nature. If the sound of silence was there, then there wasn't a "me" that was doing anything. No holding on or pushing away of any momentary experience. Just a being-with whatever life presented in the moment.<br /><br />On the other hand, when attention was absorbed in stories, emotions or sensations, or even thinking about the sound of silence, then it was impossible to hear it. <br /><br /> Whether I believe that the sound is a result of tinnitus or the background sound of the universe, the sound of silence turns out to be a handy indicator of presence.Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-30588700711427436722009-10-23T22:27:00.030-05:002009-10-25T18:36:20.417-05:00What Remains<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SuTemxXoS2I/AAAAAAAAACg/dSIpTQ-DLnQ/s1600-h/800px-Darlington_Township_Pennsylvania.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SuTemxXoS2I/AAAAAAAAACg/dSIpTQ-DLnQ/s320/800px-Darlington_Township_Pennsylvania.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396683011165539170" /></a><br />A few days ago I went for a walk around the neighborhood park. The sky was gray and at times the wind blew a chilling mist against my face so I tried to keep my head down. I noticed that the ground was covered with leaves. Yellow leaves, orange leaves, golden leaves. Leaves knocked from the trees by the previous day's long hard rain.<br /><br />Seeing so many leaves on the ground, my attention was drawn up into the trees. There's something about looking up into the trees and seeing the limbs reaching towards the sky that I find quite enthralling. A few weeks ago these limbs were full of green leaves. Now they are growing increasingly bare. And the leaves are changing color from green to yellow, orange and occasionally red.<br /><br />Science tells us that the yellow and orange pigments have been there in the leaves since Spring. We just couldn't see them because the green of the chlorophyl masks the other pigments. Then in the Fall when the chlorophyl ebbs away, the yellows, oranges and browns are revealed. Knowing this scientific explanation, I still find the Fall colors enchanting. And I wonder if in earlier times people thought the yellows, oranges and browns replaced the green.<br /><br />As we bring mindfulness to moments of experience on and off the cushion and see things as they are, we increasingly let go and let life just be as it is. In time, the mind becomes more and more silent. At first I didn't notice this. Then, when I did it felt rather eerie. When I became more accustomed to the silence though, I began to notice the spaciousness and ease of this silent but attentive mind.<br /><br />At first it seemed that there must have been things that I was doing to cause the silent mind to be present. Slowly I came to see that, like the yellow and orange pigments in leaves, this silent spacious attention has always been here. It's presence is just masked by the worries, distractions and obsessions about me and the way I want life to be. When I see these clearly as just thoughts in the mind, not holding on or pushing away, they pass away. What remains is the peacefulness of simple presence.Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-35772673779034581332009-09-15T14:21:00.009-05:002009-09-16T08:58:55.994-05:00The Foundation Stone<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SrDrPjdGO7I/AAAAAAAAACY/oNBxMMeszSc/s1600-h/CuscoPiedra12angulo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SrDrPjdGO7I/AAAAAAAAACY/oNBxMMeszSc/s320/CuscoPiedra12angulo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382060207155592114" /></a><br />In the early morning when it is still dark out, I'm sitting cross-legged on cushions on the floor in a semi-dark room. A candle flickers. A gentle breeze enters the open window along with sounds. The ho-ho-hoo hoo hoo of a Great Horned Owl mixes with the distant roar of cars and trucks on the highway several miles away and the plop, plop, plop of joggers running down the street just outside the window.<br /><br />Some mornings attention is quickly snagged in a net of thoughts: the things that I need to do this day, the things I have put off for too long, the worries about some future event or regrets about the past. This particular morning, though, the heart and mind are at ease. The net is empty. Instead there is a gentle sense of relaxation as the sounds come and go, as thoughts and sensations arise out of emptiness and pass back into it. Eventually it is time to rise from the cushions and begin the day's activities. I arise settled and refreshed.<br /><br />I first began this early morning meditation practice over 20 years ago. At that time, there were very few resources here in the Midwest to offer support or guidance to a beginning meditator. I found some books and read about meditation. I gathered a couple of cushions from the sofa, put them on the floor and sat down cross-legged. Then I began to sit quietly, paying attention to the sensations as the belly expanded and contracted with each breath. Attention would wander to something else and I would bring it back, again and again and again. Eventually I worked up to sitting for 20 minutes. I also found two or three people to sit with once a week, but these people offered no instructions. So for about the first two years that I practiced I had no teacher.<br /><br />Circumstances changed and my family moved to the East Coast where I found a Zen Buddhist teacher. I did that practice for two years and sat some retreats. The initial retreats, in particular, were excruciating. The body just wasn't used to sitting cross-legged on the floor for hours at a time. And I didn't know how to work skillfully with physical pain. <br /><br />Then I moved back to the Midwest and began attending Insight Meditation retreats. By then, the Zen people had trained my body and mind to sit without moving so that retreats weren't so painful any longer. They began to be a joy. Insight Meditation has been my practice since that time. And I've come to love it.<br /><br />As I look back on those beginning years, I've wondered what kept me going in spite of the sense that I didn't know what I was doing and the pain of those first retreats. It wasn't that I was interested in Buddhist philosophy or was moved by the clarity of the Buddha's teaching. And it wasn't that I had an interest in being a Buddhist or even spiritual. The simple practice of sitting in silence satisfied a need that I had. A need to begin the day on a calm note. A need to have some space just for myself. A need to touch, if only for a few minutes, what was true. In this way sitting meditation became a foundation stone which my daily life rests on.<br /><br /><span style="font: 10.0px Gentium Book Basic; letter-spacing: 0.0px">Photo: CuscoPiedra12angulo.jpg on Wikipedia by Håkan Svensson, Creative Common License: Attribution ShareAlike 3.0</span><p></p>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-88557961423509139202009-07-29T12:59:00.036-05:002009-07-31T08:41:09.346-05:00Down the Drain<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SnDFyAWIDcI/AAAAAAAAACQ/qlLS9mGksQY/s1600-h/3035887375_32e412b4b4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SnDFyAWIDcI/AAAAAAAAACQ/qlLS9mGksQY/s320/3035887375_32e412b4b4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364004619075194306" /></a><br />This morning I was taking a shower. But I wasn't in the shower. I was sitting in a house a few miles from here drinking tea and having a conversation with a friend. My friend said something about me that I felt was pretty judgmental and I was feeling quite irritated about it. The next thing I knew, though, I was back in the shower having a conversation with myself. I was expressing my irritation, to myself, about this person's personality and how it bent their view of me and my actions. Then a few moments later I found myself standing in the shower feeling the streams of water pressing against my skin, noticing the warmth of the water and the slippery feel of the shampoo as I rubbed it into my hair.<br /><br />It struck me that this is how I spend a lot of my life. My attention is focused on a memory or on something I expect to happen. I argue with this memory and defend myself. Or I make plans for how to deal with a situation, either to get it to turn out the way I want or to keep it from turning out as I fear it will. Then I review the defense or plan again and again to try to make sure I've got it right. While I'm caught up in this the situations seem real and I react to them emotionally. But when I look at them later, at the best of times only a moment or two later, there is the recognition that the past and future are simply happening in the mind, in imagination. No matter how hard I try I can't locate past or future anywhere else. The events that I now remember did once occur but at that time they were now, not past. Now all they are is memories, thoughts in the mind. The events that I anticipate may indeed occur, but if they do it will be in the now. Until that happens they are only thoughts in the mind. So I spend much of my life caught up in a world that I imagine, with one set of thoughts countering another, all in the mind.<br /><br />When I recognize that these memories or plans and my reactions to them are only thoughts, only in imagination, mind and body relax. Thoughts fall away as though they are washing down the drain. The mind becomes more and more quiet. What is left is simple awareness. Simple awareness of thoughts arising and passing away. Simple awareness of the sensory experience of this moment. The pressure of water falling against the skin. The sound of water striking the shower walls and floor. What is left is living in the now, this moment. This moment. This moment… Until I forget and fall into past and future once again.<br /><br /><span style="font: 10.0px Gentium Book Basic; letter-spacing: 0.0px">Photo: 3035887375 on Flickr, Shower, by gfpeck, Creative Common License: Attribution No Derivative Works 2.0 Generic</span><p></p>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-25120012584430325982009-06-28T13:04:00.023-05:002009-06-28T14:53:57.858-05:00The Sweet TasteYesterday I went to the Columbia Farmers Market. It is always a stimulating place to visit. There are so many sights: white plastic coolers filled with fresh Missouri trout, mounds of exotic Asian vegetables, jar after jar of local honey. Walking between the vendors it is hard to know which way to look. Do I look at the fresh blueberries or the goat cheese? Do I check out the young herb plants or the fresh artisanal bread? Then I notice people carrying baskets of fresh peaches, so I go to search for them and find a long line of people with the same desire.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SkfHBpFm1FI/AAAAAAAAACI/yV23P_kR2nc/s1600-h/60297670_ddc80086f1_m.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 238px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SkfHBpFm1FI/AAAAAAAAACI/yV23P_kR2nc/s320/60297670_ddc80086f1_m.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352465513176290386" /></a><br /><br />Standing in line, I realize I know the person in front of me. It's hard to go to the Farmers Market without running into someone I know. Especially when we haven't seen each other in a while, we'll stop to chat, briefly letting go of that sense of mission about finding peaches or lettuce or whatever it is that we desire. We talk about family, friends, work or the events of the world, sharing our views and opinions.<br /><br />All of these sense impressions, views and opinions belong to the realm of conditioned things. They're the things we get attached to. When I say we get attached to them, I'm not making a value judgement. It isn't a statement of right or wrong. It's simply a statement that "this is the way that it is." The way-it-is is that we get attached to conditioned things. Yesterday I was attached to getting fresh blueberries and peaches. I also get attached to my own views and opinions and believe that I'm right and others are, to put it nicely, misguided. <br /><br />If I hadn't found the blueberries or peaches, I would have been disappointed. If they spoil in a day or two, before they're all eaten, I'll be disappointed that they didn't last. If I eat them all before they spoil, I'll be disappointed that they're gone and will want more. Even pleasant things bring disappointment, or unsatisfactoriness, because they don't last. This is the nature of conditioned things. When I'm attached to them being a particular way --available, fresh, lasting as long as I want -- it leads to some uneasiness with life.<br /><br />Sometimes, though, I have my fruit and am still at ease. What makes this possible? It's when there is a knowing and an acceptance that this is the way that it is. If the peaches are gone and I'm disappointed, it is simply knowing the disappointment as the way that it is. If the peaches are a perfect combination of sweet and tart and desire is arising for another bite, it is a simple knowing that this is the way that it is. There is no judgement about one or the other. There is just the knowing and accepting that in this moment this is the way that it is.<br /><br />When I rest, truly rest, in this moment, there is peace. There is contentment. At these times there is no story about what is happening, no sense of passing time, and no sense of an I that is doing or knowing or experiencing, there is just <span style="font-style:italic;">this</span>. The taste of freedom at these moments is truly sweeter than the taste of fresh blueberries or peaches has ever been.<br /><br /><span style="font: 10.0px Gentium Book Basic; letter-spacing: 0.0px">Photo: 60297670 on Flickr, Peach Fuzz, by wanderingnome, Creative Common License: Attribution, Non-Commercial, No Derivative Works 2.0 Generic</span><p></p>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-68725218717080609952009-05-29T15:32:00.029-05:002009-05-30T10:16:31.697-05:00Bee-ing Present<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SiBSVDrAo7I/AAAAAAAAACA/9e6FRqgeJAo/s1600-h/519742656_0b2323bc8e.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 258px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SiBSVDrAo7I/AAAAAAAAACA/9e6FRqgeJAo/s320/519742656_0b2323bc8e.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341359679777842098" /></a><br />Today I spent some time working inside our beehive. This involves taking off the top of the hive and pulling out some of the wooden frames to see what the bees have been doing. The worker bees create the comb in the frames and store honey and pollen there. The queen bee lays eggs in the comb. (By the way, do you see the big balls of pollen on the legs of the bee in the photo?) Opening the hive is an adventure because I'm still learning what the bees do. I'm also still learning what I should, and shouldn't, be doing as a beekeeper.<br /><br />When we started the hive, we bought a three pound box of bees along with a queen. (Yes, isn't it amazing what one can buy!) After we, literally, dumped the bees into their new home and put the lid on it, I wondered if this would work. Would the bees accept this as their home? Would they build comb? Would they accept the new queen? Would the queen lay eggs so that the colony would survive and grow? Unlike me, the bees didn't seem to worry about what they needed to do. They didn't seem to sit around worrying "Hmm, should I make wax here, take care of the queen or go eat sugar water?" They just did what needed to be done. Their lives seem to just unfold from moment to moment in this way. When they are making wax, they make wax. When they are feeding the baby bees (that is the eggs and larvae), they just feed them. Can we live our lives with this same kind of simplicity? <br /><br />As I examined the hive, I pulled a few frames from the top level, which we added about a week ago. There weren't a lot of bees in this level though the ones that were there were busy making comb. When I moved to the bottom two levels of the hive there were a lot more bees and the frames were heavy with comb full of baby bees, honey and pollen. It was hard to pull the frames out because there were so many bees crawling all over them and I didn't want to pinch or squash any of the bees. It was even harder to put them back and I was sorry to see that no matter how careful I tried to be a few of the bees were squashed. So my attention was very focused. There wasn't a lot of thinking about what I should or shouldn't do. There was just doing: Feeling the weight and pressure of the hive tool in the hand as I used it to the move frames around so that there was space to pick them up. Slipping fingers onto the ends of the frames trying to avoid bees while keeping a firm grip on the frame so that it wasn't dropped. Awareness of the changing weight as each frame was lifted and examined. Looking at the bees and the comb on one side of the frame and then flipping it to look at the other side. Slipping it back into the hive slowly so that the bees would move out of the way without being crushed. Moving from one thing to the next, looking at and listening to the bees and their home. I've spent hours on retreat practicing being this present for my life, practicing letting the sense of a separate me drop away, but it just happened naturally as I tended to the bees. Some people call this "being mindful" but it is really just paying attention moment after moment, not getting caught by any thoughts or sensations, just being what life is in this moment.<br /><br />Of course I didn't realize whether I was being present or not while I was working the hive. If I had thought I was being present, at that very moment I wouldn't have been. It was only when I reflected on the experience after the fact that I recognized that for a while there had been no sense of separateness, just bees and beekeeper together in the moment. That's part of the promise and challenge of a practice of awakening.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font: 10.0px Gentium Book Basic; letter-spacing: 0.0px">Photo: 519742656_0b2323bc8e on Flickr, European Honey Bee Touching Down, by autan, Creative Common License: Attribution, Non-Commercial, No Derivative Works 2.0 Generic</span><p></p>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-77455254870095575422009-05-09T07:41:00.012-05:002009-05-09T08:08:27.852-05:00Round and RoundEarlier this week I received a message from a friend whose opinion I respect. When I first read the message, I found what it said was pleasant and I took it as praise. At the time I was working on something else, so I set the message aside and returned to my task. After finishing the task, I remembered the message. The memory was of a warm pleasant feeling but I didn't clearly remember what had been said. So I felt compelled to go back to it and to read it several more times. The first time seemed to be to verify what it said and that my perception of it as praise was accurate. The second time simply seemed to be about getting the pleasant feeling again. Satisfied, I set it aside again and went on to other things. Over the next few hours, I noticed how the mind would keep returning to the memory of the message, wanting to recall it again and again and again.<div><br />As I noticed this compulsion, what came to mind was a teaching from the Buddha in a collection known as the Numerical Discourses. The Buddha said:"These eight worldly conditions keep the world turning around…. What eight? Gain and loss, fame and disrepute, praise and blame, pleasure and pain." He then goes on to explain that they keep the world going around because when we encounter these conditions, we get caught up in them and either become elated or dejected. When we're caught in them it is like being on a merry-go-round, they just keep coming around again and again.<p></p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SgV6cJbCTzI/AAAAAAAAAB4/QdKuHQP_bqY/s1600-h/merry-go-round.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SgV6cJbCTzI/AAAAAAAAAB4/QdKuHQP_bqY/s320/merry-go-round.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333803957674463026" /></a><br />This is certainly what was happening, and often happens, in my own mind. When I'm caught up in the pleasant worldly conditions I want more and more and more. When I'm caught in the unpleasant ones, I usually try to push them away by explaining them away in some imaginary internal dialogue. Sometimes, though, there is an awakening. I clearly see what is happening. I see that this is the way the mind is. Then that particular merry-go-round stops.<br /><br /><span style="font: 10.0px Gentium Book Basic; letter-spacing: 0.0px">Quote: AN VIII.6, Bhikkhu Bodhi, <i>Numerical Discourses of the Buddha: An Anthology of Suttas from the Aṅguttara Nikāya</i>, p.198</span><br /><span style="font: 10.0px Gentium Book Basic; letter-spacing: 0.0px">Photo: 2461667238_e34a81841f on Flickr, Children in a Merry Go Round, by Nicolas, Creative Common License: Attribution-Noncommercial-Share-alike generic 2.</span><p></p><br /></div>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-34095121468157503122009-04-01T17:50:00.021-05:002009-04-04T13:59:50.608-05:00Waking Up to Air Travel<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SdTT3uMRUcI/AAAAAAAAABQ/IQdAT6J-0j8/s1600-h/118140540_76c6fd5185_m.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 160px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SdTT3uMRUcI/AAAAAAAAABQ/IQdAT6J-0j8/s320/118140540_76c6fd5185_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320110014077161922" /></a><br />Last week it was Spring Break here in Columbia, Missouri. My wife and I were fortunate in being able to fly to Florida to visit some family for the week. As is often the case, I found traveling to be quite an interesting, and in many ways difficult, experience. Running the gauntlet of what seems to be ever-changing rules of airport security is often a challenge, especially when the rules seem to be applied one way in one airport and another way in a different one. But the actual experience of flying is where I find things get really interesting.<div><br /></div><div>On our flights, there was not one empty seat. So, everyone was confined to their four square feet of space for the duration. (At least it seems that small.) As I sat in coach with all the other passengers, I wondered if this would qualify as a form of torture if we weren't doing it voluntarily? Anyway, one of the things I was noticing on the flights was the noise. There was the on-going roar of the jet engines, which, of course, one really wouldn't want to be without. Then there was the high-pitched whistling of the ventilation nozzles as people attempted to regulate the temperature in their little bit of space. And there was the background rumble of a hundred or more people engaged in conversations, folding and unfolding newspapers, typing on keyboards and snoring. And, since these were Spring Break flights, all of this noise was periodically punctuated by the loud protests of many small children. They seemed to be troubled by the general commotion of traveling, the restrictions to physical movement, the changes in air pressure as the planes ascended and descended, and general boredom, among other things.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I watched and listened to the children, I noticed that they, and the adults on the flight, seemed to use two strategies for coping with the difficulty of travel. The most common strategy was putting themselves to sleep to the experience. They would either literally fall asleep, often to the relief of their parents and the surrounding passengers. Or, they would do everything they could to distract their attention from the unpleasantries. The other strategy was actually paying attention to the experience, which most of the children and adults didn't seem to do for very long. I did some of both on our flights.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The strategy of distraction is based on a belief that if we string together enough pleasant moments we won't have to experience anything unpleasant. But while this strategy of distraction seems to work in the short-run, it really fails as a long-term approach. Sooner or later something unpleasant comes into our lives. As long as we are caught up in dividing experience into pleasant and unpleasant, we can't have one without the other. This is the nature of a dualistic world.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other strategy is to transcend this duality, to let go of our addiction to the pleasant and our aversion to the unpleasant. Instead we focus on fully experiencing what is true right now, in this moment of our lives. </div><div><br /></div><div>When our focus is on meeting each moment of experience with non-judgmental awareness, or mindfulness, it allows us to stand outside of, and consequently to transcend, the dualities of good and bad, right and wrong, pleasant and unpleasant. We just see that <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">this</span> is what <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">is</span> at this moment. Mindfulness allows us to see when it is time to open our hearts to the life that we have at this moment, even when it is the sound of screaming babies and the sensation of cramped legs.</div><div><br /></div><div>_________________________________________________________</div><div><br /></div><div>Photo 118140540 by carib on Flickr. Creative Commons License Attributions-Non-commerical-No Derivative Works 2.0 generic license</div>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-70841939814083845652009-03-30T09:55:00.013-05:002009-03-30T10:54:51.908-05:00That Beep, Beep, Beeping SoundA couple of weeks ago, my wife and I were in Kansas City, Missouri visiting family. We had been up late Friday night and were sleeping soundly, enjoying the quiet of our hotel room on Saturday morning. Suddenly, at 6 a.m., an alarm clock sounded: beep, beep, beep, beep. I was pretty certain it wasn't the alarm next to me, because the beeping wasn't that loud and jarring. But I checked to make sure it was turned off. Then we looked around the room to see if there was another clock or some other electronic gizmo that might be sounding. But finally we realized that it must be the alarm clock in the room next to ours, and that the room must be empty. The beep, beep, beep continued and continued and continued.<div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SdDo6TBuDRI/AAAAAAAAABI/mHynuf1xRkk/s1600-h/Clock+v2+cropped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 212px; height: 186px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KMD3NWettE/SdDo6TBuDRI/AAAAAAAAABI/mHynuf1xRkk/s320/Clock+v2+cropped.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319007248162098450" /></a><br /><br /><div>Once I realized that there was nothing to do to change the situation, that it was totally out of my control, it simply became another opportunity to practice. I lay in the bed, awake earlier than I wanted to be, and listened to the beep, beep, beep. My practice was attending both to the sound and to the way the mind and body were relating to the sound, especially noticing when there was resistance to it. Resistance when the body was not relaxed but was tight and contracted. Resistance when the mind would get agitated at the sound. And then, when there was awareness of resistance, either in body or mind, letting it go. Letting go of the resistance to what was and letting the sound just be.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I let go of the resistance again and again, mind and body relaxed. And sleep returned.</div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't my intention to relax so that I could fall back to sleep. It was simply the paradox that being awake, being present to the beeping sound, brought sleep.</div></div>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-48597644790073673672009-03-11T20:09:00.014-05:002009-04-04T13:59:29.737-05:00Perfect TitlesAs I sit here at my desk, I'm surrounded by shelves and shelves of books on meditation, Buddhism and other spiritual subjects. A few titles jump out at me. I love these titles because they so perfectly capture aspects of practice. The titles say a lot to me, and not necessarily what the books say.<div><br /></div><div>One is Pema Chodron's <font class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Start Where You Are.</font> This title captures the truth that we have to let go of all of our ideas about what practice, or life, is supposed to look like. We have to let go of these ideas and just begin with what our life is in this moment. Whether we are in agony or ecstasy or are just bored. I don't always find this easy to do. Sometimes I really, really want life to be different from the way it is. But it sure is more peaceful internally, and I'm probably a nicer person to be around, when I can just open to what my life is right now.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think that the phrase "start where you are" also points to the quality of acceptance and non-judgmental attention that is essential if we're going to be fully present for this moment of our lives. This title also points us towards the realization that life occurs now, not at some time in the future when we think we'll have it all together or when we think it will all fall apart. Life occurs now and not at some point in the past either. Future and past are nothing more than thoughts that occur in the mind. (You can check this out for yourself. Don't take my word for it.) Life only occurs now, so this is where we need to focus our attention. Start where you are.</div><div><br /></div><div>Another title that jumps out at me is Joseph Goldstein's <font class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Experience of Insight</font>. To me, this title emphasizes the fact that what we are working with in practice is our experience. This is what we are grounding ourselves in, the experience of each moment, rather than what we think about it. The wisdom or insights that arise aren't a product of our thinking about experience. Drawing conclusions on the basis of what we think is certainly what so many of us have been trained to do by our educational system. But in practice, the insights arise spontaneously from our openness to experience, or our openness to life. The insights are an experience themselves, some kind of an ah-hah!, not just another thought. </div><div><br /></div><div>So much of our practice is opening up to our experience of life. So much of our practice is a matter of coming to see where we are holding on, resisting or in some way creating a sense of an individual, separate self. Then, after recognizing that we're caught in the content, in the story of our lives, letting go and just being what our life is in this moment. Just experiencing it, without there being any one who is doing the experiencing.</div><div><br /></div><div>This reminds me of another book sitting in the bookcase, Mark Epstein's <font class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Thoughts Without a Thinker</font>. It's a title that perfectly captures the selfless nature of experience. It's true that thoughts arise in awareness. It's also true that there is no one doing the thinking. But it sure seems like there is. We combine the sense of aliveness, awareness and the sense of locality that comes from sense organs looking out from this head and confuse all of that with "I," a separate and distinct being who is, to some degree, in control and directing this life. Which is why it is important to closely look at our own experience. We need to see for ourselves that it is true that thoughts (and sensations, feelings, intentions and emotions, in other words all of experience) arise due to causes and conditions and not due to there being a thinker, senser, feeler, intender, emoter or experiencer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then there is Jack Kornfield's <font class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">After the Ecstasy, the Laundry</font>. This title is so grounding, isn't it. It just points to the reality that no matter how deep, ecstatic or earth-shattering one's realization happens to be, eventually we have to go on living our daily lives. We have to do the laundry, go to work, shop for groceries and cook, wash the dishes and take out the garbage. And in many ways this is where practice really begins. This is where we have to find a way to bring whatever insights have arisen, whatever truths have been realized, back into daily life. This is where we, in a sense, have to confirm that while realization is significant, eventually we have to manifest it in life so that it becomes, as Charlotte Joko Beck's title says, <font class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Nothing Special</font>, just this moment, and then the next and the next and the next.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Roman Catholic priest and Zen teacher, Willigis Jager, offers a somewhat similar perspective on awakening in his book <font class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Search for the Meaning of Life: Essays and Reflections on the Mystical Experience</font> (p. 47):</div><div><br /></div><div>"Those who really break through to ultimate experience will not remain caught up in any cloud-cuckooland, nor in some sort of ecstasy. They are always there in the particular moment. True experience is experience of fullness in the moment. … Enlightenment leads to the moment. We arrive at the place where we are."</div><div><br /></div><div>So we begin the practice by starting where we are, and we end there as well — though in reality we were never any place except now and practice never ends, there is just another moment to be.</div>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-75183364444908451752009-02-23T20:23:00.006-06:002009-02-23T20:35:05.698-06:00Rustling Leaves<div style="text-align: left;">Rustling leaves<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">a robin</div><div style="text-align: left;">awakens me</div><div><br /></div><div>Walking down the sidewalk on a bright late Winter day, I was absorbed in thinking, caught up in ruminations about the past and future. Suddenly, startled by a sound next to me I looked down. There was a robin, squatting among brown, dried out leaves, looking up at me quizzically. …</div><div><br /></div><div>As I write this now, the mind wants to make it into some kind of metaphor. Yet all it was is what I described. There was a sudden sound that shifted attention from thinking to the sensory world. Attention shifted from the narrow world of thought, of past and future, to the lively spacious world of now. So much more vital than any metaphor could be.</div>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-91013447213681664382009-02-07T20:46:00.020-06:002009-02-08T11:58:53.358-06:00Luminous Mind, Cloudy Mind<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The following quote came to mind this week as I was working on a talk about bringing mindfulness to consciousness, which is the simple quality of knowing associated with a sensory object. The Buddha said:</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> Luminous is this mind, brightly shining, but it is colored by the attachments that visit it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Then I remembered first noticing this luminous quality of mind. I often find that going for a walk is one of the best times for listening to the mind and one of the times when insights most naturally arise. When I used to walk down the street, I would be caught up in stories about my life. There were stories about things that needed to be done, or issues I had with other people, or regrets about the past, or hopes for the future. My attention was largely absorbed in these stories, only superficially noticing the world I was walking through. Then, one day, after years of practice, I was struck by the silence in the mind. It had become quiet and it wasn't getting caught in thoughts, sensations or emotions. When I walked down the street, there were just the sensations of walking, the sights of houses, cars, and trees and the sounds of birds and children and traffic. In the beginning, the silence of the mind was a little eerie.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Now it is just the opposite. The silence of the mind is commonplace and comfortable. It is a mind of contentment. What stands out now is when the mind does get caught up in the things that visit it and the mind becomes disturbed. For example, recently I received some news that I found quite unpleasant. It felt like I had been personally attacked and the mind moved into defense-and-attack mode. So I said something harsh in response and, of course, once it was said I realized that it didn't help the situation at all. Saying it didn't even bring peace to the mind. What was most apparent, though, was how painful it is when the mind is caught up like this and is disturbed, agitated and obsessed. It is quite a painful state of mind and body. Yet that is the mind that most of us live with all the time, often without even being aware of it. It is the mind that keeps us searching for that next pleasant experience, whether from food or drink or sex or shopping, all in an effort to avoid the unpleasantness.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">No wonder one of the Buddha's early followers, Sariputta I think, described the mind freed from greed, hatred and the view of an enduring and substantial self or essence as the highest form of happiness.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">_________________________________</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Luminous is this mind…": The Buddha, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Anguttara Nikaya</span> I.vi.1, translated by Jack Kornfield and Gil Fronsdal in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Teachings of the Buddha</span>, Boston: Shambhala Publications, 1996, p. 2</span></div>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-46244039318234914642009-02-02T09:59:00.001-06:002009-02-05T06:03:04.361-06:00Right Socks<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">In the meditation hall we do not wear shoes. It's a way to keep the floor clean, which is important since many people sit on it when meditating. But we do wear socks, especially when the weather is cold.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">When I was on retreat a few weeks ago, during an extremely cold night, the water pipes in the meditation hall froze. As the first period of sitting meditation in the afternoon began with the sun warming the building, there was a loud popping, then a gurgling sound followed by a shower of water from the ceiling.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">As water began flooding the floor, I ran for a bucket. When I returned I stripped off my socks and stepped into the water, trying to catch what was falling from the ceiling. I was quickly joined by another retreatant, Floyd, who stripped off his socks as well, while other retreatants ran to shut off the water.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">After the water was mopped up, I grabbed my socks and returned to my meditation cushions. We settled in and continued with our meditation practice for the remainder of the day, our last full day of the retreat.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">That evening, as I was packing, I noticed that the socks I had been wearing didn't look quite familiar. Although they were the same brand and color, these were in much better shape. The socks I thought I remembered putting on in the morning had been quite worn out in the heels while these were like new.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">While I continued packing, the mind struggled with what to do. The first thought was to ignore the obvious, that these were Floyd's socks and he had mine. —The mind can be quite shameless, it seems.— There was a sense of not wanting to make a big deal out of it. But then there was the thought that these were a kind of wool sock that I have always regarded as somewhat of a luxury, so how could I just ignore that I had the newer pair of socks. Then there was the thought that it wouldn't be a big deal to Floyd, who is a kind and generous man.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Finally, though, there was the realization that while it might not make a difference to Floyd, it would make a difference to me. It would keep the mind and heart agitated. There would always be a sense of guilt if I didn't make the effort to exchange the socks. Each time I encountered Floyd, I realized, this uneasiness would come to mind and would interfere with my ability to be present with him.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">As I had expected, when I brought the socks to Floyd's attention and we exchanged them, he commented that "In the scheme of things it's not a big deal." Immediately, though, I noticed that the mind became more clear and calm and the heart more open.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">This was a lesson for me in why it is so important to be scrupulous with our ethics. When we are not, it comes between us and others and prevents trust and intimacy. When we are not scrupulous with our ethics, it leaves our minds agitated, even if only in a subtle way. This is probably part of the reason why the Buddha began his path of spiritual transformation with ethics and why all spiritual traditions emphasize ethics. Ethical behavior creates conditions of mind and heart that are conducive to meditation and to seeing things as they are.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">So it's important to carry on the practices of Right, or ethical, Speech, Right Action, Right Livelihood — and Right Socks.</span></div>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4131458088978510307.post-66220444890658766342009-01-30T21:13:00.001-06:002009-02-04T13:38:42.057-06:00This Moment<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Recently I've been reading a lot of haiku, the Japanese-style short poems. What seems to have drawn me to these is that they are succinct and yet capture a moment of life in a clear way that may also be metaphorical. An example is this poem by Sylvia Forges-Ryan:</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Sparrow chirping—<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> this winter morning<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> its white breath<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">When we engage in the practice of Insight Meditation, one of the objectives, and one of the benefits, is that we come to see the true nature of our experience more clearly. Ultimately we want to see the universal characteristics of each moment of experience —that it is impermanent, ultimately unsatisfactory and lacks an enduring essence or self— as this brings us to spiritual freedom, to a life of contentment. But seeing the specific characteristics of a moment of experience is what brings our lives a richness and newness in each moment, whether seeing the white breath of a sparrow on an icy winter morning, noticing the sweet-sour taste and crisp, firm texture of a Granny Smith apple as we take the first bite, or experiencing the vibratory, dancing quality of an itch on the face as we meditate. Opening to and seeing clearly <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">both</span> the universal and the specific characteristics are such a benefit, I hope you will just take this moment to look, to see and to be completely present for your life. This poem by Shiki Masaoka captures a moment so beautifully:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>cutting a pear<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>sweet drops drip<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>from the knife<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">This moment, each moment, will never be here again. Please look closely, and enjoy!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">----------------------------------------</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Sparrow chirping…", <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Take a Deep Breath: The Haiku Way to Inner Peace</span> by Sylvia Forges-Ryan and Edward Ryan, p. 90.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"cutting a pear…", <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Haiku Mind: 108 Poems to Cultivate Awareness and Open Your Heart, </span>p. xi.</span></div>Philip L. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05181961569610765227noreply@blogger.com0