Thanks, J.K.!

You must understand the whole of life, not just one little part of it. That is why you must read, that is why you must look at the skies, that is why you must sing and dance, and write poems and suffer and understand, for all that is life. 

-Jiddu Krishnamurti

Enlightenment is Orange

It's not that I don't have anything to say, but rather too much. My thoughts are an unruly, I can't even call it 'team', of percherons I've not yet managed to get hitched up to my wagon, let alone reign them in to do any useful work for me. Fortunately, I've just been set free by a suggestion of a framework from curious blogger Sabio Lantz. Ahhhh! Sweet relief in the form of a form! The game is afoot to see if I can insinuate some of what I had wanted to say into the suggestion that I write a personal perspective on responses to strangeness.

How do I respond to newness, foreign circumstances and change? A bit like Alice, I suppose. Curiouser and curiouser. Twenty or so years ago I lived in Uruguay for 18 months. If you must know, I was a proselytizer for the Mormon church, with which I'm no longer affiliated. After two months of grilling Spanish verbs I was dropped out of a plane into the heart of Montevideo. I'm a quiet girl, those who know me might say, so first I watched. I took in the look of the streets, the faces of passengers as I rode a bus to Nueva Palmyra on the banks of the Rio de la Plata. Anyone who knows much about learning a language knows it doesn't happen in two months of grilling verbs and memorizing the gender of nouns. Words swirled around my head like elevator music. My companion, Estrella Díaz of Puerto Rico, stopped at a small almacen to buy some yogurt, bread, milk. I tried my skill at requesting "vainilla" and the clerk stared at me blankly until Díaz stepped in to save the day. And so it began.

Now let me say my "mission" came at a time of nascent skepticism for me. It actually helped that I was the stranger, I was the foreigner, to see that my perspectives and beliefs are just a few in a long line-up of interpretations of the facts of being human. I was in a new culture, to be sure. Other missionaries I knew seemed to experience the place as though they were zipped up in a sandwich bag, hardly touching or seeing anything except through the film of their established preconceptions. Uruguayans were "lazy" for taking siesta seriously. Shops close for indeterminate lengths of time at mid-day so people can enjoy a leisurely lunch with their families, sip yerba mate, shoot the breeze with neighbors, and maybe even take a nap. I embraced this laid back aspect myself, particularly because it meant less time feeling guilty about not wanting to venture forth peddling a faith about which I was feeling increasingly ambivalent.  

I have rich, rich memories of this time, and I think my openness to the new and strange made this possible.  In Pando I met Gustavo who offered my companion and I ice cold Coca Cola which we had to refuse according to mission rules. Gustavo shared his belief in numerology and astrology with us, and we listened. He took the time to type up an eight-page full numerological study of both of us. My skepticism also extends to numerology, but all these years later I still take to heart Gustavo's opening quote--Plato--encouraging me to wander "en vías menos públicas." In other words, take the road less traveled, and I believe I have.

On another sunny day in Pando, a Monday, our day off, my companion and I rode our bicycles to a lush park where we could dissolve into some solitude surrounded by giant eucalyptus. We had brought some wooden flutes purchased in a previous jaunt to Montevideo and were attempting to make something resembling melody when a vanload of young Catholic priests in training arrived with guitars. Next thing we knew they were joyfully teaching us songs about María and we shared with them the LDS children's classic, "Soy un Hijo de Dios." Let's see, in La Paz I learned to knit. In Paysandú I met Mai y Pai, our amicable landlords who taught me a few rudimentary phrases of Portuguese, which I believe got me that desired transfer to Quaraí, a Brazilian town just over the bridge from Artigas. Another language and culture I had the pleasure to experience. It was here, following another long bike ride to an isolated farmhouse in the sticks, I had the pure joy of "The Orange Feast." An orange feast is like enlightenment. You can't plan for it. You can't even really prepare, though I think it helps to be open to the strange and new. We had been invited to lunch and were served the usual feijoada--black beans and rice. Maybe there was a salad. We sat at a rustic table in natural light from a window that looked out on selva. The dishes were cleared away and our host came back carrying a large bowl overflowing with ripe oranges. Naranjas. We, all of us, dove into the bowl with a wordless fury, smiling, laughing, over nothing more complicated than the ecstasy of the flavor of citrus on our tongues and in our throats. Sweet juice ran from the corner of our hosts grinning mouth and dripped onto the table.  We each devoured two, three of the sunny orbs then sat back in satisfied silence for who knows how long. In memory it seems like we sat there forever.

Well, who knew I'd end up here today? I don't know what allows one person to face the new and strange with curiosity and another to shut down. If I take what my latest read in meta-ethics to heart, and I most likely do, the answer lies in experiences beyond that person's ultimate control: genetics, early established patterns, even evolutionary adaptations. I consider myself lucky, then, to have inherited the inquisitive gene or whatever other mysterious conditioning has made me who I am today. This isn't to say it's all a pretty romp through Wonderland. It's uncomfortable and disconcerting and extends to inner landscapes as well as physical ones. I've taken looks at foreign perspectives, new ideas, that have taken me to the margins of my social networks, made me feel vulnerable and disconnected at times. Some of these ways of seeing can feel bleak. That's a hard sell for even the best persuasive writer or earnest purveyor of "truth." And yet it's still all right. Seems I've got the adaptive gene to experience joy even here.

Losing Grip

This isn't the blog post I had in mind, I can tell you that already. I'm not up to the rigors of dissecting anyone else's philosophical arguments tonight. No, rather I've been derailed, perhaps temporarily, by the likes of Leonard Cohen and this theme of slipping into the masterpiece. Letting go, yes, not of control but of the illusion of ever having any. I get it, I do, the argument against ultimate free will, and I believe it. That was a bit of a sudden shift in thinking, but not at all the dreaded trainwreck I might have thought it would be. I'll go on choosing which earrings to wear, what to eat for dinner, how to respond to others around me, living my life as if it's real. The freedom in recognizing that I do not have ultimate control is not the freedom I expected, but I'm getting a glimpse of it as the kind of freedom that's actually available to human beings.

I always feel that facts that are inconvenient for certain theories should be faced straight-on rather than be neglected.    Frans de Waal in A Very Bad Wizard.

 But as I said, my mental powers are at ebb tide at the moment. This has been a full week of early morning yoga practices, loaded days teaching school, and evenings spent in class, teaching yoga, or collapsing on the couch with my family and calling it quality time. Intellectual musings go on the back burner. For now I'll sink into Leonard's liquid lyrics and golden voice.

The Lighter Side of Free Will Skepticism

I thought I was through with this topic, but apparently it's not through with me. I found a chapter from Tamler Sommers' doctorate dissertation online and felt pleasantly surprised to discover that his thoughts on attributing robust moral responsibility to no one are not foreign to a natural way of thinking I've had since childhood. It links to compassion in a direct way. We are who we are not solely based on our choices. Genetics, environment, luck all play a part. However, this does not wipe out the fact of internal influences as well. This appears to be compatible with my interest in Buddhist or yogic meditation as a practice to enhance one's ability to see more clearly and happily accept what is. The last line of this chapter is the kicker, "Above all, free will skeptics should never lose their sense of humor."

This Thick Human Comforting Mess

Great title, right? I know! It comes from Tamler Sommers' A Very Bad Wizard: Morality Behind the Curtain, in an interview with Galen Strawson that blows the lid off the illusion of free will without really changing anything. (Hey, didja notice I can hyper-link now? You can check out my references without going to any more trouble than clicking some highlighted text. Cool, huh? Thanks, Sabio Lanz!) So in spite of my personal, thick, human, somewhat comforting mess of a week I managed to read the first two chapters of this engrossing book and spin my mental wheels on whether or not we choose. Seems the consensus among those in the know is no.  Nevertheless most of us ignore the obvious and act as if we have ultimate moral responsibility for our actions. The quote refers to the idea that perhaps after some hard work and some very good luck a person could "accept the conclusion of the basic argument that Deep Moral Responsibility is impossible" and then complete the death-defying act of actually trying to live according to that belief. The question is, even if it's possible, should it be done? Strawson emphasizes the difficulty of the endeavor, then outlines that while this may be a blissful state it would take one "out of the range of normal human relations," not that you'd mind, mind you. But how many of us really want to leave behind this thick human comforting mess?


This takes me back to Dzogchen Ponlop's question of how seriously do we, and by 'we' I mean I, take this. Again, "this" in Rebel Buddha means a practice designed to wake you up, fully. No pussy-footin' around. I had what felt at first to be a horrifying thought when I read Sommers' interview with Strawson that I had my argument in my last post all backwards. Suppose the reward for an honest meditation practice was waking up to this very realization that we are not free, at least not ultimately? Strawson argues that this is not such a terrible thing, and if you were there you'd be rubbing shoulders with the likes of Jiddu Krishnamurti. Though you'd not relate to other human beings as you did before, you would have compassion, albeit as an aesthetic experience (merely aesthetic?). It's not so horrifying after giving it some thought and breathing a few thousand breaths while not giving it a thought. This may be the truth about human beings, but it doesn't change anything. It's like death. We want to know for certain that we live after we die, but no one knows. No one. No, not even you! You will die, though, as will I. We'll just have to live with the uncertainty of what that means for now. Which is what I'll have to do about free will.


I cannot disagree with Strawson's logic:

1. You do what you do, in any given situation, because of the way you are.
2. So in order to be ultimately responsible for what you do, you have to be ultimately responsible for the way you are — at least in certain crucial mental respects.
3. But you cannot be ultimately responsible for the way you are in any respect at all.
4. So you cannot be ultimately responsible for what you do.

And yet in a small sense it seems that I make choices that determine (or at the very least influence) the outcome of my simple days. Could be this is illusion, but it's a pretty good one. Maybe a useful one, too. Would  meditation disillusion me of this? If it did, would I care? There is a lot I love about this thick human comforting mess. My husband, daughter and I attended an open mic poetry night at a local coffee shop this week. I didn't know what to expect. Turns out it was a college scene, and it seems I'm getting older. The place was crowded with younger faces and small tattered composition books full of passionate scrawls. There were no uncomfortable gaps between poets stepping up to the mic to spew out a few words, though I did detect the sidelong looks and shaking hands of many an introvert. A few verses caught my full attention. One line I can remember but not properly give credit to its creator is "Nothing never happens." Oh well. There it was, though, all that poetic passion--young angst, love unrequited, the usual rhymes. Every once in awhile someone stepped up with something sparkling to say that made me audibly let out breath, or smile out loud, or long for that one thing so intensely. Words flew around the room, a thick mess of them, lies mostly, but beautiful ones, and I was willing to listen to the dull ones just for the privilege of hearing a unique turn of phrase that could alter my perspective on everything forever. That's how it is with poetry, and that's how it is with being human. So I don't know, now, if I want to leave all that. Perhaps I am like the American Buddhists Ponlop writes about who would like to wake up only 50%--just enough to get past the crazies. I still lack the faith that there's more than that to wake up to. 


On the other hand, what can it hurt to be open to the possibility? I continue to read Sommers' book. The next interview on situational ethics interests me more than the question of ultimate free will. You'll be hearing from me on that one. 

Why I Bother

So I finished reading Rebel Buddha, and liked it generally. The call to wake up is a welcome one at this point in the game. I've been a sleepwalker often enough to know that's not where I want to be. And so Dzogchen Ponlop's insights into getting to know one's mind, embracing neurosis, allowing the rebel buddha in us all to cut through the bullshit, are all well received. I also appreciate his effort at separating what's essential in Buddhist philosophy from what is cultural. Meditate outside rather than on a cushion in front of a statue? Right on! I'm all for it.

"If we look like Buddhists and talk like Buddhists and sit on a cushion like all other Buddhists, then we think we are automatically followers of the Buddha's teachings. But all of these concepts are cutting us off from the utter simplicity of the Buddha's example and message. We do what we do simply to wake up, simply to be free. Any form we use is only a support for accomplishing that purpose. "

I only run into one difficulty with his perspective and it is this: Without using the word faith, he does advocate this concept in an assertion that we need to have confidence in our Buddha nature and in believing we can become realized beings. In the chapter "A Lineage of Awakening," he states he wonders why some American Buddhists are still at their practices:

"I see so little confidence in the possibility of waking up now. Maybe you think you can wake up 50 percent, just enough to get beyond the 'crazy' stage but not all the way to 'wisdom.' However, it's not the message of the Buddha or the intention of Buddhism to provide a partial recovery from confusion. The message of the Buddha is that you're awake now and that you can, if you apply yourself, realize it."

Even as I type this quote it occurs to me that I may be misreading. He goes on to iterate that the only requirement when meditating is that one be open to the possibility. I can't argue with that, but there is talk of "the power of the Buddha way" that sounds a little like trying to ossify a form and establish a faith in it.  I suppose my true doubt goes to the idea of lineages in the first place. I see the value in handing down wisdom from teacher to student on the one hand, but consider that the Buddha himself had no such teacher per se on the other.  I can imagine myself taking up a meditation practice open to the possibility of waking up, but I only have a vague idea of what this waking up might look like. I find it hard to believe that my hope in some kind of grand enlightenment would be energy well-placed. Which begs the question: Why bother?

Here's my rough answer to that question: free will. There's so much talk, especially in this country, about our freedom. We tend to act as though we have free will, but when I take a closer look at myself and my motivations, I wonder just how much free will I have. I, and I believe I'm not alone in this, go through my days "making choices" based on my upbringing, my cultural patterns, and my unacknowledged urges and prejudices. I see mostly reaction on my part and in other people around me. Where's the freedom? I know the experience of being stuck in patterns of behavior--to quote T-Bone Burnett, I do the very things I hate to do. It's suffering, and stupid suffering at that.  As long as we're at the mercy of our inner neediness or impulses, we're stuck, and life seems kind of silly lived out that way. Now, I lean a bit toward the existentialist end of the spectrum and agree that we create our own meaning. (Question is, do we blindly buy a meaning we are sold from someone else because it's comforting and seemingly concrete, or do we trust our own experience?) I do not want to live a silly, pointless life, repeatedly getting stuck in these traps I'm already oh-so-familiar with. I want out of the suffering. From where I sit, I see the possibility of free will--of consciously taking action based on intelligent (and I must add compassionate) choice rather than merely responding and reacting to external stimuli.  If this is a bit Quixotic, so be it. I'll tilt at this windmill until a better idea presents itself. And maybe I do agree with Dzogchen Ponlop after all--at least with remaining open to the possibility that I can wake up and smell the coffee.

This week, with these thoughts in mind, I started looking for more secular perspectives on Buddhism and on waking up. A decade or more ago I read Stephen Batchelor's Buddhism Without Belief, so I started there. I have two more of his books on order from Amazon:

And I did a blog search for folks who might share my concerns and perhaps could shed some light on them. I added a few of these to my list of links here. One blog I quite like is "Triangulations." I have no idea who the person is behind it, except that he goes by the name of Sabio Lantz. I hope he doesn't mind being referenced here. Anyhoo, he has a post titled "The Will to Say No." Check it out. It made sense to me in a way that is immediately graspable and relevant to my interest in awareness and waking up. In short, he writes that the only will we genuinely have is to say no to the myriad options our brain throws at us, allowing us to choose only the best of them. You should read his post, though. Seriously. Go! Now!

No, wait, first let me finish, then check it out. I was glad to find a number of other blogs out there with people sharing these kinds of thoughts. First, because I feel mighty lonesome sometimes inside my own skull. Second, I sometimes don't want to write or say what I think or feel outa fear, mostly fear of experiencing social repercussions, and that's no way to live either.  I reserve the right to be wrong! I'm simply exploring ideas, trying to put the puzzle together. Before I go, I need to reiterate that in my personal quest for freedom, compassion is central. Otherwise, life ends up a sort of dog-eat-dog, Ayn-Randian kind of wasteland that looks just as unattractive to me as does any kind of opposite my imagination can conjure up. I think all I'm saying is that clear sight, alert presence, and compassion for all these other sentient beings who find themselves in the same stew sounds like a good idea. How's that for a hodge-podgy mess of a final paragraph?

Shut It Tight

God, I love it when I stumble into a rich find like T-Bone Burnett's "Shut It Tight." Brynn and I were downstairs painting the walls of her bedroom a Pepto Bismol pink with Pandora set to Leonard Cohen radio. Lucky for me, Brynn's no bubblegum listener, and we were treated to an array of Cohen, George Harrison, Van Morrison, to name a few. I've always got my radar out when listening to music for something that makes me stop what I'm doing, something that absorbs all my attention, and this song did. As is my human nature, I make connections and meaning out of many of these seemingly random coincidences. This song comes to me just as I was considering my answer to Dzogchen Ponlop's question: "How seriously and how far are we going to take this?" "This" refers to actively bringing a practice of compassion into our lives, but I'll stretch it to mean how seriously do I take a pursuit of authentic life, which includes both wisdom and compassion.

"If we decide to commit to it, to do it, then we make that promise a part of our being; we own it. That's the first step. The second step is that we start to do whatever it takes to live up to that aspiration, which otherwise remains just words. What do we need to do? We need to wake up..."

My apologies to both T-Bone and Dzogchen if I somehow manage to create a kind of hybrid monster out of their perfect-just-as-they-are thoughts.  I think Burnett's lyrics are as clear-sighted as can be into human nature--what we do, who we are. And, yes, I'm lumping us all together in this, though there are no doubt people who have attained freedom from the entanglements of ordinary humanity. But here's the thing:

Sometimes I want to stop and crawl back into the womb 
And sometimes I cannot tell wrong from right 
But I ain't gonna quit until I'm laid in my tomb 
And even then they better shut it tight.

So my answer is that I'm serious about living an authentic life--I ain't gonna quit until I'm laid in my tomb, and even then they better shut it tight. T-Bone's lyrics are crazy profound in that it takes someone who is authentic to see one's own bullshit, you know? And in the past I might have listened to this song and been soothed by it as an excuse for wrecklessness that left wounded others in its wake. But now I think that once you can see this about yourself, you have a choice to fugeddaboudit and go on as before, or to wake up--god, at least make the effort, and then don't quit until you're dead. Am I serious about wanting to leave less suffering in the world than when I found it? Here's another Rebel Buddha  quote that I take to heart especially, "You can choose whether to say what's on your mind and burning to come out, or you can pause and cool down first. That's a rebel buddha moment, when you're about to be caught again, and something steps in at the last moment and pushes you free, out of reach of disaster." I know the part of me that likes to write, that blogs, responds to email, is often afire with what's on her mind and burning to come out. She's sad to think of letting that cool down. But I don't know if this means losing passion, necessarily. Maybe just channelling its energy. To tell you the truth, I don't even know if this is possible, but to quote Dzogchen Ponlop one last time,  "at some point, we really need to leap from our comfortable spot and go beyond imagining this road to freedom to actually traveling it." At the heart of "Shut It Tight" I see someone who wants to see clear, who will act like an adult and be fearless of what is real.  Chances are I'm projecting myself into that analysis, but I look at Burnett's face in the video clip. He's on to something.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UoNDCfo0Ti8

And, ahhh! On a final note, it's sure been nice to have these two weeks to slow down, read, and do not much of anything but watch and pet the cats. The routines kick in on Monday. Back to work, to class, to a commitment to my yoga practice, my family, my cats. I'll miss taking the time to write as frequently, but there's probably a lot of good in that, too. Well, nothing to do but keep on heading down the road. 2011 is here. I'm open to its surprises. Best wishes to you, friends. Happy New Year. May we all be blessed with clear sight and balls enough to accept it.