I've known for years that exploration of the question, "Who am I?", is an important component of the path to liberation. However, this question did not interest me until now. A few days ago, inspired by reading Stephen Batchelor's Buddhism Without Beliefs, I began asking, "Where is my self?" It turned out it was very easy to answer that question. Each time I ask it, an answer comes to mind quite quickly. If I ask it now, the answer is, "My self is the tension I feel in the right side of my chest right now." More often than not, I consider my self to be located primarily in some sensation of tension. No wonder I am reluctant to let go of this tension! No wonder I re-create it unconsciously after letting go! And, no wonder my baseline mood is pessimistic and depressed: if I consider my self to be a sense of constriction, a suppression of vitality.
A fun exercise for me the past few days has been to repeatedly ask myself "Where is my self?", then, to place awareness on that thing, whatever it is, until it disappears.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Re-discovering fear of taking action
Why do I end most work days feeling depleted? I am gaining some understanding of this.
Fear of taking action -- touched on in my previous post -- is one. When I do something that wasn't ordered by another person, I seem to expect grave consequences. When I am in a very mindful state, meaning that I've done a fair amount of meditation that day to subdue the habit of constant thought, I notice sensations in the right side of my head, neck, and torso that suggest I'm expecting a giant to rain me with blows from above when I'm doing something I haven't been told to do. I'm more comfortable taking actions that are ordered by others: my boss, my co-workers, my partner, my parents, a teacher. Even my to-do list can suffice as a giver-of-orders: I feel a similar comfort if I put a task on a to-do list, then do it, rather than just do it.
Phenomena such as this are not discovered once, then assimilated. These are things that I re-discover over and over and over again. They need to be rediscovered because noticing these phenomena runs against some very deeply engrained habits of thought. Also, often when I rediscover such phenomena, I see them in a slightly deeper, richer way. My knowledge slowly builds upon itself. It's maybe how each time one looks at a work of art, one sees something new about it, or understands it in a deeper way.
Today the weather in Seattle is perhaps more summery than any previous day this season. After a morning meeting, I stood at my computer station and began to look at my work. I tried to first center myself by placing my awareness on bodily sensations. I noticed that, although I was quite adept and doing this, and was able to notice an unusually rich and even pleasurable set of sensations, I was also experiencing a very strong restlessness which felt like fear that I would be severely punished. Smashed. And then I thought, this is so strong, I ought to put my attention on the fear. But I didn't feel comfortable doing this at my desk, where there was some actual danger of being interrupted. So I walked to South Lake Union Park and continued this practice in the sunshine, on the lawn.
There, I spent about 15 minutes looking carefully at the sensations of fear. They are so strong and seemingly monolithic that my conscious mind is strongly pulled to believing their message: I will indeed be punished severely! There is real danger here! However, noticing the fear did lessen its hold on me somewhat. I walked back to work and felt calm and centered upon returning to my desk. Now, nearly 2 hours later, I still feel calm and centered. When my meditation timer goes off every 20 minutes, it is relatively easy to yield to the call, drop what I am doing, and direct my attention to the present. It is lovely to feel calm and centered and able to be in the present. My delight in this prompted me to write this post.
Fear of taking action -- touched on in my previous post -- is one. When I do something that wasn't ordered by another person, I seem to expect grave consequences. When I am in a very mindful state, meaning that I've done a fair amount of meditation that day to subdue the habit of constant thought, I notice sensations in the right side of my head, neck, and torso that suggest I'm expecting a giant to rain me with blows from above when I'm doing something I haven't been told to do. I'm more comfortable taking actions that are ordered by others: my boss, my co-workers, my partner, my parents, a teacher. Even my to-do list can suffice as a giver-of-orders: I feel a similar comfort if I put a task on a to-do list, then do it, rather than just do it.
Phenomena such as this are not discovered once, then assimilated. These are things that I re-discover over and over and over again. They need to be rediscovered because noticing these phenomena runs against some very deeply engrained habits of thought. Also, often when I rediscover such phenomena, I see them in a slightly deeper, richer way. My knowledge slowly builds upon itself. It's maybe how each time one looks at a work of art, one sees something new about it, or understands it in a deeper way.
Today the weather in Seattle is perhaps more summery than any previous day this season. After a morning meeting, I stood at my computer station and began to look at my work. I tried to first center myself by placing my awareness on bodily sensations. I noticed that, although I was quite adept and doing this, and was able to notice an unusually rich and even pleasurable set of sensations, I was also experiencing a very strong restlessness which felt like fear that I would be severely punished. Smashed. And then I thought, this is so strong, I ought to put my attention on the fear. But I didn't feel comfortable doing this at my desk, where there was some actual danger of being interrupted. So I walked to South Lake Union Park and continued this practice in the sunshine, on the lawn.
There, I spent about 15 minutes looking carefully at the sensations of fear. They are so strong and seemingly monolithic that my conscious mind is strongly pulled to believing their message: I will indeed be punished severely! There is real danger here! However, noticing the fear did lessen its hold on me somewhat. I walked back to work and felt calm and centered upon returning to my desk. Now, nearly 2 hours later, I still feel calm and centered. When my meditation timer goes off every 20 minutes, it is relatively easy to yield to the call, drop what I am doing, and direct my attention to the present. It is lovely to feel calm and centered and able to be in the present. My delight in this prompted me to write this post.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Things I've learned by observing my mind
While standing, each movement of my body forward is accompanied by a feeling of fear. I feel this as a tightening in the front of my throat and upper chest. I first observed this while doing a slow walking meditation in the basement at the IMS retreat center at a New Year retreat 2007/08. I've become more and more attuned to this, and now, if I pay attention, I can notice it at any time.
Similarly, while standing, each movement of my body backward is accompanied by another unpleasant feeling. I'm not sure what it is in this moment, but it could be the sadness of loss -- I imagine that by going away, I am saying good-bye forever and lose all chance of reunion.
I block out knowledge of achievement (detailed in an earlier blog post)
When I'm not busy doing anything, and there is no unpleasantness, I habitually scan my environment and my mental landscape for possible problems or threats. If I can catch this immediately (usually during meditation) and let go of the habitual scanning, I experience discomfort and disorientation with the resulting emptiness.
Aversion is a sensation distinct from the sensation I am averse to. For example, I dislike tension in my abdomen. The abdominal tension has a certain feeling, located in the abdomen. The aversion, the "dislike", has a distinct feeling, located in my upper right skull. By placing gentle attention on the sensation of aversion, the entire experience becomes less unpleasant.
A component of aversion is a wordless thought to the effect of, "if I am experiencing this, something is wrong with me, I have failed."
When I focus relaxed attention on a sensation of physical pain, the sensation dissolves into a shimmering field that changes constantly, and becomes less unpleasant, soemtimes even pleasant.
Habitual thought is not generated by my conscious will. I do not choose these thoughts, and they are often neither correct nor useful.
When walking, the approach of another person triggers anxiety.
When doing concentration meditation, casting aside distractions (the Buddhist "hindrances" of desire, aversion, restlessness, and doubt) is like walking steadily forward through turbulent surf in order to get to the calm waters beyond. [I did not list the hindrance of sleepiness because I am not able to cast that aside.] It can be entertaining to cast aside, cast aside, cast aside over and over again, almost like playing a video game.
Walking can be perceived as a series of about 20-30 motions per pace.
Telling myself an untrue story, and believing it, is harmful (insight at Spirit Rock about 5 years ago)
Similarly, while standing, each movement of my body backward is accompanied by another unpleasant feeling. I'm not sure what it is in this moment, but it could be the sadness of loss -- I imagine that by going away, I am saying good-bye forever and lose all chance of reunion.
I block out knowledge of achievement (detailed in an earlier blog post)
When I'm not busy doing anything, and there is no unpleasantness, I habitually scan my environment and my mental landscape for possible problems or threats. If I can catch this immediately (usually during meditation) and let go of the habitual scanning, I experience discomfort and disorientation with the resulting emptiness.
Aversion is a sensation distinct from the sensation I am averse to. For example, I dislike tension in my abdomen. The abdominal tension has a certain feeling, located in the abdomen. The aversion, the "dislike", has a distinct feeling, located in my upper right skull. By placing gentle attention on the sensation of aversion, the entire experience becomes less unpleasant.
A component of aversion is a wordless thought to the effect of, "if I am experiencing this, something is wrong with me, I have failed."
When I focus relaxed attention on a sensation of physical pain, the sensation dissolves into a shimmering field that changes constantly, and becomes less unpleasant, soemtimes even pleasant.
Habitual thought is not generated by my conscious will. I do not choose these thoughts, and they are often neither correct nor useful.
When walking, the approach of another person triggers anxiety.
When doing concentration meditation, casting aside distractions (the Buddhist "hindrances" of desire, aversion, restlessness, and doubt) is like walking steadily forward through turbulent surf in order to get to the calm waters beyond. [I did not list the hindrance of sleepiness because I am not able to cast that aside.] It can be entertaining to cast aside, cast aside, cast aside over and over again, almost like playing a video game.
Walking can be perceived as a series of about 20-30 motions per pace.
Telling myself an untrue story, and believing it, is harmful (insight at Spirit Rock about 5 years ago)
Friday, April 22, 2011
Anxiety about mundane things
Yesterday evening during a session of walking meditation, I noticed anxiety about looking at the clock, putting away my clothes, and changing my clothes. I'd vaguely noticed these anxieties before but had never looked closely at them. In fact, I'd been subtly chiding myself each time I felt them. The anxieties regarding the clock and the putting away of clothes seemed to be about noticing the passage of time, my progress towards death. The anxiety about changing clothes, perhaps about exposure, vulnerability.
Friday, April 1, 2011
A session of concentration practice
In preparation for my two-month retreat with Pa Auk Sayadaw starting September 1, I ordered his book, Knowing and Seeing. Amazon suggested I also order Ayya Khema's Who is my self? to get SuperSaver shipping, so I did. The book has been an inspiration. Ayya Khema encourages the reader to explore concentration meditation even when not on retreat, and states that the jhanas are quite accessible -- we only need to drop everything else. She also encourages constant practice, letting go of craving, examining the concept of self. Finally, while emphasizing that the jhanas are only a small step toward liberation, she states that they are an important step and provide immediate benefits.
Last night while waiting for Eric to be ready for bed, I sat in meditation, practicing anapanasati. After about 10 minutes I noticed sleepiness. Sleepiness usually derails my meditation, but this time I put my focus firmly back on the anapana spot and became quite concentrated. I successfully avoided grasping for concentration. I simply let go of thought and desire. I noticed increased skill in letting go: I'm increasingly convinced, on a deep level, that habitual thought and desire are not serving me. I just let go, let go, let go. Thought was still there, but I repeatedly set it aside. Deep concentration came to me and surprised me. It was not something I did. It just came, presumably as a result of the repeated letting go. Distractedness suddenly lessened, awareness of my visual field (with eyes closed) suddenly heightened, and pleasure increased. The visual field was textured darkness, possibly with a subtle six sided light image such as I'd seen on retreat one year ago. I noticed fear, familiar from my retreat experience, and made a firm decision to let go of it. I was not able to fully let go, and noticed my mind grasping for familiarity, trying to remember where I'd been a moment ago. I continued with anapanasati and moved in and out of the depth. Restlessness never disappeared.
I'd asked Eric to call me when he was ready, and he did. Emerging from meditation, I saw that 40 minutes had passed. I felt groggy and highly irritable. I decided to let go of my anger and focus on being with Eric. Surprisingly, within about 3 minutes my attention shifted to being with Eric, and I felt present and undistracted, though not particularly connected to Eric. It was like I'd just had sex with someone else and was returning. Today I find myself craving an opportunity to practice concentration meditation again. This is simultaneously exciting, gladdening, and frightening. Perhaps the best choice right now is to let go of that craving.
Last night while waiting for Eric to be ready for bed, I sat in meditation, practicing anapanasati. After about 10 minutes I noticed sleepiness. Sleepiness usually derails my meditation, but this time I put my focus firmly back on the anapana spot and became quite concentrated. I successfully avoided grasping for concentration. I simply let go of thought and desire. I noticed increased skill in letting go: I'm increasingly convinced, on a deep level, that habitual thought and desire are not serving me. I just let go, let go, let go. Thought was still there, but I repeatedly set it aside. Deep concentration came to me and surprised me. It was not something I did. It just came, presumably as a result of the repeated letting go. Distractedness suddenly lessened, awareness of my visual field (with eyes closed) suddenly heightened, and pleasure increased. The visual field was textured darkness, possibly with a subtle six sided light image such as I'd seen on retreat one year ago. I noticed fear, familiar from my retreat experience, and made a firm decision to let go of it. I was not able to fully let go, and noticed my mind grasping for familiarity, trying to remember where I'd been a moment ago. I continued with anapanasati and moved in and out of the depth. Restlessness never disappeared.
I'd asked Eric to call me when he was ready, and he did. Emerging from meditation, I saw that 40 minutes had passed. I felt groggy and highly irritable. I decided to let go of my anger and focus on being with Eric. Surprisingly, within about 3 minutes my attention shifted to being with Eric, and I felt present and undistracted, though not particularly connected to Eric. It was like I'd just had sex with someone else and was returning. Today I find myself craving an opportunity to practice concentration meditation again. This is simultaneously exciting, gladdening, and frightening. Perhaps the best choice right now is to let go of that craving.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
So many opportunities for practice
In our busy lives there are still so many moments throughout the day available for mindfulness practice. A great deal of my practice takes place during those moments. Perhaps a majority. The past several months, I've spent 5-60 minutes per day (average maybe 20) in my attic doing dedicated mindfulness practice, usually a slow walk during which I observe whatever mental or physical phenomena are most compelling. Most meditation teachers, by the way, would consider this a departure from standard Buddhist mindfulness practice, though how much of a departure would depend on the teacher.
But, in addition to that, I also habitually practice mindfulness while waiting at stoplights, waiting for computer programs to run, cycling home, or waiting for someone. These are moments during which people in our culture customarily surf the web, make plans, review the day, listen to music or podcasts, or read. It takes discipline to practice mindfulness during these moments, especially when one is a novice practitioner, because what one faces immediately is the compulsion to distract oneself with one of those more customary activities. One can bring mindfulness to that compulsion, or set that aside and bring mindfulness to the breath or some other object.
Today I made a commitment to keep Facebook and my personal email account closed at work. I usually turn to these when I am waiting for a computer program to run or when I am having difficulty focusing on the task at hand. Today I also made a commitment to use my meditation alarm clock and practice mindfulness every 20 minutes. This is something I did consistently during the months leading up to my 2-week jhana retreat in 2009-10, but have been less consistent about the past 12 months.
Today during my meditation breaks I've brought attention to the sensations associated with the idea of unsatisfactoriness, or "not rightness". Whatever I am doing, whatever my situation, if I am not drugged on alcohol or caffeine or adrenaline or fantasy, I typically experience the notion that I am not quite right, or that what I am doing is not quite right. Associated with this notion is a sensation of fullness in the upper right brain. I was not aware of this sensation until several months ago. Today I am trying to just notice it and accept it without blame. Doing this is both rewarding and agitating. Rewarding, because after I've done this for 30 seconds or so, the sensation becomes less solid and more dynamic and shimmery, and the notion of not-rightness lifts somewhat. Agitating, because underneath the not-rightness seems to be some kind of terror, something that keeps me from luxuriating in non-not-rightness. Fascinating work that requires discipline.
But, in addition to that, I also habitually practice mindfulness while waiting at stoplights, waiting for computer programs to run, cycling home, or waiting for someone. These are moments during which people in our culture customarily surf the web, make plans, review the day, listen to music or podcasts, or read. It takes discipline to practice mindfulness during these moments, especially when one is a novice practitioner, because what one faces immediately is the compulsion to distract oneself with one of those more customary activities. One can bring mindfulness to that compulsion, or set that aside and bring mindfulness to the breath or some other object.
Today I made a commitment to keep Facebook and my personal email account closed at work. I usually turn to these when I am waiting for a computer program to run or when I am having difficulty focusing on the task at hand. Today I also made a commitment to use my meditation alarm clock and practice mindfulness every 20 minutes. This is something I did consistently during the months leading up to my 2-week jhana retreat in 2009-10, but have been less consistent about the past 12 months.
Today during my meditation breaks I've brought attention to the sensations associated with the idea of unsatisfactoriness, or "not rightness". Whatever I am doing, whatever my situation, if I am not drugged on alcohol or caffeine or adrenaline or fantasy, I typically experience the notion that I am not quite right, or that what I am doing is not quite right. Associated with this notion is a sensation of fullness in the upper right brain. I was not aware of this sensation until several months ago. Today I am trying to just notice it and accept it without blame. Doing this is both rewarding and agitating. Rewarding, because after I've done this for 30 seconds or so, the sensation becomes less solid and more dynamic and shimmery, and the notion of not-rightness lifts somewhat. Agitating, because underneath the not-rightness seems to be some kind of terror, something that keeps me from luxuriating in non-not-rightness. Fascinating work that requires discipline.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Can we handle knowing our minds in depth?
I read recently that there are two reasons we humans don't walk around in a continuous state of fear: denial and distraction. The premise is that the world is indeed a dangerous place, and we need these mechanisms in order to function.
With mindfulness meditation, we bring awareness to these mechanisms, eventually seeing beyond them to the underlying realities of our situation.
I once read that Jung thought most people wouldn't be able to handle the results of Buddhist meditation practice, that it would disturb important mental structures and we'd become less able to function in the world. Jung was a smart guy. Why was he wrong? Or was he wrong?
A friend who's a meditation practitioner has a couple of friends who've reached "first path" or "stream entry", a stage of practice where a chunk of one's sense of self becomes significantly less solid. She said that her friends, while glad about their achievements, are a bit cranky at the loss of that more solid sense of self.
We are just animals, evolved to reproduce. There is no reproductive advantage to knowing one's own mind. Our minds are not built to know themselves. It seems a bit conceited of us to think that we can do this safely.
With mindfulness meditation, we bring awareness to these mechanisms, eventually seeing beyond them to the underlying realities of our situation.
I once read that Jung thought most people wouldn't be able to handle the results of Buddhist meditation practice, that it would disturb important mental structures and we'd become less able to function in the world. Jung was a smart guy. Why was he wrong? Or was he wrong?
A friend who's a meditation practitioner has a couple of friends who've reached "first path" or "stream entry", a stage of practice where a chunk of one's sense of self becomes significantly less solid. She said that her friends, while glad about their achievements, are a bit cranky at the loss of that more solid sense of self.
We are just animals, evolved to reproduce. There is no reproductive advantage to knowing one's own mind. Our minds are not built to know themselves. It seems a bit conceited of us to think that we can do this safely.
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