Misperceptions of Being Separate

There is a fundamental discrepancy between Western and Eastern perceptions of the way in which each of us exists, relative to the rest of the universe. While those of us in the West tend to view ourselves as individual entities that stand apart from creation, people in the East see themselves submerged into a unitary whole. While we in the West are comfortable with our unique separateness, those in the East take comfort in feeling connected to it all. While we prize our distinctiveness, they value their community.

This sense of distinctness and independence is strong within us Westerners. We absorb it from our culture and come to accept it as a given. The concept permeates our social and political lives. We come to see ourselves as distinctive and different individuals. We are oriented toward personal goals of success and achievement. We seek equality in personal relationships, or, alternatively, to be in a superior position in hierarchical relationships.

In contrast, people in the East do not like to stand out from the crowd. Rather than seeking personal accomplishments they value harmonious social relations. For example, there is no word for “individualism” in Chinese; the closest the language comes is the term for “selfishness.”

This significant difference between Western and Eastern perspectives is largely responsible for how a Westerner struggles with Eastern religious perspectives that describe a oneness to everything. Buddhism expresses our Western feelings of separateness from the universe as an illusion. Some in the West might talk about being “one with it all,” but that often comes from a limited, new-age interpretation.

I became a student of Buddhism a few decades ago, and have benefited from bringing meditation and mindfulness into my life, but I still struggle with understanding how I may let go of my Western image of being separate from it all. It's just too ingrained within me. It’s too easy to convince myself that I may intellectually comprehend my unity with it all, but deep in my gut I can't help but feel separate... often even isolated.

A recent idea came to me in meditation, that may help me feel more a part of it all, but it may well take a while for me to own the concept. All of my perceptions of myself or the world—my very understanding of existence—culminate in electrical signals in my brain. When I view a tree, photons enter my eye, impinge upon receptors on my retina, which send electrical impulses to my brain.  My total perception of the tree is that set of signals.

Similarly, sound wave vibrations are funneled into my ear canal, tickle three little bones in my middle ear, which induce vibrations on my cochlea, which then get transformed into other kinds of electrical signals in the brain. It's the same with my other three senses—taste, touch, and smell. All of them create certain specific electrical signals in my brain. Thus my view of the world is in reality nothing more than a complex field of neuronal impulses in my cerebral matter. It's literally all in my head.

So, am I really separate from that bird I hear singing outside? I know its song is “out there,” but my perception of it ultimately culminates in those electrical signals in my brain. That's all I really know about the bird. Even if I see what seems to be a separate feathered being perched out on that limb, that sense of vision ends up as yet another set of electrical signals. I own those signals. In a sense, that bird is now inside me... is a part of me. Is this fundamentally any different from a tingle I feel in my toe—a sensation that ends up as just another set of neuronal impulses? All I can know of either my toe or the bird's call is how my brain interprets those signals. Aren't they all a part of me? Am I not a part of it all?

Ameliorating Evolution—Part 2

Many religions have offered messages that are useful for our predicament, such as the counsel to love, be peaceful, and nurture compassion for others. The encouragement to adopt a healthy diet and overcome tribalism (as described in the previous post) is often not in the purview of religion, however, so we must look elsewhere.

Science can help. Certainly, the message that overindulging in some foods has been brought to us by science. Evolutionary psychology—a science—has helped us to understand these behaviors. And even common sense can go a long way to help us change. Aren't many of these behaviors obviously problematic? Does it make sense to binge on junk food? Shouldn't I care about the suffering of people in war-torn regions or the dire poverty that exists most everywhere?

Eastern philosophy can also offer help—such as Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism. I use the world “philosophy” to describe these traditions, because I view them not so much as religions—which consist of belief in a super being and of faith and worship of that being—but as philosophies, which seek an understanding of fundamental reality, so as to guide our behavior appropriately.

An integral part of the Chinese traditions of Confucianism and Taoism is that we can change our behavior by cultivating and understanding our deeper nature. We are not captives of any essential or permanent quality of who we are, but instead we are flexible, malleable beings who can modify our behavior for the better. There is no basic, inherent, specific self that we are destined to be. Life is not about digging down to that core self and then behaving in consonance with its seemingly enduring nature. To do so is to trap ourselves into behaving in a manner that locks us into a distinct, fixed identity. 

Instead, these Chinese philosophies encourage us to view our true self as a range of many possibilities, some of which we can cultivate to become far more than we ever dreamed. This potential to become a fully realized being can definitely free us from the inherited fetters of psychological evolution, such as destructive hedonic behaviors, unnecessary fears, aggression, and insular thinking.

Another particularly relevant tradition for countering our unhelpful—if not dangerous—evolutionary behaviors is Buddhism. A core message of Buddhism is very compatible with the message of evolutionary psychology. This is the central point of a recent book by Robert Wright: Why Buddhism is True: The Science and Philosophy of Meditation and Enlightenment. Wright is a visiting professor of Science and Religion at Union Theological Seminary in New York.

Using the insights of modern psychology and neuroscience, Wright shows that Buddhist meditative practice can transform us into moral and happy beings, who can leave behind our inherited, unhelpful evolutionary behaviors, such as fear, anger, anxiety, distrust, and hatred. Through meditation we can arrive at a far better understanding of reality, as well as our true nature. We can come to see that our responses that are habituated by society and that cause us and those around us pain, can be changed to actions that promote health, happiness, and peace.

As just one example, an intensive Buddhist meditation practice can help us realize that the boundary between our being and others is not a fixed, tribal partition, but a permeable zone that we can learn to extend indefinitely outward, to eventually encompass the entire universe. We can grow and change. The possibilities are unlimited.

What I've tried to describe here is that, while biological evolution has brought about an incredibly complex and wondrous world, our cultural evolution has in some ways gotten too far ahead of us. Our bodies and minds—forged a few million years ago in the cauldron of genetic progress—are struggling to cope with cultural realities that they are not often capable of. Humans are suffering from a widespread case of cognitive dissonance—wherein our thoughts, beliefs, and responses are often inconsistent with the world we live in. We need to get serious about fundamentally changing and bringing our feelings and emotions up to date. This will require much more than simply forging laws or tweaking our behavior.

          

Unceasing Self

There is a tenet in Buddhism—a core principle, in fact—that is challenging for most Western minds to comprehend. It is the concept of “no self.” Many principles of Eastern religions and philosophy are difficult for us in the West to comprehend, because our cultures differ so much. For example, we in the West tend to view events in a linear fashion—we see history unfolding in a straight-line manner, from a point in the past and progressing upwards and outwards into the future. Those in the East view events more cyclically—history is a repetitive, periodic process that reoccurs again and again.

To the Western mind the concept of no self can even appear rather absurd, since we emphasize our individuality and our right to be a unique and autonomous being—while the Eastern mind is more likely to subsume itself into the common whole.

Maybe we could grasp the concept of no self better if we begin with a clear understanding of what the self is. Then we might be in a position to consider what it is not. A dictionary definition of the self is “a person's essential being that distinguishes them from others, especially considered as the object of introspection; or a person's particular nature or personality.”

Now, the Buddha is not strictly saying that there is no self—as if it doesn't exist. That's what many Westerners think and rebel against. We ask, Am I not a specific being, who has a “particular nature or personality?” The Buddhist point is that what we think is our essential being—our feelings, perceptions, and consciousness—is really not what we believe it is.  Sure, you have a material body, but that deeper, innate self that we think of as me is not really what we think it is. Let me try to explain. 

There are, in fact, two aspects of what we Westerners think of as the self, which Buddhism says are mistaken. The first is that we tend to think of our self as being a constant, immutable entity over time. Am I not essentially the same person now—someone whose basic essence is “me”—as I was at 10 years old? Well, no. We are more a process than a thing. That's even true physically—our cells are constantly regenerating. We are constantly in the process of unfolding into a new being.

Our second belief about the self that Buddhism claims is mistaken is that we tend to believe there is an intrinsic self—what we might consider to be our conscious self—that is in control. We can think of it as the executive (or CEO) of our mind that is in charge of it all. We have that amazing prefrontal cortex that we think is in command of it all. Well, no. Modern psychology has repeatedly demonstrated that the unconscious part of our brain—the part that we not only do not control, but are not even aware of—makes decisions on its own, causing us to take actions that our conscious mind was oblivious to. Only after the fact does our executive mind see what we did, and then does its best to make up a plausible story for our behavior.

So neither Buddhism nor modern psychology claims that the self literally does not exist. It's more that what we believe to be the self is not the fixed, encased thing we consider it to be. No, it's not that self at all. No self. It's more a process, more like a verb, than a noun. It's a flux… a flowing. Open your mind up to you being something much more vast.

Meditation Motivation

Meditation has become quite popular in the last few years. It seems that this practice waxes and wanes over time, as interest in it—or lack of thereof—drives the cycles. The current trendiness in meditation is often motivated by those who live in the fast lane and are beset with struggles of stress, anxiety, and uncertainty associated with a frenetic existence. Those who seek meditation for these reasons are usually practicing primarily for the purpose of achieving a state of calm and relaxation. That's fine, but there's a far more profound purpose for meditation.

The deeper motivation for pursuing meditation transcends the simple goal of reducing one's stress and tension. Dedicated meditators throughout history have sought the more meaningful impacts of a long-term, devoted practice. I recently came upon a teaching of Shenzin Young, an American mindfulness teacher and neuroscience research consultant. He listed five benefits of an extended practice of contemplation, which I will briefly summarize here. The first four of these benefits do result in positive effects that the practice can have on oneself, and the fifth will motivate the practitioner to engage in some kind of service to the world. Popular forms of meditation rarely address work on behalf of others... they are overwhelmingly focused on the self.

The first benefit of prolonged meditation described by Shenzin Young is the reduction of suffering. This is precisely the motivation that led the Buddha to this insight, over 2500 years ago. He was deeply disturbed by the fact that virtually everyone suffers from what he termed dukkha, which can be translated as a form of affliction caused by an underlying feeling that often arises… an uncomfortable and periodically persistent feeling of dissatisfaction with one's life. He identified the source of that suffering as our propensity to grasp and hang on to things that will inevitably fade away. He laid out a program of action to face that dissatisfaction—the major element of which is a steadfast practice of meditation that gradually clears the mind of illusions. As a result, suffering begins to diminish.

The second through fourth benefits of meditation soon follow. They are: (2) to come to see what the fulfillment of one’s life truly is, (3) to begin to understand your deeper self, and (4) to begin to make positive behavioral changes in yourself. This process is a gradual awakening that enriches life and improves one's conduct. These are all worthwhile accomplishments for oneself.

I was particularly struck, however, by the fifth benefit that Shenzin Young listed: that a person will spontaneously feel the rise of love from within and want to be of service to the world. I find this crucial, because it is not the result of a mentor or authority telling you to do good in the world—it naturally and spontaneously arises from within. That makes the motivation to meditate much more important, I believe.

Lao-Tzu's Treasures—Part 1

I was given a Zen calendar last winter by a friend. Each day is a tear-off sheet that offers a quote from a wise teacher—many of them from the Zen Buddhist tradition, but many of them also are sayings from a wide variety of teachers of other traditions. The offering from a July sheet was a quote attributed to Lao-Tzu: “I have just three things to teach: simplicity, patience, and compassion. These three are your greatest treasures.”

Lao-Tzu has for many years been an inspiration for me. He was not a Zen Buddhist, but preceded Zen wisdom teachers by a few centuries. He was a Chinese Taoist sage. He gave us an abundant set of pithy messages in the classic book Tao Te Ching. His enigmatic and succinct verses have given me much food for thought over the years, as I chew on a passage, and often find that his concise message, initially enigmatic, eventually speaks volumes to me. I think that was precisely Lao-Tzu's intent.

I will take it on faith that the above quote is an accurate one. (I'm a bit skeptical, because Lao-Tzu never claimed to teach, as I recall. Similar to Socrates, he simply offered his ideas to people who could then mull them over and use them to teach themselves.) Assuming that it's a valid quotation, what did he mean by listing these particular three teachings: simplicity, patience, and compassion? I am aware that when we read English translations of an ancient master's writings from an other culture, many of those English words do not really capture the essence of the original word. But let me assume that these English translations from Chinese—simplicity, patience, and compassion—are accurate translations.

What do these three words describe? I think they express virtues. My dictionary describes virtues as “behavior showing high moral standards; a quality considered morally good or desirable in a person.” OK, so simplicity, patience, and compassion appear to be pretty good examples of virtues. But surely there are many more kinds of virtues that a person may exhibit, than just these three. How about, for example, honesty, kindness, courage, moderation, generosity, and dependability, to name just a few?

Did Lao-Tzu contend that his three treasures covered all the moral bases? He did call them the three “greatest treasures,” so maybe they are just his three greatest hits—if you strive to exhibit them, then maybe you've accomplished 90% of what it means to be a good person?

Whenever I ponder questions like these, I like to turn to a good dictionary for clarification. So here's what my Oxford American Dictionary tells me about Lao-Tzu's three treasures.

• Simplicity: the quality or condition of being easy to understand or to do; the quality of being plain or natural. Some synonyms: lucidity, clarity, unpretentious, restrained, honest, sincere, humble.
• Patience: the capacity to accept or tolerate delay and suffering without getting upset or angry; staying cool. Some synonyms: calmness, composure, equanimity, restraint, tolerance, perseverance, diligence.
• Compassion: the sympathetic pity and concern for the sufferings of others (accompanied by the urge to help them). Some synonyms: gentleness, mercy, understanding, concern, kindness, charity, benevolence.

After that bit if dictionary research, it seems to me that Lao-Tzu's three treasures sure cover a lot of moral ground—and I would bet that even if the three English words aren't exact translations for the three Chinese words he used, surely some of those synonyms must capture his meaning.

More of Lao-Tzu's treasures next time...