dharmas

Learn and Live

2013-05-03T21:23:30Z

When I was a kid, I naturally had different—and significantly simpler—assumptions about how the world operates than I do today. Based on my upbringing and education, I had the impression that at some point in my life, perhaps during those impending college years that I was so looking forward to, I would decide “what to be when I grow up.” Logically this decision would take into account things like enjoyment, aptitude, and economic factors. There were a few options that I was considering, mostly involving technology—maybe engineering or aerospace—but whatever my choice, I was confident that my grown-up life would be a great success.

In hindsight, perhaps I was just a bit overconfident. But I was certainly determined, and over the years I’ve found that determination counts for a lot. When my grandfather—a man of few words—dropped me off at college, he told me, “work hard.” So I did. I chose my path, and years later found myself with a Bachelor’s degree in Music (see enjoyment, above) and Physics (aptitude), working in an administrative position at Apple Computer (economic factors). And as my grandmother used to tell me, “you’ve made your bed, and now you have to lie in it.” So I did that too. Live and learn.

All of us choose a path in life. And if we retrace that path to see how we arrived at our current situation, often we see that there are a few key decisions that led us here: “I’ll work hard,” “I’ll study this,” “I’ll take this job,” “I’ll marry this person.” What’s most difficult is actually seeing into the causes and conditions of each of those decisions—seeing where they will lead—and making the right decision, doing the right thing, at that critical point. This ability to deeply and systematically understand cause and effect is what is meant by “wisdom” in Buddhist thought.

There is a growing segment in education that is beginning to take to this more broad-minded approach, to consider content and pedagogy that place considerations like enjoyment, aptitude, and economic decision-making factors into the context of a more systematic understanding. This movement is embraced by DRBU, but it is by no means limited to our institution. A recent article posted on the Harvard Crimson reports that “Ethical Reasoning 18: Classical Chinese Ethical and Political Theory is Harvard’s third most popular class.” Why so popular? These Chinese classics “offer startlingly relevant insights into how to think about making choices, including career choices, from a broad perspective.” They help students “think about things holistically” and are “liberating for students contemplating career choices.”

Just weeks before the Harvard article went live, the Los Angeles Review of Books published a story on Sarah Bakewell’s latest bestseller How to Live. A reflection on Michel Montaigne’s life and writings, the book attempts to recharacterize our understanding of philosophy as a discipline; framing it as a system of self-examination, self-discipline, and virtue; of “how to live a good life—meaning a correct and honorable life, but also a fully human, satisfying, flourishing one.” The Review also reflects on the interpretive tradition of Pierre Hadot, renowned classics scholar and author of Philosophy as a Way of Life. Bakewell’s new book honors Hadot’s contribution to the study of the Western classics as a set of methods, rather than doctrines, for living the examined life—the life worth living, as Socrates would say.

Hadot’s concerns reflect the sentiments of the classics revival in education—that there is value to be found in classic texts that goes beyond theory and doctrine, that touches something lived and breathed, that speaks profoundly to the human condition, and that provides insight into a deeper, more connected purpose. I even suspect, in part because of my own experience, that the students at Harvard aren’t just concerned for their careers. Rather, in the midst of our materialistic, hyper-stimulated information society, perhaps many of them notice a lacking that Hadot addresses when we writes that “we have forgotten how to read: how to pause, liberate ourselves from our worries, return into ourselves, and leave aside our search for subtlety and originality, in order to meditate calmly, ruminate, and let the texts speak to us. This, too, is a spiritual exercise, and one of the most difficult.”

This was exactly my concern when, having fulfilled my childhood dreams and landed myself a “great job,” I decided to drop everything to go live at a Buddhist temple and study at a startup university. I knew that there was something unfulfilled, something that I needed to reconnect to that was more profound than pleasure or money. And I had a sense, through my growing interest in Buddhist practice, that my answers were somewhere in the Sutras—so that’s where I went to look.

How to be a Good Son?

2013-05-03T21:26:23Z

Source

[This is the sixth in a series of posts reflecting on how I found myself drawn to monasticism despite (or perhaps because of) my upbringing in the Bay Area and providing insight into how the relatively secular environment in which I grew up prompted me to look deeper into the meaning of life.]

弟子規，聖人訓。首孝悌，次謹信
泛愛眾，而親仁。有餘力，則學文。

The sages have left these standards for being a student.
You first begin with filial respect and then learn to be careful and trustworthy.
Be kind and caring to all and stay near good people.
With any time left, you should devote it to study.

-Standards for Students

To be honest, I never thought about what it meant to be a “good son” until I became interested in Buddhism and the monastic life. It was an unexpected teaching that really sank in when I became a sophomore in college.

In hindsight, I was a typical callow youth, with an attitude of putting myself first and my parents second. I remember one story from when I was in pre-school. My mom gave me a chocolate bar and then asked me if I would share some of it with her. Reluctantly, I broke the chocolate bar in half, planning on giving her the smaller piece. To my dismay, I saw that they were both the same size, so what did I do next? I took a bite out of one half and then sheepishly offered it to her. Talk about filiality!

That was pretty much my mindset for the next 15 years of my life–I was the center and my parents were there to support and provide for me. And, I took many things for granted, or even resisted things simply out of stubborn rebellion. In fact, there was a lot of things that I didn’t want to do that I was “forced” to do: play piano, join the swim team, toastmasters, mental math, Chinese school, Boy Scouts, etc.

When I was obsessed with basketball, I remember getting into arguments with my mom about bouncing the basketball around the house. I needed to practice dribbling! (Reflecting now, I must say that I got the house pretty dirty and it was *ahem* rather loud.) But I did do well in school and generally stayed out of trouble, so I wasn’t a bad kid as things went.

All of a sudden, I realized how much I have been given in life.

However, after being immersed in Buddhism and monastic culture for 2-3 years, and being instructed by a senior monk to listen to my mother, I began to change my perspective on things. I wasn’t the center of the world. My parents weren’t just an obstacle to my aspiration to being a monk. My universe expanded from the narrow vision of “my life, my path” to an expanded view that included my parents’ perspective of the world.

All of a sudden, I realized how much I have been given in life. Even my father, whom I thought had always been rather reserved in his emotions and display of affection, had his way of showing his love and care for me and my brother once I started paying attention to what was going on around me. I remember one evening seeing my brother sleeping on the couch in the living room as I walked into the kitchen. Later, as I came out, I saw my dad putting a blanket on him. It was extremely natural, nothing big, but it left a deep impression on me. How many times has my dad covered me with a blanket, worried that I might be cold?

They were constantly trying to give me the best advice they could, hoping that I would live a happy and meaningful life.

I would see my mother tirelessly washing the dishes at night after everyone finished eating, or cooking special vegetarian dishes for me when everyone else was not vegetarian. Although my mom was not happy with my monastic aspirations, I saw how she was willing to still support it in quiet ways. The car I drove to the monastery came from them; the roof over my head came from them; and they were constantly trying to give me the best advice they could, hoping that I would live a happy and meaningful life.

In my “do-it-myself,” “pave-my-own-way” mentality, I completely missed everything I had to be grateful for. And what I quickly found was that gratitude was like a wellspring of joy and rootedness. It was like awakening to a part of life that I had never really known before.

I began to see why this was the beginning of truly being a person.

Requisites of a Bodhisattva

2013-05-03T21:35:50Z

Source

In the eight months that I have spent in India so far this year, I have encountered a number of modern day gurus. I stumbled across the Karmapa’s Kagyu Monlam in Bodhgaya, served others alongside Swami Asimatmananda in Chapra, felt the warmth of Amma’s embrace in Delhi, and watched the transformation of Maharaj Yadneshwara in Beed. Although these figures may use different words to express their ideals and look after separate communities, they all share one thing in common. They do not live for themselves. The lives of the Karmapa, Asimatmananda, Amma, and Yadneshwara are dedicated to serving living beings and helping them to fully develop their humanity. Toward this end, each of them supports an educational institution: the Karmapa International Buddhist Institute, Ramakrishna Mission’s school for poor children, Amma’s Amrita University, and Yajneshwara’s traditional Vedic gurukula.

In December, his Holiness the Karmapa led the Kagyu Monlam in Bodhgaya, where he taught about Bodhisattva Samantabadra’s prayer for excellent conduct. The event brought together people from all over the world who strengthened their resolve for awakening. After a couple from Germany guided me to the prayer site, Lamas came around with hot butter tea and steamed bread to make sure all the guests were comfortable. The ancient Mahābodi Temple came alive with color, lights, and hospitality. The merit generated from this practice is thought to pacify disasters and remove obstacles not only for those to take part in the Monlam, but for all living beings.

Even though Swami Asimatmananda is in charge of the ashram that runs his charity school and hospital, he is most often found serving others. In fact, his motto is to serve others always and to make them happy. He gives much of his time, energy, and material resources to one of the poorest communities in India. In doing so, he also offers people dignity and hope. He shines as a bright light in a grim environment full of hardship, povery, and crime. Most people would fly this coop as quickly as possible, but Swami Asimatmananda has made Chapra his home for many years, serving others with the same devotion he offers his devatā. His spiritual practice emulates the bodhisattva resolve.

In January Amma toured India, sitting for hours at a time to ensure that everyone who wished to receive darśan would get a hug. Though she had been sitting all day, she did not tire of holding each person close to her heart for a few seconds while chanting a mantra. Considered a māhātmya by her devotees, she shares a taste of her immense śakti energy with people all over the world. I took note of the energetic calm and kindness that permeated the environment at Amma’s event.

Source

Like his father before him, Maharaj Yadneshwara is a yajamāna, or institutor of the yajña. Early European scholars translated yajña as sacrifice, but this word fails to capture the scope of the original Sanskrit. A yajña is an offering not only to the devas (those beings full of light), but to all who participate, even as a mere spectator. It is a religious performance meant to advance and purify the practitioner’s mind by demanding incredible personal sacrifice. The yajamāna and his wife eat only a small serving of fresh milk and curd twice a day for the duration of the yajña—in this case 16 days. In this condition, they lead the ritual performance, which requires steadfast attention and constant prayer to honor the limitless capacity of the devas before them, inviting these energetic, radiant beings to the consecrated space.

This space, of course, is a symbol of the human body, which becomes cleansed and filled with light. At random times, the Maharaj and his wife step outside the sacrificial enclosure to entertain long lines of people waiting to bow at their feet in respect for their undertaking, the performance of which is intended, as declared at the beginning of the yajña, to benefit all living beings. Despite all the attention, Maharaj demonstrated great patience without asserting self-importance. Perhaps for this reason, throngs of volunteers come together to donate their time and resources, giving to Agni and Indra as well as to each other in an effort to draw near to the goal of Vedic life.

It was at Yadneshwara’s soma-yajña that I was tested to see whether I have what it takes to be a Bodhisattva. Normally it is not a big deal to be a foreigner in India, but the people in Beeḍ had not seen a foreigner in four or five years. I became a kind of celebrity upon arrival, being interviewed and photographed by local newspapers and swamped by yajña onlookers, curious to practice the English they learned in school or introduce me to their families in Hindi and Marathi. I had no space to myself, and quickly tired of their repetitive, mundane questions. They took my photograph, constantly asked whether I had eaten, and awkwardly requested my autograph.

What was irritating was that each one wanted a bit of my attention. The schoolgirls beamed when I spoke to them. But there was an uncomfortable tension between their self-reference, including the strange connection projected onto me, and my experience. I could not empty myself out to accept their position, but clashed against it, trying desperately to convince them that I’m an unimportant student. By the end of the yajña, I realized that a bodhisattva has emptied out his or her ego and self-projections, and so he or she does not shelter any constructed self-identity against the projections of others.

In this way, a bodhisattva can serve people from where they stand, without friction between limited perspectives. Such an orientation saves a lot of energy. During the last few days of the yajña, I tried my best to smile, be kind, and respond to the many people who called out to me or broke into the sacrificial enclosure to meet me. After all, they only wanted recognition. How much more does a bodhisattva give to help free living beings from saṃsāra? A thousand hands stretched out to help others, and I crouched in fear of a few curious spectators. Still so much to learn…

A Verse for Guan Yin

2013-05-03T21:34:35Z

Source

Cultivate and walk the Way, and never seek outside,
The hidden cause is just the wisdom-nature of the mind.
White billows soar to heaven and the black breakers subside,
Now to the other shore, Nirvana, effortlessly climb.
Don’t miss another chance, return, return, time after time,
Take care, take care, attentive to this innocence divine,
The news arrives in shadows, shadows hazy through the blind,
In fleeting, fleeting glances, the inherently sublime.

–Master Hsuan Hua, Verses on the Heart Sutra

With midterm break just beginning, I’ll be spending the week contemplating and reciting Guan Yin’s name. In some sense I feel that for every session I have to reorient myself to practice, and of course, exactly what this means is different every time. Luckily, my recent classes have been providing a lot of food for thought. In our Avatamsaka Sutra class, we spent the last several weeks translating verses about spiritual practices. There has been quite a bit of discussion about their meaning, as well as about literary style and accuracy. How does a verse communicate all of its meanings to us? What is the experiential difference between reading prose and chanting verse, and how does this affect our consciousness?

Translation for me, like spiritual cultivation, has become a constant balancing act between strict discipline, focus, creativity, learning, and of course humility, as the ego tends to always show its face. In our Heart Sutra class this semester, we focused on commentary by Master Hua, also written in verse. On of my favorite verses is the exhortation for practice above—and seeing that the Sutra was spoken by Guan Yin Bodhisattva, I thought it might be an appropriate verse to inspire aspirations for the spring Guan Yin Session.

Dispatch from a Chan Session

2013-03-22T04:01:12Z

Source

I went to the City of Ten Thousand Buddha in January and most of the residents were in the midst of the final week of a three-week Chan meditation retreat. I dropped by the DRBU building and only a few staff were there. The entire building and the surrounding campus were completely silent. It was a wonderfully quiet feeling. The atmosphere was alert, clear, and crisp, yet quiet and pleasant. The spirit of shared collected effort across the campus gave it a sense of not solitude, not loneliness. I was trying to reflect on why that is.

A lot of the writers on our blog have been discussing and reflecting on the idea of loneliness and solitude and the idea of camaraderie. James had, in various living situations, found himself in situations where he spends a lot of his time in solitude. Alexandra in her response states that “solitude, on the other hand, is something that we choose for ourselves, or at least accept.” In a way, a communal, silent meditation retreat is a collective choice in group solitude–everybody practicing meditation, working on being totally concentrated in their own minds, together.

James, who stays at CTTB full time, commented on the same thing. He said that it was really nice to write during the Chan Session. He had free reign of the entire DRBU building and there was a sense of liberation. It was easier to think through and put in writing a few WASC documents during this “alone time,” and it was quite wonderful.

We were thinking about what a community that valued solitude could mean, and what it might look like. I used to think of community as sharing a communal space and place for communication. I believe having those factors are very important in developing as a sense of community. However, it may also be important to think about community as a source of camaraderie. Or more specifically, the feeling that everybody is making a concentrated collected effort toward a shared goal. This kind of community can dispel a sense of loneliness. At least it was a shift in thinking on my part. What do people think?

In a Land of Lotus Blossoms

2013-03-22T04:02:21Z

Source

For the past several months, I’ve been part of a translation team that is working on the verses of the Lotus Sutra. I think of translating as a practice; it contains a lot of different opportunities to learn about the Buddha’s teachings and about myself at the same time. I’ve been finding that translating verses in particular is a really wonderful practice, and like any Dharma practice, its benefits are gradually revealed as one delves more deeply into its subtleties.

A good verse can have some really wonderful qualities — it has its own rhythm, its own ways of resonating. A steady rhythm can be like a resting heartbeat, its regularity calming the mind. When chanted, regular line length regulates the breathing, which calms the body. The rhythm of a verse gets into your bones, puts a spring in your step. Its beauty inspires the heart.

I often chant while I’m translating, sometimes “working” for many hours a day, and I find that the rhythm itself has a way of inspiring creativity. Sometimes it is almost as if the translated verses appear on their own, without any effort on my part. I feel that I may be experiencing something described by many creative types, but also something that anyone who has spent time reciting a mantra, or has even gotten a favorite song stuck in their head, has probably touched upon. As Master Hua put it, “we recite until we recite without reciting.” Often I find when rendering verses, one of the most reliable ways to write something really nice is just to rely on this energy, rather than on my own understanding.

One verse I’ve been recently reciting goes into great detail about the wonderful adornments of various Buddhas’ lands and countries, all filled with joyful bodhisattvas who constantly practice selfless giving with delight and ease. Contemplating this imagery naturally adds to the experience of chanting, and just as the rhythm of the chant starts to create its own kind of energy, the mind also begins to settle into a disposition of ease and joy.

I feel that this experience also has something to do with the idea of “other power” in the Pure Land school, referring to the power of reciting Amitabha’s name. The idea is basically that when we have a recitation practice, the effort and contemplation of that practice gradually begins to resonate with aspects of our own nature. We experience the energy of this resonance as “other” in relationship to our view of “self.” In reality, this energy is just the limitless light of unbounded, interconnected consciousness. It’s only because of our view of a self that we don’t experience it that way. However, we can still use this contemplation as a tool.

Even in reciting a verse, there’s a chance for kind of offering up, a creativity that arises with the letting go of the self, and a possibility for a new kind of experience. Speaking of translation, the expression “Pure Land” (Chinese 淨土) itself can also be rendered as 佛土 or even 佛界 (the Buddha’s land or the Buddha’s “state.”) Is this “state” a literal place, an experience, or both? At the moment, I prefer to offer the question up to my imagination. Maybe the Lotus Sutra can provide a little inspiration:

At each and every shrine and stupa,
A thousand circling banners fly,
All sewn with pearls like dangling dewdrops,
Fine bells harmoniously chime,
As all the dragons, gods and spirits,
Humans, and other kinds of beings,
With incense, flowers, lilting music,
Make offerings unceasingly.
Manjushri, all of these disciples,
Who take the Buddha as their guide,
Make offerings to these shariras,
Adorning all the stupas and shrines,
As in each realm, the natural landscape,
Abounds and blooms exquisitely,
Just like the lordly parijata,
The tree of heaven, blossoming.

Mental Habits and the Criminal Justice System

2013-03-22T04:03:09Z

Source

When the Buddha taught about the human mind, he put forth an idea that has been developed independently by psychologists and neuroscientists in more recent years: that we mainly interpret the world through deeply rooted habits of thought and perception, that we are born with particular mental tendencies – some that are universal to all humans, and others that are particular to each of us as individuals – and over time, certain tendencies are repeatedly reinforced, creating ever-deeper tracks for our minds to follow.

In some ways, these habits are very useful, and they probably developed to help us survive, enabling our ancestors in the jungle or the savanna to quickly learn the difference between a threatening tiger and a benign butterfly, for example. Thanks to mental habits, we do not have to start fresh with every tiger or butterfly we see, interpreting what it might be and how it might affect us. But in other ways, the limitations imposed by these habits can have profoundly negative consequences.

Recently, I’ve been confronted with this problem in the context of the criminal justice system. I have been working as a researcher and writer for the National Registry of Exonerations (NRE), a database that tracks cases in which an innocent person is wrongly convicted of a crime and later cleared of all charges. In each of these cases, police and prosecutors constructed a story about how and why a particular crime was committed– a story that later turned out to be entirely wrong.

Many of these wrongful convictions (42%) involved intentional misconduct on the part of police or prosecutors – hidden evidence, coerced confessions, or secret deals with witnesses, to name a few common scenarios. In the rest of the cases, we can usually assume that authorities truly believed that the person they were prosecuting was guilty. But even when the wrongful conviction is the result of honest mistakes, there are often many red flags along the way that would alert prosecutors that they had the wrong person, if they were open to unexpected information.

Instead, as prosecutors build a theory of a case, they can quickly develop a kind of tunnel-vision. According to a report by the Innocence Project:

Tunnel vision is the process that leads investigators, prosecutors, judges, and defense lawyers alike to focus on a particular outcome, and then to filter all evidence in a case through the lens provided by that outcome. Through that filter, all information that supports the adopted outcome is elevated in significance, viewed as consistent with the other evidence, and deemed relevant and probative, while evidence inconsistent with the chosen theory is easily overlooked or dismissed as irrelevant, incredible, or unreliable.

Once authorities begin to focus on a particular suspect, evidence that supports this suspect’s guilt – a previous criminal record, a witness who saw him near the crime scene – begins to seem highly reliable and important. Evidence that conflicts with the theory – a lack of physical evidence, an alibi, signs that a witness is lying – is ignored, brushed aside as irrelevant.

This tunnel vision afflicts the entire criminal process, from investigation to trial to the appeals process – and helps explain why, when a person is wrongly convicted of a crime, it is exceedingly difficult for him to clear his name. A recent article in Slate magazine describes how tunnel vision led to the wrongful conviction of Michael Morton, who spent 25 years in prison for his wife’s murder. As the article points out, the initial theory that Morton was involved wasn’t wildly inappropriate – women are more likely to be killed by husbands or boyfriends than by strangers. But over the course of the investigation, lots of evidence came up to suggest that someone else was responsible – a fresh footprint in the backyard, a fingerprint on the doorframe that didn’t match anyone in the household – and was ignored, because investigators were already locked into the familiar story that the husband was guilty.

Lab testing finally revealed evidence of another man’s DNA on a bandana found at the scene – but even then, prosecutors were unwilling to admit that Morton was innocent. Only when the DNA was linked to a man who was a suspect in another murder was Morton finally cleared. In some cases in the NRE database, even finding the real culprit isn’t enough – faced with such evidence, prosecutors then amend their story by claiming there must have been two perpetrators, even when this was not part of their original theory, and there is absolutely no evidence to suggest that this is true.

When our tendency toward habitual thinking combines with other problematic human tendencies, some of the worst mistakes can occur. A well-known example is the story of the “Central Park Five” – featured in a new documentary by Ken Burns – in which five African-American and Latino teenagers were wrongly convicted of the brutal rape of a jogger in Central Park.

In the late 1980s, New York City was dangerous, and people were fearful. When a horrible crime was committed, there was enormous pressure to solve it, and to solve it quickly. Racist tendencies quickly told hold. When the five 14- and 15-year olds were brought in for questioning, police already “knew” they were guilty – and through threats and coercion, they wore these kids down until each had confessed to a crime they did not commit. (This is not an unusual phenomenon – about 14% of the cases in the NRE database involve a false confession. These confessions are usually retracted almost immediately, but by then it is too late. But the psychology behind this process is best left to another blog post.)

The media sensationalized the horrifying story, and a mob mentality took hold. Everything reinforced the perspective that these teenagers were violent, deranged and absolutely guilty. It became nearly impossible to imagine an alternative scenario – a bunch of kids in the wrong place at the wrong time, themselves terrified and confused, browbeaten into false confessions after hours and hours of interrogation in which they were told they might never go home unless they told the right story. But of course, as we now know, this is exactly what happened. The real killer confessed years later and DNA linked him to the crime. But fear, racism, and the need for answers meant that police and prosecutors made quick assumptions about the first suspects they came across, and the media and the general public eagerly grabbed onto a story that fit with their preconceived notions.

The process of wrongly convicting an innocent person represents an extreme example of the damage that can be caused by habituated thinking. But it’s a good reminder that the notion of mental habituation is not just an abstract theory, but a real limiting factor in our understanding of the world, with real social consequences. We are all capable of falling into the trap of habituation – and we are probably most likely to do so in contexts that are part of our everyday routine. When police officers and investigators see many cases over time in which a husband harms his wife, they start to see this pattern automatically, whereas someone with less experience in the field may be more open-minded.

One goal of Buddhist practice is to quiet our incessant mental activity so that we can observe our own mental habits and improve our capacity to see the world in way that is open, spontaneous, and real. Whether through introspection and meditation or by exposing ourselves to a diversity of views, it’s a practice we can all benefit from, and particularly when it comes to the particular paths we’ve developed over time in our work lives and personal relationships.

Higgs Boson

2013-03-22T04:13:06Z

ATLAS under construction, Source

On July 13th, UC Berkeley physicists, including Professors Beate Heinemann and Marjorie Shapiro – collaborators in the ATLAS experiment, explained the discovery of what could be the Higgs Boson. Their explanation of the decades long search for the Higgs Boson serves as an interesting comparison to Buddhist practice – not as a comparison of ultimate claims about the nature of reality, but a comparison of deep and prolonged investigations in subtle, invisible fields. This deep and prolonged investigation is at the heart of Buddhism as a personal practice, in contrast to Buddhism as a set of philosophical or religious assertions.

One of the vexing problems in quantum physics has been that the standard model used by quantum physics can explain forces like light and magnetism, as well as short range fields that exist at the atomic and subatomic level. But common everyday phenomena like gravity and mass have no explanation in quantum physics. Quantum physics, a physics of invisibly small particles and intangible fields, is still trying to explain these everyday phenomena.

Half a century ago, theoretical physicists proposed a theory that mass is the consequence of a field that permeates all of space, even the emptiness of a pure vacuum. In quantum physics, fields have manifestations as particles and vice versa. Today, we call this field the Higgs Field and the corresponding particle the Higgs Boson. If the theory were correct, then it would be possible to have the Higgs field produce a Higgs Boson. In the interim, many other theories have been proposed, some of which have been described as “more beautiful” than the Higgs theory. The search for the Higgs Boson is an attempt to discover which theory (of many) most accurately describes the world around us.

The new experiments show that a vacuum is not genuinely empty, but consists of protons with a very short lifespan. When the protons smash into each other, they unleash things that are latent in the not-really-empty-vacuum. Similarly, my experiences from moment to moment are also not empty, but consist of dharmas and the latent tendencies embedded in saṃskāras. Whereas space is permeated by an invisible, all permeating field, my awareness takes into account subtle energies that have accumulated over time. In meditation, I apply tremendous effort to observe the unconscious processes that underlie mental activities.

Initially, scientists had no idea even what to look for, but they were determined to sort out the competing theories and pursue the investigation, even in the face of uncertainty. This shows faith in the process and method of investigation, not faith in a particular theory or set of assertions. In fact, the more elegant and “beautiful” theories turned out to be disproved by the latest evidence, proving that scientists could not rest on a theory that merely seemed to be elegant. Instead, theories have to be verified by evidence.

This goes to show that true wisdom is not about a particular set of philosophical assertions or fixed views, but about the moment to moment discernment that continues to be sharpened by the constant and prolonged exercise of personal investigation. Because of this, cultivators stand to learn from how the physicists have pursued the search for the Higgs Boson. Scientists are not content with an elegant theory that has the “ring of truth.” They are not content to accept the authority of various prominent physicists and are not willing to quit even when it is not clear what they are supposed to be looking for. Even now that it looks like the Higgs has been found, there is even more to investigate and many competing theories are being formulated, even after some have been ruled out. Across different spiritual traditions and even within Buddhism, there are many theories as well, which serve as topics for investigation, not as ultimate truths to which one must adhere. And as with the particle accelerators of modern physics, the deepest claims cannot be investigated without a large investment of time and energy.

[Co-written with Steve Chan]

Repaying the Kindness of my Parents?

2013-05-03T21:28:56Z

Source

[This is the fifth in a series of posts reflecting on how I found myself drawn to monasticism despite (or perhaps because of) my upbringing in the Bay Area and providing insight into how the relatively secular environment in which I grew up prompted me to look deeper into the meaning of life.]

Alas! My parents,
Who bore me and toiled on my behalf.
The debt of kindness I owe them
Is higher than the heavens.

- The Classic of Poetry

So there I was attending retreats and Dharma talks at a Buddhist monastery, learning from Buddhist monastics, and reading spiritual works that strongly emphasized the teachings on “filiality.” It was a teaching I agreed with: yes, I should repay the kindness of my parents–but whenever I went home and actually spent time with my mother, I had the impression I was making her miserable.

Of course, I could always justify my actions and my chosen path by reference to the life of the Buddha himself. Didn’t he run away from home in search of solutions to life’s deepest questions?

Was something wrong? Of course, I could always justify my actions and my chosen path by reference to the life of the Buddha himself. Didn’t he run away from home in search of solutions to life’s deepest questions? However, in the face of my mother’s displeasure, thinking like this didn’t help. (My dad wasn’t supportive either, but, being a lot more “hands off,” he would only tell me what he thought.) I felt caught. On the one hand, I didn’t want to make my parents unhappy; on the other, I needed to remain faithful to my aspirations and ideals, to be honest with myself.

In his talk, “Should One Practice Filiality,” Master Hua discusses how “great filiality” transcends one’s immediate family and extends to all beings. He explains that the way to truly benefit all beings is by helping them to put an end to suffering entirely. Simply providing material support isn’t enough.

Although this made a lot of sense to me, I didn’t know how much sense it would make to my parents, and I wasn’t sure how to tell them what I wanted to do in college. Being practical, I thought, if I was going to be a monk, I shouldn’t major in Computer Science or Engineering but in Chinese, so that I could better understand and assist in the translation of Chinese Buddhist texts. This, of course, was not kosher, because my mother, who was also practical, believed that, by majoring in Chinese, I was wasting my education. What kind of job would I be able to get afterwards? In the end, we compromised, and I chose to major in Physics, which I enjoyed, and which seemed to satisfy my mom, since it meant I would have more secure job options when I graduated. (Honestly, I don’t have a gift for languages–my Chinese is quite bad; so, in hindsight, I can see, and feel gratitude for, my mother’s wisdom.)

He harshly replied that I should figure out my own life and listen to my mother more. Rather unexpected!

While in college I also thought, if I was going to be a monk, I had better start preparing for it, so I started waking up at 5 or 6am to meditate–just the hour when my roommate was going to sleep! In addition I limited my food intake, and spent my free time reading Buddhist texts or visiting the monastery. Being determined to make this my life’s path, I was extremely gung-ho.

One day, I worked up the courage to ask a senior monk I deeply admired what I should do with my life, hoping he would give me some advice about becoming a monk. He harshly replied that I should figure out my own life and listen to my mother more. Rather unexpected!

But, in many ways, this was the turning point in my relationship with my mom. I saw how attached I was to the idea being a monk, as I imagined that in my own mind, and realized that I was approaching monasticism in a way that was unbalanced and harmful to my family. At that point I decided to transfer the energy I had been putting into “trying to prepare for monastic life” into “trying to be a good son”: I began to listen my parents more, which made a real difference in the quality of our relationship.

My Childhood Pen-Pal Was an Innocent Man on Death Row

2013-05-03T22:21:50Z

From a roadtrip that I took with a friend to visit Paris and his wife, Sherrie, in Oklahoma in 2005.

[Admin note: We're very happy that Alexandra's piece has been published on Huffington Post. Here is the repost in its entirety.]

Last spring, my friend Paris Carriger was diagnosed with liver disease and told he had just a few months to live. His voice from the hospital was weak but calm. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been sentenced to die,” he said with a raspy chuckle, “though I don’t expect I’ll beat this one.”

Thirty-five years ago Paris was sentenced to death for robbing an Arizona jewelry store and killing the owner. Paris said he had been framed by the real killer, a shady acquaintance named Robert Dunbar; he was arrested after police received a tip from a man who identified himself only as “Bob.” Years later, Dunbar admitted to the crime, but despite this confession Paris was denied a new trial, and remained on death row.

Paris grew up with a poor, abusive mother who sent him to reform school at 10. He led a chaotic life. But faced with execution for another man’s crime, he focused his energy. He wrote letters, dozens and dozens of letters to reporters, lawyers, activists and academics — anyone who might be interested in his case.

Eventually he began to correspond with my mother, a professor of psychology and law with a humanitarian heart and an old-school appreciation of good letter writing. Paris was a smart, engaging correspondent. My mother came to believe in his innocence, and to care about him. When I was 4, with my parents’ blessing, Paris first wrote to me.

I don’t remember the first letter I got from Paris. I don’t remember him coming into my life at all. He was just always there; a far-away pen pal, a friendly grownup presence who I knew only through letters and one greenish Polaroid of him standing with arms crossed in front of a metal grate.

Paris wasn’t used to people letting him befriend their children, and he was deeply grateful to be allowed into my life. He was curious about my interests and the books I was reading, and he told me about the things he loved to do as a child — fishing, riding horses, training dogs. He sent me gifts on my birthday — binoculars, a pair of moccasins and, when I was 10, a typewriter that I began using to write to him.

In my child’s mind, jail was a spare, cartoonish space where people ate from compartment trays and wore stripes. I had no real sense of what his existence must have been like. I completely accepted that he was innocent, and understood, to some degree, that he was the victim of a great injustice. But really, I didn’t think about it that much. I sent him drawings and made him cards for Valentine’s Day and Christmas. I asked him how the food was (not good). I told him all about our new puppy and my part in the school play.

Sometimes, Paris’ insight into my experiences was better than my parents’. Once in middle school, I was bullied daily by a girl who said I had hugged her boyfriend — myself the victim of a false accusation. This girl followed me around the halls with a crew of friends, muttering insults and trying to trip me. When she pushed me up against the lockers, I called her the “b-word” and our parents were called in for a meeting with the principal.

My mother couldn’t understand why I hadn’t told her about this, but Paris completely got it. He wrote to her, “Sasha’s trouble looks different to me than it does to you. The biggest defeat would be to tell. Then she is branded a snitch and kids see her as the weaker one, the easy target.”

In eighth grade, given an English assignment to write about a person I admired, I chose Paris.

The reality of death row came into sharp focus when I was 14. Despite Dunbar’s confession, despite other witnesses who admitted they had lied, he had lost all his appeals. He had been in prison for 18 years. An execution date was set: Dec. 6, 1995.

My teenage mind focused on the horrors of execution itself. You exist today. You exist tomorrow. But at 12:15 a.m. on Dec. 6, you will no longer exist. What would it feel like to be informed precisely when you would be killed? It chilled my bones and made me sick.

He called more often. His voice, as usual, was calm and soft with a gentle southern drawl. I had no idea what to say to him. On my mother’s advice, I told him that. “Keep your chin up,” he said. “We may get out of this yet.” My mother travelled to the prison in Florence, Ariz., for his clemency hearing. Paris was there in a metal cage, his belongings already divided up among the guards, his body afflicted with shingles, his spirit with humiliation and the fear of death.

He wasn’t executed. On, Dec. 4, the Supreme Court upheld a stay of the execution to allow another appeal.

Three year later, with no advance warning, Paris was given $20 and a paper suit and let out the jail door. He set to work building a life from scratch, moving to Oklahoma to live with a long-lost half-sister. He came to visit us in Michigan. Incredible as it was to see him in person, he also seemed perfectly familiar; after all, I had known him forever.

My lifelong friendship with an innocent man on death row means that I have always been deeply opposed to the death penalty. I talk to people about it a lot these days with Proposition 34 and I urge them to vote “yes.” Those who favor it often say it’s too slow and expensive. I always think: “If we had a quick cheap death penalty, Paris would have been killed.”

Unfortunately, Paris didn’t live long enough to find out whether we will replace the death penalty in California. He died on May 21, at home with Sherrie, the woman he fell in love with and married several years after his release. The hospice workers said they had never seen anyone accept the end of life with such calm grace. Given how close he came to being executed for a crime he didn’t commit, I can imagine that dying at home was, in a sense, a victory.