Category Archives: Nonduality

Haiku as spiritual practice

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Writing haiku, the traditional short Japanese poems that have gained worldwide popularity, is something that can prove helpful in opening our eyes to what is, and the wonder of being alive. We are all guilty of spending large portions of our waking hours lost in thought. We swing back and forth between past and future, and only rarely stay right where we are, in the here and now. Typically, we go through life with a “been there and done that” attitude, and in our busy, fast-forward life styles, put the flesh and blood of living on hold to do something “more important.”

When we are born, our vision is fresh. Our first experience is undifferentiated and timeless, and we have no real perception of self or other. As young children, we live in Eden but don’t know it. We unconsciously play in the garden of life, fascinated with the wonder of what is. Writing haiku is an activity that can train our eye to see some of those wonders again, but with the added appreciation gained from age and experience. While obviously a conceptual activity, it is nevertheless one that redirects our attention towards the unconditioned “suchness” of what is. Haiku can give us a hint of the meaning of the Buddhist phrase, Samsara is Nirvana. Writing these short poems, devoid of judgment, prejudice and expectation, can nuture the gift of observation and mindful attention, and help us to find the magic in the ordinary. Just this! It is a practice of being wherever you are, of living in the present instead of in the past or future. This very moment – a fleeting immediacy of what is – is all that is real, and to that we must attend if we are to see the truth of what is.

Allow yourself the priviledge to being stunned by the extraordinary detail of life. Forget all you know. See with fresh eyes, unclouded by conditioning. Take time to sink into the moment, and perhaps taste life when the conceptual veil between self and other falls away. It is here that you can find an abundance of miracles to herald in the few words of a haiku. The form of haiku that is used or the effectiveness of the wording is not what is most important here. Rather, it is that they may unveil for us the obvious, the home we never left but only forgot. Here are a couple of mine:

high grass / peeking at mower / from under the parked car

startled prankster / under the bed / . . . tail showing

offered on its own / the violet’s / flower sermon

same barber / same conversation / thirty years

Take a moment to just be

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The functioning of modern society is predicated on an obsessive relationship with time. Driven by our desires for a better life and the promise of fulfillment on the temporal horizon, we are stuck on fast-forward, in an unending rush hour that creates havoc in our lives. Losing touch with the natural rhythms of life, we race through our lives with an ever-diminishing chance of experiencing what is real. Below, you will find two exercises that I have suggested to my meditation classes for years. They are designed to help you at least occasionally slow down, catch your breath, and turn your attention to the only thing that is real: the present moment.

Exercise One: We have all heard the expression of “doing time.” It usually relates to the experience of being in prison, and the slow, painful passage of time. The fact is we all “do time” almost every day. We are forced to wait in line at the grocery, wait on hold on the phone, wait in traffic on the way to or from work, wait for a train, etc.  I encourage you to use this time to be right where you are. This is an opportunity to create a rich and sacred moment of mindful living. When you find yourself waiting, tune in to your environment. First, listen attentively to hear how many different sounds you can hear. Then, look carefully around you to find things you have never noticed before. Feel your breath enter your body, blink your eyes, feel the pressure of your feet on the floor or the seat against your legs and back. The point is to come back to the moment. Be alive, and not in lost in thought. Feel the moment. Don’t think it.

Exercise Two: If you don’t have time to meditate each day, choose a repetitive chore and do it mindfully. Don’t multi-task; only do that one particular task. For example, putting the dishes away: pay attention to the details, the textures, the precision of life. Pick up each dish out of the dishwasher delicately. Avoid knocking into other dishes. Gently lay it in the cabinet where it is kept. Don’t think about what you are doing. Feel the temperature and texture of each item. Feel the water left on some of the dishes. Listen to the sounds of each piece as you pick it up and put it away. Feel yourself breath. Return to the moment. This is meditation.

Paths up a mountain

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Anyone who has read even part of my book knows how much I rely on metaphors to explain the counterintuitive and paradoxical subjects that one encounters in nondual spirituality. This metaphor is about the paths to the summit of a mountain that wind up its slopes. I use it here to illustrate how a common truth, a shared realization of nonduality, can be found at the heart of Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity, Judaism, Taoism and Sufism, when they exhibit such diverse rituals, beliefs, and practices. In a world of continuing religious conflict, there is a tremendous need for this vision of wholeness.

As is the case with most mountains, there are numerous paths that start from different points around the bottom, and they vary widely in the skill and strength needed to climb them. For those people who remain at the lower elevations, the views are limited. In the foothills at the base of the mountain, one area may be lush with vegetation, while another is arid and rocky. In another location, there may be a pine forest. The few who climb higher get an ever-widening perspective. As they gain altitude, they begin to see some of what climbers on other paths can see. As they grow close to the top, the diverse paths draw closer together, and climbers occasionally glimpse each other. Ultimately, though they begin from very different places at the foot of the mountain, and follow dissimilar paths, when they converge at the summit, the jubilant climbers share the same spectacular view.

In spiritual endeavors, a similar phenomenon is true. People who are born into very different cultures and religions are often like people who live in the foothills of a vast mountain with little understanding of those from the others sides. They may recognize no similarity between their faith and those in other parts of the world, and often declare that they have a monopoly on truth. Their religious understanding is secondhand and conceptual. Those of other faiths may be seen as infidels, pagans, or lost souls, and conflict between such religions is not uncommon. This notwithstanding, there are those from every time and culture who have yearned for something more, an intuitive truth that resonates deeply in the heart. While the teaching styles and practices employed in the great wisdom traditions may be diverse, the mystical truth they espouse offers convincing evidence that wholeness lies at the heart of all. Seekers who dwell on concepts and secondhand understanding can only climb so high—but those who depend on actual experience can reach the summit and share the same realization: the unimaginable freedom inherent in their true nature, nonduality.

Lost in translation

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Thought is not only the defining characteristic of our modern age, it is central to our very human existence. It is the tool with which we make sense of our surroundings, adapt to changing circumstances, and anticipate threats. It is also the basis for our relationships with other human beings, giving us the ability to understand the experiences and feelings of those around us. If we could not think, we would have no way to piece together the events of our lives. The world would be unintelligible. Without this extraordinary and essential tool, our species would never have evolved at all. As a species, we have relied on thought—together with language and the ability to communicate and record our thoughts—to frame the accumulated experience of our past, describe the dimensions of our future, and lay the foundation for our progress in all the innumerable fields of human endeavor. In a world of incessant flux, concepts lend a sense of constancy and predictability. Fixed and unambiguous, they transform chaotic and potentially overwhelming sensory input into a relatively consistent model of our world.

Thought may be indispensable to our existence in the world, but the efficiency with which it symbolically organizes that existence comes at a steep price. We communicate in words that condense experience into concepts, but when we forget that those concepts are arbitrary and begin to substitute our conceptual version of reality for actual experience of it, we lose contact with what is real. Confusing mental partitions with real divisions, we find ourselves in a world of racial stereotypes, religious fundamentalism, and nationalistic fervor, at odds with those who stand on the opposite side of any mental divide. It is like the leaves on one side of a tree attempting to annihilate their counterparts on the other, missing the fundamental oneness they all share. The living, breathing suchness of our world, the very ground of our being, is lost in translation to the language of thought. We take the map for the territory and can no longer see what is.

The function of thought can be compared to the process of collecting butterflies. If an entomologist catches one of these colorful insects and pins its motionless husk on a board, he may admire the beautiful pattern on the wings and label the unique characteristics of its physical form, but he cannot apprehend its being anymore; that essence is lost. There is little in the display box that suggests the magic of its flight and the way it once fluttered from one flower to the next. Thought and its labels cannot communicate the ineffable. Like the butterfly, much of life resists the classifications and definitions we depend on to figure things out; it can be understood only by actual experience, by being and feeling, not through abstract thought. We know what green beans taste like, but to convey in words the experience of eating them is impossible. Likewise, when we think of the music of Bach, words cannot convey our own listening experience to someone who has never heard his music. Can a mother express in words the experience of giving birth to her first child? Life is in the living.

The Perennial Philosophy

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Mystical practices, in contrast to faiths codified in written creeds, are based on direct, unmediated experience: knowing by being rather than by thinking and believing. In every age and culture, these esoteric spiritual paths have consistently directed practitioners to go within to discover their true nature and their place in the world. They share the belief that language, through its omnipresent and often unconscious role in defining our everyday reality, lies at the heart of our melancholy and alienation. While the practical value of language is beyond question, we fall into delusion when we mistake the map for the territory. When we see life through the prism of thought and conceptualization, division replaces wholeness. The symbols we use to communicate with each other must not be confused with the essential reality they represent. Serious seekers come to realize that it is our way of seeing the world that has caused our suffering, not the world itself.

This realization is reflected in a theme that appears over and over again in the mythology and sacred writings of humanity. It appears in the regions producing major civilizations, as well as in areas supporting the world’s indigenous populations. This theme, known as the Perennial Philosophy and popularized by Aldous Huxley’s book of the same title, is found at the core of the mystical, nondual forms of Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism, Sufism, Judaism, and Christianity. In one variation or another, it is also fundamental to the work of many great thinkers, such as Plotinus, Hegel, Teilhard de Chardin, and Sri Aurobindo, and is espoused by many others, from Plato, Spinoza, and Jung to William James, Alan Watts, and Ken Wilber.

The central thesis of the Perennial Philosophy claims that there is something hidden from us by the numberless names and forms of manifestation. The ground of our being is the formless elemental source of all things. It is not envisioned as the creator of the world, a deity to be worshipped, appeased, or obeyed; rather, it is what we are. While most belief systems are content to posit some form of relationship with the Divine, the Perennial Philosophy recognizes our identity with the divine source. Throughout the history of human spirituality, its message is unequivocal: we are That.

Inherent in this understanding is the belief that the preeminent purpose and desire of humankind is to find its way back to this fundamental origin of what is. In contrast to the external rewards—salvation, an afterlife—sought by believers in more traditional forms of religion, the Perennial Philosophy sees something within us that calls us back to our beginnings. It is not a return to something we left behind so much as a recognition of something that has always been. As it is impossible to attain that which we never lost, seekers must simply remember what is, and be the “suchness” that they are—in other words, experience directly the most basic fact of being alive in this very moment. This suchness, so often mentioned in the mystical wisdom traditions, is simply what always is, but often goes unnoticed in our busy days and thought-filled minds.

Who are you?

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This seems to be a straightforward question, and one we have all answered countless times in our lives. We each have a personal story we know by heart and repeat often. It usually begins with the time and place of our birth, and where we went to school, and is followed with what we do for a living, if we are married or have any children, and so forth. Depending on who we are telling our story to, details about our interests, experiences, political views, religious affiliation, and retirement plans may be added to give a more complete picture. In our society, such sharing of personal information seems satisfactory and accurate to most everyone.

While such facts may be conventionally relevant, from the perspective of the world’s wisdom traditions they have nothing to do with your true nature. In the Buddhist tradition, for example, a question that teachers often pose to students is: “What is your original face before your grandparents were born?” This koan, or paradoxical riddle of sorts, insinuates a reality far deeper than the surface characteristics with which most people are preoccupied. It bypasses all the demographic data, everything we have learned, the personality we have developed, all the wealth we have amassed, and the many accomplishments we so eagerly show off. The perceived content of our lives is given no quarter in this question, and for that reason its meaning is beyond the reach of most who try to fathom it. But once our personal stories are dropped and our perceived importance forgotten, we can see that this ancient query is directing us to what we are, to what is—to life itself.

We are born of two mothers, given existence in two radically different ways. Our actual mother is life, and we are conceived in the human womb and nursed with the milk of wholeness. Our virtual mother is language; we are conceived in the thoughts and words of our people and nursed at the breast of our cultural and intellectual heritage. Ever after, we struggle with the conflicts and confusion that have plagued us all since our species learned to divide up what is and give names to its separate parts. The key to our spiritual dilemma is not to find God, but to find our true Self—to solve the riddle of our conflicted existence and to return to wholeness.

Vipassana

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When I began my spiritual quest almost two decades ago, I was unsure what direction to go. I knew I needed a practice, for it was already clear to me that reading and the teachings of others were limited in what they could do. I sought a practice that was proven, one that had passed the test of time. Vipassana, the form of meditation that the Buddha taught, was a logical choice. With a precision that rivals the controls modern science implements to attain valid results, this ancient science of the mind is so exact that for millennia incalculable numbers of practitioners have been able to generate the same results through their practice. While such practice does not produce spiritual realization, it can help us see through the false ideas that blind us to the truth.

Vipassana practice is based on mindful awareness, which means paying bare attention—bare of judgment, decision, or commentary—to what is happening to us and within us during every moment of experience. Progressing through a series of exercises under the guidance of an experienced teacher, we systematically examine every facet of what we believe our “self” to be. Observing how thoughts rise and fall on their own, for example, with no volitional participation helps the seeker to realize that they are not “his.” With practice and refined skills, we are able to discern that the self we construct out of form, feelings, perceptions, thoughts, and consciousness has no foundation in reality. One by one, the assumptions that have so long supported our erroneous belief in a permanent, independent self, are found to be groundless. What we always thought we were gradually dissolves like a cloud in the rays of the sun. Once we actually see this truth about the nature of experience, it becomes apparent that there is no abiding entity to be found.

Picture a piece of Swiss cheese. It typically has holes of all sizes and shapes in it. In your mind’s eye, pick out one hole. Notice its characteristics. Maybe it is bigger than the others around it; maybe it is deeper. It has existed since the cheese was made. Now imagine eating this piece of cheese, slowly nibbling away at the area surrounding the hole. Watch what happens. The hole slowly disappears. When all the cheese is gone, the hole is gone too. Where did it go? It was there a minute ago. You saw it, and even distinguished it from the others. But as you can see, in the truest sense, there never was a hole. There was only a relationship between the cheese and empty space. By labeling your perception, you created a concept of “hole” and gave it a sense of reality. This is exactly what happens with the self, or ego. The concept of “self” is given substance by the label we affix to a relationship between elements that are not the self—form, feelings, perceptions, thoughts, and consciousness. When we study this relationship carefully in vipassana meditation, we can see that there is only consciousness rising and falling with its objects. The ego is a construct, but not a reality. Now you see it, now you don’t.

Suffering

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As much as we all strive to avoid it, the simple truth is that humanity needs suffering. Throughout the ages, mystics have taught a consistent lesson: it is through hardship and reversals of fortune that we are roused from our complacency and the unconscious patterns we are prone to settle into. It is suffering that shakes us up and clears our vision.
When everything in our lives is going well, we can become so engrossed in trivial preoccupations that we lose touch with what is important. Success strengthens our identification with the self and keeps us from transcendence. We have no motivation to find something better. But if we are suddenly and unexpectedly confronted with our mortality and the transience of all we cherish, we are forced to recognize life’s preciousness and seek its meaning. As it is said, we are jolted awake by nightmares, not by pleasant dreams.

When someone close to us dies or we are given a terminal prognosis of our own, the priorities of our lives abruptly shift. The need to redecorate the house, so pressing yesterday, fades quickly into the background. Friction with friends over petty irritations is forgotten. Bank accounts and promotions at work lose their relevance in contrast to our new life-and-death challenges. The explanations we were given by our parents to make sense out of things, though they satisfied our previously superficial inquiries, often come up short in life’s most difficult times. We seek answers to what seems so wrong about life. Why is there suffering? How can a loving God allow this to happen, especially when the victims are innocent children or people who are kind, gentle, and good?

Three years ago I was diagnosed with colon cancer, hospitalized immediately for a colon resection, and subsequently scheduled for blood work or CAT scans at a nearby clinic to be sure it has not returned. I have come to think of my visits as a kind of snooze alarm. As with the alarm clocks so many of us use, we may push the snooze button for a little additional sleep, only to have it go off again in a few minutes. The clinic visits functioned in a very similar way. Every time I sat there waiting for my tests, surrounded by fellow cancer patients – some emaciated, some without hair – my priorities in life were refocused again on what was most important. Suffering is life’s wake up call, and often a blessing in disguise.

May you live every day of your life

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Jonathan Swift, the 18th century author who wrote Gulliver’s Travels, said this and it pertains directly to a central objective of esoteric spirituality. While my book is filled with discussions of abstract ideas that seem far away from the practical, down to earth issues we all face every day, the insights it has drawn from the great wisdom traditions of the world pertain directly to where you are and what you are doing right now. If you have ever tried to meditate, even for a short time, one of the first things you realize is that your mind is chaotic, filled with a jumble of ceaseless thoughts. Until this initial attempt to sit silently and concentrate on a single object, you may not have realized just how out-of-control your mind was. To truly be present, to discover what is real in our daily lives, we cannot be thinking about something else. Nevertheless, that is the case almost all the time.

Why don’t you give this a try? The next time you are talking to someone else, see if you listening? The chances are good that, while you may be hearing their spoken words, your mind is busy formulating what you will say in response! We are all guilty of doing this and that is the reason we seldom are blessed with someone who really listens to us. And even if you decide to be attentive to the next person you have a conversation with, it will become quickly apparent that the thinking we do while they are talking is a very hard habit to break. It is reasonable to assume that if our listening is not diluted by a mind busy with thought, the responses we give to others will be more effective and helpful. They would be based on what the person actually said, rather than on our preconceptions of what they need to hear. When you see how true this is while you are listening, you will begin to understand how it characterizes just about everything else you do as well. If you want to really live your life, you must find a better way, and the great wisdom traditions of the world are a great place to look.

Stop living in your head; embrace the wonder of now

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Do you feel like you’re living in the fast lane? You’re not alone. Many of us live in an unending rush hour. In a world of smart phones and email, texting and twitter, the very devices that are supposed to save us time can have the opposite effect as we hurry to respond to everyone and everything. This manic pace is causing a host of “hurry sicknesses” too, from insomnia and heart attacks to ulcers and migraines. Most importantly, by being out of sync with the natural rhythms of life, we lose touch with the only thing that is real—the present moment.

One remedy to our hurried lifestyles that has been growing in popularity in the West is the practice of mindfulness. In stark contrast to our frantic daily routines, mindfulness helps us slow down and be with what is. To be mindful is to be in touch with the present rather than constantly worrying about the future, dwelling on the past, or being obsessed with the commentary in our heads. Practicing mindfulness—simply being in the now—can quiet the mental chatter and open the senses to the extraordinary miracle of being alive.

If you watch toddlers at play, you will see the kind of thing I am talking about. I get a healthy reminder of living in the now when I spend time with my 2-year-old grandson, Jack. He is totally immersed in what he is doing. No thoughts of yesterday or what must be done tomorrow—only what he is attending to at that moment. And his days are filled with wonder. America poet Walt Whitman pointed to this liberating way of living when he said, “To me, every moment of the day and night is an unspeakably perfect miracle.”

Tragically, many of us don’t awaken to the wonder of life until we are threatened with its loss. A terminal diagnosis makes us appreciate what we have so long taken for granted—a bird singing, the laughter of children, the curl of steam rising from morning coffee, holding the hand of a loved one, the sun shining through the trees. When time is short, petty disagreements and concerns are forgotten and we devote our attention to what’s most real and precious.

When I find myself moving into the fast lane or getting caught up in obsessive thinking, what helps bring me back to the now (besides playing with Jack) is feeling and listening. I try to feel what is happening in my body or I tune in to the sounds around me. Simply stopping to notice the ambient sounds that you don’t typically hear when you are living in your head can immediately help you shift from thinking to feeling, from identifying with the whirl of your thoughts to what the present has to offer.

The truth is, when our minds are filled with competing thoughts and tensions or we’re frantically multitasking, we are less effective in everything we do. We are distracted drivers, mindless snackers, poor listeners, even poor parents, partners, or managers. We do a lot of thinking but little living. Once you’re in the moment, you can pay full attention to the task at hand, appreciate the people you are with, or tap into the creative solution that was staring you in the face all along. In truth, the only thing any of us really have for sure is this very moment. Why not start living in it now?

I was invited to write this guest commentary for the Commercial Appeal, Memphis, Tennessee, and it was published on March 3, 2012.