A few days ago, in meditation, I had a clear understanding of another concept: noticing what isn’t there. It began with the pain growing in my left hip. I’ve focussed on various pains before, but that method usually seemed to intensify the pain rather than alleviate it.

This time I tried something else. I looked to where there wasn’t pain. My right hip felt very comfortable, so I focussed my attention there. After a few moments I noticed that the pain in the left side had diminished. But as I shifted my attention to the left side, the pain returned. So I wen’t back to the right. And once again, the pain on the left subsided.

It reminded me of a phenomenon I’d played with as a kid. One day I was lying in the grass, looking up at the blue sky. Overhead were a cluster of electric wires and such. I noticed as I looked past the wires to the sky beyond, the wires seemed to disappear. Then, when I looked at the wires, there they were. And I could make them disappear again at will. I was sure I’d developed some sort of super power, but I was disappointed when I could not perform this optical trick with anything else.

Back to meditation. Relocating my attention from a painful spot to a pain-free area had the effect of making the pain disappear. I knew it was still there, the pain. I just wasn’t perceiving it. Or was I just perceiving the sensations as something different? Either way, I was able to meditate comfortably and without the anxiety and fear that often accompanies pain.

That’s when I realized the importance of noticing what’s not present and it’s direct relationship to the five hindrances to productive meditation (or to any other practice). The five hindrances are:

• Sensual desire
• Ill will
• Restlessness & remorse (or worry)
• Sloth & torpor (reluctance to make effort & lethargy)
• Doubt (in the practice)

A definition of rapture is the absence of the five hindrances. Indeed, it’s necessary to overcome the hindrances entirely in order to attain full awakening. But how do you know when you’re in a state of rapture as opposed to a common, every-day state of happiness? It’s when you notice, upon careful examination, that the mind is free of the five hindrances. It’s noticing what’s not there.

Not only were Michael and I colleagues in the larger field of massage therapy, we both taught classes (I still do) at Oregon School of Massage. Some of the women involved in the investigation were former students of his. Students of mine, too, for that matter.

After his arrest, the rumor mill at the school was, I thought, especially quiet. Or perhaps I didn’t hear much because I wasn’t all that interested to actively seek out information. It’s a sensitive area, too, because as a legitimate profession massage therapy has always struggled to dissociate itself from its disreputable cousin, prostitution. As a truly reputable school, we didn’t need this.

I must confess, though, that when I read the story of Michael’s arrest—complete with mugshot—a small feeling of satisfaction arose. Several things he’d said at staff meetings didn’t sit well with me. One thing he’d said I took personally because, although it was a general criticism, it seemed directed straight my way. From then on, I’d seen him as an adversary. He wasn’t, of course, but that’s how I saw it.

Another colleague of mine, a former student who practices massage therapy as well as the middle way, expressed outrage that Michael got only 90 days of jail time. He also described how his anger made it difficult for him to do his daily metta practice. It was my friend’s comments on Facebook that inspired this post, leading me to wonder how the four noble truths figured into the difficulty one has with sending kindness to people one doesn’t like.

The first noble truth is the truth of suffering. Life is full of it. But the first noble truth is not a mere statement of fact, e.g., “there is suffering.” Rather it is an injunction to see suffering for what it is, to understand it thoroughly. It’s hard to wish kindness upon people we intensely dislike because it hurts. That’s my experience, anyway.

The cause of this pain, though, is not external. It has nothing to do with what crimes or grievances someone committed against me or others. The cause is my very firm grip on what I want or how I think things should be. This is the second noble truth, the truth of the cause of suffering. If the cause of suffering is clinging, then the solution is to let go the grip.

Relaxing the grip leads to the third noble truth, which states release from suffering is possible. This is the goal Buddhist practitioners strive for: release from suffering. The fourth truth is the means to accomplish the goal: the eightfold path.

The practice of metta is the act of wishing kindness toward others. But it’s more than that. It’s one of four ideal mind states conducive to cultivating the eightfold path. The other three are compassion, joy in the good fortune of others, and equanimity.

When I conjure up the image of Michael’s mugshot, I don’t see the boastful, overly self-assured man I once gave forced-friendly nods to in the hallway before classes. Nor do I see a sexual predator who must be locked up as a menace to society. Rather I see the face of a man destroyed—whether he knows it or not—by his own delusion.

I too have delusions, those self-imposed mental shackles I strive to wrest myself from. And I know, were I to be standing shackled before a judge, I would desperately want the compassion of others rather than their scorn. And I would want to be treated kindly, too.

It’s finally over, that super-hyped time of year known as the Holiday Season or, simply, the Holidays. For me, as you may have guessed already, it’s a relief that it’s over. But, if you’ve  guessed this to be a rant about the commercialization of Christmas and a yearning for the good old days of celebrating the birth of Jesus, please put those ideas aside. That’s not where I’m going.

What disturbs me about this time of year are two overarching obligations inculcated – mostly, but not always – by the media. The first is to insist that things be just so, or else my “Christmas is ruined!” (Yes, I’ve been told that more than once, although, gratefully, not in this lifetime.) This is the realm of tradition. “It’s the way it was when I was little, and that’s the way it’s going to be now.”

The other obligation belongs in the realm of the material. (“Have you done your Christmas shopping yet?” Um, no, I haven’t even started. “Better hurry. I get all my shopping done in January when everything is cheap and the malls aren’t crowded with crazy people.” Good for you.) It’s the obligation to spend scarce money on things people neither need nor appreciate. “It’s the thought that counts” is a thin excuse for spending money out of the obligation to be thoughtful rather than pure and spontaneous thoughtfulness.

These two obligations – the traditional and material – come together into a set of expectations we have about this time of year. And if the expectations aren’t met, there is bound to be some level of dissatisfaction and disappointment.

And that is where I see a similarity between Christmas (or the Holidays, if you prefer) and Enlightenment. Notice I’m referring to Enlightenment with the capital E. It’s intentional. As I’ve written before, I’m not striving to “become Enlightened.” I started meditating and following the middle way because I wanted to conquer this unruly mind of mine. I’ve accomplished a great deal in that regard over the past 15 or so years of what I loosely refer to as “practice.” But the mere use of the above phase that begins, “What disturbs me most…” is a good indication that this mind continues to give me trouble.

In the culture of convert Buddhism – and maybe even in ethnic Buddhism too – there seems to be the idea that once I am Enlightened, then everything will be as perfect as Christmas Morning in America. Enlightenment becomes a destination much like Heaven is a destination. I don’t think so.

Getting control of the mind is hard work. It’s constant work. I do have an expectation of payoff (why else make all this effort?). But I’m sure that if after all this work I expect some life of Perfect Bliss I am bound to be disappointed. I will be satisfied with plain old contentment and peace of mind.

Photo from Wikicommons

“Mahayana or Hinayana?” she asked, pointing to the brochure.

“Theravada,” I said.

She repeated her question, slowly. “Mahayana or Hinayana?” She was an Asian woman of a nationality I couldn’t discern. Certainly, though, she wasn’t from Thailand or Burma or Sri Lanka, where Theravada Buddhists are common. Her lack of familiarity with this southern school of Buddhism was a giveaway to her leaning and perhaps even to a subtle prejudice.

I gave the same answer. “Theravada.” I admit I was being a little stubborn about it.

We were at the Portland Buddhist Festival early this summer. I had a booth there. On the table along with the books I was selling was a stack of brochures about Pacific Hermitage, where three monks from Abhayagiri Monastery would soon be taking residence. Pacific Hermitage is about an hour and a half east of Portland in the Columbia River Gorge.

She wanted to know what kind of monks she was giving her attention to, and for the third time she asked, “Mahayana or Hinayana?”

“Hinayana,” I conceded, using the pejorative.

“Eh,” she said and walked away.

Mahayana means great vehicle. Hinayana means lesser vehicle. The vehicles in question are those that will take a person to the great reward of Enlightenment. Without going into the historical details (many of which I’m sure I don’t know) Mahayanists look down on Hinayanists as followers of an inferior (lesser) teaching. That is, they say, the Buddha held back the good stuff because his followers at the time simply weren’t ready for what was revealed centuries after his death by those Great Sages who came onto the scene long after the fact. The woman’s response confirmed what I’d read and heard about the lingering effects of the schism that took place a couple thousand years ago.

The Theravada tradition is the only survivor of some sixteen or so schools of Buddhist thought that were once heaped into the cart of Hinayana. Theravada monks and nuns rely solely on the Pali Canon – the earliest collection of the Buddha’s teachings and code of discipline – as its source of knowledge and understanding of what the Buddha had so say. To them, fundamentals are good enough. What came later is of lesser value.

The problem, as I understand it, has to do with intention of practice. In Theravada, the highest achievement is becoming an arahant – a fully awakened being, though not a buddha. When an arahant dies, there are no more rebirths. The holy life is fulfilled, there is no more to be done. It’s an individual pursuit. The early Mahayanists saw this as selfish. Getting out while the getting was good, so to speak, was not in the best interest of all sentient beings. Instead, Mahayana practitioners would take the bodhisattva vow to postpone enlightenment – not become a buddha, that is – until all beings were enlightened. They would be reborn again and again and again so long as there was work to do.

To complicate things a bit more, there is Vajrayana, the diamond vehicle, which in the overarching scheme of things is within the Mahayana school. Vajrayana is most often associated with Tibetan Buddhism, although it didn’t originate there.

Theravada, I’ve heard, is comparable to high school, Mahayana to college, and Vajrayana to graduate school. Maybe those of us who are content to ride in the Theravada vehicle are also content with mundane jobs like brick laying and carpentry. Hey, I was a carpenter once. I never made it all the way through college, either, come to think of it. Vajrayana practice is as out of reach for me as a doctorate degree.

But I wonder. Is enlightenment or awakening or whatever really such a Big Deal that one needs secret teachings to reach impossibly high mental states over untold lifetimes to achieve? Or is it more a state of simple wisdom, happiness, and peace that can be had if not today, tomorrow or the next day by the sheer dint of practice, patience, and perseverance? Isn’t it enough just to trod the eightfold path, practicing its factors with diligence? Does it really matter what kind of car you drive?

Outside of the theme, the fair is typical of neighborhood events with music, food, and 50 or so booths arranged in a circle around the park. For my second year I set up the Parami Press booth where I sold copies of my book, Mapping the Dharma, and Peter Clothier’s Persist. Robin was there, too, with a display of pottery and meditation cushions she made. It was a fine day that started overcast and cool but right at 11:oo (as Robin predicted) the clouds gave way to blue sky.

I don’t participate in too many of these fairs, but I do enjoy it when I do, in spite of the fact that I often don’t sell too many books. Usually I sell enough to cover the booth fee, though, which is good. The profit factor aside, what I like about these events are the people I meet.

Our booth was nestled between that of the regional branches of the Taoist Tai Chi Society on our right and the Bahá’í Faith on our left. Along with the Bahá’í Faith, a number of other religions were represented at the fair. Many religions – though I certainly wouldn’t say all of them -  share the common goal of promoting peace and justice within the greater context of society.

Several of those who paused at the Parami Press booth would take a look at the display of Mapping the Dharma, with it’s picture of the seated Buddha on the cover, and ask, “Is this the Buddhist booth?” Not surprising, given the context.

“Well, no, not really,” I would reply. I’d then explain my purpose of selling the books I’d published. Some people would pick up a copy of Mapping the Dharma and begin flipping through it. That’s when I’d ask if they had an interest in Buddhism. It’s a great way to get a conversation started. Otherwise, I’m careful not to proselytize. Buddhism is not a religion that seeks converts, and I am not in the business of peddling Dhamma to anyone. But I will talk about it  – and with great enthusiasm – with anyone who expresses interest.

At any one time there were about six or so people in the Bahá’í booth. Their table was loaded with pamphlets and cards. A basket of stickers  – one of which said “Coexist” with an array of religious symbols – was popular with the kids. During the day I’d spoken with a couple of their representatives – both in a general “how’s your day going?” sort of way and also to learn more about their faith. People of the Bahá’í Faith seems to be as gentle, unassuming, and open as they come.

Late in the afternoon, the person who seemed to be the central figure in the Bahá’í booth (whose Iranian name I didn’t catch) approached me as I stood behind my table. He leaned in close, but in a friendly, non-threatening way and said, “So, tell me about Buddhism.” He didn’t know anything about it, and he had a goal of increasing his understanding of other religions. I happily obliged. At several points he nodded in agreement. When I mentioned that attachment is a key source of suffering, he quickly fetched from his table a prayer book and pointed out to me its section on detachment.

As I reflected on this encounter in particular and my experience that day overall, it occurred to me that an essential purpose of religious practice is to be happy and at peace. It doesn’t really matter what you believe regarding the here-and-now and the then-and-there, so long as you are kind to and respectful of others. I think I could find a few people who would disagree with my simple assertion, but that’s OK. It’s only life.

At such times I’m content to sit and listen. And this is what I was doing last week when Ajahn Sudanto looked right at me and asked, “How’s your practice going, Paul? Do you have any questions?”

I replied that even though I may have questions that arise during the week, they never come to mind when I have an opportunity to ask.

Then he said, “I have a question for you. Why are you still suffering?”

Instantly the thought arose: Who let you in my head? But I realized it was question he could have asked of anyone in the room, so I didn’t take it personally. Yet he did ask the question. I did not dare speak the answer forming in my mind. Instead I rambled on about my practice, how last week it seemed as though I’d reached some new level of understanding, but this week I’d had a big setback. It seemed, I’d said, that I go through these cycles of progress and setbacks. Only in retrospect did I realize how evasive I’d been, trying to be philosophical rather than truthful. I’m good at that. Or so I think.

The simple answer to the question “Why are you still suffering?” is this: It’s because of all those other people out there! Those people who don’t understand me, who are inconsiderate, who are irresponsible, who think my ways of doing things are inferior to theirs, who don’t appreciate me, who expect more of me than I’m able to provide, who cannot see the obvious truth about things, who send text messages while driving, who think Sarah Palin is a great American, who think Barak Obama is a Muslim, who… stop. That’s enough. You wouldn’t understand, anyway.

Maybe this topic has been discussed, debated, and deconstructed more than any other in Buddhism – who knows? But I feel compelled to add my own thoughts.

The Hindu idea of reincarnation and the Buddhist idea of rebirth are different. What’s more, the various Buddhist schools seem to disagree on what it’s all about, which adds to the confusion.

Reincarnation, as I understand it, is the transmigration of a soul (Sanskrit: atman) from one lifetime to another as it inhabits a different body each time. Over and over and over – the same “person” ends up in a different body and life circumstance according to deeds performed in the prior lifetime. An analogy is where a person passes through an infinitely long series of dressing rooms, changing from one costume to another. Same person, different costume.

Rebirth, as I understand it (from the Theravada position, anyway), is that at the moment of death one’s actions (i.e., thoughts) propel a particular kind of consciousness forward in a continuum of cause and effect called samsara, and a new being comes into existence. This consciousness is not one’s soul – there is none, according to the doctrine of anatta (Sanskrit: anatman): no-self, not-self, no-soul. So there is this perennial question: If there is no soul, then what goes from one life to the next?

This is a good point to suggest a mind-game. I present here a scenario, but only to stimulate your own imagination. As you may see, the possibilities are endless.

You are in a hospital room. You’ve had surgery to correct a progressive illness. But something went wrong, and you and your family have been informed you have only a day or two to live. Your family has gathered around – spouse, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. Your mind is flooded with thoughts and conflicted emotions. One of your older grandchildren comes to the bedside with a fat photo album. And there is your life before you. The birthdays, graduations, weddings, and dozens of other joyful events.

There is the picture of your first child at age three, playing in the backyard with the puppy. And your heart breaks again as you remember the day a year later when the dog returned but the child did not. The grief, the sorrow, the blame and self-recrimination, and arguments about who left the gate open.

Your wedding pictures show the two of you so obviously happy and in love, and now you can feel in your brittle bones that longing, that craving you had for one another. Especially the craving that seemed you couldn’t satisfy. Farther and farther back you turn the pages, viewing scenes from your own childhood. Your parents’ wedding picture. Isn’t it striking how much you look like them? You wonder about your father and why he left when you were seven. You wonder how your life would be different had he not slammed out of the house that night, leaving your mother crying in despair on the kitchen floor.

Your grandparents, too, are pictured in the album. You don’t remember much about them, but you know their lives were difficult. Again you are struck by how much you resemble them. And, as you look around the room, you see how much your children and grandchildren resemble them too.

It feels as though you can run your fingers over that coiled thread of DNA that links them with you and with your parents and grandparents and great grandparents – back and back. You see how that thread will go on and on into the future – without you. You understand how the specific actions of your forebears helped bring you to this very place. And you understand with frightening clarity how your own actions contributed to the lives of these people you love.

As you scan the faces around you can feel the quiet suffering. You know the lives of  your children are marked by one trial or another – divorce, debt, illness, trouble with the law, and of course your own imminent death. You wish there is something you can do to ease their pain. But you feel helpless.

And now something comes to mind and you realize you are not helpless. There is much you can do and there is plenty of time to do it. You open your heart to everyone gathered around you and tell them through quiet example that the secret to living well is knowing how to die well, without clinging, without remorse. And that’s just what you do.

Do I believe in rebirth? Do I believe in an afterlife? Does it matter? Try this statement on for size and see how it feels: “I don’t believe in DNA.” Of course you don’t have to believe in DNA for an aspect of your life to go on and on with infinite moments of joy and suffering. Belief in rebirth is not required either. That’s one of the interesting things about Buddhism. You don’t have to believe anything. There is no Creed and no judge to condemn you for not believing.

But there is the law of cause and effect, the law of kamma. Good actions bring good results, bad actions bring bad results. It’s inescapable. With a true understanding of the law of kamma and skillful action you can have a positive effect on the future – even if your not around to see it.

NOAA photo courtesy WikiCommons

On Saturday, just a couple of days ago now, I was in a bad mood. Not my occasionally cranky self, but the worst mood I’d been in for perhaps 15 years. It had been building all week, like a storm on the horizon.

In contrast I had spent the previous weekend – Thursday evening through Monday morning – at Abhayagiri Monastery. It was not a retreat, per se, but an annual gathering called Upasika Renewal. It’s where individuals can formally renew their commitment to the Three Refuges and the Five Precepts. It was a positive experience with lots of meditation time as well as time for some physical labor, relaxation, and discussion.

I dreaded leaving for Abhayagiri, though, because of my work load. I’d spent the week prior trying to get as much accomplished as possible, but I never felt satisfied that I was actually ready to go. I dreaded coming home, too, because what awaited me were three full days packed with immediate day-long activities and responsibilities. I had no time for reintegration or to catch up on what I was unable to accomplish during the five days away.

It wasn’t until Friday that I had a chance to sit back and sort through the paperwork, as it were, and to begin to get caught up on what was actually eight days of “missed work,” so to speak. But there were a few things from the various compartments of my life that had been vexing me since my return – something someone said, a look someone gave. Just a few small things, but you know how the mind likes to jumble things up and slap on layers and then tug and pull and churn.

On Saturday, the first if the month, I did what I usually do: bookkeeping. Reconciling checking accounts and deciding which bills I can pay and which I can put aside until later have never been activities that lead to calm. Then throw in a software problem…

Frustration gathered into clouds of despair and hopelessness. I’d thought I’d left these story emotions long behind in the distant past, but here they were, ready to unleash a deluge.

Fortunately, I had a couple of hours to myself Saturday evening. Fortunately, too, I decided to give meditation one more chance. I focused on the first noble truth of suffering. Yep, this is it, all right. This is dukkha. And the cause. Yes, there is a cause, that pesky second noble truth: clinging. It was my inability to let go of the attachment to that which bothered me. “Letting go.” Such a trite phrase. Easy for you to say. You don’t have my grip of steel.

Suddenly, my mind went back to Abhayagiri. We had been treated to two documentaries about Ajahn Chah. I’d heard the virtues of Ajahn Chah extolled many times, but only then at the monastery did I get an idea of why he was – and still is – revered by those who spent any time with him.

Ajahn Pasanno, co-abbot (and soon to be sole abbot) of Abhayagiri, was one of Ajahn Chah’s long-time students and attendants. In his introductory remarks to the 1977 documentary “The Mindful Way,” he said Ajahn Chah had lots of doubt. I’ve heard too he’d had lots of anger and other mental trials as well. But, Ajahn Pasanno said, he had determined that he would live each day of his life as though it would be his last and each day he would practice Dhamma with every ounce of effort. As I understand it, for Ajahn Chah practicing Dhamma meant “letting go.” There must be something to this. Ajahn Amaro, the other co-abbot of Abhayagiri (and soon to be abbot of Amaravati in England) said that what he saw in Ajahn Chah those long years ago in Thailand was “the happiest man in the world,” and he wanted to be like that too.

I got up from my cushion and searched for the documentary on YouTube, where I found it in three parts. After watching it again, I went back to the cushion for 30 more minutes. The slight parting of the clouds was palpable, and I sensed of the possibility of sunshine – not immediately, but soon. Sunday was a good day. And I’m also getting of sense of ease at getting back into my routine.

The Buddha instructs his first disciples

While the Buddha was teaching in the world, the ordained monks and nuns who were his disciples were referred to as the Sangha. A different word, parisa, was used for the assembly of lay followers and benefactors who supported the Sangha. After the Buddha’s death, the Sangha continued to grow, initially without a leader. But before his death he had told them the Dhamma-Vinaya, his teachings and monastic code would be their guide.

The role of the Sangha is to keep the teaching alive for the benefit of all beings. As one of the Three Jewels, the Sangha as Refuge—strictly speaking—refers to the community of Noble Beings, past or present, who have attained or realized one of the four stages of the spiritual path.

The first stage is that of Stream-winner, one who is free of the first three of ten afflictions known as the Ten Fetters that bind one to the world: the misunderstanding that there is an individual, separate personality (self); skeptical doubt in the Dharma; and the belief that rites and rituals in and of themselves are means to spiritual attainment. The Stream-winner is so firmly established in the Dharma that full awakening is guaranteed within seven lifetimes and is no longer subject to rebirth in a lower realm.

The Once-returner, in addition to being free of the first three fetters, is nearly free of the next two—sensuous craving and ill-will—and is assured of only one more rebirth in a human or lower heavenly realm, during which lifetime suffering will end.

The Non-returner is fully free of the first five afflictions and will not return again to this world.

The Arahant is fully free of the five remaining fetters: craving for fine-material existence and immaterial existence, and conceit, restlessness, and ignorance. An Arahant is a fully awakened being whose realization of Nirvana is complete. An Arahant, however, is not a buddha.

Sometimes these beings are referred to as the Eight Pairs of Noble Beings, e.g., Stream-winners and those established on the path to Stream-winner, and so on.

To take refuge in the Sangha ultimately means to rely on those who have attained the highest levels of spiritual practice. Conventionally speaking, it refers to the community of fully ordained monks and nuns.

In contemporary Western usage Sangha has come to mean “community of practitioners,” including lay practitioners. Used as such it refers to groups who may gather regularly to practice meditation together. Although this unorthodox usage will likely stick, it should be understood that taking Refuge in the Sangha does not mean taking refuge in any group of practitioners.

From my book Mapping the Dharma: A Concise Guide to the Middle Way of the Buddha

A variation of this is the bald man paradox. A man with a full head of hair loses one hair a day. At what point will he be considered bald? Surely not when he’s lost every single hair. So there must be a point somewhere between bald and not bald where there is some hair left.

I think this is the way it is with Buddhist practice. The point of practice to get rid of all the qualities that bind a person to samsara, the perpetual wandering through cycles of death and rebirth. The end is Nibbanna (Nirvana). These qualities are many and are listed as defilements (kilesa), taints (asava), hindrances (nivarana), fetters (samyojana), and so on.

With practice, though, you can pluck these one at a time until eventually you will be more “awakened” than not – even though there may be lots more work to be done. Skills develop over time and wisdom comes in stages. My skills may not be perfect nor my wisdom complete, but I gladly accept today’s skillfulness and wisdom over yesterday’s. The same will be true tomorrow. Just as I will have less hair tomorrow as I do today.