2020 - Happy New Year!

Happy New Year!

With the end of one year and the start of the next, we pause to reflect on our journey thus far and to extend our gratitude to all.

In this constant, contemplative flux, we welcome your feedback. Requests for topics are open! If there is any theme you would like to see featured in the new year, please leave us a comment to let us know.

May 2020 unfold with clarity. Wishing all a happy new year!

Speak Unto Beings In A Dream - A Deep Dive Into Judeo-Christian Dream Worlds

Speak Unto Beings In A Dream ...

And he said, "Hear now my words: If there be a prophet among you, I the LORD will make myself known unto him in a vision, and will speak unto him in a dream."

⁠— Numbers 12:6

Passages on dreaming abound throughout the Judeo-Christian traditions, referencing communication between humanity and the divine via altered states. Prophets receive revelation through visions and dreams, imparted to them by a higher power. In the Hebrew and Greek texts of these traditions, it seems to be common sense that dreams should inspire spiritual insight.



In the spirit of the holiday season, with both Christmas and Hanukkah upon us, here we dive into a handful of the most compelling passages on dreaming from the Jewish and Christian traditions, from the Torah to the Bible, exploring their implications for the broader religious philosophy of dreaming.

Walls of Pride

For contemplatives, dream states provide ideal conditions in which to experience revelation, as they may knock down the walls of pride that otherwise stand in the way of spiritual insight. In the Book of Job, dreaming is described as a state in which one's defenses fall. While the vulnerability that arises in their absence can be utilized for good or for ill, divine intervention occurs only when the ego is shaken loose from its comfortable abode. In its wake, clarity resounds.

In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falls on people as they slumber in their beds,

He may speak in their ears and terrify them with warnings,

To turn them from wrongdoing and keep them from pride.

⁠— Job 33:15-17 (English Standard Version & New International Version)

Such passages may sound ominous from one angle, with forces swooping down from above to whisper fearful warnings in one's sleeping ears. Such messages could be interpreted as vaguely threatening. After all, when one is most vulnerable, anything can happen.

Dreams, whether divinely inspired or not, may warn of what may come by showing one's subconscious self at its most heedless. The mistakes we make in dreams occasionally unfold into waking life, but we may catch and correct them before they do. Here, frightful dream messages function to deter conceited misbehavior.

As with most texts, however, such passages can read quite differently under other translations. Terrifying warnings become seals of instruction. A nightmare becomes revelation.

In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, in slumberings upon the bed;

Then he openeth the ears of men, and sealeth their instruction,

That he may withdraw man from his purpose, and hide pride from man.

⁠— Job 33:15-17 (King James Version)

In dreams, our ears are most open, our minds most malleable. Like a goldsmith smelting gold, the divine seals its inscription, its instruction, upon dreaming beings, molding the realm of the mind. This plastic, plasmic world is infused with the spark of the creative.

In order for the message to truly leave its mark, it must bypass the ego. Although for some, a strong sense of self persists even into the realm of dreams, for others, it dissolves, so that the walls of pride no longer stand between humanity and the divine. When these walls of pride fall, when one's ears are open, then one may receive revelation.

Dream Worlds

In fact, in the Rabbinic literature, all walls collapse and the "spirit" (rwḥ) or "soul" (nšmh) is said to leave the body during sleep, which is likened to death. This incorporeal essence is depicted as wandering the world while the body sleeps. Dreams may very well be these wanderings.



Indeed, Rabbi Eliezer's interpretation, as recorded in his aggadic-midrashic work on the Torah, argues that the soul does not sleep, namely on account of its likeness with the Creator. Even at its most restful, it remains awake. Just as the soul does not perish upon death, so too, it remains active in sleep. The soul wanders these dream worlds. Sleep, however, is an incomplete form of death, while dreams, likewise, are an incomplete form of prophecy. Several additional pieces of Rabbinic literature make this case in mathematical terms.



Nonetheless, according to the Old Testament, consciousness detaches itself from volitional activity. One thus enters the state of šēnāh, sleep (Greek: hypnos), or tardēmāh, trance (Greek: enypnion), a deep sleep in which the flow of thought continues in the form of figments of the imagination and dreams.

Dive Into

As Descartes observed during his dive into dreaming, certain dreams are difficult to distinguish from waking life. There are nonetheless certain tell-tale signs that seem to mark the difference. Dreams often defy logic. Moreover, their contents rarely spill over into waking life in any satisfying way.

It will be as when a hungry man dreams – and behold, he is eating; But when he awakens, his hunger is not satisfied, or, as when a thirst man dreams – and behold, he is drinking, but when he awakens, behold, he is faint and his thirst is not quenched.

⁠— Isaiah 29:8

Having dived into the dream, the effects don't always linger upon resurfacing. The dreamer, though eating and drinking, remains hungry and thirsty upon waking. Even so, other aspects of dreams bleed into everyday waking life. Emotional remnants, sometimes unbeknownst to the dreamer, linger well into the day. In the New Testament, Pontius Pilate's wife expresses her concern over a dream of Jesus.

While he was sitting on the judgment seat, his wife sent him a message, saying, "Have nothing to do with that righteous Man; for last night I suffered greatly in a dream because of Him."

⁠— Matthew 27:19

Dreams leave us with strong impressions, the affective quality of which can haunt us. Heed their warnings, many will say.

Contents of the Subconcious

Prior to the birth of Jesus Christ, the Bible depicts Joseph receiving news from angels via dreams. Various others report similar occurrences. While such news may not always be auspicious, it is nonetheless delivered with care and urgency.

Even without the image of divine messengers interceding, dreams impart valuable lessons. While some dreams remain on the mundane level, many of them forgotten, others might be life-changing. What transpires in sleep, while dreaming, can on occasion prove earth-shattering, revealing the contents of the subconscious, excavating and unearthing otherwise buried and ignored patterns and processes.

If any of the above resonates, leave us a comment to let us know your own reflections on dreams. We thank you for your mutual exploration of this subject. May you dream deeply and wake with clarity.

Descartes on Dreaming - Impressions that Linger like Painted Images

Impressions that Linger...

Descartes is probably best known for his Meditations on First Philosophy and contributions to inquiries related to mind, body, and identity that still plague modern philosophical circles. A seventeenth century French thinker, it is in his honor that "Cartesian dualism" is invoked in order to reference the distinction between body and mind, the material and the immaterial.

Across his reflections, spanning mathematics and science to theology and metaphysics, the subject of dreaming is perhaps one of the lesser explored aspects of his meditations. Nearing the end of the first and throughout the second of his Meditations, the subject of dreaming is explored briefly, casting doubt onto the entire realm of experience. In invoking dreams, Descartes intends to demonstrate that one can doubt anything, even one's own experiences of so-called reality.



Few can flawlessly and consistently distinguish dreams from states of wakefulness. Lost at sea, we thus find ourselves misled by dreams, sometimes to the point that even in the first few moments upon waking, we continue to feel such a dream was real. Have you ever dreamed that a loved one had died, finding yourself waking up crying? Perhaps you've gotten into a heated argument in a dream, or an incredibly frustrating situation, waking with a lingering sense of anger. Dreams, especially the most vivid of them, leave us with emotional impressions that linger into the daytime, casting ripples into our waking life.

Continuing in our December dreaming theme, we explore the approach to dreaming undertaken by Descartes, whose radical doubt led him to call into question whether his entire experienced reality was a dream.

Like Painted Images

Beginning in "Meditation One," when his certainty about the experienced world first proceeds to unravel, Descartes reflects on the deceptive nature of dreams, which so closely resemble waking reality that they often mislead him into an illusory perception of the world.

Knowing that he has often mistook the contents of a dream for waking life, Descartes is thrown into confusion. Even in noting the distinct sensations of his wide-awake eyes, his head free from the heaviness of sleep, and the deliberate movement of his hands, he is still forced to doubt his experience. Despite his distinct perceptions of the fireplace and paper in front of him on which he records his reflections, he questions their reality.

Such things would not be so distinct for someone who is asleep. As if I did not recall having been deceived on other occasions even by similar thoughts in my dreams! As I consider these matters more carefully, I see so plainly that there are no definitive signs by which to distinguish being awake from being asleep. As a result, I am becoming quite dizzy, and this dizziness nearly convinces me that I am asleep.

Upon expressing such disorienting disbelief, Descartes decides to entertain the possibility he is in fact asleep and dreaming, inviting his readers to do the same. We are asked to enter into the dream alongside him.

What we see in our slumber are like painted images, Descartes reflects, based off of some truly existing form beyond the dream. How else could we have seen them in the dream if they were not based on some truth? After all, dreams draw upon waking reality to a large extent, just as a painter in depicting a mythical beast will combine the features of animals that truly exist. Distorted as they may be, they find some corresponding truth in the world beyond. Dreams are like painted images depicting mythical creatures, amalgamating pieces of reality into a fabricated new form.

Bedeviling Hoaxes

In admitting that dreams correspond at least in part to reality, to the extent that the bodies that occupy dreams must reflect bodies in the "real" world, or at least that basic elements of experience such as colors carry some truth to them, Descartes preserves a piece of his sanity. Quickly, however, he slips back into the dream, prompted by his reflections on whether God has maliciously deceived him through bedeviling hoaxes, dream-like appearances intended to mimic reality.

I will regard the heavens, the air, the earth, colors, shapes, sounds, and all external things as nothing but the bedeviling hoaxes of my dreams, with which he lays snares for my credulity.

Despite the discomfort such bedeviling hoaxes cause him, Descartes proclaims that he will commit himself fully to this meditation, as an experiment of sorts, to see where it leads him, to discover what it reveals. Except rather than an observer's neutrality, some agony seems to characterize his questioning.



Descartes is a prisoner to his dream, which holds him captive, surrounded by padded walls, lulled by its deceptive promises of safety. He lucidly reflects on this painful possibility.

I am not unlike a prisoner who enjoyed an imaginary freedom during his sleep, but, when he later begins to suspect that he is dreaming, fears being awakened and nonchalantly conspires with these pleasant illusions.

Fearful that he has become a prisoner to the bedeviling hoaxes that hold him tightly in their grasp, Descartes worries he will be incapable of the courage necessary to step out of the dream, that he will succumb to the illusion. He concludes his first meditation by reflecting that he dreads being awakened from this dream, given that "the toilsome wakefulness which follows from a peaceful rest" is accompanied not by the light of clarity but by the shadows of the larger philosophical questions looming over him.

Utterly Cease to Exist

As a result of these uncertainties, in "Meditation Two," Descartes admits to feeling as though he has been dragged under the waves as if in a whirlpool. Rather than drown in the vortex of doubt, however, he commits himself to clarity and thus investigates that which is most clear to him: that he is a "thinking thing." Perhaps his excessive thinking is what stirs the water to the point of agitation. His meditations certainly appear more stressful than they are peaceful.

During this meditation, Descartes continues to probe his so-called reality until he arrives at some certainty. He does so by stripping away all that he once knew, then rebuilding the foundations from the ground up. His process includes dissecting each component of his experience, whether the body, the senses, or thought itself.

What about sensing? Surely this too does not take place without a body; and I seemed to have sensed in my dreams many things that I later realized I did not sense. What about thinking? I make my discovery: thought exists; it alone cannot be separated from me. I am; I exist—this is certain. But for how long? For as long as I am thinking; for perhaps it could also come to pass that if I were to cease all thinking I would then utterly cease to exist. At this time I admit nothing that is not necessarily true. I am therefore precisely nothing but a thinking thing; that is, a mind, or intellect, or understanding, or reason—words of whose meanings I was previously ignorant. Yet I am a true thing and am truly existing; but what kind of thing? I have said it already: a thinking thing.

Herein seems to lie the root of his problem. Descartes believes that if he were to cease thinking, he would cease to exist. Regardless of the soundness of his reasoning, it seems clear that his meditations take a particularly discursive style, quite in contrast to meditations that still the burning, churning, turning of thoughts and the cascading currents of construing and conceptual proliferation. For other meditators, thinking subsides into an ambient clarity. Perhaps such meditators utterly did not exist in the first place. Setting aside metaphysics for now, the basis from which Descartes undertakes his meditations is nonetheless quite natural. "I" must exist, mustn't I?

Despite the complexity of such questions, his consistent invocation of dreams as a source of deception is an essential point for consideration. Here is where Descartes sits in his meditations beside meditators of other traditions, from the various strands of contemplative science pre-dating him, who also questioned the dream-like nature of so-called reality.

Descartes on Dreaming

While there remains much more to be unpacked from Descartes, we pause here for the time being with a concluding meditation, one that likewise invites you to participate.

Most relevant to our meditating with Descartes is the question of dreaming, the distinction between dreaming and waking. Can you actually feel a difference? Some dreams are so vivid, full of color, texture, emotion, that they elude our scrutiny. Rather than being caught and named dreams, they float on by without question until we awaken. Yet when one begins to scrutinize even waking life, waking reality, then the question takes on new depth.

Notice the feeling of switching between states, upon waking from a dream. How do you actually divide the two states of "dreaming" and "being awake"? What does it feel like to emerge from a dream, back into waking life? Perhaps the distinction between dreaming and waking is thinner, more porous and permeable, than otherwise assumed.

What reflections do these questions raise for you? Let us know by leaving a comment and contributing to the discussion. Smooth sailing on this course as you navigate the fine line between dreaming and waking.

Teardrops of the Stars - An Ecology of Cyclicality in Constant Flux

Teardrops of the Stars ...

In the Book of Tea (茶の本 Cha no Hon), Japanese author Okakura Kakuzō reflects, "Tell me, gentle flowers, teardrops of the stars, standing in the garden, nodding your heads to the bees as they sing of the dews and the sunbeams, are you aware of the fearful doom that awaits you? Dream on, sway and frolic while you may in the gentle breezes of summer. To-morrow a ruthless hand will close around your throats. You will be wrenched, torn asunder limb by limb, and borne away from your quiet homes." Again, we are reminded of the merciless reality of impermanence, whose grasp tightens around even the teardrops of the stars.

These teardrops, the flowers that dot the earth, are the epitome of the ephemeral.

Flowers, it would seem, lack an awareness of their own mortality. Dreaming, they remain blissfully ignorant. Humans, however, know all too well of their impending demise and have thus devised myriads of distractions to disguise what otherwise lies right before our eyes. At funerals, we dress corpses up with the finest of clothing, painting their faces with rosy cheeks to make them appear alive and well. Yet in other contexts and cultures, death is a viscerally visible vicissitude, needing no concealment. The metamorphosis of bodies as they decay and return to the earth is immediately present and uncensored for all to bear witness. While the phrase "teardrops of the stars" sounds mournful, conjuring an image of the heavens bearing witness to death, it also conveys an ecology of cyclicality. A flower is as connected to the earth in which it's planted as it is to the cosmos beyond.

An Ecology of Cyclicality

Recently, we delved into the muddy waters that sustain the lotus, exploring its symbolism in the early Buddhist tradition. Recall the image of the lotus, resting on the water's surface yet with roots extending deep into the primordial stew of the earth, an image to which the Buddha is likened. Revealing a contemplative ecology supportive of liberation, not only of oneself, but of other beings as well, such a path of neither clinging-attachment nor uncaring-detachment strikes the balance that characterizes the middle way.

Here, we take an even more explicit turn toward existential ecology. Recall from the lotus metaphor that cutting off a flower from its roots only ends its life. Not only does the severed flower wilt and die, it further decomposes as its petals decay and fragrance fades, returning to the soil that nourished and sustained it. Maintaining one's presence through continued connection to the mud below enables those who are awake to assist in waking others still dreaming. Yet the process of eventual demise can perhaps open our eyes to another important reality: that of impermanence.

The lotus, cut from its stalk, separated from its roots, wilts and returns to the very mud that gave it life. Even without having been severed from its source of sustenance, all life will eventually and inevitably cease in its present form. Rather than some bleak outlook on mortality, however, we offer here an exploration of the ecology of cyclicality and its relationship to the contemplative path.

In Constant Flux

This process of deterioration, as depicted by the flower's wilting or its being plucked, is universal to all organic matter. A similar cycle of disintegration even occurs psychologically, whether through injury to the biological systems that allow consciousness to manifest in vivo, or due to the aging process, even for reasons still unknown to us. The very aggregates, both mental and material, that comprise our bodies and minds cycle through their own process of de-coagulation and re-coagulation, their own ecology of cyclicality. Even the lotus emerged from mud and shall return to the mud from which it bloomed.

Before birth, the ingredients that will comprise our experience are integrated into a being through complex processes. Likewise for non-human animals and plants, each of whose bodies are comprised of the same basic organic material. Throughout our early life, as demarcated by childhood and adolescence, these ingredients transform in physical shape, size, and psychological signature.

All is in constant flux.

During late adulthood, sometimes even sooner, we experience the disintegration of such psycho-physical ingredients. Old age and sickness take their toll. The body malfunctions, the mind glitches. Assembled, hypothetically, from infinitely dissectable pieces organized into increasingly complex systems and sub-systems, the biological machinery that holds together and houses the processes that most will claim as their "own" sooner or later malfunctions. Despite its astounding capacities, the mind in all its nuance and complexity glitches like a computer gone rogue.

Even without a literal belief in rebirth, this cycle occurs organically through decomposition and disintegration of such ingredients, which are recycled into the environment at large, then re-utilized in the process of reintegration in a differently-arranged macro-form comprised of largely the same micro-ingredients. This body consists of atomic building-blocks tracing themselves to previous life-forms no longer present, to vegetation, to the same air breathed by beings several millennia ago. Its presence and activities cast a ripple into that which is yet to unfold, to be felt by future generations.

Embedded

On a practical level, what lessons can be gleaned from such reflections? Obviously, Okakura's inquiry is embedded in a far wider context, with but one tea leaf from the Book of Tea conveyed in the passage on flowers as "teardrops of the stars," dreaming away their short lives. What can we extrapolate from such an inquiry?

Briefly, perhaps in recognizing our place in the dream, awakening to the dynamic tapestry in which we ourselves are suspended, connected ecologically, cyclically, with all other processes, we will cease to perceive ourselves as the center of the universe. With this realization comes the ability to empathize with others, shifting the focus to beings beyond our own artificial bounds. Greater care for the rest of existence, knowing no separation to exist between oneself and all else, might just be possible. Perhaps a return to our own roots may lend itself to a more sustainable world.

As always, we invite your reflections. Please leave us a comment if there's anything on this or related subjects you might like to share. Many thanks for your continued presence in this constant flux.

The Diamond Sutra - Poetry in Practice while Dreaming in Dewdrops

The Diamond Sutra ...

A diamond is formed of carbon, the same element comprising much of the human body, the same element as coal. Its atoms arranged in a crystalline structure, forming myriads of tetrahedra stacked cubically, the diamond crystal lattice proves to be exceptionally strong.

Indeed, diamonds are said to last forever. Yet they too decay. In fact, they degrade to graphite under conditions that trigger re-arrangement of the crystal lattice.



Here we hone in on a piercingly poetic passage from the concluding chapter of the Vajracchedikā Prajñāpāramitā Sūtra (वज्रच्छेदिकाप्रज्ञापारमितासूत्र), better known as the Diamond Sutra, the oldest printed book to survive in its entirety.

Much like the diamond after which it takes its name, yet with the added implication that the text itself serves as a diamond cutter, some sharpness is to be expected. Tread carefully from here on out, as the diamond cutter carves and shapes all those who pass through it.

Poetry in Practice

Poetic passages pervade the Buddhist literary traditions, but the verse concluding the Diamond Sutra in particular packs a punch. In a mere four lines, it conveys the ephemeral nature of all that is conditioned (saṃskṛta). Rather than stagnant words on the page, however, we are invited to put poetry into practice.



Let's dive right into it. Classed within the "Perfection of Wisdom" genre of Mahāyāna Buddhism, at least three root texts exist of the Diamond Sutra. We include the Sanskrit and Chinese below, along with the Tibetan for safe measure.

tārakā timiraṃ dīpo māyāvaśyāya budbudaḥ
supinaṃ vidyud abhraṃ ca evaṃ draṣṭavya saṃskṛtam

何以故 一切有為法 如夢幻泡影 如露亦如電 應作如是觀

skar ma rab rib mar me daṅ | | sgyu ma zil ba chu bur daṅ |
| rmi lam glog daṅ sprin lta bur | | ’dus byas de ltar blta bar bya |

Paul Harrison translates the verse as follows:

A shooting star, a clouding of the sight, a lamp,
An illusion, a drop of dew, a bubble,
A dream, a lightning’s flash, a thunder cloud—
This is the way one should see the conditioned.

An even more poetic rendering reads:

So you should view this fleeting world:
A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream,
A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
A flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream.

Such poetic imagery illustrates the insubstantial, illusory, impermanent nature of phenomenal experience. Nothing lasts. Everything changes. All will become otherwise. That which is conditioned will become deconditioned. That which is composed of constituent parts will decompose into such constituent parts. Those parts, too, will disintegrate, as easily as a dream upon waking. The only "constant" is change, and even change is changing.



As the Diamond Sutra makes explicit with its invocation to contemplate these images, to see them as they are, one may integrate them into one's contemplative practice. Indeed, the bodhisattva, one committed to compassionately serving beings, must be attuned to the ever-evolving flux of conditions in order to work toward benefiting beings through behavior skillfully adapted to each being's complex conditions and causal continuum.

Dreaming in Dewdrops

Such a passage intentionally invokes illusory imagery to illustrate the insubstantiality of identity. A poetic image common to various texts, here one is reminded of the evanescence of all phenomena, which are empty of any fixed nature. As suggested by such imagery, one may practice meditation with the reflection that all phenomena are empty of an enduring self, likening even thoughts to the evaporation of dew drops or the disappearance of a lightning flash. When a bubble bursts, no substance remains, revealing its empty nature.

Through use of such imagery in one’s contemplative practice, one may find that one’s precious, cherished ego-bubble has been burst open, punctured by the sharp tip of diamond, stripping away the illusion of a myopic self distinct from others.



A shooting star vanishes in a bow across the sky almost as quickly as it appears. A clouding of the sight obscures the capacity to see. A lamp is lit and extinguished depending on the presence of fuel, heat, and the need for light. An illusion is conjured from misperception of sensory stimuli, like a mirage rising from the refraction of light off the desert sand. A drop of dew evaporates as the sun overtakes the sky at dawn. A bubble pops when pierced.

Likewise, a dream dissipates upon awakening. A lightning's flash disappears only to be followed by the rumbling of thunder, the lightning bolt having pierced through the atmosphere and opened a channel in the air, which collapses back in on itself, emitting a sound wave. A thunder cloud clears as winds disperse it. Such are all conditioned phenomena.

Waking, Bursting

While lingering in the dream, abiding in the dewdrop, may be comfortable, there comes a time to wake up, to burst open the bubble of illusion.

The processes of waking, bursting, can seem jarring, especially if a sharpened diamond, or worse, its even sharper cutter were prodding one awake, slicing through the sensitive membrane, bursting the bubble in which we lie asleep, encased in a dream. Despite the initial shock, however, such waking, bursting, is ultimately liberating.

What awaits on the other side, upon bursting awake? When traces of shooting stars vanish from the sky, what remains?

Zhuangzi's Butterfly Dream - Contemplating the Fluid Transformation of Things

Zhuangzi's Butterfly Dream ...

Perhaps you've heard this story, a dream within a dream attributed to the Daoist sage Zhuangzi, who lived in China in the fourth century BC(E). Zhuangzi's butterfly dream, as it's often called, is likely the most well-known of his writings.

A literary genius, contemplative ecologist, and master of the mind's musings, Zhuangzi's prose seamlessly weaves together vivid images from nature and philosophical reflections, amalgamating the meditative and the mystical. Zhuangzi's butterfly dream blends each of the qualities for which he is best regarded.

Here we dive into the dream with Zhuangzi and the butterfly, teasing apart its possible meanings, examining Zhuangzi's butterfly dream from within the dream itself. Please join us in these contemplations as we examine what it means to be awake within a dream.

Dreaming or Awake

Zhuangzi's butterfly dream sequence occurs in a section called "Discussion of the Equality of Things" (齊物論) within a larger collection of contemplative material. We can perhaps envision Zhuangzi waking from a dream and recording his recollections, meanwhile meditating on the question of whether he's still dreaming.

We offer here a translation of Zhuangzi's butterfly dream from the original Chinese, dating back nearly 2,500 years.

昔者莊周夢為蝴蝶，栩栩然蝴蝶也，自喻適志與，不知周也。俄然覺，則戚戚然周也。不知周之夢為蝴蝶與，蝴蝶之夢為周與？週與蝴蝶則必有分矣。此之謂物化。

Once, Zhuangzi dreamt he was a butterfly, so vividly a butterfly, following his every wish, not knowing he was Zhuangzi. Suddenly, he became aware, distressed, that he was Zhuangzi. He didn’t know whether he was Zhuangzi dreaming he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi. There must be a difference, then, between Zhuangzi and the butterfly. This is to speak of the transformation of things.

Do you know whether you're dreaming or awake? Such an inquiry appears to cause Zhuangzi some existential anxiety. While most other translations don't account for this, the presence of the term 戚戚 suggests distress. It is a duplicate of the character 戚, which consists of the radicals (i.e., parts) for "younger brother" (尗) and "axe" (戈), translated either as "relative" if emphasizing the familial reference, or "sorrow" if emphasizing the death of a loved one through injury, a visceral possibility.

Perhaps Zhuangzi's reflections prompt us to ask the same painful question of our "reality," namely, is this a dream? While this may not evoke grief, pain, or existential anxiety for everyone, and in fact may be a stimulating philosophical reflection for others, there may nonetheless remain a deep sense of profound uncertainty in response to it. How would I know? Who even am I, this "I" who is asking?

Transformation of Things

Oddly, Zhuangzi's reflections end somewhat abruptly by referencing the "transformation of things" (物化). Immediately beforehand, the characters Zhuangzi and the butterfly are deemed separate or distinct, divided, different (分). No further explanation is given, although several interpretations can be derived.

Perhaps that which is supposedly separate is nonetheless capable of transforming in an instant into the same sort of being as me. Each is simultaneously distinct from others yet transforming, shape-shifting into other forms, morphing as would a caterpillar to chrysalis, then butterfly, cycle upon cycle. Dreaming and waking epitomize this ecological cycle, as do birth and death.

Possibly, Zhuangzi's butterfly dream may further allude to birth and death and the transformations undergone not only at these existentially salient points, but also in the interim.

Typically, often subconsciously, we might assume that we are selves of some sort, fixed entities, identities that persist across our lifespan and perhaps even into the afterlife. However, even on a moment by moment basis, we constantly change roles, shuffle between identities, fluctuate in our physiology and psychology, hence the "transformation of things" Zhuangzi references in his reflections, which applies equally on the individual level as it does ecologically. One moment a butterfly, the next Zhuangzi, he realizes the shape-shifting nature of beings and the minds that underlie them.



A distinction is also drawn between waking and dreaming, but perhaps for Zhuangzi, they are not all that different after all. Waking and dreaming are fluid states in a similar sense to how birth and death are fluid, not fixed demarcations of an activity or identity cut off from all else.

We ordinary beings tend to assume that what we call our "selves" either cease at death or persist in some post-mortem state, whether eternally in another land or until the next birth. Zhuangzi suggests these identities of ours are constantly shape-shifting, even during the course of a night's sleep as the mind plunges into the deepest of its transformations. Perhaps in waking up from one dream, Zhuangzi has entered another. A dream within a dream within a dream, he questions his experience of the world, which in turn shows him the transforming nature of his own mind.

There is nothing guaranteeing that the so-called reality we experience is fixed in any way. Instead, it has a fluid character allowing for transformation (化). Of paramount importance in this transformation is the mind that gives rise to our experience of so-called reality.

Lucidity

In the course of his reflections, Zhuangzi cultivates some degree of lucidity, a clarity of discernment that enables him to question whether he is still caught in a dream-web of his own spinning. Perhaps all we've ever tasted is the fabric of our own minds, a fabrication passed off as reality. Such a fabric, a tapestry, a web comprised of intersecting threads with some viscosity to them holds the potential to catch and confine the butterfly.

What does that mean for us? While Zhuangzi's reflections on the butterfly dream end here, we can perhaps continue the inquiry by asking, what can be done to free ourselves, the transforming butterfly, from the web-like illusion spun by the spider of our own minds?

We're certainly curious to hear your reflections on dreaming, waking, birth, death, and the transformation of things. Please feel free to leave us a comment below. Safe travels in all you do, whether dreaming or awake.

Lotus Blooming From The Mud - Awake Within a Dream for the Sake of Other Beings

Lotus Blooming From The Mud ...

Throughout the various traditions of Buddhism, the image of the lotus surfaces time and time again. Resting gently on the water's surface, yet with roots extending deep into the mud below, it symbolizes the Buddha's status in the world. The lotus also stands for awakening itself, from the Sanskrit बुद्ध buddha, and बोधि bodhi — awakened.

An inspiring symbol of triumph over adversity, the lotus could even be said to represent a contemplative path of neither attachment nor detachment, being in the world but not of the world. Such a path is open and accessible to all, culminating in the deepest peace.



Here, we explore the symbolism of the lotus in the early Buddhist tradition. Drawing on a mere three key passages from the Pāli Canon, the lotus is brought to life — in full color, full fragrance, full bloom. Meanwhile, we also examine the implications of the lotus metaphor for contemplative practice, offering an ecology of practice for navigating a world seemingly in dream-like disarray.

Although the lotus hovers above the muck, it has its origins right within the muddy depths. With full lucidity, observe the lotus as it unfurls.

Unsmeared, Undrenched

Tracing itself across the Indian religious and philosophical traditions, the lotus is an important source of symbolism in Buddhism in particular. Standing for purity and transcendence, it also represents a connection to the earth and its muddy waters. After all, if the lotus flower were severed from its stalk and roots, which are firmly planted in the earthy sludge far beneath the water's pristine surface, the flower would soon wilt and die.

As such, we stand to learn quite a bit from the lotus. Its equipoise, balanced in stillness on the surface of the water while still connected to the muddy depths, can perhaps inspire or teach contemplatives like ourselves how to tread the middle way.



As a contemplative exercise of sorts, consider each of the following passages, scattered throughout the early strata of teachings contained in the Pāli Canon, all of them containing poetic references to the lotus as a symbol for the awakened one (बुद्ध buddha). The image of the lotus can even be invoked in visualization practice during formal meditation.

"As the prickly lotus is unsmeared by water & mud, so the sage, an exponent of peace, without greed, is unsmeared by sensuality & the world." (Snp 4.9)

"Like a blue lotus, rising up, unsmeared by water, unsmeared am I by the world, and so, brahman, I'm awake." (AN 4.36)

"As the flower of a lotus, arisen in water, blossoms, pure-scented and pleasing the mind, yet is not drenched by the water, in the same way, born in the world, the Buddha abides in the world; And like the lotus by water, he does not get drenched by the world." (Thag 15.2)

Such references are repeated dozens of times throughout the Pāli Canon and beyond. In them, we find the lotus symbolizing the Buddha's position with regard to the world — neither attached nor detached, neither aloof nor entrenched. Unsmeared, undrenched, he nonetheless remains part of the world. His immunity to the dream-like delusion allows him to remain in contact with the earth yet unsmeared by mud, undrenched by water, undeluded by the dream.



This sort of immunity could be considered a form of non-attachment, but it remains far from uncaring indifference or detachment. The Buddha awakened to the reality of existentially dissatisfactory turning and churning on the wheel of saṃsāra, a "wandering on" that is seemingly without end, leaving those in the cycle disoriented and depleted.

Despite awakening to this reality through training in lucid awareness, clear discernment, and meditative insight (vipassanā), thereby transcending its otherwise relentless grasp, the Buddha did not cut off all ties as detachment implies. Rather, he maintained an equanimous non-attachment as the cycle continued to churn for others, helping to free them from its nauseating course.

Awake Within A Dream

Recall again the meaning of the term Buddha (बुद्ध). Standing literally for "awakened," it is also invoked in the middle passage, "Like a blue lotus, rising up, unsmeared by water, unsmeared am I by the world, and so, brahman, I'm awake," which reads in Pāli, "puṇḍarīkaṃ yathā vaggu toyena nūpalippati / nūpalittomhi lokena tasmā buddhosmi brāhmaṇāti," a beautifully poetic reflection. Despite being awake, however, the Buddha continues to interact with dreaming beings.

What prompts him to proclaim himself awakened? Contextually, his statement is a response to an onslaught of questions from a brahman, a man of the highest caste, by the name of Dona, who followed his footprints to where the Buddha sat meditating under a tree.

Upon initially encountering the Buddha's footprints, Dona was astonished by how perfectly shaped they were, and even more struck by the pervasive peaceful presence emanating from the Buddha in his meditation. Intrigued, he wished to know who this mysterious being was and so inquired, “Are you a god? Are you a celestial being? Are you a nature spirit? Are you a human?” Awoken from his meditation, though without ever leaving it, the Buddha replies, "I am awake" (buddhosmi).



Although awakened to reality, he does not leave dreaming beings behind. Lucid in the dream, he does not fuel the illusion nor succumb to the delusion of its seeming stable, solid, substantial. He is in the world, but not of the world, present to the dream with awareness as pristine as the water's surface on which the lotus rests, but not overcome by it, unsmeared by mud, undrenched by water.

Cutting off all contact from the dream is not the point of training in lucid awareness, clear discernment, meditative insight (vipassanā). Upon awakening, the Buddha could very well have remained in seclusion, apart from the muddiness of the world. In fact, he entertained such an option, fearing others would not understand, but a visit from a god prompted him to reconsider. For the sake of others still dreaming, for the sake of "those with little dust in their eyes," he remained.

While he severed all bonds, he did not sever contact all together. Invoking the lotus metaphor once more, cutting off a flower from its roots only ends its life. Not only does the severed flower wilt and die, it further decomposes as its petals decay and fragrance fades, returning to the very soil that nourished and sustained it. Rather than prematurely end the dream, the Buddha awoke within it and assisted other beings.

For the Sake of Other Beings

Where does that leave us who are still dreaming, some of us in deep sleep and others perhaps on the brink of awakening? What we might be able to discern from such musings on the image and symbolism of the lotus is that awakening within a dream and remaining within the dream for the sake of those still dreaming is a path within reach.

Importantly, awakening to certain realities need not alienate us from those who are still dreaming. While seeing others continue to indulge in the dream, not knowing it to be so, can be immensely frustrating, such frustration is fruitless unless transformed into compassion to assist in the awakening process.



The lotus neither severs all ties from the mud beneath it nor buries itself in such mud. It rises to the surface, unsmeared by mud, undrenched by water, and makes itself an example for others through its fragrance and color.

By serving as an example in the world, the awakened manifest themselves to dreaming beings so that they too may awaken. May all beings be free.

The Katha Upanishad - Mortality and Immortality Personified

The Katha Upanishad ...

In one sense a "children's" story, which may find good company amidst a creepy campfire collection, yet with surprisingly advanced themes, the Katha Upanishad (कठोपनिषद् / कठ उपनिषद्) is a Sanskrit text of India dating to roughly the fifth century before the common era. It tells the tale of a young boy, Naciketas, son of the sage Vājashravas, and his encounters with the personification of Death.

Existential in content, the Katha Upanishad depicts lessons imparted by Death to the young Naciketas about the nature of the soul, Ātman, and its liberation, Moksha/Mokṣa. Despite his youth, Naciketas bravely confronts the reality of morality. Such topics are by no means off limits. Even children may die young.

Here dissect both the flesh and bones of death, examining the chapter-wise structure of the Katha Upanishad, its skeleton, while also fleshing out its content, the beating heart and soul that fills it with life, animating the text as corpus, as corpse. Halloween may be behind us, but death is always looming.

Mortality and Immortality

Setting the stage for the Katha Upanishad is an impactful image of death, shown to us at the very outset of its treatment of mortality. At the beginning of the text, in its very first chapter, the young Naciketas beholds an existential scene unfolding before his eyes. Watching cows being led to their slaughter, for the sake of ritual sacrifice, the curious child asks his father: Who will receive the sacrifice? In response to his son's inquiry, Vājashravas names "Death."

Naciketas thus begins his confrontation with life's final moments and the afterlife that follows. In the course of his education, both mortality and immortality show their faces. During his contemplations, Naciketas symbolically stays as “guest” in the “house” of Death, a central character in the encounter who oddly grants him three wishes.

Interestingly, Naciketas asks:

• 1. To be greeted with joy upon death


• 2. For "Death" (the character) to explain how a man with faith enjoys immortality in heaven


• 3. Whether a man who is dead exists or does not exist

Skirting around these questions, particularly the last, the personification of Death replies that such an inquiry is too complex — even the gods do not understand the nature of death and existence. Being but a child, perhaps Death underestimates Naciketas, dismissing him as lacking the spiritual maturity to comprehend what even the gods cannot fathom. Thus, Naciketas is asked to make an alternative wish in place of his question.

A stubborn child, perhaps determined to find an answer, Naciketas stands by his original question about death. Attempting to dissuade him, the character "Death" offers to fulfill Naciketas’s desires with material goods. Even so, Naciketas is unrelenting, acknowledging that material wealth is impermanent and ultimately unsatisfactory, demanding an answer to his question instead.

The Abode of Death

Given the child's unyielding persistence, Death realizes that Naciketas genuinely yearns for knowledge. Indeed, Death is forced to admit that the young boy, unusual for a mortal, much more for a child, remains unblinded by worldly desires. Evidently quite mature for his age, Naciketas confirms his advanced insights, noting, “What you call a treasure, I know to be transient; for by fleeting things one cannot gain the perennial.” Recognizing the boy's sincerity, Death reflects that for the vast majority, “satisfying desire is the foundation of the world,” but seeing that Naciketas has gone beyond this, offers the boy his “house.”

Accepting this invitation, Naciketas enters the abode of Death.

Deeming Naciketas as worthy of an answer upon bravely entering the abode of Death, it comes time to impart a core contemplative practice for the young boy's use. Given their undeniable presence and persistence, his spiritual inclinations should be nurtured. Death thus reveals the syllable “Om” (ॐ) which he deems the secret to obtaining one’s every wish. Psychologically, the vibrations its chanting induces exert a powerful calming and quieting effect over the otherwise scattered mind. In response to his question, Naciketas is informed by Death that the wise one is not born and does not die. Such is the eternal, imperishable soul, Ātman.

The Chariot

In the Katha Upanishad's discussion of Ātman, broadly representing the self or soul, we find the image of the chariot make its appearance. Also employed in Buddhist contexts, in the Katha Upanishad the chariot stands for the body. Its rider, the one holding the reins, is the eternal self, imperishable soul, Ātman.

All that is composed of myriad component parts must also decompose, dis-integrate, deteriorate—a lesson of the Katha Upanishad instilled in the young Naciketas by none other than Death, himself. Only Ātman is eternal, unified, whole without parts. The analogy is outlined in detail:

Ātman is the rider, while the body is the chariot.
Intellect is the charioteer, while mind is symbolized by the reins.
The senses are horses, while sense objects are the paths around them.

With these parallels, one may perhaps visualize a battle scene, with each character, each aspect of what we may typically consider a "being," depicted by each symbol. Ātman takes up the body as its vehicle, like a rider in a chariot, with its senses galloping toward sense objects, like horses navigating winding paths. Naciketas learns that Ātman is "the one who enjoys," the one who remains even when the chariot falls apart and its horses scatter.

Self-Control

Upon receiving this metaphor of the chariot, Naciketas also learns the importance of self control. As a young boy, he intuitively grasps what often takes people decades to understand, some entering old age without ever having learned. Namely, with mind uncontrolled, the senses disobey their master and one experiences sorrow, dissatisfaction, unease. However, with mind controlled, the senses obey their master and one experiences the complete and utter bliss of self-control. In like manner to a charioteer's reins controlling the direction taken by horses, the mind routes and re-routes the senses.

Mastery of this ability requires extensive training in self-control, but once achieved, the imperishable Ātman is at complete peace.

Consistent with other Upanishadic teachings, Naciketas also learns that God, Brahman is supreme. Not only that, but God is not separate from us. The contemplative path, which includes exercises in self-control, reunites us with God. For Upanishadic contemplatives, Brahman is the ultimate reality — the immortal, the pure, the source of all. Given their non-separation, both Brahman and Ātman are radiant, like light.

Most importantly, Naciketas learns that while fools seek externally for the divine, the wise look within. Here, one experiences liberation, Moksha/Mokṣa.

Yoga as Union

This reorientation, from seeking externally to turning within, reconnects us to God in the broad "Hindu" tradition, largely shaped by texts such as the Katha Upanishad. Drawing a distinction between the material and the immaterial worlds, the Katha Upanishad teaches that the soul is its own substance distinct from yet interacting with the senses and body. Whereas the senses and body come and go, only Brahman and Ātman are eternal.

Naciketas learns that knowing Brahman and Ātman, not merely intellectually, but in their totality through spiritual contemplation is the practice of yoga. Here, we may understand yoga as union, the seamless yoking together of Brahman and Ātman, which were never separate in the first place but are only misperceived as such by the unsettled mind. Understanding their union entails access to true immortality in the Upanishadic worldview.

We hope this abbreviated exploration of the Katha Upanishad illuminates the timeless wisdom of this Indian classic and its relevance to continued encounters with Death, a timeless existential truth. To be continued.

Contemplative Characters Contemporary to the Buddha

Contemplative Characters ...

In an age of doctrinal diversity, the modern era filled to its brim with competing political factions, religious sects, and personality cults, a basic "literacy" of such positions is helpful for navigating the increasingly uncertain ideological terrain that lies before us. Likewise for the Buddha's time.

Most know that the Buddha lived in what we now know to be northern India near the border with Nepal, his earliest teachings preserved in the Pāli language, others in Sanskrit and related dialects. While those encountering Buddhism in the present day and age are usually aware of the broad context in which the Buddha lived and taught, few are familiar with other spiritual teachers active in the same period. The Buddha certainly was not the only contemplative of his time.

Perhaps we may acquire a clearer understanding of the philosophies relevant and contemporary to the Buddha by investigating those philosophers he addresses by name, including, most notably, all who receive mention in an early text of the Pāli Canon from the Dīgha Nikāya, titled the Sāmaññaphala Sutta.

In particular, these teachers mentioned by the Buddha include:

• Pūraṇa Kassapa
• Makkhali Gosāla
• Ajita Kesakambalī
• Pakudha Kaccāyana
• Sañjaya Belaṭṭhiputta
• Nigaṇṭha Nātaputta

Each contemplative, in turn, had his own worldview or philosophy, his own teaching which he sought to impart to others. In this article, we wish to provide brief doctrinal biographies of contemplative characters contemporary to the Buddha for the sake of better understanding the contemplative context in which he lived and taught.

Amoralism and Pūraṇa Kassapa the Naturalist

The first contemplative to be mentioned in the Sāmaññaphala Sutta went by the name Pūraṇa Kassapa. He was a contemplative of the Buddha's time associated with amoralism, summarized by the Pāli term "akiriyaṃ," reflecting his belief that there are no evil acts or fruits of evil acts. Likewise, for Pūraṇa Kassapa, there were no good acts nor fruits of good acts. The kiriya in the term "akiriyaṃ" means "action" or "activity" and is closely associated with the more commonly recognized form karma in Sanskrit, or kamma in Pāli. Pūraṇa Kassapa was also known as an ahetuvadin, a denier of causality.

By asserting that there are neither actions nor the fruits (or results) of actions, Pūraṇa Kassapa denied the operation of karma. While it is important to note that there are multiple versions of karma, the pre-Buddhist notion tending toward a deterministic version and the Buddhist variation allowing a significant place for the role of intention or volition, all theories of karma entailed some understanding of the connection between cause and effect, act and result.

Pūraṇa Kassapa, however, believed that there would be no reward for good acts and no punishment for evil acts. One could practice giving and other virtuous acts but acquire no merit whatsoever. One could murder and steal yet not reap any consequences, in his view. The Buddha found this perspective to be dangerous and thus rejected it. Notably, Pūraṇa Kassapa, who believed himself to be omniscient, is said to have committed suicide by drowning, perhaps finding no point in living, death being his destiny anyway. We start off on a somewhat dark note by summarizing his doctrinal biography here.

Determinism and Makkhali Gosāla the Fatalist

Makkhali Gosāla, on the other hand, was a devoted "ājīvika," literally one who acts according to livelihood, also contemporary to the Buddha. He was a proponent of determinism or fatalism (niyativāda), according to which all that one experiences has been written in stone and there is no changing the course of events inscribed in one's fate. Makkhali Gosāla and his supporters followed their "ājīvika" livelihood not out of choice, but because it was pre-ordained.

Notably, Makkhali Gosāla used the notion of "saṃsārasuddhiṃ" (wandering on) to advance the belief that there are no causes or conditions within one's control for defilement or purification. In other words, one is absolutely powerless, as these factors are pre-destined. He and his followers denied the existence of free will.

What purpose, then, is there to any activity whatsoever? On face value, such a philosophy could easily lend itself to the spectrum of passive indifference, catatonia, or to a form of hedonism in which anything goes given that it's all pre-determined and outside one's control anyway. Makkhali Gosāla's teachings may have been popular among some, but the Buddha was not impressed.

Annihilationism and Ajita Kesakambalī the Materialist

Also contemporary to the Buddha was a contemplative character by the name of Ajita Kesakambalī, who taught a form of annihilation, according to which everything is annihilated, destroyed, obliterated upon death. His response to questions about his teaching can be summed up by the Pāli term "ucchedaṃ," literally referring to complete destruction.

Also associated with materialism (lokāyata), Ajita Kesakambalī emphasized only the present life, without recourse to past or future lifetimes. In other words, this life is all we have. According to Ajita Kesakambalī and the materlialists, all we are is composed of matter that is doomed to decay. Nothing survives or continues post-mortem.

Such a materialist and annihilationist worldview in the Buddha's time most often lent itself to a denial of morality. Even if moral causality operates within a single lifetime, it ends upon death. The Buddha avoided this sort of slippery slope by rejecting the extreme view of annihilationism, finding it limiting and even unskillful to teach. Others could easily get the wrong idea and begin to act irresponsibly, thinking "you only live once" and neglecting to take future ramifications into consideration.

Eternalism and Pakudha Kaccāyana the Amoral Atomist

Meanwhile, another contemplative named Pakudha Kaccāyana who was around at the same time as the Buddha advocated a form of eternalism (sassatavāda) based on a Pāli statement attributed to him, "aññena aññaṃ," meaning "something else" and amounting to a form of evasion. Rather than moral teachings, Pakudha Kaccāyana was pre-occupied with other matters.

Taking a somewhat scientific turn, Pakudha Kaccāyana was a contemplative mainly concerned with atomic theory. He summarized his insights to his followers through reference to seven eternal, non-interacting "elements," including earth, water, fire, air, pleasure, pain, and life. We may recognize and acknowledge the first four as elements, but to include pleasure, pain, and life as elements perhaps sounds unusual. Regardless of its peculiarity, Pakudha Kaccāyana regarded each as eternal building-blocks comprising reality as we know it.

Drawing from this theories of eternalism and atomism, Pakudha Kaccāyana proposed a form of amoralism, denying, for instance, that there is anyone who kills and no act of killing despite what otherwise would count as murder. Pakudha Kaccāyana claimed, in a rather reductionist manner, that a bladed weapon, when used against another, passes only through the seven substances. Nothing more. Nothing moral. The atoms would merely disperse and, given their eternality, would re-assemble elsewhere. This is a startling conclusion to reach, and the Buddha rejected it outright.

Agnosticism and Sañjaya Belaṭṭhiputta the Eel-Wriggler

Sañjaya Belaṭṭhiputta, a rather curious contemplative character, is associated with agnosticism (ajñana, literally not knowing or without knowledge) due to his strategic use of a debate technique known at the Buddha's time as "vikkhepaṃ" or evasion and equivocation.

Rather than put forth any coherent philosophy, Sañjaya Belaṭṭhiputta remained skeptical and uncommitted, which became a doctrine of its own, known in Pāli as amarāvikkhepavada, connoting endless equivocation. His response was often some variety of, "I don't think so. I don't think in that way. I don't think otherwise. I don't think not. I don't think not not."

Due to his use of this "neti neti" ("neither this nor that") response, Sañjaya Belaṭṭhiputta became associated with the "eel-wrigglers" (amarāvikkhepika) whose name characterizes their evasive efforts to wriggle themselves out of providing an answer when questioned, like a slippery eel squirming out of its catcher's grasp. The Buddha remained unimpressed with this sort of evasiveness. Whenever the Buddha, for instance, decided not to provide an answer to a question, he gave a legitimate reason. To merely go around saying "I don't think this, I don't think that" perhaps came across as deceptive or even lazy. Dissatisfied, several of Sañjaya Belaṭṭhiputta's followers left him, joining the Buddha instead.

Asceticism and Nigaṇṭha Nātaputta the Jain

Perhaps most familiar to us, as well as to the Buddha, might be Nigaṇṭha Nātaputta, otherwise known as Mahavira, the founder of Jainism. While the other teachers never gathered as much momentum, only Mahavira and the Buddha's legacies became recognized as religions. In fact, Buddhism and Jainism developed side by side, in the same place at the same time. Even visual depictions of Mahavira closely resemble the Buddha, and although their teachings were quite different in several ways, the statues that have been made of them are often confused for each other. While the previous teachers are likely brand new to most of us, Nigaṇṭha Nātaputta founded a major tradition still alive to this day.

Nigaṇṭha Nātaputta's teaching, which has developed into what we now know as Jainism, emphasized the importance of extreme observances, as depicted by the Pāli term "cātuyāmasaṃvaraṃ," meaning "fourfold restraint," as a means of burning off all karma without creating any anew. Nigaṇṭha Nātaputta taught his followers to go to extreme lengths in order to avoid any activity that would generate further existence.

Such methods involved severe dietary restrictions and avoiding even accidental harm to insects and invisible or microscopic beings in the spirit of absolute non-violence. Followers of Nigaṇṭha Nātaputta were asked to abstain from eating all animal products whatsoever, to avoid root vegetables because harvesting them would injure insects in the soil as well as kill the plant and prevent it from re-growing, and carefully filter their water in case there were any microscopic beings inside. Those who still practice Jainism, strictly observing Nigaṇṭha Nātaputta's regulations, may even refrain from walking on grass to avoid stepping on insects, gently sweep the path in front of them to clear it of ants, wear a breathing mask to prevent inhaling invisibly small beings, and so on. While commendable on one hand, the Buddha nonetheless found such observances impractical to demand of everyone and disagreed with the extremes that characterize strict Jainism.

Contemporary to the Buddha

Given that each of these contemplative characters lived contemporary to the Buddha, they undoubtedly influenced the context in which the Buddha formulated his own understanding of the world. We hope that by providing a brief doctrinal biography of each, we have shed light on the core features of their philosophies. While a mere three paragraphs each cannot do justice to the complexities and intricacies of their teachings, we hope they serve as a launching pad for further investigation.

Why should any of this matter to us? That the Buddha was familiar with the doctrines of other contemplatives, despite disagreeing with them, showcases his openness to hearing the perspectives of others. Rather than remaining willfully ignorant of his contemporaries, he made himself aware of what was going on in the contemplative world around him, building a sort of philosophical and contemplative literacy with regard to other emerging traditions.

Likewise, in our present experience, we encounter doctrines from diverse factions, many of them proclaiming themselves to be the sole truth. Rather that grow hostile toward them, or remain ignorant of their messages, we may at least try to understand what they teach. We are not required to agree with any of them in the slightest in the process of learning more about them.

Too often, we assume that multiple points of view cannot coexist in harmony. If we collectively work toward opening space for an understanding that unity can be found within plurality as opposed to conformity, we stand to grow substantially as a global community.

Certainly, if particular beliefs have a tendency to lead to harm for individuals or societies, they should be actively questioned, but not without understanding where they originate, what motivates and fuels them. The Buddha objected to each of the above listed contemplatives and even dismantled many of their doctrines, doing so not from a competitive quest to be the best, but out of a collectively minded effort to discern what conduces to suffering and what conduces to freedom. May all experience the freedom of clear discernment and unity within plurality. Feel free to leave us a comment below.

Ghalib on Love - Challenges in Pursuit of the Beloved

Ghalib on Love ...

Third in our series of mystical poetry from across the Hindu, Sufi, and Muslim traditions is Ghalib, an Agra-born poet who began writing classical poetry at age 11, composing work in both Urdu and Persian. He lived from 1797 to 1869 during the decline of the Mughal Empire, only a few centuries removed from the present. Continuing our excursion into the love poems of Indic poets, much of Ghalib's poetry also revolves around the theme of mystic love.

Indeed, for Ghalib, what lies hidden and veiled is a primordial love without beginning nor end. Showing both Sufi tendencies as well as Islamic influence, Ghalib cultivated a refined understanding of God's innateness within himself. Similar to Sanai's belief in an infinite inner force, Ghalib also felt that God is a divine power not separate from us, but arises from within our own consciousness as a reflection of our inherent (though often untapped) wellspring of love and compassion.

Here we inquire along with Ghalib, whose poetry asks us: how do we manifest love despite the challenges it poses?

My Religion is Breaking Rules

I believe in one God only; and my religion is breaking rules: (48)

When all sects go to pieces, they’ll become one part of true religion. (48)

Much like Kabir and Sanai who were similarly influenced by Hindu and Muslim teachings yet consciously broke free from established religion, Ghalib was also an independent thinker unbound by the trappings of religious norms and rituals. Knowing religion can be a binding force, Ghalib drew inspiration from those in religious circles yet held himself free from the regimented rules that restricted and constrained much of society.

When one blindly follows traditional practices without understanding the universal principles behind them, this only confines the practitioner to dogmatic religious ideologies, including a rote, abstract concept of love divorced from direct experience. Ghalib frames his religion with the reflection "my religion is breaking rules," believing that such rules stood in the way between man and God, obstructing their union.

Rather than submit to such rules as a means toward union with God, Ghalib remained a skeptic. He felt that union with God could be found not through rote performance of ritual obeisance, but through the wholehearted expression of boundless love for the infinite that is God himself.

Challenges of Love

Such reflections inspired Ghalib to chart his own path of love while grounding himself in a purposeful lived experience. However, such an undertaking by no means unfurled in perfect ease and comfort. In fact, Ghalib’s poems often reflect the painstaking, heart-breaking challenges of love. In the pursuit of his beloved, Ghalib is often at a complete and utter loss. He nevertheless endures the challenges of love, believing that to live out his full potential, he must transform and transcend his self-centeredness. In one poem, he writes:

The blood of my heart has not completely exited through my eyes. O death, let me stay a whole, the work we have is abundant enough. (43)

Given his plea to be spared from death in order to complete and fulfill the expression of his heart's yearnings, Ghalib appears to have unfinished business. Perhaps the poet has not yet exhausted his blood and vital energy into his work. Implied here is the poet’s unencumbered striving to remain in union with his beloved. The path of love requires one to exhaust one’s life breath into the object of desire, which for Ghalib is Allah, God.

Pursuit of the Beloved

Despite his committed, unrelenting pursuit of the beloved, Ghalib consistently faces seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Indeed, he reflects that the path of love is a training ground of sorts for one’s determination, capacity for experimentation, and response to failures.

She has a habit of torture, but doesn’t mean to end the love.

Such oppression is only teasing; we don’t imagine it as a test. (33)

To truly engage and understand such torture and teasing, one must come to embrace that the path is full of obstacles and that such obstacles are no less the path than moments of ecstatic union with the infinite, divine principle. Yet if one pushes too hard against such obstacles or feels it necessary to subject oneself to pain, such pressure can keep one from the goal. For instance, Ghalib writes:

God, I want to know why my desires bring the opposite effect.
The more I try to attract the Great One, the farther away she moves. (37)

Clearly the poet’s love affair is not a case of utter bliss. The beloved or Allah, depicted in feminine form, does not show Ghalib what we typically perceive as loving compassion, but rather, an abrasive dynamic insofar as She retreats from the mind that seeks for something to attain. For Ghalib, Allah by definition is "nothingness," ungraspable and thus unattainable. Despite knowing this, Ghalib continues to pursue Her.



During his pursuit of the beloved, Ghalib reflects that love’s full emergence and consummation requires immense patience:

Love requires waiting, but desire doesn’t want to wait.
The heart has no patience; it would rather bleed to death. (15)

Such patience is a theme he gives ample time and space for reflection.

The spiritual seekers are tired, two or three at each stage of the path.
The rest—who have given up—never knew your address at all. (35)

Only those who have patience will emerge out of their repeated failures and struggles and unravel the secrets of unity, reflects Ghalib.

Macrocosmic and Microcosmic

Ultimately, Ghalib reminds us that we are not separate from everything else, but intimately part of a dynamic process, deeply interrelated with the entire cosmos. Separation or duality is a consequence of ignorance:

If you can’t see the Ganges in a drop and the planet in a grain of sand,
Then your eyes are not adult but the eyes of infants. (31)

The drop grows happy by losing itself in the river.
A pain when beyond human range becomes something else. (45)

In these two couplets, we find images of the macrocosmic and microcosmic seamlessly intermingling. In a single drop can be seen the entire Ganges, while in but one grain of sand the planet spins. By becoming indistinguishable from the river, the droplet is fulfilled, consummated, restored to the innate wholeness it never, in actuality, lacked.



Such reflections imply that perhaps the solitary, separate, selfish ego that perceives itself always in contrast is the ultimate enemy to be vanquished in order for divine love to be sustained. To manifest love, Ghalib demands that the heart must be broken wide-open. Only then may the infinite pour in.

If your heart is still in one piece, cut your chest with a dagger.
If eyelashes are not soaked with blood, put a knife in your heart. (33)

While such imagery is certainly intense, it conveys the painstaking efforts Ghalib invested into reunion with his beloved. As we open our hearts, we gradually empty out the egoic self responsible for erecting prison-like boundaries, thereby limiting our freedom. Similar to Kabir who probed the tendency toward self-centeredness, Ghalib also highlights that our individual, mundane existence symbolically manifests its limitations in the form of playthings with little control over their destinies, guided instead by forces unbeknownst to it.

The world I see looks to me like a game of children.
Strange performances and plays go on night and day. (22)

Unable to see the futility of our grasping immaturity, we become part of a performance or play, enacting every petty thought that arises, not realizing them to be figments of our mind, games of our own creation. Our energy becomes scattered as we follow habituations unquestioningly rather than carefully observing the mind's activity. Thus is our conditioning:

The horse of life is galloping; we’ll never know the stopping place.

Our hands are not touching the reins, nor our feet the stirrups. (19)

In this sense, we lose the goal and life grows meaningless. However, taking back the reins, we have full control of the direction of our mind, thus opening the space for love to manifest. Therefore, resembling the approach of Kabir and Sanai, Ghalib emphasizes that the finite, limited self must die in order to become aware of its undifferentiated essence. He states that death is the cure to the terrible danger of existence:

Oh Ghalib, the sorrows of existence, what can cure them but death? (15)

Death inclines the lover towards everlasting union with the beloved. God is the only purpose that gives him a way out of his deadened, woeful state.

When I see God, color comes into my cheeks. (14)

Reconnection with the loved one (Allah) brings one back to life, which constitutes the very essence of humanity.

Coming Full Circle

Coming full circle, the whole journey towards God brings Ghalib back to the loving, nurturing womb-like vessel of God, from which we emerge and to which we return by following the footsteps of love. Thus, love is not a place to go but a process of continuous unfolding of one’s heart, the embodiment of devotion. The capacity to transform our habit energies based on the embodiment of love lies within the potential for witnessing something greater and bigger.

For the Sufi poets, union with God is the transcendent destination, but most importantly, the dynamic process of love is what kept them deeply interconnected, embodied, and committed to witnessing the unwavering love that lies hidden. Without subject or object, there is no existence and no separate identity, only pure love.

Thus the bond of love is the creative power, the womb of life that binds and holds the wholeness of creation together. In other words, it is the primordial glue that allows for the cohesion of the cosmos, the dynamic dance of unity.



The Lightning Should Have Fallen on Ghalib: Selected Poems of Ghalib. Ecco Press, 1999.