Be Not Defeated - Humane Humility - Part III

Be Not Defeated

Featured here is the third and final installation of our three-part series of reflections on the poem "Be not Defeated by the Rain" by Japanese Buddhist poet Kenji Miyazawa, who lived in the first part of the twentieth century during a period of rapid modernization in Japan. If you haven't already participated in our discussion of the earlier sections of the poem, feel free to tune in to Part I and Part II for a recap of the conversation.

As we enter the final lap, it may be helpful to note a few additional biographical details about Miyazawa's life that informed his contemplative reflections.

Reflecting his values, including a distaste for the trend of competitive commerce sweeping over the populace, as well as a distaste for the tendency toward seeking riches that preoccupied the lives of so many of his peers, Miyazawa voluntarily spent several months in severe poverty, devoting himself fully to Buddhism while living on the streets of Japan. Rejecting society's materialism, he lived a life of renunciation even after leaving the streets, giving up worldly pleasures in search of a higher happiness. His poem "Be not Defeated by the Rain" reflects this quest.

Times of Drought

Reminding us again of Miyazawa's concern about the ecological conditions of the world, the poem returns to an image already painted in its first few lines. We enter the scene through the poet's reflections, which depict a compassionate resilience in response to hardship. Consider the following.

In times of drought, shed tears of sympathy.
In summers cold, walk in concern and empathy.

Coming full circle to the ecological concerns raised earlier in the poem, here Miyazawa again references the weatherly whims which wash over the face of the earth in the form of drought and other natural disturbances to equilibrium, calling not for stoic indifference to them, but for a wise expression of emotion. Cultivating resilience is anything but a toughening up and stomping down of sentimentality. In fact, it may be the inverse. Perhaps for resilience to be made possible, or moreover, for resilience to be made effective, it has to be made affective. A softening of heart must be undergone.



Cold apathy is unlikely to be effective in the face of such hardship, suggests Miyazawa. In fact, it may backfire and lead to further damage by neglecting to call out the root of the problems facing the natural world and its inhabitants, including us. Notice the juxtaposition in the two images featured in these lines.

First, we are asked to mentally place ourselves in a time of drought. Under such conditions, the earth by every appearance dries up under the scorching rays of the sun. On its face form deep furrows, wrinkles reflecting the cracked surface of the earth. Soil that would otherwise remain moist with recent rain and morning dew instead hardens as the land becomes inhospitable. Plants wither and die from lack of water. Rather than maintain a firm upper lip, our response, writes Miyazawa, should be to shed tears of sympathy. Perhaps such tears metaphorically moisten the earth, restoring life to its otherwise deadened exterior. If we genuinely and wholeheartedly care about the earth, we will cease the behaviors that lead to its demise.

Second, amidst cold summers (another striking paradox) we are called to walk in concern and empathy. Whether the descriptor "cold" is intended as a reflection of either temperature or lack of emotion, the juxtaposition remains salient. In the case of the latter, one may temper such coldness through empathy and concern. A cold summer may perhaps reflect the apathetic non-response to much of the fires and heat waves that sweep across the earth. While certainly there are those who actively work toward solutions to climate change, many remain unconvinced that it warrants any change in their behaviors, privileging their own pleasure above the planet. Also notice that we are asked to walk in concern and empathy. The path of resilience is active, not passive. We are asked to keep going, to move forward rather than stagnate behind.

Humility

Nearing the conclusion of the poem, another strong sentiment finds expression, namely that of humility. Here we find Miyazawa showing his distaste for the ways of the mainstream, preoccupied as it is with fame and fortune. He expresses this sentiment not out of arrogance, but with a sense of humility.

Stand aloof of the unknowing masses:
Better dismissed as useless than flattered as a "Great Man."
This is my goal, the person I strive to become.

Eschewing societally reinforced standards of success such as status, Miyazawa charts his own path instead. Material greatness is the least of his priorities. Rather than seek such prestige through wealth and reputation, Miyazawa purposefully distances himself from this egocentric way of being. Notice that despite the invocation to stand aloof of the unknowing masses, Miyazawa, in the lines just prior, encouraged engaging directly with society in service. The approach here is not to place oneself above society in a holier-than-thou fashion, but to remain engaged in service for the benefit of others out of a humane humility.



To be flattered as a "Great Man" was of no concern to Miyazawa. He would rather have his life and character dismissed as useless, he reflects. Not out for profit or prestige, he preferred to remain humbly in the background, quietly serving others. Still waters run deep, they say.

Indeed, Miyazawa's poetry did not receive much, if any, attention until long after his early death at the age of 37. He wrote the poem "Be Not Defeated by the Rain" as he was dying of pneumonia. It's said that he refused to compromise his values, rejecting the heartier meals offered to him as a potential remedy for his ailment in favor of maintaining his vegetarian diet. He would rather suffer illness than allow another being's life to be taken for the sake of his survival.

"This is my goal, the person I strive to become" mark the final lines of the poem. The sincerity of such an aspiration can be felt throughout. We hope it will be of inspiration to others.

Be Not Defeated - Go Forth in Each Direction - Part II

Be Not Defeated

We continue here with our excursion through the contemplative reflections of Japanese poet Kenji Miyazawa in the motivational piece "Be not Defeated by the Rain," picking up from where we left off in our last post which covered the first several lines of the poem.

To catch everyone up to speed (or, rather, to slow down some), we will briefly summarize the main "take-aways" with regard to the first few lines. These reflections set the stage for those to come.

Recall the images evoked by the poem. Miyazawa succinctly takes us through the turmoil of excessive rain, fierce winds, winters beset by blizzards, and sweltering summers burdened with oppressive fever.



First, we heard from Miyazawa that in spite of the rain and wind, regardless of the winter snow or summer heat, one ought to be not defeated. Whatever weatherly whims (as we call them) sweep over us, do not be swept away by them. Pick up the pieces and strive on diligently.

Second, be led neither by desire nor anger, advises the poet. Our default mode of being typically entails being under the command of one or the other of these vices. Indeed, they are counted among the three poisons or unwholesome roots in Buddhist contemplative contexts, and have a similarly negative reputation among others. Uproot these habitual indulgences, Miyazawa tells us.

Third, resilience doesn't come equally as easily to all. We concluded the last piece by reflecting on the struggles faced by those already suffering immense hardship at the basest level, such as in war-torn communities where access to food, housing, and basic safety is precarious at best. To simply tell such communities to cultivate resilience is unlikely to work unless real structural, systemic, societal change is enacted. Yes, change must come from within, but it must also be enacted from without.

Contentment

As we continue our excursion, a major theme of the poem, a major sentiment throughout Miyazawa's reflections, is contentment with simplicity, contentment with little. We turn here to this theme of contentment.

Perhaps reflecting the challenges of his time, the challenges faced by a rapidly modernizing Japan under pressure to conform to European notions of material progress, it appears that Miyazawa resisted many of the incoming trends toward industrialization.

According to research by Melissa Anne-Marie Curley published as "Fruit, Fossils, Footprints: Cathecting Utopia in the Work of Miyazawa Kenji," Miyazawa was a devout Buddhist vegetarian, a teacher of agricultural science, and a utopian social activist, suggesting an appreciation of the natural world and an effort to ameliorate socio-economic disparities. Kilpatrick suggests that Miyazawa was troubled by the values held by his family, among whose main concerns were social status and material wealth. Veering toward another path, Miyazawa opted for renunciation instead. Consider the following lines from his poem.

A thatch-roof house, in a meadow, nestled in a pine grove's shade.
A handful of rice, some miso, and a few vegetables to suffice for the day.

Here, we find references to modest living conditions that are nonetheless full of value. The thatch-roof house is reminiscent of the "ten foot square hut" in another Japanese contemplative's reflections, both of them taking a minimalist form. The meadow, nestled in a pine grove's shade, conjures a landscape that one in the modern world may otherwise take for granted as a weekend get-away before returning to the bustle of the city, where the vivid contours of nature in its myriad hues grow faint as the memory fades with time, buried under more pressing business matters.

This wasn't just the poet's imagined fantasy world. It was the world before him in which he found value without need for modification.

Likewise, with but a handful of rice, some miso, and a few vegetables, the poet is satisfied. No fancy feast is envisioned. The simplest of meals will do. All he requires is that which will sustain him, nothing less, nothing more. Only this meager amount, by most standards, will suffice. He finds contentment with simplicity, contentment with little, with nothing left wanting.

Go Forth in Each Direction

After such reflections on contentment, the poem resumes by painting a portrait of human suffering while offering a means to ameliorate such maladies.

If, to the East, a child lies sick:
Go forth and nurse him to health.

If, to the West, an old lady stands exhausted:
Go forth, and relieve her of burden.

If, to the South, a man lies dying:
Go forth with words of courage to dispel his fear.

If, to the North, an argument or fight ensues:
Go forth and beg them stop such a waste of effort and of spirit.

Every direction we look, we are sure to witness suffering. In each direction, beings endure illness, fatigue, death, conflict and so on. Natural disaster befalls us, much of it being of our own making.



Rather than turn a blind eye to such suffering, we are called to help, to lend a hand to those in need. We are called to go forth in each direction in the spirit of service.

Through what means can this be accomplished?

We'd love to hear your reflections on the practical applications of the poem's message. Leave us a comment below to contribute to this ongoing conversation.

Be Not Defeated - Realistic Resilience - Part I

Be Not Defeated

"Be not defeated by the rain" (雨にもまけず) begins an unpublished piece by the Japanese poet Kenji Miyazawa. Discovered in a notebook buried in a trunk found in the author's home after his 1933 death, it charts the poet's reflections on hardship and resilience in the face of challenges encountered throughout his life, but could just as readily document the struggles of any being in this world at any point in time.

Our poetic excursions this month have traversed multiple intersecting contemplative paths, ranging from Tang dynasty Chinese hermit sages who ventured along endless trails through wintery mountain landscapes in search of the upper limits of the world, all the way to twentieth century German philosophers of ontology seeking personal retreat in forest huts, even stretching back a thousand some years into the realm of Egyptian-Jewish-inspired ancient Gnostic mystic feminists spontaneously expressing highly unorthodox sorts of paradoxes, to list a few.

Here we undertake the first in a series of articles examining this little known Japanese poem from the perspective of contemporary contemplative ecology. Noting the author's reference to drought and other climatological challenges, we draw parallels to circumstances of degradation affecting the natural world in the present. Not only does Miyazawa poignantly reflect on such environmentally related difficulties, he also demonstrates the capacity to remain resilient in their wake. We thus follow in Miyazawa's footsteps by offering a means to cultivate such resilience, perhaps even to help restore resilience to the natural world. Given the rapid deterioration of the environment in recent years, such resilience is all the more necessary as we move forward in order for a future to be possible. Be not defeated.

Weatherly Whims

Translated by David Sulz, the poem begins with Miyazawa referencing the weatherly whims of the natural world, calling for the cultivation of resilience amidst their cyclic turbulence. Such images make their reappearance later in the poem as well, alongside even more explicit images of suffering.

Be not defeated by the rain,
Nor let the wind prove your better.
Succumb not to the snows of winter,
Nor be bested by the heat of summer.

Such reflections on the weatherly whims of the planet could equally apply to any period of time and extend across the globe, plagued as it has been by natural disasters and, in more recent years, man-made disasters. Even as recently as a few months ago and continuing through the past weeks, the northern hemisphere experienced its hottest recorded summer to date. Meanwhile, despite reduced coverage and attention, the Amazon rainforest continues to burn, while various regions have endured torrential downpour in the form of devastating hurricanes and monstrous typhoons and still others are ravaged by flames swept unpredictably by raging winds.



Be not defeated by the rain...nor bested by the heat of summer. Rather than ignore these trends, which beings have endured for thousands of years and increasingly through the present, Miyazawa wholeheartedly acknowledges their presence, yet asks us not to succumb to them. But how?

Be strong in body,
Unfettered by desire,
Not enticed to anger.
Cultivate a quiet joy.
Count yourself last in everything.
Put others before you.
Watch well and listen closely.
Hold the learned lessons dear.

Rather than leave us in the dark, fortunately Miyazawa offers some suggestions on how to cultivate such resilience amidst turbulence, whether in the form of weatherly whims or the fires burning within.

Desire and Anger

Be strong in body, he says, unfettered by desire and not enticed to anger. Simple advice but with significant depth. We offer an interpretation here.

When under stress, as most will attest, our default response is to seek some form of artificial comfort - whether through over-indulgence in food or drink, mind-numbing media, or other substances used to dull the senses and distract us from the stressful situation at hand. Desire is abused as an escapist outlet.

If at all possible, suggests Miyazawa, remain unfettered by desire. Such indulgences only bind and shackle us.



Of note here is Miyazawa's contemplative background. A devout Buddhist, his personal philosophy entailed perception of the dangers that undergird sense pleasures. Sever such attachments, he suggests.

At the same time, to become averse to the world, angry and repressed, is just as binding and shackling. Letting anger get the better of us, we are defeated. Be unfettered by desire, while also not enticed to anger, advises Miyazawa. Subservient to neither, one is then free.

How does one free oneself from these vices, as they're sometimes called? Desire and anger are natural, visceral responses to environmental opportunities and threats. In some cases, they serve to further our survival. Yet in more cases than not, they hurt us (and others, including the environment) tremendously.

Whatever one's personal philosophy surrounding desire and anger, most will probably acknowledge that they disturb balance and harmony at the very least, destabilizing the capacity to maintain peace of mind.

Rarely are desire and anger overcome overnight. Rather, the process of dampening their intensity and loosening their hold over us is gradual. The practice of silent, sustained meditation, in which one comes face-to-face with the mind in all its raucousness, is one way to intimately familiarize oneself with its inner workings, enabling an understanding that allows for a gradual undoing of conditioned reactions characterized by desire and anger. Through repeated practice (over years, decades, lifetimes if one is willing to entertain such a possibility) the resilience builds.

Realistic Resilience

Yet how can populations already struggling with issues of war, famine, and poverty develop skills such as resilience when the need for it is far more urgent than can be developed gradually? Such an invitation to remain strong despite the storm may be reasonably within reach by those privileged enough to already have their basic needs met, but what of those who struggle day to day under far more precarious conditions?

We hope to crowd-source possible solutions to this question. What can be done to imbue struggling communities with resilience? Rather than a surface solution, we're asking about systemic change. Please contribute to the conversation if this is of interest to you. We actively encourage your ongoing reflections.

Truly, how can a realistic resilience be made possible while acknowledging the severity of issues faced by marginalized communities?

To be continued.

To the Root of a Tree - A Practice in Contemplative Ecology

To the Root of a Tree

"There is the case where a monk, having gone into the wilderness, to the root of a tree, or into an empty dwelling, considers this: 'This is empty of self or of anything pertaining to self.' This is called the emptiness awareness-release."

Mahāsuññata Sutta (MN 122), trans. Thanissaro Bhikkhu

"To the root of a tree" captures a key practice of Buddhist contemplatives and many others throughout the diverse traditions spanning the globe.

Such roots were not merely a physical footnote referenced only to describe a place, but were instead a core element of a psychological undertaking, a contemplative practice reconnecting humanity to nature. Rather than merely providing a seat by raising the hip bones above the knees like modern meditation cushions are intended to accomplish, such roots psychosomatically grounded meditators in the natural world.

It is this sort of grounding, both literal and metaphorical, that we pick up as a theme in this article. Here we probe the roots of trees as a means of re-rooting ourselves in the environment that sustains us and that we, in turn, are called to sustain.

Contemplative Ecology

Before we look into this practice, let us first revisit the notion of contemplative ecology. Various definitions exist of this term, but rather than pursue the technicalities of its meaning and thereby merely scratch the surface, we instead dig into its embodied implications.

Contemplative ecology is a movement, a return to a way of relating to nature that has been mostly lost to many of us in the modern world, detached as we are from the environment at large. Contemplative ecology is a conscientious approach, an intimately aware means of tuning in to the natural world and understanding ourselves as inextricably interwoven in its fabric.

Rather than inhabiting a privileged position at the top of some hierarchy, with domesticated animals below us, wild animals below them, birds and reptiles and fish further down, insects and plants even lower, followed by rocks and the like... instead, the contemplative ecologist, or ecological contemplative, understands that all such beings are equally part of a web held together by mutuality. When even a single member privileges itself above others, in essence it cuts its ties from the rest.

Practices in Contemplative Ecology

Within contemplative ecology, a key practice is simply to bring one's practice into nature. This requires no fancy equipment (although in mosquito-dense climates such as the humid tropics of Asia, one will often see meditators inside a transparent tent-like structure serving as a mosquito net), no special skills or advanced meditative prowess, no forking out hundreds of dollars for a fancy, upscale retreat. All one is asked to do is immerse oneself in one's natural surroundings. A park or forest, alongside a lake or river, or even a nearby garden is all it takes.

Whatever form one's practice takes, whether sitting quietly for a few minutes, softly reciting affirmations, a contemplative prayer, or a mantra, or simply walking mindfully, doing so in the midst of a natural setting can feel quite different than if one were to undertake the same practice inside a building or other enclosed space.

Recall that in the opening quote, the Buddha describes a contemplative going into the wilderness, to the root of a tree, for meditation. While an empty dwelling is included alongside such a description as a valid alternative, it is no substitute capable of replacing nature. Much of the Buddha's meditation practice, as well as that of other contemplatives, took place in nature, not inside a building. Only later in his contemplative career were monasteries donated to the monastics, their construction commissioned by kings. These structures certainly came in handy and were put to good use, especially during the long monsoon season characterized by torrential downpours for days, weeks, months on end, but the Buddha and other contemplatives returned to nature whenever possible for meditation.



What does it mean to return to the root of a tree?

Such an invitation occurs on several occasions throughout the early discourses. In other words, we find the Buddha consistently admonishing contemplatives to undertake this sort of ecological practice. Recall the passage, "There is the case where a monk, having gone into the wilderness, to the root of a tree, or into an empty dwelling, considers this: 'This is empty of self or of anything pertaining to self.' This is called the emptiness awareness-release."

Here, we find the theme of emptiness resurfacing.

From Ego to Eco

While this practice can be undertaken in any setting, meditating upon "emptiness" while in nature has a particularly transformative effect. When one realizes all phenomena to be "empty of self or of anything pertaining to self," one loosens one's grasp of the ego. Such grasping, which so often characterizes our approach to work, relationships, and school (e.g., "I have to impress others to get them to approve of me," "I have to prove myself to get this promotion," "I have to say something to get others to like me," or other thoughts orbiting around "me" and "my" reputation) makes us feel tight and full of stress. By seeing through these ego-centric tendencies, one is able to set them aside. A profound relaxation occurs, not only mentally, but one that can be felt throughout the entire body.

Particularly when undertaken in natural settings, such dissolving of the sense of ego through meditating on emptiness lends itself to deeper connection with the environment, which is no longer perceived as separate, distant, or other. One becomes less ego-centric, more eco-centric, moving from ego to eco through an expanded awareness, "emptiness awareness-release."



The Buddha was born under the protection of a tree, who is said to have lowered its branches to help his mother during the birthing process. The Buddha was enlightened at the root of a tree, having found the middle way after seeing through the extremes of self-indulgence and self-mortification. The Buddha passed away in a forest grove surrounded by trees, completely extinguishing all suffering, in like manner as water that extinguishes flames in a forest.

May all beings be relieved of the fires that burn within. May the natural world be relieved of the fires that burn without.

To be continued.

Braiding Sweetgrass - A Potawatomi Botanist's Reflections on Language and Contemplative Ecology

Braiding Sweetgrass

In our day-to-day experience in the modern world, it may prove challenging to maintain an awareness of the life that animates nature, or even how inextricably intertwined our lives are with the natural world. With so much of the natural world seemingly crumbling before our very eyes, contemplative ecology is an urgent undertaking. In fact, that so much of the natural world is crumbling not before our very eyes, but behind the guise of economic growth and progress, is among the most pressing issues in need of attention. Too often, we do not directly witness the devastation and destruction that befalls nature, and thus we turn a blind eye to its demise, a deaf ear to its cries...

Here we venture into the contemplative reflections contained in Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer, a botanist and member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation.

While not (yet) a classic, instead published quite recently in 2013, Braiding Sweetgrass is no less illuminating than the others we've addressed. Our emphasis thus far has been on pieces that date back hundreds to thousands of years, which have proven themselves surprisingly relevant today, perhaps even as much as they were to people in vastly different times and contexts. Yet intuitive value imbues recent contemplative undertakings as well. In this case, its recency makes it all the more relevant to contemporary concerns, especially environmental. Like several of our other explorations, Braiding Sweetgrass also traverses the realm of language, a path we invite you to explore with us.

Reflections on Language

Taking the form of a first-person narrative interwoven with contemplative musings and botanical themes, Braiding Sweetgrass includes several poignant reflections on language. For instance, drawing on personal experience, Kimmerer describes her efforts at learning a new language, a task many of us may have also undertaken at some time or another. In the course of this effort, she discovers that the natural world has its own language and is, in essence, “speaking” to us. Too often, we fail to comprehend the message.

In Braiding Sweetgrass, Kimmerer observes that the English language remains a limited starting point for understanding the language of nature, insofar as its words and concepts fail to do justice to the animation that the land itself embodies, the stories it narrates.

Contemplating linguistic trends, Kimmerer notes that English is a noun-based language while only roughly 30 percent of English words are verbs, perhaps suggesting an emphasis on entities to the neglect of processes. Given the structures inherent in English language conventions, privilege is given to a solid perspective of the world. Our attention defaults to objects which we can clearly perceive, firmly grasp, and definitively make-sense-of. Anything else either eludes our awareness or remains in the shadowy background or blurry periphery of conscious experience, the sub-conscious. Further, the English language implies that nouns are inanimate given that they are simply “things” rather than imbued with a life of their own. This comes in stark contrast to the Potawatomi language, wherein both nouns and verbs may be animate and inanimate, Kimmerer reflects.



Interestingly, Kimmerer also reflects that the natural world, both plants and animals (including rocks) are animate, and so are mountains, water, fire... even places. When they are displaced, their living essence is disturbed.

Consider a cave and a museum. When the cave is ransacked and objects are taken from it for installation in a museum exhibit, on one hand those objects are made more widely accessible to the general public, who stand to learn immensely about archaeology, history, and ancient cultures by examining these artifacts. However, something is lost in the process, namely through the objectification of those artifacts, which before entering the museum, perhaps did not even function as objects or artifacts in the same sense that they do upon being branded as such. The cave is a living entity that “speaks” to us, whereas in a museum, the living aspect of language is lost and thus artifacts can only speak indirectly, divorced from context.

We use this example as a rather benign case relative to extreme situations entailing the appropriation of nature and indigenous cultures, situations that unfortunately haunt a great deal of human history, especially recent...

Common Language

Broadening the scope of her contemplations, Kimmerer observes that plants, animals, and humans share a common language that functions to bring individuals together. However, it seems that the manner in which we approach this process of communication can backfire, setting up barriers that prevent us from speaking to one another. Increasingly over time, individuals, especially in non-indigenous contexts, have tended to isolate themselves from the natural world, whether consciously or unconsciously. In light of rapid industrialization, we've been torn, willingly or unwillingly, from the land. The land, in turn, has been razed; animals, confined; forests, burnt to ashes.

In other words, hierarchical language has the potential to divide humans, animals, and the surrounding environment. A language that sees the natural world as populated by mere objects to be used for human pleasure and so-called progress is a language that divides us.



As difficult as it may be to envision, animate and inanimate beings speak a common language and impart wisdom to each other, according to Kimmerer. If we lack the ability to tune in to this shared language, the message is lost on deaf ears. It is not the case that we are utterly incapable of tuning in. Far from it. Rather, we increasingly overlook the value of such communication given an overwhelming societal push toward economic growth at the expense of the natural world, the very ecology we inhabit.

Kimmerer reflects that when we see a maple as a living thing, instead of an object, we hold a moral responsibility to safeguard it, allowing for mutual benefit and interconnection as opposed to exploitation. In fact, when we regard the maple as an object, such a perception imposes an artificial barrier that divides us from the shared world that we inhabit.

Contemplative Ecology

Certainly far more could be said of Kimmerer's work, but we pause here for the time being. Contemplative ecology, an approach to the natural world that entails an ongoing awareness of environmental illness and wellness, as well as our dependency upon its state of health for our very survival, is absolutely essential now more than ever. We intend to follow-up on the theme of contemplative ecology, as well as several practices complementary to or derived from contemplative ecology, in the reflections to come.

Mind is Moving - Understanding the Mechanics of Mind Behind Ordinary Experience

Mechanics of Mind

The mind is moving... so said some sage or saint. As a poetic observation on the contemplative path, it may catch the eye for a moment, then fade from the memory. As an assessment of the human condition to be integrated into an understanding of the mechanics of mind, however, it stands to spur revolutionary change.

Indeed, the movements of mind and the turnings of thought are themes we've addressed from multiple angles already. Understanding the mechanics of this process, whereby we get lost and tossed about in a mess of our own creation, is the key to unshackling ourselves from it. Understanding the mechanics of mind allows us to harness its potential and re-route, channel, re-orient its power in an adaptive direction.

A bit of background on the mechanics of mind may be helpful, first. We recommend taking a look at another recent article on the "currents of construing" before plunging into this one.

Ordinary Mind

Here, we find ourselves back in Tang dynasty China, this time walking alongside the Sixth Patriarch of the Chan (Chinese Zen) tradition, whose name was Huineng.

Born in southern China to a working class family, Huineng is widely known in the Chan tradition as an "illiterate barbarian" whose kitchen rice threshing and chopping wood for the monastery embodied the spirit of Chan in ordinary activity. As evidenced by its record, the Chan tradition sought to shatter preconceived notions and upset the status quo. By some accounts, it is even said that "ordinary mind is the way," that the everyday, ordinary mind, even in lacking education or embellishment, is the very embodiment of the contemplative path.



Like Hanshan, the "Cold Mountain" poet-recluse, Huineng also composed several famous poems, which completely overturned the conventions of his time. Rather than drawing on literary expertise, the ordinary mind and its capacity to immerse fully in ordinary activity were the basis for Huineng's poetic insights.

Although illiterate, Huineng's "spoken-word" was written down with the aid of a scribe, allowing him to win a poetry contest and prove his worthiness as an heir to the Chan lineage. His teachings were later compiled and recorded in the Sixth Patriarch's Platform Sutra (六祖壇經), which documents major events in his contemplative career as well as teachings from the Chan school on the nature of the mind.

Mind is Moving

On the nature of the mind, Huineng is short but sweet in his reflections.

Telling of his ordinariness and reflecting his on-the-ground approach to contemplative practice, one such teaching unfurls in an exchange with a pair of fellow monks. While observing them squabble over a seemingly trivial question of whether a flag blowing in the wind is moving, or if the wind blowing the flag is moving, Huineng interjects. Their exchange unfolds as such:

At that time there was a [flag] waving in the breeze.

One monk there said, “The wind is moving.”

Another monk said, “The [flag] is moving.”

They argued on this incessantly.

I stepped forward and said, “It is not the wind that is moving, nor is it the [flag] that is moving. It is your minds that are moving, Kind Sirs.”

Everyone was startled.

(Trans. Buddhist Text Translation Society)

In quibbling over whether the wind or flag moves, the monks are swept away and wrapped up in fruitless debate. With precision, Huineng intervenes in order to halt their flailing about. A sort of stillness of mind amidst the flow of experience seems to be in order.

Without further comment, he points at their minds as the source of confusion.

Merely Discussing

But their question was the epitome of ordinary, you may note. They weren't debating the nature of the cosmos or other such lofty topics. What was the issue in their discussion?

Even in being ordinary, flag vs. wind, much like chicken vs. egg, mind vs. matter, nature vs. nurture and other such dichotomies, lends itself to argumentation and debate, seeking to prove one view right and others wrong. Such discussions seldom attend to the ordinary mind. Even ordinary questions may be pursued mindlessly. Perhaps the monks were merely discussing in a casual or playful tone, but they nonetheless lost sight of their own minds. When we engage in idle chatter, whether about the wind or flag, the weather or politics, we, too, often lose track of our own minds. While there's nothing inherently unwholesome about such discussions, they nonetheless tend to lead us astray. Our task is to keep track of the mind that gives rise to these habits.

Importantly, overhearing this remark by Huineng, another more senior monk by the name of Yinzong joins the conversation. Perhaps his interest was piqued, finding Huineng's response impressive. Yinzong cross-questions Huineng's meaning and discovers Huineng's “responses were direct, concise, and did not come from written texts” (Ibid). Meanwhile, Huineng reflects on "merely discussing."

He questioned me further, “How exactly was Huangmei’s [i.e., Hongren’s] teaching transferred?”

I replied, “There was no transfer. We merely discussed seeing the nature. There was no discussion of dhyana Samadhi or liberation.”

Yinzong asked, “Why was there no discussion about dhyana Samadhi or liberation?”

I said, “Because those are dualistic teachings, not the Buddha-Dharma. The Dharma of the Buddha is a non-dual Dharma.” (Ibid)

Here, we are reminded of Huineng's exchange with his teacher Hongren. Upon "receiving transmission," a process whereby a teacher recognizes the student's maturity, Huineng was deemed the "Sixth Patriarch" in the lineage of the Chan school, inheriting the prized robe and bowl from his teacher, the Fifth Patriarch. Yet Huineng recognizes that there is nothing substantial to such a title or attainment. Merely discussing, and seeing, the "nature" (one's innate capacity for enlightenment) is all there is to it.

Discussion of seeing one's capacity for enlightenment, however, differs from pompous claims to already being enlightened, holier-than-thou, or above all others. Not only are discussions of attainments potentially dualistic in assuming a hierarchy of identities which lend themselves to attachment, the concept of transference itself also implies dualism.

Huineng may subtly be pointing to the lack of dualism even between conversational partners. His stating, “We merely discussed seeing the nature,” collapses the duality between “Hongren” and “Huineng,” or “Fifth Patriarch” and “Sixth Patriarch.” Only through their selfless spontaneity can transformation be felt, which characterizes “transmission” more than any literal exchange of robe or bowl.

Ordinary Experience

So what relevance does this exchange have for us?

First, it alerts us to a tendency that undergirds much of our ordinary experience. What tendency? The tendency to spiral in thoughts about trivial matters, which distract us from addressing the more salient issues that plague us today, whether societal unrest, climate change, or others. Perhaps our ordinary experience can be a launching pad for extraordinary action, so long as we don't remain superficially attached to the ordinary. Rather, we may skillfully wield the ordinary and re-route the mind's default tendencies away from maladaptive functions toward adaptive functions for the sake of revolutionary change.

Second, it suggests that one means to overcome such a tendency entails seeing through dual notions, such as subject and object, self versus other. Is there a point, a meaningful point, to engaging in debate over something as trivial as whether the wind or flag moves? Why not both? Does it even matter, ultimately? Yes, they are parts of our ordinary experience, but why take them on face value? What about the winds that spread fires or the flags behind which people build a national identity opposed to those who are deemed "other"? Perhaps it is wiser to look at what gives rise to maladaptive, unwholesome, detrimental habits of mind.

How does one see through dual notions? By recognizing their insubstantiality. How does one recognize their insubstantiality? By attending to the quality of emptiness in every act of identification that begins to creep up on us. We will return to the practices that enable such wisdom soon.

Let us know what you think. Many thanks and good wishes.

Thunderous Silence - A Multitude of Words

Unorthodox Paradox

We return here to The Thunder, Perfect Mind, a Gnostic poem belonging to the Nag Hammadi Library, discovered in the mid-twentieth century, and translated into English by George W. MacRae. The origins of the poem date back to a Coptic manuscript from roughly 350 C.E., tracing itself even further to Greek antiquity.



Employing unorthodox paradox, perhaps for the purpose of shaking us from our ordinary stupor, the poem winds up taking us through the contemplations of a mystic. A Gnostic text, it combines Egyptian and Jewish influence and appears to document a goddess or other female divinity speaking of self-revelation. We tease apart a select few of its paradoxes here.

Thunderous Clap: Be On Your Guard

Heed the thunderous clap, "Be on your guard!" A recurring exclamation throughout The Thunder, Perfect Mind is this eerie, thunderous warning. Statements surrounding such a proclamation, from one angle at least, read as almost threatening. Watch your back, one might say. Thunder warns us of lightning to come, and lightning of thunder to follow. For instance, consider the following passage.

Do not be ignorant of me anywhere or any time. Be on your guard!
Do not be ignorant of me.
For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin.
I am and the daughter.
I am the members of my mother.
I am the barren one
and many are her sons.



I am she whose wedding is great,
and I have not taken a husband.
I am the midwife and she who does not bear.
I am the solace of my labor pains.
I am the bride and the bridegroom,
and it is my husband who begot me.
I am the mother of my father
and the sister of my husband
and he is my offspring.

While no explicit threats are made in the poem, some sort of intimidation is nonetheless apparent. The speaker is everything at once, mother of her father, sister of her husband, and her husband is her offspring, no less! The paradox shines through in glaring audacity. How can one be both bride and bridegroom? Barren yet with many sons? Whore yet virgin? Honored yet scorned?

I Am The Silence

Seeming contradictions abound as the paradox further unfurls. I am the silence, she says. In speaking, she is no less silent. In silence, she no less speaks. How do we make sense of it all?

I am the silence that is incomprehensible
and the idea whose remembrance is frequent.
I am the voice whose sound is manifold
and the word whose appearance is multiple.
I am the utterance of my name.

Perhaps such utterances are intended to shake us awake from the slumber in which we lay. The mind whose self-proclaimed duty is to make sense of it all is left confounded. This may be exactly the point. Such a mind cannot fathom the non-dual and so must be transcended. Not obliterated, not annihilated, not repressed, mind you, but overcome so that one may see from above, taking an aerial view.



Such a view is all-encompassing, much like the identity of the speaker, who continues with a series of further paradoxes.

Why, you who hate me, do you love me,
and hate those who love me?

You who deny me, confess me,
and you who confess me, deny me.

You who tell the truth about me, lie about me,
and you who have lied about me, tell the truth about me.

Here, too, the sense-making mind is at a loss. One is perhaps reminded of the turnings of thought, the process whereby the gears of logic start turning, thereby churning through a calculative process of attempted sense-making. In cases of the mystical, such an approach backfires.



Such seeming contradictions in logic aren't intended to be made-sense-of. Rather, perhaps they are intended to reorient the mind, away from the habitual tendencies of calculative thought, toward a more meditative style.

The following lines further illustrate this sort of reorientation.

You who know me, be ignorant of me,
and those who have not known me, let them know me.
For I am knowledge and ignorance.
I am shame and boldness.
I am shameless; I am ashamed.
I am strength and I am fear.
I am war and peace.

In speaking such paradoxes, the speaker may be nudging us toward the non-dual.

Poverty and Wealth

Similarly non-dual in orientation, as we tread deeper onto the poem's winding path, we encounter yet another juxtaposition, this time with socio-economic ramifications.

Give heed to my poverty and my wealth.

While presumably a reference particular to time and place, we may also consider such a command in light of contemporary conditions. We are asked to give heed to her poverty and her wealth.

What does she mean?



Perhaps with poverty and wealth, she alludes to the divisions of class. Collapsing such divisions, rendering them arbitrary and without inherent substance, she demands that we give heed to both. Perhaps such an invocation is relevant in light of the ever-growing gap between rich and poor throughout much of the world today. Give heed to both the rich and poor equally, without worshipping the rich as a concrete category while relegating the poor to the wastebin or gutter, as is so often the case. The politics of power must be actively challenged. Political commentaries aside, to see beyond such divisions while at the same time acknowledging their felt realities at the very least allows for a more fluid approach to the exchanges, transactions, we undergo economically, socially, and contemplatively.

Compassionate and Cruel

Before we know it, however, we are swept into another pair of paradoxes.

I am compassionate and I am cruel.

I am senseless and I am wise.

What may initially appear cruel may actually be profoundly compassionate. Imagine a parent shouting profanities at their child who runs into the street to chase after a ball. While ideally harsh speech may be set aside, the intention in such a situation is not to hurt the child, but to protect him. Likewise, the child may act senseless at times but exhibit wisdom all the while. Perhaps the speaker is the parent and the child.



Both compassionate yet cruel, senseless yet wise, she navigates the juxtaposition by refusing to inhabit a single position. Her nature is to shape-shift. She is malleable, conforming, deforming, and reforming to the conditions she encounters rather than fruitlessly forcing a fake, fixed identity, which has no ground on which to stand in the first place.

Life and Death

She hovers above this ground, while at other times plunging deep into it and unearthing what no others dared to excavate. Life and death so happen to be one such excavation.

I am the one who has been hated everywhere
and who has been loved everywhere.

I am the one whom they call Life,
and you have called Death.

I, I am godless,
and I am the one whose God is great.

Moving seamlessly between the hated and loved, life and death, the godless and God, she again manifests her malleability. She is like liquid gold, melted under heat, capable of being shaped into any form she chooses. Once she assumes one form, she liquefies once more and dissolves before assuming the next.

I Myself Will Appear, I Myself Will Hide

In this process, she alternates between that which appears and that which is hidden. She proclaims:

But whenever you hide yourselves,
I myself will appear.
For whenever you appear,
I myself will hide from you.

Here, she seems to follow us, yet when we attempt to follow her, she vanishes. She cannot be pinned down.

Come forward to childhood,
and do not despise it because it is small and it is little.
And do not turn away greatnesses in some parts from the smallnesses,
for the smallnesses are known from the greatnesses.

Collapsing even the great and small, she razes the ground so both yet neither may occupy it.

I am the one who is honored, and who is praised,
and who is despised scornfully.

I am peace...



...and war has come because of me.

And I am an alien and a citizen.
I am the substance and the one who has no substance.

Like those that came before them, these lines are mind-bending. Perhaps the author again intentionally pulls the rug from under our feet in order to stir her reader from his ordinary ways of thinking. The line “I am the substance and the one who has no substance” in particular hints at her amorphous aspect. She assumes a form only to leave it behind, to transform.

Those who are close to me have been ignorant of me,
and those who are far away from me are the ones who have known me.
On the day when I am close to you, you are far away from me,
and on the day when I am far away from you, I am close to you.

Such lines illustrate that perhaps being too close to something prevents our seeing it as a whole. Our vision grows myopic, or rather, shrinks. The resulting perspective is limited in the sense that one cannot see beyond what is already close. We take for granted that which is already present. Those with some distance may accommodate a broader view.

Multitude of Words

In this way, by taking a step back, we paradoxically move closer to the meaning.



Referencing a multitude of words yet without speaking, she says:

I am a mute who does not speak,
and great is my multitude of words.
Hear me in gentleness, and learn of me in roughness.
I am she who cries out,
and I am cast forth upon the face of the earth.
I prepare the bread and my mind within.
I am the knowledge of my name.
I am the one who cries out,
and I listen.

Indeed, a multitude of words could be employed to unpack and interpret her paradoxes, but by this point, we hope the potential intent has made itself all the more clear. In contemplative contexts such as these, paradox cannot be analyzed to any fruitful degree while preserving the non-dual import of the message. Certainly one may try to dissect the dualities, to unconfound the conundrum, but in so doing, one misses the contemplative call.

For what is inside of you is what is outside of you,
and the one who fashions you on the outside
is the one who shaped the inside of you.
And what you see outside of you, you see inside of you;
it is visible and it is your garment.

Ultimately, it seems that we are asked to dissolve the boundary between within and without, to access the divine that is present and pervasive in full unmediated immediacy.

Perfect Mind

Where does that leave us?

Embracing the thunderous silence seems to be at least one of the major themes woven throughout the lyrical cadence of The Thunder, Perfect Mind. We are left with the impression that it remains possible to see through the discriminating tendencies of the mind under siege by its own churning activity. Such tendencies otherwise give rise to perception of discrete aspects of the phenomenal world. We are left with a reality that seems full of contrasts and contradictions. Yet one may transcend this myopic perspective and thereby bring the mind to perfection. Rather than being led astray by the default tendency to dichotomize, one may consciously shift toward an equanimous receptivity to multiple points of view, without needing to attach or cling to any of them.

Such radical reorientation entails coming face to face with one's own strengths and weaknesses. I am compassionate and cruel, the poem reflects. Perhaps the poet hints that we have the opportunity to radically accept both the positive and negative at once. That's not to say we should allow cruelty to go unquestioned, but rather, we may dissolve its reputation of solidity. Perhaps neither compassion nor cruelty exist in any concrete way, being culturally conditioned constructs. Again, that's not to say we should downplay their differences, only that they're not permanent states. Clinging superficially to such categories sets us up to be disappointed. For those who understand and see through the so-called “ordinary” world, the poet asks for ignorance. And for those who are ignorant of themselves, the poet demands knowledge.

What say you?

Becoming a Sage at Peace - Stillness Amidst the Currents of Construing

Stillness Amidst the Currents

From the movements of mind to the turnings of thought, contemplative traditions have devised myriad metaphors for the makings of mental mischief. Such contemplative traditions also point toward a means out of this madness, by returning to an original state of stillness.



Here we turn to stillness as a source of solace, stability, security, and strength. While we draw from the early Buddhist tradition in this case, such emphasis on stillness stretches across contemplative traditions of antiquity up to the present. We wish to encourage further probing of this topic from the various traditions that address it. Each deserves to be heard.

On the subject of stillness, we first wish to invite contemplation of the following passage from the Pāli Canon's "Dhātuvibhaṅga Sutta," purportedly spoken by the historical Buddha some two and half millennia ago to a group of contemplatives-in-training in the township of Rājagaha while the Buddha was wandering the Magadhan lands of present-day northern India.



We are asked to reflect thus:

"'He has been stilled where the currents of construing do not flow. And when the currents of construing do not flow, he is said to be a sage at peace.' Thus was it said. With reference to what was it said? 'I am' is a construing. 'I am this' is a construing. 'I shall be' is a construing. 'I shall not be'... 'I shall be possessed of form'... 'I shall not be possessed of form'... 'I shall be percipient'... 'I shall not be percipient'... 'I shall be neither percipient nor non-percipient' is a construing. Construing is a disease, construing is a cancer, construing is an arrow. By going beyond all construing, he is said to be a sage at peace." (MN 140, trans. Thanissaro Bhikkhu)

Stilled where the currents of construing do not flow...



Stillness is an inner quality of imperturbable mental fortitude. Such stillness, by nature of being where the currents of construing do not flow, is sagely. Such stillness, by virtue of going beyond all construing, is peace.

While such stillness amidst the currents, even where the currents cease resists being put into words, we offer an attempt at understanding its purport, based on both the text itself and direct experience in contemplative practice.

Currents of Construing

It is said that one is stilled where the currents of construing do not flow. What does this image of "currents" tell us? What does "construing" entail?



An unusual feature within this passage is the word "construing," which doesn't usually appear in everyday vocabulary. Even more unusual is the depiction of such construing in the form of "currents," which conjures the image of flowing water. Except this water isn't simply flowing smoothly; it's churning in torrents. Such churning, as we've discussed in our explication of Patañjali's Yoga Sutras, characterizes the mind on the move, as it races from thought to thought, churning out imaginative ideation seemingly without end. While there is a time and place for such imaginative ideation, for it to continue unrelentingly, wreaking havoc upon the psyche through maladaptive self-reference, is an unpleasant reality for far too many.



Construing actually has a story behind it. Translators have rendered it in various ways. For instance, where Thanissaro Bhikkhu uses "construing," Ajahn Sujato uses "indentification" while Bhikkhu Bodhi uses "conceiving." The Pali is maññati, which also means "to imagine" and occurs in the "Dhātuvibhaṅga Sutta" in the form maññassavā and maññassave, both containing variations of the appended term assava, as well as maññitametaṃ, a compound of maññitaṃ + etaṃ.

Rather than getting bogged down in terminology, however, we merely wish to draw attention to the process in question, the process of conjuring ideas from the imagination, a process which has even been associated with illusion. "I am..." is a construing. "I shall be..." is a construing. "I shall not be..." is a construing. Such construing is likened to a disease, a cancer, an arrow. The harm inflicted through such construing occurs on account of ego-obsession. Why must our thoughts orbit incessantly around this "I"?

The essential piece to note with regard to such construing is that the "currents" of construing do not flow in the sage at peace. The waters are stilled. The mind grows calm and clear. How does one achieve this sagely stillness? How does one achieve such peace?

Becoming a Sage at Peace

A sage at peace is thus one who has brought the "currents of construing" to a stand-still. She is no longer tossed about by the churning current, no longer tossed about by the waves of thought that previously surged and ran rampant through the mind. Yet it should also be noted that for the sage at peace, stillness can be found even in the midst of movement.

Movement captures our attention, captivating the mind and holding it captive in chaos. Movement hogs the spotlight. Movement takes center stage.



Without a backdrop of stillness, we would not be capable of perceiving movement.

The rushing torrents of a mighty river move faster than we can register them, sweeping away our attention, turning it into a blur of movement. Yet the banks of the river, its basin, its foundation, are still and unmoving. Yes, technically the coursing of water erodes them slowly but surely. Everything is in constant flux. Yet even embedded in these changes is an undercurrent of stillness.

When we examine the mind, it seems to be rushing between thought formations in rapid fire. We thereby confuse the mind for the thoughts that race through it. If we're captivated and held captive by these thoughts, then the stillness beyond them remains outside our scope. The stream of thoughts running wildly through our minds can seem relentless, like a tumbling avalanche of thoughts cascading down to crush us beneath their weight.



How does one go about becoming a sage at peace under such avalanche-like torrents of thought, as depicted by the image of the currents of construing? Such a process can be halted simply through abstention. When any thought centered on some interpretation of "self" arises, thoughts like "I'm not good enough" or "I'm better than him" or other such comparative statements that orbit around ego, do not engage with it. Likewise, do not repress it. There is no use in stamping it down. Weeds trampled retain their roots. Such repressed thoughts will resurface with a vengeance.

Rather, maintain a watchful eye over the process of arising and subsiding.

When such a thought arises, watch it closely. Scrutinize it. Do not feed it. Do not fuel it. Watch it fade. Watch it dissolve. When we cease giving intrusive thoughts power, when we cease to nurture them, they wilt away. The currents dry up on their own. Where the currents of construing do not flow, she is said to be a sage at peace.

Stay tuned for more and leave us a comment if you're so inclined.

A Gnostic Poem - The Thunder, Perfect Mind

Given our recent foray into poetry, we share here a Gnostic poem belonging to the Nag Hammadi Library. Its language is striking, so for the time being, we let it speak for itself without commentary, intending to follow up later with reflections. We invite you to contemplate its message.

I was sent forth from the power,
and I have come to those who reflect upon me,
and I have been found among those who seek after me.
Look upon me, you who reflect upon me,
and you hearers, hear me.
You who are waiting for me, take me to yourselves.
And do not banish me from your sight.
And do not make your voice hate me, nor your hearing.
Do not be ignorant of me anywhere or any time. Be on your guard!
Do not be ignorant of me.
For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin.
I am and the daughter.
I am the members of my mother.
I am the barren one
and many are her sons.
I am she whose wedding is great,
and I have not taken a husband.
I am the midwife and she who does not bear.
I am the solace of my labor pains.
I am the bride and the bridegroom,
and it is my husband who begot me.
I am the mother of my father
and the sister of my husband
and he is my offspring.
I am the slave of him who prepared me.
I am the ruler of my offspring.
But he is the one who begot me before the time on a birthday.
And he is my offspring in (due) time,
and my power is from him.
I am the staff of his power in his youth,
and he is the rod of my old age.
And whatever he wills happens to me.
I am the silence that is incomprehensible
and the idea whose remembrance is frequent.
I am the voice whose sound is manifold
and the word whose appearance is multiple.
I am the utterance of my name.
Why, you who hate me, do you love me,
and hate those who love me?
You who deny me, confess me,
and you who confess me, deny me.
You who tell the truth about me, lie about me,
and you who have lied about me, tell the truth about me.
You who know me, be ignorant of me,
and those who have not known me, let them know me.
For I am knowledge and ignorance.
I am shame and boldness.
I am shameless; I am ashamed.
I am strength and I am fear.
I am war and peace.
Give heed to me.
I am the one who is disgraced and the great one.
Give heed to my poverty and my wealth.
Do not be arrogant to me when I am cast out upon the earth,
and you will find me in those that are to come.
And do not look upon me on the dung-heap
nor go and leave me cast out,
and you will find me in the kingdoms.
And do not look upon me when I am cast out among those who
are disgraced and in the least places,
nor laugh at me.
And do not cast me out among those who are slain in violence.
But I, I am compassionate and I am cruel.
Be on your guard!
Do not hate my obedience
and do not love my self-control.
In my weakness, do not forsake me,
and do not be afraid of my power.
For why do you despise my fear
and curse my pride?
But I am she who exists in all fears
and strength in trembling.
I am she who is weak,
and I am well in a pleasant place.
I am senseless and I am wise.
Why have you hated me in your counsels?
For I shall be silent among those who are silent,
and I shall appear and speak,
Why then have you hated me, you Greeks?
Because I am a barbarian among the barbarians?
For I am the wisdom of the Greeks
and the knowledge of the barbarians.
I am the judgement of the Greeks and of the barbarians.
I am the one whose image is great in Egypt
and the one who has no image among the barbarians.
I am the one who has been hated everywhere
and who has been loved everywhere.
I am the one whom they call Life,
and you have called Death.
I am the one whom they call Law,
and you have called Lawlessness.
I am the one whom you have pursued,
and I am the one whom you have seized.
I am the one whom you have scattered,
and you have gathered me together.
I am the one before whom you have been ashamed,
and you have been shameless to me.
I am she who does not keep festival,
and I am she whose festivals are many.
I, I am godless,
and I am the one whose God is great.
I am the one whom you have reflected upon,
and you have scorned me.
I am unlearned,
and they learn from me.
I am the one that you have despised,
and you reflect upon me.
I am the one whom you have hidden from,
and you appear to me.
But whenever you hide yourselves,
I myself will appear.
For whenever you appear,
I myself will hide from you.
Those who have [...] to it [...] senselessly [...].
Take me [... understanding] from grief.
and take me to yourselves from understanding and grief.
And take me to yourselves from places that are ugly and in ruin,
and rob from those which are good even though in ugliness.
Out of shame, take me to yourselves shamelessly;
and out of shamelessness and shame,
upbraid my members in yourselves.
And come forward to me, you who know me
and you who know my members,
and establish the great ones among the small first creatures.
Come forward to childhood,
and do not despise it because it is small and it is little.
And do not turn away greatnesses in some parts from the smallnesses,
for the smallnesses are known from the greatnesses.
Why do you curse me and honor me?
You have wounded and you have had mercy.
Do not separate me from the first ones whom you have known.
And do not cast anyone out nor turn anyone away
[...] turn you away and [... know] him not.
[...].
What is mine [...].
I know the first ones and those after them know me.
But I am the mind of [...] and the rest of [...].
I am the knowledge of my inquiry,
and the finding of those who seek after me,
and the command of those who ask of me,
and the power of the powers in my knowledge
of the angels, who have been sent at my word,
and of gods in their seasons by my counsel,
and of spirits of every man who exists with me,
and of women who dwell within me.
I am the one who is honored, and who is praised,
and who is despised scornfully.
I am peace,
and war has come because of me.
And I am an alien and a citizen.
I am the substance and the one who has no substance.
Those who are without association with me are ignorant of me,
and those who are in my substance are the ones who know me.
Those who are close to me have been ignorant of me,
and those who are far away from me are the ones who have known me.
On the day when I am close to you, you are far away from me,
and on the day when I am far away from you, I am close to you.
[I am ...] within.
[I am ...] of the natures.
I am [...] of the creation of the spirits.
[...] request of the souls.
I am control and the uncontrollable.
I am the union and the dissolution.
I am the abiding and I am the dissolution.
I am the one below,
and they come up to me.
I am the judgment and the acquittal.
I, I am sinless,
and the root of sin derives from me.
I am lust in (outward) appearance,
and interior self-control exists within me.
I am the hearing which is attainable to everyone
and the speech which cannot be grasped.
I am a mute who does not speak,
and great is my multitude of words.
Hear me in gentleness, and learn of me in roughness.
I am she who cries out,
and I am cast forth upon the face of the earth.
I prepare the bread and my mind within.
I am the knowledge of my name.
I am the one who cries out,
and I listen.
I appear and [...] walk in [...] seal of my [...].
I am [...] the defense [...].
I am the one who is called Truth
and iniquity [...].
You honor me [...] and you whisper against me.
You who are vanquished, judge them (who vanquish you)
before they give judgment against you,
because the judge and partiality exist in you.
If you are condemned by this one, who will acquit you?
Or, if you are acquitted by him, who will be able to detain you?
For what is inside of you is what is outside of you,
and the one who fashions you on the outside
is the one who shaped the inside of you.
And what you see outside of you, you see inside of you;
it is visible and it is your garment.
Hear me, you hearers
and learn of my words, you who know me.
I am the hearing that is attainable to everything;
I am the speech that cannot be grasped.
I am the name of the sound
and the sound of the name.
I am the sign of the letter
and the designation of the division.
And I [...].
(3 lines missing)
[...] light [...].
[...] hearers [...] to you
[...] the great power.
And [...] will not move the name.
[...] to the one who created me.
And I will speak his name.
Look then at his words
and all the writings which have been completed.
Give heed then, you hearers
and you also, the angels and those who have been sent,
and you spirits who have arisen from the dead.
For I am the one who alone exists,
and I have no one who will judge me.
For many are the pleasant forms which exist in numerous sins,
and incontinencies,
and disgraceful passions,
and fleeting pleasures,
which (men) embrace until they become sober
and go up to their resting place.
And they will find me there,
and they will live,
and they will not die again.

-The Thunder, Perfect Mind
(trans. George W. MacRae)