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.

Sanai on Love - Embodiment and Purification

Sanai on Love ...

Twelfth century Persian poet Hakim Sanai is credited with writing the first Persian mystical epic of Sufism, The Enclosed Garden of Truth (حدیقه الحقیقه و شریعه الطریقه). He was a major influence upon Rumi. Here we take a brief tour of the garden in search of Sanai's vision of love.

While Kabir’s path of love deepens our understanding of selflessness and invites us to remember God’s infinite consciousness devoid of “me” and “mine,” Sanai’s path of love advocates a gradual inner purification of the heart through which sedimented views are cleansed and removed. These impurities are obstacles that hinder mystical union.

For Sanai, only through the removal of all dust (i.e., pride, lust, greed, and other sensual passions) lying hidden within our hearts can one expand the limited mind to limitless awareness.

Embodiment

“The highroad by which thy spirit and prayers can travel towards God lies in the polishing of the mirror of the heart” (15) writes Sanai. Here the trope of the highroad stands for an ascent to God, a higher plane of embodiment that is accessible to us to the extent we cultivate to remove the dust of defilements.

Just as a mirror when stained by dust obscures the reflected image, so the limitless self (Allah, for Sanai) is obscured by its sensual contaminants. For Sanai, when the heart is wholly purged of sensual passions, then the brightness of God can be reflected and embodied.

You can better see thy image
In the mirror of thy heart than in thy clay.

Break loose from the chain you have fettered thyself with,
for you will be free when you have got clear from thy clay.

Since clay is dark and heart is bright,
Thy clay is a dustbin and thy heart a rose-garden (17).

In this image, we see the heart likened to a rose-garden and clay a dustbin. Clay stands for any of the heart's contaminants, those impurities that harden around us and weigh us down. Meanwhile, the dynamic of turning away one’s attention from the world to the inner awareness of God signifies that as we slowly empty ourselves of rubbish, sunlight begins to shine through our inner landscape of extravagant gardens, in whose lushness we become alive.

The brightness of God refers to the deeper dynamic dimension of love, our inner being. Clearing the muck and mud of our egocentric habits is a direct way to reclaim embodiment and connection to our inner awareness, for Sanai.

Purification

In the context of Sanai's poetry, purification is undertaken in order transcend our limitations, shifting the practitioner from a narrow framework in which they pursue the immediate gratification of sense pleasures to a panoramic perspective. In peering through a myopic lens, we limit ourselves to the realm of the finite. Our lives in this mode are characterized by duality and filled with dissatisfaction, always seeking something to fill the void. Yet when the seeker recognizes creator (Allah) and creation are one, her perspective widens immensely:

Then when the soul sets forth from the gate,
The old heart becomes new from there on.

His form escapes from the bonds of nature,
The heart gives back its charge to the spirit. (24)

This recognition of unity dissolves body boundaries between self and others. When there is no separation, awakening stirs within us, like the final moments of a dream as it dissolves in the early morning. With our limitations transcended, we are returned to an embodied, non-dual, panoramic awareness that was with us since time immemorial, only obscured by choices of our own making.

Fabrication of Duality

Like Kabir's protest against dualism, feeling that the individual self must be shattered in order to transcend dualistic notions, Sanai similarly asserts that duality is an obstacle on the path of love.

In the face of his belief in the Unity, There exists for him no old or new; All is naught, naught; He alone is. (86)

Sanai thus reflects that God, Allah himself, is beyond dual concepts and notions. Non-dual awareness entails the vulnerability of living with an open heart and risk of having our precious cherished ego bubble burst. To burst the bubble, all notions of self and others and all relativity must be transcended until there is no existence except God, who is undifferentiated and whole.

Cutting through duality, Sanai further urges that we need to cast our conditioned existence into the unconditioned.

O seeker of the shell of the pearl of 'unless',
lay down clothing and life on the shore of 'Not.' (30)

Here, the imagery of clothing conveys our use of garments to hide our limitless self (Allah). In fact, these garments are fabrications, in more ways than one. They are fabrics that are measured, cut, and stitched together to create a finished product in the form of a garment. Just like the fabrics, the faculty of mind, the intellect, stitches together separate names and forms to conceive the world in terms of fixed measurements. The mind has a tendency to fabricate constructs, which in turn cover over our limitless self.



Likewise, Sanai uses clothing symbolically to represent a particular form that we often wear and with which we identify. Such robes disguise our true self. Indeed, we mistakenly hold onto our garments as a false refuge in which to hide. By laying down the clothing and life on the “shore of ‘Not,’” we begin the process of undressing that which lies hidden and disguised.

Our Original Home

We find in Sanai's poetry a liberating narrative, one that depicts the process of inward purification and outward embodiment of the divine, re-inhabiting the abode of God, our original home.

Sanai implores us to turn inward, understand our innate union with God, and lay ourselves bare. As with Kabir's use of the term "God," Sanai can be similarly read as imploring a reconnection with our innate purity, free of the contaminants and clothing in which we dress and thereby disguise it. In mystic fashion, "God" for Sanai is the infinite, not some being separate from us, commanding us from above. Rather, this force implores us from within.

We're curious what you may find worthwhile about Sanai's poetry, either from what we've shared or any other works of his you've encountered. Please feel free to join the conversation in the comments below. Best wishes.



Hakim Sanai’s The Enclosed Garden of Truth. Trans. M.J. Stephenson. Hastings, East Sussex, 2016.

Kabir on Love - Harnessing the Runaway Mind

Kabir on Love ...

An Indian mystic-poet influenced by Muslim and Hindu teachings yet critical of both, Kabir (who is believed to have lived sometime between 1398 and 1518 of the common era) was a powerful contributor to the Bhakti or devotional movement in India. Many supernatural stories surround his early life. At the crux of Kabir's philosophy is union with God through self-discipline.

Here we embark on the first installation of a three part series (also see part two on Sanai and part three on Ghalib) on the mystic love poems of Persian and Indic sages, spanning syncretic and ecclectic Sufi, Muslim, and Hindu visions of union with the divine.

In particular, Kabir's vision of love is informed by a deep appreciation for the divine within each person. Many of his poems urge the reader to turn inward and to regard all human beings as manifestation of God. Perhaps it was this humanizing of the divine, and vice versa, that inspired his poems regarding cosmic union.

The Middle Way

You may recall a previous post of ours detailing the Madhyamaka school's version of the Middle Way, a Buddhist undertaking that, while expounded by the Indian sage Nāgārjuna, in fact traces itself to the earliest of teachings purportedly spoken by the historical Buddha himself from the Pāli Canon.

Why do we mention that here? It appears that Kabir, while not Buddhist and in fact critical of Buddhism, devised his own understanding of the Middle Way. His understanding was framed not in terms of a countermeasure to still the tides of metaphysical speculation, but in terms of navigating the extremes of sensory indulgence and sensory deprivation, a variation on the Middle Way also found in Buddhism.

Before launching into Kabir's poetry, we first briefly examine Kabir's version of the Middle Way, veering neither to the extreme of pleasure hoarding nor ascetic renunciation, given that both may be mistreated as objects of identification. Such an understanding deeply informed his understanding of love and mystic union.



Throughout his poetry, Kabir consistently stresses that the world is bound by objects of desire that function as sense enjoyments. Encumbered by these objects, around which we create false identifications and personalities, we often forget our spiritual goals. At the other extreme, haziness enshrouds those who renounce the householder life and live a life of poverty as ascetics. For Kabir, this is equally problematic as a potential source of identification, in this case with the life of a renunciant. While Kabir leaned toward the renunciant lifestyle, he found it equally unworthy as an object of identification relative to a life of luxury.

According to Kabir, the ideal embodiment of true renunciation concerns herself neither with “me” nor “mine.” The moment we cling to a personal ego, the mind becomes limited by self-centeredness. With a mind free from egoism, we realize pure consciousness in the form of union with Rama or Allah. So long as we allow egoism to take up our mind, the further we are from God.

Kabir’s poetry invites us to surrender the finite ego and to cultivate love for the infinite consciousness of God. This was Kabir's Middle Way.

The Runaway Mind

Sounds simple enough, but not actually so. Several obstacles stand in the way of our actualization of union. For Kabir, our chief obstacle in life is the “runaway mind,” the mind that regresses into the infinitely receding past and unfurls into the yet to unfold future, seeking a sense of safety and security in that which seems to promise but can never provide such comfort.

Kabir describes this runaway mind as a crafty huckster caught in the trap of the ego (wife) and the five senses (children). While such comparisons, wife standing for ego and children standing for the five senses, are problematic from a text critical perspective, they illustrate Kabir's renunciant tendencies.

The mind’s a shortchanging
Huckster with a crafty
Wife and five
Scoundrel children.
It won’t change its ways.

The mind’s a knot, says Kabir.
Not easy to untie. (13).

Here Kabir speaks in the third-person, informing us that the habit energy of the five senses and ego fuels the mind's tendency to run amok, a tendency which inevitably ties us up as if into a knot, thereby constraining freedom of movement.

Perhaps the crafty huckster is caught in the trap of “I,” “me,” and “mine” more than any symbolic manifestations or objects of possession. Wife and children are not to blame. Rather, the issue lies in clinging. For Kabir, wife and children are objects over which one tends to lay claim, which further tightens the knots of suffering. Anything we think we own, we also stand to lose.

Harnessing Habit Energy

Kabir further reminds us that these knots can be undone by transforming our maladaptive habit energies into behaviors conducive toward liberation. Powerful habit energy accumulated since time immemorial triggers our disembodiment, conditioning us to view the world through the notion of separateness. Thus we find ourselves constricted and bound by our conditioning. Once we take back control of the mind and cease being pushed around by our habit energy, an unbinding occurs. To quote Kabir:

Listen carefully,
Neither the Vedas
Nor the Qu’ran
Will teach you this:
Put the bit in its mouth,
The saddle on its back,
Your foot in the stirrup,
And ride your wild runaway mind
All the way to heaven. (14)

Reflecting his free-thinking tendencies, Kabir here reminds us that our own mind is what both shackles and unbinds us. By giving our mind over to external sources of presumed authority, we become enslaved. By indulging its habit energy, which orients us toward pursuit of sensual pleasures and material objects, we are shackled. By taking charge and rising above habit energy, we become fully alive, present, relaxed, connected, and re-embodied.

Shifting the direction of our habit energies, we come to witness the unity of God. For Kabir, love is all that makes sense. He thus dismantled his loom and sacrificed weaving, his career, for God’s love. One may wonder what triggered his radical departure from a conventional form of livelihood. Perhaps he felt an absence, an incompleteness or lack of wholeness, which led him to seek union with God. Perhaps he awakened to the realization that his sense of a separate self was nothing more than a false appearance, a dream manifested by egoic habit energy.



Love may serve as a cure of sorts for the mind that is enmeshed in habit energies and reluctant to surrender its egoic tendencies. When the idea of individual self shatters, we come to transcend any dualistic notions such as “me” and “not-me.” All separateness vanishes into the unitive nature of phenomena.

Open the inward eye, says Kabir.
It’ll make the well disappear;
The water carriers too. (41)

In the Indian subcontinent, ritual bathing in holy water, such as the River Ganges, has long been practiced. Perhaps the well and water carriers stand for a similar sort of ritual ablution. Reflecting the dissolving of impurities and the embrace of unity with God, when one gazes inward, the well (physical body) and the water carriers (five senses) are “emptied” insofar as they are realized to be an illusion and thus unworthy of identification. Consequently, when the water of life runs dry, the unity of God can move and flow into us. Likewise, once the outflow of the mind and conditioned body via the five senses cease, one experiences an inflow of unconditional love, pouring inward via mystical union with the divine.

A Dynamic Process

As usual, we return here to the relevance of such reflections to us today. With so much of the world's population preoccupied with profit and prestige, why should one even consider looking into the poetry of a fifteenth century Indian mystic?

For Kabir, awakening to God's presence is a dynamic process that requires constant awareness and continual remembrance. God is the home of our infinite consciousness, a home where we may always return despite long forgetting its unconditional embrace. Kabir emphasizes that continual remembrance of the name of God (Rama) is necessary to fuel and nourish the recognition of God.

No matter what one's religious background, or lack thereof, Kabir's use of the term "God" can be understood to stand for connection, much like "religion," from the Latin religare, to re-bind. When we remain forgetful, we grow disconnected from ourselves and our surroundings. Through remembrance (mindfulness or smṛti in Sanskrit, from smara स्मर, to re-mind or remember) we become reconnected. Through this reconnecting, remembering, re-minding, re-binding, we are in actuality un-bound, free.

Songs of Kabir. Trans. Arvind Krishna Mehrotra. New York Review Books, 2011.

Aggregates and Chariots - Greco-Buddhist Contemplations on the Nature of "Self"

Greco-Buddhist Contemplations ...

You may recall one of our previous posts entitled "Intro to Emptiness" outlining a set of five overlapping factors of experience that are often mistaken for a metaphysically substantial self or what pertains to a self. While that may be a bit of a mouthful, perhaps biting off more than one can chew in a single article, we wish to follow up on this subject here in simpler terms.

Understanding these "aggregates," as they're called, in terms of emptiness and dependent origination may feel like an abstract endeavor. Fortunately, however, several useful similes from the Buddhist tradition exist (conventionally) to help contextualize the nature of these so-called aggregates, the building blocks of our experience, and their relationship to a presumed self.

Here, we thus examine a segment of the Milinda Pañha, a nexus of Greco-Buddhist contemplative philosophy and practice. Considered canonical in Burmese Buddhism, it claims to document an exchange between the Buddhist sage Nāgasena and a king of the Indo-Greco empire, Menander the First of Bactria - spanning modern Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan. A historical figure, Menander ruled from roughly 160 to 130 BCE. His name is "Pāli-cized" as Milinda. Among their dialogue's major motifs is the image of the chariot, tracing itself to the Kaṭha Upaniṣad, now widely used as an analogy for the concept of "self" in Buddhism.

Aggregates and Chariots

The simile of aggregates and chariots surfaces in a series of questions posed by King Milinda to the sage Nāgasena. Most of these questions orbit around the notion of selfhood. Prompting the chariot simile, in the middle of this discussion, Nāgasena remarks that "Nāgasena" is but a name, while in actuality, there is no Nāgasena. Befuddled, the king presses further, to which Nāgasena responds by employing the simile of the chariot. Their dialogue unfolds with Nāgasena asking King Milinda how he was able to come to their present location in the first place.

"How did you come here, by foot or in a chariot?"

"In a chariot, venerable sir."

"Then, explain sir, what that is. Is it the axle? Or the wheels, or the chassis, or reins, or yoke that is the chariot? Is it all of these combined, or is it something apart from them?"

"It is none of these things, venerable sir."

(trans. Bhikkhu Pesala)

Here, we find Nāgasena pressing King Milinda to identify exactly what it is that he calls a chariot, positing each of its parts as possible identifiers. The king is unable to pin it down. Nāgasena asks if the chariot is the sum of its parts, or if it extends beyond them. Seemingly elusive, the king replies with none of the above.



Clearly the wheels of thought were set in motion here. As the king searches for a rational response to give to his questioner, he arrives fully to their present exchange, prompting his invocation of the chariot as simile. Certainly he had some notion of what made the chariot a chariot despite his struggles to put it into words. After a brief interlude, the chariot again takes center stage as the king, after much reflection, finally formulates an answer.

"It is because it has all these parts that it comes under the term chariot."

"Very good, sir, your majesty has rightly grasped the meaning. Even so it is because of the thirty-two kinds of organic matter in a human body and the five aggregates of being that I come under the term ‘Nāgasena’. As it was said by Sister Vajīra in the presence of the Blessed One, ‘Just as it is by the existence of the various parts that the word “Chariot” is used, just so is it that when the aggregates of being are there we talk of a being’."

(trans. Bhikkhu Pesala)

Importantly, the sense of self arising from the aggregates is comparable to a constellation, assemblage, conglomeration. A whole comprised of parts, "self" serves as a conventional appellation for an aggregation of bodily form, feeling, perception, volitional activities, and consciousness. "Self" is an at-times useful tool that humans have constructed (like a chariot) to serve conventional ends, but need not be mistaken for an ultimate identity or ultimate reality.

Given that the self is constructed, it has only a conventional existence. In the same sense that a chariot consists of its component parts - which alone are not the chariot and even together amount to no ultimate chariot - the conventional self is likewise made up of five aggregates: form, feeling, perception, volition, and consciousness. Like a chariot, explains the Buddhist nun Vajīra in the Vajīra Sutta (SN 5.10) referenced by Nāgasena, the self is a conventional designation for an assemblage of parts, a heap of phenomena.

"Just as, with an assemblage of parts,
The word 'chariot' is used,
So, when the aggregates are present,
There's the convention 'a being.'"

(trans. Bhikkhu Bodhi)

Indeed, Vajīra's remarks here are the origin for the chariot analogy within Buddhism. The image also traces itself to the Kaṭha Upaniṣad, a text of the Vedanta tradition, a precursor to and modern Hindu schools. It's unclear where its exact origins lie, but the chariot is nonetheless a familiar image with significant symbolic value in Indic contemplative circles.

As we can observe from the Buddhist nun Vajīra's remarks, a distinction is drawn between conventional language and ultimate reality, although the latter is not mentioned explicitly. Acknowledging the widely accepted worldly usage of "chariot" and other terms to refer to compounded objects, Vajīra clarifies that no one is denying the utter existence of chariots all together. Rather, the chariot does not exist as it appears to exist.

The Nature of "Self"

Unpacking the nature of "self" can be a thorny issue in Buddhism, for these very reasons. On one hand, the self is a conventionally experienced process, but on the other, it is not an ultimately existing thing. Notice the difference, which we hope to draw out through these key terms.

• Conventionally
• Experienced
• Process

vs.

• Ultimately
• Existing
• Thing

The second set of descriptors (ultimately existing thing) helps convey that what we grasp as self appears relatively unchanging, a lasting identity, some kind of persistent entity that remains the same from moment to moment.

The first set of descriptors (conventionally experienced process) helps convey that upon scrutinizing its supposed solidity, the sense of self is in actuality instantaneously arising and subsiding, changing from moment to moment, flowing onward like a stream.

Certainly not all see it this way. The Buddhist theory of self (or theory of "not-self") is definitely an outlier among other philosophies and world religions. Further, it has been variously interpreted throughout history and up to the present. We offer these reflections as a means of framing the question differently, not as whether there is or is not a self, but by offering two angles from which one may contemplate the situation, consistent with the "two truths" of conventional and ultimate reality.



We now turn the question to you. Does the chariot have a driver? Who or what has hold of the reins? Let us know below.

Consciousness Flickers - Process and Reality

Process and Reality ...

"Consciousness flickers; and even at its brightest, there is a small focal region of clear illumination, and a large penumbral region of experience which tells of intense experience in dim apprehension."

—Alfred North Whitehead, Process and Reality, page 267

Mathematician-turned-metaphysician, Alfred North Whitehead was a philosopher who walked the narrow edge between worlds. Responsible for founding the field of "process philosophy" or "process metaphysics," he paved the way for a growing interest in the ebbs and flow of conscious and unconscious experience. For Whitehead, these two aspects, conscious and unconscious, comprised an essential continuum.

Whitehead's process approach, as its name suggests, emphasized the perspective that all phenomena are processes forever in flux as opposed to concrete, solid entities fixed in time and space. In Process and Reality, he outlines this "philosophy of organism," as he calls it, reflecting that existence is a process of becoming, which in turn is a creative advance into novelty.

Here we provide a close reading and unpacking of a particularly striking quote from Whitehead on consciousness, hopefully illuminating its potential as a stepping stone into his work.

Consciousness Flickers

Consciousness flickers, reflects Whitehead.

In the above quote from his magnum opus, Process and Reality, Whitehead employs imagery relating to light and darkness to illustrate and thereby illuminate the nature of conscious experience. Consciousness flickers insofar as it makes itself known, like a candle's flame in an otherwise dark room. Yet even at its brightest, its power to illuminate reaches only so far. A single candle, even with flame at full strength, cannot illuminate an entire expansive dungeon. Much remains in a penumbral region, a shadowy darkness, which reflects another aspect of experience that often goes unnoticed. Even in this darkness, in this unconsciousness where apprehension is at best dim, can exist intense experience.

Manifest consciousness, that which is perceptible subjectively to one who is conscious and intersubjectively to other consciousnesses, is but the tip of the iceberg. Below the surface, in the shadowy depths, resides an oceanic unknown waiting to be plumbed.



In other words, unconscious experience, that which is below or beneath consciousness, is the ground of consciousness. In this sense, the unconscious comes first and is foundational. Consciousness, then, is a differentiated evolutionary outgrowth of an undifferentiated unconscious undergirding. If consciousness is the tip of the iceberg, the unconscious is all that lies under the water. According to Whitehead's philosophy, consciousness only occurs at the latest stage of "concrescence," where the term concrescence refers to becoming concrete.

What does concrescence mean? We can perhaps envision the process as a gooey substance, perhaps tree sap to use a particularly salient example, slowly solidifying. If you've ever gathered sap from a tree with your bare hands, you may be familiar with its tendency to stick stubbornly to clothing, hair, and skin alike. Yet when warmed under hot water, it returns to its viscous state, a sort of plasmic existence between solidity and liquidity. Perhaps this sort of transformation and shape-shifting could be what Whitehead was getting at with the process of concrescence.

In particular, concrescence refers to emerging from that which was previously without form. An actual entity, believe it or not, can manifest from this formlessness. It is essential to keep in mind, however, that actual entities, for Whitehead, were occasions of experience, consistent with his process-oriented approach. Such entities were not substantial in the usual sense of the term, but temporally serial composites, thus inextricably embedded in time as unfolding processes. Whitehead maintained that "actual entities are drops of experience, complex and interdependent," waxing poetic.

Clear Consciousness

That may seem somewhat complex, indeed, and potentially unclear. For the sake of grounding such a philosophical perspective, we return to the quote in question, contextualizing it within what comes immediately thereafter. The passage continues:

"The simplicity of clear consciousness is no measure of the complexity of complete experience. Also this character of our experience suggests that consciousness is the crown of experience, only occasionally attained, not its necessary base."

—Alfred North Whitehead, Process and Reality, page 267

Here, the image of the iceberg is again indirectly invoked. In referring to consciousness as the "crown" of experience, we can see the tip of the iceberg emerge. Whitehead maintains that consciousness is not the base of experience, which instead lies in the unconscious.



Deep in this pulsing primordial, penumbral pre-consciousness, ideas ooze and ferment. We are perhaps brought back to the image of the wax or sap⁠— coagulating, decoagulating, and recoagulating dependent on the flux of temperature. The conscious and the unconscious undergo similar transformations.

Practical Purpose

Such notions are little nuggets of poetry, but what practical purpose can they serve? What relevance do Whitehead's notions have for us today?

Such contemplations on consciousness, even through a single paragraph from Whitehead, hopefully stir the primordial ooze of one's self-understanding. Left unstirred, uninterrogated, our unconscious remains unknown to us. By drawing on imagery such as the iceberg, light, or sap, perhaps the relationship between the conscious and unconscious can be illuminated and brought out of the dark.

Once we've illuminated the relationship between the conscious and unconscious dynamics of our experience, we stand to make significant changes in our thinking and behaviors. Habits previously left unquestioned may now be scrutinized in the light of day and skillfully evaluated for whether they conduce toward adaptive or maladaptive outcomes.

Those habits that cause us and others harm may then be critically probed and dissected. We may target their source in the unconscious, in the otherwise penumbral region of experience, and uproot them.

Simple, though by no means easy. How would you go about illuminating the connection between the conscious and unconscious? How would you transform yourself from the inside out? Leave us a comment below.

A Zero Sum Game - Two Truths, Emptiness, and the Middle Way

The Two Truths

Within the Buddhist contemplative traditions, numbered lists of items abound. One may indeed find oneself wading through a sea of numbers: four of this, eight of these, twelve of those, and so on. Here we focus on a pair, a simple set: the two truths. Understanding this duo may be the key to unlocking an intuitive grasp of the others, or, more aptly, a loosening of the grasping tendency to veer toward the two extremes).

Not to be confused with the "Four Noble Truths," which describe suffering in a diagnostic and prognostic capacity, the "two truths" are even more basic. In being the basis for the rest of the Buddhist contemplative traditions, they are also perhaps the most all-encompassing. Moreover, despite their seemingly opposing natures, they are not mutually exclusive. In fact, the two truths co-operate in every aspect.

What are these two truths and how are they relevant to us? We provide an introduction to emptiness in relation to the two truths in this article, drawing on core teachings from the work of the Indian Buddhist scholar Nāgārjuna, a forerunner of the "Middle Way." In a strange twist, the two truths in actuality return to "zero" (śūnya, शून्य).

The Middle Way

Living in approximately the years 150-250 of the common era, Nāgārjuna was a philosopher-practitioner credited with founding the Madhyamaka school of Indian Buddhism, which no longer exists as an independent entity, but was absorbed by various other traditions (most notably, Tibetan Buddhism) that survive to this day. Importantly, the name of this school literally means "Middle Way," from the Sanskrit madhyama (मध्यम), reflecting its efforts to tread the line between eternalism and annihilationism, substantialism and nihilism, without veering to either extreme.

Understood as extreme positions, these views were rejected by the Buddha as early as those teachings documented in the Pāli Canon. In fact, much of Nāgārjuna's main treatise, the Mūla-Madhyamaka-Kārikā (Fundamental Verses on the Middle Way), traces to an early text of the Pāli Canon, the Kaccānagotta Sutta (SN 12.15) which likewise documents the Buddha taking the "middle way" with reference to the extreme views of "existence" and "non-existence" in metaphysical terms.



Rather than concern himself with abstract metaphysics (literally, that which is beyond nature) the Buddha grounded his teachings in addressing the sources and solutions to suffering. While some may say the Buddha taught a sort of alternative metaphysics which could even be said to be existential, it was directly concerned with experienced reality and intended to be put into practice, not to remain in the form of abstract principles intended for mere speculation.

Recognizing that metaphysical positions were binding, not liberating, the Buddha set them aside. In the Kaccānagotta Sutta (SN 12.15), he states, "Avoiding these two extremes, the Tathāgata teaches the Dhamma via the middle" which begins his teaching on the twelve links of dependent origination, concluding with, "Such is the origination of this entire mass of stress & suffering" (Trans. Thanissaro Bhikkhu). The "middle" here is the source and inspiration for Nāgārjuna's development of the Madhyamaka or "Middle Way" school.

The Two Extremes - Re-Balancing the Lop-Sided

Framed in new terms, the "Middle Way" may be envisioned as an effort at re-balancing a system that otherwise has grown lop-sided. Explaining the situation in reference to the extremes of existence and non-existence, substantialism and nihilism, eternalism and annihilationism, we offer a brief illustration.

The former of each pair (existence, substantilism, eternalism) all lend themselves to the belief in an enduring, unchanging reality. The latter of each pair (non-existence, nihilism, annihilationism) all lend themselves to belief in an utter obliteration of reality as we know it. These are the extreme views the Buddha considered tangential to the contemplative path.

Instead of indulging people's proclivities to debate these positions, the Buddha simply offered a means to restore balance. Nāgārjuna does the same, echoing the Buddha's teachings. In the Fundamental Verses on the Middle Way, he reflects:

astīti śāśvatagrāho nāstīty ucchedadarśanam |
tasmād astitvanāstitve nāśrīyeta vicakṣaṇaḥ ||15.10||



"It is" is grasping at eternity, "it is not" is an annihilationist view.
Therefore, the wise have recourse to neither "it is" nor "it is not."

In this verse, both metaphysical assertion and negation are set aside. The question is not "to be or not to be," but how to transcend the dichotomy all together. Whenever we find ourselves veering to either of these extremes, we've grown lop-sided in our understanding of our own experience. For instance, a scenario might unfold in one of two ways: success or failure. Believing that a moment of success and the happiness it brings with it will or should last indefinitely is one extreme. Believing a moment of failure and the sadness it invites is the ultimate end of us is another extreme. Both are mistaken.

Either case can in turn lend itself to further branches of extreme views, like extremities branching away from a tree. We may think success or failure reflects on our character in some substantial or enduring way, identifying with the experience in either positive or negative terms. Whatever kind of identification we indulge, whether positive or negative, it takes the form of the extreme of existence, substantalism, or eternalism, as we've taken something in our experience to be substantially "me" in an enduring way. Likewise, if we believe there is no point in any of our actions, regardless of whether they lead to success or failure, and that they will leave no imprint on the world whatsoever, then that takes the form of the extreme of non-existence, nihilism, and annihilationism, which deny causality and continuity. Again, both are mistaken.

Both of the two extremes are lop-sided perspectives, distorting our understanding of our own experience. Both are to be overcome.

Emptiness - A Zero Sum Game

How does one correct for lop-sidedness? By returning to center. Such a return qualifies as a zero sum game of sorts.

What do we mean by zero sum game? We suggest that understanding emptiness, as defined by the Buddha and picked up by Nāgārjuna, effectively collapses the two extremes into zero. Indeed, the Sanskrit term for emptiness, śūnyatā, may also denote zero-ness, wherein śūnya, from the root śvi, stands numerically for zero.

In a zero sum game, two sides cancel out, their sums amounting to zero. No more, no less. As a depiction of the character of a market economy, for instance, a zero sum game represents the pervasive trend that the gain of one portion of society necessitates the loss of another. Where there are winners, there must be losers. Where there is wealth, there must be poverty. Haves and have-nots, and so on. Such trends correspond roughly to the two extremes. Emptiness, we suggest, is a positive twist on the zero sum game, a twist wherein there are no winners or losers, neither rich nor poor. This is made possible via the deconstruction of all such constructs whatsoever, namely through a thorough understanding of emptiness. Nāgārjuna uses the "zero sum" aspect of śūnyatā and the two truths to put an end to all games. But what does emptiness mean in practical terms?

There are two verses penned by Nāgārjuna that strike directly at the heart of the two truths and emptiness. We provide the original Sanskrit below along with our translations.

dve satye samupāśritya buddhānāṃ dharmadeśanā |
lokasaṃvṛtisatyaṃ ca satyaṃ ca paramārthataḥ ||24.8||

Two truths are the basis for the Buddhas' teaching the Dharma:
Worldly conventional truth and the ultimate.

yaḥ pratītyasamutpādaḥ śūnyatāṃ tāṃ pracakṣmahe |
sā prajñaptir upādāya pratipat saiva madhyamā ||24.18||

Whatever is dependently originated, that we declare to be emptiness.
That, being a dependent designation, is the middle way.

Here, we find in the latter verse a simple definition of emptiness. Emptiness refers to that which is dependently originated. While this often refers specifically to the twelve links of dependent origination, beginning with ignorance and culminating in suffering, it may also be applied broadly. Rich are not independent of poor, and vice versa. Winners are not independent of losers, and so on. All such constructs rely on other constructs to make sense and receive meaning in relation to other constructs. In being constructs, they are, after all, constructed from other elements. All that is constructed, or dependently originated, arises through causes and conditions and can just as easily subside through alterations to those causes and conditions. In realizing their emptiness, their insubstantiality, their dependently constructed nature, we can dismantle them.

In the former verse, we are reminded of the two truths. While emptiness or dependently originated insubstantiality may prevail as the underlying nature of phenomena, one may still acknowledge their conventional or worldly functioning. One can't simply scream on the streets, "there is no such thing as the rich or the poor - they're both empty!" without raising eyebrows. Rich and poor operate on the conventional or worldly level as convenient designators for dependently originated phenomena, which are empty at the end of the day. The conventional and the ultimate coexist, side by side, as two means of understanding the same set of phenomena. By skillfully utilizing conventional constructs while at the same time understanding their "ultimate" emptiness (which itself is empty as well), one actualizes the middle way.

Extracting the Marrow

Extracting the marrow or meaning from emptiness is not the first thing that springs to mind upon hearing the term. Indeed, given the connotations of the term emptiness, meaning may be the last on the list of associations, with emptiness instead implying meaninglessness. Yet as we discussed in our introductory post on emptiness in early Buddhism, emptiness is not a meaningless negative, but a meaningful negation. A negation of what? A metaphysically substantial separate self.

Emptiness thereby allows for an understanding of the selfless nature of experience. By implication, it enables an understanding of interdependence. Given that nothing exists in and of itself as a totally independent, separate, isolated entity, but only in a constellation of interacting and intersecting dependently originated processes, a greater sense of connection emerges from an understanding of emptiness. Meanwhile, by understanding the two truths, we veer to neither of the two extremes. In this way, we walk the middle way.

Eventually, we will return to this subject and build upon these reflections. We would love to hear from you in the meantime. Please leave us a comment below on anything you found striking, or reflections that were stirred in the course of venturing into this subject with us. Many thanks and best wishes.

Self-Reliance - Emerson on the Pressures of Conformity

Self-Reliance

“Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.”
“Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson (20, 21)

Considered the father of American literature and a forerunner of the early Transcendentalist movement, Ralph Waldo Emerson lived in the 1800s in the midst of a creative synergy of philosophies, combining skepticism and Biblical criticism with English and German Romanticism. He wrote several essays and poetry that took on a contemplative character. In fact, as an American Transcendentalist convinced of the inherent goodness of humanity, whose purity becomes corrupted only by societal pressures, Emerson proposed a set of contemplative tools, ranging from solitude to the subject-centered approach and an overall break from religious authority, as a means toward restoring an innate self-reliance free from dogmatism.

Indeed, in his essay entitled “Self-Reliance,” which we explore in this article, Emerson does exactly this. His writings are largely intended as mirrors to re-orient his readers and prompt reflection so they may look within for inspiration and answers.

An Inner Compass

Emerging from a deep dissatisfaction with doctrines and dogmas, Emerson ventured to know what was true for himself, exploring unpaved roads rather than trekking already-made paths. Like other contemplatives who came before him, he developed and refined an inner compass of sorts, upon which he relied for navigating the whims of the world. Breaking from tradition, Emerson aimed to cultivate his mind independent of commonly accepted dogma, a free-thinking approach from which we could all stand to learn if we wish not to succumb to the brainwashing imposed by sources such as the media and so-called "powers that be." By refining one's own inner compass, one may better navigate the world's convoluted roads.

From birth, we are thrown into a world that provides a ground for us to be conditioned, Emerson reflects. Believing that this conditioning ground inhibits our thriving, he actively resisted it. In fact, how we live our lives is typically dictated by this already existing world and its dominant cultures, which prevents and stifles what Emerson called self-reliance, an ability to shape our own lives from the conditions of that world without being ruled or dictated by those conditions. Such conditions could be likened to clay. Rather than let ourselves be manufactured in some pre-determined manner as if we were mere lumps of clay to be shaped identically on a conveyor belt assembly line, we may become our own artists, sculpting the clay we inherit however we choose.



Strongly favoring this actively creative approach, Emerson rejected the usual ways of societal conformity. He even goes so far as calling society a “conspiracy” and a “joint-stock company” (21) because its members agree to live under the illusion that conformity guarantees survival. By conforming to societal pressure in exchange for safety and security, we thereby give up our freedom. This tendency only encumbers human potential.

Emerson professes that human potential, freed from such shackles, is capable of expanding infinitely outward through its own will. Through such expansion, we may transcend established values, living a higher existence than that imposed by the confines of social norms.

Universal Goodness

Not only was Emerson optimistic about human nature, he was especially convinced of the goodness of the universe as a whole. Society for Emerson was not entirely doom and gloom, but glued together by shared customs. When each member takes responsibility to reject customs or traditions that do not serve growth, then a new wave of society is born. He declares, “No law can be sacred to me but that of my nature” (21) and a great man is “to carry himself in the presence of all opposition, as if everything were titular and ephemeral but he” (21). In this sense, Emerson was an optimist about the innate goodness of the universe so long as humanity takes on the responsibility to transform society.



As evidenced by these passages, Emerson suggests that any reforming of the world necessarily begins with self-empowerment. Already possessed of wisdom, an individual’s nature is more sacred than law. One must thus trust one's own instincts and beliefs rather than over-relying upon texts, including religious scriptures imparted from without, as sources of truth. In other words, introspection, the audacity to look directly at the inner workings of one's own mind and imagine new possibilities for existence, enables the restoration of the world. This is the constitution of hope toward which Emerson turned in an effort to transform society.

Pressures of Conformity

Emerson’s optimism for humanity and society serves as inspiration for us to not only live a sublime existence, but an authentic experience filled with presence. Emerson reflects that in a corrupted society, man must conform to societal norms by studying a profession in which he has no interest in order to secure a well-paying job. The pressures of conformity must be overcome, he says.

At the same time, “The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consistency; a reverence for our past act or word, because the eyes of others have no other data for computing our orbit than our past acts, and we are loath to disappoint them” (24). When man operates on fear, his tendency is to succumb to the pressures of conformity. Yet when he rejects societal norms, he feels a renewed sense of purpose: to improve society through self-reliance (i.e., relying on his own sensibility), despite the backlash he faces through misunderstanding of his motives.

So long as one does not succumb to external pressures of conformity, which have a habit of creeping in even the smallest of cracks in one's fortitude, then one is no longer haunted by worry. There being no worry, one lives fully in the present, unencumbered by the shackles of reputation. Fearing not what others think, one proceeds free of the pressures of conformity.

Nothing to Do

“A great soul has simply nothing to do” (24) reflects Emerson. Nothing remains to be done when one realizes one is already whole and complete, lacking nothing. Invoking an example of this authentic presence, Emerson proclaims that the roses under his window do not compare themselves with other roses. Like the rose that simply exists as it is, one unencumbered by the violence of comparison also embodies such presence. When attuned to this presence, one feels no need to compare oneself to others. Thus he lives comfortably and exuberantly, imbued with inner wealth and rich with contentment while others busy themselves with unfulfilling work, never satisfied and always craving more.

Emerson espouses that one should follow one's heart instead of chasing after external props to serve oneself. Man’s authentic self already knows that to truly serve himself is to follow his own guidebook, the same universal guide for all human minds. He reflects, “Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the universal sense; for the inmost in due time becomes the outmost” (19). It is up to each being to take herself where she needs to be in every aspect of life. One need not wait for someone else to save the world, or to become someone other than one’s present self in order to improve humankind. Rather, one begins immediately right where one is through relying upon one’s own wisdom.



Furthermore, one must bring speculative views into alignment with the mind of self-reliance. To do so, Emerson asks us to explore our creativity in everyday activities. Speculation allows us to plumb the depths of our inner being and explore habits, misconceptions, and self-doubts that otherwise remain hidden. For Emerson, one must uproot these obstacles in order to uncover one’s inherent being, which is imbued with self-trust. In doing so, one experiences less fear of engaging with others and the world, as one is able to express one’s authentic self.

Moreover, Emerson suggests that we should be original and creative through trusting our own instincts. Our originality contains infinite intelligence that can address the challenges of the future. Consequently, spontaneous thought and action will thereby create meaningful work conducive to bettering oneself and society. Thus, one comes to express one's full potential to effect goodness in the world around oneself.

At the End of the Day

At the end of the day, traditional doctrines can function as limitations—whether societal, religious, or otherwise—that restrict individuals from liberation. Rather than look to such doctrines for guidance, Emerson maintains that we must trust and rely on our own persons to arrive at our own insights. At the end of the day, would one rather be shackled by the temptingly warm embrace of society's acceptance, or released so that one may unshackle society from the illusion that has infected it?



We hope that by introducing Emerson’s philosophy in this way, we have helped open space for continuing discussions around the struggles of society. If we can recognize when collective delusions have taken over, we stand to interrogate them and thereby dispel their illusory hold over ourselves and others. A single person's efforts are unlikely to make an immediate, lasting change, but they can surely tip the dominoes and set the process in motion, casting a ripple effect over society that will hopefully reach others and inspire a similar sort of questioning of the status quo. Let us know your reflections below!

Emerson, Ralph W. “Self-Reliance.” In Self-Reliance and Other Essays. Ed. Stanley Appelbaum. New York: Dover Publications, 1993.