Vimalakirti's Sick Room - A Bodhisattva's Contemplations on Illness, Compassion, and Wisdom

Vimalakīrti's Sick Room

"Because all living beings are subject to illness, I am ill as well.
When all living beings are no longer ill, my illness will come to an end."

Vimalakīrti



We turn here to the Vimalakīrti Nirdeśa Sūtra, an early Mahāyāna Buddhist text with origins traceable to approximately 100 CE, shortly after the life of Jesus Christ. Its content orbits around the layman Vimalakīrti while on his deathbed, confined to a tiny sick room yet visited by countless beings who somehow manage to all squeeze inside, listening to him teach on subjects ranging from illusions to non-dualism and beyond. While obviously not following the guidelines of social distancing, the story of Vimalakīrti's sick room is still especially relevant to the present pandemic.

Illness and Compassion

The Vimalakīrti Nirdeśa Sūtra takes place primarily in a single space, a sick room occupied by the householder Vimalakīrti, who is described as a wealthy devotee. Vimalakīrti is depicted as entirely bed-bound, afflicted with illness, practically on the verge of death. While initially the exact nature of his illness remains unclear, Vimalakīrti later explains it through analogy to the existential unease afflicting sentient beings.

Because all living beings are subject to illness, I am ill as well. When all living beings are no longer ill, my illness will come to an end. Why? A Bodhisattva, because of (his vow to save) living beings, enters the realm of birth and death which is subject to illness; if they are all cured, the Bodhisattva will no longer be ill.

So long as we are subject to birth and death, we are subject to illness. A bodhisattva, an awakened being or a being in the process of awakening who willingly remains in the rounds of cyclic existence in order to liberate other beings, is only ill insofar as other beings remain ill. She vows to remain by their side, through sickness and health, and to assist them in awakening from the dream until all are free. Thus, Vimalakīrti remains bound to his sick room yet continues to teach living beings, millions of whom come to his bedside.



Illness is no impediment to the bodhisattva's continued service. In fact, in dialogue, a close, even causal association is drawn between compassion and illness.

Mañjuśrī asked: “What is the cause of a Bodhisattva’s illness?”
Vimalakīrti replied: “A Bodhisattva’s illness comes from (his) great compassion.”

Given this association, the bodhisattva path may seem undesirable for one's own good. If a bodhisattva's compassion leads to illness, then isn't that technically a form of self-harm? Indeed, we find in the modern era that compassion fatigue and burn-out increasingly afflict individuals in service-oriented professions, including healthcare, especially in light of the present pandemic. Out of compassion, they may put themselves in harm's way, risking their health and lives in order to care for the sick and ailing, occasionally succumbing to infection and dying as a result. While the bodhisattva does not flee from sickness and death, she must also exercise wise discernment while serving beings rather than recklessly throw herself into danger. Hence the appearance of Mañjuśrī, the bodhisattva of wisdom, in dialogue with Vimalakīrti.

Wisdom and Compassion

An essential coupling in much of Buddhism is that of wisdom and compassion. When wisdom is lacking, compassion is easily depleted as a result of its haphazard deployment. One may even lose life and limb in the process. When compassion is lacking, wisdom remains stale and lifeless. Occasionally understood by Buddhist practitioners as the two wings of a bird, wisdom and compassion are complementary qualities to be cultivated, especially on the bodhisattva path.

The choice to enter into the realm of sickness out of compassion must be tempered with wisdom in order to succeed in freeing beings. Compassion without wisdom would only perpetuate the cycle of illness, whereby both patient and doctor succumb to infection and die. Thus, the wisdom teachings of emptiness, as well as discernment in conduct, are invoked throughout the Vimalakīrti Nirdeśa Sūtra as a means of striking an appropriate balance. Although at a literal level, it may not seem that packing millions of beings into a tiny sick room is a medically wise or even compassionate course of action, Vimalakīrti clarifies that the illness he speaks of is metaphorical, a spiritual illness, which may be cured through contemplative practice. The beings in attendance manifest with ease, free of disease, in an entirely contemplative capacity.

While we pause here for the time being, we conclude with a brief reflection on the meaning and implications of bodhicitta, literally the mind of awakening. Such a mind is imbued with both wisdom and compassion, serving as the foundation for the bodhisattva's vows in service of all beings. As long as beings learn from the suffering that characterizes the present pandemic rather than attempting to mask its visceral reality, the seeds of bodhicitta may germinate for the freedom of all. For Vimalakīrti's confrontation with illness, bodhicitta informed by both wisdom and compassion was key.

Neoplatonist Contemplations - Withstanding Rain & Wind Across Winter Storms

"It is rather like some farmer who, having sown seeds or even planted a tree, is always setting all the things right that winter rains and sustained frosts and wind-storms have damaged."

Plotinus

Neoplatonist Contemplations

Shifting gears momentarily, we turn to the Enneads, a collection of contemplations by the Neoplatonist philosopher Plotinus. Especially noteworthy among his reflections is a passage that speaks to multiple intersecting themes, ranging from contemplative ecology to resilience in times of hardship.

A Hellenistic philosopher native to Egypt, Plotinus is credited as the founder of Neoplatonism, a new phase in the tradition inspired by the esteemed Greek philosopher Plato. He ventured to modern-day Iran to study Persian and Indian philosophy before retiring to Rome. Plotinus composed the Enneads on a variety of topics, including ethics, cosmology, psychology, epistemology, and natural philosophy, among others.

Relevant to the ongoing environmental crisis and the more recently sparked pandemic, we here investigate the long winter to which Plotinus alludes in a short section from the Enneads, briefly examining the means toward a spring thaw and recovery.

Winter Storms

Broadly, Plotinus distinguishes between three aspects of existence: Soul, Intellect, and the "One." Our passage of interest pertains to the tendency of the soul to "administer the universe," often via comparison, analysis, rumination, and other activities, all overwhelmingly discursive. In characterizing the soul, Plotinus draws on a permacultural analogy.

Keeping a watchful eye over both the spiritual and terrestrial domains, the soul seeks to put objects in their proper order, similar to a farmer mending damages in her garden left by the cold season or inclement weather.

Much of the world remains in an extended winter storm of sorts, characterized by frozen economies, dwindling ecosystems, and a bitter epidemic at large. Interestingly, Plotinus situates the soul below the intellect, and the intellect below the "One." Each is, of course, related to the others. While the soul is concerned with satisfying its externally oriented desires through discursive activity, the intellect contemplates in a less discursive capacity. The so-called "One" is the first principle from which everything else derives, the "Good" to which everything else returns.

Despite the soul's limitations, its acting as a farmer is an image that lends itself to a contemplative ecology with implications for cultivating both mental and physical terrain.

While not the focus of his work, that things can even be set right at all despite damage from winter rains and sustained frosts and wind-storms opens several doors pertaining directly to the challenges we presently face.

On Withstanding Rain And Wind

Although the text itself does not speak explicitly on withstanding rain and wind, or the various other sorts of storms the soul inevitably encounters in its efforts to administrate the universe, we here reference the pandemic and ecological crisis it appears to have eclipsed.

First, the soul's efforts at setting things right ought to be critically scrutinized. Given that its activity, according to Plotinus, is inspired by an effort to satisfy material desires, we should be wary of efforts to fix the present situation through superficial bandages. The causes of these ecological and epidemiological disasters must be deeply probed rather than merely covered up in the name of economic prosperity.

Second, if the farmer's activity is informed by wisdom and thus complementary to the intellect's reunion and reintegration with the first principle (a metaphysical topic deserving of further investigation elsewhere), then we must thoroughly equip ourselves with the knowledge and skills necessary to restore life to frost-bitten, rain-ravaged, wind-torn farmland. Nothing less than the full commitment to revolutionize all systems, both personal and political, from the inside out will do.

Perhaps a similar message of hopeful resilience is echoed further by an additional section from the Enneads, with which we conclude.

"His suffering will not be pitiable, but the light in him will continue to shine like the light of a lantern when the wind is blowing outside in a great fierceness of rain and winter storm."

Plotinus

Sick and Withered - Wandering Dream Fields Via Japanese Haiku - Part III on Basho

Sick on a journey,
my dreams wander
the withered fields.

旅に病んで
夢は枯れ野を
かけめぐる

Matsuo Bashō

Bashō

The most famous of all poets in Edo period Japan, Matsuo Bashō enjoyed a relatively privileged childhood, his father being of the samurai class or perhaps an estate farmer of the same relative standing. When Bashō was 12 years old, his father died and the young boy was passed on to a local feudal lord, whose son, Yoshitada, had taken up the aristocratic practice of composing verses. Bashō studied with Yoshitada, learning the art of haiku. When Bashō was 22, his mentor Yoshitada died, and Bashō moved once again, although exactly where remains unknown.

Bashō's forty-nine years can be divided into phases. In his twenties, he showed the promise of a budding haikuist, while in his thirties he became a prolific writer and teacher, studying Chinese poetry while dabbling in both Daoism and Zen. He is credited with reinventing Japanese haiku, breaking from the status quo and imbuing his art with new life. Even so, by his forties, Bashō grew sick of the literary life and set off on pilgrimage, documenting his voyages in a travel journal, which developed into a literary genre in Japan. His travelogue, interspersed with poetry, known as Narrow Road to the Far North, continues to be widely read.

Half literary celebrity, half homeless pilgrim, Bashō was familiar with multiple intersecting worlds. Near the end of his life, while roaming in solitude, his poetry began to increasingly reflect a sense of loneliness, intense concentration, and lightness at once. Written shortly before his death, Bashō's final haiku distills the essence of each of these themes. We thus contemplate its relevance to contemporary contexts.

Sick on a Journey

Opening the haiku, Bashō writes of being "sick on a journey," which we may read in several ways. On one hand, although quite well-off as a result of both the social class afforded to him by birth and a successful haiku career, Bashō had grown tired of the lime light, which he never fully enjoyed. Perhaps wishing to reinvent himself, much like he had reinvented the art of haiku during his literary career, he sought a simpler existence through solitary pilgrimage. In this phase of his life, Bashō traveled light and consumed minimally, shaving his head and donning rag robes. At the same time, Bashō had fallen fatally ill while on pilgrimage, eventually meeting an early death.

In an era of pandemic, we too encounter an opportunity to reinvent ourselves as the world undergoes huge, largely devastating shifts in momentum. Some of us—perhaps sick of structural inequities stemming from long-accumulating cracks in the foundations of society that are increasingly brought to light by the virus—may see the present situation as a momentous occasion for regenerative undertakings in ecology. Sick in more ways than one, we face a long and daunting journey ahead if we are to collectively recreate a sustainable future, a feat Bashō seems to have undertaken as well on his own terms.

My Dreams Wander

Bashō continues his near-death reflections by observing, "my dreams wander," suggesting the movement of his own mind's creations. While on pilgrimage, anyone's contemplative musings are likely to be stirred. The impressions left by wandering unfamiliar paths inevitably imprint upon the unconscious and express themselves through dreams, where creative energy blooms freely. Perhaps Bashō here alludes to his poetry itself, which he hopes will wander freely after he dies. Knowing his own death to be fast encroaching, he composes this haiku as a departing reflection, possibly intending to live on through his poetry in the dreams of others.

During times of novelty and uncertainty, dreams are the boundary-less container in which creative energy stirs. As many seem to be experiencing, the mind entertains myriads of possibilities in the depths of night, some perhaps soothing, others the cause of demonic fright. Present pandemic, traumas from the recent or distant past, and hypothetical futures invade and populate our dreams. On other occasions, visions of regeneration and flourishing may arise, whether while waking or sleeping. In these times of groundless fog, obscuring clarity and obstructing progress, may our dreams teach us without causing us incapacitating stagnation or regression. May they wander freely, and may where ever they happen to take us impart wisdom.

The Withered Fields

At the poem's conclusion, Bashō mentions "the withered fields" that he witnesses on his sick journey. In fact, Bashō's dreams wander these withered fields. Whether referring to the land itself, the figurative terrain across which his life has wound its course, or even his own decrepit body, beset by illness, or mind, ravaged by regrets, a sense of desolation pervades the scene. Nonetheless, Bashō's dreams appear eager to wander through such desolation.

Rather than turn away from the unpleasant realities that face us, we too may heal from letting our dreams wander the withered fields, intimately exploring the wreckage often concealed from us. Death and destruction plague our present reality. They shattered populations extending even further back than documented history shows. Such devastating events will no doubt continue to plague us into the future. By wandering their withered fields, perhaps we may trace the scars of the past and learn from them as we journey onward. Despite his own sickness and the withered nature of these fields, Bashō's dreams continued to wander, unimpeded. Perhaps ours may too in spite of all the carnage.

To Be Continued

World of Dew - Hopeful Impermanence Via Japanese Haiku - Part II on Kobayashi Issa

The world of dew
is the world of dew.
And yet, and yet —

露の世は露の世ながらさりながら

Kobayashi Issa

Wandering

Born 1763 in a small mountain village in central Japan, Yataro Kobayashi, who later in life adopted the pen name "Issa," was surrounded by nature from an early age. The son of a farmer, his mother passing away when he was two years old, Issa was raised primarily by his grandmother. He studied with a calligraphy and haiku master while attending the village school but encountered familial tension with his new stepmother and was sent away after his grandmother's death when he was 14 years old to train as an apprentice for hire at the capital in Edo.

The next ten years of Issa's life are largely unknown, but by age 25, he had begun publishing poems under a haiku teacher through the Katsushika school, known for stylistic references to animals and the natural world, which would soon populate Issa's poems.

After his master's death, Issa was promoted, but again faced tensions with his fellow poets and resigned by 29, departing on less than ideal terms. He traveled alone to visit his father before moving onward, wandering the countryside for ten years on a pilgrimage to Pure Land Buddhist temples across Japan before returning to his childhood home to tend to his father on his deathbed. Dividing the family property in half, Issa lived side by side with his stepfamily and married but lost all of his three children shortly after their births before finally losing his wife and their fourth child. Issa remarried several times but died before the birth of his one and only daughter, whom he never met. Her family was still living at the Kobayashi property into the 1950s and perhaps later.

Issa's story represents another all too human pattern. In a sense nothing special, he encountered the same sorts of conflict and loss that characterize any of our lives. In our second installation of a series on Japanese poetry, we feature here one of Issa's many poems as a reflection on transience, a both painful and hopeful theme that weaves its way into the present pandemic as much as the environmental crisis and other such events. And yet, and yet...

Cup of Tea

Issa (一茶), whose pen name means "a cup of tea" with the added implication of "a single bubble in steeping tea," saw the bubbles of transience, the tides of change, sweep over his eyes on countless occasions, often bearing misfortune. Yet being a child of the farm, a wandering man of the countryside, he also witnessed nature's impermanence at every step, perceiving beauty, even if mournful, in the transient nature of existence. His haiku on dew conveys these perhaps mixed feelings.

"The world of dew" (露の世) he writes at the outset, thereby setting the scene for his readers. Deeply influenced by Buddhism, particularly its Pure Land doctrine of salvation in the divine abode of the Buddha of light, Issa saw the world as a dewdrop perched precariously on a blade of grass, gone in an instant, vanished in a flash. Upon losing his infant daughter to smallpox, Issa composed this poem, mourning her death through creation.

World of Dew

For Issa, this world of dew symbolized the fleeting joys of life. Despite their transience, Issa saw them as no less joyful while they were present. Their loss, however, was heart-wrenching for him. His early childhood encounter with death through the loss of his mother at age two, followed by the loss of his grandmother who had been his primary caretaker at age 14, foreshadowed the blows dealt to him later by mortality with the passing of multiple infant children and his first wife. Issa also lost his father in the midst of this whirlwind of death. He grieved deeply. Bearing strong resemblance to each other, another of Issa's poems reads:

A world of dew
and in every dewdrop
a world of sorrow.

露の世の露の中にてけんくわ哉

Kobayashi Issa

Indeed, the world of dew is an image that finds itself repeatedly interwoven throughout his poetry. The Pure Land school to which he belonged laid particular emphasis on the desperately fleeting nature of worldly existence, offering relief through the grace of Amitābha, the Buddha of light. By chanting Amitābha's name, some semblance of peace was restored in the hearts and minds of devotees, who were promised rebirth in a heavenly paradise known as the Pure Land. Many have since attempted to establish such a Pure Land on earth, an effort that becomes all the more pertinent in the face of pandemic and climate change with its feverish symptoms which plague the planet. Issa no doubt invoked the pure light of Amitābha throughout his encounters with death and loss.

And Yet

We turn now to the concluding lines of Issa's haiku, "And yet, and yet —"...

Left with a sense of inconclusiveness, perhaps spaciousness and hopefulness, Issa ends on open terrain. While in his other poem, he concludes with reference to the world of sorrow, here the possibilities are endless. The Japanese phrase "ながらさりながら" (nagara sari nagara) rolls off the tongue with the sense of sauntering onward.

In light of the various waves of impermanence sweeping the globe, whether environmental or epidemiological, it remains uncertain what, precisely, lies on the horizon. While pained by these ongoing traumas, if we can find even the slightest opening, the faintest glimmer of hope, then perhaps behind the darkness, beneath that crack in our armor, lies a wellspring of light. "And yet," writes Issa, "and yet —"...

To be continued.

Regenerative Remedies of the Lotus Sutra - Diverse Herbs Receive the Same Rain

Suppose in the great manifold cosmos there are mountains, rivers, valleys, and plains where many kinds of grasses, trees, shrubs, and herbs of different names and colors grow.

Dense clouds thoroughly cover this great manifold cosmos and rain falls at the same time everywhere, moistening the small, medium, and large roots, stems, branches, and leaves of all the grasses, trees, shrubs, and herbs.

Regenerative Remedies

An influential, core scripture of Mahāyāna Buddhism, the Lotus Sūtra is perhaps best known for its use of parables. It is also among the strata of Buddhist texts responsible for introducing the doctrine of the "single vehicle" (ekayāna, 一乘) describing the sole path to liberation upon which all beings ride to awakening. This single vehicle, depicted through diverse contemplative metaphors, comprises an all-inclusive path of regenerative remedies for social and ecological disease.

While not always immediately evident in the Lotus Sūtra due to its frequent parables and analogies, the path to awakening is intended to be as inclusive as possible. As such, the parables of the Lotus Sūtra, including the chapter on "grasses, trees, shrubs, and herbs of different names and colors," draw out, through analogy, the diversity of beings who are included on the single vehicle as it winds its course. During times of divisive rhetoric, growing separation due to panic, pandemic, and pandemonium, and, sadly, mistrust of that which is deemed "other," such teachings of inclusivity are especially pertinent.

We therefore examine the implications of the Lotus Sūtra and its discussion of diverse herbs for our present circumstances, finding a place for unity in plurality in forging ecologically and socially regenerative remedies for our present ills.

Diverse Herbs

An image by no means exclusive to Buddhism, we find in the parable of the herbs an elaborate plant-based illustration of society and ecology at large. Though only a handful of pages in length, the parable describes in vivid detail the social and ecological plurality that characterizes a flourishing global community, which given our present circumstances, is placed under dire threat.

As a collective human organism embedded in the plurality that is our ecosystem, we must adapt and evolve, especially given rapidly accelerating societal and ecological disruption. Due to long-coming, on-going environmental degradation and the recent outbreak of the novel coronavirus, we presently inhabit what may appear to be sheer chaos. Offering a contemplative metaphor for the broad means by which our climate crisis and the coronavirus pandemic may be resolved, however, the Lotus Sūtra situates us among a world of diverse herbs. Especially striking are the chapter's verses:

Everywhere, equal, and immeasurable
The rain pours down and moistens the earth.
Grasses, herbs, large and small trees,
All kinds of crops, seedlings, sugarcane, and grapes
Growing in the depths of the mountains,
In rivers and in precipitous valleys,
Are all watered and completely nourished by the rain.
The dry earth is moistened everywhere
And the herbs and trees grow up thickly.
Out of this cloud the same rain
Waters these grasses, trees, and shrubs
Each according to their capacities.
All the trees, small, medium, or large
Are able to grow in accordance with their capacities.
The luster and colors of the roots, stems,
Branches, leaves, and flowers
Are all freshened by the same rain.
Each of these, although receiving the same moisture,
Reaches a greater or lesser size
In accordance with their different
Dispositions, characteristics, and natures.

Each being, whether plant or animal, is metaphorically one of these crops. Each must be handled according to their growing conditions. Indeed, in addition to its multifaceted ecological and social parables, the Lotus Sūtra also consistently interweaves the theme of "skillful means," from the Sanskrit upāya, rendered 方便 in Chinese. Such skillful means are an essential pedagogical tool, an adaptable teaching device, intended to wisely package and compassionately deliver much-needed lessons in a context-appropriate manner, suited to the audience and setting.

In order to effectively apply skillful means, one must have cultivated a refined contemplative discernment. The same teaching, packaged and delivered in the same way, will not be equally effective for all beings. Given their unique conditions, the amount of rain and sun each requires in order to flourish must be adapted accordingly. Multiple routes to regeneration exist. Rather than a "one size fits all" vehicle, there exist countlessly diverse iterations and adaptations, varied grasses, trees, shrubs, herbs — all included on-board the single vehicle — quite viscerally, a form of unity in plurality.

The Same Rain

Perhaps most significantly, the Lotus Sūtra invokes rain as the necessary ingredient — a panacea — for the flourishing of all herbs.

Such rain falls equally on all. Even so, while all receive the same rain, the diversity of beings receive it in different quantities, by different means, and grow to different sizes. We may perhaps conceive of rain as medicine, a remedy for the ills that afflict us, leaving us parched and brittle like dried plants. Medicinally, rain restores our vitality. This, then, begs the question: What in our present situation offers us medicinal rain?



Our present circumstances offer an invaluable training ground for regenerative efforts and ongoing lifestyle adaptations in preparation for forthcoming existential shocks, which will inevitably continue in the years to come. These regenerative remedies, in their various forms — including contemplative varities of inner and outer cultivation, both of psychosocial mindscapes and bioregional landscapes, both of which are detailed in the Lotus Sūtra — serve as sources of rain and relief, crafting the conditions for a sustainable future. For such a future to even be possible, we must undergo a global, societal, ecological paradigm shift in every act of body, speech, and mind in the days, weeks, months, and years to come, which the Lotus Sūtra and other classics anticipated well in advance of our present crisis, describing the means to do so at length.

Although brief, we hope these reflections, inspired by the Lotus Sūtra — whose name itself conveys the potential for infinite beauty to emerge from the most putrid and muddy of conditions — will contribute to ongoing efforts at seeding the solutions through a plurality of regenerative revolutions.

To be continued.

Without Words - The Dao De Jing on Non-Doing

"The softest thing in the universe
Overcomes the hardest thing in the universe.
That without substance can enter where there is no room.
Hence I know the value of non-action.
Teaching without words and work without doing
Are understood by very few."

—Dao De Jing, Verse 43

Action and Non-Action

Amidst varied responses to the coronavirus outbreak, a whirlwind of stress has been stirred. With public health in jeopardy, many governments have chosen to mandate versions of "shelter in place" in a concerted effort to stop the spread of disease. As increasingly many people are confined to individual quarters, a sort of unintentional hermit-like existence may be on the rise, with the majority experiencing acute distress, boredom, cabin fever, and other sorts of unease. Craving activity and stimulation, we feel restless, stir crazy, particularly on edge.

Perhaps offering a reprieve from the storm of pandemic sweeping over communities near and far is the Dao De Jing, a Chinese classic attributed to the hermit-sage Lao Tzu (i.e., Laozi) dating to roughly the sixth century before the common era.

While the majority actively resists the hermit-life, viewing it with suspicion as a form of escapism or passive disengagement, only entering its realm reluctantly under lock-down and not even fully, given other means of escape such as various forms of media, at least a door has been cracked open. Under these conditions, we have the chance to turn inward and evaluate our habits of consumption, if we are willing. We therefore use this opportunity to briefly explore a Daoist hermit's reflections on action and non-action in relation to our present circumstances.

Doing

With so much chaos erupting around us amidst the COVID-19 crisis, we may naturally feel the urge to act, to do something to help. Many might feel guilty for doing nothing. Given a societally-ingrained push toward ceaseless action, we've been conditioned to constantly be on the go in one way or another. Daoist contemplative traditions, however, offer an alternative.



Throughout the Dao De Jing and other classics, a radically different perspective is depicted. As Lao Tzu reflects, "teaching without words and work without doing are understood by very few," illustrating a contemplative pivot. Those teachings conveyed without resorting to the limits of language, that work that flows without effortful action, are too often completely overlooked and neglected.

Non-doing

Non-doing flies in the face of everything taught to us by mainstream, industrialized societies and their obsession with productivity. How can anything be accomplished without actively doing something? Wu wei, a Chinese term of Confucian origin but of particular significance in Daoism, conveys multiple contemplative meanings, mostly centered around "non-doing," "inaction," "inexertion," or "effortless action." Here we find a mode of being that challenges the norms of productivity.



Much more than meets the eye transpires in the absence of obvious activity. Through non-doing, wu wei, we reduce the strain on the system. Whether by refraining from polluting the already declining environment or by refraining from putting our bodies in public spaces where we are likely to become vectors of disease transmission during this pandemic, non-doing goes a long way. "The softest thing in the universe," observes Lao Tzu, "Overcomes the hardest."

Undoing

"I know the value of non-action," reflects Lao Tzu. Such non-action, or effortless action of a kind other than those that attract the spotlight in our overwhelmingly consumerist society, enables us to un-do the damage already done. While certain scars cannot be erased, we can at least mitigate the effects of the climate crisis and COVID-19 crisis through reduction of our consumerist behaviors. Undoing the patterns of consumerist craving that characterize our conscious experience is the basis for regenerative undertakings.



While we pause here for the time being, this conversation is most certainly ongoing, evolving in real-time across the ever-changing terrain of the immediate present and onward. As a parting reflection, we note that just as meaningful forms of assistance need not be limited to activity, the notion of "social distancing" also reflects a major oversight. We may physically distance ourselves from each other for the sake of disease control, practicing "non-doing" as a means of reducing transmission, but that by no means necessitates social or emotional distance or escapism of any kind. We remain connected despite distance, engaged despite stillness, according to the Dao De Jing.

To be continued.

Source:

Feng, Gia-Fu and Jane English. Tao Te Ching (Daodejing). New York: Random House, Inc., 1973.

Mountains Closing In - Contemplative Remedies for Existential Threats

Existential Threats

Given the severity of public health concerns, ongoing environmental crisis, the possibility of economic collapse, and various other seemingly insurmountable challenges weighing upon society in the present age, it may currently seem as though we have mountains closing in on us from every angle.

Such mountains represent the existential threats looming overhead. Their rocky, towering, formidable presence casts shadows over society, blanketing civilization in darkness and despair. Not only are these mountains standing threateningly over us, they are moving in rapidly. Life as we know it will come to an end, whether sooner or later. The quickness with which the mountains close in only seems to be accelerating in light of worsening conditions across the globe.

This sort of image features prominently in a discourse attributed to the Buddha known as the Pabbatūpama Sutta, the Simile of the Mountains, case 3.25 of the Saṃyutta Nikāya in the Pāli Canon. Although some 2,500+ years old, it speaks equally to us now as it did to contemplatives then. We thus take up this discourse as a classic encounter with the urgent need for liberating practice in the face of existential mountains closing in from all directions.

Mountains Closing In

Contextually, the Simile of the Mountains is a teaching imparted by the Buddha to a prominent ruler, King Pasenadi of Kosala. An important lay figure who acted as a patron of Buddhist monasteries during the early period, King Pasenadi was nonetheless ruler of a mighty kingdom known for its bustling activity. Kept constantly on his toes, the king frequently sought guidance from the Buddha for how to rule in the secular sphere as well as how to live a spiritual life.

Setting the stage for their conversation, we are informed that the king visits the Buddha after having busied himself with the duties of kings "who are infatuated with authority, and obsessed with greed for sensual pleasures."

In the course of their conversation, upon hearing King Pasenadi speak of his duties and activities as ruler, the Buddha proposes a hypothetical situation to the king. In this situation, the king receives news from a messenger claiming, "I saw a huge mountain that reached the clouds. And it was coming this way, crushing all creatures." He hears this not from one messenger, not from two, but from multiple sources reporting on a rogue mountain closing in from every direction, an set of avalanches advancing upon the kingdom from all sides.

With this image in mind, the king is asked how he would respond to such an emergency.

“Should such a dire threat arise—a terrible loss of human life, when human birth is so rare—what would you do?”

“Sir, what could I do but practice the teachings, practice morality, doing skillful and good actions?”

“I tell you, great king, I announce to you: old age and death are advancing upon you. Since old age and death are advancing upon you, what would you do?”

“Sir, what can I do but practice the teachings, practice morality, doing skillful and good actions?”

Faced with such questions, the king responds without hesitation that the best he could do under such conditions would be to practice diligently. His response is not to funnel resources to fortify the city, nor to evacuate the masses, nor to response through sheer force of military troops, as these would do no good in the face of such existential onslaught. With mountains closing in, with old age and death closing in, the only way to leap over them is by putting what one has learned into practice, existentially.

This kind of response flies in the face of emergency responses we may typically perceive as most practical and effective.

Certainly, if something can be done to prevent the mountains from closing in, then by all means, preventative measures should be taken. In the face of the climate crisis, the elimination of non-biodegradable waste, the promotion of restorative and regenerative efforts, and other such responses are worthy undertakings that must be pursued, lest the situation worsen irrevocably. In the face of violence and war, we should directly address the root of conflict rather than merely applying bandages over a festering wound.

With the mountains of old age and death closing in, an existential onslaught that cannot be prevented, contemplative practice may be an immediately relevant and viable remedy.

Contemplative Remedies

Recognizing that there are mountains closing in upon us, confronting the visceral reality of existential threat, instills in us an urgency to practice. We need not wait until the last moment to "practice the teachings, practice morality, doing skillful and good actions," as the king describes.

The sooner we undertake such practices (whether meditation or abstention from activities that harm ourselves and others, broadly understood) the better chances we face. A significant and central aspect of contemplative practice entails cultivating this awareness of the severity of our condition, not as a mere after-thought, but so it remains in the foreground, informing our every move. That said, there is a certain balance that must be struck so that the salience of this existential awareness leads not to paralysis, but moves us, motivates us to practice.

Indeed, near the conclusion of the discourse, a set of verses drive the message home for us:

Suppose there were vast mountains
of solid rock touching the sky
drawing in from all sides
and crushing the four quarters.

So too old age and death
advance upon all living creatures—
aristocrats, brahmins, merchants,
workers, outcastes, and scavengers.
They spare nothing.
They crush all beneath them.

Given the unrelenting, undiscriminating nature of old age and death, all are equally susceptible to their avalanche-like advance, kings and commoners alike. Rather than cling to superficial demarcations that set us apart, perhaps our efforts would be better spent if we banded together in addressing the existential threats that face us all.

Contemplative remedies work well at the individual level in reducing the stress associated with existential threat, often by contemplating the impermanence of conditions and meeting such unstable conditions with a stable mind, but what can be done at the collective contemplative scale?

Moreover, what can be done to prevent mountains from closing in upon us in the first place? While the mountains of aging and death will inevitably affect us all, contemplative practice will significantly transform how we respond to them, tending to their onslaught with wisdom and equanimity rather than ignorance and panic.

Climate change and spread of disease, on the other hand, can be mitigated. Bioregional regeneration and whole-systems permaculture are deeply promising solutions deserving of further exploration. As are contemplative methods such as mindfulness, not only in our everyday activities to prevent the spread of disease and in making informed choices in the realm of sustainability, but also in a much broader recognition of the occasionally invisible threads of ecological and epidemiological interconnectedness, an awareness that will enable us to co-evolve with ecology and remedy the challenges of epidemiology. Such awareness is the foundation for sustainable behavioral change that may spare lives.

Opportunities for practice abound in every waking moment today. Let not a moment go to waste. To be continued.



Source: Bhikkhu Sujato. Pabbatūpama Sutta: The Simile of the Mountain (SN 3.25), SuttaCentral, 2018. Dedicated to the public domain via Creative Commons Zero (CC0).