Descartes on Dreaming - Impressions that Linger like Painted Images

Impressions that Linger...

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

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



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

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

Like Painted Images

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

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

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

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

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

Bedeviling Hoaxes

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

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

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



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

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

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

Utterly Cease to Exist

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

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

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

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

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

Descartes on Dreaming

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

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

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

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

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

Lotus Blooming From The Mud ...

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

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



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

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

Unsmeared, Undrenched

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

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



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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Awake Within A Dream

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

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

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



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

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

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

For the Sake of Other Beings

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

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



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

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

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

Mechanics of Mind

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

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

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

Ordinary Mind

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

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



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

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

Mind is Moving

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

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

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

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

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

They argued on this incessantly.

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

Everyone was startled.

(Trans. Buddhist Text Translation Society)

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

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

Merely Discussing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ordinary Experience

So what relevance does this exchange have for us?

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

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

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

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

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

Stillness Amidst the Currents

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



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

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



We are asked to reflect thus:

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

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



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

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

Currents of Construing

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



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



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

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

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

Becoming a Sage at Peace

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

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



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

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

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



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

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

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

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

An Endless Trail - Ascending Cold Mountain to Sit Amongst White Clouds

Cold Mountain Path

A poem for contemplation:

"Clambering up the Cold Mountain path,
The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on:
The long gorge choked with scree and boulders,
The wide creek, the mist-blurred grass.
The moss is slippery, though there’s been no rain
The pine sings, but there’s no wind.
Who can leap the world’s ties
And sit with me among the white clouds?"
(Trans. Gary Snyder)

Hanshan, c. 700s (C.E.)



This poem by Hanshan (寒山), the "Cold Mountain" poet-recluse of Tang dynasty China whose recorded work spans Daoist and Chan (Zen) Buddhist realms, serves as an analogy of sorts for contemplative practice. Indeed, various traditions throughout history employ the metaphor of the "path" to convey the long and winding road of spiritual cultivation. Perhaps more saliently than anywhere else, such path-based imagery consistently weaves its way into East Asian literature and poetry.

Given the migratory nature and often uncertain trajectory of peoples of the past (and many of the present as well), the "path" came to symbolize the profound transformations undergone while in the constant process of going in nomadic transience. Such imagery of the nomad became especially prominent on the Silk Road, where cultures interfaced and contemplatives exchanged insights.

In Hanshan's poem, such traversal of the contemplative path is given a rugged depiction. The imagery of the first line — “clambering up the Cold Mountain path” — already tells of the path's arduous incline. Taking his pen-name from this very mountain, Hanshan ("Cold Mountain") clambers upward, using both hands and feet, perhaps mis-grasping or mis-stepping at several points, stumbling along the way while climbing the mountain's face.



Immediately, the reader can sense the challenge faced by the mountain-climber, whose journey is both literally and figuratively uphill. If undertaken sincerely, the contemplative path is initially an uphill journey, requiring strength in perseverance and stamina in order to progress and ascend. Obstacles fall upon us like rocks in an avalanche. Rather than completely smooth sailing, such mountaineering is often a bumpy ride replete with injury, leaving the aspirant with the feeling of “clambering up” a desolate, barren “Cold Mountain path.”

Endless Trail

Traversing the contemplative path is no easy feat. Adding to these challenges, the second line of Hanshan's poem suggests that the trail is limitless, reflecting how the contemplative path is without end, infinitely extending into the horizon. One question immediately arises, namely: How can a finite being ever reach the top of the mountain if the trail is infinite? Perhaps the poet may have a similar question at the beginning of his spiritual path. On an endless trail, is there any hope? Can one ever reach the top?

Perhaps the endless trail signifies that the path continuously unfolds without final destination. Attaching to a fixed end point is fruitless. Things don't always go according to plan. That doesn't make plans useless. Rather, one can make plans yet hold them lightly, adjusting for detours.



Perhaps the trail is so extensive that it contains no constrictions imposed by an ego whose tendency is to chart its progress, taking pride in its successes and shame in its failures. Both are equally part of the path yet without inherent substance. Bad day? Keep going. Good day? Keep going. While ascending the mountain, don't be fooled or blown about by these "worldly winds."

The trail may further symbolize humanity's unbounded nature, suggesting vastness of potential. Caution ahead: Rather than mistaking such an unbounded nature as inherently "me," such vastness hints at a dissolution of "self"-imposed boundaries. Tread carefully along this bend, a precariously perched pathway where the risk of falling is especially high. Medicinally, "not-self" (non-identification) opens new ways of navigating experienced reality. If we identify with our successes or failures, we risk getting tripped up on the ascent. If we realize that there is no ego-identity or separate self that exists apart from others and the world, nothing is perceived as an obstacle on the path.

Choked With Weeds

As the poem and path wear on, we find ourselves immersed in vivid references to nature. Take the middle lines, “The long gorge choked with scree and boulders... The wide creek, the mist-blurred grass. The moss is slippery, though there’s been no rain... The pine sings, but there’s no wind.”

When Hanshan describes the long gorge as being “choked with scree and boulders,” we are reminded of a poem by Tao Yuanming, another contemplative poet of China.

Similar to Hanshan yet referencing another sort of landscape, Tao Yuanming reflects, “My fields and gardens are choked with weeds,” perhaps suggesting that spiritual cultivation has long been neglected. Hanshan, however, references “scree and boulders,” painting an even more desolate, desert landscape. If there ever was a garden in its place, all life is now long-gone, leaving only barren wasteland in its wake.



Such barrenness reflects the cultivator's struggle in starting at ground zero, having absolutely no experience, not even the tiniest of seedlings to nurture. As any beginning gardener may reflect, there is immense difficulty in nourishing sprouts to maturity without the proper conditions.

In our own small-scale farming experience, during a period of absence, the farm where we had previously seen plants flourish and bear fruits instead fell into complete disarray, choked with its own form of “scree.” It took many weeks of labor to nurse it back to life.

Such imagery perhaps allows one to empathize with the cultivator who encounters “The long gorge choked with scree and boulders.”

Despite No Rain

The next lines lend a sense of hope and inspiration. Hanshan keenly observes, “The wide creek, the mist-blurred grass/ The moss is slippery, though there’s been no rain.” Suddenly, the landscape is enlivened.



When the path is abandoned, all that was previously cultivated wilts through neglect. Under drought, the creek narrows, grass grows jagged and loses its color, while moss dries out. The mountain trail grows stark and barren.

Yet here Hanshan characterizes the creek as wide, the grass as mist-blurred, and the moss as slippery. All seems just as alive as ever.



All of this, despite no rain. Relative to the beginning of the poem, which described a desolate mountainside, here a contrast is apparent.

Typically, when the land's resources are sapped, such beauty and potential appears to fade. When conditions degrade, it seems there's no hope. Yet if one acts soon enough, vitality may be recovered. The potential remains alive, only dormant.



Alternating between hope and fear, the line “The pine sings, but there’s no wind” reads as an eerie reference. If there is no wind blowing through it, then how does the pine sing? Where is the voice coming from? Perhaps this line functions as a sort of huatou, like the question, “Who recites the Buddha’s name?” or “Who drags this corpse around?” The contrast between “The pine sings” and “but there’s no wind” helps shake us free of dualistic thinking, thus preparing us for the final lines.

Amongst White Clouds

The concluding lines of this poem strike us the strongest. They feature in the opening scene to the film “Amongst White Clouds” documenting the contemplative paths undertaken by the Zhongnan Mountain hermits of China. Such lines convey the search for freedom from bondage by embarking upon the contemplative path.



In asking, “Who can leap the world’s ties/ And sit with me among the white clouds?” the poet invites his readers to contemplate if they are willing to undertake the arduous journey described in the earlier lines of the poem for the sake of ultimate liberation.



Despite all the toil it takes to ascend the mountain, despite the arduous nature of the path, despite the risk, the effort is worth it.



To have the company of a companion in the process allows for a collaborative journey that culminates in sitting together amongst white clouds. Such a collaborative undertaking makes the path easier to walk, the mountain easier to climb. Indeed, this is why we join together in community to support each other on the path. "Who can transcend this tiresome world...and sit with me amongst white clouds?"

Yoga for Balance and Clarity - Spinning in Circles and Stilling the Turnings of Thought

Turnings of Thought

What does the phrase "turnings of thought" conjure in your mind?

Perhaps the very process of turning is activated by such an inquiry. The gears of the mind begin to turn as we seek an answer to the question. This is especially the case for the things that surprise us, stump us, and stress us.

The mind has a tendency to run in circles, spinning at a thousand thoughts a minute. The turnings of thought trace their origin deep into our evolutionary past, when the capacity to think up quick solutions to existential threats in the form of predators stood to save our very lives.

At one point, such turnings of thought yielded overall stability for us.



Now, however, the tables have turned.



These days, the turnings of thought tend to backfire, like wheels that have lost traction when a vehicle is stuck in a ditch. The wheels keep turning, tossing up dirt and dust, but the vehicle fails to move.

Such is the desperate state in which we've landed, wherein our thoughts run rampant around artificial stressors of our own creation. Our mental health suffers and we experience burn out.

Of course, thinking has its practical use, but getting spun around by our own thoughts does no good to oneself or others.

Spinning in Circles

Consider for a moment the act of spinning in circles and the feelings it evokes.



Spinning offsets vestibular balance, a function of the nervous system responsible for keeping us on our feet rather than falling flat on our face on the floor. When we spin in circles and then stop in place, the world around us continues to wobble and we usually find ourselves unable to stand our ground. We begin to stumble around and may even lose our footing. Scientists refer to this as a disruption in equilibrioception, the sense of balance. We call it discombobulation.

As children, we may recall the experience of spinning in circles or whirling in a chair, then feeling like our world keeps spinning as we struggle to keep our balance. We end up laughing uncontrollably or throwing up out of nausea. Either way, our system reacts. Clarity is distorted. We become disoriented.

The sort of discombobulation that comes from spinning in circles is comparable to severe turbulence on an airplane, the sudden ups and downs while riding a roller coaster, or twists and turns during a particularly bumpy ride along a rocky, winding road. We may feel as though the stomach lurches, jumping into the throat, then sinking deep into the bowels. Nausea ensues. Some laugh it off while others succumb to motion sickness. Needless to say, our steadiness is disrupted.



Each of these processes of physical disorientation can be likened to the relentless spinning of thoughts in our minds.

The Yoga Sutras

The Yoga Sutras were composed in roughly the year 400 of the common era by the Indian sage Patañjali. Not much is known about Patañjali's life and character other than he was likely a Sāṃkhya philosopher. What can be known from his writings, however, suggests a deep understanding of the human mind.

Patañjali's Yoga Sutras examine the turning of thoughts, which spin us around on a whim, giving rise to a disoriented state of mind. Our capacity for clear vision is obscured by such turnings. The Yoga Sutras offer a practical analysis of this process.



In section 1.2 of the Yoga Sutras, Patañjali defines yoga as the cessation (nirodha) of the turnings (vṛtti) of thought (citta). In this case, the turnings of thought refer specifically to mental disturbances that obscure the clarity of our true nature, which is termed puruṣa.

The cessation of the turnings of thought requires letting go of those attachments that bind and wind us up. Whether desires, worries, or stories in our heads, the wise one does not get spun by them. When we detach from these sources of spinning, we are able to observe the turnings of thought at a distance without identification. Eventually, they grow still.

Pointing at this very state, the Yoga Sutras confirm, “when citta ceases, the observer (draṣṭuḥ) stands (avasthānam) in its own form (svarūpe)” (YS 1.3). In other words, the observer no longer misapprehends reality through imaginative contortions but instead apprehends things as they are without distortions. She stands still amidst the turnings.



In this undisturbed state, the observer is able to see, without distortion, her authentic self (puruṣa). This original state is like a bright mirror reflecting everything that comes before it exactly as it is.

Balance and Clarity

How do we go about restoring clarity and regaining balance when our tendency is to spin and turn?

The turnings of thought disrupt the balance and clarity of our true nature. This true nature is originally luminous, without distortion. When the agitation of spinning ceases, then such balance and clarity are restored.

To calm the turnings, we must understand the causes for imbalance.

When misunderstanding arises, we see things in a dizzy blur, a lens through which we fail to apprehend them as they are. In section 2.4 of the Yoga Sutras, we find that ignorance (avidyā) gives rise to misunderstanding. That is, we misunderstand on account of our ignorance. We lose touch with our true nature and get thrown off kilter.



Ignorance (avidyā) in this context entails misapprehending the impermanent as permanent, the impure as pure, suffering as happiness, and non-self as self. This is what we learn from section 2.5 of the Yoga Sutras. Out of this sort of confusion emerge the forces that spin us out of control. In turn, our thoughts, speech, and actions are misaligned.

How do we respond to misalignment? Patañjali would probably agree that we need to stop spinning. Without stillness, we cannot steer in the right direction. Thus, Patañjali suggests cultivating forces that steer us on the right path. In section 1.12, he specifies that these steering forces are practice (abhyāsa) and dispassion (vairāgya), which enable and empower us to reclaim control over our system's coordination.

Restoring clarity and regaining balance require stillness. When mind and body are regulated, we remain firmly grounded without being swayed in every direction. We may then find stillness amidst the turnings.

What are some simple ways of finding stillness? Stay tuned for our next post to find out.

The Emperor’s Advice - Marcus Aurelius on Working Together as One Body

Who Was Marcus Aurelius?

With history looming over us during a period of unrest and decline across the globe, we’re constantly confronted with the question of how to best live our lives. Marcus Aurelius had an answer, but first, you might ask: Who was Marcus Aurelius? And how is he relevant to us?



As head of the Roman empire from the year 161 to 180 of the common era, Marcus Aurelius was a thoughtful and strategic emperor. Hailed as a benevolent ruler, he defended the empire with all his might. His success can arguably be attributed to the virtuous qualities he brought to his leadership and the ethically informed actions that he undertook to secure the empire.



Through careful examination of his innermost thoughts, the emperor was able to make wise choices in his political career. He further encouraged others to live an examined life. At a young age, Aurelius was influenced by Epictetus, a Greek Stoic who advocated making philosophy a way of life. Inspired by this, Aurelius later wrote his Meditations in the form of reflections on how to live his life meaningfully. In addition to drawing from the Discourses of Epictetus, he was inspired by Greek Stoicism as a whole. As such, his reflections in turn reflect principles pertaining to Stoic ethics.



So who was Marcus Aurelius? A philosopher-king whose insights and advice apply equally today as they did nearly 2,000 years ago. We’ll tell you why.

The Emperor's Advice

Originally left untitled, what became known as the Meditations started as a series of journal entries with the Greek heading Τὰ εἰς ἑαυτόν or Ta eis heauton, "things to one's self."

Addressing himself, Marcus Aurelius begins Book 2 of his Meditations with a reflection on challenging people. No doubt drawing from personal experience, he acknowledges that difficult encounters are avoidable and that one must come to accept their inevitability. Yet to grow hostile and hateful toward people who irk us does no good whatsoever. Such reactivity only obstructs our ability to cooperate, “for we have come into being to work together.”



Such is the emperor's advice, an emperor who had the privilege to say so. Surely his life conditions were far better than that of the average person at his time or even these days. To approach challenging people with such Stoic repose is not always possible for those of us who live under far more stressful circumstances than this king of kings.

Or is it?

The path of equanimity is accessible to all, although easier for some. Certainly, we have to acknowledge the emperor's fortune relative to his subjects. The life of Marcus Aurelius was no underdog success story. He was born into privilege, the son of a government father and heiress mother. He reigned during an era of relative peace and stability in the Roman Empire, which experienced far worse while he was not in charge. He was basically set for life.



Marcus Aurelius was no doubt better equipped, materially, to meet with challenges on account of his position as emperor. For comparison, imagine being a peasant under the Roman empire trying to cope with the inability to even feed oneself or one's family. This is no ancient myth. The same situation affects countless millions today. Yet regardless of class background and material resources, the emperor's advice on meeting with challenging people still applies.

The emperor's relatively luxurious life was not without its times of stress. Aurelius, however, developed a method to deal with the madness. His reflections may help us, too, realize that ultimately, each of us has the capacity to reorient our reactions to what happens to us. We may not be able to control the outer conditions, but we can control how we internally process them, enabling us to overcome hardship. It may be wise, after all, to heed the emperor's advice.

Working Together as One Body

Of course, as with nearly all statements of such magnitude and proportion, this is far easier said than done. If such advice were given to someone faced with crisis, the order would be rather tall. With the amount of distrust that circulates today, it remains seemingly impossible to look past someone who appears to insult or threaten us. To restrain oneself from reacting at all, in such a case, is quite the feat.

At the initial stages in the cultivation of non-reactivity, however, the emphasis is not on becoming a lifeless shell of a person. Indeed, Stoicism does not advocate this at all. Rather, one must become attuned to the interconnection that underlies it all.

“I, then, can neither be harmed by these people, nor become angry with one who is akin to me, nor can I hate him.” —Meditations 2.1 (translated by Christopher Gill)

Here we find the emperor reflecting on common humanity. When one is in a difficult situation, the first impulse is to react by fanning the flames of ill-will, or even acting out through hostility, largely as a means of defending oneself. Imagine someone attacking you verbally, insulting you to your face. Sadly, many of us don't need to imagine this, having instead experienced it directly. You start to feel the fire boiling inside the body. This negative feedback fuels a cycle of resentment towards the other. Such fire literally destroys us from the inside out.

Seeing the harm in this cycle, Marcus Aurelius reflected that others were like him, with similar habits of mind, similar fears and dreams. With this reflection guiding his actions, he refrained from the impulse to hate, instead cultivating equanimity. An equanimous mind is free from the burden of hatred. Such freedom relieves one of the fear of harm. In place of such fear, trust may grow.

“For we have come into being to work together, like feet, hands, eyelids, or the two rows of teeth in our upper and lower jaws.” —Meditations 2.1 (translated by Christopher Gill)

Like a single body comprised of various parts, as individuals we belong to a greater whole. Indeed, this passage highlights the principle of unity in plurality. Without cooperation between the intersecting parts, the whole cannot function. If, for instance, we cannot collectively mobilize in the face of the climate crisis, instead seeing ourselves as separate from the environment and separate from each other, then we are responsible for our own undoing. The next passage further highlights the difference between working together as one body, which accords with nature, and working against one another, which goes against collective interests.

“To work against one another is therefore contrary to nature; and to be angry with another person and turn away from him is surely to work against him.” —Meditations 2.1 (translated by Christopher Gill)

Here, Aurelius draws attention to the importance of working together as one body by emphasizing social harmony. In fact, those who compete against each other push against the natural course, like the left foot kicking the right, or right fist punching the left. How could parts of the same whole treat each other in this way? It would surely be for their ultimate demise. While others throughout history have obviously disagreed, advocating competition and individualism, the emperor here makes a bold claim, one very few politicians of his time or of late would dare to make.

Fruits of Cooperation

A relatively stable empire was one obvious example of the fruits of cooperation for Aurelius, who refused to act on impulse. Rather than enter into wars needlessly or insult his opponents in order to bandage a bruised ego, the emperor returned again and again to the power of cooperation. Only when we can see past the urges of competition may we unshackle ourselves from the prison of the ego.



Perhaps the fruits of cooperation are available to us all. Indeed, there may be some universal truth in what Marcus Aurelius advises in terms of cooperation. Perhaps the emperor's advice is not merely for the privileged elite who are already well-off and whose “challenges” are but tiny drops in the sea relative to those less fortunate. Aurelius himself encountered a small dose of misfortune first-hand in the form of competition from rivals that plagued his career. Perhaps his Meditations helped him reinvigorate his commitment to cooperation, and could similarly serve anyone else willing to try them on for size.

Stay tuned for more reflections from the contemplative traditions. We intend to provide complementary discussions on these issues from multiple angles, like the many parts that comprise one body of knowledge. May we all find unity in plurality.