Post #134: Now You Hear It, Now You Don’t

2 Sep. 2024

     I don’t know whether I’ve given the impression of being particularly receptive to Buddhist teachings, or perhaps rather the opposite, of being noticeably resistant and recalcitrant on key points. I’m not sure myself; all I can tell is that is seems to be seasonal, with the message sometimes getting through quite nicely, other times falling on practically deaf ears.

     I mentioned, in my last post, the excellent collection of Nyanaponika Thera’s writings (Vision of Dhamma) that was, a decade ago, a great favorite of mine. I still find it to be of exceptional quality in terms of giving a sophisticated yet level-headed explanation of the key elements of the Buddha’s Teaching for the intellectually lively Western inquirer, yet all the while remaining within the bounds of the venerable Theravadan tradition. I don’t see how it could be done any better.

     Goenka’s 3-Day discourses too came at the right time and seemed to fall on fertile ground, as per the last post. Yet, when I tried listening to more, or when, the post written, I read beyond two or three of my favorite pieces in the Vision collection, the window seemed to close again. The message was as familiar, as convincing, and as well expressed as before, but somehow it didn’t resonate much beyond what had already gone through, for reasons that are unclear to me, except that Nyanaponika and Goenka may speak from a higher level, as I suggested last time, than what is congenial to me at the moment.

     I think I mentioned before how there have been times this past decade or so when I found myself passing the Buddhism shelf at a bookstore and feeling totally disinclined to take a look, even (see #12). Goenka’s discourses too, at times, have gone in one ear, out the other. During some periods, the meditation lights switch off without warning, leaving the practice feeling cold,  mechanical, and nearly meaningless. But then—and this is the most confusing part—sometimes they also switch back on again from one moment to another, occasionally with great intensity.

     It is all an expression of Anicca, one might say, and of Anatta: the impermanence of all conditioned things as reflected in a self that is not a stable entity either, but likewise a thing in constant flux. Ta panta rhei, as Heraclitus put it (τὰ πάντα ῥεῖ). What we take to be a distinct thing, such as a river, turns out upon closer inspection to be only flowing water, carrying things along to no very definite end, except perhaps to merge one day with the great sea, though the distances in this dimension can be so great as to defy comprehension.

     No step on the Path is ever lost, Goenka and the other Dhamma teachers keep insisting and reassuring the diffident and skeptical. As a matter of faith, I would very much like it to be true; as a matter of reflection and common sense, considering that every game of tennis changes the wiring of the brain a little, it would be strange if hundreds or thousands of hours of meditation made no discernible difference. Only as a matter of felt experience, the picture can look more discouraging, and I’ve had difficulty, at times, discovering the storeroom where these treasures are supposedly kept.

     Granted, it is an impossible calculation to run: to judge the difference that one’s steps on the Path have made, it is not enough to scrutinize the current state of one’s mind and judge it either suitably meditative, or else wanting in Dhammic distinctions. What one would need is a parallel life in which one had forgone the practice; then one would have a real standard of comparison.* Using others, or some idea of what a seasoned meditator should be like, is useless; others are not known to us as we are to ourselves, and even if they were, no two human beings, at this most intimate of levels, are ever the same.

     I’ve talked about the tempting thought that sometimes comes knocking on my mental door, whispering that it may all be little more than a colossal waste of time—perhaps not in principle and for everyone, but certainly for an irredeemable worldling like me, who wouldn’t even want to be anything else.

     Jordon Peterson describes a moment when he was, at a time of deep contemplation, offered grace in a waking vision; he declined it, he reports, feeling that he would not know how to live with such a lofty gift in the world as he understood it. I had a similar epiphany once, not quite waking, not quite dreaming, when I was asked whether I wished to be shown some of the higher truths to which a Buddha might be privy, or whether I would prefer for a bout of overwhelming nausea to be taken away instead. It shocked me how unequivocal my answer to that question was, on a kind of pilgrimage, undertaken at a time of pretty intense practice: never mind wisdom, high or low, just make the nausea go away! It was trading the keys to the kingdom for a dish of lentils, with not a moment’s hesitation over the disturbing implications. I suppose it put my practice on a more realistic footing, inasmuch as it ended any illusions I may have had, then or now, about the scope of my true spiritual aspirations.

     That being so, however, why would I persist at all? It is not very unusual, and reasonable in its own worldly way, to show no great interest in spiritual matters, or to pursue them, if ever, in a lackadaisical manner. It is equally logical, given higher aspirations, to get serious about the practice and do what one can to “work out one’s salvation,” as per the Buddha’s final exhortation. But the intermediate position, a confirmed wanderer on the Path, but often dilatory and without much zest—that is odd. On the Path? Very well: I wish you Godspeed for the journey. Off the Path? Very well, pluck what fruits you can off the thorny bushes of life. But on and off, or maybe never quite off yet never quite on either, where is that supposed to leave or lead you?

     Perhaps, as I’ve myself suggested before, at some point it no longer really is a matter of whether one wants to keep walking or not. One may not have seen enough yet to make for a more satisfying journey, but already too much to quit. As Chögyam Trungpa liked to taunt his audience (the rogue Rinpoche I quote at the outset of #70), perhaps it would be better not to get started on the Path at all—because once you have begun the journey in earnest, there is no turning back, only a continuing with more or less dispatch and expedition.

     I’ve probably given a better treatment, I feel myself, to this troubling issue in #86 or #90, and in other bits and pieces throughout this “blog.” It is not a question that can be resolved and shelved, at least not by me. That’s why I set it, from the very outset, at the head of my ponderings; if it were to be answered conclusively one way or the other, perhaps it would be time to close the book on this chapter in my writing life. As it is, with no very definite conclusions beckoning, all I can do is to ask myself whether the tedium of repetition, whether for me or the reader, outweighs the benefit of continuing a little longer.

     It is another open question that I cannot answer any more conclusively than the looming one of my position in relation to the Path. Time will tell. Or maybe the final cessation of the trickle of readers that has been watering this project so far. Maybe I will come to my senses, or lose them altogether, with consequences I dare not predict, one way or the other. Until then I suppose I will keep buggering on. One day, and one post, at a time is quite enough of a challenge for me without making promises or grand pronouncements.

     If you wish to weigh in on the matter, the continual voting with your feet sends me a clear enough signal. Feel free to add a note (bank or not) of encouragement. Dismissive or disparaging communications I would ask to be spared, please; not that I deny anyone’s right to form negative opinions and express them, but the energy sustaining this site is liable to enough leakage as it is, and the flow may come to a natural end before long without anyone taking measures to kill it off. Doing so is therefore quite unnecessary and would only create bad karma.

*Even if such a direct comparison were ever imaginable, at least hypothetically, one would still face the question of the scale on which one expects to be changed. I am indebted to Dan Harris for the amusing formula that even if one’s spiritual efforts made one “only” ten percent happier (the title of his book, Dey Street 2014), there would be a lot to be thankful for. Putting it in Vipassana terms, becoming ten percent more equanimous is certainly nothing to scoff at, if the alternative is the default position of remaining entirely engulfed, all the time, by the incessant stream of one’s thoughts and sensations. In fact the mere recognition that there is such a thing as equanimity with one’s experiences at all, and that it can be cultivated at least in principle, however inefficient the practice and inept one’s efforts, must look like a major breakthrough from a Vipassana perspective, because it opens the door, potentially at least, to a completely different life, even if the promise of such a turnaround may take a very long time to bear full fruit.