Category Archives: Humanities

Potter and Clay

The clay works toward the purpose of forming a vessel and so does the potter, but it is the potter’s joy and privilege to feel the happiness of the accomplishment of the purpose, not the clay’s.

–Pir-o-Murshid Hazrat Inayat Khan
From: A Meditation Theme for Each Day
Selected and arranged by Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan

Amusing Experiment

For the last few months I’ve been writing a book, so it was easy to have a silent morning, since most of the time Sasha provides my only interaction with another mammal. But by midafternoon, I was missing even the minor human contact I usually had. I called my husband at work. After he said “Hello” and I didn’t say anything, he said, “Oh, it’s you. How’s it going?” Pause. “That well, huh?” Pause. “I love you and you’re very weird.”

The Oneness

Talk as much philosophy as you like,
worship as many gods as you please,
observe ceremonies and sing devotional hymns,
but liberation will never come, even after a hundred
aeons, without realizing the Oneness.

–Sankara

What a mystery this Oneness is. My limited intellect only grasps snippets of it. I think that “realizing the Oneness” is not accomplished quickly, and perhaps not entirely while we exist in these bodies, this dimension. I glimpse Oneness when I learn about quantum physics, astronomy, molecular biology, neurophysiology, and mathematics. I also encounter the Oneness when I experience love, awe, and delight. I am with the Oneness not only in my peace, but also in my anger — in my aliveness. I realize Oneness when I consider human civilizations over the millenia, the expanse of geologic time, the insensible grandeur of nature. The Oneness can be thought, felt, tasted, heard. But to apprehend all of this entirely? I haven’t “arrived” at that level of ability. If I did get it all, I think my head might explode!

Use Your Swifter Wings

every moment
a voice
out of this world
calls on our soul
to wake up and rise

this soul of ours
is like a flame
with more smoke than light
blackening our vision
letting no light through

lessen the smoke and
more light brightens your house
the house you dwell in now
and the abode
you’ll eventually move to

now my precious soul
how long are you going to
waste yourself
in this wandering journey
can’t you hear the voice
can’t you use your swifter wings
and answer the call

— Translation by Nader Khalili
“Rumi, Fountain of Fire”
Cal-Earth Press, 1994

The Despotic Ego

Weariness may also begin to set in — this is actually a healthy sign — at the enormous burden of working for the ego. Most of us, before we see this, don’t realize why we’re so tired, or even how tired we are. But we spend our whole day nourishing the ego, being told by it what to do, maintaining and protecting it, being wounded in it. It’s exhausting.

— Larry Rosenberg

[via whiskey river]

The Psychology of Samsara

In Thoughts Without a Thinker, Mark Epstein very neatly pulls together various theories of psychotherapy and the aspects of Samsara, the Wheel of Life. This wheel depicts the Six Realms of Existence, through which souls cycle through rebirth. They are: the Human Realm, The Animal Realm, the Hell Realm, the Realm of the Hungry Ghosts, the Realm of Jealous Gods or Titans, and the God Realm. Psychotherapy, he writes, is concerned with reintegrating missing pieces of our experience from which we’ve become estranged. He continues:

This concern with repossessing or reclaiming all aspects of the self is fundamental to the Buddhist notion of the six realms. We are estranged not just from these aspects of character, the Buddhist teachings assert, but also from our own Buddha-nature, from our own enlightened minds. We have ample opportunity to practice the methods of re-possessing or re-membering that are specifically taught in meditation, for we can practice on all of the material of the six realms, on all of the sticking points in our minds. If aspects of a person remain undigested — cut off, denied, projected, rejected, indulged, or otherwise unassimilated — they become the points around which the core forces of greed, hatred, and delusion attach themselves. They are black holes that absorb fear and create the defensive posture of the isolated self, unable to make satisfying contact with others or with the world.

Epstein gives examples connecting theory to realm. Freud et al focused on exposing the animal nature of the passions, such as the Hell-ish nature of paranoia, aggression, and anxiety; insatiable longing (later termed oral craving) depicted by Hungry Ghosts. Humanistic psychotherapy focuses on “peak experiences,” akin to the God Realms. Cognitive, behavioral, and ego psychology can be seen in the competitive Realm of the Jealous Gods. And the Human Realm is the parallel to the psychology of narcissim and questions of identity.

This helps me to understand why I’m uncomfortable when asked what theoretical framework I use in my therapy. Each addresses an important aspect of living, but none of them has ever seemed to completely address all aspects. Therefore, I’ve never wanted to “settle” on just one. This also explains (to me) why I have been intrigued by and drawn to Buddhism for many years. As I developed my professional identity, Buddhism seemed the most inclusive framework. To see the connections made between Eastern and Western thought infuses me with interest.

I’ve only recently settled in to read this book, and it promises rich sustenance.

At Play

I got creative this weekend, and my soul felt refreshed. It’s a reflection of the state of my life right now.

Oh, and this amuses me:

How important are the visual arts in our society? I feel strongly that the visual arts are of vast and incalculable importance. Of course I could be prejudiced. I am a visual art.

–Kermit the Frog

Menstruation, Rites of Passage, and Culture

The American attitude toward sexuality has a paradoxical nature. Media blasts us in all forms that sex is the nectar of life, and while perhaps it is, it neglects to teach us what it means to be a sexual person. Millions of people, especially children, acquire vast and damaging misconceptions about sex. Conversely, parents seek to diminish media influence by discouraging sexuality, often by ignoring the topic altogether; these parents fear that candid discussion about sex will convey approval for pre-marital sex. So, they withhold information or deliver it with accompanying feelings of shame. Along with lessons on sex, attitudes toward one’s body are conveyed. Men must be muscular and tough; women must be svelte and gorgeous. Beyond the issue of surface beauty lies the attitude one holds toward one’s gender.
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Yum

Denny’s entry today offers a gorgeous close-up of gardenia blossoms. They look velvety and creamy. I can almost feel their texture on my skin. And the scent! Imagine lying on a bed of petals, with a blanket of them covering you in a soft drift. I would savor the caress of such a gift.

I have always thought that if I were to be reincarnated as a non-animal, I would like to be a cloud (or clouds). I am fascinated by them, gazing intently out the window whenever I take a plane. Some are mountain ranges while others are expansive beaches of mist. From above they look substantial, three-dimensional, though this is an illusion my eyes seduce my brain into thinking. Clouds are air, everywhere and nowhere, embodying nothing yet holding everything. To me, clouds are a manifestation of divine touch. They permeate, dissipate, cast shadows, reflect light, and are constantly transforming. The photo of gardenias brought them to mind.
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What’s Left?

Kurt Brobeck of The Coffee Sutras writes inspired entries he dubs “morning verses.” This one struck me as especially eloquent.

Yesterday I felt discouraged.
It hangs over me this morning, as well.
I tell myself chop wood, carry water.
But the woods grow thicker.
The water is over my head.
I have only these old bones
to hack and paddle, picked
clean by time and overuse.
They’re dull. And silence, the clear
spring, well, maybe in the next life.
Here in this one, the birds
tear silence like an old blanket,
hoard it in their nests,
out of reach, woven in twigs
and dead grass. What’s left?
I put my hope in the furious
scouring of storms.