While driving, immediately following our afternoon sit, my brain offered up the observation that if you take a sort of snapshot of the experiences of a single instant in time — like driving on a rural two-lane highway on a summer day, with lots of trees, blue sky, and white clouds — how could there be any problem? (Maybe an exception is intense physical pain, but maybe even that wouldn’t be a problem, but leaving that aside.) Clearly, the stories added on top of direct experience are what make things problematic. And it seems like thoughts and stories don’t exist in an instant but in time. So if you have one of those instants after another, there’s still no problem, right? And couldn't experience be perceived as one instant after another?
That’s as far as my brain got with that idea. And it doesn’t seem fully vetted. And it wasn't particularly experiential, mostly cognitive. But anyway, there you go.
realizing selflessness
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vinceschubert
- Posts: 5744
- Joined: Fri Nov 04, 2011 11:02 am
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Re: realizing selflessness
Hi K,
An implication is that stories are to be eliminated, but this isn't so. What do you think is an adaptive skill to be developed when a story arrives?
Why do you imagine that i say this?
It was cognitive once & experiential at least twice. The content of thought played one continuous loop while you experienced the appearance of the thought and the ripple of primary responses (& probably secondary and tertiary...)
You're on the slippery slide now.
vince
Excellent! You have discovered something really significant. That is that continuity is an illusion supported by story. Every instant (a metaphor) is completely fresh, unique, & elusive. It can only be 'seen' by taking a snapshot. ..and they are never accurate. (our camera has a dirty lens)So if you have one of those instants after another, there’s still no problem, right?
Yes, yes. Absolutely. How significant is this?Clearly, the stories added on top of direct experience are what make things problematic.
An implication is that stories are to be eliminated, but this isn't so. What do you think is an adaptive skill to be developed when a story arrives?
Love the inevitability in this.until after my name turns blue:
Good stuff.This gives rise to frustration that it’s hard to know how to do it “better” or more “efficiently”
Why do you imagine that i say this?
After 19 pages of posts, the 'standard' LU techniques ...you personally seem to have your own intuitive thing going,
yes, later.interest in guiding
It was both.And it wasn't particularly experiential, mostly cognitive.
It was cognitive once & experiential at least twice. The content of thought played one continuous loop while you experienced the appearance of the thought and the ripple of primary responses (& probably secondary and tertiary...)
A story i love about this is that you have established new synaptic connections that have created pathways in the right brain (where there is no narrative) The rarional (left) brain has assigned the job to right brain.This seems worth mentioning:
Last night, got less upset than usual about a common type of difficult interaction with spouse. Didn’t notice or “intentionally” engage any specific mechanism that would explain that, but naturally, there’s an inclination to attribute it in a general sort of way to whatever the heck we’re doing at LU and in your Zoom meetings.
You're on the slippery slide now.
vince
Re: realizing selflessness
This seems like an easy one (to answer, if not always to do): recognize a story as a story.An implication is that stories are to be eliminated, but this isn't so. What do you think is an adaptive skill to be developed when a story arrives?
Like the first meditation instruction I was given, forty years ago: notice the thought, and return the attention to physical sensations of the present moment (e.g., the sensations of breathing or walking).
The great majority of thoughts spewed out by the brain are not the useful sorts of cognition for which the cerebral cortex evolved but, rather, mental chatter that is useless at best and second-arrow suffering at worst. So the trick is to get better at recognizing stories as stories — “better” meaning catching on more quickly and also being less apt to be duped by stories pretending to be reality (like, y’know, thoughts being beamed into your brain by a nefarious power but masquerading as “your” thoughts to keep you extra-distracted from seeing reality as it is). And one of the most convincing stories is the story of “self,” which seems like it’s simply reality.
Stories don’t need to be eliminated, just seen as stories. (And once they realize they’re not getting you so riled up anymore, they also tend to die down.)
Sadism?Good stuff.This gives rise to frustration that it’s hard to know how to do it “better” or more “efficiently”
Why do you imagine that i say this?
No?
OK, um . . . This is a more difficult question: Why would you say that this comment, or the frustration mentioned, is “good stuff”?
Well, let’s see . . . Talking about doing something “better” or more “efficiently” implies that there’s a desired goal to be attained, preferably sooner rather than later.
Um, yeah. Brain goes into petulant toddler mode: I want to wake up!!! Now!!!
OK, but more mature part of brain understands that in some way that’s hard to get a grip on, awakeness is not in the future but is always already here now.
Petulant toddler morphs into petulant teenager in order to say something a little more complex: But I haven’t realized that yet! Realization is the future! I want realization!!! Now!!!
Mature brain knows that somehow, even that isn’t right. (Mature brain is the one who put “better” and “efficiently” in scare quotes in the original post.) But what is right is elusive.
Something about “This is it,” and seeing stories as stories, and the illusory nature of the supposed “practitioner” who wants to know what to DO to “attain” realization.
Aarrgh!!!
Back to the question: Why would you say that this is “good stuff”?
Zen-master-style benevolent sadism?
Because the frustration indicates that I’m really engaged with my “already and not yet” koan?
Because you’re glad there’s no way for me to figure out how to do whatever it is we’re doing “better” or “more efficiently,” because it’s not about DOing anything or attaining a goal and maybe I’ll finally really grok that? But, yeah, I know, “finally grokking something” is in the future, and that’s not what it’s about . . .
Ugh!
Because I didn't say "I find this frustrating" but "This gives rise to frustration," which suggests that there might be some degree of disidentification from frustration and perhaps from the story of "I"?
OK, I’m not entirely sure.
Why did you say, “Good stuff”?
Yeah, brain-rewiring is a satisfactory story.A story i love about this is that you have established new synaptic connections that have created pathways in the right brain (where there is no narrative) The rarional (left) brain has assigned the job to right brain.
Oh, dear God, I hope so.You're on the slippery slide now.
Re: realizing selflessness
An episode in the brain-rewiring story:
Discovered a wasp nest on the balcony with lots of very busy wasps. Started fretting about what to do about it and the fact that all possible actions or inactions would likely have some unwanted consequences. Noticed the fretting, and had the thought that this was probably unnecessary. Realized that an (in)action will be chosen (not implying a chooser) and that it might have unwanted consequences, and that’s all there is to it. Still not happy about having to deal with a wasp nest, but don’t need to add anything else to that.
(This kind of thing gives rise to the thought: Are we basically just doing cognitive therapy here at LU? Is the difference mainly that cognitive therapy stops short of examining the fundamental story of “I”? No need to respond to that.)
P.S. When I was about to hit Submit, I heard the balcony door opening and closing. Spouse had dashed out there, perhaps foolishly, to rescue the potted plant that we were most worried about not watering until two days from now, when someone from the property management company can come deal with the wasp nest.
Discovered a wasp nest on the balcony with lots of very busy wasps. Started fretting about what to do about it and the fact that all possible actions or inactions would likely have some unwanted consequences. Noticed the fretting, and had the thought that this was probably unnecessary. Realized that an (in)action will be chosen (not implying a chooser) and that it might have unwanted consequences, and that’s all there is to it. Still not happy about having to deal with a wasp nest, but don’t need to add anything else to that.
(This kind of thing gives rise to the thought: Are we basically just doing cognitive therapy here at LU? Is the difference mainly that cognitive therapy stops short of examining the fundamental story of “I”? No need to respond to that.)
P.S. When I was about to hit Submit, I heard the balcony door opening and closing. Spouse had dashed out there, perhaps foolishly, to rescue the potted plant that we were most worried about not watering until two days from now, when someone from the property management company can come deal with the wasp nest.
Re: realizing selflessness
Afternoon sit:
Flailed around for a few minutes trying to settle on what to “do” during this sitting period. Decision: Don’t do, or not do, anything, except to sit totally still, including trying to keep the gaze still (which seems to be conducive to having a more settled mind). That’s it. Whatever else happens is fine.
A couple of times, when I noticed I’d been caught up in thoughts and then remembered the plan to not do anything in particular, there was a little sense of relief that the wandering thoughts hadn’t been an "interruption" of anything. This seemed to reveal, somewhat to my surprise, that I must still, at least sometimes, think wandering thoughts in meditation are “bad” (despite how often I tell students in the academic class I teach on Zen, which involves trying a tiny bit of zazen and which I’m in the middle of teaching right now, that thoughts aren’t bad).
Then I did relax and let the mind do whatever it wanted. Translating that sentence to dispense with the doer language: Disappointed thoughts no longer began to appear when it was noticed that the mind was chattering or whatever. (Spent an inordinate amount of time struggling to figure out, given the time difference from Sydney, whether you’d see this flurry of posts before the “Monday morning” Zoom meeting, which is Sunday evening for me.)
So it ended up being largely an exercise in “That’s fine,” “That’s fine,” “That’s fine,” which was fine.
Flailed around for a few minutes trying to settle on what to “do” during this sitting period. Decision: Don’t do, or not do, anything, except to sit totally still, including trying to keep the gaze still (which seems to be conducive to having a more settled mind). That’s it. Whatever else happens is fine.
A couple of times, when I noticed I’d been caught up in thoughts and then remembered the plan to not do anything in particular, there was a little sense of relief that the wandering thoughts hadn’t been an "interruption" of anything. This seemed to reveal, somewhat to my surprise, that I must still, at least sometimes, think wandering thoughts in meditation are “bad” (despite how often I tell students in the academic class I teach on Zen, which involves trying a tiny bit of zazen and which I’m in the middle of teaching right now, that thoughts aren’t bad).
Then I did relax and let the mind do whatever it wanted. Translating that sentence to dispense with the doer language: Disappointed thoughts no longer began to appear when it was noticed that the mind was chattering or whatever. (Spent an inordinate amount of time struggling to figure out, given the time difference from Sydney, whether you’d see this flurry of posts before the “Monday morning” Zoom meeting, which is Sunday evening for me.)
So it ended up being largely an exercise in “That’s fine,” “That’s fine,” “That’s fine,” which was fine.
Re: realizing selflessness
Hesitated to do a fourth post in this bunch, but, well, here it is.
I haven’t been watching so many Angelo DiLullo videos recently as I did for a while, but I just watched a few of the most recent ones, and two of them are precisely on the “This is it” theme.
Some bits that hit just right from “Scrap It All and Just See”:
“What if you didn’t even have to figure out whether to practice right now or not practice right now? What if the thought that says, ‘I have to figure out whether to practice or not practice right now?’ — what if that thought itself is everything you need? You don’t have to move beyond that. You don’t have to move beyond this.”
“What if you can embrace every single thing that happens including the feeling of not being able to embrace something?”
“What if all of this already is enlightenment?”
And from “Exactly Like This”:
“. . . whatever is appearing for you right now, whatever is arising for you right now is the only possibility. So you don't need to do anything about it.”
“There’s no need for anything to be other than it is. There’s no possibility for anything to be other than it is right now, including a thought that is confused, a thought that believes there could be something different.”
Nothing new here, of course. But it's helpful, I think, to keep hearing the same things in slightly different ways.
I haven’t been watching so many Angelo DiLullo videos recently as I did for a while, but I just watched a few of the most recent ones, and two of them are precisely on the “This is it” theme.
Some bits that hit just right from “Scrap It All and Just See”:
“What if you didn’t even have to figure out whether to practice right now or not practice right now? What if the thought that says, ‘I have to figure out whether to practice or not practice right now?’ — what if that thought itself is everything you need? You don’t have to move beyond that. You don’t have to move beyond this.”
“What if you can embrace every single thing that happens including the feeling of not being able to embrace something?”
“What if all of this already is enlightenment?”
And from “Exactly Like This”:
“. . . whatever is appearing for you right now, whatever is arising for you right now is the only possibility. So you don't need to do anything about it.”
“There’s no need for anything to be other than it is. There’s no possibility for anything to be other than it is right now, including a thought that is confused, a thought that believes there could be something different.”
Nothing new here, of course. But it's helpful, I think, to keep hearing the same things in slightly different ways.
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vinceschubert
- Posts: 5744
- Joined: Fri Nov 04, 2011 11:02 am
- Location: Australia
- Contact:
Re: realizing selflessness
Hi K, watch your reactions as you experience these words. (i'm interested in a sigh, a gasp, or a chuckle in particular)
Enlightenment isn’t a thing — and nothing is missing
It’s not an object.
It’s not a state you possess.
It’s not a badge.
It’s not a personal achievement.
It’s not a spiritual substance.
It’s not a permanent glow.
It’s not a special identity called “awake.”
The mind keeps trying to turn it into a noun.
I have enlightenment.
I reached awakening.
I am awake.
I lost it.
I need to stabilise it.
I’m not there yet.
But all of that is language building a “thing” out of a shift in seeing.
A cleaner way to say it:
Something is no longer believed in the same way.
Or:
The old centre loses authority.
Or:
The search for a thing called enlightenment is seen as part of the illusion.
That’s the joke.
The seeker is looking for enlightenment as if enlightenment is something missing.
Then it turns out the feeling of “something missing” was produced by the seeking structure itself.
Nothing was acquired.
A mistaken assumption weakened.
The hand opened around something it never actually held.
So perhaps:
Enlightenment is not a thing that happens to someone. It is the loosening of the assumption that there was someone who could get it.
Even that is too much, but it points well.
And this matters because the word itself can become a trap.
“Enlightenment” sounds like a destination.
“Awake” sounds like a condition.
“Liberation” sounds like an achievement.
“Realisation” sounds like something someone owns.
The mind loves this.
It makes a new identity out of the absence of the old one.
I am awake.
There it is again.
A little-self wearing spiritual clothes.
So maybe the plainer way to say it is:
Life is less organised around the imagined centre.
No object.
No owner.
No final state.
No one who has arrived.
Just less enchantment with the old misidentification.
And this leads straight into the next piece:
Nothing is missing.
Not because everything feels good.
That’s important.
Nothing is missing does not mean nothing is painful.
It does not mean nothing is confusing.
It does not mean nothing is unfinished.
It does not mean nothing is unwanted.
It does not mean the human life is all sorted out.
It means the present moment is not waiting for an extra ingredient in order to be complete as this.
Completeness is not a feeling of satisfaction.
It is not the arrival of peace.
It is not the absence of fear.
It is not the final solving of the human life.
It is this already being whole enough to be exactly what it is.
A tight chest is not incomplete because it is tight.
Sadness is not incomplete because it is sad.
Confusion is not incomplete because it is confused.
Seeking is not incomplete because it seeks.
The felt sense of separation is not incomplete because it feels separate.
A story is not incomplete because it is a story.
The mind says:
Something is missing.
Then it offers candidates.
More clarity.
More peace.
More certainty.
More love.
More openness.
More awakening.
Less fear.
Less contraction.
Less story.
Less me.
But look closely.
That claim — something is missing — is itself complete as a claim appearing.
It has a texture.
It has a tone.
It has a bodily echo.
It has a direction.
It creates a future.
It creates a seeker.
It creates a gap between here and enough.
But the gap is made of thought, sensation, and imagination appearing now.
Nothing has actually been removed from this moment.
Even the sense of lack is included in completeness.
That is the part the mind hates.
Because the mind wants completeness to mean:
No lack is felt.
But completeness includes the feeling of lack.
Just as the sky includes cloud.
Just as the ocean includes wave.
Just as the room includes shadow.
Just as silence includes the sound that appears in it.
Nothing is missing from sadness when sadness is here.
Sadness is the complete expression called sadness.
Nothing is missing from anger when anger is here.
Anger is the complete expression called anger.
Nothing is missing from confusion when confusion is here.
Confusion is the complete expression called confusion.
The mind wants every experience to justify itself by becoming something else.
Fear should become safety.
Sadness should become acceptance.
Contraction should become openness.
Seeking should become arrival.
Separateness should become oneness.
Restlessness should become stillness.
But what if completeness is not elsewhere on the timeline?
What if completeness is not the improved version of this?
What if completeness is this before comparison?
This breath.
This ache.
This thought.
This resistance.
This room.
This uncertainty.
This ordinary human weather.
Not complete because it feels good.
Complete because it is not half-happening.
It is fully happening.
The missingness is usually imagined from comparison.
This compared to a better state.
This compared to a memory.
This compared to a teaching.
This compared to someone else.
This compared to what “awake” should feel like.
This compared to how the mind thinks life ought to be.
Without comparison, what is missing?
Not as a philosophy.
Right now.
If there is tightness, is tightness missing anything in order to be tightness?
If there is a thought, is the thought missing anything in order to be thought?
If there is dissatisfaction, is dissatisfaction missing anything in order to appear exactly as dissatisfaction?
Even the sense “this isn’t it” is it.
Not because it is pleasant.
Because it is what is appearing.
So the investigation is not:
How do I become complete?
It is:
Where is incompleteness actually found, apart from a story saying something else should be here?
Look for the missing piece.
Is it in the body?
There may be contraction, heaviness, restlessness, ache.
But are those incomplete?
Or are they complete sensations?
Is it in thought?
There may be a thought saying, This is not enough.
But is that thought incomplete?
Or is it a complete thought appearing?
Is it in emotion?
There may be longing.
But is longing incomplete?
Or is longing the complete shape of longing?
This does not mean practical life stops.
If hungry, eat.
If tired, rest.
If a bill needs paying, pay it.
If harm is happening, respond.
If grief comes, cry.
If love moves, speak.
Completeness does not cancel movement.
It reveals that movement is also completeness.
Hunger is complete hunger, and eating may happen.
Tiredness is complete tiredness, and rest may happen.
Pain is complete pain, and care may happen.
Conflict is complete conflict, and a conversation may happen.
Nothing is missing does not mean nothing changes.
It means change is not required to make this moment whole.
Change is simply what this wholeness does next.
So enlightenment is not a thing.
And completeness is not a thing either.
Completeness is not something you get.
It is not something added to experience.
It is the nature of experience before the mind compares it with something else.
Everything appears whole as itself.
A broken cup is complete as a broken cup.
A cloudy sky is complete as a cloudy sky.
A frightened body is complete as a frightened body.
A seeking thought is complete as a seeking thought.
An ordinary morning is complete as an ordinary morning.
Nothing extra has to be added to this for this to be this.
And this is all there ever is.
So perhaps the deepest relaxation is not:
I am complete.
Even that may be too much.
Cleaner:
Completeness is happening.
Not owned.
Not achieved.
Not felt all the time.
Not dependent on mood.
Not dependent on getting rid of the sense of lack.
Just this, fully appearing.
Nothing missing.
Even when missingness appears.
And maybe that is why enlightenment cannot be a thing.
Because the moment it becomes a thing, the mind creates distance again.
Here is me.
There is enlightenment.
Here is lack.
There is completeness.
Here is seeking.
There is arrival.
But this is already complete.
Not complete later.
Not complete once the self disappears.
Not complete once peace arrives.
Not complete once the story stops.
Complete as this.
Including the one who thinks something is missing.
Including the search for enlightenment.
Including the failure to find it.
Including the laughter when it becomes obvious that nothing was missing in the first place.
Nothing was found because nothing was missing.
And still, life goes on.
Tea gets made.
Bodies ache.
People misunderstand each other.
Bills arrive.
Dogs bark.
Thoughts appear.
Stories gather.
Love moves.
Fear visits.
The ordinary day continues.
But perhaps with a little less reaching.
A little less argument.
A little less insistence that this moment become something else before it is allowed to be whole.
This.
Already.
Complete.
v
Enlightenment isn’t a thing — and nothing is missing
It’s not an object.
It’s not a state you possess.
It’s not a badge.
It’s not a personal achievement.
It’s not a spiritual substance.
It’s not a permanent glow.
It’s not a special identity called “awake.”
The mind keeps trying to turn it into a noun.
I have enlightenment.
I reached awakening.
I am awake.
I lost it.
I need to stabilise it.
I’m not there yet.
But all of that is language building a “thing” out of a shift in seeing.
A cleaner way to say it:
Something is no longer believed in the same way.
Or:
The old centre loses authority.
Or:
The search for a thing called enlightenment is seen as part of the illusion.
That’s the joke.
The seeker is looking for enlightenment as if enlightenment is something missing.
Then it turns out the feeling of “something missing” was produced by the seeking structure itself.
Nothing was acquired.
A mistaken assumption weakened.
The hand opened around something it never actually held.
So perhaps:
Enlightenment is not a thing that happens to someone. It is the loosening of the assumption that there was someone who could get it.
Even that is too much, but it points well.
And this matters because the word itself can become a trap.
“Enlightenment” sounds like a destination.
“Awake” sounds like a condition.
“Liberation” sounds like an achievement.
“Realisation” sounds like something someone owns.
The mind loves this.
It makes a new identity out of the absence of the old one.
I am awake.
There it is again.
A little-self wearing spiritual clothes.
So maybe the plainer way to say it is:
Life is less organised around the imagined centre.
No object.
No owner.
No final state.
No one who has arrived.
Just less enchantment with the old misidentification.
And this leads straight into the next piece:
Nothing is missing.
Not because everything feels good.
That’s important.
Nothing is missing does not mean nothing is painful.
It does not mean nothing is confusing.
It does not mean nothing is unfinished.
It does not mean nothing is unwanted.
It does not mean the human life is all sorted out.
It means the present moment is not waiting for an extra ingredient in order to be complete as this.
Completeness is not a feeling of satisfaction.
It is not the arrival of peace.
It is not the absence of fear.
It is not the final solving of the human life.
It is this already being whole enough to be exactly what it is.
A tight chest is not incomplete because it is tight.
Sadness is not incomplete because it is sad.
Confusion is not incomplete because it is confused.
Seeking is not incomplete because it seeks.
The felt sense of separation is not incomplete because it feels separate.
A story is not incomplete because it is a story.
The mind says:
Something is missing.
Then it offers candidates.
More clarity.
More peace.
More certainty.
More love.
More openness.
More awakening.
Less fear.
Less contraction.
Less story.
Less me.
But look closely.
That claim — something is missing — is itself complete as a claim appearing.
It has a texture.
It has a tone.
It has a bodily echo.
It has a direction.
It creates a future.
It creates a seeker.
It creates a gap between here and enough.
But the gap is made of thought, sensation, and imagination appearing now.
Nothing has actually been removed from this moment.
Even the sense of lack is included in completeness.
That is the part the mind hates.
Because the mind wants completeness to mean:
No lack is felt.
But completeness includes the feeling of lack.
Just as the sky includes cloud.
Just as the ocean includes wave.
Just as the room includes shadow.
Just as silence includes the sound that appears in it.
Nothing is missing from sadness when sadness is here.
Sadness is the complete expression called sadness.
Nothing is missing from anger when anger is here.
Anger is the complete expression called anger.
Nothing is missing from confusion when confusion is here.
Confusion is the complete expression called confusion.
The mind wants every experience to justify itself by becoming something else.
Fear should become safety.
Sadness should become acceptance.
Contraction should become openness.
Seeking should become arrival.
Separateness should become oneness.
Restlessness should become stillness.
But what if completeness is not elsewhere on the timeline?
What if completeness is not the improved version of this?
What if completeness is this before comparison?
This breath.
This ache.
This thought.
This resistance.
This room.
This uncertainty.
This ordinary human weather.
Not complete because it feels good.
Complete because it is not half-happening.
It is fully happening.
The missingness is usually imagined from comparison.
This compared to a better state.
This compared to a memory.
This compared to a teaching.
This compared to someone else.
This compared to what “awake” should feel like.
This compared to how the mind thinks life ought to be.
Without comparison, what is missing?
Not as a philosophy.
Right now.
If there is tightness, is tightness missing anything in order to be tightness?
If there is a thought, is the thought missing anything in order to be thought?
If there is dissatisfaction, is dissatisfaction missing anything in order to appear exactly as dissatisfaction?
Even the sense “this isn’t it” is it.
Not because it is pleasant.
Because it is what is appearing.
So the investigation is not:
How do I become complete?
It is:
Where is incompleteness actually found, apart from a story saying something else should be here?
Look for the missing piece.
Is it in the body?
There may be contraction, heaviness, restlessness, ache.
But are those incomplete?
Or are they complete sensations?
Is it in thought?
There may be a thought saying, This is not enough.
But is that thought incomplete?
Or is it a complete thought appearing?
Is it in emotion?
There may be longing.
But is longing incomplete?
Or is longing the complete shape of longing?
This does not mean practical life stops.
If hungry, eat.
If tired, rest.
If a bill needs paying, pay it.
If harm is happening, respond.
If grief comes, cry.
If love moves, speak.
Completeness does not cancel movement.
It reveals that movement is also completeness.
Hunger is complete hunger, and eating may happen.
Tiredness is complete tiredness, and rest may happen.
Pain is complete pain, and care may happen.
Conflict is complete conflict, and a conversation may happen.
Nothing is missing does not mean nothing changes.
It means change is not required to make this moment whole.
Change is simply what this wholeness does next.
So enlightenment is not a thing.
And completeness is not a thing either.
Completeness is not something you get.
It is not something added to experience.
It is the nature of experience before the mind compares it with something else.
Everything appears whole as itself.
A broken cup is complete as a broken cup.
A cloudy sky is complete as a cloudy sky.
A frightened body is complete as a frightened body.
A seeking thought is complete as a seeking thought.
An ordinary morning is complete as an ordinary morning.
Nothing extra has to be added to this for this to be this.
And this is all there ever is.
So perhaps the deepest relaxation is not:
I am complete.
Even that may be too much.
Cleaner:
Completeness is happening.
Not owned.
Not achieved.
Not felt all the time.
Not dependent on mood.
Not dependent on getting rid of the sense of lack.
Just this, fully appearing.
Nothing missing.
Even when missingness appears.
And maybe that is why enlightenment cannot be a thing.
Because the moment it becomes a thing, the mind creates distance again.
Here is me.
There is enlightenment.
Here is lack.
There is completeness.
Here is seeking.
There is arrival.
But this is already complete.
Not complete later.
Not complete once the self disappears.
Not complete once peace arrives.
Not complete once the story stops.
Complete as this.
Including the one who thinks something is missing.
Including the search for enlightenment.
Including the failure to find it.
Including the laughter when it becomes obvious that nothing was missing in the first place.
Nothing was found because nothing was missing.
And still, life goes on.
Tea gets made.
Bodies ache.
People misunderstand each other.
Bills arrive.
Dogs bark.
Thoughts appear.
Stories gather.
Love moves.
Fear visits.
The ordinary day continues.
But perhaps with a little less reaching.
A little less argument.
A little less insistence that this moment become something else before it is allowed to be whole.
This.
Already.
Complete.
v
Re: realizing selflessness
No gasps or chuckles, I’m sorry to say. Maybe something resembling a sigh but more like a “Hmm” or an “Mmm” about some specific things I want to return to tomorrow (it’s past bedtime now) and spend more time with, and the whole general theme of completeness and nothing missing.watch your reactions as you experience these words. (i'm interested in a sigh, a gasp, or a chuckle in particular)
Some specific bits:
That claim — something is missing — is itself complete as a claim appearing.
But what if completeness is not elsewhere on the timeline?
What if completeness is not the improved version of this?
What if completeness is this before comparison?
Without comparison, what is missing?
Where is incompleteness actually found, apart from a story saying something else should be here?
It occurs to me that my first Zen teacher loved to say, “You are perfect and complete, lacking nothing.”
Good night, and thank you, vince.
Re: realizing selflessness
Good morning (here)! Good night (for you)!
Back to completeness and nothing missing . . .
Sometimes the “This is it” stuff feels like it’s pointing me toward seeing what’s actually here, which is clearly the intention and which is how I try to take it, but sometimes I feel like I’m trying to let myself be talked into something. Or it feels like something I’m trying to take on faith, like “It’s all God’s will.”
Have I mentioned that I’m Catholic? Not even born into it but joined voluntarily as an adult, after a basically secular upbringing, then several years of intensive Buddhist practice, then a master’s program in Christian theology. I still feel like my “first language” religiously is Buddhism, but I’m also fluent in Christianity. I do a little teaching at the theology school I attended, where the students are mostly Protestant.
Anyhow, I think some of my students have found deep and genuine peace in life by grokking that, in some way that’s hard to talk about without sounding callous about all the suffering in the world, it’s all God’s will, or God is in everything, or something along those lines. I feel constitutionally incapable of having that specific sort of faith, given my essentially secular, humanist, scientific, vaguely Unitarian upbringing. (But despite my agnosticism about the efficacy of petitionary prayer, I have offered up quite a few prayers lately for seeing reality as it is, which I certainly think God — whatever I mean by that — would approve of.)
That was all mostly to say that I feel like I’m aiming for the non-theistic equivalent of a conversion to seeing everything as God’s will. And . . . I’m not even sure anymore why I wanted to tell you that.
I’m going to send this now, and then I’ll return to your last message and take my time with it.
Back to completeness and nothing missing . . .
Sometimes the “This is it” stuff feels like it’s pointing me toward seeing what’s actually here, which is clearly the intention and which is how I try to take it, but sometimes I feel like I’m trying to let myself be talked into something. Or it feels like something I’m trying to take on faith, like “It’s all God’s will.”
Have I mentioned that I’m Catholic? Not even born into it but joined voluntarily as an adult, after a basically secular upbringing, then several years of intensive Buddhist practice, then a master’s program in Christian theology. I still feel like my “first language” religiously is Buddhism, but I’m also fluent in Christianity. I do a little teaching at the theology school I attended, where the students are mostly Protestant.
Anyhow, I think some of my students have found deep and genuine peace in life by grokking that, in some way that’s hard to talk about without sounding callous about all the suffering in the world, it’s all God’s will, or God is in everything, or something along those lines. I feel constitutionally incapable of having that specific sort of faith, given my essentially secular, humanist, scientific, vaguely Unitarian upbringing. (But despite my agnosticism about the efficacy of petitionary prayer, I have offered up quite a few prayers lately for seeing reality as it is, which I certainly think God — whatever I mean by that — would approve of.)
That was all mostly to say that I feel like I’m aiming for the non-theistic equivalent of a conversion to seeing everything as God’s will. And . . . I’m not even sure anymore why I wanted to tell you that.
I’m going to send this now, and then I’ll return to your last message and take my time with it.
Re: realizing selflessness
Are you familiar with the game Spelling Bee, on the New York Times site? You make as many words as you can out of seven letters, and there’s always at least one word, called a “pangram,” that uses all seven letters. I and my nerdy aunt and a few of my nerdy friends are addicted to this game. And we have all noticed how you can spend 5, 10, 15 minutes staring at the letters, shuffling them around, playing with different letter combinations, and not find the pangram, but then later in the day, while you’re walking the dog or making dinner, it just appears in your brain, or you open up the game again and the pangram is just staring at you. One of these nerdy friends also practices Zen, and we’ve thought that passing a koan sounds like that: you work and work and work on it, and then, randomly, one day you go, “Oh!”
In grad school, I read about a 17th/18th-century German Lutheran pastor, August Hermann Francke, who had a conversion experience while writing a sermon. I’ve thought that I’m a good candidate for that kind of thing. I’ll be writing a response on a discussion board to a student in my Zen class, and I’ll go, “Holy crap, samsara really is nirvana!”
OK, so I’m aware that both of those images involve a decisive realization. And given all the Zen literature I’ve read and Angelo DiLullo videos I’ve watched and so forth, I don’t think I can be talked out of believing that kensho is a thing — or an event, or I don’t know what. And it’s something I want. It’s the main thing I want. Yeah, I know, “I” want it, and supposedly, that “I” doesn’t even exist (and indeed I haven’t been able to find any definite “I” in my direct experience, but so what?), and apparently, grokking the nonexistence of the “I” is what kensho is. But that’s putting it in the future, which is apparently misguided. And I suppose seeing how it’s misguided could be another way of describing kensho . . . Oy.
I am so sick of spinning in circles in the paradox of “already and not yet”! And here come the tears of frustration again. (I note that they haven’t been appearing quite so often recently as they were for a while.)
And, OK . . . ALL of this is it (so I’m told). Everything, right now, right here. So that includes my frustration, my tears, my “believing in” kensho, my confidence that a decisive realization is “attainable” (even if that’s a misguided way to think about it), my confusion, my feeling like I’m missing something. And it includes my mind then going, “OK, so I need to grok that everything is included.” Even the thought that there’s anything I need to grok is part of the “completeness.” *Sigh.* (When you said you were interested in a sigh, I’m guessing you didn’t mean that sort of sigh: one of weariness.)
I appreciate your attempts to put whatever the “realization” or “shift” is into words, even though they’re probably all inevitably misleading:
And following that was something I made special note of:
Right. Another example of how everything is included. It’s all part of the completeness. It can be trickier to see that about some things, such as a feeling of incompleteness, but it’s all included.
I think I’ve got that now — I mean, not in the sense that I grok it but in the sense that I won’t overlook anything (maybe? or not for too long?) when considering what is (supposedly) part of the completeness.
Alright, I’ll stop now.
Oh, but I’m still wondering why this is “good stuff”:
In grad school, I read about a 17th/18th-century German Lutheran pastor, August Hermann Francke, who had a conversion experience while writing a sermon. I’ve thought that I’m a good candidate for that kind of thing. I’ll be writing a response on a discussion board to a student in my Zen class, and I’ll go, “Holy crap, samsara really is nirvana!”
OK, so I’m aware that both of those images involve a decisive realization. And given all the Zen literature I’ve read and Angelo DiLullo videos I’ve watched and so forth, I don’t think I can be talked out of believing that kensho is a thing — or an event, or I don’t know what. And it’s something I want. It’s the main thing I want. Yeah, I know, “I” want it, and supposedly, that “I” doesn’t even exist (and indeed I haven’t been able to find any definite “I” in my direct experience, but so what?), and apparently, grokking the nonexistence of the “I” is what kensho is. But that’s putting it in the future, which is apparently misguided. And I suppose seeing how it’s misguided could be another way of describing kensho . . . Oy.
I am so sick of spinning in circles in the paradox of “already and not yet”! And here come the tears of frustration again. (I note that they haven’t been appearing quite so often recently as they were for a while.)
And, OK . . . ALL of this is it (so I’m told). Everything, right now, right here. So that includes my frustration, my tears, my “believing in” kensho, my confidence that a decisive realization is “attainable” (even if that’s a misguided way to think about it), my confusion, my feeling like I’m missing something. And it includes my mind then going, “OK, so I need to grok that everything is included.” Even the thought that there’s anything I need to grok is part of the “completeness.” *Sigh.* (When you said you were interested in a sigh, I’m guessing you didn’t mean that sort of sigh: one of weariness.)
I appreciate your attempts to put whatever the “realization” or “shift” is into words, even though they’re probably all inevitably misleading:
Supposedly, nothing is missing. But although I may not need a divine revelation or mystical insight or esoteric knowledge, there’s something I feel like I need and want: some sort of “shift in seeing,” a change of perspective, a loosening of belief, a letting go of seeking — in the service of finding peace.But all of that is language building a “thing” out of a shift in seeing.
A cleaner way to say it:
Something is no longer believed in the same way.
Or:
The old centre loses authority.
Or:
The search for a thing called enlightenment is seen as part of the illusion.
Yup.The mind says:
Something is missing.
Then it offers candidates.
More clarity.
More peace.
More certainty.
More love.
More openness.
More awakening.
Less fear.
Less contraction.
Less story.
Less me.
And following that was something I made special note of:
Pause here. Let that sink in.But look closely.
That claim — something is missing — is itself complete as a claim appearing.
Right. Another example of how everything is included. It’s all part of the completeness. It can be trickier to see that about some things, such as a feeling of incompleteness, but it’s all included.
I think I’ve got that now — I mean, not in the sense that I grok it but in the sense that I won’t overlook anything (maybe? or not for too long?) when considering what is (supposedly) part of the completeness.
Alright, I’ll stop now.
Oh, but I’m still wondering why this is “good stuff”:
Good stuff.This gives rise to frustration that it’s hard to know how to do it “better” or more “efficiently”
Why do you imagine that i say this?
Re: realizing selflessness
Post-Zoom thoughts:
- Happy to realize that I'm not in quite the same place as the person who was speaking when I had to leave the meeting. And I've spent a LOT of time in that place — like, decades. I don't like that this comparison is what sparked that observation, but there it is. I should say that my spouse has noticed that things are changing for me, and I have too, but that comparison made it a little more obvious to me.
- Yes, the idea that I am not awake is a firmly held one, even though I can recognize that that's a thought, a story, a belief. Is there anything to be done with that other than to notice it and perhaps be slightly bemused and acknowledge that it's part of the "completeness"?
- What you said about not being aware of much (or most?) of what might be going on in someone as prompted by things like the Zoom meetings and dialogue at LU seems right and fits with my story that it's like what sometimes happens when looking for the pangram in Spelling Bee: you work at it intentionally and consciously, but your brain is apparently working on it on its own, and the answer just appears at some random time later on.
- Happy to realize that I'm not in quite the same place as the person who was speaking when I had to leave the meeting. And I've spent a LOT of time in that place — like, decades. I don't like that this comparison is what sparked that observation, but there it is. I should say that my spouse has noticed that things are changing for me, and I have too, but that comparison made it a little more obvious to me.
- Yes, the idea that I am not awake is a firmly held one, even though I can recognize that that's a thought, a story, a belief. Is there anything to be done with that other than to notice it and perhaps be slightly bemused and acknowledge that it's part of the "completeness"?
- What you said about not being aware of much (or most?) of what might be going on in someone as prompted by things like the Zoom meetings and dialogue at LU seems right and fits with my story that it's like what sometimes happens when looking for the pangram in Spelling Bee: you work at it intentionally and consciously, but your brain is apparently working on it on its own, and the answer just appears at some random time later on.
-
vinceschubert
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Re: realizing selflessness
Hi K, from this mornings group:
K, what P is pointing to is really worth hearing.
That frustration and boredom make sense.
When you hear, “It’s already here,” or “You’re already there,” it can feel almost insulting.
Because the obvious response is:
“If I’m already there, why doesn’t it feel like I’m already there?”
That can become very frustrating.
It sounds like people are pointing to something obvious, but it is not obvious here. So the mind goes searching, comparing, measuring, wondering what everyone else has seen that has not been seen here.
That is the trap.
The mind turns “already here” into another goal.
Now there is a new project:
“I have to realise that it’s already here.”
And that becomes more seeking.
What helped was not finally understanding it perfectly.
It was softer than that.
It was beginning to accept the possibility:
“Maybe I am exactly where I am supposed to be.”
Not as a belief.
Not as a spiritual conclusion.
Just as a small opening.
Maybe nothing is wrong with this stage.
Maybe nothing is missing from this experience.
Maybe everyone else is not somewhere better.
Maybe the idea that others have something I do not have is just another thought being given too much credit.
Maybe this, even this frustration and boredom, is part of the unfolding.
That does not mean pretending to feel free when you do not.
It means not adding shame on top of the frustration.
The frustration is one thing.
But then the mind adds:
“I’m doing it wrong.”
“I’m not getting it.”
“Everyone else understands.”
“I’m behind.”
“Something is missing in me.”
That second layer is the suffering.
P’s advice, as I hear it, is:
Let yourself be where you actually are.
Not where you think you should be.
Not where others appear to be.
Not where the teachings seem to be pointing.
Not some imagined future state called awake.
Just here.
Confused here.
Frustrated here.
Bored here.
Curious here.
Tired here.
Wanting here.
Not understanding here.
And then notice something very practical:
Life keeps showing up.
Often, what actually happens is more workable than what the mind imagined would happen.
The mind predicts, rehearses, worries, compares, and tries to prepare.
Then life happens.
And again and again, there may be a quiet discovery that life does not need as much supervision as the mind claims.
That is where trust begins.
Not trust as a belief.
More like:
“I don’t actually know how life is going to move, but maybe I don’t have to control it through thinking.”
Just a little letting go.
Not all at once.
Not some heroic surrender.
Just a tiny loosening of the grip.
A little less belief in the mind’s claim that something is wrong.
A little less investment in the idea that others are ahead.
A little less shame about not understanding.
A little more willingness to be exactly here.
And if it never changes?
That question matters.
If this were always exactly as it is right now, could this be allowed?
Not liked.
Not celebrated.
Not understood.
Just allowed.
Because the thought “this should be different” may be the very thing keeping the sense of separation alive.
The gentlest practice may be this:
Whenever the thought comes, “I’m not there yet,” pause and ask:
“Is that true? Or is that just another story being given authority?”
And then come back to this.
This body.
This frustration.
This boredom.
This breath.
This confusion.
This moment.
Not as a consolation prize.
As the only place life is actually happening.
You do not have to understand what everyone else is saying.
You do not have to force some experience.
You do not have to become somebody else’s version of awake.
You can start with the smallest possibility:
“Maybe where I am is not wrong.”
That tiny opening can be enough.
vince
K, what P is pointing to is really worth hearing.
That frustration and boredom make sense.
When you hear, “It’s already here,” or “You’re already there,” it can feel almost insulting.
Because the obvious response is:
“If I’m already there, why doesn’t it feel like I’m already there?”
That can become very frustrating.
It sounds like people are pointing to something obvious, but it is not obvious here. So the mind goes searching, comparing, measuring, wondering what everyone else has seen that has not been seen here.
That is the trap.
The mind turns “already here” into another goal.
Now there is a new project:
“I have to realise that it’s already here.”
And that becomes more seeking.
What helped was not finally understanding it perfectly.
It was softer than that.
It was beginning to accept the possibility:
“Maybe I am exactly where I am supposed to be.”
Not as a belief.
Not as a spiritual conclusion.
Just as a small opening.
Maybe nothing is wrong with this stage.
Maybe nothing is missing from this experience.
Maybe everyone else is not somewhere better.
Maybe the idea that others have something I do not have is just another thought being given too much credit.
Maybe this, even this frustration and boredom, is part of the unfolding.
That does not mean pretending to feel free when you do not.
It means not adding shame on top of the frustration.
The frustration is one thing.
But then the mind adds:
“I’m doing it wrong.”
“I’m not getting it.”
“Everyone else understands.”
“I’m behind.”
“Something is missing in me.”
That second layer is the suffering.
P’s advice, as I hear it, is:
Let yourself be where you actually are.
Not where you think you should be.
Not where others appear to be.
Not where the teachings seem to be pointing.
Not some imagined future state called awake.
Just here.
Confused here.
Frustrated here.
Bored here.
Curious here.
Tired here.
Wanting here.
Not understanding here.
And then notice something very practical:
Life keeps showing up.
Often, what actually happens is more workable than what the mind imagined would happen.
The mind predicts, rehearses, worries, compares, and tries to prepare.
Then life happens.
And again and again, there may be a quiet discovery that life does not need as much supervision as the mind claims.
That is where trust begins.
Not trust as a belief.
More like:
“I don’t actually know how life is going to move, but maybe I don’t have to control it through thinking.”
Just a little letting go.
Not all at once.
Not some heroic surrender.
Just a tiny loosening of the grip.
A little less belief in the mind’s claim that something is wrong.
A little less investment in the idea that others are ahead.
A little less shame about not understanding.
A little more willingness to be exactly here.
And if it never changes?
That question matters.
If this were always exactly as it is right now, could this be allowed?
Not liked.
Not celebrated.
Not understood.
Just allowed.
Because the thought “this should be different” may be the very thing keeping the sense of separation alive.
The gentlest practice may be this:
Whenever the thought comes, “I’m not there yet,” pause and ask:
“Is that true? Or is that just another story being given authority?”
And then come back to this.
This body.
This frustration.
This boredom.
This breath.
This confusion.
This moment.
Not as a consolation prize.
As the only place life is actually happening.
You do not have to understand what everyone else is saying.
You do not have to force some experience.
You do not have to become somebody else’s version of awake.
You can start with the smallest possibility:
“Maybe where I am is not wrong.”
That tiny opening can be enough.
vince
Re: realizing selflessness
[I was just about done with this when I saw that I had a new reply from you. I’m going to go ahead and post this, and who knows, maybe what you just posted will even address it somehow.]
Maybe you can help me out with this, vince. This feels like using you for free therapy, but I’m not at all clear where the line is between what we’re doing and therapy, and I suspect there isn’t a clear line, but please let me know if this is outside your bailiwick.
An almost daily aspect of my unhappiness is having things I need to do that I don’t want to do.
Today, I have tasks I don’t want to do for each of my two jobs. For my teaching job (which, overall, I like a lot), I need to grade some papers — one of the least favorite tasks of most teachers I know. For my editing job (which I’m good at and occasionally find satisfying but which I’d quit if I won the lottery), I have to review other editors’ work for a client in a really boring field, with a gajillion idiosyncratic style rules to follow. Oh, and I also need to follow up on dealing with the wasp nest on our balcony.
I just woke up, and all of this makes me want to crawl back under the covers and hide.
It seems like some LU-type insight could probably be helpful here, but my brain does not seem to be coming up with anything.
I mean, I can notice the thoughts and sensations. Some of the thoughts are clearly second-arrow stuff. (Wait, are pretty much all[i/] thoughts second-arrow stuff?) Then there’s a sort of third arrow of how pathetic I feel for struggling so much with something so ordinary. The sensations are the usual: constriction in chest and throat and face, and starting to cry.
(A maintenance guy from our apartment complex just arrived to deal with the wasps, so I’m relieved that I don’t need to make any follow-up calls about that.)
Maybe you can help me out with this, vince. This feels like using you for free therapy, but I’m not at all clear where the line is between what we’re doing and therapy, and I suspect there isn’t a clear line, but please let me know if this is outside your bailiwick.
An almost daily aspect of my unhappiness is having things I need to do that I don’t want to do.
Today, I have tasks I don’t want to do for each of my two jobs. For my teaching job (which, overall, I like a lot), I need to grade some papers — one of the least favorite tasks of most teachers I know. For my editing job (which I’m good at and occasionally find satisfying but which I’d quit if I won the lottery), I have to review other editors’ work for a client in a really boring field, with a gajillion idiosyncratic style rules to follow. Oh, and I also need to follow up on dealing with the wasp nest on our balcony.
I just woke up, and all of this makes me want to crawl back under the covers and hide.
It seems like some LU-type insight could probably be helpful here, but my brain does not seem to be coming up with anything.
I mean, I can notice the thoughts and sensations. Some of the thoughts are clearly second-arrow stuff. (Wait, are pretty much all[i/] thoughts second-arrow stuff?) Then there’s a sort of third arrow of how pathetic I feel for struggling so much with something so ordinary. The sensations are the usual: constriction in chest and throat and face, and starting to cry.
(A maintenance guy from our apartment complex just arrived to deal with the wasps, so I’m relieved that I don’t need to make any follow-up calls about that.)
Re: realizing selflessness
P.S. Oops, should've previewed before submitting. Mistyped the "end italics" code.
Re: realizing selflessness
I wrote a long response to your latest post, but I’m in a weird mental/emotional state today, and a lot of what I wrote didn’t feel entirely genuine or worth saying or something like that. Partially, I think the problem was that while you were primarily addressing the issue of the mind complaining, “I'm not awakened yet," what I mostly had on my mind was my specific, ordinary suffering of today.
You asked this:
And then you said this:
So I think I wasn’t in quite the right place to hear this.
So let me just note a few things that I especially appreciated:
You asked this:
And the mind replied: No!!!If this were always exactly as it is right now, could this be allowed?
And then you said this:
And the mind said: Well, then I’m doomed!Because the thought “this should be different” may be the very thing keeping the sense of separation alive.
So I think I wasn’t in quite the right place to hear this.
So let me just note a few things that I especially appreciated:
frustration and boredom make sense.
Let yourself be where you actually are.
Now there is a new project:
“I have to realise that it’s already here.”
And that becomes more seeking.
Often, what actually happens is more workable than what the mind imagined would happen.
And again and again, there may be a quiet discovery that life does not need as much supervision as the mind claims.
A little less belief in the mind’s claim that something is wrong.
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