Author Archives: Mike Farley

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About Mike Farley

Ex-dairy herdsman, musician, writer and contemplative based in the south-west of the UK.

Gratitude and water

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Gratitude is a more subtle emotion than it seems, I think. Oh, it is easy enough to be grateful to someone for a gift or a kindness; that’s not what I mean. There is another kind of gratitude – we might call it metaphysical gratitude, maybe – that is a deep sense of thanks merely for what is. To begin with it might have an object – gratitude for a clear test result, perhaps, or for the safe return of a missing cat – but underlying these there is an objectless gratitude that is close to a simple joy in isness itself. It has to do with accepting what comes to be without wishing it were otherwise, without trying to impose a mechanical order on the organic. Accepting what is given as it is may be the highest form of gratitude.

In theistic religions, of course, the pure impulse towards this kind of gratitude is always subverted; one must be grateful to God for this or that. The heart’s sweet clarity is clouded by forms of words: “Thank you, Lord!” we cry, and the initial flood of joy is diverted into acceptable canals of meaning.

Highest good is like water. Because water excels in benefiting the myriad creatures without contending with them and settles where none would like to be, it comes close to the way… It is because it does not contend that it is never at fault.

Tao Te Ching VIII

Free gratitude is like this – flowing like water, it follows the patterning of what comes to be, the organic order that you can see in the path of an ivy strand climbing a brick wall, or the eddies in a river downstream of a fallen tree. To love what is simply because it is – not for how it might benefit us – is the cleanest and truest kind of gratitude, that comes, as Lao Tzu would say, very close to the way itself.

Scatter plot

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Practice today was scattered; distracted doesn’t even cover it. One train of thought succeeded another with barely a break for open awareness between them. Trivial, juicy, engrossing – it hardly seemed to matter, just so long as it would take my attention away from the tiny precious instant that is all that is now. The delicious isness of the crisp air, the sounds from outside the window, were scarcely noticed between the pattering dissolution of one obsession and the cramping onset of another.

And yet the rest of the day was gentle, open, clear and attentive. What I did I did. I listened, truly listened, when people spoke. The most ordinary things came as gifts from the blue – and the autumn sky on this oddly warm day was as blue as blue – and even the busy streets were different, suddenly luminous with presence. Nothing seemed to take away this sense of grace and pattern. There was no such thing as irritation or impatience; everything had its own weight, its own benediction to deliver.

So what was going on? I have no idea. This “pathless path”, as Martin Laird describes it somewhere, has many odd sunken lanes to explore and wayside shrines to stumble across – one reason I have so little time in my own life for any idea of a “ladder of ascent” (John Climacus) however helpful others may find such things. Just sitting still is really all that is needed, pointlessly scattered though it may seem at the time. That doesn’t matter, it appears; what it seems to the conscious mind is beside the point. What is given is enough. There is nothing but what is given, anyway.

In the end…

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This morning the light in my room was particularly crystalline. The autumn sunlight crossed the floor, bringing with it the silvery blue of the open sky above the trees. Somewhere in that blue brightness an airliner passed high overhead, the muted rumble of its engines just on the edge of hearing.

There was a time, when I was briefly close to death, that a kind of blessed completeness replaced all normal perceptions, and I knew that my life, full as it was of things undone, loose ends, plans unfulfilled, goodbyes unsaid, could be laid down just as it was, and it would be all right. Not merely okay, but right – as it should be. The way would hold all that had been, and this life that had been mine would be completed, perfectly. There was nothing whatever wrong; it was all safer than I could have ever imagined.

This morning, very gently but suddenly, in the midst of practice, I knew this to be true not just in the immediate presence of death. This sense returned in open awareness, complete and sure, that everything – everything – is safe in the end, in the way, in the ground itself. There is truly nothing whatever to worry about. Not even death. Especially not death.

Eternal life?

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In Three Steps to Awakening: A Practice for Bringing Mindfulness to Life, Larry Rosenberg ends his chapter on choiceless awareness with a Q&A session. One of the questioners asks:

Q: Ideas and beliefs about rebirth are often mentioned in dharma books. I wonder if you could tell us whether you believe in rebirth.

A: If you are a person brought up in a culture that has believed in rebirth for thousands of years, such as in Tibet or Thailand, the answer is obvious. I’ve known wonderful Tibetan teachers who look at me with sympathy when I say I’m uncertain about rebirth. On the other hand, many professors in the sciences might look at you like you’re crazy if you even mention the subject. All I know is that I am open to the idea but honestly don’t know!

One of the reasons I no longer profess to be a Christian, and could never be a Buddhist in any formal sense, is just this question.

In Christian doctrine God is held to be eternal – though opinions vary as to whether this implies that he exists outside time altogether, or whether he exists simultaneously in all dimensions of time, past, present and future. To die as a Christian is to possess eternal life (John 10:27-28) through knowing God (John 17:3). The only way I could ever make sense of this was to think that the instant of death must somehow be atemporal, and that in that moment outside time one might meet God. I have never been able to make any sense of the idea of a portable plug-in soul that could somehow be translated to a land beyond the sky. Maybe I never was a “proper” Christian.

Similarly, any idea of rebirth runs into the same problem, only worse. Not only is there the question of what might constitute the soul to be reborn, and where it might be located, but Buddhism explicitly, and cogently, states that there is, in a living person, no permanent unchanging self or essence (anātman). So what is to be reborn?

The metaphysical mechanics of life after death don’t make any sense to me, however they are expressed. That there is life after death – that the human race will go on, and so will all the other forms of life – is undeniable; but my life after my death? I’m not sure that idea even makes sense.

Cause and effect is another matter, maybe. Things have consequences; they are themselves always consequences. There is no discernible beginning or end to this chain of causation (karma), short of cosmological speculations about the “beginnings” of time. I was born as a result of certain events in history – my mother and father met; they met because of their work during WWII; there was a war because of certain political, economic and military factors, and so on and so on, back into time – and there will be certain limited consequences of events in my own life that will outlive me. But this is not the same as me in some way continuing, or recurring into the future.

But things exist. They are. There is a ground of being – Istigkeit, Tao – from which, in which, all things arise.

The way that can be spoken of
Is not the constant way;
The name that can be named
Is not the constant name.
The nameless was the beginning of heaven and earth;
The named was the mother of the myriad creatures.

Tao Te Ching

Things go on. Where they come from, where they go – I’m not sure those are questions that mean anything in the context of being itself; hence the “nameless” in the Tao Te Ching.

All we can do, all we need to do, is sit still. Daishin Morgan:

A theme I return to again and again is to just do the work that comes to you. Such an attitude is open-ended in the way that life itself is open. If you give yourself to the way, the way appears and that way is always changing.

Curiosity and glory

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I think sometimes we are in danger – I know I have been – of undervaluing simple curiosity. I love to – and don’t often enough – come to practice full of curiosity, aching to see what I will find in the stillness.

There was a period in my teens when I went through a fever of discovery – Bertrand Russell, surrealism, the Beat poets, WB Yeats, CG Jung, Charlie Parker, Johnny Griffin, Charlie Byrd – over a period of maybe three or four years. I remember my own first frightened attempts at writing, consumed by curiosity and terror in equal measure. Whatever would I discover? But I couldn’t stop.

Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery, like the idle, curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf. We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and describe what’s going on here. Then we can at least wail the right question into the swaddling band of darkness, or, if it comes to that, choir the proper praise.

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

To follow that faint tracing, to find out where it leads – ah, the hunger to follow, see what is there, to see what is. So many times I have been sidetracked, but it is always there: the hunger, the utter delight. It is what draws me back to practice, time and again.

This evening, in the grey light falling over the room I love, I was just threading the edges of breathing when the noises from the road – the road at the end of the long garden, past the other apartments and the hazels and the birch trees – were somehow transfigured. Traffic sounds: shushing, purring, stuttering; voices; dogs’ desultory barking – they all became delicious, rich and nourishing. As sustaining as breath itself, they were a wonderland of sound as intricate as lacework, a mathematics of passing as playful as the squirrels who sometimes chase each other between trees behind the garden. Without touching what I felt I was so grateful, without even knowing the words for it.

In simple stillness – absolutely simple, plain stillness, not in the least special stillness – there are uncountable treasures. Just what is is infinitely precious, unrepeatable, necessary. Not having a reason, the heart cries out at the glory of it.

The dear breath

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Remember, you have been learning to allow the breath to flow naturally without imposing a model, form, or ideal on it. Now, with the same art of allowing, you open to your own life, your own experience, and watch everything reveal itself. As you sit, the entire mind-body process displays itself from breath to breath, and you watch it all arise and pass away, come and go. You are learning to refine the art of seeing, which is nonreactive and equanimous—a clear mirror that accurately reflects whatever is put in front of it…

There’s no such thing as a distraction, because whatever happens—that’s it. The same emotions that you see in your sitting meditation—whether peaceful, anxious, or full of doubt—provide you with the perfect materials for practice. What arises will vary from moment to moment. The breath, however, remains constant. Even when a powerful energy such as loneliness or agitation visits, the breath remains present. Perhaps it is in the background, quietly, in-out, in-out, while your awareness is mostly involved with loneliness or whatever it is that has naturally captured your attention. In this method, you take advantage of the breath’s constancy. It is such an obvious fact, and yet one that most of us often forget.

Larry Rosenberg with Laura Zimmerman, Three Steps to Awakening: A Practice for Bringing Mindfulness to Life

Contemplative practice is an odd activity – it is so easy to fall into what we have learned to call distraction, and yet it is even easier to judge ourselves for becoming distracted. “Call yourself a meditator?” we sneer to ourselves, “you couldn’t concentrate if your life depended on it!” And yet, as Rosenberg says, really there is no such thing as distraction. There are only thoughts, that come and go, because that’s what minds do: they think. We have only to observe – and if we find ourselves tempted to follow trains of thought, to observe the temptation. Soon enough, the mind distracts itself from its distractions – and if not, the faithful breath is waiting for us to come back.

As long as we are alive, the dear breath is with us. There is such comfort in knowing this, if only we can remember. There is nothing, save gentle death itself, that can take the breath away from us: not illness, not sorrow, nor even happiness or anticipation. Always the breath is waiting, infinitely patient and kind. It is the soft weight of life itself, our companion from the minute we are born. All we need to do is trust it, like the steady tide on the wide shore of being.

The way of persistence

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If there’s one thing that’s truly essential in contemplative practice, it’s keeping on keeping on. Sheer persistence lies at the heart of contemplation: session after session, day after day. Sometimes I think keeping at it is more important than what it is we keep at. Inevitably, over the years, there will be changes – sometimes radical, as mine have occasionally been – more often slight and gradual, as we reveal to ourselves more about the nature of mind, and of the way things come to be.

Importantly, though, we need to understand that practice doesn’t make anything happen. Perhaps though, for me at least, practice does make a place where it is possible for things to happen. Maybe practice functions like cultivating a field. Cultivation doesn’t make anything grow – you need seeds, and water, and warmth for that – but it does make a place where seeds can safely germinate. Awakening itself comes, it seems to me, from some kind of slow, unseen growth or change in the mind itself. Mindfulness, self-awareness, openness to what is – a more religious mindset might call it grace…

Breathing in, where do you feel the breath sensation? Breathing out, where do you feel it? You maintain this sense of bodily sensations that come and go. It’s not imagination. It’s not an image. You’re just learning this art of allowing, which in more religious language would be called surrender. Surrender to what? To what is, to the natural law that the breath is obeying as the lungs fill up and empty.

As you follow this way of practice, you take your seat and you’re upright and relaxed. You’re sitting, breathing, and learning how to stay with one theme: breathing in the context of the whole body. As you do that, of course, the world doesn’t stop. Wherever you are, there are sounds. Some of them are pleasant, like the birds singing “chirp, chirp.” Others are not so pleasant, such as the trucks, cars, ambulances, and police cars that speed up and down city streets. Letting sounds come and go, you’re learning to peacefully coexist with all that’s other than breath…

This comprehensive approach can be especially helpful for intellectual people, because there’s no verbal content; the intellect isn’t being fed. In this approach, you’re not for or against thought. You’re not trying to fix anything, not trying to use the breath as a stepping-stone to get anywhere. Rather, you allow the mind to think itself in whatever way it wishes. You’re learning how to temporarily let things happen. You’re learning how to let the mind do what it does…

Larry Rosenberg with Laura Zimmerman, Three Steps to Awakening: A Practice for Bringing Mindfulness to Life

Slowly, slowly. Sometimes things will happen suddenly – walls will fall, dark places illuminate – but more often, far more often, it will be so gradual that even the practiced attention won’t notice, until one day everything is different. Rosenberg again:

Maybe not all at once, but little by little, as breath awareness becomes more continuous, something very good comes out of it—you feel more calm, more peaceful. There’s joy. Otherwise, why bother doing it? If you haven’t experienced it, you will. It’s not mysterious. As the breath awareness develops, the body starts to relax because they’re all interrelated. Finally, you’ll see that it is just one life happening.

Secular or supernatural?

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As I’ve mentioned before on this blog, the word “spirituality” can seem a slippery one. For some, spirituality necessarily implies the supernatural, and our imagined relations with that realm, for good or ill. For others (myself included) it “centers on the ‘deepest values and meanings by which people live'”. (Wikipedia: Spirituality)

Secular spirituality is the adherence to a spiritual philosophy without adherence to a religion. Secular spirituality emphasizes the inner peace of the individual, rather than a relationship with the divine. Secular spirituality is made up of the search for meaning outside of a religious institution; it considers one’s relationship with the self, others, nature, and whatever else one considers to be the ultimate. Often, the goal of secular spirituality is living happily and/or helping others.

According to the American philosopher Robert C. Solomon, “spirituality is coextensive with religion and it is not incompatible with or opposed to science or the scientific outlook. Naturalized spirituality is spirituality without any need for the ‘other‐worldly’. Spirituality is one of the goals, perhaps the ultimate goal, of philosophy.” [Spirituality for the Skeptic: The Thoughtful Love of Life]

(Wikipedia: Secular Spirituality)

So what is the supernatural, and what is wrong with seeking to establish – or recognise – relations with it? The supernatural is generally taken to imply a realm or system transcending material nature, the locale of some kind or kinds of divine, magical, or ghostly entities; revealing, or thought to reveal, some power beyond scientific or natural comprehension. There is, it seems to me, little or no evidence for such a sphere. (Susan Blackmore discusses this at length in Seeing Myself : What Out-of-body Experiences Tell Us About Life, Death and the Mind, chapters 2 and 15 especially.) But spirituality is another matter. The search for meaning, and, in contemplative practice, the direct experience of that meaning, is perhaps the most important thing I have encountered. For the umpteenth time here, I think I need to quote Sam Harris’ brilliant summary:

Spirituality begins with a reverence for the ordinary that can lead us to insights and experiences that are anything but ordinary. And the conventional opposition between humility and hubris has no place here. Yes, the cosmos is vast and appears indifferent to our mortal schemes, but every present moment of consciousness is profound. In subjective terms, each of us is identical to the very principle that brings value to the universe. Experiencing this directly—not merely thinking about it—is the true beginning of spiritual life.

The eagle-eyed among my readers will have already spotted the slightly edited strapline to this blog’s title: “Secular contemplative spirituality…” It just seemed time to make that clear.

What’s in a name?

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Neither God nor Being nor any other word can define or explain the ineffable reality behind the word, so the only important question is whether the word is a help or a hindrance in enabling you to experience That toward which it points. Does it point beyond itself to that transcendental reality, or does it lend itself too easily to becoming no more than an idea in your head that you believe in, a mental idol?

The word Being explains nothing, but nor does God. Being, however, has the advantage that it is an open concept. It does not reduce the infinite invisible to a finite entity. It is impossible to form a mental image of it. Nobody can claim exclusive possession of Being. It is your very essence, and it is immediately accessible to you as the feeling of your own presence, the realization I am that is prior to I am this or I am that. So it is only a small step from the word Being to the experience of Being.

Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now

We humans still have much of our tribal ancestry hanging around: we tend to feel lost and unsafe unless we can identify as part of something larger than ourselves. When I was a teenager it might be whether you were a mod or a rocker; some identify strongly with others of their own race; very often it is a religious identification, sometimes zoomed-in to which actual congregation or meeting one belongs to, or which particular doctrinal flavour one adheres to.

These affiliations are tremendously sticky, in terms of social psychology, which perhaps explains in part why people find it so difficult to distance themselves from cults, however pernicious. They don’t only consist in feeling warm fuzzies for those just like us; they all too often involve feeling anything but warm fuzziness for those who are different – “othering” them. They provide us with a secure identity, with protection against those suspicious others, with a home and a community.

All such communities have badges. They may be visual (as with the mods and rockers) or audible (shibboleths); they may be emotional or conceptual, but they work. (Even those whose practice is dedicated to the realisation of the illusory nature of the self can unthinkingly fall into tribal identification – the vipassana lot, or the Pure Land ones, Sōtō Zen or Rinzai.) Tragically, these identifications can even be projected onto a deity or a metaphysical conceit, and then we really are in trouble: “My God is the only true God; yours is a heretical invention!”

Words are sometimes at the very heart of these identifications, and we don’t realise it. I recall a conversation over lunch with a friend some months ago, where I was trying to explain why I wasn’t comfortable any longer using the word “God”. I said that for me the word gave entirely the wrong impression if used of the metaphysical ground. “God” implied for me a being, so that one could say, “Look – there’s God, over there at the table by the door!” But she is a Catholic; of course she uses “God” to define a finite entity, even if the Catechism of the Catholic Church says he is a mystery (CCC 230).

Eckhart Tolle uses the word Being to speak of the metaphysical ground, just as Meister Eckhart used Istigkeit, or Paul Tillich “Ground of Being”. Some avoid using any term to refer to the ground: things exist, they say, what more do we need? But at the end of it all, is isness. I have to call it something, even if it is ineffable.

Am I trying to avoid identification altogether? Why? I admit that since childhood I’ve never been all that comfortable with being a part of something, especially a something, like a religion or a political party, that requires right attitudes, right speaking, right thinking as well as right (moral) action. However close I feel to so much Buddhist teaching, and no matter how immense the gratitude and respect I feel for so many Buddhist teachers, I am not a Buddhist. The same applies to Taoism, contemplative Christianity, or any other community of practice. After all these years perhaps I am just happier out on the borderlines, in the saltmarshes of the spirit.

Wandering home

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The mind wanders. Of course it does. As Louis Sokoloff discovered as long ago as the late 1950s, the brain never stops its processing, and if it is not actively engaged in some task or another it wanders. Where? Robert Wright explains:

As for where the mind wanders to: well, lots of places, obviously, but studies have shown that these places are usually in the past or the future; you may ponder recent events or distant, strong memories; you may dread upcoming events or eagerly anticipate them; you may strategize about how to head off some looming crisis or fantasize about romancing the attractive person in the cubicle next to yours. What you’re generally not doing when your mind is wandering is directly experiencing the present moment.

To recognise this fact, clearly and without judgement or any attempt at inward coercive control, is one of the first tasks of meditation, especially vipassana meditation. The wanderingness of the mind has a name, the default mode network (DMN); defined, in Wikipedia, as “a large-scale brain network… best known for being active when a person is not focused on the outside world and the brain is at wakeful rest, such as during daydreaming and mind-wandering.”

Wright continues (above):

In one sense it’s not hard to quiet your default mode network: just do something that requires concentration. Do a crossword puzzle or try to juggle three tennis balls. Until you get to a point where juggling is second nature, you probably won’t be fantasizing about the attractive person in the cubicle next to yours.

What’s hard is to abandon the default mode network when you’re not doing much of anything—like, say, when you’re sitting in a meditation hall with your eyes closed. That’s why you try to focus on the breath: the mind needs some object of focus to wean it from its habitual meandering.

I have found that it is foolishly easy to characterise the default mode network as somehow the enemy, not only during meditation itself but when one catches oneself, instead of mindfully shaving, or washing up, instead doing the task on autopilot, while the mind goes off on any of those fruitless missions Wright lists. It’s infuriating!

Needless to say, stamping one’s foot, or calling oneself names, does no good at all. It is tempting to use one of the well-worn tools like the Nembutsu or the Jesus Prayer, which are not only employed in formal contemplative practice, but can be useful as “arrow prayers”, to borrow an old Christian expression, in order to damp down the wandering mind. But – to replace the pointless ponderings and fantasies of the DMN with an all but unconsciously uttered phrase is possibly not all that much of an improvement, regardless of how one feels about the content of that phrase.

If the point in question is to pay attention – to do things carefully and consciously, with full awareness – then a quite different approach is needed. Sam Harris:

The quality of mind cultivated in vipassana is almost always referred to as “mindfulness,” and the literature on its psychological benefits is now substantial. There is nothing spooky about mindfulness. It is simply a state of clear, nonjudgmental, and undistracted attention to the contents of consciousness, whether pleasant or unpleasant…

Mindfulness is a translation of the Pali word sati. The term has several meanings in the Buddhist literature, but for our purposes the most important is “clear awareness.” …

There is nothing passive about mindfulness. One might even say that it expresses a specific kind of passion—a passion for discerning what is subjectively real in every moment. It is a mode of cognition that is, above all, undistracted, accepting, and (ultimately) nonconceptual. Being mindful is not a matter of thinking more clearly about experience; it is the act of experiencing more clearly, including the arising of thoughts themselves. Mindfulness is a vivid awareness of whatever is appearing in one’s mind or body—thoughts, sensations, moods—without grasping at the pleasant or recoiling from the unpleasant. One of the great strengths of this technique of meditation, from a secular point of view, is that it does not require us to adopt any cultural affectations or unjustified beliefs. It simply demands that we pay close attention to the flow of experience in each moment.

The cultivation of mindfulness as a doorway to choiceless awareness, more than merely as a  way to reduce anxiety or depression, or to improve task-oriented concentration, is a practice shared by many spiritual disciplines, but expressed (and developed) most clearly in vipassana and in shikantaza.

Viewed from this perspective the footling of the default mode network is perhaps no longer an embarrassing impediment, but an unexpected ally. Once we have become used to spotting its activities in formal meditation, it becomes easier and easier to recognise when it attempts to hijack our everyday activities. And once recognised, it can become, paradoxically, a welcome beacon back to clear attention, a seamark to the open ground of presence wherever we begin.