Tag Archives: Nisargadatta Maharaj

Apophasis

It occurs to me that the dilemma I wrote of in my last post, that of being unable to find words for spiritual realities outside of one or another religious tradition, is similar to one faced by theologians and philosphers since classical times, which led to the development of apophatic theology, the discipline which attempts to speak not of God, but of what God is not. Words apply to things, and God – at least God as understood as the ground of being itself – is no thing.

Undifferentiated being, the ground and source of all that is, cannot have attributes – accidents, to use the theological term – that can be described. Being as it is the source of all, and the foundation of awareness itself, it cannot rightly be the object of any sentence. We can assign to it a term, Being (with a capital B) perhaps, as Eckhart Tolle prefers, or God; but all that does is function as maybe a placeholder for a name. That is about all it can do.

We can, of course, speak and think and write of practice; we can think, and write, critically of others’ thoughts and writings. To try to do this without unduly borrowing from avowedly Christian – or Buddhist, or Taoist, or whatever – terminology is certainly a good thing; but what is really essential is to try and avoid doing it with the phenomenology of the contemplative life itself. We must somehow find a way to speak only of the inwardness of the way, without attempting to explain or justify it. Writers like Tolle himself, or Nisargadatta Maharaj, often seem to get it right; whereas ones like Sam Harris or Chris Niebauer, with their heavy borrowing from Buddhist teachings, sometimes do not.

Perhaps my problem in all this comes down to diffidence, as much as anything. To endeavour to write truly about the spiritual life, and the reason for the spiritual life, without borrowing from the lexicon of one religion or another, requires a kind of self confidence I have always found difficult to acquire. Maybe it does come down to too much willingness to think, after all.

The philosopher Descartes believed that he had found the most fundamental truth when he made his famous statement: “I think, therefore I am.” He had, in fact, given expression to the most basic error: to equate thinking with Being and identity with thinking. The compulsive thinker, which means almost everyone, lives in a state of apparent separateness, in an insanely complex world of continuous problems and conflict, a world that reflects the ever-increasing fragmentation of the mind. Enlightenment is a state of wholeness, of being “at one” and therefore at peace. At one with life in its manifested aspect, the world, as well as with your deepest self and life unmanifested — at one with Being. Enlightenment is not only the end of suffering and of continuous conflict within and without, but also the end of the dreadful enslavement to incessant thinking.

Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now

Nothing to practice

Do not make being quiet into a task to be performed. Relax. There is nothing to practice.

Nisargadatta Maharaj

It is fatally easy to make a career out of the contemplative life. Monastics have been doing it since at least the Buddha’s day – probably far longer ago than that. It isn’t a career. The Taoist and Chan Buddhist traditions are full of stories of those who wandered “cloud hidden, whereabouts unknown” (Chia Tao), away from the politics, and the academic and religious structures of their day, simply to remain still and quiet, among the comings and goings of natural things, the flow of what simply is.

Part of the trouble, it seems to me, is no more than the nature of mind itself. The self is not a settled thing, not a captain on the bridge of the mind; thoughts, feelings, longings, identities even, come and go according to circumstances, or else merely according to the restless patterns of internal weather. Nothing is fixed; intention is only a word, a flickering across unsteady waters.

To sit still enough to see this, to see that at the centre of all that calls itself the self is no thing at all, is far easier and more possible outside of the structures and expectations imposed by institutions, whether spiritual or academic. Of course, there were many contemplatives who subsisted in the cracks and crevices of the religious life, just as there are many today who find places to shelter within contemporary scholarship; the AC Graylings and Susan Blackmores, perhaps. But it seems to me that they survive – and even thrive – often in spite of, rather than because of, where they find themselves.

To live as a small shopkeeper, like Nisargadatta Maharaj, or to follow various disparate semi-careers as I have done in the past – or simply to live quietly in a retirement community as I do now, or as Joan Tollifson does these days – seems to me in most cases an easier, even sometimes a more honest, way to carry on. There is no task anyway: no goal to achieve, no position to maintain. There is only the falling away of purposeful action; the light through the trees behind the garden, the robin trying out his spring song in the chill evening air of early March. Only remain still, and quiet. All that is is given.