Tag Archives: stillness

A very plain stillness

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Joan Tollifson, in one of her Substack essays, writes:

This so-called awakening stuff is so slippery to talk about. Is there anything to do? There is nothing to do, and yet in a way, there is, but it’s more like an undoing, a relaxing, a seeing through, a letting go, or a dissolving, and there’s no one to do it, and what is relaxed into includes seeking, resisting, contracting, and feeling separate. It includes everything! How to make sense of this? The mind simply can’t…

And then, what exactly is “the ocean” in the ocean/wave metaphor? Some say it’s Consciousness or Mind, some say it’s thorough-going impermanence and interdependence, some say it’s radiant presence, some say it’s God or the Ground of Being, some say it’s groundlessness, some say it’s emptiness, some say it’s intelligence-energy, some say it’s spirit, some say it’s no-thing-ness. But this is a good question to keep alive, because it’s very tempting to make something out of no-thing, to put a self or a Self (an author, doer, chooser, decider, creator, controller, manager, observer) where none in fact exists—to reify the ungraspable and slip into dualistic thinking. Thought can even turn “ungraspable no-thing-ness” into Something that it can cling to and worship. Thought is a slippery creator of illusions.

“Thought is a slippery creator of illusions…” and words decorate the illusions with glittering enticements to believe. But as always, the antidote seems to be no more than sitting still in plain awareness, while the thoughts do whatever it is that thoughts do on their own. What seems to happen is that the words peter out when they are not followed, not elaborated upon, but merely allowed to be little upwellings from the silence into which they quietly return.

The ground of being – at least so long as you  leave off the capital letters – carries none of the anthropomorphic frills of doctrine. It simply is; without it, nothing would be.

I wrote here of the “ocean/wave metaphor”. In that post I concluded: “To be still, listening, beside the open ocean, is all it takes; then our fretful wavelets still for a moment, if only between one breath and another, and we can sense the non-differentiation of Istigkeit, the unending of no thing. We are not other than what is.”

The nature of silence

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In Larry Rosenberg’s new book, he writes:

There are many ways to quiet ourselves, all of which are valuable. There’s a silence that comes from reading a book filled with magnificent ideas. There’s a silence in seeing beauty in any form—in nature, taking a swim in the ocean or a walk in the woods, or just being in solitude. But I’m talking about a measureless kind of silence that grows out of the practice. You could say it’s the heart of the practice because the deepest essence of our innermost being is silence.

This silence is shy. You can’t find it through the intellect. You can’t reach it with your emotions. In fact, you can’t search for it—the search itself would cause stirrings, movements, vexation. You can’t order it, expecting to receive silence by command. That would be like commanding love—we all know you can’t force love into existence. Silence likes humility, gentleness, innocence. It likes to be valued for itself. Thought goes into abeyance gently, gracefully, peacefully, without a struggle, without any bloodshed…

This silence is not a rarified experience. Stillness or silence or emptiness is not reserved for mystics who live high up in the Himalayas, wear loincloths, eat one grain of rice a day, sit cross-legged for weeks while freezing cold, or stand on one leg for ten years. It’s part of the human constitution.

The emptiness I’m talking about is not dead; it’s not a vacuity. When the mind gets silent, you’re tapping into the energy of the universe. Though we’re part of the universe, we typically just receive it in little drips—drip, drip, drip, like a faucet that’s not fully turned on. When we let go of who we think we are—all the notions, concepts, images, and delusions—we channel the energy that animates the whole universe. Silence is an energy that’s packed with life. It’s highly charged.

Larry Rosenberg, in an extract from The World Exists to Set Us Free: Straight-Up Dharma for Living a Life of Awareness, published in Tricycle Magazine, July 2025

I’ve often written of silence on this blog, but Larry Rosenberg’s words here seemed to say something I’ve been trying to say for a long time, and probably failing to capture. Silence, the silence of spiritual practice that is so intimately connected with stillness, is not the absence of noise.  It thrives on the presence of background sounds, whether gentle and quiet like the wind in the tall trees behind the garden, or rather less so, like the occasional sirens from the main road – which are actually not all that occasional, since we live near a major hospital. It will grow quite happily, as I wrote the other day, in an airport departure lounge.

No, shy though the silence of the heart seems to be, it is actually a thing of greater power than we’d imagine. In this long extract published in Tricycle Magazine, Rosenberg goes on:

Silence is what spiritual life is about, at least this version of it. Behind all the commotion of our lives there is an unfathomable silence accompanied by unlimited space—an endless dimension. We’re psychonauts, whether we know it or not. Ours is an inner orbit. The Tibetans put it plainly: the cognizing power of emptiness. In silence, there’s an awakening of a kind of intelligence. Great healing, the most important healing, occurs in silence. In silence you find you’re more compassionate, wiser. All the metta, or loving-kindness, you could ever want is in silence.

The longer I go on with the contemplative life, the more obvious it seems to me that what actually happens in the silence is that our apparent separation from the ground, from the source of being itself, falls away. Separation is an illusion anyway, less substantial than moon-shadows on a cloudy night. We are not ever separated from the ground – else how could we exist? – but our enserfment to the useful illusion of our everyday life in consensus reality makes it seem as though we are. Just to sit still in open awareness allows the mind’s illusions to settle out, like sediment in a disturbed pond, until the clear presence can be seen for itself, the ground of all that is.

Vast, empty

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So it’s more about the recognition that the “me” who seems to be “doing” all of this [living and practice] is a mirage. It’s ALL a movement of this undivided whole. The vastness has space for everything, and it clings to nothing. It is open, playful and free. Free to wear robes and free not to wear them. Even free to feel contracted, encapsulated and separate. Whatever comes will eventually go. And if the mind starts looking for what doesn’t come and go, anything it finds will be another object, another imagination. That is what Toni [Packer, leading a retreat] was pointing out. And the objects can get very subtle in nature.

One of my Zen teachers, Charlotte Joko Beck, said, “Enlightenment is not something you achieve. It is the absence of something. All your life you have been going forward after something, pursuing some goal. Enlightenment is dropping all that.”

Joan Tollifson

Choiceless awareness is like this. It is not a specialised technique for meditation, nor a philosophical position, though it can be taken for either of those. I’m not sure – and this is the difficulty so many people have (myself included) when they first encounter the term in Jiddu Krishnamurti’s writings. What, exactly, are we being asked to do?

It has taken a long time, but gradually I have come to realise that just sitting, only that, aware not only of breathing, and the body resting in space, feeling what it feels, hearing what it hears, but also being aware of thoughts as they arise, and of the emotions and bodily states that can accompany them (fear, desire, wonder, grief…) as they well up and fade away, is nothing other than the vastness of which Joan Tollifson writes so movingly. Allowing it all, the empty awareness is itself the open ground, being-itself, Istigkeit.

But it isn’t something we do. That’s what is so difficult to explain. In stillness, it happens. As Tollifson writes (op. cit.), “And, of course, ‘we’ aren’t doing any of this. It is all happening by itself. Ever-fresh. Ungraspable.” It does happen all by itself. It always has. Just watch.

One small room

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You need one small room for yourself. This is very true: when you can really find yourself in a small room, then there is you yourself, and the whole universe is there, and the whole universe makes sense to you. Without your one small room, the whole universe doesn’t make any sense. So what you need now is a small room, and what you will need after your death is a small stone. That is the actual reality, which is always true for everyone.

Shunryu Suzuki, Becoming Yourself: Teachings on the Zen Way of Life p.32

I have grown increasingly to love my own small room. It has become soaked, somehow, at least in my own feelings, with the hours I have  spent there, and the changes I have seen in myself and in the seasons – in the years now, in fact – the trees growing and changing, generations of blackbirds coming and going across the lawn.

Strangely, though, I’ve also come to notice that the room travels with me. If I am aware enough of where I am, of the light moving across the floor, my own breathing in its little tides and intervals, then my own little room can be in a hotel, even a train seat or in an airport among all the other displaced travellers who wait with me, Stillness isn’t a thing you need to find so much as that you just need to step into, opening the  door and closing it behind you gently.

Perhaps the strangest thing I have found is that this small room of stillness is there, almost clearer and almost more precious somehow, in those times when the usual patterns of volition, of self-determination, seem to be lost, and whatever baneful thing is in the air has, finally, hit the fan.

If you have ever been in a life-or-death emergency situation, you will know that it wasn’t a problem. The mind didn’t have time to fool around and make it into a problem. In a true emergency, the mind stops; you become totally present in the Now, and something infinitely more powerful takes over. This is why there are many reports of ordinary people suddenly becoming capable of incredibly courageous deeds. In any emergency, either you survive or you don’t. Either way, it is not a problem.

Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now p.65

Suzuki’s paradoxical remark about the universe begins to make sense. It is within now, as Tolle himself says, that what is is all there is. For once, we have dropped into the stillness that has lain beneath all that has come to be, and is beneath all that is becoming now. All the myriad contrivances of thought have dropped away; what is left is no thing – it is the ground itself, bright and unending.

A sensitivity to things not yet known

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We do not know, when we sit down to practice, what we shall find in the silence. It seems obvious to say it, but it is too easy to forget that practice is never routine: each time we are setting out on a voyage into trackless places. No one has been here before, least of all ourselves.

Freedom is found in the choiceless awareness of our daily existence and activity…

You know, unless you hesitate, you can’t inquire. Inquiry means hesitating, finding out for yourself, discovering step by step; and when you do that, then you need not follow anybody, you need not ask for correction or for confirmation of your discovery.

Jiddu Krishnamurti

We do well to hesitate. There is no place here for preconceptions. Sitting quietly – just noticing whatever appears in the field of consciousness, without having to label it or evaluate it, without having to either focus one’s attention on it or wrench one’s attention away from it, is perhaps the most radical – in the literal sense of the word – thing one can do. There is no technique to adhere to, no doctrine to conform to; no maps, despite the reams of paper that have been expended on the subject, for this utterly solitary journey. Each of us has to go there alone; each of us has to find out for ourselves what is there.

To cast away knowing, to give up the idea that words can hold the open fields of what merely is, is sometimes called the apophatic way; but really it is no more than giving up the attempt to describe the indescribable.

The practice of choiceless awareness (in Krishnamurti’s phrase) is not a kind of daydream, or an altered state of consciousness even: it is a quiet but exceptionally alert quality of mind, without straining after attention, or imagining some kind of goal or outcome towards which our practice is supposed to lead. “For what we apprehend of truth is limited and partial, and experience may set it all in a new light; if we too easily satisfy our urge for security by claiming that we have found certainty, we shall no longer be sensitive to new experiences of truth. For who seeks that which he believes that he has found? Who explores a territory which he claims already to know?” (Quaker faith & practice 26.39, from which passage the title of this post is also taken)

Toni Bernhard:

[I]n this technique, we begin by paying attention to the sensation of the breath (this settles the mind and body), but then the instruction is to let our attention rest on whatever is most prominent in our field of awareness… awakening by engaging the whole of our experience fully, however it presents itself… As a meditation practice, choiceless awareness is similar to the Zen meditation technique known as shikantaza, which roughly translates as just sitting. I love the idea of just sitting, although for me, just lying down will do—which takes me to my number one rule regarding meditation: be flexible.

How to Wake Up, p.104

This quality of stillness, of just noticing, is such a simple thing that perhaps it would be easy to dismiss it as inconsequential. It is not. It seems important, somehow, that there is someone who is prepared to do this, quietly getting on with it, day after day. Perhaps someone needs to.

Not knowing

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In order to explore different dimensions of not knowing, we have to establish and cultivate a willingness to put aside what we may think we already know—about ourselves, the world, Buddhism, or dharma practice—to really engage with what we don’t know.

Consider the range of views you may have about dharma practice, or about Buddhism, for example. There could be a religious view: one that attempts to describe reality, and maybe gives us codes of behavior for how to be in that reality. You may or may not subscribe to a religious view of Buddhism.

There’s a philosophical view that attempts to understand reality rather than simply describe it. A philosophical way of knowing about Buddhism, for example, is replete with ideas: those many lists of the eightfold path, the five precepts, or the four noble truths. In all the ways we can find those views helpful, or illuminating, they can also just reinforce a knowing about, a knowledge-based view, or a philosophical view.

The self-help view of Buddhism, which may be the way many of us have first engaged with dharma practice, is designed to offer a better way to cope with reality, rather than trying to merely describe or even understand reality. In this view, one hopes to put aside some of their confusions, neuroses, and difficulties. You hope to cultivate certain mental and emotional skills, so as to better meet the life around you, the people around you, the world around you, and the world within you.

There’s also what we could call a liberation view that—in addition to describing reality, understanding reality, and better coping with reality—points us to that capacity to fully merge with reality and to know a freeness as we navigate through reality. On the one hand, liberation view is about this one, brief, lifetime, and on the other hand, it’s also about the immensity of consciousness, of awareness, and the knowing of all time and space as being available right here.

This “right-here-ness” is the open doorway, a portal to fully meeting reality. We can access a living engagement with right here through our capacity to not know. To put aside the familiar, the well-worn, the conceptual, and the habitual, and instead engage with the immediate, the mysterious, the constantly surprising, and the conceptually ungraspable.

Martin Aylward, ‘Why We Should Turn Towards Mystery’, Tricycle Magazine, February 2023

To live quietly, away from the maelstrom of news and rumour, paranoia and opinion that seems to constitute social and public media, appears to me to be the best ground for cultivating the mystery. Practice, silence and stillness flourish in these long, quiet days of my retirement; but they can too in moments of quiet in a busy life – on the bus, perhaps, or sitting alone in a city square during lunch hour.

Lewis Richmond writes of the early days of the recent pandemic,

As terrible as that period was, I did notice that it resembled certain qualities of the monastic life with which I was familiar. There were few distractions. Life was simple; we got up, made our meals, dusted and cleaned, and sat after dinner in silence together without much distraction. We didn’t watch TV. We discovered that that enforced quiet was paradoxically the most genuine way to be connected with the world, which was living through the same angst that we were.

For me too, this was a strangely fruitful time. (You can read something of my own experience here.) Connection to the world does not require connection to the firehose of the media; it merely requires the deep awareness of the mystery of being, the unknowability of life itself – the curious realisation that however close one may grow to another person, their own inner world is forever theirs, and you can only know of it what they choose to share, or what you can yourself deduce, nothing more. And yet this existential aloneness is the community we share; it is what it is to be human.

These are things that can only be found in stillness and waiting. Our long hours of practice are nothing more than this; they are no more like the bright awareness beneath all phenomena than soil is like the flowers of the hebe bush, but they are just as necessary.

Emptiness?

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Emptiness is not a denial of existence but a subtler perspective that all phenomena are impermanent and interrelated.

Miranda Shaw, “Mothers of Liberation”
Tricycle Magazine, Summer 2007

Emptiness should not be confused with nihilism, which asserts that nothing has any intrinsic value or meaning. Buddhism does not deny the conventional reality of the world nor the importance of ethical conduct; Its doctrine of emptiness simply asserts that the true nature of things is characterized by interdependence and lack of solid, independent existence. It doesn’t deny that things exist; it describes how they exist.

Buddhism A-Z: Śūnyatā, Lion‘s Roar

By these reckonings, Śūnyatā is remarkably similar to distributed causality in modern physics…

To sit quietly, though, is to observe this for oneself. Reading the words alone skitters on the surface skin of an idea. Only watchful stillness can reveal the undeniable, empty nature of conditioned things: the fleeting impermanence of the breath, and of the earth itself – even of the bright stars, so distant that by the time we see them they may no longer even be there. And yet not a thing exists without its antecedents, not even without the things that share its time. But things, truly, are not; there is only pattern, becoming, the bright ground that is no thing. What more could there be?

Quietly

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This body is undeniably growing older, gradually disintegrating, moving toward its eventual disappearance, like a wave merging back into the ocean, which it never actually left. This growing up and growing old—like the ocean rising, cresting, and falling—is a movement in time, and time turns out to be a kind of imagination, a way of conceptualizing or thinking about what is happening. The only actual reality is the eternity of Here-Now, this one bottomless moment, from which we never depart, except in imagination, and that imagining only happens now…

As the body ages, I become in some ways more limited. I know, for example, that it’s too late to go to medical school, and I know that there are many people and places dear to my heart that I will never see again. That vast realm of future possibility is closing down and shrinking. And as I wrote about in my last book, Death: The End of Self-Improvement, that limitation is actually a blessing. It forces us to find freedom and fulfillment right here in this very moment.

And indeed, I feel increasingly unlimited in a deeper sense. I’ve been freed from the seductive allure of future possibilities. I’ve been brought home. I find myself ever more deeply appreciating the simple moments of love and joy in everyday life—a few words exchanged with someone I pass on my morning walk… the gorgeous song of a bird and my own heart leaping with joy on hearing it and another bird responding, the three of us somehow dancing together in a field of love… sitting later in my armchair, seeing the shadows of a flock of birds passing quickly again and again over the walls of the buildings across the way, shadows flashing out of emptiness and vanishing, and each time, the heart again leaping with joy, while the green leaves on the red bud tree outside my window shimmer in the light and the breeze. How simple it all is.

Joan Tollifson

Increasingly I feel that Tollifson is right, here. Growing old, I have been brought home in some strange way. Without entirely withdrawing, in the eremitic sense, from life and community, I seem to have found a peace in the midst of things that I had not expected to find.

How much of this rest and quietness of heart is down to aging, or to good company; how much is due to practice, and how much to sheer grace I have no idea. I don’t really know if those distinctions make any sense, even in their own context. I do know that I would not exchange these days for any, or all, of the days of my youth.

The last light of evening between the trees is a soft lilac grey, a colour beyond imagining, that will last only minutes now. The fringe of ragged cloud above is darkening moment by moment, and the birds have gone quiet, even our neighbours the seagulls who breed and roost on the buildings across the road. After what seems like weeks, the air is cool and damp. There is more rain on the way.

Practice, silence, stillness

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I remember one afternoon as I was sitting on the steps of our monastery in Nepal. The monsoon storms had turned the courtyard into an expanse of muddy water, and we had set out a path of bricks to serve as stepping-stones. A friend of mine came to the edge of the water, surveyed the scene with a look of disgust, and complained about every single brick as she made her way across. When she got to me, she rolled her eyes and said, “Yuck! What if I’d fallen into that filthy muck? Everything’s so dirty in this country!” Since I knew her well, I prudently nodded, hopping to offer her some comfort through my mute sympathy.

A few minutes later, Raphaele, another friend of mind, came to the path through the swamp. “Hup, hup, hup!” she sang as she hopped, reaching dry land with the cry “What fun!” Her eyes sparkling with joy, she added: “The great thing about the monsoon is that there’s no dust.” Two people, two ways of looking at things; six billion human beings, six billion worlds…

Anyone who enjoys inner peace is no more broken by failure than he is inflated by success. He is able to fully live his experiences in the context of a vast and profound serenity, since he understands that experiences are ephemeral and that it is useless to cling to them. There will be no “hard fall” when things turn bad and he is confronted with adversity. He does not sink into depression, since his happiness rests on a solid foundation.

Matthieu Ricard, Happiness: A Guide to Developing Life’s Most Important Skills p.22

It seems to me that the inner peace Ricard speaks of here is found only through practice, silence, stillness. There is no other way that I have found in all these years.

The gold standard for peace is the kind you touch in the nearness of death. The wonder that opens out when your own death appears to you unavoidable is not only the truest test of peace, but its strongest foundation. After that the interior life holds, despite pain, fear, disgrace, privation. I have been in a few bad spots over the years, and it seems that this remains so: it is the interior life that determines whether we find hope or despair, anxiety or grace. Even the inward experience of physical pain, whatever its outward sensation, seems subject to this pattern. In the end, all that can happen amounts to an appearance on the bright skin of awareness.

This sort of thing, of course, is how people can speak of odd, paradoxical things like gratitude for suffering. This is not some kind of perversion, or worse, some kind of Pollyanna wishful thinking; it is the discovery Ricard has made: that the life of inner peace is the surest underpinning. If that holds, then death has lost its sting – it can only be the wonder of that deep stillness, beyond the last glitter of the little waves.

Einklammerung

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At its core, the epoché (from the Greek word meaning “suspension”) refers to the act of suspending or “bracketing” all judgments and assumptions about the world. This suspension is not about doubting the existence of things, but rather about setting aside all preconceptions, biases, and taken-for-granted beliefs. In other words, it is the process of withholding judgment about the nature of the external world to focus on pure experience itself.

For Husserl, the purpose of epoché is to return to a more original, direct experience of phenomena, where the subjective and the objective are not yet split. By “bracketing” or suspending the natural attitude—the everyday way we engage with the world based on assumptions—we can get to the essence of our experiences, as they appear to consciousness, unmediated by theoretical frameworks or prejudices.

Epoché in Phenomenology: Husserl’s Method of Suspension

Einklammerung, bracketing, epoché – is Western phenomenology’s version of the Heart Sutra‘s “Form is emptiness (śūnyatā), emptiness is form”, perhaps. For Edmund Husserl the act of bracketing was not an intellectual curiosity, it was a means to what he called “transcendental consciousness” or “pure consciousness” – something very close to the Dzogchen concept of Rigpa, “the pristine awareness of the fundamental ground itself.” (Wikipedia)

Once we have performed the epoché, we are no longer tied to the particularities of the world. Instead, we can see the world as it is constituted by our consciousness. For Husserl, this is a profound insight, as it reveals that the world is not something external and independent but is, in some sense, dependent on consciousness for its very existence. The epoché uncovers the transcendental nature of experience, which has profound implications for how we understand reality and our place within it.

Epoché in Phenomenology (above)

Western philosophy is prone to run aground on the shoals of terminology and syntax. The simplicity of just sitting, in plain awareness of the moment’s breath, of the sounds beyond the window, the movement of the air, without naming them, without distinguishing them as objects or processes or implications – the Einklammerung happens all by itself, without struggle or willpower; just in the mere being there, in showing up, no more and no less, morning and evening, and sitting there, in stillness. Nothing else.