taoism

The Beautiful Smallness of Largeness

by

We only become more of who we are by opening to the world and opening it up to others.

I’ve worked to find a way to formulate this, and Roberto Unger’s book “The Religion of The Future” (a heavy read but worth it if you’re into religion and psychology) helps. Unger’s idea of a deliberately-constructed religion is one that confronts the impermanence and unsurety of the world to construct a society that would let us grow and develop, being more godlike by being more human. As I put it with affectionate snark, he starts with Buddhist realizations, imagines a functional society with Confucian precision, leading to a world where we hope to evolve ourselves and each other in freedom towards salvation reminiscent of some radical Christian sects.

Unger, even if I question some of his work and opinions, is a deep believer in humanity, and a future and world for all. He wants us to see the spirit, the divine spark, in ourselves and others and to evolve it. If anything, I’d argue his work doesn’t go deep enough into exploring how a view of “let all evolve” is a *spiritual necessity for development* – something I’ve long considered. And now he gives me a launch point I needed.

For those of us familiar with Buddhism and some later syncretic Taoism, the idea of “liberating all” is a vital part of doctrine. One does not just aspire to be liberated from suffering or Attain the Tao, or whatever and walk away. One wishes it for all people, all beings, and in that way, we step out of the shell of our limited ideas of self.

For that, we must walk into the world, and deal with people. We must wish the best for them, not in condescension or false feeling, but on our journey. We have to confront difficult and even dangerous people. This takes us outside of ourselves, our comfort zones. We feel empathy, we put down our barriers, by imagining a world where everyone is “more human and thus more divine.”

Each time we do this, something in us cracks. Boundaries go down. Understanding of people goes up – and thus understanding of ourselves. We remember that we are not separate from the world, we are part of it in a kind of dialogue. We are reminded of how we can evolve and grow – and we do.

Yet, strangely, we also get smaller. We’re less inclined to coddle our biases and bigotries. We’ve got less defined borders. So much of “us” is defined as “not being them” or “not being that” and those are burdens. By letting go so much of us, we become less of what we think we are and more of what we are and who we can be.

You only get to the top by going towards the bottom. So many religious and spiritual practices reminds us to help others, to be engaged in real life, to be there, among the dirt and sadness and reality. That cracks our shells and breaks us so the real us can emerge.

It’s difficult of course. Society is challenging. People can be assholes. But how we relate to people and what kind of world we build is part of our spiritual journey. We just have to figure how to deal with the pathological societies and individuals we face – and how such journeys can help us and others grow. No one said it would be easy, there are no guarantees.

I’d rather become small to become large than walk around in random shackles history gave me.

–Xenofact

Sexual Metaphors Across The Centuries

by

As a person interested in Taoism, it doesn’t take much to run into some practices and statements of a rather sexual nature. Sometimes it’s tame metaphors. Sometimes it’s hanging weights from your genitals to straighten your spine. Sometimes it’s someone writing a passive-aggressive dis about another Taoist being a huge pervert. Taoism’s diverse history has everything, including a lot of sex stuff.

One thing that I had noticed in my readings over the years was talk about “intimate union” in meditative practices – and ones that are clearly not sexual. Often it’s about joining forces, the various elements of one’s being together, sense and essence, spirit and energy, etc. Sometimes it’s simple, sometimes it’s elaborate.

(And yes, these sexual-but-not-sexual metaphors have clearly been taken as sexual in history. Taoism has also used mercury as a metaphor and it didn’t stop people from poisoning themselves.)

These sexual metaphors had often passed me by. Yes, perhaps I am “joining sense and essence” in an intimate embrace like a couple or something, but that’s just a metaphor, right? Perhaps the Metal Man takes his rightful place with his spouse. Sexual metaphors I just kind of passed by, probably because our own culture uses them.

But in time, I began to see how useful such metaphors were.

In my meditations, the “unity” of forces is a large part of the practice Breath meditation has mind resting on an ever-refining breath in partnership. My energy work is about mind resting on energy as it flows through the body. But such unities can easily be broken as any meditator knows – sometimes the mind doesn’t rest on breath (or energy) but rests on itself resting on breath (or energy). You know how it is when you’re doing the thing but also sort of knowing you’re doing the thing and it just falls apart.

I came to realize that meditating, the mind rests on something – for example, a slow and even breath. The mind sets its intent to be there with the breath, the breath ever slow and evening, and that’s its only priority. In many ways it surrenders itself completely to the breath by being there with it while the breath is there just being itself.

Then I got all those sexual metaphors because that’s perfect.

Intimate metaphors are a great metaphor for meditation practices. They capture the closeness, the surrender, the passion of connection. I’d written them off as trite and simplistic, but they were the opposite – the use of sexual or romantic metaphor fit meditation very well. I got it.

Meditation is an intimacy – as are other such practices. Sometimes you need to go to something visceral – like sex and romance – to communicate such things. Perhaps it has to be carefully phrased or used, perhaps people will get it wrong, but it fits.

I also think this is a good reminder that when reading metaphors and symbolism to remember they are oft written by people who are not you in times that are not your own. Our reactions to them are not the ones that the writers of the past expected or even considered. You have to learn to listen across the centuries.

–Xenofact

Head Full of Ghosts

by

If you’ve done any form of meditation or therapy you know about those complexes in your mind. The fears, the obsessions, the habits that take over so much of our life, probably more than we want to admit.

It’s like having a head full of ghosts.

These aren’t the cool ghosts either. There’s no dramatic revelations of the past or lineage. They aren’t some vital spirits directing us to a better life after three disparate visions. None of these ghosts is delivering useful advice. Not a single one resembles Patrick Swayze.

Honestly, these ghosts in our head, these habits and neuroses, are boring and pathetic.

They’re mechanical and repetitive. They run on tracks burrowed into our mind, clockwork-clicking along whatever path set out by our past experiences. They are powerful, they are annoying, but they’re also not that interesting or unique. The reruns of the soul.

They’re often quite pathetic. A bad experience here, a grudge there, something we didn’t acknowledge in the past. Even the horrible ones are sad, the results of our bad choices or the cruelty of others. There’s something invalid about them, and we fear, about ourselves.

They’re damaging. They hurt us, obsess us, misdirect us, but not in any cool way. They’re often stupidly self-destructive – of ourselves and even themselves. They negate themselves yet always resurrect.

But worse of all these Ghosts, these complexes and obsessions of the past are so empty.

There’s nothing to them. No acknowledgement of reality, even when reality triggers them. They don’t grow. They aren’t relevant even if perhaps they once had reason to exist. When we acknowledge them, their shallowness is stunning. Here we are, people, and we have to share our head with these phantoms.

It’s humiliating. These mechanical, harmful, phantasms drive so much of our life and don’t deserve to. I once read someone discussing the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism, and decided to translate what is usually interpreted as craving as humiliation, and I get that.

I find looking at this emptiness, this voidness of our complexes helps me deal with them. When you see their shallowness and pointlessness, you can overcome them. Not necessarily by great exertion or cultivation (though it may help) but by just seeing through them and deciding to move on.

They seem to shrink when you do that. Probably because your attention and ignorance was the only thing keeping them going.

–Xenofact