Study of reference texts
Alan Watts, Become What You Are
Almost any fundamental principle of existence can be expressed in two different ways. On the one hand, there are those who say that to attain the deepest wisdom, one must remain calm and still, untouched by the surrounding turmoil. On the other hand, there are those who say that one must move in the rhythm of life without ever stopping for a moment—without fear of what is to come and without regret for what has passed. The first are those who listen to music, letting the notes pass through their minds without trying to hold them or hurry them along. Like the perfect man of Chuang-Tzu, they use their mind as a mirror: they cling to nothing, they reject nothing; they receive but do not retain. The others dance to the rhythm of the music, keeping the beat and letting their limbs be carried by it—tirelessly and effortlessly, like clouds driven by the wind. The first seem to reflect events as they flow, while the second seem to move with them. Both attitudes, however, are correct, for to reach profound wisdom we must both walk and stand still at the same time.
We may imagine life as a vertically placed wheel that turns as a man walks upon it. As it moves, the wheel rolls toward him and beneath his feet, and to avoid falling backward, he must walk at the same speed at which the wheel turns. If he walks faster, he will fall forward and slip off. Thus, at every moment, the man is at the highest point of the wheel; yet as soon as he tries to cling to that point, he ceases to be at the “top” and loses balance. And so, by not trying to hold on, he remains at the top—for the instant he would stop walking, he would also stop standing. Here we find an even deeper truth: from the perspective of eternity, we can never truly leave the top of the wheel. For if a circle is placed in infinite space, it has neither top nor bottom. Wherever we stand is the summit, and the wheel turns only because we make it turn—by pushing it with our own feet.
Source:
Alan Watts, Become What You Are, Herald Publishing House, 2003, pp. 53–54
A famous Zen koan says:
“When a cow passes through the fence by the edge of a cliff, its horns, head, and hooves all get through — but why can’t the tail?”
Commenting on this koan, one master said:
“If the cow runs, it will fall off the cliff; if it turns back, it will be slaughtered. That little tail is a very strange thing.”
In the search for the meaning of life, there comes a time when each of us must confront “that little tail” — that minor obstacle standing in the way of complete fulfillment. We know that this “something” is thinner than a hair’s breadth, yet we perceive it as being a million kilometers thick. In mathematics, there exists an equation that, when represented graphically, appears as a curve approaching a line infinitely closely, yet never touching it. At first, the curve rushes toward the line — like the cow’s head, horns, and hooves passing through — but just when the tail should follow, the curve straightens, remaining an infinitesimal distance away. As it continues, the distance grows ever smaller, yet the line and the curve never meet, even if extended for hundreds or thousands of millions of miles. This curve represents the progress of the human intellect toward Enlightenment, acquiring increasingly subtle shades of meaning at each stage of the journey. It is as though we were tied to illusion by a single hair; to loosen it, we split it with the knife of the intellect — again and again — until the thread becomes so fine that, to continue cutting, the mind itself must be sharpened to infinity. Yet no matter how much we divide this strand, the sum of all its parts is no thinner than the original hair, for the more delicate the bonds, the more numerous they become.
In philosophical language, this condition is known as infinite regress; psychologically, it is that exasperating, maddening state that always precedes the final experience of Awakening. This can be illustrated using the famous triangle paradox of Mahayana philosophy. The two points at the base of the triangle represent the pair of opposing elements we encounter at every moment of existence — subject and object, self and other, positive and negative, being and non-being. The apex of the triangle represents their relationship, their meaning, the principle that gives them reality — the One distinct from the Many. However, the moment we separate the One from the Many, we create a new pair of opposites, beginning yet another process that continues endlessly, generating ever greater complications. In the Bhagavad Gita, we are told to detach ourselves from our thoughts and emotions, to realize that they are not the Self, and to learn that the Self is not the doer of actions, but the Witness of actions. Yet why not detach ourselves even from this initial detachment, and perceive that in truth, the Self does not “stand apart,” since the Self performs no act at all? And this, too, can continue infinitely.
Source:
Alan Watts, Become What You Are, Herald Publishing House, 2003, pp. 106–107
Sf. Grigorie de Nyssa
The first step in Buddhism is Right Motivation, and we are told that in order to attain enlightenment we must rid ourselves of selfish desires. But if we are selfish to begin with, surely the desire to get rid of desire is itself selfish. What we truly want is to free ourselves from selfishness for a selfish reason—and once again, we can easily find a selfish motive for wanting to give up selfishness.
A deeper illustration of this problem can be found in the simplest statement of Eastern philosophy: that there is one single Reality, and that diversity is an illusion. This statement is almost universally accepted by followers of Eastern wisdom, often as something taken for granted—it is the first thing they learn, but in fact, it is also the essence of all there is to learn; everything else is embellishment. This is the central idea in Vedanta, Mahayana Buddhism, and Taoism: that there are not two universal principles, but only Brahman, Tathata, or Tao, and that enlightenment is nothing other than the realization of our identity with it. But here the problem arises—the cow’s tail gets caught in the fence. The moment we think “this is Tao” or “that is Tao,” we immediately make a distinction between Tao and “this” or “that.” Moreover, as soon as we think that the aim of religion is our identification with Tao, we create a dualism between Tao and ourselves, the ones who must identify with it. Dualism appears the very instant we affirm or deny something: as soon as we think “This is That” or “This is not That,” we have already made a distinction between “This” and “That.” Even when we say that in Reality there are no distinctions, we have already created an opposition between Reality and distinctions.
Furthermore, let us consider this: if there is only Tao, how can there be anything different from it? If there is only one Reality, then our thoughts—whether enlightened or unenlightened—must be that Reality. There can be no distinction between Reality and illusion if Reality is all that exists. Whether we can concentrate our thoughts or not, whether they are thoughts of love or hatred, whether we are pondering Buddhism or biting our nails—we cannot, in any way, separate ourselves from Tao. You may love or despise your life, but both love and contempt are expressions of life. When you seek union with Reality, how can you say you ever lost it?
From another perspective, it is said that to be enlightened we must live in what is eternal. Now, that infinitely small yet infinitely vast point in time is called the present moment. The universe exists only in that moment, and the wise man is said to move with it, clinging neither to the past nor to the future, keeping his heart like a mirror that instantly reflects whatever comes before it, making no effort to retain the reflection once the object has passed. “The perfect man,” says Chuang-Tzu, “uses his mind like a mirror. He clings to nothing, he rejects nothing. He receives, but does not keep.”
And yet, if we examine the matter closely, we see that this is not so much a description of what we should do, as it is of what we cannot help but do. Whether we think of the past or the future, whatever we think of, our thoughts exist in and as the eternal Now; otherwise, they could not exist at all. We cannot separate ourselves from this present moment, and if we imagine that enlightenment consists merely in living in the present, in thinking only of what happens here and now, we find ourselves once again in the dualism of “now” and “here.” The idea is that we can only think of what is happening now, and we are the ones doing the thinking. There is only one Reality! Hence arises the question: “Does Enlightenment mean simply to live and think like an ignorant fool, unconcerned with philosophy, mysticism, or morality, knowing that whatever we do, we cannot be out of harmony with Tao?”
If the answer is “yes,” then we affirm; if the answer is “no,” then we deny. The tail remains caught in the fence. If you think that you will reach Enlightenment by living like an ignorant person, you are still caught in the dualism of believing that you must become enlightened. Indeed, there is no recipe for Enlightenment, for the very moment we begin to say that it is this or that, we are trying to make two realities in the universe instead of one. In truth, we may think about philosophy or about food and drink, love or hate humanity, do whatever we want or do not want, discipline ourselves or yield to our impulses, seek wisdom or ignore it—but we cannot separate ourselves from Tao, for Tao is everything and anything and nothing. Or is it? Be careful with “is.” The trick lies in the tail.
Source:
Alan Watts, Become What You Are, Herald Publishing House, 2003, pp. 107–110
That which has become a copy closely resembles its original: what is spiritual resembles its spiritual source; what is incorporeal resembles the incorporeal model; what has neither weight nor size resembles the model that is free from weight and size. Yet the copy (the mind) differs from the model by its own nature, for it would no longer be a copy if it were completely identical to the original [God]. And if the qualities of the uncreated nature allow us to glimpse its image, likewise the qualities of the copy reveal the model.
Just as in a small shard of glass placed in sunlight one can see the whole solar disk — not in its natural magnitude, but only to the extent that the shard’s smallness can contain the reflection — so too in the smallness of our nature shine forth the ineffable attributes of Divinity. Thus, the mind that observes in itself these attributes does not err in considering its nature divine, for it excludes from this contemplation all material means, and it does not compare the unseen and unified nature of the Divinity with the insignificant and perishable nature of the human mind. It understands that the soul can be known in its essence, for it is the image of a spiritual being, yet different from the original by the property of its own nature; for if it were identical in essence, it would no longer be a likeness but the very model itself.
Just as we do not doubt — relying on the ineffable divine wisdom manifest in all things — that the nature and power of God are present in everything that exists, so that all may have life, we likewise believe that although the essence of the soul is something distinct in itself — whatever that may be — this does not prevent it from existing, since the visible elements of the world are in no way compatible with the nature of the soul.
As has already been shown, even in beings composed of a mixture of elements there is no real correspondence between the undivided and simple soul and the gross material body; and yet, it is certain that the soul’s activity is present within the elements, though in a manner beyond human comprehension. Thus, even if the elements united in the body dissolve [after death], their life-giving connection does not perish. Just as when the mixture of elements still existed, the separate parts of the body were equally enlivened by the soul which penetrated them all — and for this reason, no one could claim that the soul was hard or stiff because of its association with earthly elements, or that it was cold or wet or possessed of any contrary quality, although it was present in all [parts of the body] and infused them with life — so too it is right to believe that after the mixture dissolves and each element returns to what is akin to it, the simple and uncompounded nature of the soul continues to exist within each part, even after their separation.
Moreover, it is probable that the soul, which once mysteriously grew together with the mixture of elements, remains forever united with those to which it was joined and never withdraws from the activity assigned to it. For it does not follow that when a compound body decomposes, that which was never compounded must also disintegrate.
To this I said:
“Surely the elements come together and are separated, and no one will deny that this constitutes the existence and dissolution of the body. But since we see great differences among the constituent parts, both in their place and in their properties, when the elements cluster around the governing principle — that spiritual, free, and formless nature which we call the soul — it grows together with what it has united to form the body. But when the elements separate, each going where its nature directs, what happens to the soul when the vessel in which it dwelt is shattered?”
Just as a sailor, when his ship is wrecked, cannot stay afloat by clinging to all the scattered fragments, but must seize upon the nearest and soundest piece while letting the others drift away, so too the soul, since it cannot be divided, when the separation of the elements occurs — because it cannot detach entirely from the body — will unite with one of the elements and be separated from the rest. Hence, we might conclude: it is impossible that the soul should be wholly immortal, for it lives through one element, and yet neither can it be wholly mortal, for it lives through many.
But she replied: “That which is spiritual and free neither contracts nor expands, for only bodies are subject to contraction and expansion. By its immaterial and formless nature, the soul participates both in the mixture of elements within the body and in their separation, being neither confined by their union nor abandoned in their dissolution, despite the great differences in their properties: for a light body that tends upward is far different from one heavy as earth, and a warm one differs from a cold, and a moist one from its opposite.
Yet for spiritual nature it is not difficult to be present within each element with which it has been united, without being divided because of their differences. For although one might think that the elements are far apart from one another in space and in property, the boundless nature of the soul easily joins even with those far removed. Therefore, thought is permitted alike to gaze upon the heavens and to extend its inquiry to the ends of the world, yet the contemplative part of our soul is not divided in two when it stretches to such distances.
Thus, nothing hinders the soul in its relation to the elements of the body — neither when it unites with them, nor when it separates from them at dissolution. For just as in the melting of gold and silver with other metals the skill of the craftsman is evident — since, though the mixture melts and the metals separate, the craftsman’s art does not separate with the matter (for how could that which is indivisible be divided?) — so too the spiritual nature of the soul manifests itself both in the union of the elements, from which it does not part even when their mixture dissolves, and extends itself even to the most distant elements, without being torn or divided into fragments, for the spiritual and boundless nature suffers nothing from the separation of the elements. Thus, the soul remains within the elements with which it was once united, for nothing can constrain it to be parted from them. And so, what is so sad in exchanging the visible for the invisible? Why is your mind so troubled by death?”
Source:
Sf. Grigorie de Nyssa, St. Gregory of Nyssa, On the Soul and the Resurrection – On Christian Teaching, Herald Publishing, 2020, pp. 32–36, Editura Herald, 2020, paginile 32- 36
