Selfing and Othering

Just like many of you, I’m sure, I’ve been following the football with keen interest. I’ve been enjoying the unusual experience of following an England team that actually believes it can win and is free of the scars of past traumatic defeats. But one of the things that always strikes me is the sheer tribalism of the sport, of any sport, I suppose. Booing the opponent’s national anthem, for instance, has become a sad yet inevitable feature of international sporting fixtures. This to me is a good example of what I call “othering”. When we “other” people, we see them as different from us in some fundamental way, often accompanied by suspicion, fear or even hatred. Racism, nationalism, sexism, homophobia and the like are all rooted in this tendency.

Buddhism doesn’t have a lot to say about “othering” in this way. But it has a great deal to say about the other side of the coin, which I will call “selfing”. According to Buddhism, belief in a permanent, fixed and separate self is one of the fetters which bind us to suffering. At a personal level, we identify with our body, our feelings or our thoughts and opinions. At the interpersonal level, we identify this self with the selves of our nearest-and-dearest, perhaps with our group of friends, or our football club. At the societal level, that identification may be with our culture, our political beliefs or our nation. But the problem is that anyone who isn’t in that group, who doesn’t support that team or share our feelings, say, about Brexit, becomes “other”. We’ve seen in recent years a very strong tendency to polarisation in our society, Brexit being a good example, where many of us may never associate with people who hold different views. The result can be demonisation and a complete lack of fellow-feeling and empathy. That is corrosive, both for us as individuals and for the society we share. But what do we do about it?

The Buddha taught that our idea of the self as separate and fixed is simply wrong. But we cling to the idea that there is something solid and enduring there and experience pain and grief when things don’t go the way we want. Our body ages and changes and is subject to sickness, our emotions are fickle and fluid, and, as anyone who’s ever meditated will know, our mind has a mind of its own, with thoughts just thinking themselves. But it’s that conviction that we are somehow fixed and separate which is also at the root of all the “othering” we do and the pain it causes. Difference can feel threatening, make us uneasy and unsure. One way to overcome this is to observe our experience closely and reflect that there really is nothing enduring there, nothing ultimately fixed or separate, so that, at some point, insight will arise and, with it, release from bondage. That requires quite a lot of application and clarity of mind. But another way to approach this is simply through the cultivation of loving-kindness. When we do this, perhaps in meditation, we reflect that everyone else is in the same boat, feeling the pain of separation and wanting to be happy, safe and free from suffering. Reflecting in this way is a powerful tool for the transformation of the heart and the perfect antidote to “othering”. Where there is love, there can be no “othering” and, where there is no “othering”, the painful bonds of “selfing” can, at least for a time, be loosened. So here’s my suggestion: when you get a quiet moment, try to see what you have in common with the people on the other side of the self/other divide in your life, which is a lot.  They have human fears and hopes, just like you. They want to be happy, just as you do, and they want to avoid suffering, just as you do. I can confidently say that this practice has changed my life, and I’m sure it will make a difference to yours.

"Normality" and the need for gratitude

 

Since lockdown began in March, everyone’s been asking when things will get back to normal. This is entirely understandable, as none of us have ever experienced the effects of a pandemic in our lifetime. We’re living through a phase in which some basic freedoms have been curtailed, such as our freedom to associate with as many people as we like when we like, just to pop out to the pub without booking, and to hang out in enclosed spaces without the lurking fear of contagion. What used to be normal now seems like a memory from another era, and there’s even the fear that Christmas will somehow be cancelled.

But, looking at it from a Buddhist point of view, I would challenge the very idea that there is such thing as normal in this sense. The idea of normal implies a kind of consistent and stable state to which things will automatically default when everything gets sorted out. Once the pandemic is over, life will return to exactly what it was. We can be forgiven for holding this view because the post-war generations, at least in our part of the world, have lived through a time of exceptional peace, prosperity and stability, where every generation has consistently been better off than the preceding one. There are many reasons for this, including stable international institutions and scientific progress, but recent economic, health and environmental shocks seem to me to be bringing that trend to an end.

Buddhism teaches that all things arise in dependence upon conditions. Change or remove the conditions, and you change the outcome. This applies to everything from solar systems to societies, empires to ecosystems - and the mounting evidence of the seriousness of the global ecological crisis we’re all in illustrates the point very well. For too long, our species has assumed a degree of separateness from the natural world – that we can insulate ourselves from the effects of our own polluting and destructive behaviour. But it seems increasingly clear from global reports of extreme weather events bringing fire and flood, not to mention the ravaging of biodiversity, that this is not the case.

I think our response to this should be twofold. The first response is a practical one: Firstly, we need to change our individual and collective behaviours to stop wreaking havoc on our fragile planet. But we also need something like a spiritual response, by which I mean we need to recognise our dependence on the intricate web of conditions that is the natural world and cultivate a response of both awe and humility: awe at the breath-taking beauty of our world and humility as we recognise the precariousness of our position. Instead of taking things for granted, which is what the idea of normal implies, I think we need to cultivate gratitude in the light of the amazing natural riches that have given and continue to give us so much.

So let’s stop taking things for granted. Take some time today to reflect on everything the world has given you and be grateful. And let’s do what we can to ensure that future generations will have the same reasons for gratitude as we do.

Coronavirus, hubris and the green shoots

 

As I was out for my precious hour of exercise the other day, I started musing about the nature of the predicament that Coronavirus has cast us into. I couldn’t help reflect on how ironic it was that the most successful and powerful species the planet has ever known has been forced to retreat to the margins of a world it has become used to having absolute mastery over. And by what? Well, by a tiny bundle of DNA scraps, lipids and proteins way too small for the human eye to see. The phrase “The microscopic will inherit the earth” came to mind, with apologies to the gospel according to Matthew!

OK, so it won’t come to that – not this time, anyway – but what I find myself really hoping for is a learning from this situation. A learning for our species, a learning about hubris. One of the core Buddhist teachings is that all things arise in dependence upon conditions. This applies to climate patterns, human societies, economic systems, and the evolution of viruses alike. But we’ve grown used to seeing ourselves as distinct from nature, able to lord over it and bend it to our will without any negative side-effects. In our pursuit of an ever-higher standard of living, ever more stuff, ever more luxury, we’ve lost touch with our true place in the natural order. The consequences of climate change we’ve seen played out in our own county – does anyone remember those hundred-year floods from another world? – and this current health emergency are showing us that we aren’t above the system, that we can’t seal ourselves off from the natural world and expect to get away with it.

So what do I hope for? Well, in some ways I’m seeing the green shoots of that already in the midst of this pandemic. People rediscovering the virtues of and need for community cooperation. Members of my Buddhist community smiling and waving at each other in videoconferences. People standing on their doorsteps and balconies applauding our health workers. People in cities enjoying fresh and sweetly scented air free of traffic fumes and the majesty of the night sky without the constant rumble of jet engines and vapour trails. Birdsong over quiet streets. The other day, I thought I heard a skylark by the river. And a herd of goats has made its home in the vacant streets of Llandudno. In the midst of so much economic and social upheaval, I sense the emergence of a reconnection with society and the natural world, and that has to be good.

Of course, once this is all over, people will get back into cars and planes and there will be an explosion of social interaction; that’s only natural. But I desperately hope his won’t come at the expense of the natural world, that we won’t re-cocoon ourselves in complacency.

Some of you listening will be self-isolating. Some of you will be feeling the stress of being cooped up and the economic pinch. But for those of you who can, listen to the birds and enjoy the fresh, fume-free air. And reach out to people, maybe those you’ve been out of touch with for ages. For those of you who feel isolated, I know that armies of volunteers are trying to get in touch with you. This crisis is bringing out the best of many people, and it’s that which will get us through it with, I hope, some lasting lessons for a better world.

Conceit

 Sunday 1 June 2019

 To say the country is divided at the moment would be something of an understatement! As the whole Brexit saga rolls on endlessly, I’m sure I can speak for many when I say I’ve started groaning inwardly whenever politicians line up to trot out the same lines, especially from the opposite side of the divide from where I find myself. But I’ve also noticed a disturbing impulse in myself, which I’ve never had before, to shout at the people I disagree with when they come on the radio or TV. And I’ve come to see the underlying not-so-subtle view that holding the views I do on the subject makes me somehow superior to the people who disagree with me, as if I occupy the moral and intellectual high ground. It’s so easy, not just to say that I’m right and they’re wrong, but also to dismiss them wholesale as fools or bigots or whatever you will. As well as being an expression of ill-will, it also points to the operation in my mind and heart of conceit.

Buddhism has a great deal to say about conceit. In fact, it’s one of what are known as the five poisons, the others being greed, hatred, spiritual ignorance and distractedness. And poisonous is a good word to describe its effect. But it isn’t just about thinking you’re better than other people. It also comes into play when you think others are better than you, when you do yourself down. In the Buddhist community, I often hear people say they can’t meditate. They’re sure it’s a valuable thing to be able to do, and they recognise that others can do it, it’s just that they can’t. My teacher Sangharakshita, when faced with someone talking like that, is reported to have asked “What’s so special about you then?”, turning the whole thing on its head.

We make snap judgements based on conceit all the time. We see people who are cleverer than us, richer and more successful as well as those who we secretly look down on because of the way they look or speak or the views they hold. Whichever way we go, however, the issue is one of comparison based on difference. And seeing difference serves only to separate and isolate us, which is a bad thing. As the old quotation has it, “comparisons are odious”.

Buddhism offers an antidote to this in a meditation called the metta bhavana, in which we set out to cultivate good will to all beings, starting with ourselves and going on to consider a good friend, someone we don’t know well, someone we struggle with and, finally, all beings. This practice can help us truly see people, to recognise that everyone wants the same thing: to be happy and free of suffering - even though we express those wishes in different ways. We stop comparing and start empathising. To recall this whenever the urge to compare arises can help free us of ill-will. I need to work harder at this in these times of division and I’d encourage you to do the same. Whenever you find your blood boiling at what someone else says or start doing yourself down, stop, take a breath and wish yourself or the other person well instead. I know from experience that it’s a transformative practice – why not try it out for yourself?

Why we don't help and what we can do about it

My family and I have just returned from a very rich and varied week in New York, where we did all the usual tourist things, including a visit to the 9/11 memorial at Ground Zero, a trip up the Empire State Building and a boat ride out to Liberty Island. This was all very wonderful and enriching, but what I want to share with you is a little incident that I must admit wasn’t one of my finest moments but gave me plenty of cause for reflection. We were just heading into the Coney Island subway after a happy afternoon spent on the beach, when a row broke out between a man and a woman who were waiting to board a bus. I’ve no idea what it was about, but suffice to say voices were raised, and there was a fair amount of pushing and shoving, which ended up with the woman falling over with the trolley she had with her. It was a slo-mo fall, which would have been quite comical if it hadn’t been so sad, but what happened next was remarkable. Nothing happened. The other people in the queue and standing around stood looking at her as she lay on the ground. Worse still, so did I. I was no more than 20 yards away and could easily have darted over to help her up, but I didn’t. She was eventually helped to her feet by a young man, and a police officer strolled over to sort things out. It was a minor incident, but I felt very remorseful as we caught the train and started ruminating. Why didn’t I help? I can only conclude that it was what you might call the Somebody Else’s Problem syndrome. I didn’t know her, she wasn’t a family member or a friend, so she wasn’t in my immediate sphere of concern. Had it been one of my kids, you can rest assured that I would have been straight in there. But this stranger somehow didn’t merit my care or attention.

OK, so this reflects badly on me, but I dare say I wouldn’t have been alone in my reaction. After all, how often do we pass homeless people by, for instance, without even acknowledging them. They have nothing to do with us, so why bother? A more creative response is suggested by 8^th century Buddhist monk Shantideva, author of a famous work on how to lead an ideal Buddhist life. He makes the point that, if we have a pain in our foot, we will act to alleviate it, so why don’t we respond equally quickly to the pain of others, to whom we are connected by our common humanity and shared desire to be happy? The problem, he suggests, lies in a failure of imagination, which is the basis of empathy. As the poet Shelley says: “A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and of many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.” This I see as being one of the primary tasks of my practice as a Buddhist. 

Fortunately, I have a tried and tested meditation to help me out. In the metta bhavana, or loving-kindness meditation, we bring to mind various people, some we know well and some we don’t, some we like and some we don’t, and simply wish them well. We step out of the narratives of preference and self-interest and try to see them as human beings just like us, with the same hopes and fears, desire to be loved and not to suffer.

My point is that you don’t necessarily have to sit down to meditate to do this. It just requires awareness of others and a willingness to see what we have in common. I wish I’d recalled this in those few moments when I was standing looking at that poor lady on the ground. But next time I’m resolved to do better. And I would really suggest that you do the same. When, for instance, you pass that homeless person in a doorway, really try to see them as a fellow human being. Even if you don’t want to give them money, which I think is a perfectly legitimate choice, make eye contact, greet them, make them feel seen. If someone is in distress, stop and help them. You will feel better, more connected, and so will they. Everyone wins, and the world is a better place for it.

Sugar

Last Saturday morning, I caught one of my sons gazing glumly into his bowl of cereal. The cereal in question was one of those brands you can get which are a bit chocolatey but low in sugar. When I asked him what the matter was, he told me it didn’t taste of anything. That’s because you’re used to having more sugar in your cereal, I told him, so you’re not used to tasting anything but sugar. At that point I had a sudden flashback to when I was a boy, to times when I used to spoon such a thick layer of white sugar onto my Weetabix that you could have measured it with a ruler. So what I ended upwith was the texture of Weetabix with the taste of sugar. It was only when I was heading into adulthood that I actually discovered what Weetabix tasted like when not slathered in the white stuff. The same thing happened when I gave up sugar in my tea and coffee; the initial experience was really weird, but I soon got used to the distinctive and subtle differences in flavour between different types of coffee and tea.

This really got me thinking. Not only are most people in the modern age overexposed to sugar and other strong flavours to the point that we can often barely taste the food in front of us, but the same thing applies to varying degrees to all our other senses. You can’t go into a shop without being bombarded by Muzak, for instance, even in the loos! I don’t know about you, but I personally have no desire to listen to generic pop music while doing my business! We’re also bombarded by adverts of various kinds demanding our attention - the genius of the advertising industry lies in its ability to constantly draw us out of ourselves into a world of want. And then of course, we stick on the TV or the radio or get involved in the seductive world of social media on our mobile devices, and before we know it, we’ve lost all relationship with what’s actually going on, with our own inner life and experience.

And then I recalled another experience which resounds down the years as clear as the moment it happened. I was on retreat once, when somebody put a cup down on a work surface in the kitchen. I’ve no idea how many countless times I’ve heard cups going down on work surfaces, but this noise struck me for its exceptional purity, like the striking of a beautiful bell. The reason was that I’d been meditating a lot and was enjoying states of unusual mental and emotional clarity, free of the usual distractions of modern life. This enabled me to enjoy and relish even the simplest of sense experiences. And the experience resonated so strongly with me that I’ve never forgotten it, even a quarter of a century later.

These days I like to take time out to do nothing, to throw down my mobile and switch off the TV, to experience the simple messages of my senses in all their subtlety and shades of beauty. I’m not saying I do this very often, but when I do, I feel at my most relaxed and alive. There really is so much richness in even the little experiences conveyed by our senses. So my advice would be to do the same, at least every now and again. Turn off the box, turn off your phone, turn off your computer and give yourself the chance to enjoy the beauty of even the most ordinary and mundane of experiences. You’ll experience a richness that you would never otherwise have thought to look for.

Losing the remote - and keeping your cool

The other evening I was looking forward to sitting down in front of the TV. The problem was however that I couldn’t find the remote. I’m sure you know how it is: every device has its own remote, and the smaller the box, the smaller the remote that goes with it. And our box is pretty small. Having hunted in and under the sofas and even in the shoe drawer for good measure, I found myself getting increasingly exasperated, even slightly panicky. What if it never turned up? How would we watch TV? Would I have to spend money replacing it? It was a very unpleasant state to be in. Happily, my partner was unruffled and pointed out that we could just plug the aerial into the back of the TV the old fashioned way and watch it like that.

Sound familiar? And the point is this wasn’t a new response on my part. It’s actually pretty much the response I have every time we mislay a remote. Which is where one of the Buddha’s core teachings comes in: that actions have consequences, and that actions committed when we’re in mental states characterized by anger, frustration and the like cause us to suffer. Worse still, repeatedly acting in that way is habit-forming. Just as rivulets of water gradually carve a path out of the rock over which they flow, causing them to follow the same path with less and less possibility of diversion, repeatedly giving way to anger and resentment in the same circumstances makes it all the more likely that we will do so again next time around. In fact, much of human behaviour operates in this kind of reactive mode, simply repeating actions that we have done many times before, with all the unpleasantness that follows.

This is the Buddhist principle of karma. It has nothing to do with fate or some preordained path in life. What it means is exactly what I’ve described above: that acting in a particular way has the effect of shaping our character for the future. Giving into anger, frustration and resentment makes us more likely to do so again in the future, to the point where we run the risk of becoming angry, frustrated and resentful people.

But fortunately it works the other way too. The more we act with patience, out of love, concern for others and generosity, the more our hearts will open, and the more likely it is that our behaviour will in general be characterized by those qualities. We all act in these ways some of the time – they aren’t the preserve of the enlightened! But what we need to do is consciously apply ourselves to acting out of these positive states more and more often – and not giving in to their negative counterparts. In this way we’ll set up positive habits for the future.

The best way to go about this might be to start small. In my case, it might simply be to accept that TV remotes sometimes get lost, realise it’s not the end of the world, count to ten and let go. I’m sure you have your equivalent little unhelpful habit too. So next time you find yourself getting wound up about the same old little thing, take a breath, pause and try and let go of it. You’ll find, as I do when I manage it, that it’s a real relief. On the other hand, try not to miss opportunities to show kindness and generosity when they present themselves. I’ve no doubt this is the beginning of the path to greater happiness and contentment, and I’m sure you’ll find it is too.