Self Esteem

Unfortunately, Zen practice can take on an esoteric quality with practical manifestations remaining unseen and not useful. 

Fathoming essential Buddhist truths can be abstruse, and incorporating these truths into everyday life is even more challenging. Our task is not to meditate endlessly toward no end. Meditation is intended to reveal our internal body of truth/bodhi (e.g., awakening). If it doesn’t accomplish that end, it falls short. 

Today I want to make an attempt to bridge this divide and underscore both a pressing current need and Zen’s answer, and my analogical tool for this attempt will be a tree:

A tree is an amazing plant. It grows from a tiny seed into a giant above-ground structure we can perceive. The “lifeblood” of a tree is the sap, which moves throughout the trunk and limbs, delivering essential nutrients from the soil. If any part were missing—roots, trunk, sap, or ground—the tree would not be a tree. All four parts are needed. From the outside, the roots are neither seen nor the sap; neither is the pathway through which pass the nutrients flow. Another vitally important, unseen-beneath-the surface phenomenon is how each separate tree is joined (through its roots) with other trees forming a symbiotic unity.  All we see is just the outward form—what is expressed.

In a sense, we are like a tree. We, too, have discernible attributes. Our outward form is clearly seen, and we have an inner world with psychic and spiritual attributes. And exactly like a tree, we have a ground (from where the nutrients arise) with undetectable attributes. The analogy works as far as it goes, but what is the application to everyday life?

In our contemporary world, there is an extraordinary attempt to fashion dust into permanence. Core beliefs are often equated with the identity of those who share such beliefs. And to present a perspective that challenges these beliefs is to challenge their sense of identity. When a person is firmly rooted in a tightly-held idea of who they are (good, bad, or unestablished), the psychological response will most likely be to hold tight to preconceived beliefs regardless of spiritual evidence. In such a case, cognitive dissonance and confirmation bias are at work. The result is reification (psychologically converting their imperceptible subjective being into a perceptible object and believing they are merely a bag of flesh and bones). Reification is often considered a sign that someone is thinking illogically, but irrationality is likewise understood as rational.

Specifically, this complex thrust reinforces and transforms something, which has no substance into something, which does. I’m referring to self-esteem. In so doing, we are functioning like a tree, which grows detached from the ground, suspended in thin air, but with perceptible attributes. This thrust is doomed to failure, but rather than allowing it to die a natural death, we attempt to shore it up with devastating results and consequences. We are rooted in turf, but our ground is spiritual rather than earth, yet this turf is unseen and to deny this link creates genuine problems. How so?

There are two primary sutras, which define Mahayana Buddhism and, therefore, Zen. They are the Heart Sutra and the Diamond Sutra. The fundamental message of both sutras addresses the true nature of the Buddha, and us, as both form (with definable attributes) and emptiness (without definable attributes), which sadly is a broadly misunderstood proposition. 

The common-coin understanding of emptiness is vacuity, which is not what emptiness means from a Buddhist perspective. What emptiness does mean is a lack of intrinsic, independent substance. In other words, things arise dependent upon time, conditions, and other things. This definition’s most basic expression is “form is emptiness”—every form; however, they may be defined. That notion is called dependent origination.

The majesty and ultimate power of this arrangement distinguished Mahayana Buddhism from all other spiritual/emotional forms and were the centerpiece of Nagarjuna’s ministry. He reasoned that if the dependent origination proposition had any validity, emptiness must itself be empty: Empty emptiness. This idea takes some digestion before it hits home.

The undeniable conclusion of dependent origination is that everything is relative. To relate to things that are empty of substance (such as a self), as if it had substance, is a doomed proposition. Everything at the conditioned level is subject to this conclusion.

Likewise, the conditional’s opposite is unconditional, not subject to relativity, defining attributes, or impermanence. But doesn’t this arrangement defy dependent origination? Indeed it does (almost), and here is where Nagarjuna shines. 

Empty emptiness means that dependent origination itself is empty (of independent, intrinsic substance), and the opposite which arises with dependent origination, is independent origination: The realm of the true Buddha otherwise know as the Dharmakaya (from the Sanskrit “Dharma” meaning truth and “kaya” meaning body=Body of Truth). 

Such Sanskrit principle seems to have little practical value to 21st Century people, but there is a realm with value, which is timeless and transcends all language. This is the realm of our own mind, which is not subject to artificial reinforcement and is readily accessible to everyone. Everybody has a mind (even though nobody can find it). We get hung up by names and thus lose the significance of the message. Zen Master Huang Po gave us a helping hand in unraveling the language. He said the Dharmakaya is the void, and the void is our mind; not what we ordinarily think of as mind manifestations, but rather the indefinable source (e.g., it is transcendent and thus beyond rational understanding).

What this means has vast implications for practical reality and self-esteem. The nature of a Buddha (Buddha-Nature) has three parts, two of which have definable attributes and are subject to conditions. The conditioned parts are the Nirmanakaya (physical body) and the Sambhogakaya (reward or spiritual body). These parts are born and pass away, and it is at this level where we experience everything—sadness, joy, and everything else; this is the tangible, physical form where transcendent wisdom is expressed. Within the conditioned realm, karma rules, and if that is the whole story, we are without hope because the conditional realm is governed by discrimination—forced to choose between one thing vs. another. 

Fortunately, this is not the whole story. The third part—the Body of truth—is the unconditional source and beyond karma (e.g., cause and effect). This is the true never-born, never-die realm of the Buddha (and us)—the basis of all life.

So if the “self” of the conditioned realm is vulnerable and insubstantial (without hope), what does that suggest regarding self-esteem? It simply means that a tree (and us) rests upon the ground, where unseen spiritual/emotional stability arises, and true life with genuine identity is found. To try to shore up the “dust” of an insubstantial self and convert it into a substantial self is an impossibility! But there is no real division between these two realms. There is only one realm with both discernible attributes and non-attribute attributes. We are one whole thing, not two, just as a tree is only one whole tree with both seen and unseen attributes. Our mind is not divided.

The result of this artificial shoring-up is much like trying to counter disease by destroying the immune system. An artificial self is a foreign body, every bit as toxic as a virus, and our immune systems are designed to rid us of these foreigners. This is a natural process that allows life to continue and flourish. A virus is very, very small, and can’t be seen without the use of a powerful microscope. 

On the other hand, an artificial self is quite discernible, albeit in a delusional way. It is so prominent that it over-rides and masks our true (unseen) nature, leaving us with a firm belief that we perceive ourselves as our true nature. The death process at the conditional level is painful. Since we don’t like pain, we resist or hold on for “dear life,” not realizing that this conditional death is critical to realizing our true, unconditional life. 

What most of us fail to see is that suffering plays a vital role in our own awakening. Bodhidharma told us, “Suffering is the seed, wisdom the sprout, and Buddhahood the grain.” We all hate to suffer, so we resist the lesson. This speaking manner sounds strange and esoteric, but regardless, it is a practical reality with vast implications. We fail to notice that our suffering occurs because we refuse to let die what must die and that emancipation can only occur through this death (of what is unreal, yet seen).

The bottom line for self-esteem is to allow nature to progress and let the artificial self die so that we can access our own body of truth—our primordial mind. It is like a snake that sheds its skin as it grows larger. When this “awakening” occurs, we realize that our power for transformation depends on what is our unconditional being/self. This true-body (without definable attributes) fuels and enlightens our conditions and guides our way through to wisdom/prajna. We are thus both conditional and unconditional—neither insubstantial nor substantial, but both. This is the Middle Way of the Mahayana—between linked together psychic substrate of both form and emptiness.

The Heart of Zen

One of the most revered teachings in Zen comes from The Heart Sutra, and the central teaching of this Sutra is that Form is Emptiness; Emptiness is Form. In our ordinary way of understanding, one thing is not the same as something else. 

We see matters as independent and mutually discrete. Form, of course, has defining characteristics. Since form can be perceived, we can define it. But emptiness has no defining characteristics, and like air, it can’t be perceived. So how is it possible that form (which can be perceived) be the same thing as emptiness (which can’t)? Perhaps there is a better set of questions: Is it possible to be conscious of anything—any form, without the capacity of consciousness itself? And the obvious answer is “no.” By itself, consciousness has no form or defining characteristics. But is it possible for consciousness completely independent? Can consciousness be excised or isolated from the form of our bodies? Is consciousness independent and mutually discrete? Or is consciousness; instead, the source, and form the manifestation? 

Implicit in manifestation is a source, and the source has no meaning unless there is a manifestation. There is a temptation to see source and manifestation as separate matters just as there is a temptation to see emptiness as separate from form. We play with word and concept forms and become enamored with distinctions, but emptiness remains when these are no longer present. 

 When we meditate, we see psychic forms wafting across the screen of our consciousness. Obviously, to see these forms, there is a seer. But when these psychic forms go away, there is no seeing going on, or is there? Perhaps the form being seen is emptiness. If that is the case, then Form is Emptiness. Consciousness is empty, yet it is full—the well-spring of all.

Core principles

Certain core principles define any human endeavor, and this is true of Buddhism. One of the core principles is dependent origination which underscores nearly all Buddhist thought. Another is impermanence. Another core principle is emptiness, which is an aspect of dependent origination and serves as the basis for the Heart Sutra—Form is emptiness; Emptiness is form.

To many, this equality between form and emptiness is confusing. It seems impossible that perceptible form can be the same thing as emptiness, which is imperceptible, yet the Heart Sutra tells us they are the same. Dependent origination helps us to understand, which says that nothing exists as a mutually discrete entity, separate and apart from anything else. Instead, things arise and cease to exist simultaneously—Rain and water are one; a mother and a child are one. Neither rain nor a child can exist separate and apart from a source. These are just two examples among an infinite set of pairs. The ultimate pair is form and emptiness; Nothing is more fundamental than that—Everything else is a subset.

It would be impossible to separate rain from water or a child from a mother. This is easy to understand. What is not so easy to understand is that all forms are paired with emptiness. Buddhism teaches that all phenomena are impermanent and simple reflection affirms this. Nothing lasts, and clinging or resisting the impermanence of form creates suffering; thus, bliss is not found in phenomenal life. So, where is there a source of hope? Our hope lies imperceptibly beneath impermanence at the heart of decay. And what is that heart? Huang Po (Japanese—Obaku; 9th century China) was particularly lucid in his teaching about this. In the Chün Chou Record he said this:

“To say that the real Dharmakaya (the Absolute) of the Buddha resembles the Void is another way of saying that the Dharmakaya is the Void and that the Void is the Dharmakaya...they are one and the same thing...When all forms are abandoned, there is the Buddha...the void is not really void but the realm of the real Dharma. This spiritually enlightening nature is without beginning...this great Nirvanic nature is Mind; Mind is the Buddha, and the Buddha is the Dharma.”

From Huang Po’s perspective, there is a bonded connection between phenomena and this One Mind—They too are the same thing. Neither can exist apart from the other. Hear what he said about his connection...

“To gaze upon a drop of water is to behold the nature of all the waters of the universe. Moreover, in thus contemplating the totality of phenomena, you are contemplating the totality of Mind. All these phenomena are intrinsically void, yet this Mind with which they are identical is no mere nothingness. By this, I mean that it does exist but, in a way, too marvelous for us to comprehend. It is an existence which is no existence, a non-existence which is nevertheless existence.”

“To the ancients, to find the true essence of life, it was necessary to cast off body and mind. When all forms are abandoned, there is the Buddha.” In an unexplainable way, Mind is no-Mind, which is, of course, the Heart Sutra teaches—Form is emptiness. This Void/Emptiness is the ground out of which impermanent forms arise. It is Buddha-nature (Buddha dhatu—womb of the Buddha: Our essential nature). And the pearl of hope contained in this understanding is that while phenomenal life blows away like dust in the wind, our true nature never passes away. Our intrinsic nature is both natural (phenomenal and finite) and transcendent (noumenal and infinite). We are both form and emptiness. To savor, just the impermanence aspect of Zen without transcendence is to suck on an empty clamshell and imagine a full stomach.

Pie in the Mouth

In probing the layers of human physiology and psychology, Paul Broks, neuropsychologist/philosopher, leads us through a haunting journey in his book Into the Silent Land. 

 It is hard not to be stunned by reading his dissecting view of what it means to be human. We take so many things for granted. That, which is basically inanimate “meat,” can and routinely does animate with consciousness, cognition, imagination, feelings and every other aspect of our condition seems to float by as a given. This fundamental mystery is so ingrained into our being that it goes unnoticed, but not by Broks.

He asks alarming and provocative questions such as “Am I out there or in here?” when he portrays an imaginary man with a transparent skull, watching in a mirror his own brain functions. He notices, for us all, that the world exists inside the tissue residing between our ears. And when the tissue is carefully examined, no world, no mind, no ego/self, no soul, no perceptual capacities, nor consciousness—nothing but inanimate meat is found. Unable to locate, what we all take for granted, he suggests that we are neither “in here” nor “out there,” maybe somewhere between the space between the in and the out, and maybe nowhere at all.

Yet here I am writing these words, and there you are reading them, and so it has always been. We are nowhere and we are everywhere. Not to be found yet fully here. We are like holograms; mind manifestations, which appear or vanish when we are plugged in or out. The inescapable conclusion that arises from such a probe is that we are spirit. No other sensible conclusion is possible. This great mystery has puzzled and confounded humans since the dawn of time, thousands of years before there was the science of neurophysiology or neuropsycholgy. How is it possible that we function as we do, out of what is basically meat? The answer remains hidden beneath veils of mystery.

Anyone familiar with the Heart Sutra can’t help but observe the coincidence between Broks probe and the message contained in the sutra—that there is both delusion and non-delusion. There are human aspects rooted in illusion (which have no substantial reality) and there is the realm of all-pervasive, ever-present perfect peace which is, itself formless and void but nevertheless the well-spring of our existence. There is nothing to be found nor attained in the meat. And because of this “...The Bodhisattva relying on Prajnaparamita has no obstruction in his mind.” Prajna (wisdom)+ Paramita (perfection) means perfect wisdom. Such enlightenment comes with the acceptance of this great mystery, that there is nothing to be found yet we exist as manifestations of what we call God. That is the great mystery, not the animated meat!

And what is of equal fascination is how the Western mind grapples with this mystery versus how the Eastern mind does. Whereas the Eastern mind accepts the mystery as a given, the Western mind wants to probe beyond and explain the mystery—to understand it. To western thinking it is extraordinarily difficult to set the matter to rest, to drop it and just let it be. To Zen, a “nose” is not a nose (the convention of N_O_S_E) but rather the tweak of the object that lies between the eyes. Zen wishes us to wake up and feel the tweak—to move beyond all conventions, abstractions and models—and savor life as it is rather than to describe or understand it. 

“If one reaches the point where understanding fails, this is not such a tragedy: it is simply a reminder to stop thinking and start looking. Perhaps there is nothing to figure out after all: perhaps we only need to wake up.” (Zen and the Birds of Appetite)

To Zen, even conventions such as “The Void,” “God” and “Self” are not to be understood but are rather to be experienced. Such a thrust moves us beyond holographic understandings, beyond ideas and beliefs systems—conventions about life—into the realm of life itself. Zen is about pie in the mouth, savored on the tongue instead of a perfect description of the pie that exists only in the holograms of our mind.

Perpetual Motion

Our daughter tried for a long time to build a perpetual motion machine from her Legos. She wasn’t the first to give this a shot, but as attractive as the idea seems, no one has succeeded. The physical law of Conservation of Energy states that energy can’t be created nor destroyed, only converted from one form into another. In that conversion, the generated energy must never fall below the energy used to keep the motion going.

I’ve often wondered about the fit between a perpetual energy machine and the way our minds function. The parallels are insightful and instructive in understanding the meditative process. We have a machine within us that manufactures products that are then converted into energy used to fuel the machine, which produces more products in a never-ending feedback loop. The machine in question is the self, which for illustration purposes, let’s call a “thinker.” This thinker manufactures the products of thought, and these thoughts are used/converted by the thinker-machine into energy, which sustains the self-thinker. In a pure sense, this process is a perpetual motion machine. The critical question is whether or not the energy used is equal to the power generated?

Taking this process apart can be quite educational in guiding the meditation practice. What happens on the cushion? It goes like this: We sit down and turn on the machine. It begins to think. 

Actually, the machine is already on (it’s always running), but we just become aware when we sit down. Because we are mindful, we notice the object/thoughts. Because we have given our self, the instructions: (1) when we notice these object/thoughts, we neither cling to nor resist (forms of attachment), but (2) will instead concentrate on the breath. This works for a while, and then (3) the machine starts up once again. We repeat steps 1 thru 3, and then the cycle continues over and over. 

Some times we have a hard time even getting to the first step but instead are caught up in the pre-step #1 conversation because we are not sufficiently mindful to even notice the conversation. Other times we are mindful but not sufficiently concentrated. Yet other times, we can stay within the boundaries of steps 1 and 2 and rarer, yet the machine just stops with no more object/thoughts being manufactured. When that happens, the thinker goes on vacation, and we enter samadhi.

This machine operates according to a set of dynamic “instructions” within the five skandhas framework, which is worth considering. The first of the five is “form”: The physical/psychic/emotional capacities which constitute what sits on the cushion. The second is “feeling.” This includes sensations that our form feels with its functions. Accordingly, these feelings can be physical, mental, or emotional sensations. The third skandhas are “perceptions.” 

Ordinarily, we think of perception as being equivalent to sensing. It is hard to imagine sensing something which we don’t perceive (or vice versa). However, from a Skandhas point of view, perception includes a post-sensing aspect, which entails discrimination and judging; in other words, how we react to what we sense. We sense (become aware of) a particular object/thought, we vote on whether or not we like/don’t like the object/thought, and we move on to the fourth skandhas “will or volition,” where we choose how to react (cling or resist). 

And lastly, there is consciousness, what we could call mental state or mood. These dynamic instructions are operating continuously and are a critical aspect of what moves the “machine.”

It is not a given that these causal links must continue automatically in an unbroken fashion. In fact, the Heart Sutra tells us that these five are empty, which means that they don’t have a life of their own. They are causally linked, and they can be interdicted through mindfulness and redirected concentration. 

For example, a sensation in the knee is not pain. “Pain” is the result of the post-sensing aspect of discrimination, judging, and labeling. The feeling is just a sensation that we perceive, judge, label, choose how to respond, which then generates a mood. This entire chain of causal links occurs at lightning speed—so fast that it seems like a single thing, but it is not. 

When we sit and observe, we can see the separate links happening and realize that we don’t have to go along for the automatic trip. Try it the next time you sit. Observe the process and see if you can make a different choice. For example, if your knee is hurting, try to just stay with the sensation without turning it into a vote of “pain.” Just focus on the pure sensation and choose to not move. If you can cut the chain at this juncture, the remaining links will not materialize because they depend upon what occurs before their turn. For example, without the judgment of “pain,” there won’t be the next step of volition and without volition, no ensuing “mood.”

What this mindful/awareness/choice teaches us is that we can choose to alter our karma. We don’t have to accept our automatic instructions and the resulting karma that flows from our perpetual motion machines. Either we will run the engine, or it will ruin us.