Quantcast
Channel: Shambhala Times Community News Magazine
Viewing all 1777 articles
Browse latest View live

Introducing Odessa Rose

$
0
0

Lipton Robbins Family 4Scott Robbins and Sarah Lipton are thoroughly delighted to introduce their beautiful baby girl to the Shambhala world. Odessa Rose Lipton Robbins was born on February 5th, 2015 after a beautiful labor and birth at home. She is a big girl, weighing in at 9 lbs, 9 oz and 21 3/4 inches. The birth was declared “perfect” by the midwives present, and the new family are luxuriating in each other’s health, joy, love and presence. 

As Sarah says, “Some of you may remember the pink laundry episode…others may know that the pipes burst in my basement the morning before I went into labor. Both heralded the arrival of our new daughter! And we could not be happier with our great good fortune! I felt incredible strength and love streaming from the support of our international sangha as I brought Odessa into the world. Deepest heartfelt gratitude to you all, and we can’t wait for you and Odessa to meet.”
smile day 6
Lipton Robbins Family 1


Ir más allá de la lengua de utilidad económica

$
0
0

IR MÁS ALLÁ DE LA LENGUA DE UTILIDAD ECONÓMICA

Por Gabriel Dayley

(Traducido del inglés por Daniel M. Dayley, traductor principal,
en colaboración con Soledad Mora Vasquez y Priscila Garcia.)

Normal
0

false
false
false

EN-US
JA
X-NONE

/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:”Table Normal”;
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:””;
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:”Times New Roman”;}

En una tarde de primavera en el sur de California, con demasiado trabajo escolar y un reloj poco cooperador agotando el calor del día, miré fuera de mi ventana y encontré el cielo teñido con los colores de una puesta de sol. Cautivado por su belleza y magia, me preguntaba si debería tomar un descanso de escribir mi tesis de grado para mirarla. Mientras que el cielo cambiaba de color amarillo-anaranjado a rojizo-rosa, mis pensamientos se dirigían a un análisis de costo-beneficio: “¿Vale la pena ir afuera y observar? Un descanso interrumpiría mi progreso en este momento. Por otro lado, refrescarme podría aumentar mi productividad durante la siguiente media hora antes de la cena “. Para entonces, por supuesto, el cielo se había desvanecido en color morado oscuro, el sol deslizándose sobre el horizonte.

 

Ilustración por Alicia Brown Ilustración por Alicia Brown

 

Normal
0

false
false
false

EN-US
JA
X-NONE

/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:”Table Normal”;
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:””;
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:”Times New Roman”;}

Como estudiante universitario con exceso de trabajo, la evaluación de las acciones en términos de productividad era común. Incluso ahora, varios años después de que La Microeconomía ofreciese inicialmente un potente lenguaje para describir la toma de decisiones humanas, la utilidad marginal sigue siendo una forma conveniente, hasta incluso un poco forzada, para entender mis decisiones cotidianas. De hecho, desde su creación, el campo de la economía le ha ofrecido a la sociedad métodos cada vez más técnicos para analizar los costos y beneficios de los cursos de acción individuales y colectivos. Tan venerado es el estudio de la economía en la sociedad moderna que la lente de la disciplina, para ver y entender el mundo, prolifera mucho más allá del ámbito de los negocios o de la propia economía. Sin embargo, esta reverencia viene “a costa” de una experiencia más rica de nuestro mundo y de un sentido más profundo de nuestra relación con él.

El problema no es sólo que de vez en cuando utilizamos la lógica económica para informar las decisiones tales como si se debe ver la puesta de sol, sino también que tal lógica constriñe nuestro discurso público. Para ser vistos como legítimos, los argumentos a favor o en contra de temas controvertidos deben incorporar el razonamiento económico. Si bien es útil, el predominio de la lógica económica obstaculiza en última instancia nuestra capacidad para considerar cuestiones importantes desde perspectivas éticas, emocionales y espirituales que podrían proporcionar puntos de referencia alternativos y ampliar el alcance de la conversación.

El discurso público sobre temas ambientales sufre especialmente de esta forma de pensar; el debate sobre la fracturación hidráulica, o “fracking”, es un buen ejemplo. Los argumentos a favor del fracking para extraer gas natural de depósitos de esquisto se basan, como era de esperar, en el razonamiento de la economía política: la extracción de gas de esquisto nacional estadounidense apoya la independencia energética de EEUU, lo que crea puestos de trabajo en el país, aumenta los ingresos fiscales de la producción de energía, y reduce nuestra dependencia energética del exterior. Para reforzar estos argumentos económicos con un semblante de preocupación ambiental, los defensores del fracking señalan que el gas natural es “más limpio” que el petróleo o el carbón, y que emite menos dióxido de carbono a la atmósfera por unidad de energía quemada.

“Es verdad”, el ambientalista podría responder, “pero, el gas natural es aún más sucio que las formas existentes de energía renovable”.[1] Incluso esta réplica es problemática, según el filósofo y activista Charles Eisenstein: “Enfocarse en las emisiones de gases de efecto invernadero hace hincapié en lo cuantificable, al mismo tiempo que hace que lo cualitativo sea … invisible,” escribe. “El ecologismo se reduce a un juego de números,” en lugar de una expresión de profunda conexión emocional con la tierra.[2] No importa lo terrible que sea la realidad que reflejan, los puntos de datos climáticos se han demostrado consistentemente insuficientes como para producir cambios significativos en el sentimiento y el comportamiento humanos.

La ubicuidad de lo “cuantificable” se refleja en el enfoque en las externalidades económicas de la industria por parte de los opositores del fracking. Destacando los efectos nocivos del fracking en la disponibilidad de agua, en la calidad de agua y aire, y en la actividad sísmica, los opositores argumentan que los costos sociales y ambientales externalizados de la extracción de gas de esquisto son demasiado grandes como para justificar su continuación.

Estos son puntos válidos que deberían examinarse cuidadosamente antes de que se perforen pozos nuevos, en lugar de ser ignorados sospechosamente como lo ha hecho la Agencia de Protección Ambiental (EPA, por sus siglas en inglés).[3] Sin embargo, todos ellos llevan consigo una presuposición implícita: si el fracturamiento hidráulico pudiera ser diseñado para evitar cualquier riesgo de contaminación de aire y agua, para minimizar el consumo de agua (por ejemplo, mediante el reciclaje de agua de fracturamiento), y para contener la actividad sísmica a las zonas remotas, a continuación, los opositores ambientalistas debieran aceptar el continuo crecimiento del mercado de gas de esquisto. En otras palabras, la validez de los argumentos de los opositores depende de los daños ambientales mensurables a corto plazo que pueden o no pueden ser una consecuencia necesaria del fracking.

Que el debate sobre el fracking gire alrededor de los beneficios económicos frente a los riesgos ambientales (es decir, las externalidades)—ambos de los cuales caen dentro del ámbito estrecho del razonamiento económico—es indicativo de los tipos de argumentos que la sociedad tecnocrática moderna legitima. Los argumentos a favor de la protección del medio ambiente, tales como los enunciados anteriormente, señala Eisenstein, “son problemáticos porque afirman el mismo supuesto que debemos cuestionar, el supuesto de que las decisiones en general deben realizarse de acuerdo con los cálculos económicos”.[4] Liberándonos de esta restricción, podríamos cuestionar las culturas del crecimiento económico, de la extracción de recursos y de la explotación que el fracturamiento hidráulico encarna y perpetúa. Ahora que no estamos constreñidos por los estudios empíricos sobre el peligro de contaminación del agua de fracturamiento, podemos en cambio razonar que, independientemente de las consideraciones económicas y ambientales cuantitativas, la fracturación hidráulica está equivocada en principio porque viola la sacralidad de la tierra.

Lo que significa ver la naturaleza como algo sagrado—o mantener una actitud sagrada, como algunas tradiciones espirituales lo describen—no se define fácilmente, y lo sagrado en sí tiene muchas cualidades. Una cualidad expresada por los ecologistas profundos es el valor innato del bienestar y el florecimiento de todo el mundo—humano y no-humano—”independiente de la utilidad del mundo no humano para fines humanos”.[5] La Declaración Universal de los Derechos de la Madre Tierra [6] y una serie de declaraciones de interdependencia [7] ponen de relieve la interdependencia de los seres vivos y la vitalidad o la calidad viva de las entidades consideradas muy pocas veces como organismos vivos—rocas, montañas, océanos, ecosistemas—como cualidades fundamentales del carácter sagrado de la tierra. La perspectiva sagrada promovida en estos documentos es de profundo respeto por el mundo natural como “precioso” y “maravilloso”.[8]

Estas palabras sugieren un fuerte sentimiento que subyace en el intelecto de estas teorías. Desde el punto de vista de la experiencia, la perspectiva sagrada connota un “sentido de maravilla y el aprecio por la belleza de la tierra”, lo que provoca en uno “un sentimiento profundo hacia nuestro entorno físico”.[9] Desde tal apreciación viene la gratitud por el sustento de la tierra, [10] por las “dotaciones otorgadas a nosotros” por la naturaleza.[11] Lo que es esencial en esta progresión parece ser un intercambio de invitación y regalo: al abrirnos a experimentar la maravilla del mundo natural, acogemos con agrado la comunicación con ese mundo y así recibimos “gnosis, una ciencia carnal prolífica, no un conocimiento intelectual”.[12] En este sentido, la experiencia de lo sagrado puede ser el fruto nacido del cultivo de una relación.

Las filosofías de la ecología profunda y el ecofeminismo se basan en esta intuición más profunda, o sabiduría, y sus argumentos a favor de la preciosa calidad viviente de la tierra y la interdependencia de la vida en esta, ofrecen una perspectiva muy necesaria. A veces, sin embargo, también corren el riesgo de sucumbir a la misma lengua utilitaria que denuncian.[13] En última instancia, una comprensión completa de lo sagrado de la tierra debe surgir de la experiencia sentida, la cual desafía la encapsulación por la mente racional. Aunque una perfecta comprensión exhaustiva de lo sagrado elude la palabra escrita, los indicios citados aquí ilustran el marcado contraste con la experiencia de la racionalidad económica, la cual, como en el ejemplo de la puesta de sol, sirve para constreñir nuestro “sentido de maravilla” del mundo. Esta afirmación no tendría mucha sustentación en el debate entre los políticos de la corriente principal, en particular los de los países económicamente ricos. Pese a ello, desde una perspectiva más amplia de lo que los cálculos económicos y factores de riesgo científicos permiten, la crítica de que el fracking viola la sacralidad fundamental de la tierra es tal vez la objeción más fuerte a la práctica.

De hecho, el nombre técnico completo “fracturación hidráulica” parece traicionar su violación de lo sagrado: inyectamos mezclas químicas tóxicas a alta presión de forma profunda en el suelo para “fracturar” la roca subyacente y liberar el gas natural. La semejanza visual de las fisuras en el esquisto con una fractura ósea es notable. A diferencia de otras formas de producción que trabajan con la maleabilidad natural del mundo fenoménico (el arar de la tierra, por ejemplo), el fracking encarna la maquinaria de extracción de la civilización moderna que literalmente rompe la tierra en su intento de dominar y controlar la naturaleza. Que la fracturación hidráulica involucre inherentemente características de dominación y control indica una violación fundamental de lo sagrado y una conexión a los sistemas de patriarcado. Las objeciones al fracking por estos motivos son en última instancia más poderosas que las objeciones que se basan únicamente en la lista de los riesgos ambientales, los cuales, en el mejor de los casos, son factores condicionales que dependen de las variables en el proceso de fracturamiento hidráulico. La primera es una crítica basada en principios, mientras que la segunda cuestiona únicamente la metodología [14]; aquella reconoce y afirma nuestra interconexión con la tierra, mientras que la última mantiene la ilusión de la separación.

 

Ilustración por Alicia Brown Ilustración por Alicia Brown

 

Normal
0

false
false
false

EN-US
JA
X-NONE

/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:”Table Normal”;
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:””;
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:”Times New Roman”;}

Y sin embargo, tales argumentos no entran en el debate. Una de las dificultades para incluir la perspectiva sagrada en las discusiones sobre las prácticas industriales como la fracturación hidráulica es que lo sagrado no se puede articular intelectualmente de la misma manera de que sí se puede la utilidad económica. Debe haber una conexión emocional sentida con la tierra, lo que es problemático en una cultura científica que deslegitima la sabiduría de la experiencia subjetiva. “El sentido de la naturaleza como algo sagrado”, sin embargo, apoya “los sentimientos de cariño y cercanía al medio ambiente”, un motivador más poderoso para cultivar una relación sana con la tierra y con los demás que los meros números de la ciencia del medio ambiente.[15]

Se podría argumentar que, a los opositores del fracking que recurren a las externalidades económicas como la contaminación del agua, sí les importan profundamente los efectos nocivos de la industria, y simplemente utilizan áridas estadísticas empíricas para hacer sus argumentos dentro de un sistema hostil a otros modos de razonamiento. Dentro de este marco de pensamiento, los ductos más seguros de los pozos resolverían el problema. La dificultad, sin embargo, es que tales argumentos son superficiales y antropocéntricos; los ductos más seguros podrían reducir el riesgo de contaminación del agua para el consumo humano. Pero, esta lente puramente económica ofusca los efectos más profundos e invisibles de una cultura de dominación y extracción de recursos sobre la psique humana y sobre la tierra misma.

Si bien la economía convencional proporciona una lente útil para el debate, hay que reconocer sus limitaciones y explorar otros métodos para la evaluación de las preguntas difíciles de nuestro tiempo. Un razonamiento económico cuantitativo no puede ser la única forma de análisis legítimo, para que no sucumbamos a la observación de Max Weber en La ciencia como vocación: “El destino de nuestra época se caracteriza por la racionalización y por la intelectualización y, sobre todo, por el ‘desencanto del mundo.'”[16] Tal vez en el redescubrimiento de lo sagrado del mundo fenoménico—al saborear una puesta de sol con asombro y gratitud—podemos reavivar el encanto que los análisis excesivamente técnicos han oscurecido. 


 

Notas

[1] De hecho, la “verdad” de la afirmación de que el gas natural es un combustible más limpio es altamente sospechosa. El gas natural se quema de manera más limpia que el petróleo o el carbón, emitiendo un 30% menos de CO2 que el petróleo combustible, y un 45% menos de CO2 que la producción de electricidad de Estados Unidos producida de diversos combustibles fósiles (http://www.natfuel.com/natural_gas_environment.aspx ). Sin embargo, un controvertido estudio de 2011 en la Universidad de Cornell argumentó que el gas natural tiene mucho peores resultados en términos de limpieza cuando se contabilicen las emisiones de metano no intencionadas, producidas de los pozos de fracking (http://www.eeb.cornell.edu/howarth/web/Marcellus.html ). El metano es un gas de efecto invernadero veinte veces más poderoso que el dióxido de carbono (http://epa.gov/climatechange/ghgemissions/gases/ch4.html ).

[2] Charles Eisenstein, The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know Is Possible [El mundo más hermoso que nuestros corazones saben que es posible] (Berkeley: North Atlantic Books, 2013), 48

[3] Véase: Mark Drajem, “Pennsylvania Residents Ask EPA to Reopen Fracking Probe,” [“Los residentes de Pennsylvania piden que el EPA reabra la investigación del fracking,”] Bloomberg, 13 de Agosto de 2013, http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2013-08-13/pennsylvania-residents-ask-epa-to-reopen-fracking-probe.html ; “La EPA detuvo el caso ‘fracking’ después de que la compañía de gas protestó:” USA Today, 16 de enero de 2013, http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2013/01/16/epa-gas-company-protested / 1839857 / ; y Abrahm Lustgarten, “El estudio abandonado de la EPA del fracking en Wyoming es un retiro de muchos,” ProPublica 3 de julio de 2013, http://www.propublica.org/article/epas-abandoned-wyoming-fracking-study-one-retreat-of-many .

[4] Eisenstein, The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know Is Possible [El mundo más hermoso que nuestros corazones saben que es posible], 23.

[5] Robert Sessions, “Deep Ecology versus Ecofeminism: Healthy Differences or Incompatible Philosophies?” [“Ecología profunda versus ecofeminismo: ¿Diferencias saludables o filosofías incompatibles ?”], Hipatia 6, no.1 (1991): 91.

[6] “Declaración Universal de los Derechos de la Madre Tierra”, Conferencia de la Gente del Mundo sobre el Cambio Climático y los Derechos de la Madre Tierra, Cochabamba, Bolivia, el 22 de abril del 2010, la Alianza Global para los Derechos de la Naturaleza, http://therightsofnature.org/universal-declaration/ .

[7] Véase, por ejemplo,“The Declaration of Interdependence,” [“La Declaración de Interdependencia”], The New Founding Family [La nueva familia fundadora], http://thefoundingfamily.com/declaration-interdependence/ ; y “The Declaration of Interdependence,” [“Declaración de Interdependencia”], Fundación David Suzuki, http://www.davidsuzuki.org/about/declaration/

[8] “The Declaration of Interdependence,” [“La Declaración de Interdependencia,”] The New Founding Family [La nueva familia fundadora], http://thefoundingfamily.com/declaration-interdependence/

[9] El Karmapa, Ogyen Trinley Dorje, The Heart is Noble: Changing the World from the Inside Out [El corazón es noble: Cambiando el mundo desde el interior hacia afuera], (Boston: Shambhala Publications, Inc., 2013), 88.

[10] El Karmapa, The Heart is Noble [El corazón es noble], 88.

[11] Lewis Hyde, The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World [El regalo: La creatividad y el artista en el mundo moderno], (Nueva York: Vintage Books, 2007), 49.

[12] Hyde, The Gift [El regalo], 226.

[13] Las ecofeministas hacen esa crítica precisa de la ecología profunda. Ver Sessions, “Deep Ecology versus Ecofeminism” [“Ecología profunda versus ecofeminismo”], 96.

[14] Por ejemplo, un artículo del Wall Street Journal de 2012 señaló: “Un número cada vez mayor de expertos académicos, ambientales y de la industria dicen que si bien la perforación puede causar la contaminación del agua, ésta se puede evitar mediante el uso apropiado de las juntas de cemento y otras medidas de seguridad. “(Daniel Gilbert y Russell Gold, “EPA Backpedals on Fracking Contamination, [“La EPA se retracta sobre la Contaminación del Fracking”], Wall Street Journal, 1 de abril del 2012, http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424052702303404704577313741463447670 .)

[15] El Karmapa, The Heart is Noble [El corazón es noble], 91.

[16] De H.H. Gerth y C. Wright Mills (Traducido y editado), From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology [De Max Weber: Ensayos de sociología], pp.129-156, Nueva York: Oxford University Press, 1946.

Donate

Gabe Dayley es co-fundador y editor de la revista The Arrow. Él está persiguiendo los estudios de posgrado en la paz internacional y la resolución de conflictos en la Escuela de Servicio Internacional (School of International Service, SIS), American University en Washington, D.C.

From: The Arrow

Visiones de las sociedades iluminadas

$
0
0

Visiones de las Sociedades iluminadas

Por Michaele L. Ferguson

(Traducido del inglés por Daniel M. Dayley, traductor principal,
en colaboración con Soledad Mora Vasquez y Priscila Garcia.)

“No hay escondrijo. No hay ningún lugar adonde puedas ir y sólo estar con personas como tú. Se acabó. Déjalo pasar.” —Bernice Johnson Reagon[1]

Los tres ensayos en el primer número de The Arrow ilustran el reto de articular una sola visión de “sociedad, cultura y política despierta”. Es decir, sus tres autores—todos eruditos y practicantes de la misma tradición contemplativa: Shambhala—no concuerdan exactamente sobre cómo debe ser tal visión. Tome en cuenta que Richard Reoch ofrece una evaluación relativamente optimista del mundo actual, encontrando en el ambientalismo contemporáneo “un fresco aliento del espíritu humano, y un despertar de la terrible historia que hemos vivido,” mientras que Adam Lobel parece ser más pesimista, encontrando en el mundo actual una aceleración y una compresión del tiempo que genera un aumento del estrés y un deterioro del bienestar. O también tome en cuenta que Holly Gayley se centra particularmente en la visión de Shambhala, de cómo la práctica individual se relaciona con el cambio social a diferencia de la visión más amplia de Lobel sobre la variedad de las prácticas contemplativas que pueden funcionar todas, como fuentes de transformación individual y social. En comparación con estos dos autores, Reoch toma un punto de vista aún más amplio sobre el cambio social, en el que identifica a aliados, desde economistas a activistas indígenas, que comparten su creencia de que necesitamos un cambio cultural sobre cómo nos relacionamos con el medio ambiente, sin preocuparse de si su creencia compartida se basa en cualquier tradición o práctica contemplativa.

A pesar de que provienen de la misma tradición espiritual, cada uno de estos autores aporta una voz distinta a la conversación acerca de la sociedad, cultura y política despierta. Interpretados juntos, estos tres ensayos expresan la calidad de la condición humana, a la cual la teórica política Hannah Arendt llama “la pluralidad”: “somos todos iguales, es decir, humanos, de tal manera que nadie es nunca igual a cualquier otra persona que haya vivido, viva, o vaya a vivir”.[2] Los humanos se parecen en que son diferentes el uno del otro. Y puesto que ésta es una cualidad básica—o en las palabras de Arendt, una condición—de la existencia humana, incluso las personas dentro de la misma cultura, tradición, o comunidad verán las cosas de manera distinta. Puede ser que cada uno de nosotros esté convencido de que sabemos exactamente cómo nuestras propias prácticas contemplativas se relacionan con el cambio social y político. Sin embargo, una vez que empecemos a hablar sobre estos asuntos, vamos a descubrir que no siempre estamos de acuerdo, incluso y especialmente con nuestros compañeros en la práctica contemplativa. Como humanos plurales, inevitablemente nos diferiremos el uno del otro, y estaremos en desacuerdo mutuo sobre la sociedad, cultura y política.

El reto que plantea la pluralidad a los practicantes contemplativos fue ilustrado con gran hilaridad en un episodio de Portlandia.[3] En una parodia titulada “Meditation Crush,” (Enamoramiento pasajero durante una meditación) una mujer pasa todo el día sentada en su cojín en un retrato vipassana convencida de que el hombre que está mirándola fijamente desde el otro lado de la sala, está sintiendo la misma conexión eléctrica que ella. Ella fantasea en que luego de la meditación, comenzarán una intensa aventura amorosa, convencida de que él, también está pensando en la misma fantasía. Pero, cuando termina la sesión de meditación, el hombre no se dirige hacia ella, sino al instructor, con quien se queja de las instrucciones gritando en voz alta y con un molesto tono nasal. El encantamiento se rompe inmediatamente: este imbécil no tiene nada que ver con el alma gemela sexy que ella había imaginado, y se sale indignada. 

Es demasiado fácil convencernos de una versión de esta fantasía en el aislamiento de la práctica individual. Todos aquellos que meditan llegarán a ser una mejor persona, al igual que yo estoy convirtiéndome en una mejor persona. Todo aquél que anda por el mismo camino espiritual que yo, estará de acuerdo conmigo—sobre la política presidencial, sobre el control de las armas, sobre la conservación del agua—¡sólo por mencionar algunos! La meditación va a convertir al mundo en un lugar mejor. Si tan solo el Senado abriera cada día con una sesión de meditación sentada de diez minutos—¡imagínate cuánto progreso podríamos hacer como país! Pero al instante que nos levantamos del cojín y comenzamos a hablar con nuestros compañeros de meditación, la fantasía se rompe y nos damos cuenta de que las cosas son mucho más complicadas de lo que habíamos pensado.

A medida de que comenzamos la conversación en The Arrow, podríamos empezar con la esperanza de que todos nosotros lleguemos a un acuerdo unos con otros. Quizás descubramos alguna relación de causalidad entre la contemplación y las sociedades más saludables, al igual que los científicos han empezado a descubrir relaciones de causalidad entre la contemplación y los cuerpos y mentes más saludables. Tal vez descubramos un plano claro para el cambio social y político, derivado de las prácticas de la contemplación: sabremos cómo deben ser nuestras estrategias, políticas, e instituciones, y lo único que nos quedará por hacer será sencillamente llevar a cabo esta agenda. Tal vez descubramos que hay algo inherente en la contemplación que produce cambios en la vida de un individuo, que necesariamente se traduce en cambios de la sociedad: una tolerancia con la ambigüedad, paciencia, y buena voluntad para escuchar, o un desprendimiento del “ego”. Podemos empezar este viaje con la esperanza de que lo que descubriremos, es una subyacente verdad social, cultural y política que surge de una variedad de tradiciones contemplativas—budista, hindú, cristiana, musulmana, judaica, secular—e incluso tal vez surge de la mera acción de la contemplación en sí misma, deslindada de cualquier tradición en particular.

O, podríamos comenzar esta conversación con una orientación diferente—una orientación caracterizada por la curiosidad y por la humildad: así de simple, no sabemos a dónde vaya a ir esta conversación. No sabemos si podríamos descubrir una conexión causal entre la contemplación y el cambio social. No sabemos que la contemplación—independientemente de cómo se practique, o de si se basa en una tradición espiritual o religiosa—siempre genere, en todo los casos, los mismos resultados sociales y políticos (de hecho, una gran parte de la historia humana nos muestra justo lo contrario: que las tradiciones contemplativas son compatibles con, e incluso han sido utilizadas para justificar la violencia, la opresión, el imperialismo y la guerra). Podemos entrar en esta conversación sin la expectativa de que produzca convergencia y acuerdo. En vez de tener como meta el acuerdo, podemos hacer que la práctica de conversación, en sí misma, sea nuestro objetivo: interactuar unos con otros ocupándonos de nuestros desacuerdos y divergencias, tanto como de nuestros acuerdos y convergencias, practicando la habilidad de comprometernos unos con otros como seres plurales.

En el resto de este ensayo, me gustaría presentar un argumento a favor de esta segunda orientación, aquella que ve nuestra conversación sobre sociedad, cultura, y política despierta, como una que está condicionada por nuestra pluralidad humana. Me imagino que al explorar los asuntos sobre el cambio social y político, tendremos que lidiar con nuestros desacuerdos y diferencias una y otra vez por dos motivos. Primero, el tipo de cambio que es el tema de esta conversación no es individual, sino colectivo; requiere la interacción y colaboración entre personas, las cuales inevitablemente revelarán nuestras diferencias. Segundo, los tipos de preguntas que hacemos aquí son muy distintas, digamos, de aquellas planteadas por los neurocientíficos o por los psicólogos que observan los efectos causales de la práctica contemplativa sobre los cerebros y sobre los cuerpos. Estamos haciendo preguntas sobre qué tipo de sociedad, cultura y política deberíamos practicar juntos—y éstas son preguntas, mismas que argumentaré a continuación, que no disponen de una sola respuesta correcta. Y eso inevitablemente, sacará a relucir nuestros desacuerdos.

La sociedad despierta requiere cambio colectivo

Es fácil imaginar cómo una práctica de meditación de una persona podría tener efectos beneficiosos en sus relaciones personales. Puede que la meditación la ayude a crear el espacio para responder de manera generosa en un conflicto, en vez de reaccionar desde una mentalidad de pobreza. Puede que la ayude a tener más conciencia de patrones de pensamiento recurrentes cuando surjan, dándole la opción de consentir esos patrones o de intentar comportarse de algún otro modo quizás más sano. Puede que la ayude a cultivar más empatía por, y más comprensión del sufrimiento de los demás. Y puede que la ayude a escuchar completamente a los otros durante una conversación—a estar más entrenada en soltar su propio monólogo interior mientras alguien más está hablando. 

Pero, según ambos señalan, Gayley y Lobel, es mucho más difícil imaginar cómo estos cambios en las interacciones personales de un individuo podrían contribuir a un cambio cultural más amplio, o provocar un cambio social y político a mayor escala. ¿Cuántas personas tienen que estar meditando para hacer que la sociedad cambie? ¿Qué ocurre si todos nosotros no estamos utilizando la misma técnica de meditación (por ej., algunos de nosotros buscamos la trascendencia, otros buscan la atención plena, y otros buscan el alivio del estrés)? ¿Podremos cambiar el mundo de todas formas? ¿Qué ocurre si todos nosotros no aplicamos las lecciones derivadas de nuestra práctica de la misma manera?

Los tres autores están aproximadamente de acuerdo en la naturaleza de la sociedad: los individuos crean una sociedad a través de sus interacciones recíprocas, mediante sus prácticas. Como Gayley señala, “la sociedad está creada mutua y sucesivamente como una serie dinámica de interacciones”. Hay un riesgo en tomar un punto de vista demasiado simplificado sobre la sociedad, por suponer que esta misma es sólo una conglomeración creada mutuamente por todas nuestras interacciones. La sociedad, como Lobel nos recuerda, también está compuesta de estructuras—de instituciones, normas, y prácticas—las cuales restringen los tipos posibles de interacciones. Por ejemplo, es importante cómo interactúan dos personas en un matrimonio si su matrimonio ocurre en una sociedad con normas de desigualdad de género, o con reconocimiento jurídico de las parejas del mismo sexo, o con ceremonias nupciales elaboradas y caras. Es posible que podamos crear mutuamente una relación con nuestro esposo, y esta relación se pueda mejorar por la práctica contemplativa; sin embargo, ¿es suficiente una práctica contemplativa como para provocar un cambio estructural?

El peligro de decir que las decisiones individuales se convertirán en un cambio social más amplio es muy evidente cuando consideramos el caso de la degradación medioambiental y el cambio climático. Es posible que mis decisiones individuales tengan poco impacto en toda nuestra amplísima cultura de consumismo. De hecho, una gran parte de la “acción” ambiental a mi disposición en lo individual, es realmente sólo una forma de consumismo más verde: puedo comprar un coche híbrido, o puedo comer solamente alimentos orgánicos y no transgénicos, o, puedo instalar paneles solares, etc. Puede que estos tipos de opciones hagan una diferencia en términos de mi huella ecológica como un individuo, pero en la mayor parte de los casos, dejarán en vigor las estructuras actuales que perpetúan la degradación medioambiental.

Parte del reto de “pensando localmente, pensando globalmente” es la manera en que yo, como individuo, estoy implicado en las prácticas de la degradación ambiental. Estas prácticas se extienden mucho más allá de lo que puedo darme cuenta razonablemente como un consumidor, y mucho más allá de mi capacidad de hacer un cambio. Puedo comprar un coche híbrido y disminuir mi consumo personal de los combustibles fósiles. Y tal vez, si un número suficiente de nosotros compramos coches híbridos, este puede tener un impacto real y agregado en la demanda del petróleo. Pero esto deja en vigor la cantidad inmensa de infraestructura en EEUU, que está dedicada a la cultura automovilística. De hecho, es posible que el tener un coche híbrido me ayude a justificar la compra de una casa en los suburbios, o votar en contra de la alza de impuestos que pudieran aumentar el transporte público, mientras mantengo una barrera literal entre el resto de la comunidad y yo en mi trayecto diario al trabajo. Es posible que yo hubiera hecho un cambio en lo individual, pero el impacto en la sociedad en general es mínimo.

En otras palabras, el problema teórico enfrentado por algunos de nosotros que buscamos una manera para conceptualizar un vínculo entre lo personal y lo político, entre el cojín de meditación y la sociedad despierta, también es un problema práctico para el ambientalismo: ¿qué tipo de acción puedo tomar como individuo, la cual posiblemente pudiera ser adecuada para abordar los problemas a los que nos enfrentamos?

La solución, según alude el ensayo de Reoch, debe ser una acción colectiva. Para mi es insuficiente hacer cambios así en lo individual, no importando si los hago por medio de mi práctica de meditación, o por medio de mis hábitos de consumo. Yo debería trabajar junto con los demás para generar un cambio social, cultural y político, y para imaginar y promulgar nuevas prácticas. Y en particular, tengo que trabajar junto con los demás para generar un cambio en algunas de las estructuras de poder más intransigentes que impiden la modificación del rumbo en los asuntos como las emisiones de carbono y el cambio climático: aquellas estructuras que están incorporadas en gobiernos, partidos políticos y sus miembros, y en las corporaciones. Como un individuo que actúa solo, no es posible que pueda esperar a hacer un cambio a gran escala. Tenemos que actuar juntos y con los demás, y cuando nos organizamos de forma colectiva para generar un cambio, nuestra pluralidad humana pasará a primer plano. Tendremos que enfrentar las diferencias de opinión sobre lo que se debe hacer y sobre la estrategia a tomar.

No existe una sola vía hacia la sociedad despierta

Estos tres ensayos nos muestran que un camino importante en el que la orientación contemplativa pueda contribuir al cambio, es que tiene una tremenda capacidad para generar crítica. Las prácticas contemplativas nos ofrecen una manera de estar en el mundo moderno, lo cual no concuerda con nuestra cultura contemporánea. Incluso Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, quien intentó reconciliar la modernidad secular con la práctica espiritual tradicional, se dio cuenta de que él estaba preparando a sus estudiantes de manera contracorriente. Para sacar ideas del filósofo Alasdair MacIntyre, podríamos pensar en las prácticas contemplativas como si estuvieran cultivando “hábitos de la mente que nos mal adaptarían al mundo contemporáneo”.[4] Esta inadaptación de la práctica contemplativa para la época contemporánea es lo que permite la crítica. Lobel demuestra cómo la atención plena contribuye a una crítica de la temporalidad acelerada de nuestra era tecnológica. Reoch muestra cómo esta contribuye a una crítica del consumismo y el materialismo; y Gayley, muestra cómo la misma contribuye a una crítica de las opciones que ayudan a provocar una “sociedad degradada”. Los autores convergen en usar la falta de adaptación entre la contemplación y nuestro mundo contemporáneo como un modo de identificar y analizar los problemas a los que nos enfrentamos—y esto es muy poderoso.

Sin embargo, me atrevería a decir que las prácticas contemplativas no pueden generar una única visión positiva sobre cómo nuestro mundo contemporáneo debería transformarse. Es así porque las preguntas sobre qué “debería ser” son cuestiones políticas.[5] Cuando digo que son cuestiones políticas, no quiero decir que son cuestiones de política que deban decidirse por políticos. Más bien, tengo la intención de dibujar un contraste aquí con cuestiones que podemos considerar como cuestiones científicas o matemáticas: cuestiones que tienen una única solución correcta que puede verificarse, tales como “¿cuál es la suma de 6 más 7?” o “¿cuál es el efecto de la meditación en el cerebro?” Más bien, las cuestiones políticas son cuestiones que no disponen de una respuesta correcta objetiva. Preguntas como “¿es injusta la desigualdad de la riqueza?” o, “¿tenemos la obligación de acoger a los refugiados que provienen de las regiones inhabitables del mundo debido al aumento del nivel del mar?”, sencillamente no tienen una respuesta única correcta. Incluso cuando estoy convencida de que tengo razón sobre mi respuesta a tal pregunta, no puedo simplemente señalar “las matemáticas” para demostrarles a los demás que tengo razón y obligarlos a estar de acuerdo. Al contrario, tengo que meterme en el lioso trabajo de intentar persuadir a los demás para que compartan mi punto de vista, y puede que dicho trabajo yo lo encuentre difícil, frustrante o incluso imposible de realizar. Nuestras soluciones a las “cuestiones políticas” deberán ser debatidas entre una pluralidad de personas que verán las cosas de manera bastante diferente, y que no necesariamente serán persuadidas para estar de acuerdo.

Mientras The Arrow da lugar a una nueva conversación—entre la comunidad de Shambhala, y entre los practicantes y eruditos de diversas prácticas contemplativas, y entre los activistas y eruditos comprometidos al cambio social y político—es importante no olvidar esta cualidad humana de pluralidad. Cuando presuponemos que todos nosotros queremos las mismas cosas—ya sea porque todos somos humanos, o porque todos somos meditadores, o porque todos somos ambientalistas—es probable que nos desilusionemos. Pero incluso cuando presuponemos que no todos nosotros queremos las mismas cosas, trabajar juntos con personas que se diferencian de nosotros y que no están de acuerdo con nosotros, no es fácil. Como músico feminista Bernice Johnson Reagon, describió de manera clásica cómo es trabajar junto con diversas mujeres: “Siento como si fuera a caer desmayada en cualquier instante y morir. A menudo esto es lo que se siente si tú verdaderamente estás haciendo la labor de coalición. La mayor parte del tiempo te sientes amenazado hasta el cuello y si no lo sientes así, no estás realizando verdaderamente la labor de coalición”.[6] La conversación que comenzamos aquí nos amenazará hasta el cuello; nos volcará de las sillas y desafiará nuestra práctica—y si no lo hace, no estamos teniendo una conversación de verdad.

La sociedad, según escribe el Sakyong, empieza con “sólo tú y yo”[7]—es decir, empieza con dos personas, con una pluralidad. No deberíamos esperar que nuestras interacciones generen una visión singular de sociedad, cultura y política despierta. La pregunta que se debe plantear mientras comenzamos esta conversación juntos no es: ¿qué visión de una sociedad iluminada aparece desde las prácticas y tradiciones de la atención plena? Sino, más bien: ¿qué visiones de las sociedades iluminadas aparecen? Y, ¿cómo vamos a afrontar el reto cuando estas visiones aparezcan?


Notas

[1] Bernice Johnson Reagon, “Coalition Politics: Turning the Century,” [“La política de coalición: cambiando el siglo”] en Home Girls: A Black Feminist Anthology [Vecinas: Una antología de una feminista negra], (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2000 [1983]), 344.

[2] Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition [La condición humana], (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1958), 8.

[3] The “Meditation Crush” skit [La parodia “Enamoramiento durante la meditación”]. Se puede ver aquí: http://www.hulu.com/watch/442586.

[4] MacIntyre, un filósofo contemporáneo inspirado por la ética de las virtudes de Aristóteles, no se refería aquí a la contemplación, sino al objetivo de una educación de las artes liberales. Alasdair MacIntyre, “Alasdair MacIntyre,” en Key Philosophers in Conversation: The Cogito Interviews, ed. Andrew Pyle [Filósofos claves en conversación: Las entrevistas cogito, ed. Andrew Pyle] (Routledge, 1999), 83.

[5] Este lenguaje de “cuestiones políticas” tomo de Arendt. En particular, vea su ensayo “Truth and Politics,” [“La verdad y la política”] en Between Past and Future: Eight Exercises in Political Thought [Entre el pasado y el futuro: Ocho ejercicios en el pensamiento político], (New York: Penguin, 1968).

[6] “Coalition Politics,” [“La política de coalición”], 343.

[7] Sakyong Mipham, The Shambhala Principle: Discovering Humanity’s Hidden Treasure [El principio Shambhala: descubriendo el tesoro escondido de la humanidad], (New York: Harmony Books, 2013), 85.

Donate

Michaele L. Ferguson is Associate Professor of Political Science and Faculty Associate in the Women and Gender Studies Program at the University of Colorado at Boulder.  She is the author of Sharing Democracy (Oxford University Press, 2012) and co-editor with Lori J. Marso of W Stands for Women:  How the George W. Bush Presidency Shaped a New Politics of Gender (Duke University Press, 2007), as well as articles in feminist and democratic theory.

From: The Arrow

Rituales de la vida urbana

$
0
0

 

RITUALES DE LA VIDA URBANA DEL TOKIO POST-CRECIMIENTO

Por Sam Holden

(Traducido del inglés por Daniel M. Dayley, traductor principal,
en colaboración con Soledad Mora Vasquez y Priscila Garcia.)

Recientemente, mientras reflexionaba acerca de cómo surgieron y evolucionaron los rituales de la vida del Tokio moderno junto con el crecimiento de la ciudad, y en lo que los rituales del Tokio post-crecimiento podrían convertirse, pasé una tarde deambulando por Shimokitazawa, un barrio al oeste de Tokio, que es popular por su sensación de encanto local. Desde el final de la guerra, el barrio ha evolucionado orgánicamente en un mosaico de bares de jazz y tranquilos cafés, tiendas llenas de telas exóticas y baratijas estrafalarias, y artesanos y residentes que tienen sus hogares en una desordenada red de callejones que emanan desde la encrucijada de dos líneas de tren.

 

Shimokitazawa | Fotografía por Sam Holden Shimokitazawa | Fotografía por Sam Holden

 

En una pequeña librería de libros usados ubicada en un segundo piso, tomé un libro de un estante lleno de títulos sobre memorias y ruinas. Mi Mapa de Tokio, escrito por Ineko Sata en 1949, es una elegía de la experiencia de la ciudad vivida por la autora, en la que narra los paseos por los barrios de su pasado; los tablones de madera sobre callejones de tierra bordeados por hileras de casas adosadas, el olor aceitoso de carne asada mientras flotaba a través de los terrenos de un templo tranquilo; así como los nombres y rostros de las personas que eran tan esenciales para la geografía de la ciudad, como los edificios y calles. Como el título lo indica, el libro es una crónica del Tokio que sólo ella conocía, un pequeño mundo de significado personal derivado de lugares locales y rituales que han desaparecido en su mayoría; mientras que terremotos, guerras y el desarrollo económico continuamente borraron y reescribieron Tokio durante el siglo XX. En una ciudad donde el edificio promedio es menor a 30 años de edad, la historia es a menudo difícil de encontrar físicamente; es más fácil de buscarla en páginas de libros viejos en Jimbocho, o en las tradiciones y artesanías transmitidas de generación en generación en Asakusa.

El Tokio moderno es un gran paisaje artificial que alberga a 35 millones de personas. Pero, prestando atención a los nombres de los lugares, podemos imaginar la red de pueblos que ocuparon la región en torno al antiguo Edo hace sólo 150 años: nombres bucólicos como Yanaka “en la valle”, Kayabacho “campos de paja”, Gotanda “cinco campos de arroz”, o Shimokitazawa “riachuelo norte-inferior”, son recordatorios de las características tan locales que definieron a las comunidades hace sólo unas pocas generaciones. Hoy en día, los nombres de los lugares son poco más que puntos de referencia para introducir en nuestros smartphones mientras navegamos bajo tierra a través de un paisaje que se ha vuelto cada vez más sin lugar, cubierto en todas partes con tiendas de conveniencia omnipresentes, estaciones de tren y edificios anodinos de concreto.[1]

 

Contorno de Tokyo | Fotografía por Sam Holden Contorno de Tokyo | Fotografía por Sam Holden

 

Aunque las ciudades han existido durante miles de años, las ciudades capitalistas de la era industrial surgieron junto con una forma de vida totalmente nueva; una innovación rápida en la tecnología de transportes y comunicación posibilitó que la gente, los productos y la información viajaran cada vez más ampliamente, lo que permitió economías de escala. Pero también, al mismo tiempo, todo esto convirtió a los individuos en engranajes intercambiables en un sistema de producción industrial. Las comunidades locales, cada una con su propia historia acumulada de rituales sociales, económicos y culturales, fueron subsumidas gradualmente en nuevos sistemas sociales y económicos de mayor tamaño. Surgió la necesidad, no sólo de concebir nuevos rituales de la vida cotidiana, sino también nuevas fuentes de identidad y de sentido de pertenencia, para complementar los lazos familiares y geográficos tradicionales que se encontraban en proceso de desintegración.

A medida que Tokio se recuperaba de la destrucción de la guerra a mediados del siglo XX, muchas personas encontraban este sentido en la búsqueda nacional compartida de la riqueza y en los objetos de la modernidad—representados más notablemente por los “tres elementos sagrados”: el refrigerador, el televisor y la lavadora. Una cultura que valoraba el trabajo duro y el sacrificio, también valoraba los rituales de legiones de asalariados que sufrían viajes diarios al trabajo en trenes inhumanamente atestados para pasar largas horas en trabajos monótonos. Mientras tanto, la ciudad físicamente se derramó hacia el exterior, a través de la llanura circundante, cubriendo los campos de arroz y las laderas con nuevas subdivisiones para una clase media que se esforzaba; y hacia arriba, cuando autopistas cubrieron los ríos, y barrios locales dieron paso a fachadas de oficinas sin rasgos, lo que ocasionó que todos los lugares tuvieran el mismo aspecto. En la era del alto crecimiento, hacerse rico era el objetivo, tanto para los individuos que anhelaban ir más allá de la privación de la derrota, como para una sociedad obsesionada con alcanzar a Occidente. La vida estaba mejorando tan rápidamente que los individuos y la sociedad tuvieron poco tiempo para preocuparse de que el proceso de crecimiento estuviera borrando gran parte de la historia de la ciudad y sus rituales. En todo caso, la homogeneización fue algo que agradecer, ya que significaba prosperidad compartida.

Sin embargo, a principios de 1970, mientras la sociedad salía de la olla a presión de la sociedad de alto crecimiento, los individuos ya no se contentaban con ser sólo los trabajadores intercambiables y consumidores pasivos de la cultura y de los mismos bienes producidos en masa, como los de sus vecinos. Un nuevo anhelo por un sentido de propósito dentro del individualismo comenzó a expresarse en los rituales y en la forma urbana de la ciudad.

Como fue documentado por el sociólogo Shunya Yoshimi en su libro Dramaturgy in the City: A Social History of Popular Entertainments in Tokyo [Dramaturgia en la ciudad: Una historia social de entretenimientos populares en Tokio], un urbanista emprendedor se aprovechó del cambio cultural hacia las sensibilidades más individualistas, y se dedicó a transformar el área alrededor de la concurrida Estación de Shibuya en un escenario participativo para la actuación de diversas subculturas del consumo y de la moda. Este esfuerzo tomó varias formas: la segmentación de tiendas en diversas y distintas sensibilidades, la designación de las diferentes calles y áreas con nombres que indicaban estilo y refinamiento, y la integración del espacio urbano con medios y mercadotecnia cada vez más sofisticados. Las decenas de revistas de estilo de vida se convirtieron en “guiones” que guiaban a “actores” individuales en sus diferentes papeles, mientras que “actuaban” la ciudad. Para los habitantes recién prósperos de la ciudad, el consumismo se convirtió en una potente fuente de propósito significativo y un medio de expresar la identidad individual, y para la propia ciudad, se convirtió en la sangre vital del espacio urbano que carecería de propósito significativo sin la renovación constante del consumo ritual.

Hoy en día Shibuya sigue siendo un bullicioso centro de compras y entretenimiento y los urbanistas siguen generando escenarios cada vez más refinados para el desempeño de la cultura de consumo. Pero, veinte años de estancamiento económico han dejado su huella en la juventud de Japón, para quien el consumismo no resulta tan atractivo como lo era para las generaciones anteriores.[2] De hecho, parece posible que la expresión individual y las subculturas que florecieron en Shibuya fueran tal vez sólo una estación intermedia en la desmaterialización de la idea de la felicidad. Durante el período de alto crecimiento económico, la buena vida trataba completamente de la consecución de los objetos de la comodidad material. Más tarde, los jóvenes de Shibuya descubrieron que la prosperidad podría permitirles comprar la identidad más inmaterial y la autoexpresión. No hay duda de que estos deseos siguen siendo poderosas fuerzas en la cultura de hoy. Pero, hay una sensación de que están disminuyendo a medida que más gente ve la llegada de la madurez demográfica y económica de Japón como una oportunidad para construir una sociedad centrada más bien en la comunidad, en la creatividad y en los estilos de vida menos competitivos.

 

Zoshigaya | Fotografía por Sam Holden Zoshigaya | Fotografía por Sam Holden

 

Lejos de los grupos de grúas en zonas de reurbanización de Tokio, zonas de la ciudad de post-crecimiento están empezando a mostrar esta sensibilidad. A menudo visito el barrio de Zoshigaya, donde me gusta sentarme en el recinto de un templo tranquilo y escuchar el susurro de las hojas de un enorme árbol de Ginko. El propietario de una cafetería tranquila en una renovada casa de madera de dos pisos me dice que los residentes llaman al barrio “Zoshigaya Village”. “Este es el campo de Tokio”, añade, “nunca se imaginaría que esté a tan sólo unos minutos de la calle de Ikebukuro”, una de las estaciones de tren más concurridas en el mundo. Efectivamente, el último de los tranvías de la pre-guerra de Tokio todavía retumba por fuera, y en un terreno baldío al lado de los carriles, la comunidad creó un pequeño huerto y erigió un pequeño espacio de descanso en una cabaña de madera, con una rueda de agua girando lentamente. En una ciudad en que decían que su tierra valía más que todos los Estados Unidos durante el frenesí de desarrollo de la burbuja de 1980, la deflación ha llevado a la economía de vuelta a la tierra, donde hay una vez más, espacio para que las personas puedan crear lugares locales.

Kengo Kuma, un arquitecto cuyo trabajo ha sido elogiado como una expresión moderna de la estética tradicional japonesa del localismo y sencillez,[3] ha escrito que el futuro de Tokio se encuentra en tejer juntos un mosaico de “pueblos” o “lugares donde las personas puedan vivir con seguridad dentro de una comunidad, con una variedad de opciones y estilos de vida”. Él usa la palabra fermentación para describir el proceso por el cual estos “pueblos” emergen—lo que sugiere que hay que darles tiempo y espacio para evolucionar orgánicamente. En la mayoría de los casos, el crecimiento y el desarrollo urbanos absorbían dichas comunidades locales, pero, como un globo que va perdiendo poco a poco el aire, el entorno urbano se va poniendo cada vez más arrugado y van resurgiendo espacios para la fermentación de nuevas aldeas.

La gente que he conocido en los últimos meses está aprovechándose de forma creativa de los edificios vacíos y subutilizados para crear casas de huéspedes, cafés, estudios de arte, casas para compartir, espacios de exposición, tiendas y restaurantes nuevos de la comunidad. Una organización está reformando decenas de apartamentos viejos en un suburbio de Tokio para crear una aldea entera de artistas, con varios eventos comunitarios y otros programas. 

 

Casa compartida | Fotografía por Sam Holden Casa compartida | Fotografía por Sam Holden

El auge de este tipo de esfuerzos en Tokio sugiere una nueva serie de rituales para la ciudad del post-crecimiento, que hace hincapié en una noción reconstruida de la ciudad como local, específica, y animada por algo más sustancial que la mera interacción con el mercado o el consumismo.

Una manifestación de esta nueva cultura es la casa compartida donde vivo con otras siete personas en el centro de Tokio. Casas como la mía han estado apareciendo en todo Tokio y Japón en los últimos cinco o seis años, a medida que las personas adoptan un conjunto de valores culturales centrados en la comunidad y en la felicidad individual, y no en la riqueza material. Encontré mi casa mediante la comunicación de boca en boca, pero ahora uno puede utilizar sitios web especiales para buscar en cientos de anuncios únicos, incluyendo algunos diseñados para madres solteras y sus hijos, o viviendas multi-generacionales de colaboración. Aunque pago menos de una cuarta parte del precio que pagaría por un apartamento apretado en nuestra ubicación privilegiada, la atracción de tal arreglo de alojamiento va más allá de la mera frugalidad. Al elegir a los nuevos residentes, mantenemos intencionalmente una diversidad de carreras (desde escritor independiente a activista político), de estilos de vida (desde vagabundo bohemio a asalariado ocupado) y de edades (de 19 a 60 en la actualidad). La casa es también un espacio semi-público que está constantemente animado por los no residentes que realizan sesiones de yoga y reuniones en nuestra sala de estar grande (una rareza en Tokio), y por conocidos itinerantes que se alojan sin pagar renta cuando pasan por Tokio.

El abierto código ético compartido de la casa compartida fue descrito en un libro de 2012 como sumibiraki, literalmente “estar abierto”, un estilo de vida que según los autores, creaba “una comunidad no arraigada en las relaciones monetarias, facilitando así una tercera conexión flexible más allá de las relaciones familiares, geográficas, o profesionales”. Vivir se convierte en un acto de placemaking (planeación o hacer espacios), en el que la interacción entre residentes y forasteros engendra simultáneamente una cultura de apertura y de intimidad. En los últimos seis meses, he conocido a miembros de otra media docena de casas compartidas en toda la ciudad que forman una red flexible de espacios que operan de acuerdo con semejante código ético. Tal vez algo simbólico de estos valores, es que nuestra puerta nunca está cerrada, y yo ni siquiera tengo una llave.

Mientras la textura arrugada de la ciudad del post-crecimiento aporta un ambiente propicio para la fermentación de una cultura arraigada en el des-consumismo (anti-consumismo) y el comunalismo, la necesidad perpetua del capitalismo para encontrar beneficio, requiere la racionalización constante y la reurbanización del espacio urbano [4]—muchas veces estropeando los rituales de lugares locales en el proceso. Shimokitazawa, el barrio de moda donde me encontré con el libro de Sata, es un ejemplo por excelencia de los tipos de comunidades aldeanas orgánicas que Kuma argumenta son el alma de la ciudad post-crecimiento. A pesar de la vehemente oposición de algunos residentes y clientes del barrio, el gobierno local está implementando un plan de desarrollo que incluye el soterramiento de una de las líneas ferroviarias entrecruzadas, la construcción de una carretera general a través del centro de la comunidad y la construcción de altos edificios de apartamentos alrededor de la estación. Los opositores argumentaron que el plan de carreteras fue redactado originalmente en la década de 1960, cuando Tokio estuvo a punto de reventar por el crecimiento de su población, y pocos creen que la capacidad de la vía adicional sea necesaria en la ciudad del post-crecimiento, pero en muchos casos las políticas públicas y el motivo de beneficio privado, todavía se alinean para apagar tal fermentación.

Del mismo modo, muchos arquitectos y ciudadanos expresaron su descontento hacia el gobierno a principios de este año sobre los planes para demoler el viejo estadio nacional para dar paso a una enorme nueva estructura de $2 mil millones que se asemeja a una nave espacial para los Juegos Olímpicos de 2020. Debido a que el estadio ocupa un sitio tranquilo en uno de los pocos espacios verdes públicos de Tokio, los críticos han sostenido que de ser elevado sobre el parque, apenas sería utilizado una vez concluidos los juegos, mientras que el estadio viejo y más abierto era frecuentemente utilizado por los ciudadanos. La disputa sobre el estadio reveló una diferencia de opinión sobre cuestiones más profundas que la sencilla estética arquitectónica. Muchos cuestionan si los mega-eventos todavía deben ser vistos como un signo de la grandeza nacional.

¿Cuánto tiempo puede el sistema seguir funcionando de acuerdo con los valores ideados en una era de rápido crecimiento? Los Juegos Olímpicos están posicionándose como un símbolo de los esfuerzos del gobierno para rejuvenecer la economía deflacionaria de Japón y su confianza nacional, pero muchos de los proyectos de desarrollo que han engendrado parecen fuera de sincronización con la madurez de la ciudad. En cualquier caso, la transición a una nueva sociedad del post-crecimiento vendrá tarde o temprano. Si los habitantes de esta ciudad se aprovechan de la transición como una oportunidad para reimaginar los rituales sociales y el espacio urbano para construir un mosaico de comunidades locales, puede que el capítulo más interesante de Tokio apenas esté empezando—y tal vez, mi mapa de la ciudad va a terminar tan rico como el de Sata.


 

Notas

[1] Marc Augé identificó esta condición del capitalismo tardío como la invasión del mundo por los “no lugares”, y él argumentó que este fenómeno resulta en una profunda alteración de la conciencia y en la limitación de la vida social orgánica. Véase, por ejemplo, Marc Augé, Non-Places: An Introduction to Supermodernity [Los no lugares: Una introducción a la sobremodernidad] (Nueva York: Verso, 2009).

[2] Roland Kelts, “The Satori Generation,” [“La generación satori”] , Adbusters, 7 de mayo de 2014, https://www.adbusters.org/magazine/113/satori-generation.html

[3] Roger Pulvers, “Architect Kuma Kengo: ‘a product of place’,” [“Arquitecto Kuma Kengo: ‘un producto de lugar’,” The Asia Pacific Journal [La Revista Asia-Pacífico], 11 (2014), http://japanfocus.org/-Roger-Pulvers/4141.

[4] Véase David Harvey, “The Right to the City” [“El Derecho a la Ciudad,”] New Left Review [La revista de la nueva izquierda] 53 (2008), http://newleftreview.org/II/53/david-harvey-the-right-to-the-city.

Donate

Sam Holden is currently a graduate student of Human Geography in Tokyo. A native of Denver, Colorado, he studied International Relations and Asian Studies at Pomona College. He blogs about post-growth communities in Japan at Sanga Ari (http://samuholden.wordpress.com/).

From: The Arrow

Through Rites, All Things Flourish

$
0
0

Through Rites, all things flourish: The power of the ceremonial in classical confucianism and in contemporary rituals of dissent

By Nicholas Trautz 

 “The fate of our times is characterized, above all, by the disenchantment of the world.”[1] This, Max Weber’s 1919 characterization of modernity, presaged what many have come to see as a crisis of meaning in our contemporary world. Some have argued that our “secular age,” with its pluralistic, relativized, and dominantly scientific episteme, fails to supply the sense of meaning that was once ensured through the myths and rituals that bound communities together under the promise of harmonization with sacred, cosmic order.[2] And whether one agrees or not with the characterization of modernity as a disenchanted space threatening moral disorientation and existential doubt, it is clear that formal religious rituals no longer play a definitive role in organizing society at large. Ceremony may seem like a relic of an enchanted past, or the plaything of those who keep up ancient traditions in modern contexts. 

But perhaps we are not all that divorced from the power of ceremony and the enchantment of myth, after all. Perhaps “the ceremonial” continues to pervade contemporary life, insofar as modern social life continues to unfold around deeply symbolic, collectively-oriented performances that ensure a profound sense of connection between individuals as well as connection with the world. But how do we go about detecting the presence of “the ceremonial” in practices that are saturated with the rhetoric and values of secularity? 

To disclose the ways in which modern “ceremonies” continue to supply meaning, we might look to a classical tradition in which ritual explicitly played a prime function in organizing society and transforming individuals. The Confucianism of ancient China is one such tradition.  Confucian thinkers such as Mencius, Xunzi, and Confucius himself profoundly revered ritual, claiming for it a central place in an elegant vision for human flourishing. We witness in this tradition a special reverence for the power of ceremony to harmonize, order, and animate the world. Understanding something about this vision of the power of ritual can help us to appreciatively detect the ways in which ritual continues to orient and inspire us, even in cases in which rituality is obfuscated by the rhetoric of secularity.

To illustrate the power of the ceremonial in a contemporary context, I will examine “rituals of dissent”: collective performances of protest and occupation that seek to disrupt and reconfigure sociopolitical reality. I deliberately choose political protest not only because of its enduring relevance in the wake of the Occupy Movement and the Arab Spring (as well as the more recent Peoples’ Climate March and the Umbrella Revolution), but also because these rituals of dissent provide a provocative juxtaposition to the extreme Confucian valuation of social order. Confucianism famously values stratified social order above all other social principles, and so acts of protest aimed at disrupting or reconfiguring political and social orders seem entirely anathema to Confucian values. And yet, I suggest that the classical Confucian ideas about the nature and efficacy of ritual help us to understand the power, the enchantment, that acts of protest supply for the people involved.

Ritual culture and Confucian thought in ancient China

 The classical Confucian thinkersConfucius, Mencius, and Xunziwere mainly concerned with questions of human virtue and ethical conduct, and not so interested in metaphysical speculations about the origin and nature of things. Confucius and the masters of his school asked: “What is Goodness?”, “How does one serve his lord?”, and “How does one rule with virtue?”. Thus, the classical Confucianism of the first half-millennium BCE can best be characterized as a system of “virtue ethics”.[3] That said, one area we moderns associated with the category of religion, ritual (ch: , ), remained central to the constellation of topics that occupied Confucian thinkers. The Confucians loved ceremony, and like all ancient Chinese, they took great care in the execution of rites to honor the ancestors, appease the gods, and preserve society. But while sacrificial ritual is as old as Chinese civilization itself, the Confucians were the first to value ritual as a method for cultivating personal moral qualities. The Confucian thinkers of the fourth and fifth centuries BCE defined ritual to include both formal ceremonial procedures and also etiquette in a general sense—the protocols and attitudes that could facilitate appropriate relationships between people within a highly stratified society.[4] The arrangement of ritual vessels on an offering shrine to the ancestors, the selection of music to accompany worship of the gods, and the correct way to bow to a lord were of equal value as ways of cultivating personal virtue and ensuring natural and social harmony.

 Ritual, then, for the early Confucians, was a key feature of a vision of human flourishing that connected ceremonial practices to ethics, spiritual development, and social harmony. For the classical Confucians, ritual was the arena for cultivating personal virtue and for activating a special charismatic influence that could bind a family or a nation together in harmony.

While there was general agreement amongst classical Confucians as to the importance of ritual as an arena for the cultivation of moral qualities, different ideas emerged as to how exactly ritual worked to morally rectify and spiritually empower an individual. To convey the scope of interpretations that pre-Han masters brought to their tradition, we can compare Confucius’ observations about the meaning of ritual with the later master Xunzi’s writings on the topic. It seems that ritual in Confucius’ canonical work, the Analects, entails a kind of transcendental reasoning, while Xunzi suggests a social functionalist view of . But while these early Confucians approached ritual differently, they shared a reverence for ritual’s power to order and harmonize people within a social world that was thought to reflect natural and cosmic orders. 

Ritual, Virtue, and Rulership in the Analects

The Analects of Confucius purport to record remarks made by Master Kongzi (the master’s Chinese name, later Latinized to Confucius, 551-479 BCE) to his various students. In these remarks can be found several essential conceptions of ritual.

To begin, Confucius looks to the experiential dimension of ritual, outlining the proper attitudes and experiences that a “gentleman” could gain from proper execution of ritual in its general sense, both as ceremonial procedure and as a code of etiquette. This experiential dimension of includes a sense of “balance between ease and regulation” (Analects I.12), a “flowering of goodness and kindness” (VI.22), and a sense of harmonious propriety, or “taking one’s place” (XX.3).[5] Whether someone was conducting ancestor worship, participating in seasonal rituals, or inviting someone into the home, proper ceremonial etiquette was, in the Confucian view, a matter of achieving a formal ease and natural elegance that could powerfully communicate a sense of propriety. 

In addition to these experiential qualifications, ritual was thought to be a principal vehicle for the development of moral qualities. Confucius understood the value of ritual—whether referring to formal ceremony or to perfect etiquette—to lie in its ability to shape the ethical profile of a gentleman. Confucius defines the gentleman as one “learned in culture and restrained through the rites” (VI.27). The strictures entailed in and ultimately canonized in the Book of Rites—from how one should arrange sacrificial vessels, to how one must fold a robe, to how a guest is invited into the home—were imagined by Confucius to be a discipline that shaped a person into a suitable container for the expression of “human goodness” (rén).[6] For Confucius, “the complete person” was “wise, free of desire, courageous, accomplished in the arts, and acculturated by ritual” (XIV.12). Through the disciplined decorum mandated in the expert practice of lĭ, sensuousness was restrained, rigidness was overcome (I.12), and the gentleman could obtain a special Charismatic Virtue, or ().[7]

The key to Confucius’ view of ritual efficacy lies in this notion of Charismatic Virtue. This is a concept that knows no specific analogue in English, but is essential to ancient Chinese conceptions of governance. Often translated merely as “power,” in the context of Confucius’ thought is a metaphysical concept linking a ruler’s influence to his personal qualities. If a ruler could perfect his general sense of virtue through ritual expertise and flawless decorum, people would spontaneously bend to his will, the natural elements would stay balanced, and harmony would be brought to his kingdom. Confucius writes: “The Virtue () of the gentleman is like the wind. The virtue of the small person is like grass. When the wind blows, the grass moves” (XII.19). According to the Analects’ decidedly non-legalistic rhetoric, the gentleman could “guide with Virtue, and rectify the people with ritual” (II.3). In other words, Charismatic Virtue, attained and expressed through ritual propriety, was the key to securing moral authority and to deploying effective rulership. And so, in the Confucian tradition, ritual propriety was thought to generate political advantage: “When a ruler loves ritual propriety, none among his people will dare to disrespect him.” (XIII. 4). Ritual, for Confucius, was something to be both experienced and deployed. In the full practice of , emotional sincerity grounded the cultivation of personal virtue in ceremonial protocols, resulting in charismatic influence that could be deployed in ruling.

In the Analects, it seems that , or Charismatic Virtue, operates metaphysically, as the innate trajectory of human nature towards Virtue opens the possibility for a natural harmonization between the ruler, society, and nature. “The sage-king Shun ruled by making himself reverent and taking the proper ritual position facing south, that is all” (XV.5). Because he was already perfected in all the virtues, and because his sincerity and goodness were already maximized, by simply executing an action in the proper way, the sage-king was able to express his moral sovereignty and to secure authority. And in the ancient Chinese view, since the structure of society was correlated to natural principles, authority over people implied harmony with the nature of things altogether. Therefore, “one who understands sacrifice holds the world in his hand” (III.11). Also: “One who rules through the power of Virtue is analogous to the Pole Star: it simply remains in its place and receives the homage of the myriad lesser stars” (II.1). These statements suggest that ritual knowledge and the fruit of its perfected execution, , could empower a ruler to govern through a special charisma that harmonized his rule with the nature of reality and with the will of his people.

This vision for charismatic rulership can be characterized as a harmonic metaphysics of power, a quasi-magical mechanism for consolidating power through the cultivation of moral and spiritual qualities. Arthur Waley observes that ritual in ancient China could never separate itself from the magical thinking at the basis of early Chinese religiosity. Thus, “that countries could really adopt with success a home policy of government by the magic of ritual… is a fundamental part of Confucius’s way.”[8] Ritual was the arena for moral, bodily, and spiritual cultivation, and we are given a picture of the gentleman-ruler that involves sincere intent, restraint through ritualized propriety, the flowering of exalted ethical qualities, resonance with cosmic order, all resulting in influence over the social world.

Further evidence for the conviction that sagely rulership involved something more than the mere deployment of law is seen in Analect XI.26, a story in which Master Kongzi praises a student who, when asked what he would do if given authority over a state, mysteriously replies, “I should like to assemble a company of five or six young men and six or seven boys to go bathe in the Yi River and enjoy the breeze upon the Rain Dance Altar, and then return singing to the Master’s house.” The commentator Li Chong explains, “Only [this student] has transcendent aspirations, only he is able to stir up the sounds of Virtue… His words are pure and remote, his meaning lofty and fitting, and his diligence is certainly something with which one with sagely Virtue would feel an affinity.”[9] We see here that Charismatic Virtue exceeds conventions, expressible not only in refined ritual conduct, but also in spontaneous aesthetic play. To reduce Charismatic Virtue to a mere social organizational principle would miss its essence as a metaphysically harmonic axis around which social relationships and standards for meaning were sanctioned.

Xunzi’s Social Functionalism

While the Analects paint a picture of ruling as a harmonic correspondence between the qualities of the ruler, the will of the people, and the nature of reality, later sources take a more functionalist approach to defining the mechanics of ritual. The Confucian master Xunzi (312-230 BCE), writing nearly two hundred years after Confucius, also valorized ritual as a key tool for optimal governance. But whereas the Analects suggest a metaphysical harmonics of virtue, ceremony, ritual magic, and authority, Xunzi was far more mechanistic in his view of ritual. Famous for disdaining superstition and for his assertions about the apparent badness of human nature, Xunzi held ritual in great esteem as the one arena in which man’s appetitive drives could be overcome and the gentlemanly virtues perfected. Xunzi writes: “Man is born with desires. He will inevitably fall to wrangling with other men. From this comes disorder. The ancient kings hated disorder so they established ritual principles to curb it.”[10] , or ritual, for Xunzi, is an ordering force, specifically conceived by the sage-kings of the mythic past to assist people in rectifying their morality against the background of their disordered nature. For Xunzi, rites were not acts possessing any supernatural efficacy, but were purely a human invention designed to organize the social life of man.[11] This is not to suggest that did not entail an aesthetic dimension, or even joy. “Rites begin in simplicity, are carried out in elegance, and end in joy.”[12]  Thus, in Xunzi’s view, “rites are a means of satisfaction,” standing in opposition to the desire and wantonness associated with man’s innately disordered nature.[13]

But beyond the personally rectifying nature of ritual, Xunzi’s main contention is that ritual “preserves distinctions.” “The gentleman is careful about the distinctions to be observed. What do I mean by distinctions? Eminent and humble have their respective stations, elder and younger their degrees, and rich and poor, important and unimportant, their different places in society.”[14]  According to Xunzi, it is through ritual practice (which is understood to include etiquette) that social ordering is remembered, embodied, and preserved. There is little to suggest that this entails any of the transcendental thinking implied in the Analects. Xunzi seizes upon the injunctions found within the Book of Rites, the ancient classic book of ritual conduct, to interpret lĭ as a force for social ordering. Everything from the number of ancestors that can be propitiated, to the thickness of the burial coffin, is determined by one’s rank within a totally stratified society.  “Rites distinguish and make clear that the exalted should serve the exalted and the humble serve the humble. Great corresponds to great and small to small.”[15]

This is not to say that Xunzi’s functionalist vision of ritual lacked profundity. Even though Xunzi returns again and again to the ordering function of ritual without regard for any metaphysical agency per se, the principle of order itself takes on cosmic significance: “Through rites Heaven and earth join in harmony, the sun and moon shine, the four seasons proceed in order, the stars and constellations march, the rivers flow, and all things flourish. Men’s likes and dislikes are regulated and their joys and hates made appropriate. Those below are obedient, those above are enlightened; all things change but do not become disordered; only he who turns his back upon rites will be destroyed. Are they not wonderful indeed?”[16]  This is Xunzi at his most poetic, and we may wonder whether these remarks really imply that Xunzi thought that ritual “made the sun and moon shine,” or if they reflect ingrained assumptions concerning the correspondence between cosmic and social order.

Different Agency, One Vision 

Despite some fundamental differences between Confucius and Xunzi’s conceptions of ritual, we should not ignore the ways in which these two figures participate in one tradition. Confucius and Xunzi both see ritual as the arena in which ethical cultivation, emotional rectification, and social ordering can take place. Both visions of ritual emphasize disciplined balance between sensuousness and rigidity. And both value personal and social harmony as the goal of self-cultivation. Despite differences in the ideas concerning the agency of virtue and the source of authority, there is no doubt that Xunzi participated in the tradition founded by Confucius. It is interesting that the early tradition could accommodate such different interpretive approaches to one of its most central topics. But in the end, the reverence for lĭ and for the power of Virtue to harmonize the world garners awe from both philosophers. Xunzi, usually the rationalist, writes: “The meaning of ritual is deep indeed. He who tries to enter it with the kind of perception that distinguishes hard and white, same and different, will drown there. The meaning of ritual is great indeed. He who tries to enter it with the uncouth and inane theories of the system-makers will perish.”[17] Perhaps it was reverence for the seeming mystery of ritual, regardless of what stood behind its potency, that united these authors in their quest to see the sacred within the world of men.

“The ceremonial” in modern contexts: rituals of dissent

When several thousand protestors gathered, and stayed, in Zuccotti Park in Lower Manhattan between September 17 and November 15, 2011, critics asserted that the movement known as Occupy Wall Street (OWS) lacked a coherent set of goals. Indeed, this occupational protest—perhaps the most significant in America since the university sit-ins of the 1960’s—coalesced through the efforts of several initially unrelated groups and diversified through the course of the protest into an array of sub-groups, each with a unique angle on the dissent at hand. While some people, including organizer and anthropologist David Graeber and critical theorist Judith Butler, dismissed the idea that the movement needed to articulate a clear set of goals, a governmental model did eventually emerge through which participants attempted, through consensus, to articulate a unified set of demands.[18] This attempt, however, came relatively late in the course of the occupation, and it is arguable that the movement, while perhaps successful in bringing widespread attention to the issues of wealth disparity and corporate corruption, failed to lead to substantive changes in government or corporate policy.

But, as Sheehan Moore observes in his account of the McGill University student protests of 2011, the exclusive focus on demands and goals—only the “whys”—of a protest is insufficient in as much as it “obscures [the protests’] material nature and erases the physical bodies of participants.” [19] Sheehan asks, “What would it mean to treat forms of protest like occupations not only as declarative—i.e. as political statements—but also as embodied and spatial practices?” or, as I would suggest, as rituals. Moore looks to critical anthropologists like Ghassan Hage and Miriam Ticktin to explore how the resonance of occupation hinges on the embodied experiences of participants and the spatial interactions that articulate disruption and reorganization—the disruptive staying, sitting, or living in a contested space with symbolic significance—and not so much on the assumption that their political demands will be immediately met.[20] Perhaps, as argue Judith Butler and Edward Soja, the bodily practice of occupation works to create an alternative political imaginary,[21] a haunting sense of possibility, what Ghassan Hage characterizes as an “animation of social forces and potentials that lie dormant in our midst.” [22] Occupation is, above all, a mode of “performativity,” in which an alternative reality opens up—in the case of OWS, a reality in which the machinery of corporate influence and inequity could be interrupted—and in which participants can experience themselves as ethical agents in an imagined reordering of society. As Moore writes, “The performative capacity of bodies is key to understanding the material aspects of occupation. It is performativity that disruptively opens up [the alternative space of political possibility] by redefining, if only for minutes or days, the limits of politics [that operate via the creation and maintenance of old orders].”[23] So occupational protest—clearly a type of ritual for reasons I will specify—is an intervention, a geographic reconfiguration, and a performance that becomes meaningful in the experience of participants for the way that it awakens landscapes of possibility—what Butler, in commenting on the occupation of Tahrir Square, characterizes as a fresh animation of physical, social, and cultural spaces.[24] Sheehan Moore nicely summarizes: “Occupations and similar forms of protest, as physical manifestations of bodies into contested spaces, rewrite the parameters of those spaces and allow us to participate, feel, and hope differently, even if only briefly. When it is over, we might be ‘haunted,’ to use Hage’s word, by what was made possible during those minutes, days, or months, even as the immediate causes of the occupation fade from memory.”[25]

In the performative dimension of protest—that is, in the spatial interactions and bodily engagements involved in disruptively occupying a significant place—we can see the features of ritual. Now it is true that contemporary theorists of religion would have an easy time showing that occupational protests—with their reorganizations of social and physical space, their deployment of symbolic media, and their rhetoric of renewal—constitute ritual activity. But recall that I want to rely on Confucian conceptions of ritual to evoke the sense of transformative power and elegant vision of human flourishing that is included in Confucianism’s appraisal of ritual. This is important because rituals of dissent—occupational protest, in particular—open up an enchanted space of political possibility, and the harmonic magic and awesome capacity of these performances to ethically orient their participants finds voice in classical Confucian conceptions of .

Ritual as the arena for ethical cultivation and the actualization of ideal society

Recall that ritual, for Confucius and Xunzi, was foremost an arena for the cultivation of virtue. Of course any characterization of virtue is essentially normative, reflective of the values of a specific culture situated within history. So Confucius’ vision for ritual as a way to perfect “gentlemanly” virtues reflects the ethics and etiquette that were important in aristocratic settings in ancient China. But we can generalize this conception to understand ritual as an occasion for the imaginative and disciplined activation of an ideal moral world. So in performances of political protest aimed at disruption and sociopolitical reformation, participants act out their own membership in an idealized community that is based on the ethical principles undergirding the new politics that the protest is trying to facilitate. For Occupiers at Zuccotti Park, an alternative political economy of consensus government and resource sharing was activated in expression of the protesters’ ideal ethical vision—a vision which, while containing many variations on radical politics, could generally be characterized as an egalitarian ethos of fair resource distribution, true democracy, and communality. And while the protest unfolded spontaneously over the course of two months without anyone really knowing how the occupation would end or what it would amount to, the whole enterprise did entail a set of social and cultural “disciplines.” A relatively well-organized local society emerged that included protocols for governance, the maintenance of educational resources such as a “People’s Library” of over 5,000 books, and the creation of networks for communication within the encampment, all indicative of organizational discipline in service of a vision of ideal community. In addition to these instances of “social discipline,” certain “cultural disciplines,” or unspoken standards of discourse, physical interaction, and even dress, were, of course, apparent, although it must be admitted that OWS ultimately incorporated a broader socioeconomic, political, and cultural spectrum than one might have expected.[26] But this diversity makes sense in light of the inclusivity implied in the protest’s egalitarian ethos, and the acceptance of diverse voices amounted to an iteration of one of OWS’s prime cultural disciplines.

At any rate, it seems that the Zuccotti Park occupation, despite its anarchistic appearance and inspiration, entailed a disciplined performance of an ideal community that stood on a foundation of a specific egalitarian ethics. In other words, the occupation became an arena to actualize, experience, and train in an ideal ethical vision, not unlike Confucian ceremonies that stood at the center of a system of self-cultivational practices aimed at moral rectification in the service of an ideal society.

Ritual as preservation of distinctions

While Xunzi and Confucius stand in agreement as to the capacity of ritual to ethically mold a person, Xunzi emphasizes the role of ritual in maintaining social distinctions. Even though the Occupy Movement positioned itself as a retaliation against the kinds of social stratification perceived to inhibit human flourishing, the movement nonetheless invoked a sense of social distinction and class identity through the rhetoric of the “99%.” While this rhetoric of the 99% was based on IRS and Congressional Budget Office income distribution data as represented by the economist Joseph Stiglitz in early 2011,[27] the “We are the 99%” slogan came to stand as the central signifier of identity for the Occupy participants. By claiming membership in the 99% of the population who have failed to benefit from the exponential increase in wealth enjoyed by the top-earning 1%, participants located themselves within a specific model of socioeconomic (and cultural) reality. As a performance, the chanting and display of the 99% slogan served to crystalize a specific picture of social and cultural reality in which participants could maintain their positionality. This slogan, of course, became the most enduring symbol of the Occupy movement altogether, as it became a rallying cry and identity marker for left-wing (and occasionally extreme right-wing) activists across the country. It is significant, then, that the enduring signifier of the movement was not a specific political demand, but rather a statement of identity. All told, this slogan became a powerful symbol that could be deployed in locating oneself and others in a specific interpretation of social, economic, and cultural reality. As such, “We are the 99%” was a ritual tool for the configuration and maintenance of distinctions, to use Xunzi’s terms, and its “performance” evidences the ceremonial nature of this kind of protest.

Illustration by Alicia Brown

Illustration by Alicia Brown

To regard the 99% slogan and its efficacy in positioning participants in a stratified vision of reality as a ritual tool resonates with Xunzi’s “social functionalist” model for ritual, and is also reminiscent of the late Catherine Bell’s theory of ritualization. Bell uses the term “ritualization” to describe a field of subjectivity-generating activity situated within a web of other social practices. Bell imagines ritual as a tool for the ongoing construction of power relations through the configuration of social bodies that “maintain complex micro-relations of power.”[28] So ritualization, for Bell, does not merely generate coercion by crafting social bodies within power schemes imposed from above, but rather functions to generate power through mutual negotiations of horizontally localized forces, a process which then masks itself as representing apriori orders of experience. Ritualization is a negotiative process in which subjects are produced through their participation and ultimate consent in replicating localized, horizontally dispersed power relations. So while Xunzi’s model for ritual does not explicitly entail horizontal or consenting negotiations of power relationships, it does work to replicate social orders that were discursively naturalized to correspond to fundamental realities. Likewise, the rhetoric of the 99% was a performative tool designed to articulate a set of power relations—depicting the overconcentration of power in the 1% and the lack of representation for the 99%—that were internally and mutually developed (“horizontally negotiated,” to use Bell’s terminology) rather than imposed from above. In fact, a few of the OWS protesters openly self-identified as belonging to the 1%, indicating their willingness to adopt the subjectivity that was being ritually constructed in Zuccotti Park. As a ritual act, the performance of the 99% slogan was a repeatable way to articulate and configure a subjective reality commensurate with the ethical vision shared by the protestors. In the “ritual space” of Zuccotti Park, protestors could define themselves through the semiotic act of “performing” the 99% slogan, thus generating a specifically defined subjectivity that could interface with the various other practices taking place within the Occupation. This is a case of performative utterance, a feature common to all ritual activity, and a case of social ordering and positioning—the maintenance of distinctions—that Xunzi sees at the heart of ritual practice.

Moral harmonics, power, and play

Most striking in Confucius’ vision for ritual is the notion of Charismatic Virtue, or ().  As mentioned, this concept knows no analogue in English, as it refers to the divine correlation between the will of a ruler, the needs of his people, and cosmic order. The meaning of in the context of ritual has to do with a kind of metaphysical influence obtained by the ruler through ethical perfection—a perfection achieved in the proper execution of ritual. So, from this point of view, the proper elegance through which a ruler folded his robe or arranged offering vessels on the sacrificial altar could endow him with a cosmically resonant moral authority, through which he could naturally and beneficently rule his world.

While this concept may be entirely foreign to our secular democratic culture, especially in the context of political protests premised on a vision of deep egalitarianism, we should recognize that this Charismatic Virtue entails, at its root, a conviction in an inherent socio-natural harmony that can be discovered and activated through human practice. We can then see how rituals of dissent entail a similar orientation towards harmonization with a high moral order, directed towards a vision of human flourishing. In activating this vision through occupational protest, participants may experience enhanced connectivity with fellow human beings, a powerful sense of rectitude, and may find themselves swept up in the transformative power of community and personal agency. And there is a sense that the protest will ignite change in some undeterminable way. There is a conviction that the images and discourses generated from within the “ritual space” of the protest will resonate outward and transform the views of the public in ways that are commensurate with the moral order that the protestors wish to instantiate. We see here that occupational protest is meant to produce a kind of influence that overflows the boundaries of the occupied space and harmonizes the world with the intentions of the participants, a collectively-activated of sorts. There is conviction on the part of the participants in the power of their performance to influence and harmonize society in a way that captures their vision of human flourishing. As Ghassan Hage so nicely articulates in his description of the outcomes of “critical anthropology” (an academic dissent practice), the opening of an alternative political imaginaire is powerfully transforming and enduring, and participants are left “haunted” by what they experienced of themselves while engaging in disruption. Hage characterizes such practice as “akin to the shamanic act of inducing a haunting: it encourages us to feel haunted at every moment of our lives by what we are/could be that we are not… we are invited to become aware of and to animate certain social forces and potentials that are lying dormant in our midst. It incites what was not causal to become so”.[29] So there is transformative magic produced in the disruptive occupation and reimagining of physical and social space. And this is why Butler and Gaeber insisted that the Occupy movement did not need to articulate coherent political demands. The performance of dissenting embodiment—the actual disruption, transformation, and re-inhabitation of a contested physical (and therefore social) space—is enough to induce a powerful transformative kinesis without relying on the second-order conceptualizations and abstractions involved in articulating political demands within “normal” lines of redress. I see this as analogous to the logic of in as much as there is conviction in the capacity of performances themselves to produce and emanate a transformative power, just as the sage king Shun was able to rule by “becoming reverent and taking his seat facing south. That is all” (Analect XV.5).

All this talk of magic and idealization is not meant to minimize the potency, and thereby the dangers, of political dissent. Multiple occurrences of illegal police violence were documented on the streets surrounding Zuccotti Park (and in other cities in which occupiers set up camp).[30] Declassified documents also show that federal intelligence agencies closely monitored the protests through a Joint Terrorism Task Force.[31] Clearly, these acts of official surveillance and police violence indicated that whatever was happening in and around the occupied spaces was regarded as threatening. This is despite the fact that the occupiers were simply staying in a contested space and were arguably doing nothing illegal and applying no real political or economic pressure to the entities against whom they were engaged. So these “rituals of dissent” really do involve the production and emanation of a transformative power through enacting (rather than just articulating) a specific moral vision and imagination of possibility. The authorities seemed to have recognized this fact, and their disproportionate response actually demonstrates the potency of what can be produced through performativity, or “the ceremonial” in dissent practices.  

Finally, recall Analect XI.26, the story of the young Confucian who, having been granted authority over a principality, rather than immediately attend to governance, elected to  “go bathe in the Yi River and enjoy the breeze upon the Rain Dance Altar, and then return singing to the Master’s house.” Confucius praises this student because “Only he has transcendent aspirations, only he is able to stir up the sounds of Virtue… his diligence is certainly something with which one with sagely Virtue would feel an affinity.”[32] This enchanting passage reminds us of how the power of Virtue is communicated through aesthetic play. Whereas the self-serious work of governance unfolds in a disembodied space of discourse, embodied performances entailing artistry and play are more directly connected to the production and communication of Virtue. There is no question that the Occupy movement included a profound playfulness, despite the seriousness of the inequities against which it stood. In fact, the very inception of the movement is attributed to the Canadian magazine Adbusters, known for its outlandishly satirical and design-inspired leftist content. In the summer of 2011, Adbusters ran content suggesting that “America needed its own Tahrir”, and published a poster of a ballerina posing on Wall Street’s iconic Charging Bull statue.[33] (Ironically, the caption on the poster reads: “What is our one demand?”) Then, in August of 2011, 49 nude artists (three of whom were arrested when they were unable to put their clothes back on before being caught by police) participated in a street performance called “Ocularpation: Wall Street,” meant to comment on the lack of transparency in Wall Street dealings.[34] And when the occupation of Zuccotti Park materialized in earnest one month later, musicians, artists, actors, and celebrated academics joined together to participate in a spectacle that included music, artwork, puppetry, poetics, and a general leftist aesthetic. As in all protests, a certain theatricality was inextricable from the act of dissent. Indeed, it is hard to imagine a protest, at least on American soil, that does not involve some sort of theatrics, art, and music. This is significant because it indicates that the heart of protest lies not just in the declarations, arguments, and demands that a group of people place on the powers that be, but rather in the very humanity—expressible through artistry and play—of the participants as they craft an aesthetical space out of which the influence of their ideal vision can directly flow. The spectacle of the Occupy movement—not to mention images from Tahrir Square, or Hong Kong’s Umbrella Revolution—are deeply memorable; footage of congressional committee meetings and city council sessions are not. Only through the artistry, imagination, and earnest commitment to a moral vision do protests succeed in becoming memorable events that promise transformation—a haunting, as Hage says it—for all those involved.

Conclusion

The question remains as to why we would make any effort to interpret political protest—what I call “rituals of dissent” —as a type of ritual or ceremonial activity. These protests take place irrespective of how the participants define their activities. Participants are presumably motivated by real frustrations and the desire to do something about the inequities they perceive in society. But recall how the Occupy movement was lambasted for lacking coherent aims. Participants were sometimes characterized as confused reactionaries, or as freeloading miscreants: starry-eyed idealists uninterested in taking up “proper” lines of political recourse. Failing to make coherent arguments or to stay within “normal” protocols for redressing dissent, the Occupy movement suffered from what was essentially a failure on the part of the public to recognize and take seriously the ceremonial dimensions of the movement. Even if the ceremonial nature of these protests, with their performativity, aesthetic play, and moral idealism, were to be disclosed, the occupational tactics could still be derided as ineffective and wasteful. So in showing how the performances, practices, and discourses of occupational protest take up the elements of ritual that were so important to a classical tradition, we see that something profoundly human is actually taking place. Just as people in pre-modern societies looked to ritual to organize social life and to orient, rectify, and empower themselves, so our secular world retains, usually in unacknowledged ways, a definite ritual impulse.    

Nothing could be more distant from the social values of Confucianism than anarchist-inspired political protests like the Occupy movement. And the hierarchical social stratification that was naturalized and valorized by classical Confucians is precisely what the Occupy movement tried to dismantle through disrupting (at least in an imagined way) the political economy on which such stratifications hinges. But reinterpreting occupational protest with attention to the embodied, imaginative, and performative dimensions, over and above strict attention to the declaration of “real” political goals, highlights that these practices very much hinge on the power of the ceremonial. Acknowledging the presence and the power of the ceremonial within an entirely secular situation not only calls into question the distance that we tend to place between the secular and the sacred, but it also reveals something profoundly human in how we construct self and society. Perhaps the ceremonial is an inescapable feature of human life, and if so, why not look to a tradition that was revered for its power to inspire, edify, and transform individuals within a vision of human flourishing? But most important to consider is the possibility that our Weberian disenchantment is unfounded; practices and performances that invoke ideal moral worlds, organize social reality, and overflow with transformatively harmonic power—all features of what the Chinese would call , ritual—promise a sense of enchantment that may still be harnessed in service of a vision of human flourishing.


 

 Notes

[1] Max Weber, “Science as a Vocation,Gesammlte Aufsaetze zur Wissenschaftslehre (Muich: Dunker &Humboldt, 1919). English Trans. at http://www.wisdom.weizmann.ac.il/~oded/X/WeberScienceVocation.pdf, p. 21.

[2] See Mircea Eliade, Myth of the Eternal Return, and The Sacred and Profane. Also, Charles Taylor’s Secular Age.

[3] Philip Ivanhoe, in Ethics in the Confucian Tradition, (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 2002) suggests that the Confucian tradition is best understood as a tradition of “virtue ethics” in as much as it defines its ethics around concepts of universal virtue rather than pragmatic or legalistic criteria.

[4] Edward Slingerland, Confucius: The Essential Analects, (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 2006), xvii.

[5] Edward Slingerland, trans. in Confucius: The Essential Analects.

[6] Rén ( ) has been translated by some scholars as humaneness or humanity, referring to the kind virtue that represents the best of human emotions and morals. I will here go with “human goodness” in light of the picture I am depicting of the Confucian vision of human flourishing.

[7] I will capitalize Virtue when referring to to distinguish it from the other cultivational virtues of humaneness, justice, kindness, and so forth.

[8] Arthur Waley, The Analects of Confucius, (New York: Vintage Books, 1938), 66.

[9] Slingerland, 2006:103.

[10] Burton Watson, trans. Hsun Tzu: Basic Writings, (New York: Columbia University Press), 89.

[11] Ibid, p. 8.

[12] Ibid, p. 89.

[13] Ibid.

[14] Ibid, p. 90.

[15] Ibid, p. 91.

[16] Ibid, p. 94.

[17] Ibid, p. 95.

[18] David Graeber, “Occupy Wall Street’s Anarchist Roots,” Aljazeera English, November 30, 2011.

Judith Butler, “Judith Butler and Occupy Wall Street,” Salon, October 24, 2011.

[19] Sheehan Moore, “Taking Up Space: Anthropology and embodied protest,Radical Anthropology, November, 2013.

[20] Moore, p. 12.

[21] Moore, p. 7.

[22] Ghassan Hage, “Critical anthropological thought and the radical political imaginary today,” Critique of Anthropology 32, 2012, in Moore, p. 11.

[23] Moore, 14.

[24] Judith Butler, “Bodies in Alliance and the Politics of the Street,” Transversal: the Journal of the European Institute for Progressive Cultural Policies, September, 2011.

[25] Moore, p. 15.

[26] Statistics from a Fordham University survey of OWS participants found 80% self-identifying as slightly to extremely liberal, 15% as moderate, and 6% as slightly to extremely conservative. Cited on http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Occupy_Wall_Street

[27] Joseph Stiglitz, “Of the 1% by the 1%, for the 1%”, Vanity Fair, May, 2011.

[28] Catherine Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 221.

[29] Hage, in Moore, p. 11.

[30] These offenses are documented in the joint NYU and Fordham Law Schools’ report Suppressing Protest: Human Rights Violations in the U.S. Response to Occupy Wall Street. Available at http://cdn.theatlantic.com/static/mt/assets/politics/Suppressing%20Protest.pdf

[31] Colin Moynihan, “Officials Cast Wide Net in Monitoring Occupy Protests”, New York Times, May 22, 2014. And: Naomi Wolf, “Revealed: how the FBI coordinated the crackdown on Occupy” The Guardian, December 29, 2012.

[32] Slingerland, p. 103.

[33] Laura Beeston, “The Ballerina and the Bull: Adbusters’ Micah White on ‘The Last Great Social Movement’”, The Link, November 18, 2011, from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Occupy_Wall_Street.

[34] Melena Ryzik, “A Bare Market One Last Morning,” New York Times, August 1, 2011.

Donate

Nicholas Trautz is a doctoral student in the History of Religions program at the University of Virginia. His primary focus is on Tibetan Buddhist literary history with secondary interests in East Asian religions and theories and methods in the study of religion. Nicholas holds a Master of Theological Study degree from Harvard Divinity School.

From: The Arrow

Rituals of Urban Life

$
0
0

Rituals of Urban Life in Post-Growth Tokyo

By Sam Holden 

Recently, as I pondered how the rituals of life in modern Tokyo emerged and evolved alongside the growth of the city, and what the rituals of post-growth Tokyo could become, I spent an afternoon wandering through Shimokitazawa, a neighborhood in western Tokyo that is popular for its sense of local charm. Since the end of the war the neighborhood has organically evolved into a mosaic of jazz bars and quiet cafes, shops filled with exotic fabrics and quirky trinkets, and artisans and residents who make their homes in a disorderly web of alleyways that emanate from the crossroads of two train lines.

 

Shimokitazawa | Photograph by Sam Holden

Shimokitazawa | Photograph by Sam Holden

 

In a little second floor used book shop, I plucked a book off a shelf filled with titles on memory and ruins. My Map of Tokyo, written by Ineko Sata in 1949, is an elegy of the author’s lived experience of the city, recounting walks through the neighborhoods of her past, wooden planks over dirt alleyways lined by row houses, the oily smell of grilled meat wafting across the grounds of a quiet temple, the names and faces of individuals who were as essential to the geography of her city as the buildings and streets. As the title suggests, it is a chronicle of a Tokyo only she knew—a small world of personal meaning derived from local places and rituals that have mostly disappeared as earthquake, war, and economic development continually erased and rewrote Tokyo during the 20th century. In a city where the average building is less than 30 years old, history is often difficult to find in physical form—it is easier to seek out in the pages of old books in Jimbocho or the traditions and craftsmanship passed down through generations in Asakusa.

Modern Tokyo is a vast, artificial landscape home to 35 million people, but by paying attention to place names, we can imagine the network of villages and locales that occupied the region around old Edo just 150 years ago: bucolic names like Yanaka “in the valley,” Kayabacho “thatch fields,” Gotanda “five rice paddies,” or Shimokitazawa “lower north stream” are reminders of the very local features that defined communities just a few generations ago. Today, the place names are little more than waypoints to be entered into our smartphones as we navigate underground through a landscape that has been rendered increasingly placeless, everywhere smothered with ubiquitous convenience stores, train stations, and drab concrete buildings.[1]

 

Tokyo Skyline | Photograph by Sam Holden

Tokyo Skyline | Photograph by Sam Holden

 

While cities have existed for millennia, the capitalist cities of the industrial age arose together with an altogether new way of life: rapid innovation in transport and communication technology allowed people, products, and information to travel ever more widely, enabling economies of scale, but also turning individuals into interchangeable cogs in a system of industrial production. Local communities, each with their own accumulated history of social, economic, and cultural rituals were gradually subsumed into new, larger social and economic systems. There arose a need not only to devise new rituals of daily life, but also new sources of identity and meaning to supplement the disintegrating traditional familial and geographic ties.

As midcentury Tokyo recovered from the destruction of the war, many found this meaning in the shared national pursuit of wealth and the objects of modernity—most famously represented by the “three sacred items” of a refrigerator, television, and washing machine. A culture that valued hard work and sacrifice valorized the rituals of legions of salarymen who endured commutes in inhumanely crowded trains to spend long hours at monotonous jobs. Meanwhile, the physical city spilled outward across the surrounding plain, covering rice paddies and hillsides in new subdivisions for a striving middle class, and upward as expressways smothered rivers and local neighborhoods gave way to featureless office facades that made every place look the same. In the high-growth era, getting rich was the point, both for individuals yearning to move beyond the deprivation of the defeat and for a society obsessed with catching up to the West. Life was improving so rapidly that individuals and society had little time to worry that the process of growth was erasing much of the city’s history and its rituals—if anything, homogenization was something to be welcomed, as it meant shared prosperity.

However, in the early 1970s, as society emerged from the pressure cooker of high-growth society, individuals were no longer content to be only interchangeable workers and passive consumers of the same mass-produced goods and culture as their neighbors. A new yearning for meaning in individualism began to be expressed in the rituals and urban form of the city.

As documented by sociologist Shunya Yoshimi in his book Dramaturgy in the City: A Social History of Popular Entertainments in Tokyo, an enterprising urban developer seized upon the cultural shift towards more individualized sensibilities and set about transforming the area around busy Shibuya Station into a participatory stage for the performance of various consumer and fashion subcultures. This effort took several forms: the segmentation of stores into various different sensibilities, the branding of different streets and areas with names that signaled style and refinement, and the integration of urban space with increasingly sophisticated media and marketing. The dozens of lifestyle magazines became “scripts” that guided individual “actors” in their different roles as they “performed” the city. For the city’s newly prosperous denizens, consumerism became a potent source of meaning and a means of expressing individual identity, and for the city itself, it became the lifeblood of urban space that would be rendered meaningless without the constant renewal of ritual consumption.

Today Shibuya remains a bustling hub of shopping and entertainment, and developers continue to churn out evermore-refined stages for the performance of consumer culture. But twenty years of economic stagnation have left their mark on Japan’s youth, for whom consumerism holds little of the appeal it did for previous generations.[2] Indeed, it seems possible that the individual expression and subcultures that blossomed in Shibuya were perhaps only an intermediate station in the dematerialization of the idea of happiness. During the period of high economic growth, living the good life was all about attaining the trappings of material comfort. Later, the young people of Shibuya found that prosperity could buy them more intangible identity and self-expression. There is no doubt that these desires remain powerful forces in the culture today, but there is a sense that they are diminishing as more people see the arrival of Japan’s demographic and economic maturity as an opportunity to build a society focused instead on community, creativity, and less competitive lifestyles.

 

Zoshigaya | Photograph by Sam Holden

Zoshigaya | Photograph by Sam Holden

 

Away from the clusters of cranes in Tokyo’s redevelopment zones, pockets of the post-growth city are now beginning to reflect this sensibility. I often visit the neighborhood of Zoshigaya, where I like to sit in the grounds of a quiet temple and listen to the rustling leaves of an enormous Ginko tree. The owner of a quiet coffee shop in a renovated two-story wooden house tells me that residents call the neighborhood “Zoshigaya Village.” “This is Tokyo’s countryside,” he adds, “you would never imagine it’s just a few minutes down the street from Ikebukuro,” one of the busiest train stations in the world. Sure enough, the last of Tokyo’s prewar streetcars still rumbles by outside, and on an empty lot next to the tracks, the community has created a small vegetable garden and erected a small rest space in a wooden hut, complete with a slowly turning water wheel. In a city whose land was said to be worth more than the entire United States during the development frenzy of the 1980s bubble, deflation has brought the economy back down to the ground, where there is once again space for people to create local places.

Kengo Kuma, an architect whose work has been praised as a modern expression of traditional Japanese aesthetics of localism and simplicity,[3] has written that Tokyo’s future lies in knitting together a patchwork of “villages,” or “places where individuals can live securely within a community, with a variety of lifestyles and choices.” He uses the word fermentation to describe the process by which these “villages” emerge—suggesting that they must be given time and space to evolve organically. Urban growth and development more often than not swallowed such local communities, but like a balloon slowly losing air, the urban environment is once again becoming more wrinkled, and spaces for new villages to ferment are reemerging.

People I have met in recent months are creatively making use of empty and underutilized buildings to create new guesthouses, cafes, art studios, share houses, exhibition spaces, shops, and community restaurants. One organization is renovating dozens of old apartments in a suburb of Tokyo to create an entire village of artists, with various community events and other programming.

 

Sharehouse | Photograph by Sam Holden

Sharehouse | Photograph by Sam Holden

 

The rise of such efforts in Tokyo suggests a new set of rituals for the post-growth city that emphasize a reconstructed notion of the city as local, specific, and animated by something more substantial than mere market interaction or consumerism.

One manifestation of this new culture is the share house where I live with seven other people in central Tokyo. Houses like mine have been springing up across Tokyo and Japan in the last five or six years, as people adopt a set of cultural values centered on community and individual happiness, not material wealth. I found my house through word of mouth, but one can now use special websites to search through hundreds of unique listings, including some designed for single mothers and children, or collaborative multi-generational housing. Although I pay less than a quarter of the price that I would for a cramped apartment in our prime location, the attraction of such a living arrangement goes beyond mere frugality. When choosing new residents, we intentionally maintain a diversity of careers (freelance writer to political activist), lifestyles (bohemian wanderer to busy salaryman), and ages (currently 19-60). The house is also a semi-public space that is constantly enlivened by non-residents who hold yoga sessions and meetings in our large living room (a rarity in Tokyo), and by itinerant acquaintances who stay rent-free when they drop through Tokyo.

The open, shared ethos of the sharehouse was described in a 2012 book as sumibiraki, literally “open living,” a lifestyle which the authors said created “a community not rooted in monetary relations, facilitating a flexible third connection beyond familial, geographic, or professional relationships.” Living becomes an act of place-making, in which interaction between residents and outsiders simultaneously engenders a culture of openness and intimacy. In the last six months, I’ve met members of half a dozen other sharehouses across the city that form a loose network of spaces operating according to similar ethos. Perhaps symbolic of these values, our door is never locked, and I don’t even have a key.

While the post-growth city’s wrinkled texture provides a ripe environment for the fermentation of a culture rooted in de-consumerism and communalism, capitalism’s perpetual need to find profit requires the constant rationalization and redevelopment of urban space[4]—oftentimes destroying the rituals of local places in the process. Shimokitazawa, the funky neighborhood where I came across Sata’s book, is a quintessential example of the sorts of organic village communities that Kuma argues are the lifeblood of the post-growth city. Despite vehement opposition from some neighborhood residents and patrons, the local government is implementing a redevelopment plan that includes the burial of one of the intersecting train lines and the construction of a large road through the center of the community and high-rise apartment buildings around the station. Opponents contended that the road plan was originally drawn up in the 1960s, when Tokyo was bursting at the seams from population growth, and few believe the additional road capacity is necessary in the post-growth city, but in many cases public policy and private profit motive still align to snuff out such fermentation.

Similarly, many architects and citizens voiced displeasure at the government earlier this year over plans to demolish the old national stadium to make way for a massive new $2 billion structure resembling a spaceship for the 2020 Olympics. Occupying a quiet site in one of Tokyo’s few public green spaces, critics have contended that the stadium will tower over the park and will barely be used after the games, whereas the old, more open stadium was frequently used by citizens. The dispute over the stadium revealed a rift of opinion over issues deeper than simple architectural aesthetics—many question whether mega-events should still be seen as a sign of national greatness.

How long can the system continue to operate according to values devised in an era of rapid growth? The Olympics are being positioned as the symbol of the government’s effort to rejuvenate Japan’s deflationary economy and national confidence, but many of the development projects they have engendered feel out of sync with the city’s maturity. Regardless, the transition to a new post-growth society will come sooner or later. If the inhabitants of this city seize the transition as an opportunity to reimagine social rituals and urban space to build a mosaic of local communities, Tokyo’s most interesting chapter could just be beginning—and perhaps my map of the city will end up just as rich as Sata’s was.


 

Notes

[1] Marc Augé identified this condition of late capitalism as the invasion of the world by “non-places,” a phenomenon that he argued results in a profound alteration of awareness and curtailment of organic social life. See for example Marc Augé, Non-Places: An Introduction to Supermodernity (New York: Verso, 2009).

[2] Roland Kelts, “The Satori Generation,” Adbusters, May 7, 2014, https://www.adbusters.org/magazine/113/satori-generation.html

[3] Roger Pulvers, “Architect Kuma Kengo: ‘a product of place’,” The Asia Pacific Journal 11 (2014), http://japanfocus.org/-Roger-Pulvers/4141.

[4] See David Harvey, “The Right to the City,” New Left Review 53 (2008), http://newleftreview.org/II/53/david-harvey-the-right-to-the-city.

Donate

Sam Holden is currently a graduate student of Human Geography in Tokyo. A native of Denver, Colorado, he studied International Relations and Asian Studies at Pomona College. He blogs about post-growth communities in Japan at Sanga Ari (http://samuholden.wordpress.com/).

From: The Arrow

A Din amid Quiet Ruins

$
0
0

A Din Amid Quiet Ruins

By Heather Williams

A year ago on a bright summer morning in the Jemez Mountains of northern New Mexico, I took a break from a study on community water I was conducting to explore the countryside. All around me were the fields and orchards of Hispano ranchers whose Pueblo and Spanish ancestors had watered these lands for countless generations. A friend of mine among them, a builder and farmer and sometime engineer with the strength of a linebacker, said he’d take me to a trailhead of a place unlike anything I had ever seen, so long as I promised not to tell anyone exactly where it was. “We don’t want all kinds of people driving up and down the road, parking their cars, snapping pictures,” he said. I agreed, eagerly accepting his invitation.

On the way to the canyon, he told me the trail would lead me upward to the ruins of a village of the ancient ones, the ancestral Puebloans, who lived in this place for generations and left mysteriously about seven hundred years ago. Most speculate that they dispersed when the rains failed for too long, driving away game and drying up the springs that watered their crops. As my friend drove me to the trailhead through a forested ravine, I was struck by how fragile the water balance remains in the present era. My host showed me the acequias, or hand-dug earthen channels that he and his neighbors clear every spring so waters from the nearby mountain will continue to flow onto their farmlands downstream.

At the end of the road, we saw the source water for the channels below. A pipe drilled into the bedrock of a mountain slope yielded a bountiful flow of clear, cold water. I filled a couple of bottles for the long hike ahead. A ways further the dirt road turned into a path and then petered out.

“Here’s where it starts,” he said, pointing up a steep hillside of young alder and piñon bushes. “You see the path?”  

“No, I don’t,” I said nervously.

“Oh, it’s there,” he answered quickly, pointing in the same direction. “You’ll find it soon enough. And if you don’t, just head straight up, you know? And you’ll see a ravine, and then the mesa on your right. The kivas are up there. You can always find your way if you just go up that wall. And if you keep going straight on the path and get to some ponderosas, you’ve gone too far. If you keep going you’ll fall off the other side.”

Hiking alone in a wilderness with no path and no clear landmarks, save a vague warning about ponderosas and sheer drop-offs, was unwise. But I decided it was worth the risk. I remember thinking that I might never be here again, never see this place, never have the chance to walk on a site like this before it is cordoned off and concreted, with a parking lot and a gift shop and access roads and crowds of tourists snapping selfies in front of ceremonial sites and then staring at their phones to see if friends had noted their latest entry in the cyber-feed. The valley farmers were determined to keep their village quiet, off the radar of tourists. But their grown children were not staying in the community, and that probably meant land changing hands, Hispano to Anglo. Jobs outside beckoned, farms failed too easily, and the state government had closed the local schools for lack of numbers and budgets. This would likely become another valley of hobby farmers, beds and breakfasts and moneyed professionals who could do their white collar job in finance or law or engineering remotely.

I scrambled up the slope, the sun burning my scalp as I emerged from the trees and walked a path along the side of canyon that separated me from the mesa top. After a time, I saw the tops of the kivas above the sandstone escarpment. On the mesa, thousands of pumice blocks lay akimbo in a field that stretched for half a mile or more. I didn’t know how I was supposed to get up there—the canyon was deep and the escarpment was a vertical wall. But keeping my friend’s directions in mind, I kept going. Eventually, I saw the ponderosas. Too far, I thought. And despite his warning, I walked up to them, just to see what that drop-off was, and I peered downward at a stomach-churning plunge of 2,000 feet to a valley floor.

The ponderosas proved to be faithful guides; looking around, I saw to my right a bridge over the top of the canyon where I could scramble up onto the top of the mesa. Now in the midday full sun, I was walking through windows of sedimentary rock that had been worn down by centuries of human use. The path was etched in stone as if smoothed by water, but it led in a purposeful way toward the kivas. I walked along it, thinking about what terrifying forces brought the Ancient Ones to this place, so far above where freshwater flows daily, and also so vulnerable to the storms that drop inches of rain and hail in the space of an hour. I marveled, thinking of Willa Cather’s Tom Outland in The Professor’s House, martyred in the Great War, who described his wondrous discovery of Cliff City, an Anasazi site whose origins lay in mystery: “A people who had the hardihood to build there, and who lived day after day looking down upon such grandeur, who came and went by those hazardous trails, must have been, as we often told each other, a fine people. But what had become of them? What catastrophe had overwhelmed them?”

Stone flints littered the ground; every meter or two I saw pieces of black and white painted pottery. I picked up the shards and an occasional arrowhead. They were warm, as if they had just been held in a human hand. I set them down where I found them, save one bit of pottery I guiltily put in my pocket for a time. The pumice stones lay where they fell from walls that once sheltered the people who spent centuries here, watching the stars move across the sky, comet to comet, the moon’s umbral shadow eclipsing the sun at sacred intervals, the Earth passing its shadow over the moon.

Pumice is a magnificent building material. A foot-long block is light enough for a child to lift, and yet is so strong that it holds its form a thousand years after being shaped. The obsidian and quartzite tools that littered the ground, I was told, came from a mountaintop a few miles away. The pumice, however, was mined on the mesa where they stood. The builders took the material from shallow quarries they dug in precise circular fashion, leaving what appeared to be ceremonial circles—windows to the heavens, perhaps, reserved for the oldest and wisest who knew from years of looking up what course the stars took through the sky.

I luxuriated in the light and the quiet, watching a turkey vulture ride the thermals in the sky over the valley. Oliver Wendell Holmes’ gentle phrase came to mind: “And silence, like a poultice, comes to heal the blows of sound.” I would have stayed longer, but storm clouds threatened from the northwest. I eyed the charred halves of pines that had been struck by lightning in countless desert storms, and decided I should descend from the mesa.

 

Illustration by Alicia Brown

Illustration by Alicia Brown

 

Descending was treacherous. I had lost the non-path I arrived on, having walked the length of the mesa looking for a shortcut that my friend had also assured me was easy to find. My heart beating faster, I realized I didn’t know how to get down from the escarpment. Storm clouds closed in. Thunder sounded in the distance and spouts of water opened up on the mesa across the valley. The canyon itself was a poor choice of exit, but I took it anyway, skidding down loose shale and getting trapped every fifty feet or so at sharp rock overhangs. Scrambling up again to climb around and cut downhill through brush and boulders, I reached onto ledges above my head. Then, hot pain seared my hand as I reached above my head and found the surface occupied by a beavertail cactus. I glanced down at my palm, now covered in a green fur of spines. I tried brushing the hooked barbs out of my skin, then desperately started pulling, knowing this would leave the barbs in the pads of my fingers. A few minutes later, another short ascent in search of a way around a steep granite drop yielded crumbly flint shale that tumbled menacingly on my head. I thought about the possibility of a rattlesnake or a scorpion greeting an outstretched hand on the next ledge. As a sick feeling descended over me, I tried to remind myself not to panic.

As I descended, I passed multiple carved-out boulders. Clearly, human hands had labored to make these structures. They were big enough for one person to occupy, almost the size of a toll booth. The carved boulders faced outward, away from the settlement. There was no charring in them, though, no signs of smoke from fires, so I concluded that had not been windbreaks for cooking outposts. They also seemed too exposed to be burial sites. I wondered if the boulders’ purpose was eminently clear to someone who lived from this land. As an outsider, their intended use was entirely outside my grasp. Were these guard posts? Were there wars for this place and for the precious water and hunting grounds below? Or were they lookout places for bears and wolves, who for most of their history as a species held the trump card on humans, consuming them at will?

In silence, my thoughts wandered to the question of what others sorting through 21st century ruins will make of us. Will we appear to a twenty-sixth century Tom Outland to be, as he put it, a fine people? Would a clever archaeologist of the future speculate that the shards of fast food restaurants are temples? With their solid waste middens and remains of money and food, one might conclude that these were religious sites, with different brands and logos signifying competing deities. Would an extensive excavation yield the conclusion that the 20th and 21st centuries marked a transitional epoch, from a regional monotheism with figures like “God” and “Allah” and “Buddha” to an agile new liturgy of comparative valuism, with its attendant fetishism of “marginal utility” and “creative destruction?”

 

Illustration by Alicia Brown

Illustration by Alicia Brown

 

Perhaps, along with a Bible or a Koran, a copy of Snowcrash, Neal Stephenson’s brilliant novel of 20 years ago, will survive and be decoded. Given what else the archaeologists would find, it would read not as science but as a latter day Herodotus—an embellished but epic truth. Certainly, it is closing in on prescient journalism in CE 2014.

The novel is set in Los Angeles, but notably not the United States, which has shrunk to the size of a city-state and ceded nearly all its power to private organizations and companies. Despotic warlords include a mafia-run pizza delivery service that spans a trans-Atlantic domain and liquidates drivers at will, but maintains a satisfied customer base by guaranteeing a pizza in thirty minutes or less. Mercenary armies compete for contracts and private guards preserve the peace for the wealthy, who live in gated, sovereign housing developments and drive on highways run by armed transportation firms. The less well-off live in storage facilities and occupy themselves working and playing in a computer-generated Metaverse, or worse, floating on gigantic islands of garbage lashed together in the Pacific Ocean under the thumb of a fiber-optics millionaire named L. Bob Rife.

As Herodotus’ Histories recounts the Trojan War and the rise of Sparta along with accounts of oracles and a nonsensical description of Babylon, so too does Snowcrash trip ably from logical projections about the direction of real events to plot devices that are more fun than plausible. Fickle gods, bad leadership, and rising seas. The Tom Outland of the future has much work cut out for him.

Meanwhile in the canyon, fat drops of rain fell while the sun shone. A lone cloud emptied its contents on me as I descended, now with bloody knees and a swollen right hand. Finally, I saw the pipe leading to the acequia and the wide part of the canyon leading back to where I started. The rain stopped and I marveled at a hummingbird moth hovering over a wild rose.

Donate

Heather Williams, Ph.D., is a professor of politics and environmental analysis at Pomona College and has written on social movements, food, water, labor, and migration. With her Peruvian colleague Javier Bojorquez Gandarillas, she co-founded the Suma Quta “Beautiful Lake” citizen monitoring initiative in the Lake Titicaca basin of Peru and Bolivia. Currently she is writing a biography of her local watershed, the Santa Ana River.

From: The Arrow

Creating Enlightened Society

$
0
0

Creating Enlightened Society: Compassion in the Shambhala Tradition

Judith Simmer-Brown

With the broader propagation of the Shambhala teachings that highlight the importance of creating enlightened society, it is natural to wonder what compassion means in a Shambhala context. In conjunction with Naropa University’s 40th Anniversary and the theme of “radical compassion,”[1] this article explores the unique contributions of the Shambhala teachings to cultivating and manifesting compassion in a complex, ever-changing world full of overt and subtle modes of suffering. The approach of the article is to provide a historical and cultural context for the Shambhala teachings and for their relevance to contemporary global crises, and to provide scriptural and commentarial support for the view of compassion as a motivation for creating enlightened society.

Buddhism has always been associated with compassion. The Buddha said that he instructed his monastics to go forth and teach “for the good of the many, for the happiness of the many, out of compassion for the world, for the welfare, the good and the happiness of gods and humans.”[2] Compassion teachings pervade all Buddhist lineages, and they are among the most compelling practices currently being pursued by Western practitioners. From mettā or lovingkindness practices to the brahmāvihāras, tonglen, and contemporary self-compassion and communal compassion practices, Buddhism has introduced profound and pragmatic ways for practitioners to become more caring and responsive to themselves and to others. As the Dalai Lama famously said, “We can reject everything else: religion, ideology, all received wisdom. But we cannot escape the necessity of love and compassion… This, then, is my true religion, my simple faith.”[3]

While there are many sources on compassion in Buddhism, very little has been written about the founding tradition of Naropa University, and the very special teachings of Naropa’s founder. This tradition of Shambhala [4] “is rooted in the contemplative teachings of Buddhism, yet is a fresh expression of the spiritual journey of our time. It teaches how to live in a secular world with courage and compassion” according to the Shambhala International website.[5] This paper will address Shambhala’s unique and visionary teachings on compassion and on creating enlightened society.

Shambhala History and Lineage

While it is easy enough to dismiss the kingdom of Shambhala as pure fiction, it is also possible to see in this legend the expression of a deeply rooted and very real human desire for a good and fulfilling life.”
Chögyam Trungpa[6] 

Tibetan Buddhism has always promoted powerful methods of personal transformation focused on transmuting the habitual energy of aggression, attachment, and bewilderment into compassion and wisdom. These methods begin with individual commitment to unmask the egocentric preoccupation that has, from beginningless time, caused such harm to others, as well as to oneself. With the realization that all beings, like ourselves, have the simple yearning to be happy and to avoid suffering, it is difficult to ignore the cries of the world. In the tradition of the bodhisattva, the compassionate meditations have served as the core of personal and societal transformation. In Tibet, these meditations serve as reminders that we can individually place the needs of others before our own needs, sparking the “turning of the tide” of egocentric concerns. These are at the core of Tibet’s treasury of compassion practices.

However, in contemporary society many agree that the factors that contribute to a degradation of dignity of human life are systemic, environmental, and complex, rendering merely individual efforts insufficient to the task. For this reason, the Tibetan Buddhist teacher Ven. Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche (1939-1987) brought the transmissions of another important but lesser-known Tibetan tradition to his communities in the United States, Canada, and Europe. This is the tradition of Shambhala, named for the legendary enlightened kingdom, beloved in Tibet from historic roots to contemporary times. Through centuries of interaction with Buddhism, Shambhala became an esoteric transmission regarding the cultivation of “enlightened society,” universal in scope, compassionate in intention, and peaceful in its methods. Shambhala teachings blend influences from three primary sources: the Kālacakra-tantra tradition from 11th century India, Tibetan lore from the Gesar epic, and the Dzogchen tradition of the Nyingma.[7]

 The Kālacakra-tantra teachings were given by the Buddha in the last year of his life to the king of Shambhala at Dhānyakaṭaka, in southern India in the place known as Amrāvati. Shambhala, literally “the place where tranquility is certain,” was a kingdom hidden north of the Himālayas in Inner Asia, “north of the River Sīta.”[8] King Sucandra (Dawa Sangpo in Tibetan) requested teachings from the Buddha that would allow him to reverse the traditional trajectory of renunciation, leaving home and responsibilities in order to pursue the path of dharma as a mendicant monk. He asked instead for teachings that would empower him to rule his kingdom in an enlightened manner, bringing wisdom and compassion together with strong leadership in order to directly benefit his subjects and his entire kingdom. His envisioned a completely enlightened society in which the citizens value the simplicity and beauty of human culture and harmonious community. The Buddha taught the king what has been considered the most subtle, sophisticated, and advanced dharma teachings in the world based on the Vajrayāna tradition of tantra.[9]

A second stream of influence with the Shambhala teachings comes from the indigenous pre-Buddhist Tibetan tradition of Gesar, the legendary warrior king who battled enemy forces in order to create a peaceful and harmonious society. Gesar was not a Buddhist, but his warriorship has been emblematic in Tibetan culture from early times and infused multiple aspects of later Tibetan Buddhist culture. In fact, under the influence of Buddhism, Gesar’s teachings became part of the strength, inspiration, and resilience of Tibetan Buddhist culture. The legend of Gesar is the last undiscovered epic in world literature, the first volume of which has recently been translated.[10] Through later Buddhist interpretation, Gesar was said to operate under the spiritual mandate of Padmasambhava to lead his kingdom against corrupting and divisive forces in order to create an enlightened society. Beloved by the Tibetan people, Gesar is considered a magical being whose inconceivable skill established the foundations of Tibet’s sacred culture. While his battles are described conventionally, later Buddhist accounts of the epic point to shamanic mastery of natural and human elements that make his leadership powerful. For example, in this perspective Gesar’s enemies are former tantric yogis whose arrogant misuse of the practice turned them against the dharma itself. Defeating them brings integrity and authenticity back to Tibet’s sacred practices while restoring the yogis to their dharma commitments.[11]

 

Gesar | Illustration by Alicia Brown

Gesar | Illustration by Alicia Brown

 

Gesar

In modern times, the Gesar epic has been deeply influenced by Chinese culture from the Yuan emperors, bringing elements of Confucian political philosophy into Tibetan culture.[12] When Chögyam Trungpa taught about enlightened society, he drew from post-antiquity Sino-Tibetan notions of the philosopher-king who blended Tibetan indigenous[13] and Indian Buddhist elements together with Chinese medicine and astrology. From his perspective, these teachings have tremendous relevance in the contemporary west where respectful, visionary leadership is so rare and the need for it is so dire.

Thirdly, the Shambhala teachings are closely associated with the Atiyoga or Dzogchen lineages of Tibet. Dzogchen, or the “great perfection,” is considered the highest, most ancient and direct body of teachings of Buddhism, closely related to the pre-Buddhist, indigenous traditions of Tibet. The Great Perfection is not an outward goal for which we strive, but the fundamental perfection that is already present in the mindstream of beings, the completeness and goodness in the very nature of life. It cannot be perfected, because it is already inherently present, like the vast purity of the sky in which clouds may suddenly appear. The clouds cannot impede the sky or change its vastness, clarity, or accommodation. The focus of Dzogchen meditation practice is simply to realize that inherent purity and perfection of the basic nature. The great 20th century Dzogchen master, HH Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche wrote: “The practice is simply to realise the radiance, the natural expression of wisdom, which is beyond all intellectual concepts.”[14]

The tantric teachings of Dzogchen come from two Buddhist sources: the long transmission (ka-ma) of teachings traced back to the great masters of India, found in some of the essential tantras of the Nyingma lineage; and the short transmissions of treasure teachings (terma) hidden by the great adept Padmasambhava and his consort, Yeshe Tsogyal, to be revealed at auspicious moments throughout history.[15] Terma teachings are especially potent for practitioners in the Nyingma lineages, for the blessings are fresh and undiluted, and the message addresses particular circumstances and contexts in a particularly relevant way. In the Dzogchen lineage, certain realized teachers who have special qualities can discover the hidden treasure teachings through visionary means. They are called tertöns, or treasure discoverers; often it is their spiritual heirs who propagate the terma teachings, and these heirs are called terdak, or treasure propagators.

Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche received Shambhala transmissions in both the long transmission, from his root guru Jamgon Kongtrul of Shechen, and as a tertön, through mind discovery in a series of visionary transmissions both in Tibet and the United States.[16] These teachings apply the ancient Kālacakra vision of enlightened society to the contemporary complexities of militarism, consumerism, and environmental degradation, as well as to the malaise and hopelessness that accompany them. He passed these teachings on to his dharma heir, Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche, his eldest son who is the propagator (terdak) of his father’s treasure teachings. Together they have founded the Shambhala lineage.

The three main streams of influence on the Shambhala teachings weave together naturally in the culture of Kham and Golok regions in East Tibet. It was customary for monastic and lay culture in this region to weave together the Kālacakra, the post-antiquity Gesar epic, and Dzogchen practice and indigenous cultural elements into a single fabric of sacredness.[17] These streams became a living tradition under the influence of the great Jamgon Ju Mipham, the nineteenth century Rime (nonsectarian) master known for prodigious scholarship, instigation of Nyingma philosophical renaissance, and special connection with the Kālacakra-tantra and the Gesar epic. When he died in 1912, Mipham famously told his students he would not be conventionally incarnated, but would be reborn in Shambhala.[18] Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche was recognized in 1995 as Ju Mipham’s present emanation by His Holiness Penor Rinpoche, the head of the Nyingma lineage (1932-2009).

Trungpa Rinpoche had a particular passion and urgency about the transmission of the Shambhala vision and practices he had received. These were teachings of utmost relevance, for they provided a spiritual path with a social vision that shored up visionary solutions for the depression and hopelessness of our time. Having fled a medieval and isolated Tibetan society overrun by militant Communist China, he was deeply affected by the forces of materialism that drive contemporary international values, and he devoted his final decade of teaching to ways to ameliorate the violence and greed he observed. Central to his Shambhala teachings was the importance of “enlightened warriorship” based on gentleness and courage. 

Warriorship in the Shambhala Lineage 

“A true warrior is never at war with the world.”
Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche

The Shambhala teachings are based on the warrior traditions of Asia, including cultures of India, China, Japan, and Tibet. While they reject the outward violence and unscrupulousness of the combat fighter, the Shambhala teachings embrace the discipline of the warriors’ training and the bravery and confidence necessary to sustain the strength of constantly facing challenges. Trungpa Rinpoche wrote:

Warriorship here does not refer to making war on others. Aggression is the source of our problems, not the solution. Here the word “warrior” is taken from the Tibetan pawo, which literally means “one who is brave.” Warriorship in this context is the tradition of human bravery, or the tradition of fearlessness.[19]

In this, the Shambhala teachings embrace the Tibetan folk hero Gesar, who exhibited bravery without aggression.

We live in an era where such bravery is necessary, for we are faced with daunting problems that can easily give rise to aggression on the one hand or hopelessness and depression on the other. The forces of militarism, globalization, and environmental degradation have weakened the fabric of our human communities and have undermined the life-force (sok) of individuals, rendering them helpless. The path of the warrior requires that we not give up on humanity or the earth community. Instead, we must raise our gaze to look carefully and reflectively at our communal human life and identify how we can be of help. The answers to the world’s problems will come from within our everyday experience, not from ideologies, political philosophies, or economic theories.

It is always assumed in the Shambhala teachings that compassion is the motivation of the warrior, though the way compassion is spoken of differs somewhat from the Buddhist teachings alone. In this essay, we will explore the core teachings of the Shambhala teachings in order to trace the contours of its presentation.

It is important to understand the cosmology and the Shambhala lineage for context. According to Kālacakra-tantra lore, the future of humanity will be increasingly threatened by barbarians (lalo in Tibetan), harbingers of the decline in the quality of life and of the increase in warfare, greed, and environmental destruction.[20] In the meantime, the lore speaks of the teachings of Buddhism as guarded and protected by a lineage of seven enlightened kings (dharmarājas) and twenty-five bodhisattva kings (kalki, or rigden) who protect the Buddhist teachings and guard the dignity of humanity under duress.[21] Each of these kings was predicted in the Kālachakra to live one hundred years. Eventually, when the forces of the degenerate age advance and the world descends into intractable violence and greed, the twenty-fifth Kalki (Rigden) king will appear with his enlightened army to bring about a new Golden Age, restoring the peace, harmony, and humanity of the world.[22] Various predictions from the Kālacakra traditions suggest this will occur in the 25th century, though others suggest that the degenerate forces are accelerating this time sequence.

In Tibet there are those who take these teachings as apocalyptic, vilifying the Muslim sources that threatened 11th century India and Tibet, but in the Shambhala lineage they are understood quite differently. In the contemporary Shambhala teachings, the forces of degeneration are already apparent, rendering gentle warriorship a timely response. With the help of the Kālacakra-tantra and Shambhala teachings, trained warriors are not daunted by the degenerate age. Instead, they find power and clarity in the midst of chaos and see the basic goodness and humanity in every situation. They are resilient in the midst of challenge, contented in the maelstrom of greed, and peaceful in the face of aggression. Their tantric training shows them how to turn the distractions of the life of a householder into a good human society. Their enlightened army wields weapons of kindness, strength, and wisdom to invigorate the life force of their communities and the world.

Basic Goodness 

“The world is in constant turmoil because beings have not discovered their basic goodness.”
Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche[23] 

The secret teaching of Shambhala sounds simple, and it is. It is the teaching of basic goodness, domine sangpo.[24] Human beings are good. We are complete, unmistaken, and there is nothing we lack. No matter what happens to us, no matter what we do, our underlying motivations are based on human feeling, the human heart. Everything that arises—doubt, fear, irritation, boredom—is an expression of that goodness. This is called “the great cosmic secret” transmitted by King Sucandra to the subjects of Shambhala.

The essence of all beings from beginningless time, this universal truth has always existed. It transcends the notions of good and bad; therefore it is primordial. It is beyond time and space; therefore it is inconceivable. It surpasses thought and nonthought; therefore it is remarkable… This rare human gift is at our fingertips day or night, whether we are walking, sleeping, or talking. It constantly pulsates within our being, ever transmitting wakefulness that has never known doubt or fear.[25]

The teaching of basic goodness is not a tenet or article of faith; it is presented as a quality that must be experienced. The Kālacakra says, “The nature of the primordial cannot be expressed in words, but with the eyes of the master’s teaching it will be seen.”[26] We can speak of basic goodness as much as we like, but without a direct experience of it, there is little understanding.

A direct way to experience basic goodness is through the sitting practice of meditation. We are taught by a lineage teacher to synchronize body and mind so that we can experience nowness, the present moment. This simple practice is an expression of accepting ourselves, our experience, and the world without judgment or bias. Then we can experience the goodness of our humanity.

According to the contemporary Shambhala teachings, the most daunting aspect of the degenerate age is the endemic sense of worthlessness and hopelessness that most people feel, no matter what cultural environment they may inhabit. We have given up on human nature and human society. While we may find exceptions in a few remarkable people, we feel that most humans, especially ourselves, are disappointing and inadequate. We are convinced that society especially is flawed. The 20th century confirmed our worst opinions about how humans behave in groups, and the 21st century is making strides to intensify that view.

These self-defeating views contribute to the dilemma of modern life. Our inner defeat leads to external disaster, and vice versa. The Shambhala warrior sees that the true antidote to the degenerate age is found in deep investigation of human nature through meditation. Then we see that the true nature of basic goodness is never distorted by circumstances, and that impurities are merely temporary ripples. 

The Genuine Heart of Sadness 

Sadness is precisely the heart of warriorship.”
Chögyam Trungpa[27] 

When we sit in nowness, we discover a kind of nakedness in our experience where we just are. We are not doing; we are being. This does not mean we have no thoughts or emotions. It means that whatever is occurring in our minds happens against a backdrop of utter simplicity, openness, and immediacy. There is no exaggeration and no minimizing. Everything is very straightforward.

This experience, however, is not merely a blank or vast empty sky. We discover this simplicity by tasting our own human heart, which is an experience of what is called the “genuine heart of sadness.” We find ourselves with ourselves, with all our storylines and habits, all our misgivings and hopes, and we are just there. Fundamentally, there is nothing happening. Within the space of that moment, we feel a quality of tenderness, vulnerability, and unconditional sadness. It is a poignant moment in which we are most in touch with our genuine humanity.

The genuine heart of sadness comes from feeling your nonexistent heart is full. You would like to spill your heart’s blood, give your heart to others. For the warrior, this experience of sad and tender heart is what gives birth to fearlessness.[28]

The sadness described here is not sadness about anything in particular, but is a constant companion as a kind of subtle mood. It is distinctly different from depression in that it involves a kind of tenderness that makes us more open to others, rather than wishing to withdraw into ourselves. The tenderness is about feeling our own experience and being touched by the beauty of human life. It is always there, not dependent upon circumstances, and it is never tragic. “Whatever you do to try to forget that sadness—sadness will always be there. The more you try to enjoy yourself and the more you do enjoy, nonetheless there is still the constant sadness of being alone.”[29]

The experience of the genuine heart of sadness has tremendous poignancy and joy as well. It is associated with aesthetic appreciation, being touched by the beauty and preciousness of human life. The samurai traditions of Japan place tremendous emphasis upon this kind of subtle and pervasive sad enjoyment. While appreciating the vividness of sense perceptions—of the placement of a stone in the garden, of the taste of bitter tea on the tongue—sadness about the transitory and vibrant beauty of the moment fills our empty hearts.[30] In this experience, we discover our humanity in a personal and intimate way.

The warrior joins sadness and delight together as a way to taste sadness rather than indulging in it. That is authentic tenderness, the experience of human goodness. As Trungpa Rinpoche wrote, 

you should feel that way with everything you do. Whether you have a good time or a bad time, you should feel sad and delighted at once… Joining sadness and joy is the only mechanism that brings the vision of the Great Eastern Sun.[31]

The Great Eastern Sun is the full bloom of Shambhala vision of basic goodness and its manifestation as enlightened society.

Sadness and Bodhicitta: The Seed of Compassion 

“The warrior’s duty is to generate warmth and compassion for others.”
Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche

The experience of the genuine heart of sadness is an aspect of what both the Buddhist and Shambhala teachings speak of as bodhicitta, the awakened heart or the supreme thought. Bodhicitta is the topic of many Indian Mahāyāna texts, from the Prajñāpāramitā-sūtras and Saṃdhinirmocana-sūtra to the śāstras of Śāntideva and Kamalaśīla. No Buddhist teaching is complete without an extensive exposition of bodhicitta, for the tender motivation to benefit beings that is generally associated with relative bodhicitta is always coupled with the recognition of the ultimate insubstantiality and interdependence of all phenomena, a recognition associated with absolute bodhicitta.

Bodhicitta teachings became foundational in Tibetan Buddhism from the time of Ātiśa in the 11th century, and sources on bodhicitta abound in the Tibetan tradition. Śāntideva is considered the most venerable source of exposition of bodhicitta, and his 8th century composition, the Bodhicāryāvatāra, the entrance to the way of the bodhisattva, is the most popular Indian text in Tibet. As Śāntideva famously said of compassion,

All the joy the world contains
Has come through wishing happiness for others.
All the misery the world contains
Has come through wanting pleasure for oneself.[32]

This quote has become a slogan used by many Tibetan teachers, often glossed as “If you want to be miserable, think of yourself. If you want to be happy, think of others.” Throughout Śāntideva’s presentation, bodhicitta is described as the motivation to benefit others embedded in the recognition that other beings do not inherently exist and that their relative happiness cannot be separated from our own. His luminous verses guide the practitioner to transform personal preoccupations and fixations into compassionate care for others.

In the Sakyong lineage of Shambhala, Śāntideva is also beloved, serving as the foundation for most of the teachings on compassion. [33] Bodhicitta is nicknamed “the supreme thought,” lhaksam in Tibetan, which means that compassion and care for others are the pinnacle of human life, the “most supreme thought that the mind could possibly have.” [34] Lhaksam is spontaneous and natural, arising from the best of human nature, basic goodness. It is also considered the seed of enlightenment, for the essence of Buddhahood is wishing perfect happiness for all.

Such an attitude takes bravery, and so those who commit to bodhicitta are considered to be bodhisattva-warriors, those for whom their love is greater than their fear. When confronting the challenges of life—from life-threatening illness to warfare to disasters—they are the ones who choose not to retreat into mere personal survival, but who recognize that suffering affects everyone. They are the ones who are willing to work for the greater good of human society, seeing the fundamental potential of human life. They know that individual, personal happiness is not possible and that our human life must involve placing the happiness of others as primary. When bodhisattva-warriors have a terminal illness, they do not just retreat into their rooms, but start a support group for others with the same illness. When disaster strikes, they do not merely bail their own basements but organize teams bailing the flooding in the streets and preventing future floods.

This care for others is deeply motivated by the sadness the bodhisattva-warrior feels when encountering suffering, especially unnecessary suffering. This is not a tragic sadness, but recognition of how suffering works in human life.

In a moment of horror, one realizes that there is no source of this pain. The suffering is completely unnecessary. It would be another matter if there were, in fact, a self that was causing it. However, the only source—if it can be considered to be a source—is the mind’s confusion.[35]

Bodhisattva warriors feel the poignancy of the human condition, sadness for unnecessary suffering mixed with joy of connection with and care for others, and this becomes a motivating force in working for the benefit of others. “When the supreme thought occurs in the mind, one becomes fearless and brave,”[36] especially in working for the benefit of others.

The bodhisattva is a warrior because feeling the pain of others does not end the journey. “Instead of overwhelming and defeating us, the plight of human existence has the power to spark our deep-seated human valor and nobility.”[37] The challenge of helping the world becomes a life-giving purpose that uplifts and cheers the warrior, even while sadness touches her heart. Her fundamental inspiration comes from the personal experience of basic goodness, and her confidence comes from affirming this goodness throughout life.

The Supreme Thought and Enlightened Society 

“Our hearts long to beat together.
Naturally, there is warmth, kindness, and love.”
Sakyong Mipham[38]

There is a slightly different emphasis in how teachings on bodhicitta are used in Shambhala, and the key is a larger, more societally-oriented motivation. Generally speaking, the compassion teachings in Buddhism emphasize individually working to benefit other beings, one at a time. The Shambhala teachings speak of social benefit—creating a society that highlights human goodness and ripens the capacity to manifest that goodness in community. The purpose of warriorship is to create an enlightened society.

The emphasis on societal happiness influences the Shambhala reading of Mahāyāna Buddhist history. It is well known that the Gupta period in India (320-700 C.E.), during which Mahāyāna flourished, was a classical age of Indian art, commerce, and culture.[39] As Sakyong Mipham observes,

the dynamic power of raising the supreme thought of bodhicitta to benefit others created a flourishing culture that celebrated human goodness and extolled the beauty of the world. This transformed Buddhism from an individual pursuit to a cultural pursuit. The arts and philosophy blossomed. We Shambhalians should draw great inspiration from the tradition of the Mahayana. It is part of our heritage.[40]

From a Shambhala point of view, when we embrace bodhicitta and the path of warriorship we enjoy the same possibility of celebrating community and culture, developing the arts and philosophy, and nurturing a new golden age of humanity.

The reason for the emphasis on society is found in the basic goodness teachings themselves. If all beings are basically good, a fundamental tenet of Shambhala, this means that human society is also good. In Tibetan, this is expressed as mi sipa sangpo: sangpo refers to the nondual sense of goodness or completeness (as opposed to yakpo, which means good versus bad)—intrinsically good. Mi is “human.” Sipa usually refers to the confused aspect of human life, saṃsāra, suffering. In this context, sipa refers to connectivity and community of all beings, full of the “desire to communicate, touch, and love one another.”[41] It refers to the universe of relationships, and even to politics, usually considered to be irredeemable but in this case “possible” to awaken into deep goodness. Those polluted elements of human life are, in their intrinsic nature, awakened, harmonious, pure, and full of possibility.[42] Society is basically good, already, in its very nature.

This means that the Shambhala teachings are not utopian. They are not referring to a future society in another place, another time, with another model. Enlightened society is the human society in which we already live; it is the society where everyone lives. We only need to awaken to the fundamental goodness and wakefulness embedded in the fabric of humanity. Everyone wishes to raise their children in an environment of peace and harmony, in which the customs and traditions of the family and community are passed along to the next generation. Every culture has its celebrations and ceremonies, its rites of passage, and its meaningful work. Every community takes pride in its food and crafts, its manufactured goods and trade, its hobbies and occupations. Even communities held hostage by warfare or sectarian strife, pitched into flight as refugees, or secularized by rapid industrialization and urbanization, have a longing for these cultural practices, and these communities are all evidence of the inherent enlightenment of society, according to Shambhala.

The Warrior’s Training in Compassion 

The essence of warriorship, or the essence of human bravery, is refusing to give up on anyone or anything.”
Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche[43] 

Like Buddhism, the warrior’s compassion practices involve supreme thought (bodhicitta) and lovingkindness practices, as well as sādhana practices that take the basic goodness of humans and of society as their object. The warrior commits to the sacred outlook (daknang) of seeing basic goodness in oneself, in others, and in society through formal vows and sādhana practice.[44] These are practiced, however, with special attention to the core Shambhala transmission regarding the life-force of humanity.

These teachings feature the yogic dimension of warrior training—a unique way of bringing yogic practice to societal benefit. The Shambhala teachings state that one of the causes of the current degenerate age is the weakened life-force (sok) that is core to the quality of life of individuals and communities.[45] In Tibetan medicine, yoga, and cosmology, the life-force is a psychophysical element in our ability to connect with inherent enlightenment or basic goodness and have harmony with others. If our life-force is low, our meditation practices—no matter how profound—will be of limited success. In the Shambhala teachings, the life-force is enhanced by the experience of lungta, literally “wind-horse,” bringing the vitality of the warrior’s horse into energetic connotation. Lungta is closely related to the practices of ch’i in China and prāṇa in India, arousing psychophysical energy coursing through the body.[46] Lungta is an actual warrior mind-body practice enhanced by a combination of lineage blessings, community life, and healthful lifestyle. Teachings on lungta are associated with both the Buddhist and indigenous shamanic traditions of Tibet and are linked with the dralas, or divine beings who protect the lives of individuals and communities.

While the name drala literally means “gods against enemies,” in the Shambhala teachings dralas protect against anything that jeopardizes the life-force of humans.[47] Dralas are closely related to the Rigdens, the bodhisattva kings of the Kālacakra-tantra. Humans can reawaken their life-force by drawing upon the blessings of dralas found in a visionary realm, in the natural world, and in the human body and mind itself. Dralas can also be human saints, bodhisattvas, who work tirelessly for the benefit of others. Through the blessings of the dralas, human lungta can strengthen and radiate, attracting and nurturing the continued influence of the dralas.

Fundamentally, however, drala is not a deity. Drala is the power of things as they are in the world and especially in our own beings—our own wisdom, our ability to connect directly with how things are in our experience. We might say that drala is our life-force, and it is found in gentleness and kindness rather than aggression.

But true magic is the magic of reality, as it is: the earth of earth, the water of water—communicating with the elements so that, in some sense, they become one with you When you develop bravery, you make a connection with the elemental quality of existence.[48]

Altogether, drala is the magical, synchronistic aspect of the world when seen without the limiting influence of merely self-centered perspectives. Magnetizing drala and raising lungta are the fundamental practices of warriorship.

When a warrior trains, Buddhist practices of śamatha-vipaśyanā meditation are foundational for connecting her with basic goodness. In addition to these practices, however, those that rouse lungta and attract the dralas are especially important, for they strengthen the confidence (ziji) of the warrior. In the degenerate age when humans become quickly discouraged or exhausted, this confidence brings a resilient compassion that can fulfill the vow to create enlightened society. These practices include meditations, ceremonies, warrior practices, and community celebrations.

When invoking drala and arousing lungta, the world becomes alive, vibrant, and sacred. “When you invoke drala, you begin to experience basic goodness reflected everywhere—in yourself, in others, and in the entire world.” [49] This experience fills the warrior’s mind with possibilities, and problems do not seem intractable anymore. The fundamental goodness and healthiness inherent in circumstances seem more apparent, and an ancient optimism and vitality bloom both within the warrior’s mind and within the circumstances themselves. This experience brings greater likelihood of finding allies and collaborators and of discovering organic solutions for society’s deepest difficulties.

Creating Enlightened Society

“The warriors approach is that, rather than trying to overcome the elements of existence, one should respect their power and their order as a guide to human conduct.”
Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche[50] 

The ultimate commitment of warriorship is to create enlightened society. At first, this commitment might seem almost messianic, invoking the aspiration of a crusader. But that approach is actually ego-centered and aggressive, manifesting more conventional than mystic. The crusader’s approach to social change is the most common and has not been successful. Instead, the warrior begins a journey of personal transformation first, and then continues this journey with further magical and actual engagement with the natural elements of existence. This approach discovers that “creating enlightened society” is seeing the inherent, unacknowledged sacredness of society and the world and becoming harmoniously attuned with it. It is a journey that joins yogic, relational, and societal dimensions.[51]

This journey begins with investigating the fundamental nature of humanity, identifying whether basic goodness is true and clear. How we feel about ourselves has a tremendous impact on everything we are and do.

When we feel goodness, a shift occurs: We get curious, which sparks care. We begin to see goodness happening in so many ways—rational and irrational, visible and invisible, and through signs, words, and examples. From that arise virtues like patience, exertion, and generosity.[52]

When warriors develop confidence in basic goodness, they become stakeholders in the society in which they live, and their activities are committed to bringing out the goodness of those societies. Becoming stakeholders depends upon appreciation, not merely critique.

Still, bringing out basic goodness in society is not a quick fix. It requires tuning into our communities and identifying ways to help its members to awaken to basic goodness. The gateway to basic goodness is through feeling, through affirming that our sense perceptions and emotional undertones are accurate, authentic, and worthy of respect. It is impossible to tune into feeling when we are speedy, and so finding time to connect to ourselves and to others through feeling is foundational for creating enlightened society. Sharing joy, sorrow, tenderness, and excitement builds relationship with others; learning to truly listen to others is the key. Doing so with kindness and gentleness ensures that we can honor our connection with others in a way that builds genuine community.

The foundation of creating enlightened society is relational, especially through our intimate family relationships. The Shambhala household is the unit of enlightened society, the matrix that provides the opportunity for the everyday practice of kindness and shared humanity. Trungpa Rinpoche wrote, “I learned a great deal about the principles of human society from the wisdom of my mother.”[53] Parenting puts us directly in touch with this intimacy, the ground of generosity and nurture of confidence in basic goodness. The Shambhala teachings include practices that cherish the household and hearth, as well as the relationships we develop with our spouses, children, and families.

Families and communities connect with each other through the ceremony of daily life—formally through celebration of holidays, religious and secular, and informally through the rhythms of the life stages, calendar, and seasons. Civic life routinely acknowledges community in a variety of ways, through governance, commerce, education, and change. Whether through the farmers’ market, the opening of a new library, sporting teams’ events, graduations, or funerals, communities have a way of acknowledging who they are and what they want to be. By bringing forward the intention to foster human goodness, warriors can contribute to ceremonies that create community contexts of meaning. They can infuse these ceremonies with kindness and appreciation in order to strengthen the fabric of connection.

For that matter, when the warrior begins to experience the sacredness of life, then all life is a ceremony. Every interaction is special. Each meal has specialness in its preparation, its enjoyment, and its cleanup. Going to work is joining the ceremony of the workplace, and returning home reactivates the ceremony of household and family. Everyday life is an opportunity to appreciate the inherent goodness of human life and human discourse, no matter how many people it may involve. The warrior can be present for life, and when doing this, the huge reservoir of lungta that animates life awaits.

When life is viewed in this way, the warrior has an opportunity to choose how to participate in the global ceremony of human life. How does this influence our buying patterns, our relationship with our natural resources, our responses to threats and attacks? The warrior can choose a life ceremony that considers long-term effects on the planet and its inhabitants. Sakyong Mipham writes,

what happens next on earth is totally up to us. If we are willing to work for a wholesome future, then humanity’s future truly does lie in our hands, for it will come about only through manual labor powered by our illumination. This creates a twinkle in the eye, brings a smile to the lips, and broadens our sense of conviction. In this light, humanity’s future can occur because we are willing to hold it in our own hands.[54]

Because current circumstances represent the ceremony of a kind of spiritual sleep and denial, the biggest responsibility of the warrior is to join with others to change society’s ceremony to one that honors, respects, and loves all of humanity. The future ceremony of society will be determined by what values we put in place.

Conclusion: Gentle Urgency 

“The world does need your help so badly, very badly. So, on behalf of this world [smiling], I would like to request you to come and do something about it.”
Chögyam Trungpa[55]

From certain perspectives, this kind warrior training might be viewed as having little effect on the cataclysmic challenges of contemporary life. A critic would suggest that developing lungta and compassion is an anemic contribution to creating enlightened society, contributing few concrete solutions to the current crisis. But Shambhala is part of a worldwide “engaged Buddhism” movement that suggests a new approach, one that does not fall into adversarial methods or quick fixes. It is more of a paradigm shift about what it looks like to systemically change the basis of conflict. Spiritually-based social engagement like this suggests that the problems of our time belong to us as well, and that there can be no change without personal transformation.[56] We cannot simply create an alternative system that works; instead, we must use our understanding of the disease or symptom as a way to grow personally and societally toward more caring, penetrating compassion.[57]

One of the hallmarks of engaged Buddhism is giving up an adversarial approach. The basis of the analysis is different: there are no clear enemies. Thich Nhat Hanh writes, “Where is our enemy? I ask myself this all the time.”[58] For the Shambhala warrior, the enemy is not external. Instead, warriors battle their own fear and disheartenment. With confidence in basic goodness, the fundamental impulse to demonize others is put to rest, providing a completely different ground for activism.

Decades ago, in a penetrating essay he wrote shortly before being nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, the Dalai Lama asked the question, what are the real solutions to widespread warfare and violence in the world? If violence could be ended through waging war, then we should turn every resource of our world toward warfare and not rest until violence is defeated once and for all. But, as the Dalai Lama observed, we have tried that over and over again, and this has not been the solution to violence. He writes, “The time has come to try a different approach. Of course, it is very difficult to achieve a worldwide movement of peace of mind, but it is the only alternative. If there were an easier and more practical method, that would be better, but there is none.”[59]

The Shambhala tradition provides the basis for a powerful transformation of the motivation that seeks the welfare of the world and asks its citizens to step in and find a tangible, enduring way to help. Some Shambhala warriors have become activists; many have become leaders and visionaries in their fields. Most have been inspired by the dignity and beauty of everyday human life and have found ways to contribute to the long-term goal of enlightened society. They partner with others outside of Buddhism who share the vision of selfless service of the bodhisattva warrior, understanding that true compassion has never been the sole property of Buddhism or Shambhala. Through the transmissions of the Shambhala lineage, warriors have resilience and stamina and an ancient optimism about human potential. Within daily practice, they enjoy themselves by celebrating human capacity through appreciation of beauty through the arts, of human connection through community, and of wisdom through the cultivation of curiosity and investigation of the world. This means meeting friends new and old over coffee, having dinner parties and family celebrations, organizing community events, and going back to school for more education. Done with the proper attitude, these activities inspire confidence in the basic goodness of humanity. They also have the potential for contributing to the long-term goal of creating enlightened society.


 

Notes

[1] See the University website for information about the Radical Compassion Symposium that celebrates forty years of compassion work: http://www.naropa.edu/40/radical-compassion/. This paper was originally prepared for the Experts’ Meeting of the Uberoi Foundation for Religious Studies, held at Naropa University in September, 2014.

[2] Vinaya IV.20.

[3] Dalai Lama, The Ethics for a New Millennium (New York: Penguin Books, 2001), Chapter Sixteen.

[4] This paper uses the Anglicized version of the name, Śambhala, as that is what is generally used by this tradition in western settings. The term is Sanskrit; Tibetan is dejung (bde ‘byung).

[5] “Shambhala Vision,” (accessed July 16, 2014). http://www.shambhala.org/about_shambhala.php.

[6] Chögyam Trungpa, Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior (Boston: Shambhala Publications, 1984), 27.

[7] Other influences not treated in detail here are Confucian and Hindu Purāṇa sources and indigenous apocalyptic lore.

[8] The Sīta River is sometimes identified with the Tarim River in Eastern Turkestan. Shambhala is considered north of Tibet, Khotan, and China—which places it north of the Tian Shan. John Newman, “Itineraries to Śambhala,” Tibetan Literature: Studies in Genre, Jose Ignatio Cabezon and Roger R. Jackson, ed. (Ithaca: Snow Lion, 1996), 487.

[9] For further information on the Kālacakra origins of the Shambhala teachings, see: Khedrup Norsang Gyatso, Ornament of Stainless Light: An Exposition of the Kālacakra-tantra (Boston: Wisdom Publications, 2004), 1-20.

[10] Robin Kornman, Sangye Khandro, and Lama Chönam, The Epic of Ling: Gesar’s Magical Birth, Early Years, and Coronation as King (Boston: Shambhala Publications, 2012).

[11] Robin Kornman, “The Influence of the Epic of King Gesar of Ling on Chögyam Trungpa,” Recalling Chögyam Trungpa, edited by Fabrice Midal (Boston: Shambhala Publications, 2005), 356.

[12] Ibid., 350.

[13] R. A. Stein refrained from using the term Bön, calling the indigenous sources of the Gesar tradition “nameless.” Stein, 191-229.

[14] From a teaching on the Longchen Nyingtik Guru Yoga, given by Kyabje Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche in Dordogne, France in August 1984, at the request of Sogyal Rinpoche and the Rigpa Sangha. http://www.rigpawiki.org/index.php?title=Dzogchen.

[15] Geoffrey Samuel, Civilized Shamans: Buddhism in Tibetan Societies (Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1993), 228-230.

[16] Carolyn Gimian, “Introduction to Volume Eight,” The Collected Works of Chögyam Trungpa, Vol. VIII (Boston: Shambhala Publications, 2004), xii-xiv.

[17] Kornman, 369-370.

[18] Khenchen Jigme Phüntsok, Lama Mipham’s Miracles: The Sound of the Victorious Battle Drum Which Accompanies the Supplication to Omniscient Mipham Gyatso, translated by Ann Helm (Halifax: Nalanda Translation Committee, 1999), 2. 

[19] Trungpa, Sacred Path, 28.

[20] The Shambhala teachings share South Asia’s view of time, with ever-declining conditions of auspiciousness, culminating in the Kāli-yuga. The notion of the degenerate age is the backdrop of the Kālacakra-tantra, providing an opportunity to awaken through the special skillful means of tantra.

[21] Dalai Lama, The Kālacakra Tantra, Rite of Initiation for the Stage of Generation: A Commentary on the Text of Kay-drup-ge-lek-bel-sang-bo, edited by Jeffrey Hopkins (London: Wisdom Publications, 1985), 65; Gyatso, Ornament, 40-49.

[22] Gyatso, Ornament, 40-49.

[23] Shambhala Sādhana, 7.

[24] The Kālacakra-tantra speaks of basic goodness as the primordial mind, nyuk-ma sem.

[25] Mipham J. Mukpo, Shambhala Sadhana (Halifax: Kalapa Court, 2012), 2.

[26] Gyatso, 55.

[27] Chögyam Trungpa, Great Eastern Sun (Boston: Shambhala Publications, 1999), 185.

[28]Trungpa, Sacred Path, 46.

[29]Trungpa, Great Eastern Sun, 149.

[30] In Japanese traditions, this is spoken of as wabi-sabi, two of the aesthetic moods that characterize appreciation. For more information, see D. T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture (Princeton: Bollingen, 1957), Chapter 2, and Andrew Juniper, Wabi-Sabi, The Japanese Art of Impermanence (New York: Tuttle, 2003).

[31]Trungpa, Great Eastern Sun, 111.

[32] VIII.129, Padmakara Translation Group, The Way of the Bodhisattva (Boston: Shambhala Publications, 1997), 128.

[33] The great Dzogchen master Paltrul Rinpoche (1808-1887) revived Tibet’s interest in Śāntideva as he emphasized the importance of the Bodhicaryāvatāra as the foundation of Dzogchen practice. His students included Ju Mipham Gyatso, whose work spawned the popularity of Shambhala as a tradition.

[34] Dradul, Supreme Thought, 22.

[35] Dradul, Supreme Thought, 26.

[36] Dradul, Supreme Thought, 49.

[37] Dradul, Supreme Thought, 10.

[38] Dradul, Supreme Thought.

[39] Stanley Wolpert, A New History of India, Seventh Edition (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 88-104.

[40] Dradul, Supreme Thought. In Tibetan, mi’i srid pa zang po, transcribed sometimes as “sepa” and others as “sipa.” See Holly Gayley, “Society as Possibility: On the Semantic Range of the Tibetan Word Sipa,” The Arrow: A Journal of Wakeful Society, Culture and Politics, (accessed July 21, 2014). http://www.arrow-journal.org/society-as-possibility.

[41] Dradul, Supreme Thought, 5.

[42] Gayley, “Society as Possibility: On the Semantic Range of the Tibetan Word Sipa,” The Arrow: A Journal of Wakeful Society, Culture, and Politics, (accessed July 31, 2014). http://www.arrow-journal.org/society-as-possibility.

[43] Trungpa, Sacred Path, 33.

[44] These vows, roughly analogous to refuge and bodhisattva vows, are the Shambhala Vow and the Enlightened Society Vow, followed by practice of the Shambhala Sādhana: Discovering the Sun of Basic Goodness, composed by Jampal Trinley Dradul (Halifax: The Kalapa Court, 2012).

[45] R. A. Stein, Tibetan Civilization, translated by J. E. Stapleton Driver (Stanford: Stanford University, 1972), 202-212; Robin Kornman, “The Thirteen Dralas of Tibet,” (Halifax: Nalanda Translation Committee), 3 (accessed July 17, 2014). http://nalandatranslation.org/media/Thirteen-Dralas-of-Tibet-by-Robin-Kornman.pdf

[46] Stein, Tibetan Civilization, 223-224.

[47] Kornman, “Thirteen Dralas,” 3.

[48] Trungpa, Sacred Path, 109.

[49] Trungpa, Sacred Path, 126.

[50] Trungpa, Sacred Path, 129.

[51] Sakyong Mipham wrote that perhaps the reason his father spoke of “creating” had to do with the mood of the times in which he taught, a mood that emphasized dismantling, destroying. Perhaps the word “create” brought encouragement to “bolster humanity’s confidence in its ability to create a better world.” Sakyong Mipham, The Shambhala Principle: Discovery Humanity’s Hidden Treasure (Boston: Shambhala Publications, 2012), 36.

[52] Sakyong, Shambhala Principle, 31.

[53] Trungpa, Shambhala, 94.

[54] Sakyong, Shambhala Principle, Chapter 8.

[55]Chögyam Trungpa. Stafa. “Crazy Wisdom – The World Needs Your Help.” MP3, 0.40. (accessed July 16, 2014). http://m.stafaband.info/download/mp3/X3HIFIZIzLk.html

[56] Adam Lobel, “Practicing Society,” The Arrow: A Journal of Wakeful Society, Culture, and Politics, (accessed November 6, 2014), http://www.arrow-journal.org/practicing-society

[57] Robert Aitken, The Mind of Clover (Toronto: HarperCollins, 1984), 3-15; Kenneth Kraft, “Prospects of a Socially Engaged Buddhism,” Inner Peace, World Peace: Essays on Buddhism and Nonviolence, edited by Kenneth Kraft (Albany: State University of New York Press), 11-30.

[58]Thich Nhat Hanh, “Please Call Me by My True Names,” in Fred Eppsteiner, The Path of Compassion (Berkeley: Parallax Press, 1988), 33.

[59]Tenzin Gyatso (HH XIVth Dalai Lama), “Hope for the Future,” in Fred Eppsteiner, The Path of Compassion (Berkeley: Parallax Press, 1988), 7.


Bibliography 

Aitken, Robert. The Mind of Clover. Toronto: HarperCollins, 1984, 3-15.

Arnold, Edward A. As Long As Space Endures: Essays on the Kālacakra Tantra in Honor of H. H. the Dalai Lama. Ithaca: Snow Lion, 2009.

Bernbaum, Edwin. The Way to Shambhala: A Search for the Mythical Kingdom Beyond the Himalayas. Garden City, N.Y.: Anchor/Doubleday Books, 1980.

Dalai Lama, “Hope for the Future,” in Fred Eppsteiner, The Path of Compassion. Berkeley: Parallax Press, 1988.

Dalai Lama, The Ethics for a New Millenium. New York: Penguin Books, 2001.     

Dalai Lama. The Kālacakra Tantra, Rite of Initiation for the Stage of Generation: A Commentary on the Text of Kay-drup-ge-lek-bel-sang-bo, edited by Jeffrey Hopkins. London: Wisdom Publications, 1985.

Dhargyey, Geshe Lharampa Ngawang. A Commentary on the Kālacakra Tantra. Dharamsala: Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, 1994.

Dradul, Jampal Trinley. Shambhala Sadhana: Discovering the Sun of Basic Goodness. Halifax: Kalapa Court, 2012.

Dradul, Jampal Trinley. The Supreme Thought. Halifax & Cologne: Dragon Books, 2013.

Gayley, Holly. “Society as Possibility: On the Semantic Range of the Tibetan Word Sipa,” The Arrow: A Journal of Wakeful Society, Culture and Politics, (accessed July 21, 2014). http://www.arrow-journal.org/society-as-possibility.

Gimian, Carolyn. “Introduction to Volume Eight,” The Collected Works of Chögyam Trungpa, Vol. VIII. Boston: Shambhala Publications, 2004.

Gyatso, Khedrup Norsang. Ornament of Stainless Light: An Exposition of the Kālacakra-tantra (Boston: Wisdom Publications, 2004)

Juniper, Andrew. Wabi-Sabi, The Japanese Art of Impermanence. New York: Tuttle, 2003.

Kraft, Kenneth. “Prospects of a Socially Engaged Buddhism,” Inner Peace, World Peace: Essays on Buddhism and Nonviolence, edited by Kenneth Kraft. Albany: State University of New York Press, 11-30.

Kornman , Robin, Sangye Khandro, and Lama Chönam, tr. The Epic of Ling: Gesar’s Magical Birth, Early Years, and Coronation as King. Boston: Shambhala Publications, 2012.

Kornman, Robin. “The Influence of the Epic of King Gesar of Ling on Chögyam Trungpa,” Recalling Chögyam Trungpa, edited by Fabrice Midal. Boston: Shambhala Publications, 2005.

Kornman, Robin. “The Thirteen Dralas of Tibet,” (Halifax: Nalanda Translation Committee), 3, (accessed July 17, 2014). http://nalandatranslation.org/media/Thirteen-Dralas-of-Tibet-by-Robin-Kornman.pdf.

Lobel, Adam.  “Practicing Society,” The Arrow: A Journal of Wakeful Society, Culture and Politics, (accessed November 6, 2014), http://www.arrow-journal.org/practicing-society

Mipham, Sakyong. The Shambhala Principle: Discovery Humanity’s Hidden Treasure. Boston: Shambhala Publications, 2012.

Nhat Hanh, Thich. “Please Call Me by My True Names,” in Fred Eppsteiner, The Path of Compassion (Berkeley: Parallax Press, 1988).

Newman, John. “Itineraries to Śambhala,” Tibetan Literature: Studies in Genre, Jose Ignatio Cabezon and Roger R. Jackson, ed. Ithaca: Snow Lion, 1996.

Padmakara Translation Group. The Way of the Bodhisattva. Boston: Shambhala Publications, 1997.

Phüntsok, Khenchen Jigme. Lama Mipham’s Miracles: The Sound of the Victorious Battle Drum Which Accompanies the Supplication to Omniscient Mipham Gyatso, translated by Ann Helm. Halifax: Nalanda Translation Committee, 1999.

Samuel, Geoffrey. Civilized Shamans: Buddhism in Tibetan Societies. Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1993.

Stearns, Cyrus. The Buddha From Dölpo: A Study of the Life and Thought of the Tibetan Master Dölpopa Sherab Gyaltsen, 2nd Edition. Ithaca: Snow Lion, 2010.

Stein, R. A. Tibetan Civilization, translated by J. E. Stapleton Driver. Stanford: Stanford University, 1972.

Suzuki, D. T. Zen and Japanese Culture. Princeton: Bollingen, 1957.

Trungpa, Chögyam. Great Eastern Sun. Boston: Shambhala Publications, 1999.

Trungpa, Chögyam. Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior. Boston: Shambhala Publications, 1984.           

Trungpa , Chögyam. Stafa. “Crazy Wisdom – The World Needs Your Help.” MP3, 0.40, (accessed July 16, 2014). http://m.stafaband.info/download/mp3/X3HIFIZIzLk.html.

Wallace, Vesna. The Kālacakratantra: The Chapter on the Individual Together with the Vimalaprabhā. New York: American Institute of Buddhist Studies, Columbia University, 2004.

Wolpert, Stanley. A New History of India, Seventh Edition. New York: Oxford University Press, 2004.

Donate

Judith Simmer-Brown, Ph.D., is Distinguished Professor of Contemplative and Religious Studies at Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado, where she has taught since 1978. She is the Dean of the Shambhala International Teachers’ Academy, and teaches internationally for Shambhala as an acharya—a senior teacher. Her teaching specialties are meditation practice, Shambhala teachings, Buddhist philosophy, tantric Buddhism, and contemplative higher education. Her book, Dakini’s Warm Breath (Shambhala 2001), explores the feminine principle as it reveals itself in meditation practice and everyday life for women and men. She has also edited Meditation and the Classroom: Contemplative Pedagogy for Religious Studies (SUNY 2011). She had her husband, Richard, have two adult children and three grandchildren.

From: The Arrow


Moving Beyond the Language of Economic Utility

$
0
0

On a spring evening in Southern California, with too much school work and an uncooperative clock ticking away the day’s warmth, I glanced outside my window to find the sky imbued with the color of a sunset. Captured by its beauty and magic, I wondered whether I should take a break from writing my undergraduate thesis to watch. As the sky shifted from yellow-orange to reddish-pink, my thoughts turned to a cost-benefit analysis: “Is it worth it to go outside and watch? A break would interrupt my progress right now. On the other hand, refreshing myself might increase my productivity for the next half hour before dinner.” By then, of course, the sky had faded into deep purple, the sun slipping over the horizon.

 

Illustration by Alicia Brown

Illustration by Alicia Brown

 

As an overworked college student, evaluating actions in terms of productivity was common. Even now, several years after Microeconomics initially offered a powerful language for describing human decision-making, marginal utility remains a convenient—if not a little contrived—way of understanding my everyday choices. Indeed, since its inception, the field of economics has afforded society with ever more technical methods of analyzing the costs and benefits of individual and collective courses of action. So revered is the study of economics in modern society that the discipline’s lens for viewing and understanding the world proliferates far beyond the realm of business or the economy proper. Yet this reverence comes “at the cost” of a richer experience of our world and a deeper sense of our relationship to it.

The problem is not just that we occasionally use economic logic to inform decisions like whether to watch the sun set, but also that such logic constricts our public discourse. To be viewed as legitimate, arguments for or against controversial issues must incorporate economic reasoning. While useful, the predominance of economic logic ultimately hinders our ability to consider important issues from ethical, emotional, and spiritual perspectives that might provide alternative reference points and broaden the scope of conversation.

Public discourse on environmental issues suffers especially from this mindset; the debate over hydraulic fracturing, or “fracking”, is a case in point. Arguments in favor of fracking to extract natural gas from shale deposits unsurprisingly rely on political-economic reasoning: domestic shale gas extraction supports U.S. energy independence, which creates jobs at home, increases tax revenue from energy production, and reduces our dependence on foreign energy. To bolster these economic arguments with a semblance of environmental concern, fracking advocates point out that natural gas is ‘cleaner’ than oil or coal, emitting less carbon dioxide into the atmosphere per unit of energy burned.

“True enough,” the environmentalist might reply, “but natural gas is still dirtier than existing forms of renewable energy.”[1] Even this retort is problematic, according to philosopher and activist Charles Eisenstein: “Focusing on greenhouse gas emissions emphasizes the quantifiable while making the qualitative… invisible,” he writes. “Environmentalism is reduced to a numbers game,” rather than an expression of deep emotional connection to the earth.[2] No matter how dire the reality they reflect, climate data points have consistently proved insufficient to produce meaningful changes in human sentiment and behavior.

The ubiquity of the “quantifiable” is reflected in fracking opponents’ focus on the economic externalities of the industry. Highlighting the harmful effects of fracking on water availability, water and air quality, and seismic activity, opponents argue that the externalized social and environmental costs of shale gas extraction are too great to warrant its continuation.

These are valid points that should be carefully considered before new wells are drilled—not suspiciously ignored as the EPA has done.[3] However, they all carry with them an implicit presupposition: if hydraulic fracturing could be engineered to avoid all risk of air and water contamination, to minimize water usage (e.g., by recycling frack water), and to contain seismic activity to remote areas, then environmentalist opponents ought to acquiesce to the continued growth of the shale gas market. In other words, the validity of opponents’ arguments depends on their reliance on measurable, short-term environmental damage that may or may not be a necessary consequence of fracking.

That the fracking debate revolves around the economic benefits versus the environmental risks (i.e. the externalities)—both of which fall within the narrow purview of economic reasoning—is indicative of the types of arguments that modern technocratic society legitimates. Arguments for environmental protection such as those articulated above, notes Eisenstein, “are problematic because they affirm the very assumption we need to question, that decisions in general should be made according to economic calculations.”[4] Free ourselves from this constraint, and we might question the cultures of economic growth, resource extraction, and exploitation that hydraulic fracturing embodies and perpetuates. No longer beholden to empirical studies on the danger of water contamination from frack water, we could instead reason that regardless of quantitative economic and environmental considerations, hydraulic fracturing is wrong on principle because it violates the earth’s sacredness.

What it means to see nature as sacred—or to maintain a sacred outlook, as some spiritual traditions put it—is not easily defined, and sacredness itself has many qualities. One quality articulated by deep ecologists is the innate value of the well-being and flourishing of the whole world—human and non-human—“independent of the usefulness of the non-human world for human purposes.”[5] The Universal Declaration of the Rights of Mother Earth[6] and a number of declarations of interdependence[7] emphasize the interdependence of living beings and the aliveness or living quality of entities not often considered to be living organisms—rocks, mountains, oceans, ecosystems—as fundamental qualities of the earth’s sacredness. The sacred outlook promoted in these documents is one of deep respect for the natural world as “precious” and “wondrous.”[8]

Such words suggest a strong feeling underlying the intellect of these theories. Experientially, sacred outlook connotes a “sense of wonder and appreciation of the earth’s beauty,” leading one “to feel deeply for our physical environment.”[9] From such appreciation comes gratitude for the earth’s sustenance,[10] the “endowments bestowed upon us” by nature.[11] Central to this progression seems to be an exchange of invitation and gift: in opening ourselves to experience the wonder of the natural world, we welcome communication with that world and thereby receive “gnosis, a prolific, carnal science, not an intellectual knowing.”[12] In this sense, the experience of sacredness may be the fruit borne of cultivating a relationship.

The philosophies of deep ecology and ecofeminism build on this deeper intuition or knowing, and their arguments for the precious, living quality of the earth and the interdependence of life on it offer a much-needed perspective. At times, however, they also risk succumbing to the very utilitarian language that they decry.[13] Ultimately, a full understanding of the sacredness of the earth must arise from felt experience, which defies encapsulation by the rational mind. Although a perfect, thorough comprehension of sacredness eludes the written word, the intimations cited here illustrate the stark contrast with the experience of economic rationality, which, as in the example of the sunset, serves to constrict our “sense of wonder” of the world. This contention would hold little water in the debate among mainstream politicians, particularly those in economically rich countries. And yet, from a perspective broader than what economic calculations and scientific risk factors allow, the criticism that fracking violates the earth’s fundamental sacredness is perhaps the strongest objection to the practice.

Indeed, the full technical name “hydraulic fracturing” seems to betray its violation of sacredness: we inject toxic chemical mixtures at high pressure deep into the ground in order to “fracture” the underlying rock and release natural gas. The visual resemblance of the fissures in shale to a bone fracture is striking. Unlike other forms of production that work with the natural malleability of the phenomenal world (tilling the soil, for example), fracking embodies the machinery of extraction of modern civilization that literally breaks the earth in its attempt to dominate and control nature. That hydraulic fracturing inherently involves qualities of domination and control indicates a core violation of sacredness and a connection to systems of patriarchy. Objections to fracking on these grounds are ultimately more powerful than objections that rely solely on listing environmental risks, which at best are conditional factors dependent on the variables in the fracking process. The former is a critique based on principle, whereas the latter questions only methodology[14]; the former acknowledges and affirms our interconnectedness with the earth, while the latter maintains the delusion of separation.

 

Illustration by Alicia Brown

Illustration by Alicia Brown

 

And yet such arguments do not enter the debate. One of the difficulties in bringing sacred outlook into discussions over industrial practices like hydraulic fracturing is that sacredness cannot be intellectually articulated in the same way that economic utility can. It must be a felt emotional connection to the earth, which is problematic in a scientific culture that delegitimizes the wisdom of subjective experience. “The sense of nature as sacred,” however, supports “feelings of caring and closeness to the environment,” a more powerful motivator for cultivating a healthy relationship with the earth and with one another than the mere numbers of environmental science.[15]

One could argue that fracking opponents who resort to economic externalities like water contamination do in fact care deeply about the harmful effects of the industry and merely use dry empirical statistics to make their arguments in a system unfriendly to other modes of reasoning. Within this framework, safer well walls would solve the problem. The trouble, however, is that such arguments are superficial and anthropocentric; safer well walls might reduce the risk of water contamination for human consumption, but this purely economic lens obfuscates the deeper, unseen effects of a culture of domination and resource extraction on the human psyche and on the earth itself.

While standard economics provides one useful lens for debate, we must recognize its limitations and explore other methods for evaluating the difficult questions of our time. Quantitative economic reasoning cannot be the only form of legitimate analysis, lest we succumb to Max Weber’s observation from Science as a Vocation: “The fate of our times is characterized by rationalization and intellectualization and, above all, by the ‘disenchantment of the world.’”[16] Perhaps in rediscovering the sacredness of the phenomenal world—by savoring a sunset with wonder and gratitude—we can rekindle the enchantment that overly technical analyses have obscured.


 

Notes

[1] In fact, the “truth” of the claim that natural gas is a cleaner fuel is highly suspect. Natural gas burns cleaner than oil or coal, emitting 30% less CO2 than fuel oil and 45% less CO2 than U.S. electricity production from various fossil fuels (http://www.natfuel.com/natural_gas_environment.aspx). However, a controversial 2011 study at Cornell University argued that natural gas fares much worse in terms of cleanliness when accounting for unintended methane emissions from fracking wells (http://www.eeb.cornell.edu/howarth/web/Marcellus.html). Methane is a more powerful greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide by twenty-fold (http://epa.gov/climatechange/ghgemissions/gases/ch4.html).

[2] Charles Eisenstein, The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know Is Possible (Berkeley: North Atlantic Books, 2013), 48.

[3] See: Mark Drajem, “Pennsylvania Residents Ask EPA to Reopen Fracking Probe,” Bloomberg, August 13, 2013, http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2013-08-13/pennsylvania-residents-ask-epa-to-reopen-fracking-probe.html; “EPA halted ‘fracking’ case after gas company protested,” USA Today, January 16, 2013, http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2013/01/16/epa-gas-company-protested/1839857/; and Abrahm Lustgarten, “EPA’s Abandoned Wyoming Fracking Study One Retreat of Many,” ProPublica, July 3, 2013, http://www.propublica.org/article/epas-abandoned-wyoming-fracking-study-one-retreat-of-many.

[4] Eisenstein, The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know Is Possible, 23.

[5] Robert Sessions, “Deep Ecology versus Ecofeminism: Healthy Differences or Incompatible Philosophies?,” Hypatia 6, no. 1 (1991): 91.

[6] “Universal Declaration of the Rights of Mother Earth,” World People’s Conference on Climate Change and the Rights of Mother Earth, Cochabamba, Bolivia, April 22, 2010, Global Alliance for the Rights of Nature, http://therightsofnature.org/universal-declaration/.

[7] See, for example, “The Declaration of Interdependence,” The New Founding Family, http://thefoundingfamily.com/declaration-interdependence/; and “Declaration of Interdependence,” David Suzuki Foundation, http://www.davidsuzuki.org/about/declaration/.

[8] “The Declaration of Interdependence,” The New Founding Family, http://thefoundingfamily.com/declaration-interdependence/

[9] The Karmapa, Ogyen Trinley Dorje, The Heart Is Noble: Changing the World from the Inside Out, (Boston: Shambhala Publications, Inc., 2013), 88.

[10] The Karmapa, The Heart Is Noble, 88.

[11] Lewis Hyde, The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World, (New York: Vintage Books, 2007), 49.

[12] Hyde, The Gift, 226.

[13] Ecofeminists make this precise critique of deep ecology. See Sessions, “Deep Ecology versus Ecofeminism,” 96.

[14] For example, a Wall Street Journal article from 2012 noted, “A growing number of industry, academic and environmental experts say that while drilling can cause water contamination, that can be avoided by proper use of cement seals and other safety measures.” (Daniel Gilbert and Russell Gold, “EPA Backpedals on Fracking Contamination, Wall Street Journal, April 1, 2012, http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424052702303404704577313741463447670.) 

[15] The Karmapa, The Heart Is Noble, 91.

[16] From H.H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills (Translated and edited), From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, pp.129-156, New York: Oxford University Press, 1946.

Donate

Gabe Dayley is co-founder and editor of The Arrow Journal. He is pursuing a graduate degree in International Peace and Conflict Resolution at the School of International Service, American University in Washington, D.C.

From: The Arrow

Moving Beyond the Language of Economic Utility

$
0
0

Normal
0

false
false
false

EN-US
JA
X-NONE

/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:”Table Normal”;
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:””;
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:”Times New Roman”;
border:none;}

Normal
0

false
false
false

EN-US
JA
X-NONE

/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:”Table Normal”;
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:””;
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin-top:0in;
mso-para-margin-right:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt;
mso-para-margin-left:0in;
line-height:115%;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:11.0pt;
font-family:Calibri;
mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}

Normal
0

false
false
false

EN-US
JA
X-NONE

/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:”Table Normal”;
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:””;
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}

Moving Beyond the Language of Economic Utility

By Gabriel Dayley

On a spring evening in Southern California, with too much school work and an uncooperative clock ticking away the day’s warmth, I glanced outside my window to find the sky imbued with the color of a sunset. Captured by its beauty and magic, I wondered whether I should take a break from writing my undergraduate thesis to watch. As the sky shifted from yellow-orange to reddish-pink, my thoughts turned to a cost-benefit analysis: “Is it worth it to go outside and watch? A break would interrupt my progress right now. On the other hand, refreshing myself might increase my productivity for the next half hour before dinner.” By then, of course, the sky had faded into deep purple, the sun slipping over the horizon.

 

Illustration by Alicia Brown

Illustration by Alicia Brown

 

As an overworked college student, evaluating actions in terms of productivity was common. Even now, several years after Microeconomics initially offered a powerful language for describing human decision-making, marginal utility remains a convenient—if not a little contrived—way of understanding my everyday choices. Indeed, since its inception, the field of economics has afforded society with ever more technical methods of analyzing the costs and benefits of individual and collective courses of action. So revered is the study of economics in modern society that the discipline’s lens for viewing and understanding the world proliferates far beyond the realm of business or the economy proper. Yet this reverence comes “at the cost” of a richer experience of our world and a deeper sense of our relationship to it.

The problem is not just that we occasionally use economic logic to inform decisions like whether to watch the sun set, but also that such logic constricts our public discourse. To be viewed as legitimate, arguments for or against controversial issues must incorporate economic reasoning. While useful, the predominance of economic logic ultimately hinders our ability to consider important issues from ethical, emotional, and spiritual perspectives that might provide alternative reference points and broaden the scope of conversation.

Public discourse on environmental issues suffers especially from this mindset; the debate over hydraulic fracturing, or “fracking”, is a case in point. Arguments in favor of fracking to extract natural gas from shale deposits unsurprisingly rely on political-economic reasoning: domestic shale gas extraction supports U.S. energy independence, which creates jobs at home, increases tax revenue from energy production, and reduces our dependence on foreign energy. To bolster these economic arguments with a semblance of environmental concern, fracking advocates point out that natural gas is ‘cleaner’ than oil or coal, emitting less carbon dioxide into the atmosphere per unit of energy burned.

“True enough,” the environmentalist might reply, “but natural gas is still dirtier than existing forms of renewable energy.”[1] Even this retort is problematic, according to philosopher and activist Charles Eisenstein: “Focusing on greenhouse gas emissions emphasizes the quantifiable while making the qualitative… invisible,” he writes. “Environmentalism is reduced to a numbers game,” rather than an expression of deep emotional connection to the earth.[2] No matter how dire the reality they reflect, climate data points have consistently proved insufficient to produce meaningful changes in human sentiment and behavior.

The ubiquity of the “quantifiable” is reflected in fracking opponents’ focus on the economic externalities of the industry. Highlighting the harmful effects of fracking on water availability, water and air quality, and seismic activity, opponents argue that the externalized social and environmental costs of shale gas extraction are too great to warrant its continuation.

These are valid points that should be carefully considered before new wells are drilled—not suspiciously ignored as the EPA has done.[3] However, they all carry with them an implicit presupposition: if hydraulic fracturing could be engineered to avoid all risk of air and water contamination, to minimize water usage (e.g., by recycling frack water), and to contain seismic activity to remote areas, then environmentalist opponents ought to acquiesce to the continued growth of the shale gas market. In other words, the validity of opponents’ arguments depends on their reliance on measurable, short-term environmental damage that may or may not be a necessary consequence of fracking.

That the fracking debate revolves around the economic benefits versus the environmental risks (i.e. the externalities)—both of which fall within the narrow purview of economic reasoning—is indicative of the types of arguments that modern technocratic society legitimates. Arguments for environmental protection such as those articulated above, notes Eisenstein, “are problematic because they affirm the very assumption we need to question, that decisions in general should be made according to economic calculations.”[4] Free ourselves from this constraint, and we might question the cultures of economic growth, resource extraction, and exploitation that hydraulic fracturing embodies and perpetuates. No longer beholden to empirical studies on the danger of water contamination from frack water, we could instead reason that regardless of quantitative economic and environmental considerations, hydraulic fracturing is wrong on principle because it violates the earth’s sacredness.

What it means to see nature as sacred—or to maintain a sacred outlook, as some spiritual traditions put it—is not easily defined, and sacredness itself has many qualities. One quality articulated by deep ecologists is the innate value of the well-being and flourishing of the whole world—human and non-human—“independent of the usefulness of the non-human world for human purposes.”[5] The Universal Declaration of the Rights of Mother Earth[6] and a number of declarations of interdependence[7] emphasize the interdependence of living beings and the aliveness or living quality of entities not often considered to be living organisms—rocks, mountains, oceans, ecosystems—as fundamental qualities of the earth’s sacredness. The sacred outlook promoted in these documents is one of deep respect for the natural world as “precious” and “wondrous.”[8]

Such words suggest a strong feeling underlying the intellect of these theories. Experientially, sacred outlook connotes a “sense of wonder and appreciation of the earth’s beauty,” leading one “to feel deeply for our physical environment.”[9] From such appreciation comes gratitude for the earth’s sustenance,[10] the “endowments bestowed upon us” by nature.[11] Central to this progression seems to be an exchange of invitation and gift: in opening ourselves to experience the wonder of the natural world, we welcome communication with that world and thereby receive “gnosis, a prolific, carnal science, not an intellectual knowing.”[12] In this sense, the experience of sacredness may be the fruit borne of cultivating a relationship.

The philosophies of deep ecology and ecofeminism build on this deeper intuition or knowing, and their arguments for the precious, living quality of the earth and the interdependence of life on it offer a much-needed perspective. At times, however, they also risk succumbing to the very utilitarian language that they decry.[13] Ultimately, a full understanding of the sacredness of the earth must arise from felt experience, which defies encapsulation by the rational mind. Although a perfect, thorough comprehension of sacredness eludes the written word, the intimations cited here illustrate the stark contrast with the experience of economic rationality, which, as in the example of the sunset, serves to constrict our “sense of wonder” of the world. This contention would hold little water in the debate among mainstream politicians, particularly those in economically rich countries. And yet, from a perspective broader than what economic calculations and scientific risk factors allow, the criticism that fracking violates the earth’s fundamental sacredness is perhaps the strongest objection to the practice.

Indeed, the full technical name “hydraulic fracturing” seems to betray its violation of sacredness: we inject toxic chemical mixtures at high pressure deep into the ground in order to “fracture” the underlying rock and release natural gas. The visual resemblance of the fissures in shale to a bone fracture is striking. Unlike other forms of production that work with the natural malleability of the phenomenal world (tilling the soil, for example), fracking embodies the machinery of extraction of modern civilization that literally breaks the earth in its attempt to dominate and control nature. That hydraulic fracturing inherently involves qualities of domination and control indicates a core violation of sacredness and a connection to systems of patriarchy. Objections to fracking on these grounds are ultimately more powerful than objections that rely solely on listing environmental risks, which at best are conditional factors dependent on the variables in the fracking process. The former is a critique based on principle, whereas the latter questions only methodology[14]; the former acknowledges and affirms our interconnectedness with the earth, while the latter maintains the delusion of separation.

 

Illustration by Alicia Brown

Illustration by Alicia Brown

 

And yet such arguments do not enter the debate. One of the difficulties in bringing sacred outlook into discussions over industrial practices like hydraulic fracturing is that sacredness cannot be intellectually articulated in the same way that economic utility can. It must be a felt emotional connection to the earth, which is problematic in a scientific culture that delegitimizes the wisdom of subjective experience. “The sense of nature as sacred,” however, supports “feelings of caring and closeness to the environment,” a more powerful motivator for cultivating a healthy relationship with the earth and with one another than the mere numbers of environmental science.[15]

One could argue that fracking opponents who resort to economic externalities like water contamination do in fact care deeply about the harmful effects of the industry and merely use dry empirical statistics to make their arguments in a system unfriendly to other modes of reasoning. Within this framework, safer well walls would solve the problem. The trouble, however, is that such arguments are superficial and anthropocentric; safer well walls might reduce the risk of water contamination for human consumption, but this purely economic lens obfuscates the deeper, unseen effects of a culture of domination and resource extraction on the human psyche and on the earth itself.

While standard economics provides one useful lens for debate, we must recognize its limitations and explore other methods for evaluating the difficult questions of our time. Quantitative economic reasoning cannot be the only form of legitimate analysis, lest we succumb to Max Weber’s observation from Science as a Vocation: “The fate of our times is characterized by rationalization and intellectualization and, above all, by the ‘disenchantment of the world.’”[16] Perhaps in rediscovering the sacredness of the phenomenal world—by savoring a sunset with wonder and gratitude—we can rekindle the enchantment that overly technical analyses have obscured.


 

Notes

[1] In fact, the “truth” of the claim that natural gas is a cleaner fuel is highly suspect. Natural gas burns cleaner than oil or coal, emitting 30% less CO2 than fuel oil and 45% less CO2 than U.S. electricity production from various fossil fuels (http://www.natfuel.com/natural_gas_environment.aspx). However, a controversial 2011 study at Cornell University argued that natural gas fares much worse in terms of cleanliness when accounting for unintended methane emissions from fracking wells (http://www.eeb.cornell.edu/howarth/web/Marcellus.html). Methane is a more powerful greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide by twenty-fold (http://epa.gov/climatechange/ghgemissions/gases/ch4.html).

[2] Charles Eisenstein, The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know Is Possible (Berkeley: North Atlantic Books, 2013), 48.

[3] See: Mark Drajem, “Pennsylvania Residents Ask EPA to Reopen Fracking Probe,” Bloomberg, August 13, 2013, http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2013-08-13/pennsylvania-residents-ask-epa-to-reopen-fracking-probe.html; “EPA halted ‘fracking’ case after gas company protested,” USA Today, January 16, 2013, http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2013/01/16/epa-gas-company-protested/1839857/; and Abrahm Lustgarten, “EPA’s Abandoned Wyoming Fracking Study One Retreat of Many,” ProPublica, July 3, 2013, http://www.propublica.org/article/epas-abandoned-wyoming-fracking-study-one-retreat-of-many.

[4] Eisenstein, The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know Is Possible, 23.

[5] Robert Sessions, “Deep Ecology versus Ecofeminism: Healthy Differences or Incompatible Philosophies?,” Hypatia 6, no. 1 (1991): 91.

[6] “Universal Declaration of the Rights of Mother Earth,” World People’s Conference on Climate Change and the Rights of Mother Earth, Cochabamba, Bolivia, April 22, 2010, Global Alliance for the Rights of Nature, http://therightsofnature.org/universal-declaration/.

[7] See, for example, “The Declaration of Interdependence,” The New Founding Family, http://thefoundingfamily.com/declaration-interdependence/; and “Declaration of Interdependence,” David Suzuki Foundation, http://www.davidsuzuki.org/about/declaration/.

[8] “The Declaration of Interdependence,” The New Founding Family, http://thefoundingfamily.com/declaration-interdependence/

[9] The Karmapa, Ogyen Trinley Dorje, The Heart Is Noble: Changing the World from the Inside Out, (Boston: Shambhala Publications, Inc., 2013), 88.

[10] The Karmapa, The Heart Is Noble, 88.

[11] Lewis Hyde, The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World, (New York: Vintage Books, 2007), 49.

[12] Hyde, The Gift, 226.

[13] Ecofeminists make this precise critique of deep ecology. See Sessions, “Deep Ecology versus Ecofeminism,” 96.

[14] For example, a Wall Street Journal article from 2012 noted, “A growing number of industry, academic and environmental experts say that while drilling can cause water contamination, that can be avoided by proper use of cement seals and other safety measures.” (Daniel Gilbert and Russell Gold, “EPA Backpedals on Fracking Contamination, Wall Street Journal, April 1, 2012, http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424052702303404704577313741463447670.) 

[15] The Karmapa, The Heart Is Noble, 91.

[16] From H.H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills (Translated and edited), From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, pp.129-156, New York: Oxford University Press, 1946.

Donate

Gabe Dayley is co-founder and editor of The Arrow Journal. He is pursuing a graduate degree in International Peace and Conflict Resolution at the School of International Service, American University in Washington, D.C.

From: The Arrow

Fear and Contraction

$
0
0

photo credit: bluemoon8963 via photopin cc

photo credit: bluemoon8963 via photopin cc

COLUMN: Celebrating the Arts

On Writing

by Michelle Welch, Phoenix

I’ve talked about writing several times on the Phoenix blog, because it’s something I do and something that’s so embedded in my life that it offers all kinds of opportunity to practice, often in unexpected ways. One of these opportunities happened while I was taking the Joy in Everyday Life class. We were working on the contemplation exercise involving compassion, and I was having a lot of difficulty rousing any feelings of compassion toward anyone. It took me a while to figure out why.

At the time I was working on a new short story: actually a revision of a story I’d attempted writing several times before. (Incidentally, it’s a story I’ve blogged about before, too, which suggests how long I’ve been struggling with the project. And this was just its latest rendition.) I have a tendency to fear the ending of writing projects – every time, I’m overcome by the irrational and totally convincing thought that I’ll never finish. I can’t even articulate why; it’s not like I’ll run out of words or the world will end before I’m done. The fickleness of the publishing world doesn’t help, either.

This feeling was especially strong with this project, because I’d written at least three previous versions over the last five years or so. If none of them had worked out, what made me think this one would? I was so paralyzed by this fear that I abandoned a promising opening scene and let the project founder for a couple of weeks, doing anything I could to distract myself.

Studying the Shambhala and Buddhist teachings suggests to me that distraction is the thing we’re trying to work with – recognizing how distraction is a response to fear or discomfort, and how it prevents us from being present in our lives. It was kind of a shock, though, to suddenly realize how this was playing out in that class. I was afraid, so I was contracting. I was contracting, so I was distracting myself. I was distracted, so I was having trouble being present, either in my practice or in my work.

That night, after class, I got home and scribbled down some notes about how to finish my story. As soon as I had the chance, and sat down and wrote it, finishing it in two days. I was also able to get back to my practice and work on the compassion contemplation. There’s still work to do with the story, editing and evaluating, and it might not even be quite right yet. But it’s definitely served to teach me something, so even if I never publish it, it has had a purpose.

Sun Camp Applications Now Online

$
0
0

sun 2Sun Camp programs for the Year of the Wood Sheep are now available online: shambhalasuncamp.org. Sun Camp is an outdoor, sleep-away summer camp for children ages 10-16. Campers sleep in tents and enjoy the simple experience of waking up every day to their own world. Sun Camp is a place to have fun, make friends and learn to take responsibility for oneself and one’s world in a gentle and playful environment.

This year marks the 32nd year of warriorship, camaraderie and delight — and the introduction of sponsor pricing so those with the financial ability to participate can help make camp available to everyone. Please read on for further information and program dates, and spread the word to friends and acquaintances far and wide.

Camp consists of three interconnected programs:
Sun Camp: the main week-long program, for ages 10-16. Cadet Command Workshop (CCW): a leadership training intensive for returning participants age 14-16 that starts three days before camp and continues throughout Sun Camp. Rites of Warriorship (ROW): a rites of passage program for 16 year-olds, for the two days following camp.

Program dates:

Sun Camp Colorado 2015 dates:
The Cadet Command Workshop (CCW): July 30- August 2nd
Sun Camp: August 2nd-9th
Rites of Warriorship (ROW): August 9th-11th

Sun Camp Nova Scotia 2015 dates:
The Cadet Command Workshop (CCW): August 6-9th
Sun Camp: August 9-16th

Sun Camp France 2015 dates:
The Cadet Command Workshop (CCW): July 29 – August 1st
Sun Camp: August 1 – 8th
Rites of Warriorship (ROW): August 8- 10th

Karma, India, and Systems of Circumstance

$
0
0

IMG_7653Resistance is Futile

a reflection and photos by Evan Silverman

A few months ago, after a long day of traveling throughout India, I was asked the question “What makes some of us born into wealth, while other people suffer so much?” It was a well-warranted question; we had just indulged in room service merely hours after driving through areas of India where people lived with hardly any shelter, literally in houses made of dirt.

I stumbled through an answer to this difficult question, emphasizing that it doesn’t matter how we’re born, but what matters is how we hold our mind. That we can experience suffering whether we have a million dollars or just ten rupees. And that the point is to generate loving-kindness towards others and especially towards ourselves – that when we can love ourselves we can turn that towards others, and make a difference in people lives by being genuine.

IMG_8053But, honestly, I felt like something was missing in my answer. Even though I believed in what I said – and I still do – there was a bit of “jargon” to my answer. So, as I went to bed, the question began churning in my mind.

Eventually, I thought, the answer lies somewhere in the word system. My computer defines the word system as a ‘complex whole formed from related parts.’ From this, one may say that one person can born into wealth and another can be born into poverty, but in reality, we are all born into parts of many systems. Some of these obviously include social, religious, monetary, and political systems.

IMG_7770So, it’s not simply enough to say that I was born in wealth, simply because I am able to travel and never have had to worry if I’m going to be able to eat my next meal. I’m also part of the American system, which currently means that throughout most of the world I’m immediately looked at as an aggressor. I’m part of the Buddhist system, which means I don’t believe or place my faith in a creator god. Additionally, I’m born of Jewish faith, so this means I enjoy bagels with cream cheese, have problems with my mother, and like watching Woody Allen movies. Especially the older, funnier ones.

IMG_7668The point is that I was born, and exist, within many systems. This viewpoint can explain, for example, that despite the outrageous and cruel world (from a Westerner’s eyes) of a typical Indian persons’ daily life, a leader such as Mahatma Gandhi was able to rise up and become an inspiration to the world. And, looking further back, the amazing vibrant attack of the senses we refer to as India also produced the living human being that we refer to as the Buddha.

So, what if we remove the world “system” and replace it with the word “karma”? We’re still talking about the same thing. Why are some people born into poor American families, where the diet consists of huge unhealthy snack foods, versus poor Indian families, where one rarely meets a shower? It’s all karma. Define karma how you will – there’s a number of different ways and many of them make sense. A web of interconnedtness, perhaps. A system of action and result. The Dalai Lama says, if you want to be happy tomorrow, look at your actions today. Etc….

IMG_7971How we’re born and the lives we lead, every single moment, is due to karma. But this doesn’t mean that we have to be afraid of it, or use it as a crutch. Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche refers to karma as a series of causes and conditions, and likens it to an egg being cooked. The causes and conditions include all things such as having heat, a container to place the egg, an area where it is heated, someone to apply the heat, even the egg itself. If all of these causes and conditions exist, then the egg is going to be cooked, whether we like it or not! It’s really that simple – there is no room for opinion or judgment in the equation.

IMG_7815Karma is also constantly being played out; it’s constantly being created. Created for all of us. Namkhai Norbu Rinpoche tells a small child during a touching moment in the movie My Reincarnation, while reflecting on a teaching by the great Buddhist master Patrul Rinpoche, “If you have a goat, you have goat problems. If you have money, you will have money problems. If you have a car, you will have car problems.” Again, a simple way to contemplate a topic that has filled volumes of books.

Similarly, Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche tells us, in Turning the Mind into an Ally, “Karma means ‘action.’ In Tibetan we say le. We tend to simplify the dynamic of karma by saying that one thing causes another. However, karma is more complex than that. There are many causes to any one effect. Think of all the conditions that must fall into place just for us to drive to work: good health, clothes to wear, a working car, no accidents on the way, knowing where the office is. Whatever happens is the result of many causes and conditions. Who grew the apple we eat? Who picked it? Who delivered it to the grocery store? Karma makes the world go round.”

IMG_7627So, to return to my original answer, what we really need to do is to learn how to tame our minds, and how to introduce compassion into that tamed mind. And then turn this flower of compassion out and direct it towards others. We need to really believe that we are no separate than the masters we love, the people with such magical presence that you can be near them, having no idea who they are, yet are completely drawn to them. They don’t have to be Buddhists. They simply need to be complete, genuine human beings. They’ve overcome the notion of “system” to find an inner happiness that is present in every condition that arises, whether they are in public, all the way to eating a meal with the family.

There are no hiding places on this path. So I’ll suggest working with the systems that we have been presented with; working with our karma. Sitting and watching our minds, and introducing some kind, gentle space into our existence. And we can do our best to make our actions of today be virtuous, as far as we understand them to be. And, last of all, try not to hurt anyone, remembering that that when we have nothing to offer, even a smile can turn a day around.

~~
IMG_7924Evan Silverman
began practicing and studying the dharma when he met his first teacher, Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche, in 1994. He began studying under Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche in 2004 and soon thereafter spent three years as a core staff member of Karmê Chöling. A native New Yorker, Evan has been a human rights advocate in his past, as well as a successful musician. He plays both the electric and upright bass and is currently living in San Antonio.

Midwinter Haiku Contest Semi-Finalists and Honorable Mentions

$
0
0
photo by Jeffrey Fink

photo by Jeffrey Fink

Midwinter Haiku Contest Semifinalists and Honorable Mentions (in Order of Selection)

While it may seem that the snow will never stop in Boston, or begin again in the mountains of the west, winter will, presumably, move gradually into Spring. Before that happens, here are the remaining haiku selected from the First Annual Winter Haiku Contest. Stay warm, and enjoy ….

Semi Finalists:

the low slant
of winter light
cathedrals

–Alan Summers
Bradford upon Avon, England 
www.withwords.org.uk

~~

winter’s dark
bitter fruit, ripening slowly
into dawn

–Jeff Fink
Park City, UT
(Salt Lake Shambhala Meditation Group)
http://oldbonesnewsnow.com/

~~

a blank page
in the baby book
first snow

–Mark Brager
Columbia, MD

~~

winter wind
the faint glow
of an oil lamp

–Billy Antonio
the Phillipines

~~

in a hurry
I scribble my name
in the snow

–James Rodriguez
Washougal, WA


Honorable Mentions:

the cold night
comes out of the stones
all morning

–Jim Casian
Winchester, VA

~~

mid winter-
a heron departs from
its shadow

–Rita Odeh
Nazareth, Israel

~~

holding nothing
but fresh snow
the stone Buddha

–Mark Brager
Columbia, MD

~~

into the deep
of the longest night–
the poet

–Marianne Paul
Canada

~~

I forget the truth
like the sky forgets the stars
in the crisp morning

–Cameron Wenaus
Nelson, BC
(Kootenay Shambhala Center)

~~

a little support
saves the bending bough
mandarin oranges

–Andrea Eldridge
Claremont, CA

~~

rain mixed with snow
my son’s voice
deepens

–Julie Kelsey
Germantown, MD

~~

deep sighs
outside snow
on snow

–Billy Antonio
The Phillipines

~~

black cat,
white snow
nowhere to go

–Ellen Berger
Boston, MA

~~

by a snow-fed stream
easing its weight from time to time
tethered packhorse

  –Sheila K. Barksdale
Gainesville, FL

The publication of the Midwinter Haiku Contest winning entries can be seen here.

A Shambhala Day Poem

$
0
0

by Reed Bye

This poem was presented to the Boulder Community after the Sadhana of Mahamudra on Shambhala Day, on the occasion of our good-bye celebration for Ulrike Halpern, our outgoing Center Director.  

Shambhala Day  2015

How lucky to live in the light of this center’s
Warm red pulse that calls
Come forward whatever you are
Receive yourself in this place in your brilliance
Take off your shoes
Your hat of crusted tiresomeness
You don’t have to hold an umbrella under this rain

How lucky to live in the light of this palace
And bow at the gates of its elements
How they were gathered, refined through the practice
Of many vows to free us
From limiting ourselves
To all the ideas we dress up in

How lucky we are to live in this light
That shines through us
We are all transparent HO!
HO HO!
A terrible trick has been played
But we’re learning to lift it
Over our heads
And expose dreams and schemes
Of little desires HO HO!

This ground has been warmed for our seats
To see through the light of our goodness

At the cusp of another year
For those who have made a path
Out of the simple truth of being
And the wind in its woods
And the scent it leaves, how lucky
HO

~~

Reed ByeReed Bye’s most recent books include Catching On (Monkey Puzzle 2013) and Join the Planets: New and Selected Poems (United Artists Books, 2005). A CD of original songs, Broke Even, came out from Fast Speaking Music in 2013. He teaches courses in writing and poetics at the Jack Kerouac School at Naropa University and has practiced Shambhala Buddhist meditation for many years.

 


True Listening

$
0
0

SMR May 2011Dharma Teaching
by Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche

It is said that when the Buddha first taught, two deer approached, knelt down, and raised their ears. They symbolize the act of listening, a sublime way of being present in the moment. Their perked-up ears represent keen attentiveness. Their bodies kneeling down represent relaxation and respect. The receptive state of listening is a way of learning, a way to gain wisdom and insight. It is auditory meditation.

True listening is a skill that we develop. It is not always easy. In this era of technological expertise and emotional unavailability, all too often there is more speaking than listening. Frequently, when we are speaking to another, we are not having conversation as such but rather an exchange of rhetoric. For a genuine dialogue to occur, speaking and listening must both play leading roles. The verbal exchange in a conversation is the dance and play between two interlocking human minds, which naturally creates harmony. Therefore, having a good conversation is an art that benefits oneself and others.

In the art of conversation, two people are equal partners. When one is speaking, one is more active; when one is listening, one is more receptive. A conversation where someone is speaking but no one is listening fosters disharmony — within the conversation and within the relationship. Thus, in order for the conversation to be healthy and productive and to grow, both participants need to take turns listening.

One reason we have conversations is that we often just need someone to hear what we have to say. However, in our busy and speedy world, where we are constantly encouraged to self-indulge and gratify our desires, it can be difficult to find someone to listen because the act involves placing one’s mind on another person. That requires the release of self-indulgence. Unfortunately, our modern culture is in danger of producing a cycle where no one is listening and, at the same time, there is a tendency to indulge in self-expression. We want to speak rather than listen. As a result, we are all rushing to express ourselves and no one is listening.

In fact, these days we often hire people to listen to us. Coaches and therapists are trained in the art of listening, providing the space in which we are allowed simply to express ourselves. To sit quietly and listen demonstrates strength. Their listening enables our stress, fear, worries, and insecurities to be revealed and liberated. Likewise, in everyday conversation, by learning to listen, we can digest, contemplate, and engage in the thoughts of another, understanding and responding to their emotional state.

As in any other activity, it helps to practice listening. The best way to listen is to learn to hold your seat. The exchange of power has been handed over to the speaker, who is now directing the conversation’s mood and energy. If you feel insecure about your role as the listener, you may feel intimidated and anxious, inadvertently or compulsively interrupting the conversation in order to regain control. Thus, holding your seat is a process of engagement and self-assurance. It also clearly expresses your discipline, particularly in controlling your speech, especially in a conversational setting where the purpose is to volley back and forth words and ideas. When it is your turn to listen, it is clearly the other person’s opportunity to serve. Thus, ironically, listening often requires a greater sense of calm and self-assurance than talking. A good listener is not threatened by another taking the reins of power.

When we are unable to listen, a number of things are occurring. The first is related to time: we are unable to be in the present moment, for listening requires us to be on the spot. Therefore, listening is clearly a practice of mindfulness. It is engagement or attentiveness. As well as being present, listening requires us to feel and to care. The ear itself is meant to decipher sounds to communicate feeling, and the inner ear is responsible for balance. Listening helps us balance our relationship with others.

However, when we do not care and are inattentive — and thus cannot hear — our mind is focused on ourselves. We therefore care more about our thoughts than what the speaker is saying. We let memories of past experiences or fantasies of the future interfere with our present act of listening. This can happen quite harmlessly: we ask a friend about the food at a new restaurant. She says it is good, and casually mentions liking the fish tank in the entryway. As we remember the fish we saw while snorkeling on vacation, we cease to care, and by the time we come back to our friend’s words, she’s describing dessert.

When we are unable to listen, we lose connectivity. At the least, daydreaming while someone else is speaking is a subtle form of rudeness. As well, in tuning out of the conversation to rehash old memories, we are slowly engraining the tendency to be jaded. The present moment and other people are not interesting, so we are less available to new stimuli. Losing touch with human connectivity, we forget that conversation is not simply about following dialogue, but also about caring for another and appreciating human interaction.

Thus, in engaging in conversation, first, our attention should be on the other person, with our ear faculty focused on their speech. This focus should be specific, not general, where we are simultaneously paying attention to the music, other conversations, birds chirping, and dogs barking.

Next, in order for this focus to occur, we have to relax. Often, when we do not listen well, there is tension in the body. This tension is related to aggression. Something about the other person is preventing us from truly listening. Perhaps we do not fully trust them; we are not ready to be receptive. Or perhaps we do not respect them; we are not ready to be submissive. To relieve this blockage, it can be helpful to inhale or exhale, sit down or stand up, uncross our arms or legs, or touch and feel the place of tension in our body. After reconnecting with the body through our posture or breath, we may find ourselves relaxed enough to listen and hear.

Even brief moments of genuine conversation can uplift our entire life. They can help us touch the core emotional elements that make us truly human. They can keep us from feeling isolated and introverted. Fortunately, the art of conversation is not simply based upon what clever wordsmiths we can be, but equally on how perceptive we can be as listeners. Ultimately, listening is the price you pay if you want to be heard.

True listening, like the art of conversation, is a skill we develop. It is not always easy. We have to come out of our own insecurities and self-absorption, which takes confidence and relaxation. We have to care about another person, which takes maturity. Some stories and dialogue are painful or disturbing, so listening also takes bravery. Some dialogues can be boring, tedious, and irritating, so patience and compassion are required. Thus, the noble qualities of a good listener can overcome many of the faults of a poor conversationalist. And even though listening is a receptive act, it is a simultaneously dynamic endeavor that allows everyone to grow.

~~
Read more by Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche by clicking here.

Like a Lion Licking Your Face

$
0
0

Snow LionDharma Teaching

by Acharya Noel McLellan
originally published on broken leaf

The path of the Lion is connected with discipline and joy. Do the words “discipline and joy” go together for you? Here, discipline is not about rules and their enforcement. The outer level of form, rules, protocols, manners, and rituals is important to attend to carefully.

But those forms should be a support and reflection of a more inner feeling, the culture we wish to develop. Whether a school practices a precise, martial level of outer discipline or a reactionary freedom from rules of any kind, it’s the teacher who holds the feeling and intention of those forms within. If that feeling is a lack of trust in herself or her students, the outer expression becomes controlling and harsh. Before long the teacher is exhausted and burnt out.

Lacking trust in ourselves as teachers begins as a natural and inevitable feeling of shakiness and tenderness. Part of us fears that we’re frauds, that we don’t have anything of value to offer, that we will be boring or even despised, and that we don’t know how to handle the living dynamics of the classroom with skill. If we solidify those fears we’ll try to use the outer discipline of the classroom as a shield.

Lacking trust in our students is not seeing their basic goodness and intelligence. If we see our students as worthless, and education as a means of turning them into something worthy, we’ll try to use the outer discipline as a whip.

Because these doubts arise for all of us as a natural aspect of working with others, discipline needs to be an inner practice for the teacher. This does not mean dividing ourselves in two, with one side watching, pushing, scolding and correcting the other. It means trusting that given the right conditions, seeds will grow into beautiful plants and flowers. Brilliant expressions of creativity, love, and intelligence are in our nature. Our culture of learning and discipline can be like a trellis supporting their growth.

This practice is well summed up in the Shambhala slogan, “Take delight in others and propagate dignity.” Delighting in others, even though they may behave poorly, be disrespectful or disinterested, depends on our ability to see them in the light of trust and care. To begin with, we have to notice that others are there. The discipline is to see past our self-preoccupation, our lesson plans, what we think is going on, and suddenly, actually see. It’s a joy to do so, like a lion licking our face.

~~
Noel McLellanNoel McLellan
is an Acharya in the Shambhala lineage, a mentor for the Ziji Collective, a middle and high-school teacher at the Shambhala School in Halifax, and the father of two small, ferocious beings. His work, rest and play are dedicated to creating good human society. Read more of his work at: lhasang.wordpress.com

Jump the Gun

$
0
0

by Dan Peterson, Kadö
Desung Care and Conduct Officer

I turned on the AM radio while driving and was hooked. There was a shooting at Marysville-Pilchuck High School and five students were dead. The school was on lock-down and First Responders were on the scene, as well as local media.

Law enforcement officers went from classroom to classroom, securing portions of the large sprawling campus.  Intermittently classes were released to run about a quarter mile across open fields, across a rural road to a small church, where parents were waiting to meet their children.

I have a friend who is a special education administrator at the Marysville School District. She contacted a few of us who have backgrounds in special education, developmental disabilities, and mental health to be at the High School to provide support on the first day it reopened after the shooting.

My wife asked what I would be doing by going in on the first day.  I was very grateful to recall a Desung Training I desung1attended with Dapon H Simon La Haye. He said to drop all your tricks, all the expertise. It just gets in the way. To be truthful I couldn’t think of any tricks to bring to this tragedy – just a broken heart and a willingness to be present.

Marysville is about an hour’s drive north of Seattle. When the alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. it was raining and dark. Sometimes I wake from a quilted cocoon, and crawl into the morning cocoon of coffee, newspaper, and National Public Radio news. But this morning there was nothing familiar to crawl into.

In the early grey dawn I could see that Marysville homes and businesses were decked out with hand-made signs, some with flowers, ribbons or balloons attached. “We Love You, Marysville-Pilchuck”, “The Alumni Association Supports Our Students,” “Marysville Loves Our Students.” A quarter mile chain link fence bordering one side of the high school campus was completely covered by ribbons, flowers and signs. I later learned that community members and families who didn’t know what they could offer spent the weekend decorating the fence.

I parked and walked towards the main office to sign in. Busses were pulling up and letting out students. Each person arriving was greeted by more students waiting to give hugs, shake hands, and sometimes share tears. I had to pull myself together after witnessing this communal display of love and kindness before entering the school. I busied myself with signing in, getting a name tag, and greeting friends who were arriving to volunteer.

In Desung Training it is said that we are never off duty. Instead of writing about a school shooting, this account could just as well be about the fearless warrior opening the back door of the car and cleaning the papers and miscellany that accumulates there over time. Or about getting up at night to feed the baby, or kissing one’s partner before going to work.

During the shooting, which occurred in the school cafeteria, a first year teacher saw the gun, and saw the students being shot. She saw the young student with the gun raise the weapon and put it to his head. She ran towards him and yelled “No!  Stop!”

I was assigned to sit in on several classes. Without a plan it was easy to make friends. I sat with a fellow and we colored in a thank you poster to send to Arlington High School. They had sent 1200 hand-written notes from each student to the students at Marysville-Pilchuck. Later I accompanied two students who had a job going from classroom to classroom to collect recycling. The school campus has a number of buildings with classrooms that let out into the outdoors rather than into interior hallways. As we walked from class to class I looked out at the fields surrounding the school. It was drizzling, and low mists came down to the damp ground. I was glad for the company of the two students, and I think they were happy to have me there as well. There was a palpable fear in that space between the buildings.

desung pinIn the last class the teacher read a story about a high school girl who lost her mother to cancer.  The teacher wanted to use that as a springboard to discuss the school shooting. It was very difficult for several students. One student, who might be on the autism spectrum, raised his hand.  He said “My friend is having a problem talking about this so I want to explain something. It is called ‘train of thought’. You started reading about death, and she thought about her friends who died in the cafeteria, and now she is crying. So one thought reminds her of something else, and that is called ‘train of thought’.”

Another student talked about being bullied, and how he has a dream that he can run faster than the wind to a hill in the distance where he has a hiding spot. Fantasies of being a wind runner, a martial arts expert, or packing a gun naturally come to mind when day-dreaming about life-threatening situation. David Whitehorn says that as Desung, which means ‘bliss protector’, we don’t really protect bliss. Bliss doesn’t need protection. What we protect is the capacity to experience basic goodness, protecting avenues so that we can remain open to each other. Our reactive fantasies shield us from a reality that might be just too vivid, however it helps to see them for what they are. Several students had a very difficult time discussing death, and I took them from class and walked with them down to the counseling center set up for students who needed a safe place to be.

The teacher then started a frank discussion about the incident. He said that when the lock-down was ordered, he discovered that he could not lock the classroom doors. He set up a curtain in the back of the room and had the students stay behind the curtain, while he stood by the door to hold it shut. The lock-down lasted four and a half hours, because the school had not updated the map of the campus to give to first responders, and several major changes had occurred on campus to accommodate growth in the last couple of years. Because of how long they were held in class a screen was set up in a corner of the classroom and a waste can with a plastic bag was set behind the screen to serve as a toilet. The shooting happened just before lunch, so the teacher opened up all the classroom treats to share as they waited.

As the discussion opened up the class became animated when they talked about seeing themselves on the news later that evening. They were filmed from a helicopter running from the school to the church. For the first time that day I heard some laughter as they teased the teacher, saying that they could recognize him running because of his bald head.

Our practices, teachings and teachers all work to soften and dissolve the barriers that separate us from others, from our world. I have condensed something Dapon M Dennis Southward said years ago at a Desung Training in Boston. It is something of a Desung slogan for me.

The war is over.
We are surrounded by the phenomenal world.
Our job is to surrender,
And to make offerings.

The next opportunity to learn more about the Desung view will occur April 10 – 12 in Tucson, Arizona.  Desung Arm Commander Jan Jercinovic, Rupon and Dapon M Dennis Southward will be offering ‘Entering the Desung Path’.  For more information go to: http://tucson.shambhala.org/program_details.php?id=220945&cid=257

~~

Dan PetersonDan Peterson has been a Dorje Kasung since 1980, and currently serves as a Desung Care and Conduct Officer.  He lives in Ballard Heights in Seattle and works as a Mental Health Resource Manager for the State of Washington.

Leveraging Compassion

$
0
0

photo by Charles Blackhall

photo by Charles Blackhall

COLUMN: Radical Compassion

Shambhala Times Exclusive Interview with Noah Levine

  • conducted by Cameron Wenaus of retreat.guru and Sarah Lipton, Editor-in-Chief of the Shambhala Times
  • transcribed by Emma Sartwell, Shambhala Times Volunteer
    written by Amanda Hester, Shambhala Times Volunteer
  • Noah Levine is an American Buddhist teacher in the Theravadan tradition, he is also the author of Dharma Punx: A Memoir, and Against the Stream. He leads meditation workshops and retreats across the United States, and, as a member of the Prison Dharma Network, he works with juvenile and adult inmates through a combination of mindfulness meditation and psychotherapeutic counseling. Our editorial team caught up with him to ask about his personal experience of overcoming addiction and channeling that energy into compassion. We asked him about the moment when he decided to engage with his mind in a different way.

    Throughout his adolescence Noah Levine describes himself as being antisocial: “I could cause harm and not feel bad, my heart was so closed. I was so shut down that I rationalized my actions and blamed pretty much everyone else: it was society, the system, it was the police, it was everyone else’s fault, not mine.”

    The turning point came when Noah was 17 years old. For a number of years already he had been struggling with hard-core drug addiction, crack and heroin, with crime and having been repeatedly incarcerated, and he had been arrested yet again, and was heading to prison.

    He describes that moment of being arrested, intoxicated, and suddenly finding clarity, for that one moment all of the denial and rationalization was temporarily lifted and he was able to take some responsibility for where he was and how he’d gotten there. He was able to recognize that while there were problems and suffering in the world, he was the one choosing to take drugs and do crime. He realized, “This is my choice, my dysfunctional response to the problems in this world”.

    It was shortly after his realization that Noah’s father (Buddhist teacher Stephen Levine) said on the phone one day, “Maybe you’re ready to try meditation.” It was a timely suggestion, and one that joined with Noah’s newfound sense of responsibility to bring forth a great sense of shame for his past actions, but also a sense of hope.

    Noah describes thinking, “Well, if I got myself into this situation, perhaps I can get myself out. I was desperate enough even to try something that made such little sense to me, like meditation. Although my first thought was, ‘hey dad how about some real help, like a lawyer or something? I’m about to go to prison and you’re teaching me meditation – great, thanks.’ But as it turned out, those simple mindfulness meditation instructions that I began with became very central and core to my path.”

    During his next incarceration Noah began to practice meditation, sitting in his cell. For the first time in his life he realized that he could ignore his mind, ignore the negativity and addiction that was fueling his thought process. By bringing his attention to his breath, rather than leaving it stuck in his negative thoughts, he was able to find a little bit of relief.

    He describes, “There was a temporary relief from being identified with the fears and the shame.” Noah explains how, being a good little addict, he figured if meditation could help a little bit, than more meditation could help a lot. From this first impulse he was then able to get that addict’s mind to work for him, bringing him back to the cushion.

    Noah eventually became obsessive about mindfulness, thinking, “what if I do it a lot and what if I go on some retreats and maybe I could actually get enlightened, maybe this is what I was looking for the whole time. He describes realizing that he was never able to find what he was looking for in drugs, sex, attention, money, or violence, in all of these “confused unreliable refuges.” In meditation, however, he was finally able to find “a reliable refuge.”

    While it didn’t instantly make everything okay, Noah was able to find hope in the practice of meditation. It took him a few years to get serious about it, and he tells us about how in the beginning, even while meditation was helping him, there was still some idea that the material world was what would bring him happiness: “I thought, if I get out of jail, and if I get off of drugs, if I get the car, and the girlfriend, and the stuff, then I’ll be happy. I’d meditate some, but I still thought of the stuff, that the material sensual illusion might work for me. It took a couple of years to realize that I’d gotten the stuff – sure I’d stolen a lot of it, but I still got it – I’d got the stuff and I was still not happy. I had the relationship and I was miserable. I realized that the only place that had really given me some hope was meditation, and that is when I started going to retreats and sitting daily, and really studying the dharma.”

    While one might think that the habitual mind of the addict is a thing to be gotten rid of, Noah Levine illuminates how it can be leveraged and used in a constructive way. As he says, “It was that compulsive, obsessive, overdoing-it tendency that best served me in my dharma practice. Even though it was imbalanced at the beginning, it got me really motivated; it got me practicing a lot . . . I wanted escape, I wanted freedom, so what got me involved in punk also got me involved with drugs, and then when I got involved in the dharma it gave me hope, like, these guys are offering real freedom, and I want that. I’m committed to it, and I’ll do the hard work, and I’ll hang in there through these unpleasant retreat experiences for some true long-term benefit.”

    Noah’s experience can help us understand that even in the midst of confusion and suffering, or for those of us in recovery, our mind isn’t broken; in fact it is the very place to begin. As Noah says, it is all about where we channel our mind’s energy, and what we put it into, whether we put it out into the world, or into drugs. “It is a fierce energy, and if we channel it into practice, into service, and into compassion, well then we are going to be very effective.”

    Read more articles in the Radical Compassion column by clicking here.

    ~~
    noah-levineNoah Levine
    is a Buddhist teacher, author and counselor. He is trained to teach by Jack Kornfield of Spirit Rock Meditation Center in Woodacre, CA. He teaches meditation classes, workshops and retreats nationally as well as leading groups in juvenile halls and prisons. Noah holds a masters degree in counseling psychology from CIIS. He has studied with many prominent teachers in both the Theravadan and Mahayanan Buddhist traditions. Noah currently lives in Los Angeles, CA.

    Bandit Soup: A Recipe for Love, Courage and Songwriting

    $
    0
    0

    March is Shambhala Arts month, and the Shambhala Times is celebrating with articles from community members about creative expression. Today’s submission comes from Bill Bothwell as he discusses his journey as a musician and student of the Shambhala dharma.

    album-mediumSo I am a musician again! Even I want to know why I have returned more seriously to music and have made a record after letting it putter along for so many years. Songwriting has always been something I do, regardless of whether anyone else ever hears it, at least until now. I write songs because I need to. Music and poetry are an essential part of my life, along with politics, law, economics, meditation, Buddhism, Shambhala and the rest of it. It is all interrelated and perhaps interesting.

    In any event, it was interesting to the FBI. Once I was asked to explain to the Lawyers Guild in Denver, Colorado how I transitioned from being a very radical member of SDS to other pursuits—poetry, meditation, music and the practice of law at a large corporate law firm. Later I was told that the Guild had filed a “Freedom of Information Act” request regarding surveillance of their meetings and discovered that the FBI had infiltrated the meeting I attended and had notes on what I had said. Surely this proves there is something interesting to everyone about a path that no one quite understands.

    Young Mr. Bothwell with Allen Ginsberg

    Young Mr. Bothwell with Allen Ginsberg

    Of course music, poetry, meditation and the related disciplines can wander into love and light and fantasy very easily, but that was never to be the way with my dharma teacher Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche, nor for that matter with his student and my poetry teacher, Allen Ginsberg. For Trungpa Rinpoche, the contemplative traditions—specifically his Shambhala Buddhist dharma—had to work with, understand and finally command the most complex of energies, which include art, but also business, politics and war. Allen Ginsberg completely understood the implications of this point of view, insofar as it required exploring the dreadful poverty of second guessing your own creativity. Hence the phrase he and Trungpa developed: “First Thought, Best Thought.”

    In the world of spoken art, there is probably nothing more challenging than on the spot, in public, spontaneously uttering song or poetry. But that became Allen’s world and the way he transcended the war of self-doubt. I still have recordings of Allen and me improvising the blues at poetry readings at Marpa House in Boulder, Colorado! My own experience in years of meditation practice, always writing songs on the side of my life, working in the high-pressured world of a large international law firm, all the while ensconced in the family realm, is that First Thought really always is the Best Thought, provided you can see it arise. From that vantage point there is relaxation. There is freedom and fearlessness, power and mistake, holding back and proclaiming, and, in the end, beauty. As Trungpa Rinpoche once said “you can celebrate your deformities.”

    As a student and attendant to Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche, Trungpa Rinpoche’s son and dharma heir, my love for music, poetry and tearful cheerfulness only expands without interruption. The artistic issue (as best I understand) in this second generation is how the artistic seat we occupy can still remain innocent, true and pure, as Allen’s was, and still bring forth the dignity we must find in our splendid world.

    If you would like to hear music, read lyrics and see pictures, go to my website Bandit Soup.

    Scroll down to page 2 here for a review of Bandit Soup by Paul Zollo. The reviewer is a well known guy in the rock and roll world, writes for Rolling Stone, Variety, etc.

    ~~

    billBill Bothwell is one of those baby-boomer outlaw-poets who left the American heartland for western parts and ports. He experienced rock ‘n’ roll, radical politics, journalism, and finally Buddhism. Under the influence of Buddhist teacher Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche and poet Allen Ginsberg, Bill practiced his own musical poetry in the Shambhala tradition. Eventually putting his music on the back burner, he went on to practice law, making him part, as his teacher said, “of the army of Shambhala lawyers.” He lives in Los Angeles and is now a student of Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche. 

     

    Viewing all 1777 articles
    Browse latest View live


    <script src="https://jsc.adskeeper.com/r/s/rssing.com.1596347.js" async> </script>