The Naked Monk

Driving past little Pine Lake in Hudson the other day, I was listening to the oboe’s baleful lament in Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez, and recalling my mother. Just a few years ago she’d stood on this shore staring at the red-tinged foliage and a nearby heron, still as a statue — both Mum and the bird, that is.

She was rapt, taking in the view for the last time — taking in viewing for the last time. We knew there wouldn’t be much more. Alzheimer’s had her brain, though not entirely; she knew what was coming.

In the space of twenty yards I was intersected by the music, the memory and the scene. My eyes welled up. Mum’s at rest now, but that moment is seared in my memory. It’s not just about her; in the death of our parents we see our own mortality — a mortality I flirted with too freely while she was still alive. I still feel guilty for almost inflicting my own death on her — too recklessly and too often.

It seemed to me on that day that she was trying with all her might to imbibe it all, to get enough and finally let go; but eventually, turning away with a little sigh, she smiled and said, “Oh well! Never mind.”

As I pass through the middle years and am faced ever more bluntly with my own transience, I also find more acceptance. It’s not always like this; some people grow more fearful. That’s a shame, for life is to be lived, and the less that remains, the sweeter it surely is.  I thank Mum for that grace.

If you want to pass down some useful insight to your children, live life to the full, not necessarily without fear but without flinching, with your heart wide open. No need to say a thing. They’ll get it.

Wisdom in the mind is better than money in the hand.

Look at the sign that was on the wall of the classroom in China where my daughter Melanie was teaching this summer (left). It’s got a Chinese ring to it, and yet it’s a universal message. Still, it bugged me. Schools are places of knowledge, not wisdom. Wisdom cannot be taught, only found within oneself (which is why it’s also called insight). The sign on the wall implies that knowledge is equivalent to wisdom, which it’s not, or that it necessarily leads to wisdom, which it doesn’t.

What’s the difference? For example, knowledge tells me all about my bad habits — they hurt me; I’d be better off without them. That knowledge, however, doesn’t change those habits one bit. They might even grow stronger. That’s why trying to quit smoking, lose weight or become more tolerant can frustrate the hell out of you. Knowledge is a way of objectifying the world and our place in it. To learn how to be objective, we go to school. Knowledge tells you what to do, but not how to do it. For that, you need insight.

Insight is subjective; it comes from within. It’s intuitive. We don’t learn to be aware — we just are; whatever we pay attention to is reflected in our minds. Insight can’t be learned but it can be trained — by cultivating attention. That’s why we start by watching the breath and letting go of thoughts.

Look into the eyes of newborns. They know nothing, but they’re full of attention. As they start to accumulate knowledge, everything changes.

The more we learn, the less attentive we become. Knowledge brings illusions of control; it reaches critical mass in our teens, when we think we know it all and can do anything. That’s when we begin in earnest to ignore the simple joy of being. Now the human mind becomes a bottomless pit demanding to be filled. We forget what was once obvious: that it’s already filled with the light of awareness.

That’s why, when we start watching the breath, knowledge struggles against the light. “Am I sitting the right way? I’m no good at this. Why am I bored? Shouldn’t I feel blissful?” Similarly, we might study mindfulness, attend spiritual conferences and meet great teachers — but never stop and let go. It’s as if we can’t move forward without first finding the right answer, but being isn’t a problem; it needs no explanations, no solutions, no answers.

Mindfulness is hard because we tell ourselves it is. In reality it’s child’s play — literally. Just acknowledge that the chatter is not mindfulness and that the bits in between are, and they’ll gradually become more frequent.

Make no mistake, we need knowledge. It’s indispensible for work, to raise a family, to play and relax — but it becomes a control freak, threatened by insight. It portrays insight as boring, which is why people laugh at meditators, and why we beat ourselves up when we don’t get it ‘right.’ We just sit there doing nothing. What a waste of life!

There’s room for both knowledge and insight. In fact, only with both do we become whole. Understanding this helps us move forward, towards allowing insight to do its stuff. The difficulty is that, as adults, we insist that everything is processed through the filter of the objective mind. Trusting your insight is a leap into the unknown; or rather, into the forgotten.

Go on — let go!

My dad ran a fine Gloucester restaurant in the West of England and used to recite these words like a mantra. It contrasted with his considered opinion that many customers were philistines who didn’t appreciate good food and wine. Still, he acknowledged their custom nevertheless, knowing that his livelihood depended on them. That wasn’t the least bit unusual; it was the prevailing business attitude in those days before the term ‘customer service’ was invented.

Today, it’s a ubiquitous label used by corporation worldwide, ostensibly to establish in black and white that yes they really do care about their customers, but more often to deal with disgruntled ones. Getting through to someone with authority in the higher echelons of today’s corporations is about as easy as getting through to Barack Obama for a nice chat.

A case in point is Videotron, my cable internet supplier and, oh dear, a service industry. I called because I had been initially charged  $5 for 5 gigabytes of bandwidth, but then $7.95 per additional gigabyte. Why, I wanted to know, were there two rates?

“Because,” said the customer service representative, you went over what you were allowed.

“Allowed?” I echoed. “You make me sound like a naughty boy. Don’t you want me to consume your product?”

“Of course we do, sir.”

‘Sir,’ of course, is meant to denote respect, but you’d never know it from her tone of voice.

“Well,” I said, “It seems punitive to me. Why would you want to upset your customers?”

“We’re not trying to upset our customers,” she insisted.

“Well in this case you have. Don’t you find that unbearable?”

No answer.

“So why are there two rates?”

“I already told you sir, because you went over your limit. You’re not allowed to do that.”

“Allowed,” I mused. “There’s that word again.”

She ignored me.

“Please remind me, why am I not allowed?”

“Because you’ve purchased a 5 gigabyte package and have gone over the limit.”

“So I used more, and I have to pay for it.”

“Exactly,” she said, relieved that I’d finally seen the light.

“Fair enough,” I added.

“I’m glad you see my point, sir.”

“Good,” I added. “Now, why does the cost go up by 795%?”

“What?”

Well, $5 for 5 gigabytes is a dollar a gigabyte, correct?

She didn’t answer.

“And $7.95 a gigabyte is 7.95 times as much, right? That’s a 795% increase.”

She’s still silent.

“Look,” I said, “If I’m not allowed any more, why don’t you just turn off the tap?”

“What?” Now she’s annoyed.

“Why don’t you stop supplying me when I reach my limit. After all, I’m not allowed any more — right?”

“We don’t cut off our customers like that sir.”

“Ah,” I said. “Could it be that you want me to go over, so you can the gouge me?”

Silence.

“Is that it? Does Videotron engage in trickery?”

“Sir, why did you contact us?” Her voice suggests I’ll be nonplussed by her clever question.

“To get my money back,” I said. I’ll give you two dollars for two gigabytes. Seems fair to me.

“And what happens next month?”

“Next month?”

“Yes, sir. You’re going to go over the limi again next month. Then what?”

“I’m confused,” I said. “You know how much bandwidth I’ll use next month?”

“You went over your limit this month. You’ll go over again next month, and the month after. Then what will you do?”

“Good Lord,” I exclaimed. “You see into the future? How can you possibly know what I’m going to do in the next month?”

“How much bandwidth will you use then, sir?”

I’m now irritated. “I don’t know. If I did, it would be none of your business.”

“You see?” she says, “You don’t know. That why you need to purchase our Extreme high-speed package.”

“Don’t want it,” I said. “Are you going to refund that extortionate billing, or do I move to one of your competitors?”

“Our competitors bill their clients exactly as we do, sir.”

“So?”

“So that’s what we do. It’s perfectly reasonable.”

“Because they gouge their customers, it’s okay for you to do the same?”

“Yes.”

She missed that one. The poor girl wouldn’t know a logical inference if it hit her in the face. Perhaps that’s because she’s sacrificed her wits for her job, trying to follow bureaucratically-designed customer service conversations instead of her own sense of right and wrong. She sacrifices her integrity daily to keep her job. Sad.

“So will you upgrade to the extreme high-speed package?”

“No thanks. I don’t need it.”

“Yes you do sir.”

“Who on Earth are you,” I explode. “God?”

“So why are you calling us?”

“Actually, I’m not calling you. I emailed you and expected an email response.”

“We called you back, sir. That is Videotron’s policy. We wish to speak directly to customers in order to resolve their concerns. It’s in the customer’s best interests.”

“Not mine.”

“Why is that, sir?” Oh boy, she ready for me now. I bet she has company policy memorized word for word.”

“Because you didn’t leave me a call-back number.”

“It’s not our policy to do that, sir.”

“I suppose that wouldn’t be in my best interests?”

No answer.

“And you called, what, ten or twelve times, disturbing my wife and daughter with your incessant calls, leaving no message.”

“Sir, it’s not Videotron policy….”

“So what’s your answer? Do I get my refund, or find a new internet supplier?”

“You won’t get a penny more.”

“A penny more than what?”

“Than the $15.90 for the two gigabytes at $7.95.”

“You’re actually going to refund it?”

“I’ll give you a credit, sir. But you won’t get a penny more in credit.”

“Madam,” I explain, “You’re giving me exactly what I want.”

“That’s all!” she insists. “Not a penny more!”

I exclaim, “Oh dear!” Perhaps that will console her.

“Is there anything else I can help you with this evening?”

“No thanks.

“Thank you for contact Videotron Customer Support sir, and have a great day.”

“Really?”

I hang up thinking about the Buddha’s injunction to avoid wrong livelihoods. It couldn’t be simpler. Put your source of income before your own integrity and you’re on a slippery slope to discontent and stress. Sure you need money, but you need mental health too, something too often pushed far down the list of priorities. When you think that Xeroxed conversations like this are being taught to tens of thousands of people in customer service centres worldwide, you can only wonder what the world’s coming to. But then, people wonder that in one generation after another, don’t they?

What a strange lot we are, human beings.

Last weekend I was the fortunate recipient of some critical advice. I wasn’t expecting it, I didn’t ask for it and I really had no idea how to fit it into my life, but it was delivered with the assurance that it came from the heart and would benefit me greatly. It was rather like receiving a Christmas sweater that the giver knows is ‘you,’ but which in fact you wouldn’t be caught dead in. According to the rules of etiquette, however, thanks are in order. Who among us isn’t placed from time to time in this awkward position?

To advise someone effectively, a true benefactor will neither assume that he or she fully knows the recipient’s needs, nor pretend to thoroughly understand his or her predicament — if indeed there is one. This wasn’t the case last week, and I was mystified by the intrusion. Upon enquiring why I’d need such advice, I was accused of being ‘confrontational.’

Am I an ungrateful wretch? Convention insists that one shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but what of Trojan horses? Too often, they’re a convenient way to offload an intruder’s own unresolved issues in the guise of a free gift.

This particular benefactor isn’t a bad person; his helpful intentions, however, were certainly manipulative. In the reflective lifestyle, Step One of helping out is listening, and its helpmate, asking. Failing to listen means that one’s ‘help’ is little more than interference.

This failing is all too common; it affects not only individuals but also organizations. Look at the way the Catholic Church ‘saved’ heathens around the world, how the Canadian government ‘helped’ first nations peoples, and what the World Bank decides developing states ‘need.’ Today, at last, there is a greater tendency to listen before acting — but only because weaker peoples are finally finding their voice and demanding respect. Having more money or knowledge is no justification for making assumptions about others, let alone presuming to advise them, and yet it remains so common that few people think twice about it. In fact, donors who neither ask nor listen inevitably impinge upon the dignity of others.

As a teacher of mindful reflection, I’ve been asked how one reconciles kindness with discernment; after all, the truth isn’t always palatable. I can only talk from experience — I prefer to be kind, but I’ve learned that until I grasped self-respect, my attempts to respect others were a sham. Through learning to stand up for myself, I’ve discovered that there’s no helping anyone without first listening. This depends on scrutinizing one’s own intentions, which is where the great power of mindful reflection lies.

To understand (‘stand under’) someone’s situation means to put oneself in their shoes, to not simply jump in with one’s own opinions. The advice I received this last weekend came from someone who ‘knew better,’ who understood me so well that listening seemed to that person to be unnecessary. The result was not aid but alienation.

Like anyone I have my challenges, and if someone knows of useful shortcuts, I’m glad to take advantage — but to be useful it has to relate to my life as I experience it, not as they see it. Otherwise, how’s it going to work? Giving isn’t a one-way street; it’s a complex relationship in which two people interact for mutual gain. Generosity is one of the great human qualities, but simply handing out stuff is not generosity. The real thing requires mindful reflection.

Last weekend I was interviewed by Drew Marshall, host of ‘Canada’s most listened to spiritual talk show.’ Drew believes in Jesus Christ, but he also describes himself as an “autodidactic iconoclast” who rages against the “bizarre North American Christian sub-culture.”

I liked him. Rather more surprisingly, he liked me.

I really don’t believe in believers. Considering all the scorn I’ve heaped upon Christians (and Buddhists too, for that matter), I don’t expect to be liked. Anyway, Drew had actually read my book – which not all interviewers bother to do. He also asked thoughtful questions. Best of all, he tried to provoke me, describing my encounter with Tibetan Buddhism as a sort of, “counter-culture, esoteric, pseudo-elitist, leave-it-all-behind, throw-out-the-baby-with-the-bathwater and let’s buy into something else” trip. I had to agree; who could resist such a brash string of adjectival phrases?

After the interview, I revisited some of his questions in the privacy of my own head and realised I could have answered all of them in a dozen different ways. That doesn’t mean I was unhappy with the answers I gave, but that his questions reached deep. I appreciated that, and felt that I was in the company of someone of like mind. That’s a rare treat. There’s a link to the interview on this page.

Like my own interest in Buddhism, Drew is deeply concerned that his Christianity be authentic, and not just a show. He employs none of the pat phrases we hear from most public Christians (God-willing, God-bless, etc.), who use words as supernatural incantations. He’s also sensitive to the close relationship between beliefs and hypocrisy, and not afraid to expose his own failings. As the interview drew to an end, he considered my own journey and, after a cautious disclaimer, asked me, “Why not Jesus?”

I might have answered with the counter question, “Well, why not Buddha?” Instead, I described the Buddha’s legacy as substantial and measurable enough to have sustained me through times that Jesus’ words, well … didn’t. Buddha taught, and was recorded in great detail, over a period of forty-five years, whereas a fragmented selection of the words of Jesus were passed down after his death, with considerable disparity, by four evangelists in well under a hundred thousand words. I was never able to figure him out, or understand in any meaningful sense how he might know me.

Radio interviews are time-sensitive. I’d have liked to have answered in more detail; to point out that, first, the accounts of those who knew Jesus are far from transparent; and, second, as memorable and inspirational as Jesus’ parables and teachings are, they’re mostly about the sort of people we should become. The Buddha’s teachings opened doors for me because they’re mostly about how we might become that way. They describe, dispassionately, without guilt or recrimination, why we keep getting ourselves into trouble, and what practices lead to peace and compassion.

To put it in their own words: Jesus was The Way. Buddha taught The Way. Grasping the legacy of either of these great teachers has little to do with what we say — whether about our beliefs or our rationalizations — and is all about what we do in accepting the challenge of living with integrity from day to day. In the case of Jesus, it requires enormous interpretation; with Buddha, great reflection.