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Tibet; They Never Invaded Anyone!

It was half time during the Barça-Real Madrid game. I told my husband I had showed the Tibet video in class. “Which one?” he asked. There are many such documentaries—such as, The Yogis of Tibet, Tibetan Refugee, and of course, movies like Kundun—that chronicle the Chinese invasion of Tibet under the Maoist regime, beginning in 1949. The one I showed today focussed on an interview with the Dalai Lama, hence the title, 10 Questions for the Dalai Lama.

Despite the star power behind the issue, many of my students bravely and humbly admitted to never having heard of this critical situation. Yet, the average person surely knows what kind of dress Kate Middleton wore at the Royal Wedding, I wryly joked.

The problem of media coverage comes in to play when you consider that in order to care about any injustice, you’ve got to first be aware that the injustice even exists.

Despite the lively discussion the video engendered, and the gratitude most students expressed to me after class for having showed the video, I mentioned to my husband that one student had called the video one-sided.

The game was back and Messi had the ball, so my husband went straight to the heart of it: Tibet never invaded anyone. The suggestion of bias makes it sound as if somehow, one could justify the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Tibetans, the destruction of over 6,000 monasteries, nunneries and temples, and the imprisonment and torture of thousands of other Tibetans.

I don’t see any more justification for this than I do the murder of 6 million Jews, nor nearly 1 million Armenians by the Turks, nor any of the other cultural genocides that darken the pages of our history books.

Someone wondered whether the film had an anti-communist tone. Whether it did or didn’t isn’t really the point. And the fact that Mao was one isn’t really the point (besides giving Mao an extra dash of bitterness toward the Tibetans just for being religious). The point is tyranny and injustice and communists lay no claim to either—oppressors come in all shapes, sizes and political affiliation.

I thought of something my favorite journalist—the Persian reporter, Christiane Amanour—asked once: Why can’t we just call a spade a spade? She knew full well why.

In this case, as the BBC points out, China has become a major player in the world market and its businesses have such a strong lobby that officials are reluctant to take substantive measures against its crimes toward Tibet.

In November 2008, the U.N. agreed with Free Tibet’s report on torture, clarifying that it believes that torture is ‘widespread and routine’ in Tibet.

Lest we forget to mention that from China’s perspective, Tibet has always been part of the Republic, let us state simultaneously, that prior to 1950, Tibet was a nation with an established sovereign government, a currency, a postal system, a language, a legal system, and a culture.

The history is complex, but the moral point is simple: There is never an excuse for imperialist aggression.

And lest we falsely assume that for all Chinese authorities, mum’s the word, let’s not forget Hu Yao Bang, the General Secretary of the Communist Party, who visited Tibet in 1980—the first senior official to do so since the invasion. He was so alarmed by the destruction he saw there, he called for immediate reform.

He was forced to resign.

The situation has continued to languish. And other officials dared not come forth. Some, such as Foreign Ministry spokesman Hong Lei, simply deny reports of tensions, calling on the US to stop making “irresponsible remarks.”

All foreigners have been banned from Tibet and from the surrounding provinces in order to close the region to outside eyes.

In 1981, Russian writer Alexander Solzhenytsin described the situation as “more brutal and inhumane than any other communist regime in the world.” And this, by the pen of a Russian novelist!

And lest we falsely lay blame on our friends, the common Chinese people, who have themselves, suffered by the hands of the same regime, I am reprinting part of an article I previously wrote:

The Emptiness of Anger

While working my way through a thick stack of homework papers recently, I came across one, written by a Chinese student who spoke of his hatred toward the Japanese because of the Japanese invasions into China during the 1930s. 

I wondered, if he even knew who he was angry with, and whether the feeling is directed toward today’s generation of Japanese. I even wonder if it is a feeling at all. It is perhaps more like a cultural habit. 

Nonetheless, if the cynicism is directed toward today’s generation, then I wonder whether these young Japanese are even familiar with the history of WWII. If they’re like most young people, it’s just an anecdote in their history books. They are a good three generations removed, with very different cultural concerns, and on a personal level, they’re worried about transferring to a good university, when their boyfriend will call, and whether they’ve used too many minutes on their cell phones. We are all very similar. In this light, it is clearly pointless to be angry at these people.

So, then what about the older generation, those who were in their prime during WWII—The “culprits?” Similarly, my guess is that the average Japanese person back then was waiting for news of the war, like the rest of the world, concerned most immediately, about the safety of her family, and just hoping for things to return to normal. They weren’t personally involved in acts of destruction at all, and chances are, didn’t wish for it, either. So, who should the culprit be? Perhaps the government…

…but that particular assemblage is now nonexistent!

The Chinese aren’t horrible for persisting in their anger toward the Japanese. If they are, then we all are equally horrible. We all do the same thing. The Buddhists call it ignorance.

We condemn the Germans as a whole for the holocaust. But all it takes is remembrance of the many Germans who tried, themselves, to bring down Hitler, and the many others who took in Jews, at their own personal risk.

Ironically, it would be all too easy to direct the same bitterness toward the Chinese, due to their violent seizure of Tibet, but the ordinary Chinese people of today have not seized Tibet, and weren’t even around when the whole thing started. They are getting along like the rest of us, doing the things the rest of us do everyday, and probably don’t know much about it, aside from what their Government, through heavy censure, has allowed them to know.

The point is, with deeper consideration, it becomes increasingly difficult to find a target, and to hold onto anger.

Excerpt from Buddha in the Classroom (No Beginning & No End)

Well, the month has arrived! My book, Buddha in the Classroom; Zen Wisdom to Inspire Teachers, is now available for purchase. In celebration of the event, I will be posting a couple of excerpts this month. Here is the first, taken from one of the Dharma Lessons that follow each of the classroom chronicles I share in the book.

Excerpt from Chapter 7—Grading Papers; There is No Beginning and No End

We’re rushing to our deaths, Zen says.

We go through life forever trying to get to ten. We look to the clock with great expectations, forever asking, even as grown-ups, if we’re there yet. We humor the children when they ask, but we ask too, in our own rushed ways, in all the days of our lives, and in everything we do, forever rushing to the end. The end of what? If this continues throughout every activity, throughout the rest of our lives, the only end in sight is death.

As an experiment, catch yourself the next time you find yourself thinking in terms of quantity. It might be the day’s errands, or the pile of bills, or, like me, the talking stack of papers on your desk. Simply notice the feeling of urgency and the tendency to rush through them. Notice, also, the inclination to shrink back. Although they seem like opposite tendencies, both come from the same feeling of aversion, and serve only to keep us out of touch with the actual task. We’re taken aback by the enormity of what we’ve created in our minds, so we say, I’m just going to plow through it and get it done, or, It’s too overwhelming and I don’t know where to start. See them both as nothing more than habits that come from our skewed way of envisioning time.

Both responses pull us out of the freshness of direct experience. They both bind us to the fantasy of a task rather than the reality of it, warping our sense of what is really required. Wasting energy on head trips is exhausting, and we do it to ourselves. A task is done in steps, because reality is made up of steps, infinitely divided flashes of time that are too small to measure. We come to life and our energy soars when we join that moment, rather than standing separate from it—when we rise to the occasion rather than sink into the pit of resistance. When we join the moment, we join time. We are time.

Ultra distance runner Pam Reed understands this. When running superhuman distances that require her to continue on for three days straight, with no sleep or breaks of any kind, she tells herself she only has to get to the next pole, to the next marker, right there. She keeps herself from getting vacuumed up into the enormity of the distance and ends up at the final mark by employing these little tricks—which are less like tricks than they are reminders of reality itself.

Time is an abstraction that stops and stares right back at us as soon as we separate ourselves from it. To be separated from time is to watch it. It’s a shy child that can’t play naturally, and acts awkwardly when we watch, but as soon as we look away and rejoin our conversations, she continues to play naturally. Time flows when we stop watching it. Staring at the clock is to resist reality. I don’t like this situation—can’t this clock move any faster! Like Pam Reed, we need only put one foot in front of the other, and take a step, right here and now.

Thoughts; Do They Define Us or Not?

We are what we think, The Dhammapada begins. All that we are arises with our thoughts.

Yet, at the same time, a thought is nothing other than a passing wave of the mind, Suzuki Roshi says, in the classic, Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind. I remember another Zen master likening thoughts to bodily secretions. He was reminding us not to take them seriously. A thought is nothing other than an inconsequential emission, like sweat, which evaporates on its own, or a burp, which is gone as quickly as it arises, without a single trace. It is why, in Zen meditation, we don’t try and stop our thoughts. Like a revolving door, they will come and they will go, of their own accord. Those incessant emissions don’t define us any more than the steam from a boiling cup of tea defines the quality of the tea leaf.

Or do they?

Perhaps thoughts are more like the emissions from an old Chevy…black and heavy, betraying our old, outdated, carburetor engine, and the total lack of smog control. The smoke and soot sullies up everything, and we breathe in all the black pollution. As The Dhammapada suggests, our thoughts give us away, and we can hide our identity no more than a ’57 Chevy can hide its smoke. We think ugly thoughts and we wear them.

The Resolution:

Thoughts are passing waves, but there’s a catch…if we let them pass. They come and they go…if we avoid getting attached to them. And this is where mindfulness starts. With this realization, we can avoid the karma that clings to us, like gum getting stuck to our shoes, every time we fixate on those thoughts.

So both ideas are true. They can live together, side by side, without conflict. Like a light wave, there’s no necessary contradiction with regard the different viewpoints: it’s a wave or a particle, depending on which way you look at it. Our thoughts are only secretions when we recognize them as such and then let them go—a useful trick, when it comes to what Buddhists would call unskillful thoughts, and what the Yogis would refer to as negative thoughts. The problem surfaces when we habituate. Then we get stuck; then we get in our own way; we prevent ourselves from moving along;  we wear it on our faces; we exude it in our demeanor, and it affects every aspect of our relationships, our lives and our worlds.

Seen in this way, our thoughts have tremendous power and define us, if we let them. So we can let them, in a skillful way, or in an unskillful way. That’s where spiritual training comes in. As one of my favorite yogis, Swami Sivananda reminds us, in Thought Power, by raising only thoughts of mercy, love and kindness, we bring happiness upon ourselves and others. Conversely, when we are stewing in hatred, pain is sure to follow. In this way, we use thoughts conscientiously, with deliberate aim.

Similarly, in Kundalini Yoga, we are taught to convert negative thought forms and tendencies, rather than fight against them or wait for them to go away on their own; we use them skillfully to good purpose. For example, we may put the tendency toward anger to good use, by directing that anger toward ourselves for not being more patient, or we may turn our greed into the noble desire to become enlightened.

So, it seems we have two choices, we can let negative thoughts settle on their own, without the validation of judging them, or even naming them. Or, we can convert them. In both cases, we are willfully using our mind rather than the other way around. We are the master and are working with our thoughts in a decisive way.

Whatever you give attention to, thrives—especially habit patterns. Water the grass and it grows. Water the weeds and they grow. Water the thoughts and we become those thoughts.

Poetry Page Updated!

I just uploaded almost all of my poetry. It is divided up based on form.

I have been fascinated with sonnets for a long time and have amassed quite a few through the years, so those are first. Further down are the Haiku, followed by those in loose form. I also included the date of each poem, next to my signature.

I have heard that poetry is a hard sell and this baffles me, for, as each art form does in its own way, poetry provides us with an elusive snapshot of this mysterious thing we call truth, and it does this by going beyond the discourse, debate and argumentation. Thus, as with all art, its valuable place in human life seems to me, unquestionable. I have also heard that poetry is easy to write and this baffles me even more, for, just like prose, a good poem has needs and requirements to tend to. A poem requires knowledge of form, a feeling for meter, a feeling for rhythm and a good sense of rhyme. There are decisions to be made, and like prose, even the decision not to make any at all, is, after all, a decision. And the decision to leave it all behind, requires knowledge of what it is you’re leaving behind. It’s like when someone says, “anybody can sing.” Sure, anybody can sing, but not everybody can sing!
~DQ

What’s New?

I am currently writing a follow-up to the article I recently wrote for Elephant Journal. Like the first article, it takes the reader into my classroom, where together, we explore important questions arising from Buddhist philosophy, like how on earth I’m supposed to be happy when the world is falling apart.

Yesterday, my lecture on Emptiness was filmed. We’ll see how it turns out – hopefully it’ll be uploaded to Youtube within the next week or two.

And although I haven’t added a blog post lately, I have added a POETRY page (see the horizontal index on top), which will allow me to house some of the poetry I’ve written over the years. I have so much, that it will be a project in itself to upload a fair portion of it in some sort of organized way, but that’s next in line, after the Elephant Journal article.

But most exciting of all, is that my publisher just gave me word that my book is expected in their warehouse TODAY! The release date is May 11th, but I should have a copy in hand before that – can’t wait!

Close Your Books! Teaching Meditation in a Community College Classroom

I’m thrilled to be a part of elephant journal!

Following is an excerpt from my article, Close Your Books and Forget the Thinking: Teaching Meditation in a Community College Lecture Hall:

In the East, knowledge is all tangled up with the religious and so it is that the western categories of philosophy and religion don’t quite fit. Knowledge comes via direct experience, rather than cogent arguments. Truth is found in the stillness of the quiet mind, rather than on the pages of competing theories and the very pursuit is to drop the pursuit. We rediscover, rather, what we already know, uncover what was already there—what Zen calls your original face, what Hinduism calls your true self. But we have to get real still, so that we can see without looking and hear without listening.

I explained all of this. Then, I dimmed the lights.

“With your attention only on your breath, jot down, in your project books, each thought you become aware of. But don’t write me a composition! And, as strange as it sounds, don’t try to write stuff—because that means you’re following your thoughts. Just scratch out any key word and come back.”

I tiptoed around and stole glances over their shoulders. Some had no more than five words, even though five minutes had passed, even though we’ve got thousands of thoughts streaming by in the blink of an eye.

I interrupted the silence with two hits of my handheld meditation bell.

“Anybody care to share?” I asked. “Was there some thought you kept coming back to?”

“Yeah, that I can’t wait to eat, after class!” one said.

“Me too–I couldn’t get lunch out of my head,” a girl in the back added.

“Sounds like what we used to call ‘sick dreams’, as kids,” I laughed.

“So, we’ve got burritos on the brain. What kind of thought is that?” I asked.

“A future thought,” offered one quick student in the front.

“Exactly!” I said.

“So, here’s part two of our experiment: Next to each word, write a ‘P’ next to the past thoughts and an ‘F,’ next to the future ones.”

Read the whole article here!

Reincarnation and Presence: A Contradiction?

We talked in class, about the importance of presence, and the role of meditation in bringing us back to the only moment that has ever, and that will ever, exist—Now. And then a student asked a question:

“But Hindus believe in reincarnation—isn’t that a future-worry?”

At the heart of meditation, in Hinduism, and in all the Dharmic traditions, including Buddha Dharma and Sikh Dharma, is the importance placed on nurturing our power of focused awareness. It strengthens the mind’s ability to consciously choose, in anew in each moment, where to focus its attention. As it happens, the best thing to focus on is now, and although there are countless reasons why, these are the three most important ones:

  1. Now is the most incredible and momentous event of our lives.
  2. Now is the only time and place joy lives
  3. Now is the only time and place we can discover how the mind really works, and thus, get it to work better.

Now starts with the simple sensation of our own breath flowing in through our noses, and down into our lungs. Watching this is where presence begins and where true meditation begins.

I can appreciate my student’s concern about reincarnation, and the idea that if it happens at a future time, then thinking about it would seem to constitute future thinking—a direct contradiction to the enterprise of staying present.

However—and this is at the heart of my response—Just because you know the rest of the staircase is there, doesn’t mean you ever walk more than one step at a time!

The subtler nuances of my response concern the idea of reincarnation itself, which may be conceived of in myriad ways.

Ask a Zen Buddhist what she thinks of reincarnation and get one answer. Ask 10 others and get 10 more. Ask a Hindu, get another one still. Life and death happens every moment. It happens because you change every moment. In each and every moment, the forces of creation, preservation and destruction happen within you and without you, on every level of your physical, spiritual and mental existence. On the cellular level there is a war going on, and in the world of our minds, as meditation clearly shows us, we are forever duking it out.

But we only notice the aftermath and inevitable changes that follow, when something moves us and shakes us to such a degree that we’re thrown into shock—when we’re sure nothing will ever be the same again. We must remember though, that at any moment, we may proclaim with absolute certainty, that nothing will ever be the same again. We always notice only later, when, seen through the bittersweet palette of our mind’s eye, we gaze nostalgically back upon the events of our lives.

Reincarnation, conceived of in the most brute sense, as the soul taking up residence in a new physical vessel, after the complete physical death of the prior, is still just an extension of the way life is already—you know there’s a tomorrow, but you don’t live there. You know you’ll die, but you choose to live, while you’re alive.

In this unrefined interpretation of reincarnation, the soul’s rebirth is determined by the karmic balance left after our physical existence is done. But in the meantime, and in realtime, through meditation, we can redeem our innumerable debts. When we say we choose to live, we can really do it, by waking up now. The Hindus call it Moksha. We can all call it liberation.

As written for Spirit Voyage.

On Giving Advice

I started this article before the tsunami. One thing my son noticed, while watching the news of the horrible events that have befallen this vulnerable land, was how contained these poor people were, in the face of what seems an unthinkable tragedy. I now dedicate this post to the Japanese. May we learn from their composure and grace.

The comedian Joan Rivers used to be famous for her tag-line, Can we talk? Well I’ve got one, too: Can we listen?

Can we sometimes simply share with one another? Can we reside in that state of neutrality, where we are completely without the compulsion to advise and judge, suggest and recommend, as a perfunctory response to any confidence shared or any word spoken?

Now, I’m not suggesting advice doesn’t have its place. It is with immeasurable gratitude that I think upon the dear ones in my life that I can go to when in need of reassurance or encouragement, or simply to bear out my own feeling on a matter.

What I have in mind is casual conversations between individuals, when unrequested, almost mechanical consultation, routine advice-giving, takes the place of simply sharing.

For example, in these snippets from actual conversations:

Tom: I’ve been sort of melancholic lately.
Anna: Try walking on the beach.

Mary: Dan’s been getting on my nerves lately.
Josie: You need to be more patient with him.

Lori: I just don’t enjoy traveling as much as I used to.
Sam: Well, you need to be adventurous and find the beauty in it.

It was a moment of great accord that I happened upon an old book from my study room, while researching for class. It was on Japanese culture. The European writer described with great emphasis, how disinclined these equable people are toward issuing criticism or judgment of any kind. This is no less true of the changing moods of those around them, as it is of the changing seasons and all the elements of the world as a whole. In the spirit of acceptance, they take the bad with the good. All of it is part of life. As Karlfried Graf Durckheim says of the Japanese:

The Japanese are not fond of making moral judgments, except in rare instances. But their characteristic attitude is to affirm life as it is, to accept it and give it its due in its uniqueness, instead of trying to compose it into rational and ethical systems.

He goes on:

For the Japanese, pointless grumbling is considered weak, and narrow-minded judgment despicable.

We can learn from their phlegmatic disposition. We can simply be with what is. Upon reflection, my feeling is that we don’t believe in the power of simply being, of simply paying attention. We don’t believe that merely listening is good enough. We feel we have to validate our presence, make ourselves worthy, by helping or fixing.

The other more profound phenomenon at work is largely cultural. We have an expression: It’s all good. We like to say it, but we don’t actually believe it. It is a slightly different point than the one made above. Here, our tendency to fix is a national compulsion, a cultural tic. It’s a western thing–we are set to do, to make, to fix and to solve, not merely in order to validate our presence, but because we don’t truly believe, in our heart of hearts, that everything will be fine. That is to say, we don’t truly believe that the natural ebb and flow of everything–our moods, our weather, our happiness–is normal and fine.

The result is an unconscious rush of recommendations, well-meaning guidance and endless instructions, even in the context of a casual conversation, where the simple act of sharing is, alone, delightful, welcome nourishment. It may be an effortless, but sincere gesture of compassion–a look that says I feel that way, too, sometimes. A gesture that communicates our shared human experience is like balm on a wounded soul.

I have a feeling this commentary might irritate people. But again, I’m not referring at all to those instances where council from a trustworthy friend is sought, nor to any such situation where we actively seek the guidance and the wisdom of others. And thank goodness we can. It is, rather, a casual observation of the freely dispersed, the automatic and impulsive. That which is given as if by reflex, without limit or restraint. I assert, at the risk of pissing people off, that it’s a subtle act of imposing, of pushing our ideas of what’s right on others. It is, in short, the imposition of ego.

10 Reasons to Chant

In yogic parlance sound is related to the dimension of space. So when we use sound in specific ways, we positively affect our internal space, our most subtle element. We trigger transformation from within.

I am particularly happy with my latest blog-post for Spirit Voyage, on sound and mantra in yogic meditation–not only because mantra meditation is such a beloved part of my own practice, but because, well, simply put, I worked hard on putting together intricate material in a readable format. The reward is that it has already reached over 350 shares! Here is an excerpt:

#1

The Benefit:

Reduces Anxiety and Depression

The Technology:

By combining sound, breath and rhythm, mantra meditation channels the flow of energy through the mind-body circuit, adjusting the chemical composition of our internal states and regulating brain-hemisphere imbalances, contributing to a natural abatement of fear and despair–emotions that underlie both of these common afflictions. By balancing the nervous system, chanting regulates the chronic stress and tension that is the norm for many people in today’s hyper-stimulated lifestyle. And by balancing the endocrine system, chanting normalizes hormone production, which balances our moods and overall sense of well-being.

#2

The Benefit:

Releases Neuroses

The Technology:

Chanting delivers us from the excessive preoccupation with our bodies and with material concerns. It delivers us from fear of old age and death. We begin to identify with the timelessness of the soul and consequently begin to shed neurotic habits that no longer serve and that no longer seem relevant. By returning us to what is essential, it clears away subconscious habit patterns. Embraced by the steady rhythm and by the vibration that connects us all, our thoughts combine wholly with the sound current. As the captain sets the canvas to the wind, thus pulling the boat out of trouble, it is through mantra that we steer ourselves out of our own stormy seas and into clear waters.

#3

The Benefit:

It is Soothing

The Technology:

The power of mantra is betrayed in the roots of the sanskrit word, man, meaning mind, and, tra, meaning deliverance, or, projection. Thus, chanting the sacred sound of the mantra delivers us from our sense dependency, from our unrelenting habit of looking toward the senses for gratification; pleasures that are and that will always be, fleeting and limited–how much can you eat? Or drink? Or buy? Sense gratification never really gratifies. We are always left either unfulfilled and guilty–wishing we had never started, or else, wanting more and lamenting the loss.

Chanting is a pleasure that transcends the senses, it takes us beyond the bounds of time and space (which is why we don’t have to understand the mantra). Thus it soothes in a most profound way. It soothes on a cellular level. It merges our finite identity with the infinite, and so dissolves us. It relieves us from the sights and sounds and stimulation of the material world and delivers us into a spiritual space, where the sound is God. The material needs are reduced to nothing but mind chatter, and like smoke pumped into the sky, will be scattered into the expanse. Through the sweetness of devotional surrender, mantra turns the negative into positive. I once heard it said: “as music has charms to soothe a savage beast, so the spiritual sound of mantra soothes the restless mind.”

Hop on over to Spirit Voyage to continue!

Oneness

This lovely question landed in my youtube inbox the other day. I think it is the kind of question others probably wonder about, too–it is the same kind of question I wondered a lot about, so I would like to share it.

Sent to: profquesada

Hi, I’ve been watching your videos, and have been reading Alan Watts and I have a question that keeps coming up whenever the concept of no self is talked about. I understand very well the fact that other things should be considered vital and important to us such as the air, the trees, ect., because without oxygen our lungs would be useless. But where I start to lose understanding is why this vitalness of other things is linked with the concept that we are the same as them? Yes everything is interdependent, but the difference between an earthworm and I is that all of my cells have a certain DNA structure or code that is different from the earthworms’, and even different from other peoples’. This is a question I thought a lot about that I don’t ever see discussed. Thanks for your videos they were very interesting to watch — Ellie

Hi Ellie,
I’m happy to know you enjoyed my talks. I’ll respond to your question very simply. You’re quite right, on the material plane, I am very different than an earthworm! However–and this is the whole point of meditation, really–the idea is to transcend this material identification. It is the same tendency that is at the root of our body identity, and all the suffering we bring upon ourselves because of it. Our physical identities are like masks we wear for a limited time, then, as a snake sheds its skin, we shed that persona. What’s left? That’s where different traditions come in, but that doesn’t matter for now. The practices nudge us out of our illusion, our delusion of separateness and dissolve us into this, whatever-it-is. Call it suchness, call it Brahman, call it God, call it energy. Everyday, we can simply call it beauty!
~DQ