Even if you have not read Journey to the West, a 16th-century Chinese novel attributed to the Ming dynasty poet and politician Wu Cheng’en, you have probably heard of one of its main characters: Sun Wukong. Wukong, better known in English-speaking countries as the Monkey King, or simply Monkey, is an ambitious and mischievous warrior whose unending quest for power and wisdom leads him to challenge just about every demon and deity in the Chinese pantheon. After being defeated by the Buddha, who dares him to jump out of the palm of his hand, Wukong spends 500 years imprisoned under a mountain topped by an unbreakable seal. His freedom arrives in the form of a traveling monk named Xuanzang, who promises to remove the seal if the prisoner agrees to become his peace-loving disciple and come on a long and perilous journey to India to retrieve a set of Buddhist scriptures.

The reasons for Wukong’s enduring popularity are as numerous as they are difficult to explain. As a character, he is simple yet complex, easy to appreciate but tough to analyze. A charismatic trickster in the image of Loki or John Milton’s Lucifer, his archetype is familiar to readers from all walks of life, and his active and impulsive temperament stands out favorably next to that of the calm and collected Xuanzang. True to his species, he is also fond of pranks, at one point tricking three Taoist priests into drinking his urine after mistaking it for “holy water.” Wukong’s untrained mind—his reckless behavior, emotional volatility, and childish sense of humor—contrasts with his unparalleled skill as a martial artist, a compelling duality that can also be found in many modern fictional heroes, from best-selling manga One Piece’s Monkey D. Luffy and Dragon Ball’s Son Goku to award-winning animated TV series Avatar: The Last Airbender’s Aang.

But just as Wukong’s magnetic personality has historically overshadowed the other characters of Journey to the West (also embarking on the journey are Pigsy, a gluttonous pig demon, and Sandy, a complacent water demon), so too can the novel’s swashbuckling plot—which largely consists of Wukong saving Xuanzang and the other disciples from various monsters-of-the-week—distract from its spiritual subtext. This subtext is so buried that the Chinese diplomat and literary scholar Hu Shih (1891–1962), a leading interpreter of Journey to the West during the 20th century, argued the novel should be accepted for what it appears to be on the surface: an entertaining story without a deeper meaning. C. T. Hsia (1921–2013), a historian and literary theorist, disagreed, writing that Wukong and Xuanzang’s misadventures through China reveal an “unreconciled tension” between its three principal schools of thought: Taoism, Buddhism, and Confucianism.

According to Hsia, Journey to the West embraces intellectual and religious pluralism, imploring its readers to accept “life in all its glory and squalor.” Of the three schools, Buddhism plays the most significant role in the story. It is the Buddha who manages to stop Wukong’s rampage against the gods, the bodhisattva Guanyin who guides him and Xuanzang on the road to India, and the Buddhists who tend to suffer under the corrupted rule of the other religions. Upon closer inspection, their entire pilgrimage appears to function as an allegory for the winding path toward enlightenment, explaining and illustrating key Buddhist concepts like karma, compassion, and emptiness. This makes the novel a particularly engaging read for anyone who is interested in Buddhism but feels intimidated by its notoriously esoteric canon.

In essence, Journey to the West is an allegory for how to gain wisdom to perceive truths about reality. Xuanzang, described by one scholar as a “well-meaning practitioner whose obsession with the outward forms of piety hinders him from true perception,” proves to be a terribly slow learner. Throughout the novel, he routinely places his trust in demons that take on the appearance of adorable animals, abandoned children, and kindly grandmas, despite repeated warnings from Wukong, who instantly sees through their disguises. One particularly striking example of Xuanzang’s ignorance happens in chapter fourteen, where he lashes out at the Monkey King for killing a group of robbers who stopped them in their tracks. “How can you be a monk when you take life without cause?” Xuanzang asks, oblivious to the dramatic irony embedded in his question. Not only are readers supposed to think that Wukong did have a cause—self-defense—but they may also notice that the robbers seem to represent touch, sight, hearing, smell, and taste: the very senses clouding Xuanzang’s judgment.

Although Wukong is Xuanzang’s student, he tends to act like the teacher. His name, which he received from a Taoist priest after completing his training and gaining immortality (as well as the ability to transform into seventy-two different creatures and objects), literally means “monkey awakened to the void,” a quality he demonstrates through his frequently insightful dialogue. “Seek not afar for Buddha on Spirit Mount,” he lectures Xuanzang, “Mount Spirit lives only in your mind. Maintain your vigilance with the utmost sincerity, and Thunderclap will be right before your eyes. But when you afflict yourself like that with fears and troubled thoughts, then the Great Way and, indeed, Thunderclap seem far away.”

Thunderclap is the monastery where Xuanzang must collect the holy scriptures, a place that ends up taking him more than seventeen years to reach. That’s a long time, especially when considering that Wukong—in addition to all his other superhuman feats—is capable of riding on top of a cloud and traversing 54,000 kilometers in a single somersault. Readers often wonder why the Monkey King doesn’t put Xuanzang on his back and jump over all the trials and tribulations slowing them down. When one of his fellow disciples, Pigsy, asks him that same question, Wukong responds that “it is required of Master to go through all these strange territories before he finds deliverance from the sea of sorrows; hence even one step turns out to be difficult. You and I are only his protective companions, guarding his body and life, but we cannot exempt him from these woes, nor can we obtain the scriptures all by ourselves.”

In other words, Wukong is telling Pigsy that the journey is the destination—an adage that, though reduced to a cliché at present, would have still sounded fresh in the 16th century. Its meaning turns literal when, later in the story, the pilgrims discover that some of the demons blocking their path were sent there by none other than Guanyin. “What a rogue is this Bodhisattva!” Wukong shouts, after somersaulting back and forth to confront her. “She even promised that she herself would come to rescue us when we encounter grave difficulties, but instead, she sent monster-spirits here to harass us. The way she double-talks, she deserves to be a spinster for the rest of her life.” Despite his frustration, he understands her motivations: the demons aren’t preventing them from completing their pilgrimage; they are an indispensable part of the pilgrimage itself. 

All this symbolism comes full circle on the steps of Thunderclap, where the pilgrims discover—to Xuanzang’s dismay as well as the reader’s—that the scriptures they came all this way for do not contain a single word; they are completely blank. 

The sinologist Andrew H. Plaks, subscribing to Shih’s proposition that Journey to the West is a surface-level narrative devoid of deeper meaning, regards the empty texts as a final joke played on the overly analytical reader, suggesting that “the illusion of progress may itself be the greatest impediment to its ultimate attainment.” Francisca Cho Bantly, a professor of Buddhist Studies at Georgetown University, begs to differ, interpreting the novel’s conclusion as a profound statement on the attainment of nirvana. In an article titled “Buddhist Allegory in the Journey to the West,” she writes that “enlightenment does not exist beyond the self and thus cannot be an object of attainment.”

Journey to the West maintains that personal transformation and self-improvement are best achieved through active involvement in the world, rather than through meditation, asceticism, and isolation. Where Xuanzang acts as an ambassador of the latter enclave, Wukong thoroughly embodies the former. Receiving the title of Victorious Fighting Buddha and ascending to Buddhahood upon completing the pilgrimage, Wukong demonstrates that you don’t need to be an apathetic sage to cultivate your spirituality, nor renounce your own identity in order to live in perfect harmony with the rest of the universe. For all its crude humor and explosive battles, Journey to the West leaves its readers with a characteristically unpretentious yet surprisingly wise message: if a monkey can do it, so can you. 

The post It’s Never Too Late to Start Reading ‘Journey to the West’ appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

I’m going to try to convince you not to be a jerk. I mean, you’re probably already not a jerk. I’m sure you’re usually basically a very nice human. But if you’re anything like me, you’re usually a nice human who flips out sometimes, says things he doesn’t mean, or maybe even says things he does mean and then encounters the rippling layers of consequences of those things down the line. My goal is to persuade you to do less of the jerk-like stuff you might be doing in your everyday life, and more of the prosocial, happy-making stuff you’re probably also already doing.

Please take a minute and think of a real jerk. This could be a stupid terrible jerk from your present life. It could be an awful disgusting jerk from your past. Maybe even a historical jerk or a bigtime political jerk. Whoever this jerk is, just make sure they really embody jerkiness for you.  

Got your jerk? Good. Now, I’d like you to start to catalog this person’s badness. In other words, what makes them such a jerk? Please think of all the qualities that make this individual particularly unbearable. What makes them terrible? What is it about them that makes you want to ring their neck or flee the building?

Let’s look together at that compendium of jerkdom you just assembled. What exactly was on that list of unforgivable attributes this particular jerk personifies? My guess is there are all kinds of things. This person talks behind your back. Or they threw sand in your eyes when you were ten. Or they’re racist. Or just plain damned ignorant. Or a horrible bore who won’t let you get a word in at parties. Or they’ve done something truly terrible to you or someone you love.

A jerk, put simply, is someone who causes harm. They cut you off in traffic or talk on the phone really loud in coffee shops or threaten the democratic norms you’ve always believed were intrinsic to the functioning of a civilized society. That’s why we don’t like jerks. Because they trigger avalanches of chaos everywhere they go.

But here’s the kicker, a time-honored semi-Buddhist insight: all of us have a little jerk living inside us. The part of us that wants what it wants, that doesn’t care about others’ feelings, that’s totally going to snag that parking spot outside the grocery store even though the mom with two kids so obviously got there first. If we want to be happy long term, with flourishing friendships and a more-or-less stable sense of purpose, we’ll need to stay alert to that self-sabotaging part of ourselves, and choose something different.

I lived in a Zen monastery for six years. When I tell people I lived in a Zen monastery in the remote mountains of Colorado—when I show them pictures of the Japanese tea house and the black meditation cushions all in a row—they usually say something like “That must have been so peaceful.”

Yeah, no. It wasn’t. A monastery is a training ground. You’re up at 3:30 in the morning. You’re meditating for hours every day. There’s no personal space. You don’t get days off. All of you are stuck together in your black robes and your weird habits for months at a time. 

Enter Anthony. Anthony owned a bookstore in the Mission in San Francisco. He was a longtime Zen student, in his fifties, with a crew cut, a bag full of government conspiracy theories, and an excessively short fuse.

When Anthony came to the monastery, he had the misfortune of being under my auspices. I was the work leader—a position that entailed me, at twenty-five, telling everyone else what to do. Not that I was particularly dictatorial. But busy, for sure. And a little visionary sometimes. There was stuff to get done and I had a plan and I wanted people to step to the vision.

So I ran my meetings like clockwork. I admit it, there were spreadsheets. There were timelines. There was building frustration on my part, since the actual world was, very often, not conforming to my spreadsheets and my timelines.

It all came to a head on a crystalline February day. Thirty strapping volunteers from a local college were on their way to campus. We were going to do fire mitigation—a pressing concern for the monastery, since our surrounding desert mountains were a tinderbox of brush and low branches, just waiting to go up in flames.

I’d arranged for three professionals to arrive with their chainsaws and for each available member of the monastic community to lead a work group of five college kids. I was in the middle of downloading the vision, psyching up the troops, clarifying the details, when Anthony raised his hand.

“Yes, Anthony,” I said.

“What time is lunch?” he said.

I was flummoxed. Lunch? We were about to move mountains! 

“Who cares?” I said.

Then I went back to explicating the hauling routes and assigning the responsibilities.

After the meeting, I was walking into the kitchen when Anthony came from behind, spun me around by the shoulder, and threw me up against the wall.

Suddenly, everything went very slowly. I noticed that his face was a startling shade of red, almost purple. There was a single bead of sweat on his forehead. And his breath smelled like coffee and milk.

Anthony shook me and slammed me, saying things like “If you ever talk to me that way again, I will cut your throat.” 

Already my mind was tracking back over the last several minutes. Clearly, I had done something that really pissed Anthony off. At first I was a little too dumb to know what it was. I soon realized it was that moment I’d blown off his question about lunch.

Simultaneously, I saw there existed a whole range of options before me, almost like radio stations. Except instead of choosing between NPR and classic rock, my mind started flipping through disparate cultural scripts, little memes that might be appropriate for just such an occasion. I’m from New York, and the New York radio station was enticing me to throw a punch. Thankfully, the Buddhist radio station also clicked on even stronger. I saw how I had come into the meeting all jazzed up, a little manic. I saw how my empathy in the meeting was low. I saw how I had needlessly insulted Anthony, made him feel small. I saw my low empathy and subsequent belittling as the cause of the present death threat.

So I relaxed. “Anthony,” I said. “I messed up. Sorry. Just one of those days.”

He looked confused for a moment. Then I watched his face cycle through its own range of emotions—watched him try to remain angry, then confused again, then sad, then just tired. He dropped my shirt and walked away.

I wish I could say I always have that level of insight. The truth, though, is that spiritual progress is a bumpy road. Not so much an ever-upward line of transcendent growth. More like a series of peaks and valleys. In which you fall flat on your face in the valley. In a swamp. With mosquitoes. And no bug spray. Then dust yourself off and keep working at it.

Kindness Meditation

You can do this meditation in five minutes, if you’d like. I definitely recommend this meditation to anybody who could use a little more kindness in their life. And that’s pretty much all of us.

Let’s start by finding a comfortable posture, either sitting or lying down. Obviously if you’re reading this on a computer or your phone it’ll be hard to close your eyes. So you can keep them open. Or read a few sentences and then close your eyes. Don’t worry too much about whether you’re doing it right. Don’t worry too much about being a great meditator. In fact, just don’t worry too much.

Now let’s bring a warm awareness to your body. Just feel your body. With a sense of friendliness, a sort of grassroots kindness. Feel your hands. Feel your feet.

Bring that warm awareness to the area of your heart. Notice any sensations in the heart area—throbbing, humming, tingling, numb, whatever. Start to notice any emotions that might be here, in the heart. Just kind of take the temperature. Get a sense of things. 

You don’t need to get rid of anything, don’t need to feel differently or better. If you’re numb, you’re numb. No problem. If you’re sad, that’s how it is. Angry? That’s okay, too. Often we’re a whole bunch of things all at once. Which is also not a problem.

Now from this sense of the heart—of just being with your heart—let’s call up an image of a good friend. Someone you like. They’ve got your back. Sure, they tick you off every once in a while. But essentially it’s a good relationship—all in all, you want them to be happy.

Now let’s lean a little into this sense that your friend wants to be happy. Just like you, just like everybody, he or she or they really want to be happy. They want to be safe. They want to be healthy. They’d like some peace. 

And now let’s just begin to wish them well, using some traditional phrases.

May you be safe.

May you be happy.

May you be healthy.

May you be peaceful and at ease.

Just continue thinking about your friend, repeating these phrases silently to yourself. Maybe after some time, you can imagine your friend filling up with happiness. Imagine your friend getting lighter. Imagine your friend getting happier. Imagine them smiling. Filled with joy.

It’s great to start with a friend when you do this at first, somebody who’s pretty easy for you. Once you get the hang of that, though, it can be really helpful to bring this same kindness, this wishing well, to yourself. May I be safe, may I be happy, etc. Then you can extend that general caring out to people you don’t know so well, and even to people you don’t like so much, and then to everyone, everywhere, without exception. 

♦

This article was originally published online in April 2020. Check out Devon and Nico Hase’s newly released paperback version of How Not to Be a Hot Mess: A Survival Guide for Modern Life here. 

Adapted from How Not to Be a Hot Mess: A Survival Guide for Modern Life by Nico Hase and Devon Hase © 2020 by Nico Hase and Devon Hase. Reprinted in arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Inc. Boulder, CO.

The post How Not to Be a Jerk (Plus, a Kindness Meditation) appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

When writer Kai Cheng Thom felt like the world was collapsing, she posed a question to herself: What happens when we imagine loving the people—and the parts of ourselves—that we do not believe are worthy of love?

Over the course of her career, Thom has worked as an activist, sex worker, psychotherapist, conflict mediator, and community healer. In each of these roles, she has witnessed both our essential goodness and the violence that we are capable of.

As a way of reckoning with our sacredness and our potential to cause harm, she began writing love letters—to ancestors and exes, to her past and future selves, to those who have harmed her and those she has harmed, and to everyone she believed was beyond saving. “I needed to know that I could love them,” she writes, “because that meant I could still love myself—as hopeless and lost as I had become.”

The result, Falling Back in Love with Being Human: Letters to Lost Souls, is Thom’s “act of prayer in a collapsing world”—a spell to summon the language to help her fall back in love with herself and the people around her. Tricycle sat down with Thom to discuss the Buddhist rituals that inform her work, how writing helps her to hold seemingly contradictory truths, and what it means to choose love as a daily practice.

To start, what drew you to the form of love letters? I love a love letter. It’s my favorite type of letter to receive and my favorite literary format as well. We don’t see too many love letters in the world anymore—it’s rare to receive handwritten notes these days. On a societal level, political polarization and the toxic aspects of capitalism make it harder to take the time to explore what it might mean to love another human being in language. We’re also less inclined to love one another because we’re so full of anger and hatred.

I think it’s important to explore what it means to send love to a person who is acting in a way we might consider harmful. If we all did that, then we might be living in a different paradigm. Part of the project of this book is to trust that there is some goodness and sacredness in every human being, even in the midst of reprehensible behavior. For me, this is what it looks like to have faith.

Throughout the book, you explore what it means to love others and the parts of ourselves that we might consider monstrous, and you define a monster as a creature made of the truth that no one else dares to speak. How did you come to this notion of what it means to be a monster, and how have you reclaimed the monstrous? In the Western psychological tradition, Carl Jung wrote about the monsters within us, and he took a lot of inspiration from Buddhism and Hinduism. In thinking about the monstrous, I draw from Jung’s work, as well as different understandings of demons in Buddhist spirituality, especially practices of looking for the demons inside ourselves and learning to sit with them.

On a more personal level, I was raised evangelical Christian, and like many queer and trans people, I grew up being told that I was full of sin and that queer people were sinful monsters. Homophobia and transphobia were really present in my day-to-day. I was trying to repress the sin inside of me, and at the same time, I loved and longed for the sin outside me. I think this happens to us often: we desire the monstrous even as we fear it.

This can be complicated. Queerness is something beautiful that has been labeled as monstrous, but some things classified as monstrous are truly dangerous, like anger and rage. Our monsters need space to live and breathe, and if we’re not careful with them, they can result in harm and abuse.

You’ve mentioned your evangelical upbringing, and many of the letters in the book have a liturgical rhythm to them. How have you reclaimed liturgies and practices from a tradition that harmed you? There’s beauty in every monster and wisdom in every beast. The beast of evangelical Christianity is full of beauty, and its liturgy is something that I love, and Jesus is actually someone that I love. The part of Christianity that has stuck with me, beyond all of the pageantry, is the concept of grace. In Christianity, grace is the idea that we are all full of sin, but we can receive divine love anyway. I just love that. I don’t know if there is a God out there, but I think that human beings can offer one another divine love even in light of all that we’ve done wrong. I want to keep that idea around forever.

Are there any Buddhist rituals or practices that have particularly influenced you? There is a Tibetan Buddhist meditation about sitting and visualizing our demons and just being there and saying hello. That’s a practice that I will always love. But the Buddhist worldview that informs my life the most is the idea that paradox is where enlightenment is born—it’s not about resolving or conquering paradox by choosing one side; rather, it’s in the tension of more than one truth being true that a new wisdom arises. I think it’s so important to allow more than one thing to be true, especially when we’re talking about the nature of good and evil and people who may have harmed us.

Does writing help you to hold multiple truths? Definitely. In writing, I get to put both truths onto the page and then see if there is any new wisdom that arises, and then that wisdom becomes the basis of the poem. Language allows me to be in the chaos of competing truths and to give that chaos form, which is another paradox. Language gives form to the chaos of our internal experience and then somehow makes it more beautiful and bearable.

Do you have any rituals in your process of writing? Oh, yes. I sit in the dark and wait for the self-loathing to emerge. [laughs] I have a spot on the couch, and I sit there at night and order takeout, and then I wait, and the unbearable part of me actually does start to speak. Then I write.

These days, I’m able to fall back in love with the unbearable parts of myself through the process of writing. When I was younger, I was just expressing self-loathing. It’s a fine line to walk between expressing trauma and transmuting trauma, and these days, I feel much clearer on the difference between the two.

So that’s really the ritual: I sit in the dark, eat a McDouble, and wait for the self-loathing to come out—and then I love it.

It’s like you’re enacting your mission in the writing process itself: you’re learning to love the parts of yourself that you find unbearable. Yes, exactly.

In the final letter, you write about your practice of choosing love. So what does it look like to choose love on a daily basis? There are many spiritual practices centered on choosing love, like lovingkindness meditation. But I think on the day-to-day level, choosing love is about resisting the spirit of panic and fear. One thing I’ve learned from my work in mediation and dialogue facilitation is that we need to be very careful about our tendency toward othering and monster-making. When we’re in groups, it can be so easy to get caught up in the spirit of panic. At the heart of panic is deep fear, and this fear can lead to toxic and possibly dangerous situations.

It can be so scary to live in the world. Choosing love is about choosing courage: the courage to take a relational risk that is meaningful. Maybe there’s someone in your community that you’re irritated by or that you disagree with. Actually choosing love might mean starting a conversation with them. I often think about the tragedies that occur when we say that our fear and our right to feel comfortable legitimizes or strengthens the call for the restriction on others’ freedom of others. Choosing love is about saying that it’s OK for me to be a little bit scared or uncomfortable so that we can all be free.

What are you hoping readers will take away from the book? I hope that people who read the book might feel inspired to put it into practice. One important lesson from Buddhist practice is that falling back in love doesn’t really work if we are trying to fall back in love with other people first. Generally, it’s more sustainable if we start with ourselves. If we just try to love the oppressor without loving ourselves first, then we run the risk of internalizing our own oppression or gaslighting ourselves. It must begin with self-love, falling back in love with ourselves, and then we can fall back in love with others. Of course, it’s not linear—it’s a cycle we go through over and over again.

A lot of people react to my work with fear, and I get that. But holding two truths is not just about holding someone else’s truth that you don’t like; it’s about knowing we also have a truth, and we get to hold that, too. It takes discipline and practice to be able to hold both truths without needing an answer—and without losing ourselves along the way.

The post Writing Love Letters to Monsters appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Kurt Vonnegut was, as well as one of the most brilliant authors of the 20th century, a card-carrying humanist. Although he sympathetically accepted religion as psychologically therapeutic for some, his own philosophy of life was resolutely atheist, secular, and humanist. A joke he told in both Timequake (1997) and God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian (1999) went as follows: 

I am honorary president of the American Humanist Association, having succeeded the late, great science fiction writer Isaac Asimov in that functionless capacity. We Humanists try to behave well without any expectation of rewards or punishments in an afterlife. We serve as best we can the only abstraction with which we have any real familiarity, which is our community.

We had a memorial service for Isaac a few years back, and at one point I said, “Isaac is up in Heaven now.’’ It was the funniest thing I could have said to a group of Humanists. I rolled them in the aisles. It was several minutes before order could be restored. And if I should ever die, God forbid, I hope you will say, “Kurt is up in Heaven now.’’ That’s my favorite joke.

As the Oxford Dictionary says, Humanism is “an outlook or system of thought attaching prime importance to human rather than divine or supernatural matters. Humanist beliefs stress the potential value and goodness of human beings, emphasize common human needs, and seek solely rational ways of solving human problems.” 

Though Vonnegut surely emphasized common human needs and valued rational ways of solving human problems (he was a democratic socialist), his view of human beings was anything but a paean to human dignity and potential.

Vonnegut’s view of human beings was therapeutically humiliating, as I explore elsewhere. This was nowhere better displayed than in his novel Galápagos (1985). Not only was Vonnegut an enemy of the doctrine of human superiority to animals, he rejected the idea of free will and was comically dismissive of grand narratives of human progress and meaning. His views resonate with aspects of Spinoza and the contemporary essayist John Gray, and in important senses he could thus even be called an antihumanist.

The narrative of Galápagos calls into question everything we most value about ourselves as human beings in a way that I think a lot of people would find uncomfortable. I do. I also find it intriguing that the resolution to the human nightmare he fantasizes about in this book resonates with those great premodern antihumanists, classical Indian Yogis, and Buddhists. It’s that resonance, and the questions it poses to us, that I want to explore here.

Like classical Indian Yogis, Vonnegut is not a misanthrope or a nihilist, which is why I call these resonances “antihumanist humanism.” Both Vonnegut and the classical Indian sages I have in mind are impelled by a love of humanity to knock it off its pedestal, dispel its delusions, and suggest that partially deconstructing itself is the road to freedom.

Let me explain.

The Story in Brief 

Galápagos tells of a long series of random, interconnected, and often ironic or absurd events that ends human civilization and the human species as we know it (thus exploring a motif also present in Cat’s Cradle). After a global economic collapse, a ragtag group of survivors are shipwrecked and stranded on the fictional island of Santa Rosalia in the Galápagos Islands.

When a disease breaks out that makes people infertile, the isolated Santa Rosalians alone are untouched. Throughout, the events are narrated by the ghost of Leon Trotsky Trout, the son of the cameo-happy sci-fi writer Kilgore Trout, who appears in several of Vonnegut’s books. Leon has refused to go through the blue tunnel to the afterworld and is abandoned by his spirit guide for a million years, during which he gets to watch evolution unfold. 

Over the next million years, the descendants of the survivors evolve into a furry species resembling sea lions, with streamlined skulls and flipper-like hands with rudimentary fingers (“nubbins”). The humans most fitted to Santa Rosalia were those who could swim best, which required a streamlined head, which in turn required a smaller brain. Trout makes it clear that this is a happy development and that all the sorrows of ancient humankind were caused by “the only true villain in my story: the oversized human brain.” As he writes in wonder, “Every adult brain back then had a brain weighing about three kilograms! There was no end to the evil schemes that a thought machine that oversized couldn’t imagine and execute.”

“What source back then, save for our elaborate nervous circuitry, for the evils we were seeing or hearing about simply everywhere?” Trout asks. My answer: “There was no other source. This was a very innocent planet, except for those big brains.”

Toxic Ideas

In the view of Galápagos, evolution has saddled humans with excessively big brains—brains they cannot manage or handle; brains that needlessly complicate the basic business of life; brains that fabricate an entire human world, which is not ultimately to the service of humans and which threatens all other creatures in the global ecology as well. As in his other books, Vonnegut is both ruthless and teasingly compassionate in his writing, portraying humans as helplessly at the mercy of their big brains and their “toxic ideas.” His characters struggle with depression, suicidal ideation, anxiety, arrogance, sociopathy, PTSD, and obsessions, all toxic ideas inflicted on poor human beings by evolution gone awry.

Not only do our big brains cause suffering and delusion, they also drive us to do mad, even cruel, things simply because they are possible and, when there are no problems around to be solved, make up more or less nonexistent ones to give themselves busywork.

Indian Sympathies

As someone who has practiced in Buddhist traditions for thirty years, a number of thoughts occurred to me reading this book. The historical Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, left behind a privileged youth to join the samanas, a movement of people who were deliberately dropping out of human civilization. Different samanas argued for different paths, had different diagnoses of human misery, and different medicines. The Buddha’s diagnosis (as well as that of some other samanas) resonates with what Vonnegut has Trout say, when speaking of the coming time of the human sea lions: “No one leads a life of quiet desperation nowadays. The mass of men was quietly desperate a million years ago because the infernal computers inside their skulls were incapable of restraint or idleness….”

The path that the Buddha laid down could, in fact, with a little linguistic flexibility, be summarized as one of restraint, idleness, and renunciation. 

The restraint aspect is embodied in the commitments for monks or laypeople not to engage in activities that harm themselves or others and that entangle the mind in remorse and pain. It is also present in the commitment to practice mindfulness of one’s own experience, restraining runaway thoughts, impulses, and reactions. Although these qualities of restraint are depicted in heroic terms as refined human capacities, it strikes me that they could also be understood in Vonnegutian terms as the reining in of our oversized brains and the return to a simpler, more present-centered, more “animal” level of existence.

The next step, “idleness,” resonates with the giving up of ambitious, egoic, and restless activities to instead focus on the cultivation of mental states and behaviors conducive to peace, well-being, and the pursuit of meditation. Arguably, meditation itself could be understood as a form of “idleness.”

In classical Buddhist meditation, one cultivates something called jhana, states of mental absorption where thought and mental activity are gradually stilled. Although these states are frequently misimagined by the inexperienced as dull, lifeless, or vacuous, in fact the experience of jhana is one of rapture, bliss, well-being, and quiet vitality. 

It turns out that when the mind is absorbed in a simple, pleasant object of focus (for example, the breath, or internal experiences of light or space), the body fills with relief and pleasure, and the mind feels clear, calm, and strong. What is this except learning to consciously and deliberately turn down the dial on the big brains evolution has gifted us with? And what, but proof of the troublesome nature of these big brains, is the fact that when they are made quiet, it feels so damn good?

In classical Buddhist practice, the calm and strong clarity of the mind attained in jhana is directed at experience in order to see that everything we experience—including our bodies and minds—is impermanent, stressful when clung to, and not under our control. In other words, the big plans and ambitions that our big, big brains have for our minds and bodies, as well as the minds and bodies of others, and the world in general, are all misplaced fever dreams. 

When the mind, nourished and empowered by the food of jhana, sees this to be true by observing direct experience, then it lets go. The result of this letting go is nirvana. Our big brains finally stop.

The Most Disillusioned Novel Ever?

Classical Buddhism (not today’s Western, politically correct, Happy McBuddhism) is often accused of being fatalistic, pessimistic, and disillusioned with all of humanity’s most cherished dreams and accomplishments. It is definitely not fatalistic, as it stresses our power to train ourselves to be happier, kinder, less violent, and more free, and likewise it is not pessimistic for the same reasons. It is disillusioned, though, and it does chart a path to freedom that is diametrically opposed to what most people want or believe to be true.

The same could be said of Vonnegut’s novel, and it is that confluence that I find fascinating. The future humans of Galápagos live radically simplified lives close to nature. They have renounced all technological civilization, ambition, and organized economy, and live happily because they have learned the pleasure and happiness of reduced brain activity. Arguably, all of the above also applies to the lifestyle of a (traditional) Buddhist monk or nun.

All of this is provocative for those, like us, who live in a time where the necessity of “degrowth” is becoming clearer, as well as the dangers and costs of the technological-industrial revolution, as articulated in detail by theorists like Jacques Ellul, and whose ecological effects can be seen directly now by most of us. Do we need to shrink human civilization? Do we need to restrain the human brain? Is the direction we are hurling in—taking a break from checking six social media apps to train in boxing on a virtual reality headset—exactly the wrong one? 

Galápagos would contend it is, and that it is even evolutionarily nonadaptive and likely in for a course correction soon. The warming ocean surfaces and smoke-blackened skies would seem to agree.

Arguably, the Buddha and other Yogic sages grasped this dynamic in a fundamental way, ignorant of ecological sciences and what humans would one day accomplish with our machines as they were. Traditional Buddhist monastics, called bhikkhus or bhikkhunis, not only embrace the radically simplified lifestyle and restraint, idleness, and renunciation I described above. They not only seek what is effectively liberation from the human brain itself. They also adopt a lifestyle that has much in common with hunter-gatherers. They are forbidden to farm, store food, or handle money, and every day go “gathering,” i.e., begging for food. 

Basically, traditional Buddhist monastics have apparently been existing as a coterie of civilization-renouncing, aneconomic, brain-restraining, nonviolent, luddite hunter-gatherers within their host civilizations. 

Is there something we can learn from this as we try to navigate the crisis we’re in? Should we presumably nonmonastic Buddhists be embracing technology, the internet, and the economic norms of modern civilization, or should we be imagining new ways to drop out? 

The post ‘Galápagos,’ Indian Buddhists, and Kurt Vonnegut’s Salvation for Humans appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

In an excerpt from Reflections on a Mountain Lake: Teachings on Practical Buddhism, a classic collection of dharma teachings re-released this month, Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo reflects on the wisdom of non-knowing and how she’s dealt with her own questioning over the years.

In certain religions, unquestioning faith is considered a desirable quality. But in the buddhadharma, this is not necessarily so. The Buddha described the dharma as ehi passiko, which means “come and see,” or “come and investigate,” not “come and believe.” An open, questioning mind is not regarded as a drawback to followers of the buddhadharma.

A mind which says, “This is not part of my mental framework, therefore I don’t believe it,” is a closed mind, and such an attitude is a great disadvantage for those who aspire to follow any spiritual path. But an open mind, which questions and doesn’t accept things simply because they are said, is no problem at all.

There is a famous sutra which tells of a group of villagers who came to visit the Buddha. They said to him, “Many teachers come through here. Each has his own doctrine. Each claims that his particular philosophy and practice is the truth, but they all contradict each other. Now we’re totally confused. What do we do?” Doesn’t this story sound modern? Yet this was 2,500 years ago. Same problems. The Buddha replied, “You have a right to be confused. This is a confusing situation. Do not take anything on trust merely because it has passed down through tradition, or because your teachers say it, or because your elders have taught you, or because it’s written in some famous scripture. When you have seen it and experienced it for yourself to be right and true, then you can accept it.”

Now that was quite a revolutionary statement, because the Buddha was certainly saying that about his own doctrine too. In fact, all through the ages it has been understood that the doctrine is there to be investigated and experienced, “each man for himself.” So one should not be afraid to doubt. Stephen Batchelor wrote a dharma book entitled The Faith to Doubt. It is right for us to question. But we need to question with an open heart and an open mind, not with the idea that everything that fits our preconceived notions is right, and anything which does not is automatically wrong. The latter attitude is like the bed of Procrustes.

You have a set pattern in place and everything you come across must either be stretched out or cut down to fit it. This just distorts everything and prevents learning. If we come across certain things that we find difficult to accept even after careful investigation, that doesn’t mean the whole dharma has to be thrown overboard. 

Even now, after all these years, I still find certain things in the Tibetan dharma which I’m not sure about at all. I used to go to my lama and ask him about some of these things, and he would say, “That’s fine. Obviously you don’t really have a connection with that particular doctrine. It doesn’t matter. Just put it aside. Don’t say, ‘No, it’s not true.’ Just say, ‘At this point, my mind does not embrace this.’ Maybe later you’ll appreciate it, or maybe you won’t. It’s not important.”

Our minds do become more open and increasingly vast as we progress. We do begin to see things more clearly, and as a result they slowly begin to fit into place.

When we come across a concept which we find difficult to accept, the first thing we should do, especially if it’s something which is integral to the dharma, is to look into it with an unprejudiced mind. We should read everything we can on the subject, not just from the point of view of buddhadharma, but if there are other approaches to it, we need to read about them, too. We need to ask ourselves how it connects with other parts of the doctrine. We have to bring our intelligence into this. At the same time, we should realize that at the moment, our level of intelligence is quite mundane. We do not yet have an all-encompassing mind. We have a very limited view. So there are definitely going to be things which our ordinary mundane consciousness cannot experience directly. But that does not mean these things do not exist. Here again, it is important to keep an open mind. If other people with deeper experiences and vaster minds say they have experienced it, then we should at least be able to say, “Perhaps it might be so.” We should not take our limited, ignorant minds as the norm. But we must remember that these limited, ignorant minds of ours can be transformed. That’s what the path is all about. Our minds do become more open and increasingly vast as we progress. We do begin to see things more clearly, and as a result they slowly begin to fit into place. We need to be patient. We should not expect to understand the profound expositions of an enlightened mind in our first encounter with them. I’m sure we all know certain books of wisdom that we can read and reread over the years, and each time it seems like we are reading them for the first time. This is because as our minds open up, we begin to discover deeper and deeper layers of meaning we couldn’t see the time before. It’s like that with a true spiritual path. It has layer upon layer upon layer of meaning, and we can only understand those concepts which are accessible to our present level of mind. 

I think people have different sticking points. I know that things some people find very difficult to grasp were extremely simple for me. I already believed many of the teachings before I came to the buddhadharma. On the other hand, some things which were difficult for me, others find simple to understand and accept. We are all coming from different backgrounds, and so we each have our own special problems. But the important thing is to realize that this is no big deal. It doesn’t matter. Our doubting and questioning spur us on and keep us intellectually alert.

We can be quite happy with a question mark.

There have been times when my whole spiritual life was one great big question mark. But instead of suppressing the questions, I brought up the things I questioned and examined them one by one. When I came out the other end, I realized that it simply didn’t matter. We can be quite happy with a question mark. It’s not a problem at all actually, as long as we don’t solidify it or base our whole life on feeling threatened by it. We need to develop confidence in our innate qualities and believe that these can be brought to fruition. We all have buddhanature. We have all the qualities needed for the path. If we don’t believe this, it will be very difficult for us to embark because we have no foundation from which to go forth. It’s really very simple. The buddhadharma is not based on dogma.

♦

From Reflections on a Mountain Lake: Teachings on Practical Buddhism by Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo © 2002 by Tenzin Palmo. This edition published 2023. Reprinted in arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Inc. Boulder, CO. www.shambhala.com

The post An Open Mind Is a Strong Mind appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

You’re out hunting in the Texas wilderness when you come across a scene from a nightmare: shot-up bodies and the signs of a drug deal gone wrong, where everyone ended up dead. So where’s the money? You follow tracks and find a final body, still grasping a bag that contains more cash than you’ve ever seen. You have a choice: take the money with the chance to make a new life, while knowing that someone will come after you; or leave it and return to your old struggles. Everything you’ve ever done has led you to this point. You take the chance and start running.

That’s the crucial scene in No Country for Old Men, the novel by Cormac McCarthy, who has just died at age 89, and the Oscar-winning Coen brothers’ 2007 film. Llewelyn Moss, who discovers the money, is hunted by an inexorable pursuer, Anton Chigurh, played by Javier Bardem in the movie, who kills anyone who crosses his path without anger or mercy. From the moment he took the suitcase, Moss’s fate was sealed. 

McCarthy’s novels are typically blood-soaked explorations, written in shimmering prose, of the illusions that sustain ordinary life. They seek wisdom, telling us, as Virginia Woolf said of Joseph Conrad, “something very old and perfectly true, which had lain hidden but is now revealed.” For all their bleakness, the books resonate with me as a Buddhist. In the case of No Country, the Buddhist connection is overt, as the novel is essentially a reworking of The Pardoner’s Tale, by Geoffrey Chaucer—one of the greatest of all short stories—while the ultimate source of The Pardoner’s Tale is a Buddhist Jataka tale. To trace these influences and see what they tell us about McCarthy, it’s simplest to start at the beginning. 

A Jataka describes a previous life of the being who will eventually become the Buddha. In our sources he is called the bodhisatta, the Pali version of the better-known Sanskrit term bodhisattva. In each life the bodhisatta learns a lesson or develops a moral virtue that will eventually prepare him for enlightenment, and The Jatakamala contains 547 such stories. Many are well-known within Asian Buddhist culture, but they’re much less popular in Western cultures, where we may be put off by the centrality of rebirth or the simplicity of their morality.

In the Vedabbha Jataka, the bodhisatta is apprenticed to a brahmin who knows the powerful Vedabbha Mantra, a spell that can make jewels rain down when recited at a particular conjunction of the moon. Robbers take the two men hostage and send the bodhisatta to fetch a ransom for his teacher. Sensing danger, the bodhisatta warns the brahmin, “Whatever you do, don’t use the mantra.” But while he’s away, the brahmin notices that the conjunction has occurred and thinks to himself, “I could conjure up the jewels and pay the ransom that way.”

The robbers get their money, and everyone is happy until the whole band is captured by another group, who demands that the brahmin repeat his feat. When the brahmin tells them he can produce jewels only when the planets align, the robbers chop him in two and a huge fight breaks out between the gangs. Eventually, all but two are dead, and these survivors hide the treasure in a jungle lair. One goes to town to buy some rice, and as he walks into town decides to poison the rice so he can keep all the wealth for himself. The second, who is guarding the treasure, has the same thought, kills the first robber when he returns, eats the rice and dies. 

The bodhisatta returns to find the body of his teacher, the dead robbers, and the treasure, and he understands the whole story. He reflects that the disaster occurred because the brahmin did not heed his advice, and he concludes: “One who desires profit by wrong means comes to harm.” In her 2006 translation of the story, Sarah Shaw suggests that the bodhisatta’s role as a clearheaded interpreter capable of reconstructing the sequence of events makes this “one of the earliest counterparts of the detective story.”

We don’t know how the story of the Vedabbha Jataka found its way to Europe, but we can imagine it being retold around campfires along the trade route between India and the Middle East, where a version appears in The 1001 Nights. Perhaps pilgrims or crusaders heard it on their travels to the Holy Land and retold it when they returned to a 14th-century England, where memories of the Black Death were fresh. Somehow it reached Geoffrey Chaucer as he gathered materials for The Canterbury Tales. One of Chaucer’s stories is told by a pardoner (an individual licensed by the Church to pardon people for their sins), and scholars long ago noticed that The Pardoner’s Tale shared features with the Vedabbha Jataka. 

Chaucer’s story starts with three young men drinking and gambling in a tavern. They hear that a friend has been killed by a character named “Death,” who has also killed many others, and they set out to punish him by killing Death. They ask an old man where they can find Death, and he tells them they will find him beneath a nearby tree. When they arrive, they discover a hoard of treasure and forget their original mission. One is dispatched to buy food and wine, and, as in the Jataka, he decides to poison the wine so he can have all the money. For the same reason, the other two decide to kill the first. The moral drawn by the Pardoner is radix malorum est cupiditas, which we could roughly render as “Craving is the origin of evil.”

Chaucer’s invention of the old man is a brilliant touch, as is placing the fable in the mouth of the Pardoner, who tries to use its power to extract money from his listeners. But the biggest difference between Chaucer’s version and the Jataka is the youths’ desire to seek out death and the irony that they do indeed find him, only not in the form they imagined. The story’s meaning expands from the effects of greed to our relation to death, and that’s also a link to No Country for Old Men. 

The Pardoner’s Tale helps us understand the significance of Chigurh. As a psychopathic killer, he is scarcely believable, but the comparison with Chaucer lets us see him as Death personified. “How dangerous is he?” someone asks a person he’s hired to stop Chigurh. “Compared to what,” he replies, “the bubonic plague?” 

It’s no good asking why Chigurh kills, as people do throughout the story. That’s what Death does. We try to bargain with death, but the most Chigurh will do is toss a coin to decide whether he’ll kill you.

Chigurh says that the source of his power is that people want to prevail over death while simultaneously refusing to acknowledge its existence. 

You could see No Country as an unsparing version of the Buddhist teaching of karma. Chigurh tells one victim, “Every moment in your life is a turning and everyone a choosing. Somewhere you made a choice. All followed to this. The accounting is scrupulous.” Moss is condemned by the same moral logic that catches the victims in the two precursor stories, and the novel’s corpse-strewn opening recalls the Jataka. Like the bodhisatta, Moss—the Josh Brolin character who finds the bodies—understands exactly what has happened, but unlike him, Moss doesn’t learn the lesson the scene so vividly teaches. 

In fact, McCarthy’s message is subtler. Having taken the money, Moss returns to the crime scene to give water to a wounded man, and it’s the combination of the two actions that dooms him. We suffer because we’re entangled in the world, wanting both to be good and to get what we want. We imagine that life is on our side when, as Buddhism says, it is characterized by suffering, impermanence, and insubstantiality. Chigurh says that the source of his power is that people want to prevail over death while simultaneously refusing to acknowledge its existence. 

That’s a grim reckoning, and Buddhism adds that the fruit of seeing through our delusion is wisdom, compassion, and liberation. There’s little of that on the surface of No Country for Old Men or McCarthy’s other writing, but it’s there if we dig deep enough. The counterpart to the bodhisatta of the Vedabbha Jataka is Bell, the police officer, played by Tommy Lee Jones, who tracks Chigurh and figures out the whole story. What he learns sobers him deeply, and he understands better the importance of living well and letting go of illusions. 

At the very end of both the film and the book, Bell describes a dream. He’s following his father on horseback through the mountains and sees that his father is carrying fire in a horn and traveling ahead to create a refuge of light in a dark landscape. For me, that’s an image of how hope survives. It’s also an image for the wisdom of ancient tales that’s passed down through the generations, crossing continents and leaping genres. 

That wisdom burns afresh in McCarthy’s clear-eyed, prophetic novels, even as we bid him farewell. They’re sources of light in a dark time.

The post Cormac McCarthy’s Buddhist Inspiration appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

If you have children in your life that you would like to introduce to Buddhist concepts, Buddhist children’s books are a great place to start. Nowadays, there are more and more of them that either directly or indirectly disseminate the Buddha’s teachings, from mindfulness and lovingkindness to impermanence. Here are eight such books appropriate for a variety of reading levels, from early education through middle school. 

Goodnight Love: A Bedtime Meditation Story 
Written by Sumi Loundon Kim, with illustrations by Laura Watkins. Bala Kids, an imprint of Shambhala Publications, February 2023, 32 pp., $17.95, cloth. For ages 2–5.

This all-encompassing bedtime meditation follows two sloths as they ground themselves in a reflection of our capacity to love deeply. Their practice begins by focusing inward with self-compassion before offering compassion toward the animals, natural landscapes, and the universe beyond. By the end of the book, both parents and children will be left feeling safe, happy, loved, and ready to sleep.  

It’s OK: Being Kind to Yourself When Things Feel Hard
Written by Wendy O’Leary, with illustrations by Sandra Eide. Bala Kids, an imprint of Shambhala Publications, March 2023, 32 pp., $17.95, cloth. For ages 0–2.

It’s OK gently guides readers through the afflictive emotions of sorrow, anger, guilt, and jealousy with reminders that the tremendous feelings we experience will eventually pass. In relatable vignettes, we observe the universality of these painful emotions and learn to soften how strongly we identify with them. The resounding message is that we are all deserving of care and compassion. This illustration-forward storybook is great for new readers and includes ten exercises at the end to help develop self-compassion, such as “Kind Voice” and “Kind Touch.” 

Ashoka the Fierce: How an Angry Prince Became India’s Emperor of Peace
Written by Carolyn Kanjuro, with illustrations by Sonali Zohra. Bala Kids, an imprint of Shambhala Publications, December 2021, 40 pp., $17.95, cloth. For ages 4–8.

Carolyn Kanjuro presents a modern retelling of the epic Indian tale of how Ashoka the Fierce became known as Ashoka the Great. An angry and overlooked young prince, Ashoka grew into a fierce emperor eager for war. But after a particularly bloody battle, Ashoka experienced a change of heart and vowed to dedicate his life to promoting Buddhist teachings on ​​compassion, tolerance, and virtue. Accompanied by mural-like illustrations, Ashoka’s compelling story of transformation exemplifies our potential to overcome feelings that seem unshakable.

Love Your Amazing Self: Joyful Verses for Young Voices
Written by Ofosu Jones-Quartey, with illustrations by Ndubisi Okoye. Storey Publishing, 2022, 72 pp., $17.99, cloth. For ages 7 and up.

Ofosu Jones-Quartey, a meditation teacher and hip-hop musician, seamlessly carries readers through teachings of mindfulness, gratitude, and self-compassion in a playful blend of illustrations and lyrical verse. With words that call out to be spoken, recited, or sung aloud, this book invites young readers to step into the creativity of self-expression through an embodied practice. 

Buddhist Stories for Kids: Jataka Tales of Kindness, Friendship, and Forgiveness
Written by Laura Burges, with illustrations by Sonali Zohra. Bala Kids, an imprint of Shambhala Publications, December 2022, 76 pp., $18.95, cloth. For ages 4–8. 

The Jataka tales are ancient stories of the Buddha’s lives before his birth as Prince Siddhartha. This modern retelling of ten tales by Soto Zen teacher and retired educator Laura Burges is written with readers aged 4–8 in mind. These rich morality tales and vibrant illustrations feature a wise gardener, a mischievous monkey, a discerning gazelle, and other characters relaying lessons that can be easily understood and incorporated into a child’s daily life right away: opening our hearts to others, the value of a true friend, and that everything changes.

—Wendy Biddlecombe Agsar, “What We’re Reading” from Tricycle’s Winter 2022 issue

Don’t Kill the Bugs: How Kids Can Be Heroes for Creatures Big and Small
Written by Berthe Jansen, with illustrations by Victoria Coles. Bala Kids, an imprint of Shambhala Publications, March 2023, 32 pp., $17.95, cloth. For ages 3–7. 

“Be kind, don’t kill. That harmless bee is scared, just like you. That tiny thing has real feelings, too!” This gentle story follows a group of friends as they learn to reconsider their relationship with the small beings of the earth—spiders, ladybugs, bees, and beetles—that are equally deserving of kindness and compassion. This book prompts reflection on how we respond to moments of conflict, fear, or uncertainty. 

Kuan Yin: The Princess Who Became the Goddess of Compassion
Written by Maya van der Meer, with illustrations by Wen Hsu. Bala Kids, an imprint of Shambhala Publications, May 2021, 32 pp., $17.95, cloth. For ages 4–8.

Featuring whimsical illustrations, this fairy tale about how Kuan Yin, the Chinese translation for the bodhisattva of compassion, came to be will delight children who love princesses, animals, and adventures. It’s also a story about two sisters supporting each other and the importance of following one’s heart.

–Alison Spiegel, Tricycle’s Web Editor

Everything Changes: And That’s OK
Written by Carol Dodd, with illustrations by Erin Huybrechts. Bala Kids, an imprint of Shambhala Publications, October 2022, 32 pp., $17.95, cloth. For ages 3–7. 

“Everything changes, night to day. Everything changes, and that’s OK.” The concept of impermanence is thoughtfully explained in Everything Changes through vibrant illustrations and bouncy, rhyming couplets. By exploring change across place, relationship, and seasons, this book reminds children that change does not have to be scary and they can instead find comfort in the liveliness of change. 

The post Buddhist Books for Kids appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

The action of Roger Zelazny’s Hugo Award-winning 1967 novel Lord of Light may be familiar to Buddhist readers—the rise of Buddhism in a Vedic or Hindu context—but the setting certainly is not. The book depicts the newly awakened Buddha on an alien world fighting against gods named Vishnu, Mara, Brahma, and Kali. The fight is not metaphorical, it’s a real battle in which the Buddha leads an army of zombies and demons in an effort to destroy “Heaven,” the Olympus-like home of the gods. Also in the fight are spaceships and giant lizards known as slizzards that are “much faster than horses.”

The book’s title refers to Maitreya, as several characters refer to the Buddha throughout, though he refers to himself most often as Sam, short for Mahasamatman. With this title Zelazny is likely thinking of Amitabha, whose name is often translated as “Infinite Light,” rather than Maitreya, whose name is related to “maitri,” or metta, meaning lovingkindness or friendliness.

Zelazny’s gods began as humans who traveled from Earth in a spaceship called the Star of India and subjugated an unnamed planet, naming its inhabitants—flamelike entities capable of possessing humans—rakshasas, or demons. The human conquerors, referred to as the First, assumed the identities of Indian gods, instituted a caste-bound society for new generations of humans, and created technology to mimic supernatural powers. 

Reincarnation is also accomplished by technological means. The oldest and most important gods have been reincarnated twenty times or more, and their identities as humans have faded but never entirely disappear. The Buddha reveals that Brahma, the chief god, was originally a human named Madeleine, for example. Brahma now presents as male, but gender fluidity is a routine matter when undergoing reincarnation. When a god dies (and this happens frequently, often at the Buddha’s hand) a replacement must be promoted, and is free to decide their gender. Mysterious beings known as the Lords of Karma maintain a temple where petitioners can come and obtain new, younger selves—as long as the Lords’ “mind scan” judges them worthy of such a privilege. For those out of favor with the Lords, there are still “bootleg body shops” in out-of-the-way places that also offer rebirth. (It’s not clear where the bodies come from, whether they are grown in vats or taken from lower-caste people.)

The gods maintain a stranglehold on technology, keeping their subjects in a perpetually pre-industrial state, using swords and plows rather than guns and tractors. They demand prayers, which travel by way of radio waves, and for which special coin-operated machines are installed outside temples. Priests can directly address their deities using video screens (though the gods often don’t answer), and fancy gadgets abound for the elites, but efforts by ordinary humans to advance technology are condemned as “Accelerationism” and are viciously suppressed. 

Into this world emerges the nobleman Siddhartha, also called Sam, who was one of the planet’s original conquerors. He lives a pleasant, undistinguished life until one day, angered by the prayer machines and the oppression of common people, he awakens and begins a planetwide rebellion. As Bernard Faure points out in 1,001 Lives of the Buddha, Zelazny in this work is influenced by Western ideas of the Buddha as a reformer of the caste system and proponent of progress. Buddhism and Accelerationism are fused into one movement, and the Buddha is heard to praise the virtues of ancient technology that the common people should be able to use. 

After losing in his battle with the gods, the Buddha departs for “Nirvana,” a golden cloud of magnetized particles that surrounds the planet. But he is summoned back from this apparently blissful existence by the radio-wave prayers of Yama, the god of death, who operates a huge lotus-shaped satellite dish. The returned Buddha attempts to unwind or reverse his enlightenment, to become an ordinary person again: “He does not meditate, seeking within the object that which leads to release of the subject… He does study the object, considering its ways, in an effort to bind himself… He tries once more to wrap himself within the fabric of Maya, the illusion of the world.” 

The gods are depicted as cynical and fraudulent, and the Buddha also describes himself this way, employing “the ancient words,” and “venerable tradition” to manipulate people. Yama says to him, “I know that you are a fraud. I know that you are not an Enlightened One. I realize that your doctrine is a thing which could have been remembered by any among the First. You chose to resurrect it, pretending to be its originator.” The Buddha replies, “Whatever the source, the message was pure, believe me. That is the only reason it took root and grew.”

But at other times the Buddha, and one of his disciples, an Angulimala-like figure who tried to kill the Buddha but was converted instead, are depicted as genuinely awakened: 

“Summer passed. There was no doubt now that there were two who had received enlightenment: Tathagatha and his small disciple, Sugata. It was even said that Sugata was a healer, and that when his eyes shone strangely and the icy touch of his hands came upon a twisted limb, that limb grew straight again. It was said that a blind man’s vision had suddenly returned to him during one of Sugata’s sermons.”

The possibility of actual enlightenment spurs both the Buddha’s allies and enemies to action. “Enlightenment” throughout conflates Buddhist awakening and the Age of Reason. When one man awakens, the whole world is awake. The Buddha’s ability to understand and outwit the gods offers the only hope of defeating them, but in the process, instead of toppling religion and ending it, he creates a new one. 

Roger Zelazny referred to himself as a lapsed Catholic and a man without a religion, but the topic reverberates through his works, including his ten-volume magnum opus, The Chronicles of Amber. All the religions appear in Lord of Light, if only briefly. A secret Christian, the chaplain of the original spaceship, inhabits the form of the Hindu death god/dess Nirriti, and fights against both the Buddha and the gods. Though the Buddha doesn’t ask it, his followers erect new temples and paint murals depicting his deeds. The ubiquity of gods and temples suggests that even in a time and place where science has solved the problem of mortality (if not morality), religion is an inescapable part of human activity, despite its outward forms being imperfect or corrupt.

The post Maitreya in Outer Space appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

In every issue of Tricycle magazine, we share a collection of new books that we’re enjoying—and an older one that we’re re-visiting—in our What We’re Reading section. Throughout the year we also interview authors, feature book passages that moved us, and write reviews both online and in print. Every year, it feels like there are more and more great reads capturing our attention, and 2022 was no exception. From an introduction to Zen’s koan tradition and a highly-anticipated poetry collection to a novel that considers AI and radical compassion, here are some of the titles we couldn’t put down.

When I’m Gone, Look for Me in the East by Quan Barry 
In Quan Barry’s ambitious novel, two telepathic twins set out across the Mongolian steppe in search of the reincarnation of a Buddhist master. Along the way, the twins grapple with questions of desire, doubt, and the place of faith in a changing world. Listen to Barry talk about the book in a podcast interview with Tricycle’s editor-in-chief, James Shaheen, and meditation teacher Sharon Salzberg.

—Sarah Fleming

Time Is a Mother by Ocean Vuong 
Written in the aftermath of his mother’s death from breast cancer, Ocean Vuong’s latest poetry collection offers an intimate portrait of grief, loss, and intergenerational trauma. Listen to Vuong discuss how Buddhist mourning rituals influence his work on an episode of Life As It Is.

—Sarah Fleming

Losing Ourselves: Learning to Live without a Self by Jay L. Garfield 
Drawing from traditional Buddhist texts, Western philosophy, and cognitive neuroscience, scholar Jay L. Garfield explores how we can let go of our selves to reclaim our humanity. Listen to Garfield discuss the perils of the self illusion on an episode of Tricycle Talks.

—Sarah Fleming

The Evening Hero by Marie Myung-Ok Lee
In this novel about the Korean War and the dwindling American dream, author Marie Myung-Ok Lee weaves together vivid scenes of wartime and the enduring pain of displacement with satirical commentary on commercialized healthcare and capitalism. Listen to Lee speak with Tricycle’s editor-in-chief, James Shaheen, on Tricycle Talks.

—Alison Spiegel

Through Forests of Every Color: Awakening with Koans by Joan Sutherland
This collection is a charming and accessible introduction to Zen’s koan tradition from the co-founder of the Pacific Zen School and founder of The Open Source, a network of communities in the western United States. It’s a great read those who may find traditional koan collections intimidating or inaccessible.

—Phil Ryan

Be Not Afraid of Love: Lessons on Fear, Intimacy, and Connection by Mimi Zhu 
In this powerful and vulnerable collection of essays, writer Mimi Zhu shares their journey of healing from intimate-partner abuse by sitting with suffering and embracing love. Read an excerpt from the book here, in which Zhu explores how rituals around loss can transform deep grief into love.

—Amanda Lim Patton 

Meet Us by the Roaring Sea by Akil Kumarasamy 
In Akil Kumarasamy’s debut novel, a grieving AI programmer translates a Tamil manuscript on radical compassion—and slowly becomes unhinged by the question of what it means to care for another. Read an interview with Kumarasamy here, in which she discusses the ethics of translation and how literature can help us bear witness to suffering.

—Sarah Fleming 

Work, Parent, Thrive: 12 Science-Backed Strategies to Ditch Guilt, Manage Overwhelm, and Grow Connection (When Everything Feels Like Too Much) by Yael Schonbrun, PhD
Especially timely for working parents who, on the heels of lockdown, faced rampant viral infections and childcare shortages this fall, leading to a record number of workplace absences, clinical psychologist Yael Shonbrun’s new book provides practical, non-judgmental guidance for not just managing but appreciating the pressure of working and parenting. Schonbrun practices third wave psychotherapy, which draws, in large part, on Daoist and Buddhist ideas.

—Alison Spiegel

The Trauma of Caste: A Dalit Feminist Meditation on Survivorship, Healing, and Abolition by Thenmozhi Soundararajan
Thenmozhi Soundararajan’s new book is a brave powerhouse of an investigation into the ongoing ways that caste—India’s social hierarchy that has existed for 3,000 years—continues to negatively impact all aspects of life in Southeast Asia and beyond. Soundararajan, a second generation Dalit American, shares painful personal stories about learning she was a Dalit, or the pejorative “untouchable” caste. The Trauma of Caste is essential reading in the socially engaged Buddhism canon, and in addition to highlighting the ways each of us can work toward ending caste apartheid, includes an appendix on Ambedkarite Buddhist ancestors in India who can inspire our own practice.

—Wendy Biddlecombe Agsar

The post Nine of Our Favorite New Books from 2022
 appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Jeff Watt, director of the website and virtual museum Himalayan Art Resources (HAR) and founding curator of the Rubin Museum of Art, is better known for explaining paintings and sculptures rather than books. But in a new video series launched in October, Watt is starting to review books on art of the Himalayas and Tibet from a library that numbers in the hundreds (if not thousands). These videos may be of particular interest to students of this art, but also offer enough of an overview to engage the general public and dharma community. The video that introduces the series is below. 

Watt, one of the world’s leading scholars of Himalayan art, acquired his prodigious knowledge of Buddhist, Bon, and Hindu iconography from a longtime study of Buddhism and tantra. As a teenager, he studied with Dezhung Rinpoche in Seattle, Wash., and Sakya Trizin in Dehradun, India. He dropped out of school at 17 to take monastic vows from the 16th Gyalwa Karmapa in 1974. For the next eleven years, Watt trained intensively in India, Canada, and the U.S., with teachers such as Dudjom Rinpoche, Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, Kalu Rinpoche, and Sakya Jetsun Chimey. In 1985 he returned to lay life but continued to study and to translate sacred Tibetan and Sanskrit texts, along with completing numerous traditional retreats over years of periodic isolated practice, much of it in the rugged mountains of British Columbia, Canada.

Watt divides the books that the new video series will review into three main categories:

1. Art History
2. Iconography 
3. Religious context

Art history books may be general or specific and describe the styles of art, the regions from which they come, the periods in which they were created, and the medium in which the artist or artists worked. Works of art history may be organized around any of these factors, or they may describe the works of specific sites or collections. They may also explain changes in artistic traditions over time.

Books discussing iconography describe the images and symbols in Himalayan art. They may explore the source literature behind pieces of art, as Watt did for the bhavacakra or wheel of existence, in a recent Tricycle article. Texts on iconography are descriptive, and detail how a figure appears in art. They also deal with the symbolic meanings in the art, and the relevant lineages of teachers related to that tradition.

The third class of books deals with religious context. These publications discuss the religious significance of works of art. They will explore the meanings of works, and how it might be employed in a ritual. They also discuss the origins of the artwork, such as what tradition it emerged from, and what it means to practitioners of that lineage. These works also deal with orthodoxy, what is deemed correct or incorrect in these works. 

Watt sees the project as one of making texts accessible, as well as preserving knowledge of them. And despite HAR being a digital gallery, Watt feels that physical books are important, particularly in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition. “The importance of books,” he said, “and the importance of categorizing books, putting them in different boxes, or under different umbrellas, and organizing them: that’s one of the secrets of Tibetan Buddhism. And why it is so interesting is because of their tremendous facility and understanding of literature and books, and how to use literature.”

Digital books may provide the bare information, but there is a lack of reverence, Watt said. “You’re not protecting it, you have no responsibilities toward it,” he said. “We’ve been playing with the idea of trying to do something with books on HAR for over ten years. But trying to preserve the tradition of publications, now through video. That’s the idea.” He added, “Without doing videos and talking about some of these publications, then they may be lost forever.”

The series is new but growing. Other videos in the series deal with the art of the Bon tradition, depictions of the legendary monarch Gesar of Ling, guardian deities, oracles and demons, and much more.  

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