I went to their wedding, which was small, touching, and beautiful. While I was there I met some of their friends and I learned a lot about their church—the First Christian Church of Orange.

One thing that struck me immediately was that Olivia, the bride, went out of her way to make sure that she respected and understood my Buddhist beliefs, and wanted to make sure that I was comfortable at her Christian wedding—something no Christian in my experience had ever done for me. I was quick to ensure my friend and his bride-to-be that there wouldn’t be any issues. I was totally awestruck at the fact that they even considered my feelings in the matter. It was very humbling and a striking turn of tables, as generally Buddhists in America have to make sure to explain or apologize to their Christian friends and ensure their comfort in awkward situations like weddings and funerals.

I tell you that anecdote to set the stage for the kind of church that Olivia presides over. Over the time I spent in Orange with the newlyweds, I came to have a great deal of respect for their church. They were openly tolerant of everyone, regardless of race, background, and (most strikingly) sexual orientation. They had many openly gay congregants.

The church doesn’t just pay lip service to being “open”, either. In getting to know my friend’s new wife, she used her convictions and biblical knowledge to explain exactly why her church believes that Jesus Christ was, above all else, a tolerant and loving man. Their mission was only to share Christ’s love of everyone.

One of the friends I met while in Orange was Michelle. She is also a member of the church. She writes a blog about being a single Christian mom and today’s post, on Valentine’s Day, really struck me as capturing the spirit of the church.

The post is called “Be Loud in Love“. Reading it brought me back to my trip to Orange and was a refreshing reminder, in a world that is filled with news of hatred, violence, and intolerance, there are indeed loving and kind Christians out there. This particular passage struck me:

There are some Christians who “love the sinner, hate the sin.” This seems to me like a backhanded insult, that the Christian does not love the whole person, but instead they love who they, the Christian, want the ”sinner” to be. You can’t only love someone’s potential, you have to love their reality, too. That’s like saying “I love the thin person inside of you.” This idea is not love, it is simply tolerance.

I know a lot of Buddhists have, if not outright hostility, a general distaste for Christianity—in a pushy Christian society like America, it’s not hard to see why. Just try to remember our own philosophy of loving kindness and let’s try to practice a little tolerance of our own.

NewBuddhist is a light-hearted community. We laugh. We don’t take things too seriously. We are here for people who are reaching out to Buddhism to answer some question or fill some gap in their lives. We have compassion for those who are new to Buddhism. We are not jerks.

If you have trouble with taking things far too seriously, or you are by nature an angry person, or it bothers you when people are “wrong on the internet”, or if you feel the need to be correct all the time, NewBuddhist is probably not a great place for you. There are, I’m certain, other Buddhism-centric communities that appeal to advanced practitioners or embrace the drama.

But drama? NewBuddhist ain’t it. Lincoln and I (the two guys who run this site) are just normal, happy dudes. We chill. We drink bourbon once in a while. We joke. We laugh. And we believe, with all our hearts, that practicing lovingkindness and compassion in an online space is entirely possible, appropriate, and so very, very modern.

The student is one of our most senior students and has practiced over a decade. He is very intense, very dedicated to practice, and is incredibly challenging to work with (in a good way). He comes across as extremely hard to beginners, and when I was new I dreaded when he was teaching a class. After a bit of time, you realize he’s actually a very warm person who is simply pushing you harder than you thought you could go. He’s certainly one of my favorites.

As he sat, he apologized and wondered if he would make it thru what he had to say. He was straining to hold back the emotion welling up in his eyes.

A few nights prior, he entered the stairwell of a parking garage near his office. It wasn’t late. He heard footsteps approaching behind him which struck him as odd because the stairwell had been empty when he entered. As he turned, an attacker thrust a knife at him. He pivoted, and grabbed the arm. They struggled back and forth, onto the ground, then back up again. Finally he broke the attacker’s arm, and the attacker fled, dropping his knife. He picked up the knife and a second attacker appeared, saw the knife, and likewise fled. He ran to his car. It probably lasted less than 60 seconds.

He called his wife, then found Sifu to work thru what had happened. He still wasn’t exactly sure, but walked us thru what he believe occurred during the struggle. Clearly, the muscle memory of practice had saved his life in a moment when there was no time to think.

Several things struck me about this.

After practicing martial arts for several years, you start to have some confidence in your abilities. You think, if it came down to it, you’d be OK if you got attacked. Stories like this are a wakeup call from that sort of complacency. It would not be OK. This was a highly trained, dedicated martial artist who can run circles around me in the dojo and he came so close to getting stabbed there was a hole in his fitted shirt afterward and his ribs were bruised by the attacker’s knuckles.

It also struck me that there was no revenge. He broke the attacker’s arm, yes, but then he let him go. He didn’t go after the second attacker at all. He ran. He gave the knife to Sifu. He went home and held his child. This is why we practice meditation of course, but it was still powerful to see it work.

Self-defense is not enough reason to practice the art for decades, but the effectiveness of the training saved the life of one of my favorite people, a husband and a father. Maybe it saved the attacker’s life too.

Find more of my work at The Weaving

Written by NewBuddhist member Leon Basin. You can view more of his writings at his website.

Be fully aware while making coffee, and you may just make the perfect cup

While tradition holds that meditation practice is usually observed in a quiet, peaceful room while sitting or reclining in one of a few specific positions, the benefits of meditation can be experienced while doing normal daily activities as well—even something as mundane as making coffee.

I’ve learned a lot about coffee over the years. I started off as a young adult with the normal grocery store coffee; Maxwell House or whatever was on sale. I would put the grounds in the pot, fill it with tap water, and push the button. It was completely brainless, and I wasn’t remotely aware of my actions while I was doing it. It became a habit, and there was no magic involved. Push button, receive drink. It didn’t taste very good.

I learned from a friend that premium coffee tastes better, so I started ordering mail-order coffee from a specialty roaster. It came in aluminum, vacuum-sealed bags. I did the same thing: Put the grounds in the pot, add water, push button. It tasted slightly better, but it still wasn’t very good.

I started to become more aware of my actions. Was I making sure the carafe was clean? Was I aware that the coffee maker was dirty and needed to be rinsed out? I opened my eyes and actually looked at the coffee maker. It was dirty. I spent some time reading instructions on how to clean it. Looking back, I now realize that this act of taking conscious effort to improve things was an early form of practice.

I still wasn’t pleased with the coffee and over the years became much more educated about the beans, the process, and the art of making coffee. I began to learn about how interconnected the flavor of the drink was with the place it was grown and the people who picked it and cleaned it and processed it. I spoke with growers in faraway lands. I learned to understand the full extent and the magic of how this simple daily pleasure was deeply intertwined with my persona and my daily happiness.

Today, I am very careful about making coffee and I enjoy making it for others. It’s ritualistic, calming, quiet, reflective, and rewarding—all hallmarks of a good meditative experience. I use a Hario ceramic funnel, a Hario kettle, Hario filters, and a Bodum burr grinder. I get my beans from the lovely Chazzano Coffee in Ferndale, Michigan, as Frank (the owner) is one of the most conscientious coffee roasters I’ve ever met.

Making the coffee

I check the cleanliness of my kettle and wipe it down if it’s dirty or clean it out if needed. I admire the craftsmanship of the metal, the shape, and the design. I appreciate the artistry and skill that went into crafting the kettle. I think about the person who designed it. It’s a Japanese kettle, so I think of how awesome it is that I live in a world where I can use this implement that was created a half a world away. Next, I begin to fill it. I contemplate the impurities that have made their way into the water and the journey the water takes to get to my tap. I am careful to filter the water to make the coffee as clean and bright as possible. I enjoy the sound of water pouring into the empty metal pot. I love staring at the cool, still water in the shiny metal kettle.

I put the kettle on the stove and go to the grinder. I smell the beans, remembering where I bought them and from where they came. I think about the growers, the sunlight, the coffee cherries drying, and the marvel of transportation that allows me to have these so soon after being picked. The roaster I go to has taken great care to roast them to perfection; I’ve seen him fret over these beans, smelling them, watching them, listening to them crack as they turn dark brown in the heat.

I grind them and take deep breaths as the beans are turned into coarse powder. The smell makes me feel at peace.

I take the filter and fold it carefully. I love the texture of the filter as my finger runs along it, making a tight crease. I take the ceramic funnel and marvel at the skill that must have been involved with designing it. It has spiral channels built into it and it’s almost a work of art on its own.

I put the filter in the funnel and run some filtered water over it to wet the filter, while waiting for the kettle to come to a boil. I fill the filter with grounds, taking care to gently tap the grinder cup to get the grounds out.

When the water is ready, I start the pour. The pour-over method should take three minutes if done properly. It’s very slow, contemplative, and you have to be aware of what you’re doing the entire time. You start with a slow pour in the center of the grounds, and since I’m using extremely fresh beans, the bloom that appears due to release of carbon dioxide is beautiful, and the smell is intoxicating. I count carefully and when thirty seconds have gone by, I begin slowly to swirl the kettle. to wet the rest of the grounds.

The kettle is designed to pour very slowly and consistently (thus the swan-like neck). This allows me to swirl the kettle in a spiral fashion, careful not to touch the sides of the filter, while ensuring that all the grounds continue to get evenly distributed without the funnel filling up too quickly, causing the grounds to stick to the side. It takes a great deal of attention and patience to get it right—just like meditation.

The joy of the experience

In the end, I am left with a wonderful, truly remarkable cup of coffee; more than drinking it myself, I love giving it to a friend and seeing the look on their face as they inhale the aroma and take their first sip.

It’s one of the most peaceful parts of my day, and it helped me realize that peace and contemplation can be found in everyday experiences. It doesn’t always have to be on the zafu or in the meditation room.

The basic premise behind kamma is that there’s a cause and effect relationship between our actions and how they’re experienced, and the teachings themselves deal specifically with the intentional action of individuals and how the results of those actions are then experienced by said individuals. As Thanissaro Bhikkhu puts it, “It’s simply the fact of action—you do something unskillful, it’s going to come back in an unpleasant way.” In the same way, if you do something skillful, it’s going to come back and be experienced in a pleasant way. That’s why the Buddha advises his followers to frequently contemplate:

‘I am the owner of my actions, heir to my actions, born of my actions, related through my actions, and have my actions as my arbitrator. Whatever I do, for good or for evil, to that will I fall heir.’

Pragmatically speaking, actions are deemed ‘unskillful’ (akusala) if they lead to to self-affliction, to the affliction of others or to both. Actions that don’t lead to self-affliction, to the affliction of others or to both are deemed ‘skillful’ (kusala) (MN 61). Therefore, the distinction between skillful and unskillful actions is based upon how their results are experienced—not only by ourselves, but by others as well. (This emphasis on the consequential aspect of actions is similar to Jeremy Bentham’s teleological utilitarianism, with John Stuart Mill’s idea of higher and lower happiness being similar to the Buddha’s distinction between long-term and short-term welfare and happiness.)

Psychologically speaking, however, the quality of the intentions behind the actions is what ultimately determines whether they’re unskillful or skillful. (This aspect is closer to Kant’s deontological categorical imperative when combined with the Buddhist principle of ahimsa or harmlessness.) Intentional actions rooted in greed, hatred or delusion produce painful mental feelings “like those of the beings in hell,” while intentional actions rooted in non-greed, non-hatred and non-delusion produce the opposite (“like those of the Beautiful Black Devas”). Then there are acts rooted in both that bring mixed results “like those of human beings, some devas, and some beings in the lower realms” (AN 4.235). By bringing kamma to an end, however, the mind is said to become free and undisturbed.

Intention (cetana) is a product of the aggregate of mental formations (sankharakhandha). The cause by which kamma comes into play is sensory contact (phassa). Furthermore, according to Nyanatiloka’s Manual of Buddhist Terms and Doctrines, vipaka, ‘fruit’ or ‘result,’ is “any … mental phenomenon (e.g. bodily agreeable or painful feeling, sense-consciousness, etc.), which is the result of wholesome or unwholesome volitional action (karma, q.v.) through body, speech or mind, done either in this or some previous life.”

Essentially, intentional actions of body, speech and mind produce results that are said to have the potential to ripen during this lifetime, in the next birth or in later births. This can be taken literally (i.e., ripening in the form of a pleasant or unpleasant rebirth in an external realm of existence), or metaphorically (i.e., ripening in the form of various pleasant or unpleasant mental states). In the words of S. Dhammika:

According to the Buddha, every intentional action modifies our consciousness, thus building our character and thereby influencing our behaviour, our experience and consequently our destiny. Positive intentional actions (motivated by generosity, love and wisdom) tend towards consequences that are experienced as positive while intentional negative actions (motivated by greed, hatred and delusion) tend towards consequences that are experienced as negative.

Therefore, I think that in certain contexts, it would be appropriate to think of kamma as ‘habit energy’ in the sense that the potential effects of an action can be to condition and even strengthen certain physical and psychological reactions. This is especially true in regard to psychological reactions considering that vipaka is limited specifically to ‘mental phenomena.’

(And just for reference, here’s an interesting talk I watched recently dealing with the biological basis for morality: ‘Morality: From the Heavens or From Nature?’ I agree Dr. Thomas that morality is natural in the sense that it comes from the “evolved architecture” of our minds, which is why I believe that, psychologically speaking, the quality of the intentions behind our actions can determine how the results, whether positive or negative, are experienced.)

As for Buddhist ethics in general, they revolve around seeing our desires for happiness and freedom from pain in all living creatures. Essentially, if we don’t respect that in them, how can we ever expect the same? This is especially true regarding human beings. Here I agree with the Buddha that, besides some rare and special cases, there’s no one that’s as dear to us as ourselves, that all beings essentially want to be happy in their own way (according to their specific capacities), and that it’s a fairly decent and logical reason to desire their happiness as well as our own (SN 3.8).

The reason, I think, is simple. If our happiness comes at the expense of their happiness, they’ll do everything in their power to upset that happiness. Conversely, if they were to infringe upon ours, wouldn’t it follow that we’d do everything in our power to upset theirs? It seems like a vicious circle to me, and one of the ways to break this circle is an ethical framework that takes the happiness of others into consideration. Combine this with the Buddha’s teachings on kamma, and you have a logical and naturalistic morality based on the principle of ahimsa or harmelessness.

Concerning the issue of evil and whether it ‘exists’ in some objective sense as in Christian theology — which presents evil as an objectively existent entity or force, personified by the most infamous scapegoat the world has ever known, the Devil — Buddhism is, philosophically speaking, more or less empirical and pragmatic in nature. Things like ‘good’ and ‘evil’ aren’t really given any sort of ontological status in the suttas. as I’ve already mentioned, in regard to actions, bad actions are deemed ‘bad’ or ‘unskillful’ if they lead to to self-affliction, to the affliction of others or to both. Good actions, on the other hand, are deemed ‘good’ or ‘skillful’ if they don’t lead to self-affliction, to the affliction of others or to both (MN 61). In other words, these are descriptive labels that are limited to observable qualities and experiences (adjectives), not self-existent entities (nouns).

In the context of actions (kamma), the Pali term kusala, often translated as ‘skillful’ or ‘wholesome,’ basically means that which is not conducive to harm and pain, but to benefit and pleasure (AN 2.19). It denotes doing something well, such as in the case of playing a lute (see AN 6.55). The Pali term akusala (composed of the negative prefix a- + kusala), often translated as ‘unskillful’ or ‘unwholesome,’ basically means the opposite, or that which is not conducive to benefit and pleasure, but to harm and pain. The Pali word that’s usually translated as ‘evil’ is papa, which can also be translated as ‘bad,’ ‘demerit’ or ‘wrong action’ depending on the context. It seems to me that papa has a stronger, more negative connotation than akusala, but they’re more or less synonymous.

So when looking at the question of evil in Buddhism from this perspective, it can certainly be said to exist in a subjective sense, and I’d say it’s an appropriate descriptor for qualities that most people would agree to be extremely shocking and harmful. But as far as I can tell, Buddhism refrains from presenting evil as something which exists independently of us, something ‘out there’ as it were. And while Buddhism has its own scapegoat in the form of Mara, he’s generally used as a metaphor for the death, the psychological clinging to the aggregates that gives rise to suffering or to the mental defilements of greed, hatred and delusion.

This, then, brings me to dukkha or suffering. The first noble truth states that, in short, the five clinging-aggregate (panca-upadana-khandha) are dukkha (SN 56.11), i.e., it’s the clinging in reference to the aggregates that’s dukkha, not the aggregates themselves. What does this mean exactly? According to the commentaries, dukkha is defined as ‘that which is hard to bear.’ In MN 9, clinging is defined as:

“And what is clinging, what is the origin of clinging, what is the cessation of clinging, what is the way leading to the cessation of clinging? There are these four kinds of clinging: clinging to sensual pleasures, clinging to views, clinging to rituals and observances, and clinging to a doctrine of self. With the arising of craving, there is the arising of clinging. With the cessation of craving, there is the cessation of clinging. The way leading to the cessation of clinging is just this Noble Eightfold Path; that is, right view… right concentration.

In addition, the Buddha says that the five clinging-aggregates are not-self (anatta). He calls them a burden, the taking up of which is “the craving that makes for further becoming” and the casting off of which is “the remainderless fading & cessation, renunciation, relinquishment, release, & letting go of that very craving” (SN 22.22). Becoming (bhava) is a mental process, which arises due to the presence of clinging in the mind with regard to the five-clinging aggregates, and acts as a condition for the birth (jati) of the conceit ‘I am,’ the self-identification that designates a being (satta).

Looking at it from another angle, there’s rarely a moment when the mind isn’t clinging to this or that in one or more of the four ways (MN 11). Our identity jumps from one thing to another, wherever the clinging is strongest. Our sense of self is something that’s always in flux, ever-changing from moment to moment in response to various internal and external stimuli, and yet at the same time, we tend to see it as a static thing. It’s as if our sense of self desires permanence, but its very nature causes it to change every second. As the Buddha warns in SN 12.61:

It would be better for the uninstructed run-of-the-mill person to hold to the body composed of the four great elements, rather than the mind, as the self. Why is that? Because this body composed of the four great elements is seen standing for a year, two years, three, four, five, ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, a hundred years or more. But what’s called ‘mind,’ ‘intellect,’ or ‘consciousness’ by day and by night arises as one thing and ceases as another. Just as a monkey, swinging through a forest wilderness, grabs a branch. Letting go of it, it grabs another branch. Letting go of that, it grabs another one. Letting go of that, it grabs another one. In the same way, what’s called ‘mind,’ ‘intellect,’ or ‘consciousness’ by day and by night arises as one thing and ceases as another.

Change is, of course, a fact of nature. All things are in a perpetual state of change, but the problem is that our sense of self ignores this reality on a certain level. From birth to death, we have the tendency to think that this ‘I’ remains the same. Now, we might know that some things have changed (e.g., our likes and dislikes, our age, the amount of wrinkles we have, etc.), but we still feel as if we’re still ‘us.’ We have the illusion (for lack of a better word) that our identity is who we are, a static entity named [fill in the blank], and we tend to perceive this as being the same throughout our lives.

That said, the conventional use of personality is a function of survival, as well as convenience. However, clinging to our personalities as ‘me’ or ‘mine’ is seen as giving continued fuel for becoming, i.e., a mental process of taking on a particular kind of identity that arises out of clinging. Our sense of self — the ephemeral ‘I’ — is merely a mental imputation, and when we cling to our sense of self as being ‘me’ or ‘mine’ in some way, we’re clinging to an impermanent representation of something that we’ve deluded ourselves into thinking is fixed and stable. It becomes a sort of false refuge that’s none of these things.

These attachments, particularly our attachment to views and doctrines of self, keep us rooted in “perceptions and categories of objectification” that continually assail us and our mental well-being (MN 18). Thus, with the presence of clinging, the aggregates have the potential to become suffering (i.e., ‘difficult to bear’) when our sense of self encounters inconstancy. That’s why the Buddha taught that whatever is inconstant is stressful, and whatever is stressful is not-self:

“What do you think, monks — Is form [same with feeling, perception, fabrications and consciousnes] constant or inconstant?”

“Inconstant, lord.”

“And is that which is inconstant easeful or stressful?”

“Stressful, lord.”

“And is it fitting to regard what is inconstant, stressful, subject to change as: ‘This is mine. This is my self. This is what I am’?”

“No, lord.”

Thus, monks, any form [same with feeling, perception, fabrications and consciousness] whatsoever that is past, future, or present; internal or external; blatant or subtle; common or sublime; far or near: every form is to be seen as it actually is with right discernment as: ‘This is not mine. This is not my self. This is not what I am.’

Suffering isn’t inescapable, however. Like all conditional phenomena, it too has a cause. The second noble truth states that the origination of suffering is “the craving [tahna, literally 'thirst'] that makes for further becoming — accompanied by passion &; delight, relishing now here &; now there — i.e., craving for sensual pleasure, craving for becoming, craving for non-becoming” (SN 56.11). As Thanissaro Bhikkhu explains in Wings to Awakening:

Craving for sensuality, here, means the desire for sensual objects. Craving for becoming means the desire for the formation of states or realms of being that are not currently happening, while craving for non-becoming means the desire for the destruction or halting of any that are. “Passion and delight,” here, is apparently a synonym for the “desire and passion” for the five aggregates that constitutes clinging/sustenance [III/H/ii].

Craving is a very subtle but powerful aspect of our psychology. It’s there, latent in the mind, waiting to exert its influence through mental fabrications by directing or at the very least encouraging the mind to feed upon sensory experiences via the five clinging-aggregates in an unhealthy way. Hence, in Buddhism, suffering is a psychological phenomena that can be transcended via the “remainderless fading & cessation, renunciation, relinquishment, release, & letting go of that very craving” (SN 56.11). This is why I tend to think of Buddhism as a type of ‘transcendent psychology.’ Regardless of how it’s been popularized, at its core, Buddhism deals exclusively with one subject, that of human mental suffering. The Buddha himself clearly states that:

“Both formerly and now, monks, I declare only stress and the cessation of stress.

That’s not to say there aren’t ‘supernatural’ concepts in Buddhism, or that local customs, deities and religious practices haven’t found their way into Buddhism wherever it’s been established. But rather than a pure system of thought or a strictly faith-based worship of the supernatural, a critical analysis of the earliest texts reveals a much more pragmatic and specialized method of mental training than most traditional Buddhists and Western converts realize—one that seeks to diminish and even eliminate suffering by radically changing the way the mind relates to experience. This includes our reaction to physical pain, which is made clear in the simile of the arrow found in SN 36.6:

“Now, the well-instructed disciple of the noble ones, when touched with a feeling of pain, does not sorrow, grieve, or lament, does not beat his breast or become distraught. So he feels one pain: physical, but not mental. Just as if they were to shoot a man with an arrow and, right afterward, did not shoot him with another one, so that he would feel the pain of only one arrow. In the same way, when touched with a feeling of pain, the well-instructed disciple of the noble ones does not sorrow, grieve, or lament, does not beat his breast or become distraught. He feels one pain: physical, but not mental.

Whatever else this radical transformation may open one up to, I can’t say, but I suspect that Thanissaro Bhikkhu’s right when he says that we’re “not committing spiritual suicide.” The allegory of the cave in Plato’s Republic immediately comes to mind here, where he uses the image of the philosopher turning the soul (mind) away from the darkness of the visible realm (samsara) towards the light of the form of the Good (nibbana).

That’s not to say that Bentham and Kant represent two ends of a single ethical spectrum, only that Plato and the Buddha take what Bentham and Kant stress and emphasis them together. With Plato and the Buddha, just/skillful actions aren’t simply judged to be just/skillful based upon their consequences, but also because there’s something inherently just/skillful about the actions themselves. In Buddhism, this would be due to the quality of the intentions behind the actions, and I think a similar principle applies in the Republic as well, although Plato would obviously say that it’s because they share in the form of Justice, or even of the Good.

But despite the similarities, the Buddha does place far more emphasis on the consequential aspect of actions than Plato in determining whether they’re just/skillful (e.g., MN 61), so ethically speaking, he falls decidedly more into Bentham’s camp than Plato.

I suspect that this might be a consequence of Plato’s denial/rejection of empiricism, which, in the Republic, forces him away from a more consequentialist position until Book 10. Up until then, he appears to limit himself to what Stephan Watt terms ‘natural consequences,’ and not ones “dependent on other people’s recognising and rewarding your justice.”

Whereas the Buddha accepts a form of empiricism that’s, in the words of David Kaluphana, “based broadly on ordinary sense experience and extrasensory perception” (Buddhist Philosophy: A Historical Analysis), Plato seems to take great pains to avoid using empirically-based observations to support his propositions for as long as possible. However, he’s still compelled to utilize them at some point in many of his arguments.

Perhaps this is simply for the benefit of his less philosophically advanced interlocutors, but his rejection of sense-data as a reliable basis for knowledge seems ironic when many of his arguments are themselves based on sense-data. (I’m mainly thinking of the Phaedo here, where Socrates is arguing for the immortality of the soul and supporting his propositions with empirical observations, or where he does the same thing in explaining causation using his theory of forms.) Or maybe I’m just misunderstanding Plato since he seems like such a smart guy and it’s hard for me to believe that he really failed to spot this glaring epistemological dilemma in his philosophy.

Nevertheless, both Plato and the Buddha seem to agree that acting justly/skillfully leads to being a better person, a morally superior type of individual both wise and at peace, someone possessing a noble and unshakable character. For the Buddha, who I find much more direct than Plato, skillful actions, when used appropriately, have the potential to ultimately lead to the elimination of the skillful/unskillful dichotomy altogether, leaving only moral perfection (i.e., the end of kamma). But Plato uses the just city as a backdrop to illustrate his just individual, and I’m not quite sure exactly how much is allegorical.

In any case, it’s not hard to compare what’s in the Republic to many of the things the Buddha is recorded as saying in the Pali Canon considering the wide variety of similar themes and ideas scattered throughout. For example, Plato’s comment at the beginning of 546a, which itself may have been derived from Heraclitus, mirrors the Buddha’s maxim regarding origination and cessation at SN 56.11. Then there’s 571d-572a, which sounds similar to the Buddha’s advice regarding the practice of meditation in an effort to ‘touch the deathless’ (amata). (I find similar parallels between Socrates’ dialogue in Plato’s Symposium regarding immortality and the idea of forms and the Buddha’s discourses regarding the deathless, as well.)

The beginning of Plato’s third argument supporting his conclusion that the happiest and most just individual is the one who rules over him/herself like a king (with virtue, moderation and reason) sounds Buddhist-esque with the ‘motion’ of pleasure and pain in the soul bringing the teachings on kamma to mind, while the ‘state of calm’ intermediate between pleasure and pain is equivalent to Buddhist equanimity (upekka). And while for Plato the soul is something immortal that reincarnates, he gives an argument later on in Book 10 (612e-613b) that resembles parts of the Buddha’s teachings on kamma and rebirth in MN 136.

Even more interesting, however, is 582b-d, where “that which is related to what is always the same, immortal and true” and “that which is related to what is never the same and mortal” are akin to nibbana and samsara respectively. The allegory of the cave at the beginning of Book 7 immediately comes to mind here, where Plato uses the image of the philosopher turning the soul (mind) away from the darkness of the visible realm (samsara) towards the light of the form of the Good (nibbana).

It could be that I’m reading too much into his politics thanks to Watt’s introduction, which has me seeing the Republic in terms of psychology as well; but the more I read it, the more I find myself moving away from seeing the Republic in terms of a dialogue about social engineering and towards something more, for lack of a better word, Dhammic.

The next morning, my friend, Erica, commented on Facebook:

Our monkeyselves need meatspace, no matter what we can sit and stare at.

While humourous, her reply hit upon an idea echoed by friend, Matt, on Twitter:

“Different medium, same old problem. Connecting with someone still requires effort from two people.”

I replied to both:

And therein lies the dilemma. Sometimes I think we’re like galaxies in an ever-expanding universe: drifting off into oblivion. As the world appears to get smaller with advances in technology, we seem to be drifting farther and farther apart.

And then added on Facebook:

I don’t know. Maybe I just feel that way because I’m so socially awkward, but as I was sitting on the bus last night — watching all the people listening to their MP3 players and playing with their cell phones (not to mention me with mine) — the alienation was palpable.

Perhaps I’ve been reading too much Marx, but I can’t help but feel this invisible barrier between me and my fellow bipedal primates, a barrier that doesn’t feel natural at all.

I feel like the cow tongue of meatspace; nobody likes cow tongue, they’d rather have their Matrix-steak.

Less than 10 minutes later, Erica responded with:

Well, 20 years ago on the bus folks were doing their very best to ignore each other in an analog fashion (newspapers, books). I really think the invention of the suburb and the television have done much more to isolate ourselves.

I think a lot of us feel that barrier, just not everybody admits it. I think it is a common longing of a social animal that no longer lives in communal spaces. That’s why I throw myself into whatever food rituals I can, get out into nature whenever I can, go out on a limb to make connections no matter how minor (smiling at the grocery store at the smallest end of the spectrum, having a child at the greatest end). You do what you can. Most of us have cow-tongue and are relieved when we find out the truth, that others do too. Matrix steak just doesn’t have the nutrients.

I was kind of taken aback by how much she seemed to get where I was coming from. At this point, my friend, Brian, got involved by pointing out the role technology has played in connecting people with one another:

You can’t blame technology; I know many people whose social interactions and lifestyles have improved because of increased connectivity. Think of how many new friends YOU personally have BECAUSE of technology and the internet. It’s probably in the high dozens, perhaps hundreds.

Your friend Erica nailed it: It’s always been this way, as long as we’ve been a society of suburbs. It’s not like there were these rousing and engaging conversations on city buses or subway cars before cell phones, dude.

He brought up a great point, one that Matt had also touched upon via Twitter in response to my “ever-expanding universe” comment:

Says he who didn’t want a mobile. We Twitter / txt more in 2 days than we communicated all last year between your visits.

I couldn’t argue with either of their points, but then again, I wasn’t referring to simple connectivity as much as what I saw to be an erosion of meaningful social interactions and relationships in general. Attempting to address this, I wrote:

I completely agree. And just to be clear, I wasn’t blaming technology, simply commenting on the fact that I can still feel so lonely despite having the “world at my fingertips” via technological advances that have made the world so much smaller. (Seriously, it’s hard to get all philosophically complex in just 140 characters. You know how I usually write. :p)

For example, just being able to communicate with others via things like the internet doesn’t necessarily make those interactions truly meaningful on a deeper, more intimate level. I think there’s more to it than that (e.g., being able to tear down those invisible barriers, etc.).

I mean, I’m not denying that increased connectivity has improved the social interactions and relationships of certain people (hell, I was at ICOK: meaningful social interactions were off the hook!), but I think it’s also made some of them more artificial (for lack of a better word), and even somewhat shallow.

As for the origin of the kind of alienation I was referring to, I didn’t mean to imply that technology was the cause. In fact, I agree with you both that no longer living in communal spaces is one of the major causes. But I also believe that there are other factors involved, factors which have directly contributed to our no longer living in communal spaces (e.g., Marx’s Theory of Alienation).

In the end, I still don’t have any concrete answers, but at least I’ve been reminded of some things I forgot along the way. The most important one being: we’re all more alike than we often realize.

Like Erica said, we’re social creatures, and we all feel isolated at times, even if it’s not always easy for us to admit it. But that shouldn’t stop us from doing what we can to reach out and make connections with other people, whether it’s by smiling at the grocery store, starting a family or creating a place like this where people can come together and discuss all things Buddhist.

It’s great that people want to share things. This is a very welcoming community, but there is still etiquette and protocol to consider.

The problem is; it’s rude to spam, no matter which way you spin it. It’s not that the content of whatever site was linked is not valuable or helpful, it’s the way it was delivered to us.

It is considered impolite–bad online etiquette, if you will–to sign up to any site and, as a first post, make a link to another site. No matter how altruistic the post or link is, it’s considered “spam”. If the poster really wants to share their content with the community that we’ve fostered and built over the years, by all means, they are welcome into our humble home. Engage. Discuss. Make friends. We encourage it!

After they’ve been here for a while, have made some friends, have become a presence, and we can be sure that they’re not here just to get visitors for their site, then by all means, we’ll let them post their links.

Communities like this are online homes. It is just as rude for you to come into my online home and paste advertisements as it would be for you to do it in real life. To me, it’s the same as those annoyingly cute precious old ladies who come to my door with pamphlets advertising all manner of noble and worthy charities.

No matter the message, it’s the method that is distasteful.

In the end, I simply emailed this well-meaning woman, and let her know that after she joined our community and engaged more, she would be more than welcome to post her link. Polite, simple, and the same thing I’d do at home. At least bring brownies or something!

My first business died a quick death because of youth, inexperience, and rapid life changes (marriage, babies). The second became moderately successful (financially), but was undermined and ultimately destroyed by a number of factors, including a massive drop in my state’s economy, as well as plain bad luck and lack of planning for such.

The third was born of passion, however. I am fervently passionate about what I do, and I can truly and honestly say I love my job. I love my job.

The problem is: it doesn’t remotely pay the bills. Not even close.

I have reached that point that any entrepreneur in the audience will understand: Jump off the cliff.

I am standing on the cliff that overlooks the land of dreams. Jumping off of cliffs is scary. There’s no safety net, there’s no guarantee of a soft landing, it’s far, and it’s painful. I could, I should, turn around and walk back to safety.

But behind me is a life of unhappiness and misery. Behind me is a life that I cannot lead. I have accepted and resigned myself to the fact that I am not cut out for that life. I’ve tried; believe me, I’ve tried, to be a member of that world, to live that lifestyle, to play that game. I do not have it in me. One of the things age and wisdom brings is the gift of self-acceptance; I accept that I cannot be that person.

I’m at that point again. The bills are piling up, money is not coming in, and things are looking bleak.

I have found, however, that this is when the magic happens. If I had never gone through this before, I’d be terrified right now.

I’m not scared. I’m tired. I’m introspective. I’m a little sad. But I am not scared.

I’m jumping.

I’m more confident than ever that identity is a phenomenon that’s influenced by a myriad of internal and external conditions and experiences, and that even some of the most seemingly concrete aspects of our identity are little more than shackles that we as a society unconsciously place on ourselves. That’s not to say that certain things aren’t beyond our control, but I’d argue that what’s in our control is a lot more than we might imagine, that much of our identity is fluid and malleable.

One of the things that I’ve been learning about over the past few months is Marx’s materialist conception of history and the idea that “the nature of individuals depends on the material conditions determining their production.” While Marx’s theory was set within a specific context — that of the complex relationship between the production and reproduction of material requirements of life and the historical development of human society — it has much wider implications. For example, I’m of the opinion that things such as identity are conditioned, at least in part, by the historical and material conditions that we find ourselves in, and that changes in those conditions can fundamentally alter our identity and the ways in which we express ourselves, and vice versa. Not in a rigidly deterministic way, however, but in a complex and symbiotic way.

This idea isn’t necessarily new. The Buddha, for example, developed similar ideas about identity in his teachings on karma, dependent co-arising, etc. In short, he viewed our sense of self as a continuous process—something which is always in flux, ever-changing from moment to moment in response to various internal and external stimuli. Furthermore, he observed that there are times when our sense of self causes us a great deal of suffering, times when we cling very strongly to that momentary identity and the objects of our sensory experience on which that identity is based in ways that cause a great deal of mental stress. But his focus was primarily on how to relieve the suffering of the individual by mastering this process of “I-making and my-making” while Marx’s focus, the bodhisattva that he was, was primarily on how to relieve the suffering of society by changing the material conditions that support it.

What really got me thinking about all of this, though, were the potential contradictions I saw inherent in “identity politics.” The Socialism 2009 conference had a fair amount of talks centered around LGBT rights and racism, and I completely support equal rights for, and treatment of, everyone, regardless of their gender, race, sexual orientation, etc. But during some of the talks I started to feel a bit uncomfortable.

The main reason for this, I believe, was that many of the speakers and audience members were separating people into classes based on their gender, race, sexual orientation, etc., and I started to feel alienated by my own gender, race, sexual orientation, etc. being that straight white males have historically been the most exploitative and oppressive class the world has ever known. I began to feel as if I couldn’t relate to others because I was on the outside looking in — even though politically we shared the same views — simply because of being born a straight white male. I even felt attacked at times when people attacked these aspects of my identity in an indirect way. I mean, I know that they weren’t talking about me personally, yet being a part of the very class that has systematically exploited and oppressed blacks, women, gays and lesbians, and whole plethora of others classes caused me to feel alienated nonetheless. It wasn’t that “I” was being attacked, but by clinging to my identity of a “straight white male” as a fixed thing, I found myself becoming alienated from the very people I was supposed to feel solidarity with. It wasn’t an omnipresent feeling, either, but it was strong enough for me to be aware of its psychological impact. And these feelings lead me to question who “I” was.

Pragmatically speaking, I see the need to differentiate between these things for the sake of communication, and as long as the words themselves don’t become fixed entities corresponding to permanent realities, there’s no problem. But when these labels become representations of things which we then habitually cling to without acknowledging their limitations, I think they can become a serious problem. Hence my wariness of identity politics.

The way I see it, identity politics that separate individuals and groups into various classes run the risk of becoming antagonistic due to the contradictory nature of the various classes themselves, especially if these distinctions of class become solidified and clung to as concretely, independently existing things. In other words, identity politics can actually reinforce the barriers in society that alienate one class from another by artificially segregating them into separate classes to begin with.

Case in point. When I was young, I came home from school crying and I asked my Mom why I wasn’t black. Although I don’t remember any of this myself, she told me that when she asked what was wrong I told her that I was upset because the kids at school said they wouldn’t play with me because I wasn’t black. Up until that point, I grew up in a hotel in Detroit with a very diverse mixture of tenets. Being the only kid in the entire hotel, I got a lot of attention from everyone and I was never really exposed to the racial conflicts that existed in the outside world.

For me, in my little world inside that hotel, we were all the same—black, white, men, women, American, Filipino, etc. Almost everyone treated me as a part of their community and I saw them as part of mine. But I imagine that the kids at my school — kids who were exposed to different and less sheltered circumstances — were already acquainted with the harsh realities of racism. So even though I didn’t know anything about “race” at the time, and all I wanted to do was play with the other kids and have fun, the idea of race as a class had the unfortunate effect of setting me apart from my own community.

For the majority of my life, I never truly understood that identity wasn’t a fixed thing—that my “white” identity wasn’t something I was born with, but something which arose out of the historical and material conditions I was born into. And now that I’ve begun to questions these things, I’m beginning to see that my sense of identity and subsequent feelings of alienation are being perpetuated, at least in part, by the very set of identity politics which seeks to destroy these kinds of social barriers.

I can’t change the colour of my skin (well, not easily anyway), but I can just as easily identify myself as a “human being” as I can a “straight white man.” Of course, doing so isn’t going to make me classless, but it’ll at least help me to avoid falling into an essentialist trap in which I’m not able to explore my own sense of identity in a fluid and dynamic way—a way that won’t alienate me and prevent me from connecting to all of my people.