Читать книгу: «The Heart of Buddhism: A Simple Introduction to Buddhist Practice»

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Preface

1 - Why Buddhism?

Who is the book for?

Who is it not for?

Two things Buddhism is not

The fruits

What draws people to Buddhism?

Why now?

The plan of the book

2 - A Peace Missing

The programme of research

The game plan

Pain and death

3 - No Hard Feelings

Fear

Guilt and shame

Anger

Jealousy

Sadness and grief

Meanness

Loneliness

Tension

Happiness, peace and love

4 - Trouble In Mind

Unconsciousness

Thinking

Karma

Sub-selves and impulsiveness

5 - The Ground Flaw

Self-image

Anatta: the bottom line

6 - Attention, Attention, Attention

Believing is seeing

The Wise Lady from Philadelphia

Watching the fruit machine

Types of meditation

7 - Buddhist Support Systems

The Noble Eightfold Path

Buddha

Puja

8 - The Fruit of the Path

Daily life practice

9 - Becoming a Buddhist

Do I need a teacher?

How do I choose a teacher?

Which brand of Buddhism is for me?

What difference will it make to my life?

What if I want to give it up?

When is the best time to start?

Glossary

Further Reading

Bibliography

Searchable Terms

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

PREFACE

TWO things are certain. The first is that I have not communicated the full subtlety and power of the Buddhist teachings. That can only be done by people who have made them real in their own experience – people that Buddhism calls ‘enlightened’ – and although some of the Buddhist schools, especially Zen, confuse the beginner by insisting that we are all enlightened already, I am far from having authenticated this optimistic proposal for myself. Nevertheless there is a place for the middleman, for, as undergraduates quickly find out, graduate students often make better teachers than do Nobel Laureates.

The second sure thing is that reading this book won’t do the job for you. For that you have to set out on the journey yourself: you can’t get there by sitting by the fire reading the brochures. All a book can do, this or any, is give you a sense of what the ‘Inward Bound’ course of Buddhism involves, where it is heading, and why it appeals to so many people.

One of the things that has made my own progress slow, and which the texts often warn against, is that I have spent a lot of time shopping around, trying out different kinds of spiritual pursuits, not all of them Buddhist. A certain amount of this is healthy; it enables you to search out a tradition and a teacher with a style that feels right for you. But too much and it begins to look like a lack of commitment. I have been, as one of my teachers described me, a bit of a spiritual autograph hound. But I hope that all this eclecticism may, as a consolation prize, have enabled me to write to my title, and to try to escape from the trappings of any particular Buddhist school and return to the essence, to the heart.

The teachers in my autograph book are both traditional and ‘non-aligned’ as we might say. The traditionalists include the Soto Zen Master Asahina Sogen, whom I met in Tokyo; Japanese Zen Master Maezumi Roshi and his ‘dharma heir’ Genpo Sensei, with both of whom I have taken courses in England; Myokyo-ni (Dr Irmgard Schloegl) of the Buddhist Society in London, and Daishin Morgan, Abbot of Throssel Hole Priory in Northumberland; Seung Sahn Sunim, a Korean Zen Master who ran a retreat in London several years ago, and mainly teaches in Connecticut. From the Tibetan tradition, I have received teachings from the dzogchen master Namkai Norbu, from the Venerable Geshe Ngawang Dhargyey, for many years principal teacher at the Tibetan Library in Dharamsala; and have attended several retreats run by the Venerable Lama Sogyal Rinpoche. And I have enjoyed many conversations with Stephen Batchelor, Buddhist scholar and a Tibetan monk for eight years (as well a Korean Zen monk for four) – who also very kindly commented with great care on a draft of this book. From the Theravadin tradition I have learnt from talks by Ajahn Sumedho in London and retreats with Ajahn Kittisaro, Christopher Titmuss, Henrietta Rogell, Joseph Goldstein and Sharon Salzberg in Devon, all trained by venerable Thai and Burmese Buddhist teachers; and from longer retreats, one accompanied by a six-day cyclone, with Michelle MacDonald and Stephen Smith in New Zealand.

Then there are the teachers I have spent time with who do not call themselves Buddhists, but who seem to me to represent and to convey, in their very different ways, something of the same spirit: Douglas Harding, Barry Long, Werner Erhard and Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (as he was when I knew him). To all of them I express my gratitude for their dedication and their generosity, and apologize for the places in the book where I have misrepresented what I have not fully understood.

Finally in this roll-call of thanks come four groups of people who have supported my body and improved my mind. First the members of the Buddhist psychology group that has been meeting in beautiful places in England and Wales for several years now to have fun and discuss the dharma: Sue Blackmore, John Crook, David Fontana, Colette Ray, Martin Skinner, Myra Thomas and Michael West. Second, my friends at Sharpham, especially Maurice and Claire Ash, Stephen and Martine Batchelor, Katie Mitchell, Henrietta Rogell, John Snelling, Tim Sweeney and, of course, Iza the Cheeser. Third, my friend Artemis Morou, and her sister Antigone, for letting me hide and write in their houses in Athens and on the beautiful island of Syros. And last the Carrs, for their love and their bach.

1 WHY BUDDHISM?

I said to Heart, ‘How goes it?’ Heart replied:

‘Right as a Ribstone Pippin!’ But it lied.

– Hilaire Belloc

Who is the book for?

THIS book is for people who are newcomers to Buddhism – or who wish to remind themselves of the basics. You may have picked up some ideas about it from conversations that have whetted your appetite, perhaps. You may have begun to think seriously about ‘what it’s all about’, and to search around for approaches that will help you. Or you may have a friend, a son or daughter, or even a parent, who has started to study or practise Buddhism, and you want to know what they are up to. If you yourself are already involved in Buddhism in some way, then this might be the book to give to people you care about to help them understand what you are involved with. Buddhism sometimes comes wrapped in mystery, and it can seem a weird thing for a nurse or an accountant or a head-teacher or a computer programmer to get interested in. What I want to do in this book is to explain what the essence of Buddhism is, and why Buddhism, far from being a nutty thing to take up, is actually the most rational and timely pursuit in the world. I want to try to give you a feel for Buddhism, and for its relevance to the kind of life we lead today.

Buddhism offers a practical way for normal, healthy people to become more healthy and less normal. It is the ‘religion’ for a secular age, concerning itself centrally with improving the quality of everyday life, requiring no adherence to obscure or magical beliefs, and offering a penetrating analysis of the condition – or lack of it – that we find ourselves in, as well as a powerful and proven set of specific techniques for increasing happiness, kindliness and peace in people’s lives. Buddhism is really a deep do-it-yourself kit of ideas and practices for changing in the directions that most people would like: more openness, less defensiveness; more tolerance, less irritation; more ease, less worry; more generosity, less selfishness; more naturalness, less self-consciousness; more equanimity, less frustration. At the heart of Buddhism we find a Buddhism that is very much of the heart. Its subject-matter is the day-to-day business of feelings, relationships and self-respect. Its aim is to enable you to look at yourself in the mirror with absolute honesty – and feel at peace with whoever you see.

Who is it not for?

Of course people who think reflection is a waste of time (when you might be out there doing something) will not find anything sensible or congenial in Buddhism. In their view all this ‘contemplating your navel’ business is at best misguided and probably harmful as well. It makes you more introspective and more selfish, not less. Their philosophy is: don’t think about things too much, just get on with it and have as much fun as you can, or live up to your principles as best you can, along the way. For them life is straightforward – there isn’t much to be figured out, and they do not hanker for explanations. It may not always be easy or happy, but that’s the way it is. We can click our tongues and feel sorry when we see the sadness that is caused by natural disasters, or human stupidity, on the news at night. We can even send money to Oxfam and march for peace. But the predicament is clear, and we can ignore it or respond to it according to our values and energies.

Buddhism appeals to people who have a sneaking feeling that it may not all be so clear-cut. Instead of taking the diagnosis for granted, and rushing off to look for the cure, such people are keen to burrow more deeply into the questions, and to ponder longer on ‘How come’ before deciding on a change to the game plan. Buddhism supports and guides this enquiry into the ‘big questions’. In fact it encourages you to make the enquiry more rigorous and relentless than you might have thought possible. It holds out the promise of a change, perhaps even a radical transformation, in the way you experience life, and the ease and effectiveness with which you manage your affairs. But the price of this is unswerving honesty – especially when the enquiry is getting rather too close for comfort to our cherished beliefs and attitudes that are taken for granted – and also the willingness to keep at it when it seems pointless or unproductive.

Two things Buddhism is not

One of the biggest misapprehensions about Buddhism is that it is an escape from life, either into a quiet fatalism or into the safety of mental contemplation. Nothing could be further from the truth. The enquiry is no mere intellectual exercise, with painful realities kept nicely at a distance. Rather it involves a continual rubbing of your nose in the everyday messes of your own devising, so that you actually learn from your experience. The author of a recent academic book about Zen Buddhism, T.P. Kasulis, describes his meeting with a Japanese Master.

“You have asked permission to practise Zen meditation in this temple, but tell me: what is Zen?” inquired the Master. After some hesitation and embarrassed smiling, I said something about Zen’s being a way of life rather than a set of dogmas. Laughter filled the tatami-matted reception room. “Everyone comes here to study Zen, but none of them knows what Zen is. Zen is knowing thyself. You are a Western philosopher and know of Socrates’ quest. Did you assume Zen would be something different?”

If we do not have to travel East to tatami-matted rooms, neither do we have to go back to the Greeks. Here is a character in one of Dick Francis’s novels, The Danger, talking:

“To be logical you have to dig up and face your own hidden motives and emotions, and of course they’re hidden precisely because you don’t want to face them. So ... um ... it’s easier to let your basement feelings run the upper storeys, so to speak, and the result is rape, quarrels, love, jobs, opinions, anorexia, philanthropy ... almost anything you can think of. I just like to know what’s going on down there, to pick out why I truly want to do things, that’s all. Then I can do them or not. Whichever.”

He looked at me consideringly. “Self-analysis ... did you study it?”

“No. Lived it. Like everyone does.”

He smiled faintly. “At what age?”

“Well ... from the beginning. I mean, I can’t remember not doing it. Digging into my own true motives. Knowing in one’s heart of hearts. Facing the shameful things ... the discreditable impulses ... Awful, really.”

The more common attitude was well expressed by Peter Cook and Dudley Moore in one of their sketches. Moore was interviewing Cook about his disastrous attempt to start up a restaurant in the middle of Dartmoor (serving, as I recall, only two dishes – Frog à la Peche, and Peche à la Frog, both equally disgusting). He asked whether Peter Cook thought he had learnt from his mistakes, to which Cook replied, ‘Oh yes. A tremendous amount. And I think I can safely say that I could repeat them almost perfectly.’

The discipline of Buddhism is to learn to look at yourself unflinchingly, especially when you don’t like what you see, so that you can gain practical insight into what makes you tick, and therefore a clearer sense of what it might be possible to do for the best. The effect of Buddhism is not only that of feeling more at peace with yourself, but a more intelligent and skilful involvement in life – career choices, social action, family disputes, whatever.

This brings up another quite common reaction to Buddhism: that its concern – some would say its obsession – with ‘suffering’ is depressing and unhealthy. Indeed, from the point of view of the more usual attempt to deal with trouble by trying to ignore it, it does look perverse. Why on earth would anyone want to dwell on the bad stuff? We cannot really answer this yet, for to do so we have to get right into the core of Buddhism. All we can say is that people discover for themselves that the attempt to avoid the hurt and pain of living is more trouble than it is worth, and that equanimity can be found by staring distress in the face, not by running away from it, or trying to do battle with it. The Buddhist emphasis on ‘suffering’ is not masochistic, but an unsentimental, clear-sighted, pragmatic response to the problem of how to be as happy as possible in a life that is bound to hit you from time to time.

The fruits

Perhaps the best answer to the question, ‘Why Buddhism?’ is to point to its fruits – the qualities that naturally arise in someone who pursues the Buddhist path. There is a sense that the problems of life are dealt with more smoothly than before. One is less thrown by unforeseen or unwanted events. One takes things in one’s stride more easily. As the advertisement says, one is less inclined to make a drama out of a crisis. Somehow one’s peace of mind is more stable, so that, although things may be difficult from time to time, one does what one can without becoming distressed or confused. Inner strength grows, and one seems to have greater reserves to draw upon. At the same time a non-complacent self-acceptance builds up – one sees oneself more clearly, warts and all, but without the degree of debilitating self-criticism that might have been present previously. One develops the capacity to be self-aware without being self-conscious.

People who have been practising meditation for some time are recognizable by their poise, naturalness and spontaneity. They gain a non-defensive cheerfulness, a light touch in their dealings with others. Without making a big song and dance about it, they develop a gentle kindliness which is perceptive but not intrusive or sentimental. They are available without a need to ‘mother’ people. Yet this increased generosity of spirit is down to earth, it is unsanctimonious and certainly non-evangelical.

Also people become more clear in their thinking and their responding. The ‘right’ thing to do somehow emerges with greater obviousness. Someone once asked Bobby Fischer, the chess champion, how many moves he considered in his mind when it was his turn to play. He said: ‘Just one ... the right one.’ In the same way Buddhist practice seems to flower in a greater expertise in making real-life decisions. We could sum up all these effects perhaps by saying that Buddhism helps people to be at their best more of the time. All of us have periods when we are ‘on good form’, in which these qualities are available to us. But we are also only too aware of the other times, when we are ratty and muddled, mean-spirited and intolerant. Buddhism expands and consolidates our better natures.

What draws people to Buddhism?

It is in fact seeing the fruits of Buddhism in another person that attracts people more than anything else. Sometimes, as I said, people are interested in the ideas or the forms of meditation that they come across in conversation or in a book. But what transmutes this interest into some sort of commitment is usually an encounter with a human being who seems actually to embody the teachings. There is a feeling of being drawn, not so much by what they say as by who they are – by a sense of their being at peace with themselves, or of their ability to cut through a difficult situation with an enviable mixture of clarity and tact. Now of course it is not only Buddhists who have this ease and grace; everybody, I am sure, has memories of ‘unforgettable characters’ – a teacher, perhaps, or an old person with whom you had a special relationship as a child, or maybe even just a friend of a friend whom you met at a party or in the pub – who had something of the air we are talking about. But what Buddhism offers, the promise it holds out, is the possibility that you, if you really want to, can become more like that. There are a set of things you can do that will reliably deliver more happiness, more peace and more love in your life.

Let me illustrate this process of attraction by quoting from some interviews that I taped with residents and visitors at a Buddhist community in Devon. Here is Kevin, a visitor for the weekend from his home in Southampton, 45 years old, a project quality manager for a big company making complicated communication systems. He was brought up an ‘unthinking Anglican’, left school at fifteen, took City and Guilds qualifications in electronics, and is married with two teenage daughters. How did this apparently ordinary man come to be involved with lamas, gurus and meditation?

About seven or eight years ago, in my late thirties, I started to realize that everything in life isn’t good, everything in the garden isn’t rosy, and that there is such a thing as suffering, and you start to question it ... I mean, things in my own garden and the garden globally. Before I ever met Buddhism I began to think that perhaps the unsatisfactoriness of life was something to do with me. That it wasn’t outside, but the only one who could do anything about my life was me. People could perhaps give me some advice, but the effort really had to come from within myself … My first encounter with Buddhism as such was when I was standing at the kitchen sink and my wife said, ‘Did you know Chas (a friend) is a Buddhist?’ and I thought, ‘That’s interesting. I wonder what that’s all about? I must talk to him about it.’ And when I did he talked about suffering in one’s life, and how to approach it, and he just reinforced what I had been thinking.

Then I read a book by Christmas Humphreys, and I got to hear about some Buddhist meetings in Portsmouth, and I thought I’ve got to investigate this. So I went along, not at all sure what I was going to find. The first thing I found was some very nice, warm, friendly people – that was my instant impression. They accepted me as if they already knew me, which I found very encouraging. And I’ve come to realize that this is the effect that Buddhism tends to have on people. People become warm, friendly, generous – with things and with themselves. It was that first meeting that clinched it. They still had problems in their lives that they were willing to talk about, but it seemed to me that they somehow coped with these problems in a way that involved far less effort than a lot of other people I knew – myself, for one! Now I can see that this attitude stemmed from their meditation practice. Ten minutes later the bhikkhu (monk) walked in in his robes, with his begging bowl – he was from the Isle of Wight! – and I was immediately impressed with his calmness. He seemed to be at peace with himself. I listened to him talk, and after the meeting I fixed to visit his place on the Isle of Wight … and I’ve been meditating pretty regularly since then.

My family are very sympathetic. They’ve seen a big change in me. I’m not so easily panicked or worked up as I used to be. I’m more calm. On a physical level my health has improved – I’ve got low blood pressure now and a very low pulse rate, and it used to be the other way round. Just a few months ago my youngest daughter – she’s thirteen – came with me to the monastery and spent the best part of a day there. She found it very interesting. She was quite impressed actually! She was very struck by the shaven heads and lack of hair. The first impression she got was one of peace. She said, ‘It’s funny, Dad. I don’t know why it is, but their shaven heads make them look peaceful!’

Then there was James. He was thirty and had been living in the community for about nine months at the time, teaching at the local technical college and looking after the vegetable garden. James had been brought up a strict Roman Catholic and had been to a Jesuit boarding school from the age of eight. He had a PhD in water pollution and was married to another Buddhist. He said:

I started to think about religion for myself when I was about fourteen. I think I was pretty confused, especially in my feelings. My family weren’t very emotional, and also at school feelings were pushed aside and you just had to cope. You didn’t cry, you didn’t show any ‘weakness’ because that was wrong. No touch; no cuddles. There wasn’t anybody I could talk to about this so it was all locked up inside, and I had to grapple with it on my own. Sex too was a big issue, especially coming from a very ‘male’ family and being at an all-male school. I was beginning to be fascinated by girls, but was also terrified! Generally I felt very split between my intellectual life and a deeper side of me that I could feel but not really understand. I tried to ask one of the priests about this and he said, ‘It’s just nature. You see it in the birds and trees. It is God.’ And that really confused me! So I left school with these big questions forming inside me. When I went to university I basically squashed it all down, and just had a bit of a wild time. But when I went on to do research I was spending a lot of time on my own in the lab doing experiments, sometimes through the night, and I started to think again.

Things were beginning to boil up again, and then one day I saw a poster for a public talk on Buddhism, and on impulse I decided to go. In walked this big monk and he sat down and talked for about an hour, and I felt his whole presence just fill the room. Something inside me responded to his strength and his peace, and my whole being just said, ‘Yes’. I wanted the strength that he showed. He seemed to know what it was all about. But afterwards I couldn’t remember what he said at all! I started going to a small meditation group that was meeting and then joined a Zen group in London.

Mary, another resident in the community, had had a rather different upbringing, yet in some ways her path to Buddhism was similar to James’s. Her father had been interested in the Eastern religions and had been a somewhat unconventional figure in their south of England commuter-belt town. Mary had been used to thinking about spiritual matters as a teenager:

I had been looking forward to going to university to discuss ‘the meaning of life’ with people, but as it turned out university wasn’t about that at all. It was about getting plastered. All the people I seemed to bump into were just into drink and sex and their careers! I missed the serious side of things dreadfully. After I left I worked for a couple of years and then planned an overland trip to China. Six months before I was due to go my father died. And during the week after he died I experienced, in the middle of all the feelings, a great presence of mind. I was thinking and writing about him, and remembering all the times I had felt critical of him. And I thought, ‘When death is possible, what is the most important thing?’ And I knew the answer was Love. This was a sort of turning point, and I gained some insights that I later realized were important in Buddhism, though I didn’t know it at the time. When I came back from my trip, which I eventually made, I went to a thing called a Western Zen Retreat – very nervously, I might say. I didn’t know what to expect. I was set this question to meditate on which was ‘Who am I?’, and I found an answer to it, a real one, that put me in touch with a level of being that I had not experienced before: infinite love, infinite peace, a different sense of who I am entirely. And that experience of course made me very interested in Buddhism. At this point I wasn’t quite sure what I was after, but I was jolly well after something!

Then I met a Japanese Zen Master called Hogen-san who came to England for a few weeks every year, giving talks and workshops, and he attracted me very much. I used to follow him around the country. He was very down-to-earth, not ‘holy’ at all. I remember one interview I had with him where we had Guinness for breakfast! I learnt to see that Buddhism was in everyday life, not in some special rituals or only on Sundays. Hogen-san’s quality was there in the pub as well as in the meditation room.

The last extract I want to give here is from my talk with Theresa, a 41-year-old American woman who was also living in the community and teaching meditation. She had grown up in an orthodox Jewish family, enjoying some of the rituals, but without thinking about what it meant at all. ‘It didn’t mean anything to me. I wasn’t specially resistant, but ... well, everybody has to have a religion, don’t they, and you might as well be Jewish,’ is how she remembers it. She impressed me as much as anyone I have ever met, with her unpretentious, light, warm manner which I came to see as the outward show of a great inner strength and peacefulness. The story of how she came to Buddhism illustrates another of the common threads – the discovery that what you thought was going to make you happy doesn’t. The piece that I want to quote here demonstrates not so much the powerful attraction of example, though that is there, but rather the way in which such qualities as she clearly had can grow from rather unpromising beginnings. If Theresa can make it, I thought, there really is hope for us all!

I wasn’t thinking about any of the big questions as an adolescent, but I had a really rough time of it socially when I was thirteen. I spent a lot of time in my bedroom. After school I’d come home and lie on my bed and listen to the Top 40 on the radio, and the words of the songs spoke to me about where I was at. They were sad and asking why you didn’t have a boyfriend and saying how wonderful it would be to be in love. The songs were very melaneholy and I was very sorry for myself. Life seemed so wrong. I didn’t feel that people liked me. I was lonely. I had been successful in school up to thirteen, and then my grades just plummeted. I lost all my self-confidence. There seemed to be such an emphasis on how people looked, and I wasn’t pretty. I didn’t fit the image of the ‘popular girl’ so the boys didn’t go for me. I just shrivelled up even more. And the songs were like my only friends. They understood me a bit.

When I went to college looks stopped being the all-important thing, and I started to feel more comfortable about myself. It seemed like I had a personality that was worthwhile. And I even got some boyfriends, so things really began to look up! I started to have a good time – but not thinking about what I was up to. It was cool to be an atheist, so I was an athiest. I was going to parties and drinking beer like I was making up for lost time. Four years! After I left college I went to Kansas City and worked for Hallmark Cards as a graphic artist. I was doing well in most people’s terms – I had a good job, I was making good money, I had a nice apartment and a car and nice clothes. I was going out on dates. I’d become ‘attractive’. I’d got all the things that as a girl I’d thought were important. I got to travel a lot in the States and Europe, and finally wound up married at 27 – because it was the next thing to do, and it kept my Mum quiet! So finally I had a chance to find out what it was all about. I began to question what it was that I’d got, vaguely at first, and then more seriously as my relationship with my husband began to go downhill. It was like I’d finally done it – all the things that are supposed to make you happy, even getting a husband. And I wasn’t. It hadn’t worked. I was in a bad way. I used to just lie down on the sofa and curl up and things would get very dark. I just didn’t want to deal with it at all. I couldn’t. I didn’t know how. I would get very angry and scream and throw plates. I was very difficult! We were living with my husband’s parents in North Carolina, and they didn’t like me at all.