The Nüwa Newsletter, Edition 1
Thought Pieces, Cultural Journalism and Extracts exploring Buddhism, Daoism and their Intersection with Western Culture.
Hello, and thank you for taking the time to read the Nüwa! On the one hand, I hope to share a selection of material about Buddhism & Daoism that either enriches your spiritual practice or inspires you to begin one. On the other, I’m writing for those who move in artistic or cultural spheres and find that the perspective of inner cultivation enriches their own practice, whatever it may be.
Raphael’s The School of Athens (1509-1511)
When I came across a reproduction of The School of Athens at the National Gallery’s Raphael exhibition, I began thinking that aspects of it parallel the relationship between Buddhism and Daoism, and that it says important things about the way in which traditions of learning and self-cultivation should be transmitted.
Within the School of Athens, the two central figures of Plato and Aristotle signify the two major approaches within classical philosophy. However, they could also easily be said to represent the relationship between Buddhism and Daoism in China. Buddhism, with its emphasis on the cultivation of mind, is like Plato pointing toward the heavens. Daoism, with its study of the body and energetic practice, is Aristotle gesturing toward the earth. Compare the central scene from The School of Athens with this detail from the upper section from the Neijing Tu, a 19th century chart of internal alchemy (neidan):
In this detail from the Neijing Tu, Laozi, representing Daoism, sits above a standing Bodhidharma, who represents Buddhism. The inscription reads: “White haired Laozi’s eyebrows hang down to earth, the blue-eyed foreigner [bodhidharma] upholds the heavens.” Whilst in both works the two traditions are presented contesting with one another, they are also both considered to be intrinsic, fundamental aspects of a greater whole. In The School of Athens, this greater whole is the tradition of Western classical philosophy. In the Neijing Tu, it is the practice of internal alchemy. Thinking about this, I see both works talking about the importance of difference, and the way in which greatness is, to no small extent, defined by the ability to hold paradox and contradiction well.
A major theme within The School of Athens is the role of dialogue in the generation of knowledge and wisdom. Although Aristotle was a student of Plato for many years, he developed a contrasting approach to philosophy. Despite this, both men are shown in conversation, neither afraid to express themselves fully. Considering this, I was reminded that a mature teacher-student relationship is founded on mutual respect and communication.
Numerous other figures are depicted around Plato and Aristotle, many of whom are historical figures form the world of classical philosophy. Many figures are accorded respect, and included within the pantheon of great thinkers. Thinking about this, I was reminded of the importance of developing a broad and varied engagement with one’s tradition. As a Longmen Daoist I studied with me once told me, “you need to study a lot, have many teachers. Once you have education and understanding, wisdom slowly opens.”
Ajahn Mun & Chameleons
Ajahn Mun (1870-1949) spent most of his life wandering through the forests of Thailand, Laos and Myanmar practising meditation. Although he attracted an enormous following and was one of the founders of the influential Thai Forest tradition, there is very little record of his teachings. Here is a rare extract from a dhamma talk he gave, in which he describes the innate, pure radiance of mind and how it comes to be obscured:
[The Buddha said,] “Monks, this mind is originally radiant and clear, but because passing corruptions and defilements come and obscure it, it doesn't show its radiance.” This has been compared to the tree in this poem:
A tall tree with 6,000 branches.
Each day big chameleons swarm it by the hundreds,
Each day small chameleons by the thousands.
If the owner doesn't watch out,
Every day they will bring more and more of their friends.
This can be explained as follows. The tall tree with 6,000 branches — if we cut off the three zeroes, this leaves us with six, which represents the six sense doors (Buddhist theory includes the mind as the sixth sense). Chameleons always change colour, and therefore are not genuine. In this poem, they therefore represent defilements, which are not our genuine, true nature. They are simply things that come drifting in through the sense doors by the hundreds and thousands. As long as we do not find a way to rectify the nature of mind, defilements will arise in increasing numbers.
The mind is something more radiant than anything else can be, but because passing defilements come and obscure it, it loses its radiance, like the sun when obscured by clouds. Don't go thinking that the sun goes after the clouds. Instead, the clouds come drifting along and obscure the sun.
Thinking about this, I remember a relevant quote from Ajahn Chah (1918-1992), a well-known student of Ajahn Mun:
“Remember you don’t meditate to get anything, but to get rid of things. We do it not with desire but with letting go.”
Zhuangzi 6.1 — Defining zhenren 真人
What is a zhenren? Literally, it means something like ‘perfected-authentic person’, and the term is used throughout the Daoist tradition to refer to a highly realised practitioner. In the past, I studied with a teacher who understood the term zhenren in a technical sense. Specifically, as someone who has experienced the temporary, complete dissolution of self. He also saw it as the first of three levels of achievement within Daoism, the second and third being enlightenment and immortality respectively. Although this framework may be used within some contemporary Daoist traditions, one of the first uses of zhenren is within the Zhuangzi. Here, it is understood far more broadly and poetically. This does not diminish the word’s meaning — the Zhuangzi provides inspiration and direction in one’s practice, whilst always making fun of our attempts to grasp certainty within life’s constant process of transformation.
Here I have shared a passage from the Zhuangzi that describes what a zhenren is. This passage is special because it’s very rare for an ancient Chinese text to define directly what a term means. As we will see, however, it is not an exact, dictionary-style definition. This excerpt is from Burton Watson’s masterful translation, which I have made some minor edits to. Although I have left the translation of masculine pronouns and terms like ‘gentleman’, Classical Chinese does not indicate sex — zhenren is equally (if not more) applicable to women.
What do I mean by a zhenren? The zhenren of ancient times did not rebel against want, did not grow proud in plenty, and did not plan his affairs. A man like this could commit an error and not regret it, could meet with success and not congratulate oneself. A man like this could climb to high places and not be frightened, could enter the water and not get wet, could enter the fire and not get burned. His knowledge was able to climb all the way up to the Dao like this. The zhenren of ancient times slept without dreaming and woke without care; he ate without savouring; and he breathed from deep inside. The zhenren breathes with his heels; the mass of men breathe with their throats. Crushed and bound down, they gasp out their words as though they were retching. Deep in their passions and desires, they are shallow in the workings of Heaven.
The zhenren of ancient times knew nothing of loving life, knew nothing of hating death. He emerged without delight; he went back in without a fuss. He came briskly, he went briskly, and that was all. He didn’t forget where he began; he didn’t try to find out where he would end. He received something and took pleasure in it; he forgot about it and handed it back again. This is what I call not using the heart-mind to contribute toward the Dao, not using man to help out Heaven. This is what I call the zhenren. Since he is like this, his mind forgets; his face is calm; his forehead is broad. He is chilly like autumn, balmy like spring, and his joy and anger prevail through the four seasons. He goes along with what is right for things, and no one knows his limit. Therefore, when the sage calls out the troops, he may overthrow nations, but he will not lose the heart-minds of the people. His bounty enriches ten thousand ages, but he has no love for men. Therefore he who delights in bringing success to things is not a sage; he who has affections is not benevolent; he who looks for the right time is not a worthy man; he who cannot encompass both profit and loss is not a gentleman; he who thinks of conduct and fame and misleads himself is not a man of breeding; and he who destroys himself and is without truth is not a user of men.
This was the zhenren of old: his bearing was lofty and did not crumble; he appeared to lack but accepted nothing; he was dignified in his correctness but not insistent; he was vast in his emptiness but not ostentatious. Mild and cheerful, he seemed to be happy; reluctant, he could not help doing certain things; annoyed, he let it show in his face; relaxed, he rested in his virtue. Tolerant, he seemed to be part of the world; towering alone, he could be checked by nothing; withdrawn, he seemed to prefer to cut himself off; bemused, he forgot what he was going to say. He regarded penalties as the body, rites as the wings, wisdom as what is timely, virtue as what is reasonable. Because he regarded penalties as the body, he was benign in his killing. Because he regarded rites as the wings, he got along in the world. Because he regarded wisdom as what is timely, there were things that he could not keep from doing. Because he regarded virtue as what is reasonable, he was like a man with two feet who gets to the top of the hill. And yet people really believed that he worked hard to get there. Therefore his liking was one, and his not liking was one. His being one was one, and his not being one was one. In being one, he was acting as a companion of Heaven. In not being one, he was acting as a companion of man. When man and Heaven do not defeat each other, then we may be said to have the zhenren.
Heech in a Cage (2005)
“This work bring to life the Persian word heech, which means ‘nothing’. It is one of a celebrated series of sculptures made by the Vancouver-based Iranian artist Parvis Tanavoli (b. 1937). The concept of nothingness plays an important role in Sufism, a mystical branch of Islam. Heech represents the annihilation of the self, the final threshold along the path toward unity with God. Dynamically rendered in the sixteenth-century Persian nastaliq script, the word becomes animated, challenging the notion of nothingness.”
— Introduction to Heech in a Cage, Parvis Tanavoli, British Museum.
Emptiness plays a fundamental role within both Buddhism and Daoism, but each tradition interprets it differently. In short, Buddhism suggests that nothing possesses the kind of substantial reality commonly assumed, whilst Daoism tends to understand emptiness as a distinct ontological reality, sitting just beyond manifest reality. In their separate ways, however, both traditions see existence as a complex dance between emptiness and manifestation, between being and non-being. I know little about Sufism, but I was so pleased to come across Heech in a Cage because I saw the same complex dance taking place, but within a completely different spiritual-cultural setting. In Sufism, it seems that the tension between being and non-being is interpreted primarily as self-direction versus annihilation of the self in God (fana). Within all traditions mentioned here it is the case that an engagement with the ultimate, with emptiness however it is understood, has to be combined with continued existence in the world. I felt that this tension was beautifully captured, and perhaps reconciled in this piece.
The Snake (1923)
One of DH Lawrence’s most famous poems, which you can read in full here.
“He came face to face with the vulgarity and pettiness of his ego, a meditative accomlishment if there ever was one. For it is only by observing the ego dispassionately, over and over and over again, that its nature can be significantly revealed. Without direct experience of how limiting its small-mindedness can be, there is no motivation to grow beyond it.”
— Mark Epstein speaking about the poem in The Zen of Therapy: Uncovering a Hidden Kindness in Life.
Parting Thought
“Exchange unprofitable religious speculations for actual God-contact. Clear your mind of dogmatic theological debris; let in the fresh, healing waters of direct perception.”
— Lahiri Mahasaya (1828-1895, Kriya Yogi)
I really appreciate any feedback you have about what works or could be improved, and I’m always free to chat about anything I’ve written. Just email me at nuwanewsletter@gmail.com.
With all my best wishes,
Oscar
I like the teachers extracts and scriptures translations. Thanks for sharing
I love the way your mind roams across the centuries making comparisons between traditions and lineages. A very enjoyable read, Thankyou Oscar