Preface
While creating the blog post "Hey, watch your heart-attitude!" (2012) I was reminded that as part of the study of the Siva Sutra back in 2008, Dr. Douglas Brooks asked us to contemplate unfinished revelation and how we've experienced upaya—making skillful choices which deepen our connections based not on whether a choice is moral or analytical or true but rather creates something of value. I've purposely pasted below what I wrote in response with no changes, resisting the temptation to edit, keeping typos and all. I'm sharing it in the off chance my musings further inspire your own. Please know I have absolutely no agenda or investment into whether you agree or not. My perspectives are continually evolving and I hope yours are too.
Contemplation
Have you ever gone to the eye doctor for a real eye exam? At some point you find your self peering through a diagnostic machine as the optometrist flips through lens after lens …after lens each time calling out, “How about this one? Is this one better or worse than the last one? And, this one?” My eye sight on a good day is 20/40 where my right eye is seemingly bionic in comparison to left. I do not wear glasses and get by just fine. Yet an eye exam never fails to slow me down and make me pause, a bit agitated at all the choices, and surprised that there is more than one lens which enhances my ability to see things it never occurred to me were blurred.
How I see will change over time; the process is unfinished. And, I can choose at any time to wear glasses or have surgery to perfect my vision. Yet, at the end of the day, 20/40 is the perfectly imperfect lens I’ve been given.
Similarly, the karmic lens of religion bestowed upon me growing up is Presbyterian in a community of friends and extended family who were primarily Catholic. What both religions ask of me is to attest that the bible is my book, and Jesus is my main man. Period. However, one might say that my passive aggressive obstinancy staunched the vrittis of obsequiousness. Instead of falling into line, I pondered whether one man is all there was and ever will be, and how his death could be impermanent when everything else tells me it is not. My prognosis—I had less than perfect eye sight. So much so it occurred to me that by diverting my attention to whether or not I believed, I was blurring the deeper truths which resonate for me on a visceral level in the Christian teachings and rituals.
In turn, over the years, I’ve window shopped and slipped on another religious lens or two. I suspect I’m not alone. On a trip to Thailand I stood on the steps of countless Buddhist temples. I learned the stories, and had knowledge of the practices. I could see that the practice was effacious; there is kindness in the pedestrian eyes of Thailand, the likes of which I’ve yet to encounter again. But as the worshippers sank into their prayers and offered their lotus hearts to the Buddha, I felt nothing. I’ve also walked the consecrated domes of Muslim mosques in Turkey, as the unfailing melodious call to prayer punctuates time, and witnessed the contrasting uber soft Sufi mystical order of the Mevlevi whirling dervishes. The fierce words were startlingly, so much so they burnished an opening in my heart which filled with the swirling allure of the sweet essence which belies these practices. Yet as I stood along side those who surrendered every ounce of their being to Allah or the divine, I was an intruder. This too was not my place. I visited a Hindu temple once on the eve of Deepawali where the well healed of Singapore strutted the most exquisite attire and then to the contrary sat quietly all alone in the rudimentary natural stone caves of Hindu worship in Bali. Surely here where there were familiar faces—Hanuman, Brahma, Siva, Vishnu—I would feel something. But no. I was under dressed, spooked, and numb, nothing more. This was not my place.
Yet when I step inside any Christian church—shazaam—the ambience electrifies my being. I’m like Pavlov’s dog, I suppose. My seat is deeply rooted and intertwined in the arched walls crested with angels who bask in the refracted light of multi-colored stained glass where organs and harps gloriously play Thine is the Glory amid images of Mary, Jesus and the gang. It is here in this place that my heart sings and reverberates on a sublime frequency. Why? Because it is in hallowed halls such as this that I’ve experienced the greatest teacher of them all—life. It is here that I looked death in the eye and said goodbye to loved ones, met my first love in a confirmation class, celebrated births and the holiest of matrimonies, and sought sanctuary when I thought I could not take another step. This is the vantage point that was given to me. It is mine. I own it. It cannot be claimed by anyone but me. This is why when I travel to NY, if I can squeeze it in, you’ll find me in the back row of St Patrick’s Cathedral drinking in the melody of Amazing Grace. And on Christmas and Easter, I will be in a Christian pew where at certain moments in the service I hope no one looks my way else they may sense the wave of emotion which emanates from the deep connection in my heart and crests as tears which trickle down the underside of my eyes. It is in this place that I know the reflection of consciousness, no matter the name or character or pithy argument she takes on. And I cannot help but wonder that regardless of the story or what it looks like or how it is shaped that somehow the pulsation of the earth is little stronger on these holy days, however defined, as millions shuffle into pews or kneel in mosques or whirl about—conscious or not—and align themselves with their divine flow. As if a seismograph somewhere in the universe makes a blip which registers the heightened concentric spoils of spanda and confirms – yes- there is something else out there.
So what I found from my window shopping is that there is wisdom inherent in experience that cannot be gleaned from book learning or knowledge alone. I must have both.
And it is the tantric lens of unfinished revelation which freed me from the shackles, and allowed me to transmute irrefutable facts of Christianity into striking myths that reveal deeper truths. So that Easter can be a non dual celebration of the deepest darkness known to man; a darkness which is equivalent to the light. Or maybe an invitation to go to the cremation grounds, reflect on the cracks and fissures created by the crimes of humanity. Roam here too. Don’t be afraid.
With that said, I attest the faith I was born into is no longer an authentic principled choice for me. As much as the Christian rituals and stories touch my heart and however I may reframe them, I am not a true believer. Am I a charlatan if I sit in a chapel every now and again? Perhaps. Does it technically compromise my principles? Maybe. Is it a radical affirmation of my lens and karmic experience? Oh, Yes! Yes! Definitely! And, this is exactly how I embrace rather than look past who I am.
This is also how I know upaya—making skillful choices which deepen my connections based not on whether my choice is moral or analytical but rather creates something of value. Sitting in a church is a marvelously valuable experience for me; I will not deny it. However, with each revelation comes another opportunity to again choose where I place my heart (shradda). With each successive choice I’m free to neglect the cultivation of my most authentic nature, to rest on the laurels of the karmic lens bequeathed to me and call it a day. Or, I can (and will) keep on searching for the perfect pair of glasses, a lens which optimally reflects my authentic nature. Who knows? Maybe one day I will even go so far as to get a new set of eyes.
Postscript
Many years later I came across this poem by Rumi, at 13th century Sufi mystic. Like all good poetry it gets at the timeless essence of experience and assures us we're not alone in our experience.
I searched for God among the Christians and on the Cross and therein I found Him not.
I went into the ancient temples of idolatry; no trace of Him was there.
I entered the mountain cave of Hira and then went very far but God I found not.
Then I directed my search to the Kaaba, the resort of old and young; God was not there.
Finally, I looked into my own heart and there I saw Him; He was nowhere else.
And so...we will continue to evolve the social structures and stories that take us deeper. Yesterday a church, today a yoga studio, tomorrow something different. The pantheons will always be at best as relative as they simultaneously true. And yet never an end in of themselves, rather places to park our hearts for a while, so that we may know that ubiquitous essence that is our true self.
While creating the blog post "Hey, watch your heart-attitude!" (2012) I was reminded that as part of the study of the Siva Sutra back in 2008, Dr. Douglas Brooks asked us to contemplate unfinished revelation and how we've experienced upaya—making skillful choices which deepen our connections based not on whether a choice is moral or analytical or true but rather creates something of value. I've purposely pasted below what I wrote in response with no changes, resisting the temptation to edit, keeping typos and all. I'm sharing it in the off chance my musings further inspire your own. Please know I have absolutely no agenda or investment into whether you agree or not. My perspectives are continually evolving and I hope yours are too.
Contemplation
Have you ever gone to the eye doctor for a real eye exam? At some point you find your self peering through a diagnostic machine as the optometrist flips through lens after lens …after lens each time calling out, “How about this one? Is this one better or worse than the last one? And, this one?” My eye sight on a good day is 20/40 where my right eye is seemingly bionic in comparison to left. I do not wear glasses and get by just fine. Yet an eye exam never fails to slow me down and make me pause, a bit agitated at all the choices, and surprised that there is more than one lens which enhances my ability to see things it never occurred to me were blurred.
How I see will change over time; the process is unfinished. And, I can choose at any time to wear glasses or have surgery to perfect my vision. Yet, at the end of the day, 20/40 is the perfectly imperfect lens I’ve been given.
Similarly, the karmic lens of religion bestowed upon me growing up is Presbyterian in a community of friends and extended family who were primarily Catholic. What both religions ask of me is to attest that the bible is my book, and Jesus is my main man. Period. However, one might say that my passive aggressive obstinancy staunched the vrittis of obsequiousness. Instead of falling into line, I pondered whether one man is all there was and ever will be, and how his death could be impermanent when everything else tells me it is not. My prognosis—I had less than perfect eye sight. So much so it occurred to me that by diverting my attention to whether or not I believed, I was blurring the deeper truths which resonate for me on a visceral level in the Christian teachings and rituals.
In turn, over the years, I’ve window shopped and slipped on another religious lens or two. I suspect I’m not alone. On a trip to Thailand I stood on the steps of countless Buddhist temples. I learned the stories, and had knowledge of the practices. I could see that the practice was effacious; there is kindness in the pedestrian eyes of Thailand, the likes of which I’ve yet to encounter again. But as the worshippers sank into their prayers and offered their lotus hearts to the Buddha, I felt nothing. I’ve also walked the consecrated domes of Muslim mosques in Turkey, as the unfailing melodious call to prayer punctuates time, and witnessed the contrasting uber soft Sufi mystical order of the Mevlevi whirling dervishes. The fierce words were startlingly, so much so they burnished an opening in my heart which filled with the swirling allure of the sweet essence which belies these practices. Yet as I stood along side those who surrendered every ounce of their being to Allah or the divine, I was an intruder. This too was not my place. I visited a Hindu temple once on the eve of Deepawali where the well healed of Singapore strutted the most exquisite attire and then to the contrary sat quietly all alone in the rudimentary natural stone caves of Hindu worship in Bali. Surely here where there were familiar faces—Hanuman, Brahma, Siva, Vishnu—I would feel something. But no. I was under dressed, spooked, and numb, nothing more. This was not my place.
Yet when I step inside any Christian church—shazaam—the ambience electrifies my being. I’m like Pavlov’s dog, I suppose. My seat is deeply rooted and intertwined in the arched walls crested with angels who bask in the refracted light of multi-colored stained glass where organs and harps gloriously play Thine is the Glory amid images of Mary, Jesus and the gang. It is here in this place that my heart sings and reverberates on a sublime frequency. Why? Because it is in hallowed halls such as this that I’ve experienced the greatest teacher of them all—life. It is here that I looked death in the eye and said goodbye to loved ones, met my first love in a confirmation class, celebrated births and the holiest of matrimonies, and sought sanctuary when I thought I could not take another step. This is the vantage point that was given to me. It is mine. I own it. It cannot be claimed by anyone but me. This is why when I travel to NY, if I can squeeze it in, you’ll find me in the back row of St Patrick’s Cathedral drinking in the melody of Amazing Grace. And on Christmas and Easter, I will be in a Christian pew where at certain moments in the service I hope no one looks my way else they may sense the wave of emotion which emanates from the deep connection in my heart and crests as tears which trickle down the underside of my eyes. It is in this place that I know the reflection of consciousness, no matter the name or character or pithy argument she takes on. And I cannot help but wonder that regardless of the story or what it looks like or how it is shaped that somehow the pulsation of the earth is little stronger on these holy days, however defined, as millions shuffle into pews or kneel in mosques or whirl about—conscious or not—and align themselves with their divine flow. As if a seismograph somewhere in the universe makes a blip which registers the heightened concentric spoils of spanda and confirms – yes- there is something else out there.
So what I found from my window shopping is that there is wisdom inherent in experience that cannot be gleaned from book learning or knowledge alone. I must have both.
And it is the tantric lens of unfinished revelation which freed me from the shackles, and allowed me to transmute irrefutable facts of Christianity into striking myths that reveal deeper truths. So that Easter can be a non dual celebration of the deepest darkness known to man; a darkness which is equivalent to the light. Or maybe an invitation to go to the cremation grounds, reflect on the cracks and fissures created by the crimes of humanity. Roam here too. Don’t be afraid.
With that said, I attest the faith I was born into is no longer an authentic principled choice for me. As much as the Christian rituals and stories touch my heart and however I may reframe them, I am not a true believer. Am I a charlatan if I sit in a chapel every now and again? Perhaps. Does it technically compromise my principles? Maybe. Is it a radical affirmation of my lens and karmic experience? Oh, Yes! Yes! Definitely! And, this is exactly how I embrace rather than look past who I am.
This is also how I know upaya—making skillful choices which deepen my connections based not on whether my choice is moral or analytical but rather creates something of value. Sitting in a church is a marvelously valuable experience for me; I will not deny it. However, with each revelation comes another opportunity to again choose where I place my heart (shradda). With each successive choice I’m free to neglect the cultivation of my most authentic nature, to rest on the laurels of the karmic lens bequeathed to me and call it a day. Or, I can (and will) keep on searching for the perfect pair of glasses, a lens which optimally reflects my authentic nature. Who knows? Maybe one day I will even go so far as to get a new set of eyes.
Postscript
Many years later I came across this poem by Rumi, at 13th century Sufi mystic. Like all good poetry it gets at the timeless essence of experience and assures us we're not alone in our experience.
I searched for God among the Christians and on the Cross and therein I found Him not.
I went into the ancient temples of idolatry; no trace of Him was there.
I entered the mountain cave of Hira and then went very far but God I found not.
Then I directed my search to the Kaaba, the resort of old and young; God was not there.
Finally, I looked into my own heart and there I saw Him; He was nowhere else.
And so...we will continue to evolve the social structures and stories that take us deeper. Yesterday a church, today a yoga studio, tomorrow something different. The pantheons will always be at best as relative as they simultaneously true. And yet never an end in of themselves, rather places to park our hearts for a while, so that we may know that ubiquitous essence that is our true self.
