Hutong Hunting
I’ve now completed my 7th week at NRDC in Beijing, and for the most part I’ve scoped out all the good local eats near our office building with my coworkers. We are very fortunate to be located in an area of Beijing that still has several surrounding 胡同hutong, or traditional alleyways. These alleyways are a great glimpse into the old architectural style (and in many ways, lifestyle) of Beijing, but they are rapidly being demolished for the construction of massive buildings (like my office).
Hutong also are known for having many family-run, extremely local restaurants serving simple (but delicious) Chinese cuisine—often offering various regional specialties. Many of the food vendors are mobile; they serve breakfast for a strict 2 hour period before clearing out (I’m not sure where they go, especially some of the rather large carts), and then appear again for a 2 hour block for lunch before disappearing again.
On Friday, my coworker Sara and I decided to go to one of our favorite noodle restaurants in the hutong. We went a bit later than usual, about 1pm, and we were surprised to see how empty the alley was. Outside the restaurant all tables were gone, but we didn’t think much of it and decided to go inside and order noodles.
It was very eerie in the tiny restaurant (it’s really just a single room with perhaps 7 or 8 tables and some stools—there are two doors with windows on them, but other than that no lights). There were perhaps 5 other customers, either eating in silence or waiting for their dishes in silence. The one waitress asked us what we wanted and then told the single cook in the back room.
My noodles were soon brought out, and as we continued to wait for Sara’s noodles, still slightly confused about the stale atmosphere (usually it’s very loud and bustling), suddenly both doors closed and the blinds (a single sheet) were drawn over the door-windows—it was nearly pitch black. The waitress pulled the sheet aside an inch, peering out anxiously, and then turned around and shouted “EVERYONE EITHER GET IN THE CLOSET OR GET OUT OF HERE!”
Sara and I probably looked like deer in the headlights, utterly unaware of what was going on. Some patrons exited the restaurant while others grabbed their noodles and walked into the even darker back room—all the while continuing to shove noodles into their mouths. Sara and I laughed and decided to take our noodles to go, still not aware of what was happening. We left our money on the table, as the waitress was busy cleaning off all the tables and picking up any trash that would make it appear that anyone was eating there.
When we returned back to our office and asked some of our coworkers who are from Beijing, they suggested that the restaurant probably did not have a certificate/authorization (许可证) to be running a restaurant; a police officer or other inspection agent was most likely seen down the alleyway. If the inspecting agent found that there were people eating in the room, he could ask for the certificate—not being able to procure it could result in jail time.
As the 60th anniversary of the Chinese Communist Party approaches on October 1st this year, the central government has been cracking down on a lot of these little home-owned, “illegal” restaurants. One of my coworkers suggested that because these types of restaurants don’t file taxes, the government is trying to eliminate them—especially given that a new 4 trillion yuan stimulus package has just been approved and allocation of funds depends on local business’s tax revenue, et cetera.
I’m not sure what this will mean for the major food hot spot for probably over 2000 office workers in the area; perhaps after National Day everything will return to normal. Either way, I can always count on an adventure during even just a normal meal in China.
(Pictures to come soon I hope...)
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
FG$
Buddhism, like every organized religion, relies heavily on donors for financial support. Even a brief visit to FoGuang Shan(FGS)'s monastic compound in Kaohsiung would make clear that the donations are put to good use:
A picture of a picture of the FoGuang Shan Kaohsiung monastic "complex"
This monastery had two art museums, a television station, a bookstore, a nun's college, a monk's college, an English college, multiple 500 seat theaters, the Great Buddha Land (photos in "quick pics"), four temples to the Bodhisattvas, a dormitory for orphans, a senior citizen's home, several meditation halls, and a "Pure Land Cave." (I'm sure I'm leaving things out, too.)
I wanted to share a bit about the "Pure Land Cave" because I thought it was really... interesting. Take a look at this short clip I took inside:
A nun told us what inspired the creation of the Pure Land Cave: the Venerable Master (founder of FGS) visited It's a Small World Afterall in DisneyLand.
It is pretty wild. Tells the entire story of the Buddha's life as well as has visual representations of the Bodhisattvas and important Arhats. Compassionate, Cheerful Enlightened Beings were jumping out of lotus flowers every 15 seconds, before electronically receding back into the ground, right next to Bambi and some friendly squirrels.
The idea must be something about accessibility... trying to present Buddhism in a fun, friendly, interactive, and lively (albeit mechanical) way that young children and their grandparents can both enjoy and appreciate.
But it all felt a little... excessive?
Especially in Kaohsiung, where the compound is literally on a hill overlooking the city and surrounding tenements--many of which were in extremely poor condition with tin roofs and crumbling walls. I was initially only shocked by the wealth of FGS, but it got to a point where I was almost suspicious about how and why funds were allocated to beautification of the monastic grounds, or for veneration of the Venerable Master (there was a life-size wax model of him in one building; his picture and/or a lifesize bust of him could also be found in just about every building).
After asking a couple of my friends and speaking with our venerable of discipline, I began to understand that monastics view places such as the Pure Land Cave as tools to bring people to the Dharma (law of Buddhism); a walk through the Pure Land Cave has the potential to inspire someone to be compassionate, to treat others fairly, to practice--even if in a little or small way--some part of Buddhism in one's daily life. Furthermore, I realized it's out of line for me to make value judgments about how much money or how much funding should be allocated for veneration of the Buddha, or the Venerable Master. Because I am not Buddhist, I cannot grasp the gravity that these figures have in the minds of Buddhist practitioners. And in any regard, getting caught up in the physical materiality of the FGS campus ignores the fact that FGS engages in so many relief and education programs across the world.
To say the least, living at such a wealthy temple challenged my assumptions about the "Buddhist monastic lifestyle" (if one such single category exists). And it also helped me realize the various avenues that modern Buddhism takes to penetrate the lay community.
A picture of a picture of the FoGuang Shan Kaohsiung monastic "complex"
This monastery had two art museums, a television station, a bookstore, a nun's college, a monk's college, an English college, multiple 500 seat theaters, the Great Buddha Land (photos in "quick pics"), four temples to the Bodhisattvas, a dormitory for orphans, a senior citizen's home, several meditation halls, and a "Pure Land Cave." (I'm sure I'm leaving things out, too.)
I wanted to share a bit about the "Pure Land Cave" because I thought it was really... interesting. Take a look at this short clip I took inside:
A nun told us what inspired the creation of the Pure Land Cave: the Venerable Master (founder of FGS) visited It's a Small World Afterall in DisneyLand.
It is pretty wild. Tells the entire story of the Buddha's life as well as has visual representations of the Bodhisattvas and important Arhats. Compassionate, Cheerful Enlightened Beings were jumping out of lotus flowers every 15 seconds, before electronically receding back into the ground, right next to Bambi and some friendly squirrels.
The idea must be something about accessibility... trying to present Buddhism in a fun, friendly, interactive, and lively (albeit mechanical) way that young children and their grandparents can both enjoy and appreciate.
But it all felt a little... excessive?
Especially in Kaohsiung, where the compound is literally on a hill overlooking the city and surrounding tenements--many of which were in extremely poor condition with tin roofs and crumbling walls. I was initially only shocked by the wealth of FGS, but it got to a point where I was almost suspicious about how and why funds were allocated to beautification of the monastic grounds, or for veneration of the Venerable Master (there was a life-size wax model of him in one building; his picture and/or a lifesize bust of him could also be found in just about every building).
After asking a couple of my friends and speaking with our venerable of discipline, I began to understand that monastics view places such as the Pure Land Cave as tools to bring people to the Dharma (law of Buddhism); a walk through the Pure Land Cave has the potential to inspire someone to be compassionate, to treat others fairly, to practice--even if in a little or small way--some part of Buddhism in one's daily life. Furthermore, I realized it's out of line for me to make value judgments about how much money or how much funding should be allocated for veneration of the Buddha, or the Venerable Master. Because I am not Buddhist, I cannot grasp the gravity that these figures have in the minds of Buddhist practitioners. And in any regard, getting caught up in the physical materiality of the FGS campus ignores the fact that FGS engages in so many relief and education programs across the world.
To say the least, living at such a wealthy temple challenged my assumptions about the "Buddhist monastic lifestyle" (if one such single category exists). And it also helped me realize the various avenues that modern Buddhism takes to penetrate the lay community.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Meditation as Metaphor
AH! So sorry I haven’t been able to post—the end of the monastery program left us without access to computers, and since arriving to the PRC on the 17th of July, personal blogs (and facebook and youtube!) have all been blocked!! As you can see, I’ve found a way around that, though! Here is the post I wrote about the meditation retreat; I will post my other blog entries about Taiwan later this week. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this one! Best wishes from Beijing.SJL
Meditation as Metaphor
The week-long silent meditation retreat was the highlight of the Woodenfish Program for me. We filed in on a Monday morning, picked our bunks, attended a brief meeting to explain protocol in the meditation hall, and then we put on the “noble silence” (禁语, jinyu) badges that served to notify the rest of the monastery community that we were not to be distracted from our practice.
picture of Meditation Hall
After reflecting on the retreat and the various dharma talks from venerable monks and nuns (dharma talks are similar to the sermon in the Catholic tradition; incorporating the teachings of the Buddha, the monk or nun delivering the dharma talk often shares stories and anecdotes to discuss morality and strategies for dealing with emotional or personal discontent), I now realize that the structure, form, and content of the seven-day retreat was designed to mirror our daily lives, albeit on a higher, more profound (and removed) level.
picture of dharma instruments used to notified us when sessions were over, when to stop moving, etc
First, a little background information about FoGuang Shan Buddhism and the structure of the retreat. Chan Buddhism was brought to China from India by Bodhidharma in the 4th – 5th century BCE. After the sixth patriarch in China, Hui Neng, passed away, the Chan School broke into several traditions, of which Linji (临济) is one. FoGuang Shan is part of the Linji tradition, which is known for banghe (棒诃, meaning “stick and shouting”). We were told that the venerable nuns in charge of our retreat went easier on us because this was the first meditation experience for most of us; in a normal retreat for the Linji tradition, so much as looking to the left or right would warrant a smack from the “compassion stick.” At all times, the venerable nuns were holding the compassion stick like a sword, resting on the shoulder right beneath the head.
picture of a "compassion" stick
Each morning we woke up at 5am, completed Tai Chi exercises and an initial early morning meditation session by 6:15 before breakfast at 6:30. All directions and instructions were shouted at us by the head nun: BE MINDFUL, DON’T BE DISTRACTED, BACK TO YOUR SEAT, CROSS YOUR LEGS, TAKE A BREAK. Each meditation session began with her sudden shout, SAH!!!!! And then two nuns would walk quickly up and down the aisle wielding the compassion stick. After breakfast, half of our group completed chores (I was in the afternoon chores group, so I graciously used that time for a nap), followed by our morning meditation session. We would meditate sitting down for approximately 30 – 40 minutes, followed by a 15ish minute walking meditation session; we would usually have three or so sessions back to back. Lunch was followed by the afternoon meditation sessions, chores, dinner, and then evening meditation sessions before we went to bed around 10 or 1030.
picture of the seats in meditation hall for daily meditation
dorm room/bunks adjacent to meditation hall
Meditation was painful. Sitting with a straight back and with legs in lotus position (the feet on top of the opposite thigh; I am still unable to sit in this posture so I just sit in half lotus with one foot up), I felt pains in other parts of my body—my arms would ache, my neck would become stiff, my legs regularly lost circulation. There were a couple sessions at the beginning of the retreat when I literally felt like I wouldn’t be able to walk after the seated meditation sessions. Thus, the purpose of walking meditation immediately following was to shake out one’s legs and arms.
There were three tracks for walking meditation, all proceeding clockwise and circumambulating the Buddha image in the center of the hall. The smallest track (and closest to the Buddha image) required the fastest pace; sometimes students on this track had to run at full speed if head nun required it. After about 15 minutes of walking in circles, a nun would smack her compassion stick against a stone, and we would freeze in our places before taking a 5 minute bathroom break.
pic of Buddha image in center of Meditation hall
picture from bunkbed in dorm
One of the most interesting concepts that was continually emphasized in the dharma talks is Buddhanature (佛性). Chan Buddhism teaches that every sentient being (even animals, hungry ghosts, and hell demons) has Buddhanature, meaning that each being has the potential to realize enlightenment and activate the Buddha inside him- or her-self. It also means that we need to see the world as the Buddha would see it; we must treat others with compassion, love, and forgiveness, and we must strive realize the truths that the Buddha realized—impermanence, emptiness, non-duality (to name a few).
These teachings and philosophies are embodied in the metaphor of the seven-day retreat. When I felt such pain in my legs during meditation, I was instructed to concentrate very closely on the origin of the pain, to penetrate the pain and find its root; the same instruction was given to address feelings of itchiness or coldness or hotness—we were told to find where the sensation was coming from. After intently searching for the origin of these sensations, I found that there was no origin—there was nothing causing the pain, there was nothing causing itchiness, there was nothing causing hotness or coldness. I also realized that all of these feelings were impermanent, because they would come and go, intensify and disappear. It was all in my mind (xin 心); it was my mind that created the pain, the sensations, the attachment to my form/body part that then ached or felt itchy.
Buddhism posits that there is no inherent self; we are nothing more than the 5 aggregates (色受想识行: form, sensation, perception, consciousness, volition). All of these aggregates in reality are illusory, products of our xin. The meditation retreat provided me the space and time to contemplate the ways my mind/xin works, the ways I attach to my form, sensations, perceptions, consciousness, and volitions. By contemplating these aggregates, the goal was to free myself from them, to detach from myself and achieve stillness of mind, free from everything.
There were sessions when I felt I had achieved correct posture and concentration that allowed me to move beyond my form. The feeling is hard to describe, but in a way it was as if there was a centripetal force spinning inside me, but in complete stillness. The force was pulling every part of my body in toward itself. I could feel every breath, every heartbeat, through my entire body and pulsing through my fingers and up through my arms and down my abdomen and to my toes. And it was as if I had achieved a hollowness inside the frame of my body.
But then, as soon as I was aware of it, my consciousness and perception went crazy and I wanted so badly to hang onto that physical feeling—and then I thought, Oh no! I’ve now become attached to this feeling—it’s just another hurdle I have to jump!
My meditation did not progress beyond that stage, but we were told not to make judgments about meditation sessions (there is no unsuccessful/bad meditation). I did notice, though, that my ability to concentrate/focus on my breath/practice was directly related to my experience with pain. Toward the end of the week, I was able to sit for the entire session, sometimes even skipping walking meditation to continue sitting, and afterward stand up and walk around without any hindrance.
Thus, the metaphor exposes itself. Buddhists believe that life is full of pain. Physical, mental, emotional, and day-to-day, pain in all its forms arises because of our inability to see that our physical form and sensations, our mental perceptions and consciousness, and our daily volitions are mere products of a turbulent mind/xin. If we can learn to control our mind, we will realize that all objects and feelings are impermanent, and therefore empty of inherent value, and should thus not be attached to or craved for. We cause ourselves so much pain because we fail to realize the way our minds work. The retreat was an intense experience in which I was inflicting pain upon myself by attempting to sit in stillness with legs crossed and back straight. I had to take responsibility for the fact that I was causing myself pain through meditation, and detach from that pain by controlling my mind. I had to still my turbulent mind. And in that moment of stillness, there was promise of clarity.
At the end of the seven days, when we were instructed in small groups of 10 to remove our badge of noble silence, we still just sat with eyes downcast, breathing deeply. Because at that moment I realized, even the seven-day retreat—that opportunity to understand myself and to concentrate on my body and my thoughts and my feelings—was, after seven days, gone; impermanent.
Meditation as Metaphor
The week-long silent meditation retreat was the highlight of the Woodenfish Program for me. We filed in on a Monday morning, picked our bunks, attended a brief meeting to explain protocol in the meditation hall, and then we put on the “noble silence” (禁语, jinyu) badges that served to notify the rest of the monastery community that we were not to be distracted from our practice.
picture of Meditation Hall
After reflecting on the retreat and the various dharma talks from venerable monks and nuns (dharma talks are similar to the sermon in the Catholic tradition; incorporating the teachings of the Buddha, the monk or nun delivering the dharma talk often shares stories and anecdotes to discuss morality and strategies for dealing with emotional or personal discontent), I now realize that the structure, form, and content of the seven-day retreat was designed to mirror our daily lives, albeit on a higher, more profound (and removed) level.
picture of dharma instruments used to notified us when sessions were over, when to stop moving, etc
First, a little background information about FoGuang Shan Buddhism and the structure of the retreat. Chan Buddhism was brought to China from India by Bodhidharma in the 4th – 5th century BCE. After the sixth patriarch in China, Hui Neng, passed away, the Chan School broke into several traditions, of which Linji (临济) is one. FoGuang Shan is part of the Linji tradition, which is known for banghe (棒诃, meaning “stick and shouting”). We were told that the venerable nuns in charge of our retreat went easier on us because this was the first meditation experience for most of us; in a normal retreat for the Linji tradition, so much as looking to the left or right would warrant a smack from the “compassion stick.” At all times, the venerable nuns were holding the compassion stick like a sword, resting on the shoulder right beneath the head.
picture of a "compassion" stick
Each morning we woke up at 5am, completed Tai Chi exercises and an initial early morning meditation session by 6:15 before breakfast at 6:30. All directions and instructions were shouted at us by the head nun: BE MINDFUL, DON’T BE DISTRACTED, BACK TO YOUR SEAT, CROSS YOUR LEGS, TAKE A BREAK. Each meditation session began with her sudden shout, SAH!!!!! And then two nuns would walk quickly up and down the aisle wielding the compassion stick. After breakfast, half of our group completed chores (I was in the afternoon chores group, so I graciously used that time for a nap), followed by our morning meditation session. We would meditate sitting down for approximately 30 – 40 minutes, followed by a 15ish minute walking meditation session; we would usually have three or so sessions back to back. Lunch was followed by the afternoon meditation sessions, chores, dinner, and then evening meditation sessions before we went to bed around 10 or 1030.
picture of the seats in meditation hall for daily meditation
dorm room/bunks adjacent to meditation hall
Meditation was painful. Sitting with a straight back and with legs in lotus position (the feet on top of the opposite thigh; I am still unable to sit in this posture so I just sit in half lotus with one foot up), I felt pains in other parts of my body—my arms would ache, my neck would become stiff, my legs regularly lost circulation. There were a couple sessions at the beginning of the retreat when I literally felt like I wouldn’t be able to walk after the seated meditation sessions. Thus, the purpose of walking meditation immediately following was to shake out one’s legs and arms.
There were three tracks for walking meditation, all proceeding clockwise and circumambulating the Buddha image in the center of the hall. The smallest track (and closest to the Buddha image) required the fastest pace; sometimes students on this track had to run at full speed if head nun required it. After about 15 minutes of walking in circles, a nun would smack her compassion stick against a stone, and we would freeze in our places before taking a 5 minute bathroom break.
pic of Buddha image in center of Meditation hall
picture from bunkbed in dorm
One of the most interesting concepts that was continually emphasized in the dharma talks is Buddhanature (佛性). Chan Buddhism teaches that every sentient being (even animals, hungry ghosts, and hell demons) has Buddhanature, meaning that each being has the potential to realize enlightenment and activate the Buddha inside him- or her-self. It also means that we need to see the world as the Buddha would see it; we must treat others with compassion, love, and forgiveness, and we must strive realize the truths that the Buddha realized—impermanence, emptiness, non-duality (to name a few).
These teachings and philosophies are embodied in the metaphor of the seven-day retreat. When I felt such pain in my legs during meditation, I was instructed to concentrate very closely on the origin of the pain, to penetrate the pain and find its root; the same instruction was given to address feelings of itchiness or coldness or hotness—we were told to find where the sensation was coming from. After intently searching for the origin of these sensations, I found that there was no origin—there was nothing causing the pain, there was nothing causing itchiness, there was nothing causing hotness or coldness. I also realized that all of these feelings were impermanent, because they would come and go, intensify and disappear. It was all in my mind (xin 心); it was my mind that created the pain, the sensations, the attachment to my form/body part that then ached or felt itchy.
Buddhism posits that there is no inherent self; we are nothing more than the 5 aggregates (色受想识行: form, sensation, perception, consciousness, volition). All of these aggregates in reality are illusory, products of our xin. The meditation retreat provided me the space and time to contemplate the ways my mind/xin works, the ways I attach to my form, sensations, perceptions, consciousness, and volitions. By contemplating these aggregates, the goal was to free myself from them, to detach from myself and achieve stillness of mind, free from everything.
There were sessions when I felt I had achieved correct posture and concentration that allowed me to move beyond my form. The feeling is hard to describe, but in a way it was as if there was a centripetal force spinning inside me, but in complete stillness. The force was pulling every part of my body in toward itself. I could feel every breath, every heartbeat, through my entire body and pulsing through my fingers and up through my arms and down my abdomen and to my toes. And it was as if I had achieved a hollowness inside the frame of my body.
But then, as soon as I was aware of it, my consciousness and perception went crazy and I wanted so badly to hang onto that physical feeling—and then I thought, Oh no! I’ve now become attached to this feeling—it’s just another hurdle I have to jump!
My meditation did not progress beyond that stage, but we were told not to make judgments about meditation sessions (there is no unsuccessful/bad meditation). I did notice, though, that my ability to concentrate/focus on my breath/practice was directly related to my experience with pain. Toward the end of the week, I was able to sit for the entire session, sometimes even skipping walking meditation to continue sitting, and afterward stand up and walk around without any hindrance.
Thus, the metaphor exposes itself. Buddhists believe that life is full of pain. Physical, mental, emotional, and day-to-day, pain in all its forms arises because of our inability to see that our physical form and sensations, our mental perceptions and consciousness, and our daily volitions are mere products of a turbulent mind/xin. If we can learn to control our mind, we will realize that all objects and feelings are impermanent, and therefore empty of inherent value, and should thus not be attached to or craved for. We cause ourselves so much pain because we fail to realize the way our minds work. The retreat was an intense experience in which I was inflicting pain upon myself by attempting to sit in stillness with legs crossed and back straight. I had to take responsibility for the fact that I was causing myself pain through meditation, and detach from that pain by controlling my mind. I had to still my turbulent mind. And in that moment of stillness, there was promise of clarity.
At the end of the seven days, when we were instructed in small groups of 10 to remove our badge of noble silence, we still just sat with eyes downcast, breathing deeply. Because at that moment I realized, even the seven-day retreat—that opportunity to understand myself and to concentrate on my body and my thoughts and my feelings—was, after seven days, gone; impermanent.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
quick pics
tomorrow begins our 7 day intensive meditation retreat, but before then I just wanted to make a quick post with some pictures for ya! We will not be able to speak, make eye contact, use electronics, read, or listen to music during the meditation week, and falling asleep during meditation can elicit a smack from the "compassion stick" !
the first picture is the main gate of Fo Guang Shan.
the second and third pictures are from "Big Buddha World", a large area of the monastery compound and final destination for our pilgrimage at the end of the week. we have to make a prostration every three steps from the meditation hall to this area.
the last picture is my bed and daily garb!
the first picture is the main gate of Fo Guang Shan.
the second and third pictures are from "Big Buddha World", a large area of the monastery compound and final destination for our pilgrimage at the end of the week. we have to make a prostration every three steps from the meditation hall to this area.
the last picture is my bed and daily garb!
Monday, June 22, 2009
The Concept
The Concept
After six intense, jam-packed days of trainings, classes, meditation and chanting practice, on the seventh day we finally have a day of rest (haha). I thought I would take a moment to explain the concept behind our specific program, and, in some ways, behind Chinese monastic life in general.
First, there are rules for everything. There is a proper way to hold the meditation book, a proper way to wear a sidebag, a proper way to pull out chairs before sitting down, a proper way to fold a blanket, a proper way for arms to dangle by my side, etc.
Before we leave our place of residence (a hotel-like building for pilgrims and lay-practitioners) each day, we line-up from shortest to tallest, men facing women (and with about two yards separating us). When the venerable of discipline approves of our posture, he tells us to 合掌 (hezhang, put palms together in front of the sternum), and then to 问讯 (wenxun, to bow and then rise, lifting the hands, with the pointer fingers together, up to the eyebrows before coming back down to the sternum). The first couple days (and even yesterday), we apparently were not in unison, so we had to continue to wenxun until all 61 of us bowed and rose together. Then the two lines of men and women file out and we walk in silence to wherever we are going.
The 61 participants come from 17 different countries and over 45 colleges. Just about everyone has some academic background in Buddhism, and a few of us have a background in Chinese language. We are woken up every morning at 5:30am by the drumming of a woodenfish, and then we complete an hour of Tai Chi and seated meditation. We then have a short breakfast before 3 hours of class, taught by venerable monks and nuns who often spend more time answering questions than actually lecturing content.
On some days we help with community service around the monastery, cutting grass, sweeping, or moving boxes. On the first day, my group moved boxes from one side of a storage room to another. I was sure that we would be asked to move them back to their original places, but it hasn’t happened yet, hah.
We are encouraged not to talk, to always keep our eyes down at a 45 degree angle if not closed, and we are told to always be mindful of our body and, to a lesser extent, our surroundings. We are getting into a pattern of meditation, breakfast, class, lunch, walking meditation, seated meditation, community service and/or project work time, dinner, extracurricular classes, dharma talk (question and answer), meditation, and then evening chanting (vespers). Between these events, we may have 10 or so minutes to ourselves, but we are reminded that every moment should be an opportunity to focus on our bodies and our selves (which do not actually exist, hah). Needless to say, the 7 hours of sleep is often not enough for the 17 hours that are crammed with activities and “mindfulness”.
At first, I was a little vexed with all the rules, and got very tired of being scolded for pulling my chair out too far from the table. However, I have begun to understand the concept behind all this structure, all these rules:
We are not supposed to think. The venerable of discipline and the other staff members are trying to train us so that when we embark on our 7 day silent meditation retreat, we will not have to think about how to lay a pillow, or how to pull out a chair, or how to wait in line, or how to do anything. We need to reach the point where we are only thinking about being. Just being. Everything else should just be an action our body moves through.
We are trying to limit the amount of external stimuli that could possibly move our minds. By looking down and never engaging or paying close attention to our surroundings, we can focus on ourselves and our mind and just be. By falling into a pattern that will repeat every day, our bodies will know how to respond when it is time to go to eat or get up from bed.
We have learned a few details about the intensive meditation retreat that will commence next Monday, but for the most part it is shrouded in mystery. The meditation hall has been described as extremely plain and colorless, and so silent that the only thing that you can hear is the ringing of your own ears. This will probably be the only chance in my life to be completely silent (and taken care of) for seven days straight.
I feel a little nervous about the meditation retreat, as I still struggle to meditate for just half an hour during our daily sessions now. However, I have improved and am quite impressed that I can at least keep my lower back straight for 30 minutes now! I’m still working on controlling my mind and focusing on my breath, rather than merely thinking about my life and what I “know.”
One of my favorite aspects of life here at the monastery has been the dining ceremony; today, I was on the other side—I served the food, which was -quite- an experience. I hope to write an entry about that soon. In the meantime, I need to continue to focus as hard as I can, in every moment—I’ve realized that meditation is not something that only happens in a seated, lotus-posture. Meditation is something that monastics aim to engage in during their every move.
After six intense, jam-packed days of trainings, classes, meditation and chanting practice, on the seventh day we finally have a day of rest (haha). I thought I would take a moment to explain the concept behind our specific program, and, in some ways, behind Chinese monastic life in general.
First, there are rules for everything. There is a proper way to hold the meditation book, a proper way to wear a sidebag, a proper way to pull out chairs before sitting down, a proper way to fold a blanket, a proper way for arms to dangle by my side, etc.
Before we leave our place of residence (a hotel-like building for pilgrims and lay-practitioners) each day, we line-up from shortest to tallest, men facing women (and with about two yards separating us). When the venerable of discipline approves of our posture, he tells us to 合掌 (hezhang, put palms together in front of the sternum), and then to 问讯 (wenxun, to bow and then rise, lifting the hands, with the pointer fingers together, up to the eyebrows before coming back down to the sternum). The first couple days (and even yesterday), we apparently were not in unison, so we had to continue to wenxun until all 61 of us bowed and rose together. Then the two lines of men and women file out and we walk in silence to wherever we are going.
The 61 participants come from 17 different countries and over 45 colleges. Just about everyone has some academic background in Buddhism, and a few of us have a background in Chinese language. We are woken up every morning at 5:30am by the drumming of a woodenfish, and then we complete an hour of Tai Chi and seated meditation. We then have a short breakfast before 3 hours of class, taught by venerable monks and nuns who often spend more time answering questions than actually lecturing content.
On some days we help with community service around the monastery, cutting grass, sweeping, or moving boxes. On the first day, my group moved boxes from one side of a storage room to another. I was sure that we would be asked to move them back to their original places, but it hasn’t happened yet, hah.
We are encouraged not to talk, to always keep our eyes down at a 45 degree angle if not closed, and we are told to always be mindful of our body and, to a lesser extent, our surroundings. We are getting into a pattern of meditation, breakfast, class, lunch, walking meditation, seated meditation, community service and/or project work time, dinner, extracurricular classes, dharma talk (question and answer), meditation, and then evening chanting (vespers). Between these events, we may have 10 or so minutes to ourselves, but we are reminded that every moment should be an opportunity to focus on our bodies and our selves (which do not actually exist, hah). Needless to say, the 7 hours of sleep is often not enough for the 17 hours that are crammed with activities and “mindfulness”.
At first, I was a little vexed with all the rules, and got very tired of being scolded for pulling my chair out too far from the table. However, I have begun to understand the concept behind all this structure, all these rules:
We are not supposed to think. The venerable of discipline and the other staff members are trying to train us so that when we embark on our 7 day silent meditation retreat, we will not have to think about how to lay a pillow, or how to pull out a chair, or how to wait in line, or how to do anything. We need to reach the point where we are only thinking about being. Just being. Everything else should just be an action our body moves through.
We are trying to limit the amount of external stimuli that could possibly move our minds. By looking down and never engaging or paying close attention to our surroundings, we can focus on ourselves and our mind and just be. By falling into a pattern that will repeat every day, our bodies will know how to respond when it is time to go to eat or get up from bed.
We have learned a few details about the intensive meditation retreat that will commence next Monday, but for the most part it is shrouded in mystery. The meditation hall has been described as extremely plain and colorless, and so silent that the only thing that you can hear is the ringing of your own ears. This will probably be the only chance in my life to be completely silent (and taken care of) for seven days straight.
I feel a little nervous about the meditation retreat, as I still struggle to meditate for just half an hour during our daily sessions now. However, I have improved and am quite impressed that I can at least keep my lower back straight for 30 minutes now! I’m still working on controlling my mind and focusing on my breath, rather than merely thinking about my life and what I “know.”
One of my favorite aspects of life here at the monastery has been the dining ceremony; today, I was on the other side—I served the food, which was -quite- an experience. I hope to write an entry about that soon. In the meantime, I need to continue to focus as hard as I can, in every moment—I’ve realized that meditation is not something that only happens in a seated, lotus-posture. Meditation is something that monastics aim to engage in during their every move.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
New Journey
Greetings all!
Unfortunately we are about to line up for standing meditation / march to dinner, so I cannot make this a long post. I just wanted to make a post more recent than November 2008, though!
This summer I am participating in the Humanistic Buddhist Monastery Life Program in Taiwan. We began the program two days ago, and life has been extremely... interesting... since then! Rules dominate everything-- putting the bag on the right side (as opposed to the left) of the body warrents a scolding, no slouching at any times EVER, and there is even an ettiquette for how to hold a book! But I'm learning a lot and will make another post soon. (However, we only have access to internet for 2 hours each day, but even that is not a given. I have no access to internet in my room or on my blackberry (ahh!), so I apologize if I'm slow to return emails or make posts!)
In late July I will move to Beijing, where I will begin a one-year (two if I like it and they like me!) fellowship at the Natural Resources Defense Council Beijing Office. I will be helping them on various projects, most notably their environmental law booklet, green buildings and sustainability program, as well as contributing to the organization's blog (www.greenlaw.org.cn).
Alright I must put on my rain-hat (think crouching tiger hidden dragon) and go back to the dormitory. Hope all is well and I intend to post again as soon as I have free time.
Unfortunately we are about to line up for standing meditation / march to dinner, so I cannot make this a long post. I just wanted to make a post more recent than November 2008, though!
This summer I am participating in the Humanistic Buddhist Monastery Life Program in Taiwan. We began the program two days ago, and life has been extremely... interesting... since then! Rules dominate everything-- putting the bag on the right side (as opposed to the left) of the body warrents a scolding, no slouching at any times EVER, and there is even an ettiquette for how to hold a book! But I'm learning a lot and will make another post soon. (However, we only have access to internet for 2 hours each day, but even that is not a given. I have no access to internet in my room or on my blackberry (ahh!), so I apologize if I'm slow to return emails or make posts!)
In late July I will move to Beijing, where I will begin a one-year (two if I like it and they like me!) fellowship at the Natural Resources Defense Council Beijing Office. I will be helping them on various projects, most notably their environmental law booklet, green buildings and sustainability program, as well as contributing to the organization's blog (www.greenlaw.org.cn).
Alright I must put on my rain-hat (think crouching tiger hidden dragon) and go back to the dormitory. Hope all is well and I intend to post again as soon as I have free time.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
passing thoughts
Well, unfortunately I've been without reflective thoughts over the past 11 or so weeks since reaching Ha'erbin. Applying to jobs and writing personal statements has forced me to do so, however!
Below are three pieces I wrote recently about my experiences over the summer, recently in Ha'erbin, and during my stay in Malaysia.
I promise to make an actual update on my life sometime... but for the time being, everything is going well! Only 3 more weeks of classes before I go back to Beijing and meet my family members!
Love, and hope you enjoy:
1) article in UVA's Arts and Sciences Magazine Online: http://aands.virginia.edu/x14159.xml
2) I was standing against the wall in the dimly-lit basement of the student center at Harbin Institute of Technology, trying to position myself so that I could see the student performers “dance-off” at the other side of the room. I scratched my head in amazement—when I passed the registration table in the cafeteria the week before, I had no idea there would be meticulously choreographed ten minute performances, audience members toting signs of encouragement for their friends, or a panel of three grumpy-looking judges (strangely similar to So You Think You Can Dance). Maybe all those things were mentioned on the information sheet, but nine semesters of Chinese still wasn’t enough to read it all.
Before I had the opportunity to majorly diulian (“lose face”—basically, embarrass myself horribly), I had a tough time figuring out what those grumpy judges wanted to see. They had so much to choose from: a group of three girls wearing tank tops and army pants dancing to “Genie in a Bottle,” a couple who danced Merengue, an excellent rendition of the robot, three or four traditional Chinese and ethnic-minority dances, to name a few. And of course, the one and only foreigner, yours truly, who wiggled to silly indie-pop for less than a minute before scurrying off the stage.
I look back to that time of intense competition, the anticipation for the result of comparing apples and oranges, and I think it truly underscores my fascination with Chinese culture and society. History books always point to the Cultural Revolution as the time when China wanted to throw off its old culture and make progress for the new, but I see that tension still existing in China today, especially among youth. As a country with nearly three thousand years of written history, China now faces the pressures of modernization and catching up with the world. This pressure manifests itself in interesting ways—the Yi fan-dancer with her elaborate folk-garb clearing the stage for a sexy group of Christina fans made this clash of old and new more than obvious.
Living in China has provided me with a space to learn about the fascinating changes that have marked the past century, and particularly the last thirty years, of China’s development. For the past five months, I have been researching the impact of these changes on the rural family, working closely with marginalized, migration-affected children. Compiling these experiences and observations into a senior thesis will be challenging, but will also offer me an opportunity to achieve a deeper understanding of an important social unit in Chinese society: the family.
The more I learn, the more curious I become. Returning to China for post-graduate work at an NGO, a law firm, or a foreign affairs publication will allow me to use my skills to work closely with Chinese people to achieve common goals. I would be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes crave the comfort and security of speaking English in America, where I blend-in perfectly and, on a day-to-day basis, rarely face overt, tangible discrimination. But the insights I’ve gained from being a laowai (foreigner) in China have been valuable to my understanding of cross-cultural communication, American culture, and myself. I’m willing to risk comfort, willing to embarrass myself a thousand more times, for deeper insight into these topics; moving to the workplace in China is best way to accomplish that goal.
3)This August I had the opportunity to travel in Thailand, Singapore, and Malaysia before participating in the Harvard Project for Asian and International Relations Academic Conference, which was hosted in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. I was astonished by the diversity of these three Southeast Asian countries, and in particular Malaysia.
While I was walking around the city center in downtown Kuala Lumpur with my Conference roommate, an ethnic Chinese and Malaysian citizen, I was amazed by the different types of people I saw: break-dancing teenagers, Erhu playing Chinese men, Sari-wearing women. Kuala Lumpur is also a popular tourist location for many Arabs, coming from nations like Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan. This was the first time I saw a woman wearing a burqa, or even a niqab covering all but the eyes. Certainly, I had seen reports on television or in the newspaper that included photographs of this clothing, but what surprised me was the extravagance and seeming materialism of the men and children with the burqa-wearing women. The typical man accompanying a burqa-wearing woman was exceptionally well-dressed, sporting designer jeans and a fashionable name-brand shirt. The stark visual contrast between modesty and showiness in dress surprised me.
Coming from my background as an American with a shallow understanding of Muslim clothing and culture, I was challenged at first to understand this phenomenon. My initial, inward thought was, “Wow, those belabored critiques of Muslim culture as being unfair to women are right.” Prior to this experience, perhaps I was unaware that I even harbored these opinions; I knew I needed to explore the topic further.
I explained to my roommate that I would have expected more modesty from the male partner in a relationship that comes from a community in which modesty is “required” of women. My roommate pointed out that I did not see what these women were wearing under the burqa. In reality, he told me, they are most likely dressed in the same name brands and designer clothing, but these clothes are only for the husband to see. “Wearing a burqa doesn’t have anything to do with conservatism, it’s what they believe.”
After thinking more about this observation and conversing with other friends whom I met at the Conference and afterward, I began to understand that an assumption of “being forced” or even coercive passivity on the part of burqa-wearing woman is unfair. Furthermore, I realized that trying to glean meaning and insight solely from outward appearance is an incomplete and flawed approach to understanding culture.
This experience has made clear to me that open-mindedness and a willingness for self-reflection is critical to understanding how I react in new situations. This perspective has motivated me to be more sensitive to my limitations in understanding different cultures without asking others, sharing experiences, and starting dialogue.
Below are three pieces I wrote recently about my experiences over the summer, recently in Ha'erbin, and during my stay in Malaysia.
I promise to make an actual update on my life sometime... but for the time being, everything is going well! Only 3 more weeks of classes before I go back to Beijing and meet my family members!
Love, and hope you enjoy:
1) article in UVA's Arts and Sciences Magazine Online: http://aands.virginia.edu/x14159.xml
2) I was standing against the wall in the dimly-lit basement of the student center at Harbin Institute of Technology, trying to position myself so that I could see the student performers “dance-off” at the other side of the room. I scratched my head in amazement—when I passed the registration table in the cafeteria the week before, I had no idea there would be meticulously choreographed ten minute performances, audience members toting signs of encouragement for their friends, or a panel of three grumpy-looking judges (strangely similar to So You Think You Can Dance). Maybe all those things were mentioned on the information sheet, but nine semesters of Chinese still wasn’t enough to read it all.
Before I had the opportunity to majorly diulian (“lose face”—basically, embarrass myself horribly), I had a tough time figuring out what those grumpy judges wanted to see. They had so much to choose from: a group of three girls wearing tank tops and army pants dancing to “Genie in a Bottle,” a couple who danced Merengue, an excellent rendition of the robot, three or four traditional Chinese and ethnic-minority dances, to name a few. And of course, the one and only foreigner, yours truly, who wiggled to silly indie-pop for less than a minute before scurrying off the stage.
I look back to that time of intense competition, the anticipation for the result of comparing apples and oranges, and I think it truly underscores my fascination with Chinese culture and society. History books always point to the Cultural Revolution as the time when China wanted to throw off its old culture and make progress for the new, but I see that tension still existing in China today, especially among youth. As a country with nearly three thousand years of written history, China now faces the pressures of modernization and catching up with the world. This pressure manifests itself in interesting ways—the Yi fan-dancer with her elaborate folk-garb clearing the stage for a sexy group of Christina fans made this clash of old and new more than obvious.
Living in China has provided me with a space to learn about the fascinating changes that have marked the past century, and particularly the last thirty years, of China’s development. For the past five months, I have been researching the impact of these changes on the rural family, working closely with marginalized, migration-affected children. Compiling these experiences and observations into a senior thesis will be challenging, but will also offer me an opportunity to achieve a deeper understanding of an important social unit in Chinese society: the family.
The more I learn, the more curious I become. Returning to China for post-graduate work at an NGO, a law firm, or a foreign affairs publication will allow me to use my skills to work closely with Chinese people to achieve common goals. I would be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes crave the comfort and security of speaking English in America, where I blend-in perfectly and, on a day-to-day basis, rarely face overt, tangible discrimination. But the insights I’ve gained from being a laowai (foreigner) in China have been valuable to my understanding of cross-cultural communication, American culture, and myself. I’m willing to risk comfort, willing to embarrass myself a thousand more times, for deeper insight into these topics; moving to the workplace in China is best way to accomplish that goal.
3)This August I had the opportunity to travel in Thailand, Singapore, and Malaysia before participating in the Harvard Project for Asian and International Relations Academic Conference, which was hosted in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. I was astonished by the diversity of these three Southeast Asian countries, and in particular Malaysia.
While I was walking around the city center in downtown Kuala Lumpur with my Conference roommate, an ethnic Chinese and Malaysian citizen, I was amazed by the different types of people I saw: break-dancing teenagers, Erhu playing Chinese men, Sari-wearing women. Kuala Lumpur is also a popular tourist location for many Arabs, coming from nations like Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan. This was the first time I saw a woman wearing a burqa, or even a niqab covering all but the eyes. Certainly, I had seen reports on television or in the newspaper that included photographs of this clothing, but what surprised me was the extravagance and seeming materialism of the men and children with the burqa-wearing women. The typical man accompanying a burqa-wearing woman was exceptionally well-dressed, sporting designer jeans and a fashionable name-brand shirt. The stark visual contrast between modesty and showiness in dress surprised me.
Coming from my background as an American with a shallow understanding of Muslim clothing and culture, I was challenged at first to understand this phenomenon. My initial, inward thought was, “Wow, those belabored critiques of Muslim culture as being unfair to women are right.” Prior to this experience, perhaps I was unaware that I even harbored these opinions; I knew I needed to explore the topic further.
I explained to my roommate that I would have expected more modesty from the male partner in a relationship that comes from a community in which modesty is “required” of women. My roommate pointed out that I did not see what these women were wearing under the burqa. In reality, he told me, they are most likely dressed in the same name brands and designer clothing, but these clothes are only for the husband to see. “Wearing a burqa doesn’t have anything to do with conservatism, it’s what they believe.”
After thinking more about this observation and conversing with other friends whom I met at the Conference and afterward, I began to understand that an assumption of “being forced” or even coercive passivity on the part of burqa-wearing woman is unfair. Furthermore, I realized that trying to glean meaning and insight solely from outward appearance is an incomplete and flawed approach to understanding culture.
This experience has made clear to me that open-mindedness and a willingness for self-reflection is critical to understanding how I react in new situations. This perspective has motivated me to be more sensitive to my limitations in understanding different cultures without asking others, sharing experiences, and starting dialogue.
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