I have been thinking about Buddhism since my cab ride. What I did not tell the cab driver, what I am not telling you either, is that there's a specific reason I wonder and a specific person I know who is of great significance - but denies it. There was a journey taken to find him, a movie made about that journey, and when he was found he was completely disinterested. This is how I know him, as disinterested in who he might be. Maybe that is what Buddhism really is, ironically, that kind of detachment. (And indeed there are times my own interest in who I might be is probably too self-involved to be borne.)
Although I admire and appreciate the tenets of Buddhism I would make a lousy Buddhist. I see exactly what is meant by the notion that we invite our own suffering through wanting, through seeking pleasure, through seeking immortality, through seeking material gains. And I agree that it is these behaviours that have always cost me the most. Yet still, when I try to picture what I would be like, what life would be like without these behavious I cannot picture what is left of me.
I find it hard to believe I am nothing but a sucking hole of want, and yet, there it is. I find my happiness internally too, but plenty of it is external, and I cannot imagine myself separate from my physical body, apart from my physical wanting for heat and coldness, spice and sweet, sharpness and softness, for passion and lust and exhaustion. How could I live apart from my desires?
And it isn't only the physical hunger for sensations and the touch of People. It's things too, probably the least defensible of my desires. I do like things. It's why I want books instead of the stupid Kindle. I like the weight of things in my hands, I like their density and gravity made real by their weight. I like to run my hands along the bed frame -- which was once the side of a barn -- tracing and counting the nail holes and the way its history seeps into my dreams.
Truthfully though I like the idea, very much, of being completely internally driven, it strikes me as a bland existence, one without longings and passions and aches. Is something wrong with me that I treasure not only the fulfillment of want --but also those aching empty places? Here quite starkly lie these aches, coiled and waiting, here below the hollow of my throat, here beneath my ribcage, here behind my eyelids. The times when fulfillment is lacking seem such a small price to pay, and if I learned to live without hunger what would become my purpose?
*
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
4 comments:
I have the exact same quandary concerning Buddhism, which I would love to embrace completely but can't because it seems to be about absence: The absence of desire, the absence of attachment, the absence of passion. Its belief system, as nearly as I understand it, comes closer to my own than any other philosophy or religion I know, but it's impossible for me to set aside my ego and all its trappings, even suffering, for emptiness. And I also love the tactile experience of books and have no desire for a Kindle. I work with plants w/o gloves because I need to feel things as they really are, dirt and thorns included, so I am clearly not evolved enough to be a Buddha in this lifetime.
I am a student, not of Buddhism, but of backwoods, pine tree philosophy. Perhaps, somehow, they might overlap. Eventhough I have bought 4 kindles at one time, i have never read from one of them. It, I think, has no feel(ings),,
I count myself as a very flawed Buddhist, having taken the precepts and gone to retreats. My sitting practice has largely fizzled but I find the mindfulness aspect of it helpful. And many Buddhists I have known are anything but bland (in fact, one of my favorite Buddhist teachers was a real firecracker - a truly funny guy)- it's just about acknowledging the power of desires and aversions, not trying to be super-human about it.
I'm not convinced that 'want' is such an evil sin. I figure it has to be approached like all things....in moderation. It's the excess that screws us.
Post a Comment