The following article was adapted from a talk by Toni Packer
on Day 4 of the August 1997 retreat.
A somber day, isn't it? Dark, cloudy, cool, moist and windy.
Amazing, this whole affair of "the weather!" We call it "weather,"
but what is it really? Wind. Rain. Clouds slowly parting. Not the
words spoken about it, but just this darkening, blowing, pounding,
wetting, and then lightening up, blue sky appearing amidst
darkness, and sunshine sparkling on wet grasses and leaves. In a
little while there'll be frost, snow and ice-covers. And then
warming again, melting, oozing water everywhere. On an early spring
day the dirt road sparkles with streams of wet silver. So — what is
"weather" other than this incessant change of earthly conditions
and all the human thoughts, feelings, and undertakings influenced
by it? Like and dislike. Depression and elation. Creation and
destruction. An ongoing, ever changing stream of happenings abiding
nowhere. No entity "weather" to be found except in thinking and
talking about it.
Now — is there such an entity as "me," "I," "myself?" Or is it
just like the "weather" — an ongoing, ever changing stream of
ideas, images, memories, projections, likes and dislikes, creations
and destructions, which thought keeps calling "I," "me," "Toni,"
and thereby solidifying what is evanescent? What am I really,
truly, and what do I think and believe I am? Are we interested in
exploring this amazing affair of "myself" from moment to moment? Is
this, maybe, the essence of retreat work? Exploring ourselves
minutely beyond the peace and quiet that we are seeking and maybe
finding. Coming upon clarity about this deep sense of separation
which we call "me," and "other people," without any need to condemn
or overcome.
Most human beings take it totally for granted that I am "me,"
and that "me" is this body, this mind, this knowledge and sense
about myself which so obviously feels separate from other people.
The language in which we talk to ourselves and to each other
inevitably implies separate "me's," and "you's" all the time. All
of us talk "I" and "you" talk, we think it, write it, read it, and
dream it with rarely any pause. There is incessant reinforcement of
the sense of "I," "me," separate from others. Isolated. Insulated.
Not understood. How is one to come upon the truth if separation is
taken so much for granted, feels so common sense?
The difficulty is not insurmountable. Wholeness, true being, is
here all the time, like the sun behind the clouds. Daylight is here
in spite of cloud cover.
What makes up the clouds?
Can we begin to realize that we live in conceptual, abstract
ideas about ourselves? That we are rarely directly in touch with
what actually is going on? Can we realize that thoughts about
myself — I am good or bad, I'm liked or disliked — are nothing but
thoughts — and that thoughts do not tell us the truth about what we
really are? A thought is a thought, and it triggers instant
physical reactions, pleasures and pains throughout the bodymind.
Physical reactions generate further thoughts and feelings about
myself — "I'm suffering," "I'm happy," "I'm no good." Feedback that
implies that all this is me, that I have gotten hurt, or somehow
feel good about myself, or that I need to defend myself, or get
more approval and love from others. When we're protecting ourselves
in our daily interrelationships we're not protecting ourselves from
flying stones or bomb attacks. It's from words we're taking cover,
from gestures, from colorations of voice and innuendo.
Just now words were spoken, ". . . we're protecting ourselves, .
. . we're taking cover." In using our common language the
implication is constantly created that there is someone real who is
protecting and someone real that needs protection.
Is there someone real to be protected from words and gestures,
or are we merely living in ideas and stories about me and you, all
of it happening on the stage of the on-going audio/video drama of
ourselves?
The utmost care and attention is needed to follow the internal
drama fairly accurately, dispassionately, in order to express it as
it is seen. What we mean by "being made to feel good" or "being
hurt" is the internal enhancing of our ongoing me-story, or the
puncturing and deflating of it. Enhancement or disturbance of the
me-story is accompanied by pleasurable energies or painful feelings
and emotions throughout the organism. Either warmth or chill can be
felt at the drop of a word evoking memories, feelings, passions.
Conscious or unconscious emotional recollection of what happened
yesterday or a long ago surge through the body-mind, causing
feelings of happiness or sadness, affection or humiliation.
Right now words are being spoken, and they can be followed
literally, intellectually. If they are fairly clearly and logically
put together they can make sense intellectually. Perhaps at first
it's necessary to understand what is going on in us intellectually.
But that's not the whole thing. The words that are spoken point to
something that may be directly seen and felt, inwardly, as the talk
proceeds. And as we go along from moment to moment, now and after
the talk is over, (and after retreat) can we experience freshly,
wakefully, directly, when hurt or flattery are taking place? What
is happening? What is being hurt? And what keeps the hurt going?
Can there be some awareness of defenses arising, fear and anger
forming, or withdrawal taking place, all accompanied by some kind
of storyline? Can the whole drama become increasingly transparent?
And, in becoming increasingly transparent, can it be thoroughly
questioned? What is it that is being protected? What is it that one
thinks got hurt? Me? What is me?
It is amazing. A spark of awareness witnessing one spoken word
arousing pleasure or pain all over. Can the connection become
clear? The immediacy of it, and no I-entity there directing it,
even though we say and believe we are doing all that. But we also
say that we don't want to do that. Words and reaction proceed along
well-oiled pathways and interconnections. A thought of loss comes
up and the solar plexus tightens in pain. Fantasy of love-making
occurs and an ocean of pleasure ensues. Who does it? Thought says,
"I do!" To whom is it happening? Thought says, "To me of course!"
But, where and what is this I, this me, aside from all the thoughts
and feelings, the palpitating heart, painful and pleasurable
energies circulating throughout the organism? Who could possibly be
doing it all with such amazing speed and precision? Thinking about
ourselves and triggering physiological reactions take time, but
present awareness brings the whole drama to light instantly.
Everything is happening on its own. No one is directing the
show!
Right this moment wind is storming, branches are creaking and
leaves quivering. It's all here in the listening — but whose
listening is it? Mine? Yours? We say, "I'm listening" or, "I cannot
listen as well as you do" and these words befuddle the mind with
feelings and emotions learned long ago. You may be protesting that
"my hearing isn't yours. Your body isn't mine." We have thought
like that for eons and behave accordingly, but presently, can there
be just the sound of swaying trees and rustling leaves and fresh
air blowing through the window cooling the skin? It's not happening
to anyone. It's simply present for all of us, isn't it?
Do I sound as though I'm trying to convince you of something?
The passion arising in trying to communicate simply, clearly, may
be misunderstood for a desire to influence people. That's not the
case. There is just the description of what is happening here for
all of us. Nothing to be sold or bought. Can we simply listen and
test out on our own what is being offered for exploration from
moment to moment?
What is the "me" that gets hurt or attracted, flattered, time
and time again, the world over? In psychological terms we say that
we are identified with ourselves. In spiritual language we say,
that we are attached to ourselves. What is this "ourselves?" Is it
feeling myself existing, knowing what I am, having lots of
recollections about myself — all the ideas and pictures and
feelings about myself strung together in a coherent story? And
knowing this story very well — multitudes of memories, some added,
some dropped, all inter-connected — what I am, how I look, what my
abilities and disabilities are, my education, my family, my name,
my likes and dislikes, opinions, beliefs, etc., etc. The
identification with all of that, meaning, "This is what I am." And
the attachment to it, meaning, "I can't let go of it."
Let's go beyond concepts and look directly into what we mean by
them. If one says, "I'm identified with my family name," what does
that mean? Let me give an example. As a growing child I was very
much identified with my last name because it was my father's and he
was famous — so I was told. I liked to tell others about my
father's scientific achievements to garner respect and pleasurable
feelings for myself by impressing friends. I felt admiration
through other people's eyes which may not even have been there. It
may have been projected. Perhaps some people even felt, "What a
bore she is!" On the entrance door to our apartment there was a
little polished brass sign with my father's name on it and his
titles: Professor, Doctor Phil. The Phil impressed me particularly,
because I thought it meant that my father was a philosopher, which
he was not. I must have had the idea that a philosopher was a
particularly imposing individual. So I told some of my friends
about it and brought them to look at the little brass sign at the
door. This is one meaning of identification — enhancing one's sense
of self by incorporating the ideas about other individuals or
groups, or one's possessions, achievements, transgressions —
anything — and feeling that all of this is "me." Feeling important
about oneself generates amazing, addictive energies.
To give another example from the past: I became very identified
with my half-Jewish descent. Not openly in Germany, where I mostly
tried to hide it rather than display it, but later on after the war
ended, telling people of our family's fate, and finding welcome
attention, instant sympathy, and nourishing interest in the story.
One can become quite addicted to making the story of one's life
impressive to others and to oneself, and feed on the energies
aroused by that. So that's a bit of what identification and
attachment are about. And when that is disturbed by someone not
buying into it, contesting it or questioning it altogether, there
is sudden insecurity, physical discomfort, anger, fear, hurt,
whatever.
Becoming a member of the Zen Center and engaging in spiritual
practice, I realized one day that I had not been talking about my
background in a long while. And now, when somebody brings it up —
sometimes an interviewer will ask me to talk about it — it feels
like so much bother and effort. Why delve into old stuff? I want to
talk about listening, the wind, and the birds. [Laughter] Are you
listening too, interviewer? Or are you more interested in
identities and stories?
At times people bring up the question about why I don't call
myself a teacher when I'm so obviously engaged in teaching.
Somebody actually brought it up this morning — the projections and
mental as well as psychological associations aroused in waiting
outside the meeting room and then entering nervously with a
pounding heart. The images of teacher and student offering
themselves automatically like clothes to put on and roles to play
in these clothes. In giving talks and meeting with people the
student-teacher imagery is not there — it belongs to a different
level of existence. If images do come up they're in the way like
clouds hiding the sun. Relating without images is the freshest,
freest thing in the universe.
So, what am I and what are you — what are we with- out images
clothing and hiding our true being? It's un-image-inable, isn't it?
And yet there's the sound of wind blowing, trees shaking, crows
cawing, woodwork creaking, breath flowing without need for any
thoughts. Thoughts are grafted on top of what's actually going on
right now, and in that grafted world we happen to spend most of our
lives.
And yet, every once in a while, whether one does spiritual work
or not, meditating or not, the real world shines wondrously through
everything. What is it when words fall silent? When there is no
knowing? When there is no listener and yet there is listening,
awaring, without any separation?
A moment during a visit with my parents in Switzerland comes to
mind. I had always had a difficult relationship with my mother. I
was very afraid of her. She was a very passionate woman with lots
of anger. But also love. Once during that visit I saw her standing
in the dining room facing me. She was just standing there, and for
no known reason or cause I suddenly saw her without the past. There
was no image of her, and also no idea of what she saw in me. All
that was gone. There was nothing left except pure love for this
woman. Such beauty shone out of her. And our relationship changed,
there was a new closeness. It just happened.
Someone said that seeing a shattered image caused grief. But the
shattering of self-image need not cause suffering. Truly seeing
that the "me" is nothing but a habitual mental construct is freeing
beyond imagination.
