This past two weekends, I've taken the time to attend some public meditation "services", all held at a Chinese Chan center. Last weekend, I signed up for a two-day retreat organized by the head nun there. Afterwards, one of the volunteers invited me to the center's mid-autumn festival, and to subsequent weekly meditation classes. So this past weekend, I attended the tea ceremony for their mid-autumn festival (also called the Mooncake Festival) as well as the meditation class the following day. What follows are my thoughts after each day.
Retreat, Day 1
The day began with a dhamma talk by the senior nun. She first gave an exposition on the purpose of meditation, which she gave as the traditional Chan formula of quieting the mind so as to reveal "the original face". As I've come to expect of Chan (Chan, by the way, is the Chinese reading of the character 禅, which is Zen in Japanese), she did not spend much time at all hashing out the meaning of "the original face", for Chan is intensely anti-dialectical and anti-metaphysics. The rest of her talk was on the practice, which on this retreat was taught as focusing one's attention on the tip of the nose.
My experience with this nose-focus method started difficult but grew easier as the day went on. The trouble, which was revealed in my interview with the senior nun, is that I have trained almost entirely on active objects: breath, qi, mantras, walking, etc. Whereas, the tip of one's nose is fixed in one spot, with no independent movement. So, today was pretty much my first time meditating on a simple, unmoving object. Later in the day, during walking meditation, the junior nun (who led the practice sessions) said that, if you find it hard to concentrate on the nosetip, it may help to focus on the breath first in order to get there. Once she said that, I found it relatively easy to just focus on the breath passing in and out of my nostrils, with particular attention to the tip of my nose. However, when I revealed in the interview that I stuck with that for the rest of the day, both nuns clarified that the attention needs to ultimately rest on just the nosetip, with the breath being no more than a temporary aid to correct a wandering mind.
One of the questions I asked during my interview was how to know when samatha is attained. I gave the example of my past experience with "activating my qi" (I had this confirmed when I corresponded with the senior monk of another monastery), in which my thoughts became quiet and I felt an intense burning inside of me. For a long time afterwards, I was under the impression that the two put together implied samatha, and that whenever I felt my qi even a little bit afterwards, I thought I was reaching some kind of samatha. The senior nun clarified for me that the samatha is the stillness of thoughts and focus on the object; in my case, that was the breath, while the burning of the qi was an incidental phenomenon. She clarified further that the method is very straightforward, no more than what it says on the tin: you focus on the tip of your nose, and when you attain that clear, singular focus on the nose-tip, that's the samatha.
Nonetheless, during the initial dhamma talk, the senior nun did also indicate that samadhi is the basis of all advanced practices, of which she listed hua tou (similar to kōan meditation), silent illumination, and nianfo; so, she said, this retreat was focused on the Buddha's earliest teachings. On a minor note, I found it interesting that nianfo was considered advanced, because I had been under the impression that all Pure Land teaching was basically "easy mode" in preparation for asceticism in the next life. On a more important note, this somewhat clashes with a belief I got from Evola's exposition on Theravāda (see the relevant passage in this thread), which was that the qi (or prāṇa) is the vehicle by which these advanced contemplations may be realized. I don't think the two are irreconcilable, though. It seems to me that qi, being the root of the senses or "life of one's life", is the instrument by which one may effect contemplative techniques, whereas samadhi (the absorbed state resulting from both samatha and vipassanā) is the attitude or state. If I may make my own analogy, the qi would be like a warrior's sword, whereas the samadhi is the warrior's technique and discipline. So in that sense, my meditations up til now have been like a warrior who works tirelessly at smithing and sharpening a sword, but spends little time using it.
One more note. At the end, when the noble silence was broken and the attendees were allowed to speak, the only one who said anything was a middle-aged Chinese fellow, speaking in Mandarin. The junior nun translated, saying that he had an easy time at the beginning of the day, but that his legs began to hurt during the afternoon sessions, making it difficult to concentrate. Everyone had a laugh, and the senior nun replied that of course, one could move the legs in order to alleviate this, but the important thing is to maintain focus on the nose all the while. I have a feeling she was obligated to reply this way, as many of the attendees were elderly—one fellow, bless him, was so sickly and old that he required a chair instead of a zafu, and he had to take breaks during the walking meditation to keep an eye on his heartrate. On the other hand, this is in line with the general Chan teaching of "always meditate, even when you do something else"—after all, this is the school that merged into the martial and aesthetic arts of China and Japan, imbuing samatha into archery, painting, tea ceremonies, flower arrangement, and so on, so it stands to reason that samatha could be maintained in adjusting one's posture just as in firing an arrow or what have you. On the subject of discomfort, though, I was reminded of the story in which Milarepa is said to have parted from his student, Gampopa. Before leaving, Milarepa raised his robes and showed Gampopa his buttocks, which was covered in calluses (this was before comfy zafus were invented!), and emphasized that he became as accomplished as he was only through intense and dedicated meditation. Likewise, we must endure much more than a day's worth of leg pain in order to make spiritual progress.
Retreat, Day 2
This day's meditation was, in addition to focusing on the tip of the nose (stilling the mind), maintaining one's awareness of the breath. The nuns were very careful to specify that this was awareness and nothing more: the breath was not to be controlled (as in qigong or prāṇāyāma) nor to be directly analyzed/counted (e.g. as in popular Zen teachings about counting 10 breaths). This was changed up a bit during the walking meditation: one could continue the meditation as before or, instead, still focus on the nose but instead turn the awareness to the act of walking. Again, the walking was not to be controlled nor analyzed ("heel rises, toe rises, heel descends, toe descends...") but merely observed. The purpose of producing both samatha and vipassanā at once is to cultivate samadhi: the luminous, tranquil mind, what the senior nun calls "non-arising".
What struck me about this was that, while the senior nun did mention that vipassanā involves the application of wisdom, she nonetheless instructed that the breath (or walking) be merely watched, and nothing more. My impression from other expositions is that vipassanā requires some knowledge of Dhamma going into it: that one observes with the intent of seeing impermanence, for example. As is so characteristic of Chan, there's not much prescribed beyond just sitting and meditating. During the second interview I did with the nuns, they emphasized the concept of ziran (自然), or "spontaneity", that with the development of both samatha on the nosetip and vipassanā on the breath (or gait), insight would arise of its own accord.
During this same interview, I also asked how often one should practice just one or the other; after all, I just spent all of the previous day on samatha alone, wouldn't I do that again some time, or perhaps would I spend another day on vipassanā alone? The nuns replied that this was only part of the retreat's program; in reality, the two should be practiced together whenever possible. They did mention, though, that in my daily life, I should try as best I can to just develop samatha on the nosetip while driving, working, speaking, etc. I asked then, would the activity (driving, working, etc.) be the object of vipassanā then? To this, they replied that it would certainly be possible, but it is an advanced practice, so a beginner like me should only worry about cultivating samatha in such cases.
We also brought up my meditation history again. I mentioned that, when I meditated on mantras, one of the mantras I used was that of Acala, who in Chinese is apparently called Budong Mingwang (不動明王), meaning Immovable Wisdom King. The junior nun pointed out to me that the third character, 明, indicates wisdom (vijjā) as well as "clarity", as it is a compound of the sun 日 and moon 月 radicals. This, she said, is a way of thinking about samādhi, the state to be reached through the combination of samatha and vipassanā: bright, singular, and clear, just like the sun or moon would appear in a cloudless sky, an idea which was later brought up during the mid-autumn festival.
As far as my experience during the meditation, it was a great deal easier than the first day. Part of me wonders if this is perhaps a carryover from the first day of "training", that the focus on the nosetip had already been exercised, so it was easy to get into that before becoming aware of the breath. Part of me also worried that I was doing something wrong, that perhaps my focus was "false" somehow. In the interview, neither nun seemed to find a problem with what I related about my experience, and affirmed that I was on the right track. I suppose part of my confusion comes from what I noted yesterday about qi; the couple of times I have felt my qi are thus far the only times I've felt anything supernatural in my life, so I suppose there's a lingering bias in me for meditative states to feel equally "extraordinary".
One final note. There is a website available that shows the lineage from the senior nun going back to Mahakāssapa (traditionally the First Chan Patriarch) who, of course, was the successor to the Buddha himself. Counting these up, then, the transmission of the Buddha's teachings passed from the Accomplished One himself through 85 successive monks down to this retreat's senior nun. It is interesting to think that the whole lineage could potentially fit inside the hall we practiced in, and it is also somewhat compelling to think that the teachings disseminated in this retreat have the backing of the Buddha. After years of just reading expositions and some suttas on my own, it was nice to get some direction from an ordained practitioner with that kind of qualification.
Mid-Autumn Festival
At the end of the retreat, the volunteer receptionist of this center invited me to come to weekly meditation sessions, held every Sunday, but also to the following Saturday's "Mid-Autumn Festival". From some cursory research, it seems to be a pre-Buddhist Chinese holiday, though everyone at the center was nice enough, so I decided to attend.
The festival began with the showing of an elaborate Chinese shadow-dance from CCTV on a projector. It seems the Chinese are very fond of these big musical productions which are heavy on coordinated acrobatics and historical aesthetics. Once that was done, we were all invited to do a brief breath meditation, after which tea was served to each table. The ceremony was very simple: the host at each table would pour tea into each cup, and everyone would quietly "enjoy" the tea. We were instructed to first hold the cup (which was more like a shotglass-sized bowl), feeling the warmth of the tea, then to bring it close to smell the tea, and then to drink it, holding it in the mouth for a bit to taste it fully. All of this was done with the general spirit of "being in the present moment". I think this phrase has lost some of its weight, having been popularized by those who treat dhamma as no more than a method of—may Amitābha forgive me for using this word—"self-care". Nonetheless, the ceremony was very nice, though I would like to some time attend a smaller one without any instructions, basically an "authentic" one. After two servings of tea (one oriental beauty, one pu'erh), we were allowed to discuss amongst each table about the flavor of the tea.
After some further discussions about some Chan verses and gathas that were passed around, the senior nun from the prior retreat got up to speak. This time, she taught the room a technique that, to me, seemed more like an old kasiṇa from Theravāda; she indicated that this, too, was from the Buddha's earlier teachings, prior to Mahāyāna. For this teaching, the projector showed an image of the full moon (necessary due to the festival being held during the day), and the nun asked us to contemplate the moon visually, then close the eyes and generate this image in our minds. The idea was, as I had discussed privately regarding that character 明, that the Moon shines brightly and clearly in the cloudless sky, just the same way that "the original face" would shine brightly and clearly in the cloudless mind. Having never really done a kasiṇa or any in-depth visualization practice, I had a hard time with it, but I found it very interesting. I often feel wary of techniques that interest me, especially those of Vajrāyāna, because I doubt my own intentions: am I interested because the technique seems effective and congenial to me, or am I interested because it's "sexy" or resembles things such as fantasy games? Having now been plunged sort of by surprise into such a technique, I feel a little more secure about trying such meditations on my own. Sort of like learning to swim by being thrown into the deep end.
Weekly Class
This last day I wish to reflect on was probably the most different. No monastics were present at all, this time. The leader of the "workshop" was a volunteer: a middle-aged female sociology professor. This is of course a very far cry from the ordained nun with 85 direct links between her and the Buddha. She didn't do a bad job, by any means, but it was certainly underwhelming compared to the aforementioned experiences.
Being merely a workshop, and not a retreat, this was a lot shorter. It began with an hour's meditation which was, to my dismay, guided verbally by the volunteer. She had good intentions here, as a couple of people indicated it was their first time meditating, so I can't fault her for trying to be helpful, but I found her narration to be more of a distraction for my own purposes.
After this and a few post-sit stretches, there were two workshop portions. In the first part, she opened the floor for questions. The questions from the fellow meditators were more about personal life and ethics than about meditation per sé. For my own part, so long as I am a layman on the outside, I try as much as possible to be a hermit on the inside, and so I don't tend to trouble myself about these matters.
In the second part, at the conclusion of the day's workshop, the volunteer gave a dhamma talk. She began, surprisingly, with a reading of the Maṅgala Sutta from the Sutta-nipāta. At this point I would like to note that, for a Mahāyāna Chan center that also caters to Amidists, I'm surprised how much I've encountered practices and teachings that are basically Theravāda. Anyway, she focused her talk on the first item in the list of highest blessings:
Not to associate with the foolish, but to associate with the wise; and to honor those who are worthy of honor — this is the greatest blessing.
She went on for a good 30-40 minutes about this. She stressed that the foolish, in this case, are not dull and unintelligent, but worldly people blinded by hatred and craving. Now this is all well and good, but she used this as a springboard to talk about discrimination in the workplace and such. Being a sociology professor, she brought in some statistics detailing how women in such and such situations are treated worse than men (they have to work harder, they get punished harder, etc.), and how we (A) should not associate with people who perpetuate those problems and (B) should not allow ourselves to fall into those patterns of behavior. To be sure, this is not adhamma at all, though the volunteer's tone and choice of subject sounded like she had an axe to grind. My main problem is that, again, these are worldly issues, the discussion of which can never get very deep nor very insightful; it paled in comparison to the aforementioned interviews I had with the nuns. It stands to reason, for example, that one who cultivates the brahmavihārās of good-will, compassion, sympathy, and equanimity would treat all his fellows equitably and with detachment—but that's the end of the discussion. All the statistics and bias-studies in the world cannot improve upon that simple teaching.
As ascetics—and surely anyone who trains (ἀσκέω) in the doctrine of awakening is an ascetic—we resolve that worldly struggles and dilemmas lead us nowhere, and that only through interior, transcendent struggles with the mind and spirit can we arrive at truly worthy goals. In the other three events discussed here, the nuns had this same general spirit, almost taking it for granted that everyone had come to learn methods and techniques for treading this path, despite engaging in mundane distractions such as jobs and travel; not, indeed, so that we may work and travel better.
I am again moved to share a quote from Milarepa, one which I have tweeted before:
All formations suffer; the root of this suffering is desire; putting an end to desire puts an end to suffering; this is accomplished by the Eightfold Path, the most critical part of which is, per Milarepa's quotation, Right Contemplation. This is why I have previously indicated that I do not care for sociology nor for politics, because they consist of worrying and fantasizing about other people's lives on the most grandiose scale, verging on megalomania in the case of politics. Therefore, we must learn from monastics instead of academics, and become like monastics ourselves.
