Happiness

Happiness is

never asking what happiness is,

and never feeling the need to answer it

A Zen Story

One day Mara, the Evil One, was traveling through the villages of India with his attendant. They saw a man whose face was lit up in wonder. The man had just discovered something on the ground in front of him. Mara’s attendant asked what that was and Mara replied, "A piece of truth."

"Doesn’t this bother you when someone finds a piece of truth, O Evil One?" his attendant asked. "No," Mara replied. "Right after this, they usually make a belief out of it."

Zen story

A Zen student, who felt he had mastered his learning, decided to leave his master and go to the world to find his own students. When he asked his master’s blessing, his master pointed at a pile of rocks and asked, if the pile was there, or if it was only in his student’s mind. 

The student answered that the sacred Buddha had taught us that as everything in the world is the manifestation of our mind, the pile of rocks, as well was only the creation of the mind. 

“It’s a very heavy load to walk around with in your travel”, answered the Zen master. Why don’t you stay until you can leave it here behind you?

Quotes from the honest guru

I know you think you understand what you thought I said, but I don’t think you realize that what you heard was not what I meant.

Zen sotry

Did you hear about the Zen Master who goes
up to the hot dog vendor and says, "Make me
one with everything"?

Effortless Himalayas

When my friend asked me if I’d join him on a three-week mountain climbing, thrill and anxiety were the emotions I experienced, especially when I learnt that the climb was graded 'extremely strenuous’.

As an untrained middle-aged man who couldn’t run a mile, I was under no illusion about my physical ability to endure such a feat. I also knew that I wouldn’t be able to change this condition in the couple of weeks leading up to the departure. So rather than working on my physical fitness, which I hoped would take care of itself during the adventure – albeit the hard way – it was my mind that needed some intense preparation. I realised that being so unfit, my body wouldn’t cope with my normal mindset of achievement, competitiveness and overcoming challenges. To survive the trek, my attitude would need a major readjustment.

Unlike physical training, my mental training routine (which consisted predominantly of mind games and visualisation exercises) could be done anywhere, anytime – even during the hectic preparation schedule that preceded our departure. So when the eight-seater aircraft was finally dropping onto the steep Himalayan airstrip from which we were to start our trek, 3,000 metres above sea level, effortless trekking was my frame of mind. That is, if it gets hard, slow down; if it’s still hard, rest.

The first day involved a mild, short walk to let the body acclimatise to the altitude and the walking. At night we met other climbers. Those who were also on their way to the mountains were boasting about their preparation, training and fitness; those on the way back were talking about how strenuous (though amazing) their experience had been. Hearing this, I knew, more than ever, that it was my mind that would make this journey either an experience of a lifetime… or a disaster.

           

The awe-inspiring Himalayan scenery kept changing as altitude increased. The mountains grew taller, the vegetation was replaced by ice-covered cliffs, and as the air got thinner, each move was harder than the one before. But otherwise, the days were all alike: getting up before first light and walking and climbing for the rest of the day. Step by step, up or down, I concentrated on keeping my state of mind. I had nothing to prove to anyone – least of all to myself. Other could be slower or faster, it did not matter. I was continuously conscious of my breathing: never moving too fast to lose my breath; never too fast to miss a sight, a flower or a passing bird. Climbing was not to become a routine, and there was not a single moment when I was unwilling to pause, look around, and feel astonished that I was really there.

As the days passed, fitness did not seem to matter any longer. Even the fittest of climbers were starting to feel the accumulated strain: the minor injuries that had become major irritations without proper rest and care, and the effects of the many too-cold-to-sleep nights. In some way, it seemed as if the fitter the person had been, the more they found it harder later on – as if they were not accustomed to dealing with situations in which their fitness alone was not enough. But there was no choice. With no communication or means of transportation, carrying your body weight was the only way up, and the only way back home.

However, this lack of choice was liberating, and I realised how enslaving my full-of-choice life back home really was. What should I do today? Who do I go out with? Having choices had taken my freedom away. Enslavement to choice is a curse, just like any other enslavement. But in the mountains there were no options: I was moving on because I needed to reach the night’s shelter; I was eating because I was hungry. There was no other option whatsoever.

I had always believed that choice meant control. But in the world’s highest mountains range, which emerged millions of years ago from the sea and will eventually go back there again, what meaning could the term ‘control’ have? Frequent avalanches and rockslides in the surrounding mountains made me aware that at any moment a new name may be added to the hundreds of memorial stones along the way. This, I realised, was no different in the world I left behind, only there I was too vain or preoccupied to notice that control was nothing but an attractive illusion.

Like getting used to carrying a heavy backpack, barely noticing it was there until the moment you remove it; in losing choice I experienced a similar feeling. As nothing was under my control any longer, there was nothing to worry about. My mind could roam free, and I experienced happiness I never knew existed.

All my life I had made plans, set priorities and believed that my ideas were important. But now, without plans and worries, my mind was working like it had never done before. Every sight could trigger a flood of knowledge, some of which I hadn’t accessed since my school days. I recognised the stars I saw at night and remembered how they were formed; I could recall the details of the creation of the Himalayas and the history of its people. I could also easily acquire new memories and remember every turn along the way and every flower I saw. It was as if a new mind was bestowed upon me. 

And then, half-way up, my perception changed. Sensations were floating through my mind without touching me. There was no difference between the brightly coloured rose finches pecking the snow patches in search of food, or the smell of the smoke coming from burning yak manure in a nearby village. Words like ‘beautiful’, ‘magnificent’ or ‘ugly’ lost their meaning, and the bright white glacier above my head was no more amazing than the little pebble at my feet. How can I say that one is more magnificent than the other?

I was still the same person with the same body. I could feel the cold breeze biting my face; I was not immune to severe diarrhoea or sinusitis. Discomfort was still discomfort; pain was pain, but it didn’t bother me and I didn’t suffer. I still got hungry and needed food, but hunger was not suffering, it was just the need of food.

           

It was an experience I couldn’t find words to convey to those around me, who had noticed the change. “If it’s only the next step that is important,” they pried, “why do you insist on reaching the peak, and not simply stay here?”

Was it just another illusion that it didn’t matter, one of so many lies you convince yourself to be true? I had to know, and I decided to stop, and the very last mile before reaching the pinnacle – the ultimate goal – I had to know, maybe for the first time in my life, how it would feel not to reach my destination.

The others kept climbing up and I stayed. There was no feeling of missing out on anything when they were having the view from the top while I was looking at the rocks and moss at the bottom. There was no jealousy when they returned, told their stories. The magnificent view they saw and my sitting a few hundred feet below were all the same to me. It made no difference whatsoever.

Then we all turned back and started the long descend – one step at a time.

Time has passed and the intensity of the experience has diminished. In some sense, life back home is still as it had always been: I still make plans and strive to achieve my goals, my imperfect memory is back, and so are my old mental abilities. But something subtle, barely noticeable, yet fundamental has changed. The big ancient tree in the back yard is still beautiful, but no more than the weeds in the pavement. I enjoy looking at both just the same. I still try to avoid failing, but there is no pain when I do; there is no feeling of urgency or struggle, even when urgency is required. Yet, in some mysterious way, I now achieve more with less – more than ever before.

The Cuckoo & The Nightingale

A woman I knew once confessed that at times, whenever she becomes horny for no apparent reason, she gets a glimpse of how men feel most of the time, and sympathies with them. This is a novel confession, as many women would simply blame men for being what they are, rather than what women believe they should be.

But this is not merely a problem of men and women. How often do we criticize others, or think they are stupid or useless without trying to understand their viewpoint, feeling and thinking?

Under normal conditions, you may not be able to understand how anyone can be gay, enjoy being an accountant, or goes on a suicide mission. But have you ever tried to truly imagine yourself in their shoes, and see the world the way they see it? You will then discover that your own point of view may be just as wrong as everyone else’s.

The nightingale does not resent
The cuckoo’s simple song.
But you,
If I don’t think like you,
You tell me that I am wrong.

(old Zen poem)

Evolution Theory and Old Chinese Wisdom

Today I saw a hawk chasing a sparrow. This reminded me of an old Chinese tale of wisdom.

The master and his disciple were sitting in the forest studying the sutras when they noticed a fox chasing a rabbit.

Disciple: Let’s watch and see if the fox catches its prey, master.

Master: There is no need to watch. The rabbit will safely escape.

Disciple: Oh great master, teach me how to tell the future.

Master: It’s no future telling. The fox runs for his food, but the rabbit runs for his life.

This is just to show how little the old Chinese knew about evolution. And if you are curious, the hawk did catch the sparrow.