Meditation
I’ve decided to write a little explanation of meditation based on my meager knowledge that I have gleaned from Buddhist literature and Shambhala meditation training weekend I attended some time ago. Although questions on the specifics of meditation are many, I find that the two most common first questions about meditation are the following: First, what is the purpose of meditation? And second, how does one meditate?

Upon consulting literature with the intention of discovering the purpose of meditation, one is likely to find a number of different explanations. Some sources say that meditation is for relaxation; others say that it’s primarily useful in gaining control of one’s own mind. There are even those who, due to a smattering of eclectic eastern beliefs distorted through a web of misinterpretation and obfuscation, insist that meditation can give one fantastic powers if practiced correctly. However, the most interesting and perplexing position on the purpose of meditation is the simplest as well. It is the stance held by those who declare that meditation has no purpose at all.

Now, upon hearing the last suggesting, no doubt some readers will suspiciously note that the answer appears, on the face of it, to be nihilistic, obscurant in nature, or just plain silly. I belief, however, that this answer comes closest to the truth as well as being more practical. The reason is this--meditation is most effective if one does not have any specific goal to reach or purpose to fulfill by doing so. Now, the observant reader may argue that the term “effective” presupposes some sort of unmentioned goal, one that is only attained when the lesser goals of relaxation or self-control are abandoned. This criticism is not unwarranted, but only half true. Relaxation and self-control must be admitted to be benefits of meditation, but they are not goals of meditation per se. If meditation had a relaxation as a goal, then one would have failed at meditation if one did not feel sufficiently relaxed while practicing it—and I assure you that this is not the case. One does not fail or succeed at meditation. Perhaps an analogy will help illustrate what I’m getting at—one does not really succeed or fail at walking as long as one does it, although one might not reach the place he or she intended. To fail at meditation would be to not sit down and meditate.

A denial of goal oriented meditation is also an answer undertaken from a much more pragmatic standpoint than I belief is often realized. Although meditation is not goal oriented, it is still a practice, and one that is primarily mental in nature, since physical posture is a relatively simple matter, which I will later address. To meditate is to simply be where you are, without anything particular in mind. If you have a specific purpose in mind, this mental aspect of meditation will be non-existent. Instead of passively being, you will be constantly monitoring yourself, checking your progress toward your goal. This is, of course, self-defeating with respect to those purposes—excessive worry or introspection does nothing to further the goals of relaxation or self-control. The quickest way to commence meditation is, then, is to abandon the superfluous processes of mind-policing by firmly reminding yourself that one cannot fail at meditation, and thus needn’t worry about it.

How does one meditate? If one consults literature on meditation, one is likely to find a different method in every book. Many books are very insistent that their particular meditation posture is the correct. Often the reason for this insistence is tradition. If you are consulting a religious source, they may be part of a sect that has been meditating in a specific way in their temple for who knows how many hundreds of years. I assure you, however, that it is best to simply pick a method that sounds right to you, and stick with it.

There are a few common elements that are almost universal in the various meditation postures. First of all, one should be sitting for sitting meditation, although you may walk for walking meditation, eat for eating meditation, and so forth. Although any posture is bound to make you feel a bit stiff the first few times, an acceptable posture should include sitting in a natural and reasonably comfortable way with your back strait. All though one usually crosses one’s legs, I must assure you that your meditation will not be the worse off for your having not assumed the full lotus position. Keep your eyes open, or you’ll likely fall asleep. Lastly, keep your face forward, chin tucked slightly in.

Don’t get caught up on sifting through hundreds of methods and worrying over whether your posture is “correct”. People often practice as if they assume that a minute element of their posture, such as the angle at which their head is tilted, is of supreme importance, which it isn’t. Things are done for relatively mundane reasons. You sit because standing is harder and laying down is not hard enough. You cross your legs because it’s uncomfortable and hard to balance while you have your legs stretched straight out in front of you. If religious practitioners are concerned about the specifics of their posture, it is often because they believe that one posture represents the awakened supreme Buddha. However, the most important thing seems to just do it rather than read about it.

I have already mentioned that meditation has no purpose or goal. This does not mean, however, that it has no value. The marvelous thing about meditation is that its value seems to be intrinsic, rather than utilitarian in nature. One can learn a great deal about oneself and one’s world through meditation. As to what those lessons are, that is left for the mediator to discover on one’s own. Just remember that the lessons are benefits, rather than goals to be sought. Really, that’s a lesson in itself.

Consciousness, Self, and Philosophy of Mind

I’ve been interested in philosophy of mind lately. Truth be told, I find it to be a very difficult subject to think clearly about. I think that this difficulty is, perhaps, a consequence of the recursive nature of self-consciousness. Recursion in general seems to give rise to a certain level of vagueness and confusion, and care is needed to be as precise as one can be. Conscious seems to be particularly enigmatic—at once ever-present and elusive. Before dealing with the nature of its existence and its relations with other things, one would think that it would first be necessary to get an idea of what consciousness is, and what exact ally it is that we’re dealing with. Unfortunately, this first step is one of the most the most complicated aspects of philosophy of mind—the first step is the trickiest.

Many philosophers of mind refer to subjectively experienced components of existence as “qualia”. Subjective experiences such as brown, happy, and cold are all examples of qualia. Qualia, however, has quite a bit of controversy attached to it however. Some philosophers, such as Daniel Dennett, deny the existence of qualia altogether, denying that it as something substantial that need be accounted for by a theory of consciousness. Other philosophers of mind, such as David Chalmers, think that this amounts to trying to solve a problem by ignoring it. According to the introduction to his book, Chalmers considers it quite obvious that consciousness exists and needs to be explained. I’m not so sure, personally.

I wonder if it’s possible that what we call consciousness is not something inherently different from the physical, but instead a particular facet or face of the physical world, a subsection of the material if you will. This fits in well with many Buddhist elements of consciousness—the illusory nature of the self. There would be not necessity of an observer—what we call subjective experience is just a particular facet of physical existence. Although I think that this is a possibility, I’m by no means convinced that this is the case either. Bertrand Russell once said that a theory of matter must be strange, regardless of how it’s made. I think that the same goes for a theory of consciousness. It’s bizarre to think that consciousness could arise from matter, but equally bizarre to think that matter consciousness is completely separate from matter. Bizarre no matter which way it arises, really.

I’ve been thinking through an interesting consequence of the theory that our minds are not any different than a biological computer. I want to write down my thoughts on the matter before I read more about Chalmers hypothetical panpsychism, for I believe that it might be similar. My own hypothetical runs as follows. Let’s say that our minds are not inherently different from a computer, and that the brain is something roughly similar to a biological circuit board. Now surely, if a biological computer can give rise to consciousness, then a silicon computer can as well. But why stop there? I could easily make a Turing machine with a collection of stones, my own hands, and some instructions. Now, this would be terribly inconvenient, but it is theoretically possible. Well, if I can make a computer out of stones, and if computers can become conscious, than why can’t a mind be made out of stone, carrots, or Brussels sprouts?

Now, in the examples I have mentioned, I have been part of the machine, my hands moving the objects, considering them as discrete elements of data. But is my conscious self an essential component of such a created mind? This is the most pressing question. You see, when a computer adds, there is no evidence that it realizes that is adding. But if consciousness is not necessary to perceive information as discrete binary components, then couldn’t anything be conscious? From ant colonies to fields of asteroids.

Pains of the Ineffable

I type only portions of what I think; indeed, I limit myself to writing only of those portions that can be written about. An when all of the explicable has been wrought into words, I find that so much remains yet unsaid. A Zen master once said that we cannot say truth, but can only point to it. Shakespeare’s Hamlet said that there are “More things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in our Philosophy.” I feel it’s true. After I am done expounding upon dry philosophical topics, I still havn’t even touched upon the edges of that which is beautiful.

There are so many things that I would like to write about. Not philosophical things—that which I wish to speak of is happily vague, or at least incapable of being expressed with the level of clarity that could be considered strictly philosophical. I come to the computer with a fire in my mind, a vision of glory, only to have it dissipate into dreams and shadows, like a morning mist driven away come daylight. All that remains is a faint feeling that there was once something beyond the broad daylight, something I would remember if I could.

Perhaps painful is too strong a word. The subtle ache is more akin to a sort of melancholy. And yet, even this silken nostalgia must pass. Its fabric soon becomes punctured by new thoughts that prod it with needle sharpness; doubt. It is possible that the nostalgia has no subject. Perhaps there is nothing beyond the yearning. It may be empty. As the doubts advance, I take reality as my balm. Whatever the unknowable is, it is. It is what it is. My faint attempts to grasp it are what they are as well. To me, this approach is more than a meaningless tautology—it marks acceptance of the way that the world is, whatever it is.

The world, insofar as I experience it, is a rough and rocky one. It exists with greater solidity than our idealized sterilized conceptions and pictures of it. For me, the greatest evidence that there is a reality beyond myself is the fact that events seem to depend on me so little. If there were nothing beyond myself, then how could I ever feel confused or lost? In this rockiness, I find nuance and flavor. It is a world devoid of undiluted agony or ecstasy. Everything exists in a sort of flux. My pains and pleasures are not solid, but rather tentative, as I wordlessly question their right to existence. When I am happy, I am not happy because I somehow manage to partially partake in some kind of essential or ideal happiness. I am happy in the precise way that I am happy at the moment, although I know not what that way is. And yet, I cannot even say for certain whether the world is rough, or just my part of it.