Under the bridge

A story in the Daily Star (UK) runs with the headline: “Homeless man has lived under noisy dual carriageway ‘like a hermit’ for 11 years.” The item is not unusual for a tabloid, conjuring up another story about a crazy man readers can gloat about with a thump, telling themselves they are glad and pleased not to be that madman. Not that the subject is conscious of some moral purpose or pretense. Or that he isn’t mad.

The item is a reminder of a Japanese Zen story about Tosui (among many sources is Zen Flesh, Zen Bones, compiled by Paul Reps and Nyogen Senzaki, first published in 1957). The story gives a dramatic twist to virtue, strength, mindfullness. Plus, it’s a good story.

An old Zen master [Tosui] had grown weary of instructing monks and announced his retirement. He did not indicate to anyone what he intended to do or where he intended to go, but a novice student pursued him and asked. The master looked dubiously at the young inquirer. The master told him that he was going tolive under a bridge, and with that the master grabbed a few things for his bag and left. The novice followed him, saying “I intend to follow you.” The master looked back, scoffing, and turned to make his way.

After some time the master reached the bridge in the middle of the city, which was crowded with poor and lost souls. The master walked about, surveying the homeless, abandoned, half-crazed, confused, and desperate, but also noticing quiet, pensive, studied faces, some scrutinizing him fearlessly. The novice tagged dutifully behind. At last, the old master found an unoccupied spot and settled his few belongings. The novice sat next to him, conspicuously quiet, his large eyes looking about in a mixture of curiosity and terror. The darkness of evening was descending quickly,and so, too, the chilly air. The master wrapped himself in his old cloak and lay down, telling the novice that he was going to sleep. The novice was still looking around him, wide-eyed, fear etched in his face. Slowly, the scene settled, as men moved to their spots beneath the bridge and became motionless in the dark. The novice noticed that the old master had forgotten to eat. Or did not intend to do so, though the novice felt at one moment keen hunger, another a great nausea.

Hours later, daylight was breaking. The homeless under the bridge began to stir, a few at a time. The old master was among them. The novice slept, exhausted. The master looked at the man next to them. He was not moving, but the old master noticed that the man’s face was trapped in a grimace. The old master came nearer, and realized that the man had died overnight. The novice was stirring and pulling himself to a sitting posture. He was stil very uncomfortable, and still looked around himself warily. The old master noticed. “Ah, you are still here!” he said to the novice.”I was sure you would have returned to the monastery by now.”

The novice smiled wanly, searching the master’s eyes for comfort. “See here,” announced the master. “This fellow here, who slept a few feet from us, is quite dead. We will have to bury him shortly. And look! He has left us a half-eaten bowl of rice, no doubt his unfinished dinner. A bit cold, but here, young novice, let’s have breakfast.”

With that the novice wretched and heaved. “Bah!” said the master angrily. “I told you you were no good for this life. Now, go, back to the monastery with you! Get out! And make sure you tell no one that I am here.” And with that the young novice fled.

URL: https://www.dailystar.co.uk/news/homeless-man-lived-under-noisy-22868139

Favorite hermits 4., briefly

Speaking of the benefits of solitude, as in the previous post, a pandemic reading list of Chinese and Japanese hermits is always appropriate — even as pandemic continues, and the relevance of some of our favorite hermits continues to prove perennial. An “Isolation Reading List” from a contributor to the Buddhist magazine Tricycle dates from April 2020. (Other favorites can be added, to be sure.)

The five favorite poets are: 1. Hanshan, 2. Hsieh Ling-yun, 3. Saigyo, 4. Ryokan, 5. Shiwu (Stonehouse).

URL: https://tricycle.org/trikedaily/isolation-reading-list/

Under a bridge

A story in the Daily Star (UK) runs with the headline: “Homeless man has lived under noisy dual carriageway ‘like a hermit’ for 11 years.” The item is not unusual for a tabloid, conjuring up another story about a crazy man readers can gloat about with a thump, telling themselves they are glad and pleased not to be that madman. Not that the subject is conscious of some moral purpose or pretense. Or that he isn’t mad.

The item is a reminder of a Japanese Zen story (source escapes!) that gives a dramatic twist to virtue, strength, mindfullness. Plus, it’s a good story.

An old Zen master had grown weary of instructing monks and announced his retirement. He did not indicate to anyone what he intended to do or where he intended to go, but a novice student pursued him and asked. The master looked dubiously at the young inquirer. The master told him that he was going tolive under a bridge, and with that the master grabbed a few things for his bag and left. The novice followed him, saying “I intend to follow you.” The master looked back, scoffing, and turned to make his way.

After some time the master reached the bridge in the middle of the city, which was crowded with poor and lost souls. The master walked about, surveying the homeless, abandoned, half-crazed, confused, and desperate, but also noticing quiet, pensive, studied faces, some srutinizing him fearlessly. The novice tagged dutifully behind. At last, the old master found an unoccupied spot and settled his few belongings. The novice sat next to him, conspicuously quiet, hislarge eyes looking about in a mixture of curiosity and terror. The darkness of evening was descending quickly,and so, too, the chilly air. The master wrapped himself in his old cloak and lay down, telling the novice that he was going to sleep. The novice was still looking around him, wide-eyed, fear etched in his face. Slowly, the scene settled, as men moved to their spots beneath the bridge and became motionless in the dark. The novice noticed that the old master had forgotten to eat. Or did not intend to do so, though the novice felt at one moment keen hunger, another a great nausea.

Hours later, daylight was breaking. The homeless under the bridge began to stir, a few at a time. The old master was among them. The novice slept, exhausted. The master looked at the man next to them. He was not moving, but the old master noticed that the man’s face was trapped in a grimace. The old master came nearer, and realized that the man had died overnight. The novice was stirring and pulling himself to a sitting posture. He was stil very uncomfortable, and still looked around himself warily. The old master noticed. “Ah, you are still here!” he said to the novice.”I was sure you would have returned to the monastery by now.”

The mnovie smiled wanly, searching the master’s eyes for comfort. “See here,” announced the master. “This fellow here, who slept a few feet from us, is quite dead. We will have to bury him shortly. And look! He has left us a half-eaten bowl of rice, no doubt his unfisnihed dinner. A bit cold, but here, young novice, let’s have breakfast.”

With that the novice wretched and heaved. “Bah!” said the master angrily. “I told you you were no good for this life. Now, go, back to the monastery with you! Get out! And make sure you tell no one that I am here.” And with that the young novice fled.

URL: https://www.dailystar.co.uk/news/homeless-man-lived-under-noisy-22868139

Benefits of soliltude, briefly

The Conversation (an academic newsletter) describes briefly “Why philosophers say solitude can be helpful (even if you didn’t choose it).” Four benefits of solitude are:

1. Freedom to do what you want — any old time;
2. Reconnecting with yourself;
3. Finding your “inner citadel;”
4. Seeing the bigger picture.

Lots of representative quotes from favorite Western classics.

URL:https://theconversation.com/why-philosophers-say-solitude-can-be-helpful-even-if-you-didnt-choose-it-147440

Favorite hermits: 3. Paul of Thebes

Alas, Paul of Thebes is apocryphal, not an historical hermit; he is sprung from the creative quill of St. Jerome. Young Jerome was irascible, strong-willed, moving deftly within elite circles of Rome. Jerome wrote a hagiographic biography of the supposed first Christian hermit shortly after his own conversion around the age of thirty — although some versions suggest he wrote after offending enough people in Rome that he had to leave for Antioch and Bethlehem, where he pursued his best work. Given Jerome, one can speculate that the aspiring ascetic did not like or may even have been jealous of the success of the recent biography of St. Antony by Athanasius, bishop of Alexandria, which exaggerated the monumental struggles against demonic forces by the stalwart Antony — contrasted with the style of quiet contemplation and asceticism now animating Jerome.

The story of Paul, living in quiet solitude in his hermit’s cave, is the obverse of the busy Antony fighting demons and organizing ranks of aspiring hermits. Jerome has the young pre-desert Antony seeking out Paul of Thebes for advice. Antony is tolerated, perhaps, and sent by Paul to Athanasius to bring back a burial cloak for Paul. Here Antony is reduced to errand-runner, and he gets back too late. Paul has died in the meantime. A couple of lions have dug a grave for Paul, Antony having forgotten to bring a spade. Not for this story is Jerome associated with lions, but it’s an early clue of where hagiography about Jerome was to go!

The essential attraction of Paul of Thebes lies in his reflective questions to Antony when Antony first happens upon Paul, isolated in the desert. Says Paul, rhetorically:

Tell me, how fares the human race?
Do new roofs rise in ancient cities?
Whose empire now sways the world?
Do any yet survive, snared in the errors of demons?

And here is the essential question of history and human affairs, whether asked by an observer east or west, ancient or modern. That which the average person finds permanent, enduring, important, are for deeper souls reflective of impermanence, temporality, even poignant in its short-lived presence on earth. This wide contemplation of a trajectory that transcends the concerns of average people is what the hermit catches on to. The hermit pays heed to and takes to heart, the lesson of life and death, watching as the world passes.

Favorite hermits: 2. Desert hermits

A number of characteristics of the early desert hermits of early Christianity both distinguish the hermits and also underscore important characteristics of all likeable hermits, regardless of geography, culture, tradition, or era.

In the first place, the desert hermits are distinctly driven by a spirituality of their own design and practice. Yes, they are Christian, after all, and tacitly accept the dogma and teaching of their era and of the ecclesiastical authorities. But their chief interest is crafting of themselves a perfect spiritual vessel, simple, natural, and unencumbered by the controversies and invective of the day. As St. Antony the Great, the first desert hermit, reputedly said, pursue what God shows you to be your strengths. (And as Thomas Merton notes, the bishops were far away and not very interested in the desert!)

Not only was eremitism their strength but their strength was the manner of life suggested by eremitism: filled with disciplined hours of contemplation, quiet cooperation with others, economic simplicity, adaptation to nature, isolation from crowded populations and their curious idlers.

The desert hermits had no interest in entertaining visitors, though they received them with inevitable patience. Two examples of this:

1. Abba Moses was walking by a crossroads when a group of pilgrims came up, asking where the house of Abba Moses was. “Why do you want to see that old fool?” Moses replied. They insisted. Well, then, said Moses, pointing down the road — except that he was pointing in the opposite direction from his hut.

2. A prestigious bishop came to a hermit to hear what he had to say. After a moment of conversation, the hermit asked the bishop if he would take advice. Yes, certainly, replied the bishop. The hermit leaned closer and said, “In the future, if you hear that I am in a certain place, do not come to see me. For if I see you I must see everyone, and then I will have to leave the place.

And so the desert hermits would not concede that any visitor had priority over their solitude, over their spirituality, over their project. At the same time, we see a touch of the attitude that characterized Diogenes, our first favorite hermit.

This attitude extended to the community of hermits itself. One Sunday, a visiting priest (not knowing the way of hermits, presumably) announced that a particular novice brother present must leave the community — for something heard in confession, it is to be surmised. A certain elder hermit, tall and distinguished, stood up and began making his way out. Wait, cried the priest, where are you going? The elder turned and stated quietly that he, too, is a sinner. The priest was humbled and the novice recalled. For the hermit spirituality was different. Abba Moses himself was famous for his advice when asked about what to do to maintain peace of mind. “Go to your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.”

And as one amma (woman hermit) noted, what is the point of great learning if you lack humility, if you know the fine points of dogma but lack charity, if you go out to see signs and wonders but do not see the marvel of what can be made of your spirit? She was practical enough, too, to note that what is the point of going out to the desert if your heart is full of the city? (Granted that there is a tradition of “hermit in the city” but that would not differ too much from the amma‘s point.) How imminently practical more advice of the amma: What is the point of fasting if you break your fast with a sumptuous meal? Better to eat less daily and not fast at all.

But these anecdotes hone in on only a few expressions of eremitism, expressions of what might be called self-effacement. Leafing through a book on desert hermits (such as Helen Waddell or Benedicta Ward or Thomas Merton) reveals a panoply of archetypal eremitic expressions of the desert hermits. And it’s hard to choose only one hermit or two among them as favorites.

Favorite hermits: 1. Diogenes

Some of my favorite hermits of Western antiquity had “attitude.” What is “attitude”? — surliness, crankiness, anti-social behavior? This “attitude” would fit the stereotype of the hermit being annoying — to society at the least, on the edge of mental instability at most.

But plenty of surly and antisocial people are not hermits. Indeed, the definition of the true hermit includes a deeper self-motive: religious, philosophical, spiritual. While motive does not define “attitude” nor escape the stereotype, the historical hermits have never been socially combative, uncharitable, or obnoxious; they are not recluses shunning people, and have been able to converse civilly and affectionately as needed. But the true hermit also does not coddle hypocrisy.

Diogenes of Sinope, a contemporary of Socrates and Plato, lived in ancient Athens in public places, eating, sleeping, even relieving himself in public — a modern “homeless” person, haranguing the wealthy passersby with choice philosophical advice, “Socrates gone mad,” Plato said of him. Because his behavior was excoriated by the nobler people of the marketplace, who also could not stand his critiques, Diogenes was called a dog, which translates to a “cynic,” hence he is attributed founder of the philosophical school of Cynicism.

One day Alexander the Great and his company was in the vicinity, and Alexander thought to amuse himself by provoking Diogenes. He rode up to him and started a conversation, asking many questions. Diogenes said nothing. Exasperated, Alexander finally asked, “Diogenes, what do you want of me?” We can imagine Diogenes shading his eyes with his hand. “For you to go away. You are blocking the sunlight,” came the reply.

Attitude. A certain inappropriateness, dismissiveness, yet a certain restraint while delivering a withering response. Diogenes is not per se a hermit, but the values he holds closest are a preliminary, a basic ethos. After all, Alexander asked of Diogenes what he wanted. Diogenes replies that basically he wants nothing, not only for his personal needs, no riches, goods, or title, but especially nothing from a vain and powerful man. A man of power whom the hermit disdains but finds not relevant enough to be critiqued, argued with, or given the light of day.

Nietzsche presents a Diogenes-like figure in his little vignette of the madman in the marketplace. In the marketplace, the Athenian agora, the rich and well-born are chatting, trading, bargaining, puffing up their reputations, exchanging gossip. A madman at the edge of the crowd, disheveled, muttering, carrying a lantern, approaches. The madman demands to know why everything is business as usual when, in fact, the big news is out: God is dead! The movers and shakers are amused, and taunt the madman, telling him that, no, God is on holiday, gone to sleep, gotten himself lost, is hiding. The madman shouts that no, God is dead, and you, (corrupt loafers!) have killed him! Now what will you do? What water can wash the blood from your hands? Do you not smell the purification already?

But the crowd is merely uncomfortably silenced. The madman looks around, looks at each of them. No, they don’t know. They don’t realize. The news has not reached them, like the light from an imploding star that has not yet reached the Earth. The madman smashes the lantern to the ground. No, he says, I have come too early. And with that he turns and walks away.

Nietzsche’s Diogenes fits the philosopher’s own interests, of course: the grand question that if modern culture has killed the ethical import of God (an import to which they never lived up and used hypocritically), will they now become gods, substitutes for power, for morals? But the hermit always divines a larger tableau to time, nature, and culture, a tableau not discerned by the people who carry on their small circumspect lives and pursue the demands of society and the marketplace. Diogenes fits the sense of attitude that the hermits don’t necessarily reveal -— and certainly not with such flamboyance. But that is their trajectory, as we shall see.

Next: the desert hermits.

Underground

Popular media eagerly links apropos music to the sensibilities of the present pandemic. Fans of pop-rock music will find “Living in a Ghost Town” by The Rolling Stones a representative choice. The lyrics mention having to go “underground.” The idea suggests two classic literary presentations of “underground,” namely Dostoevsky’s Notes From Underground and Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.

In both novels, “underground” is not just a physical location but a state of mind of the protagonists, a state of involuntary solitude amounting to alienation, disdain, and distrust of society. In Dostoevsky, the protagonist is a bitter man who cannot tolerate hypocrisy, and prefers his aloneness to the company of those he can no longer tolerate. He blames himself for chasing after them too long, for secretly admiring the station and haughtiness of this crowd whom he tried to impress and persuade to like him but failed miserably to win. So he has consciously decided to live “underground,” having nothing to do with them — though he still resents his failure.

In Ellison, “underground” is a method of self-salvation, a black man abused by both blacks and whites, of different political and social persuasions, all of the others flawed, unreliable, failing to understand the protagonist’s personal plight, or the plight of African-Americans in general (the novel was published in 1952). “Underground” to Ellison’s protagonist is safety, anonymity, the status of being an “invisible man,” meaning that he will no longer attempt to persuade others or justify himself to them, but dwell comfortably in his self-effacement. Ellison acknowledged his debt to Dostoevsky, but did not elaborate any analogy with the historical “Underground Railroad” of nineteenth-century United States history. After all, that underground was a physical pathway out of slavery, and such an equivalent social pathway did not exist in his day.

“Living in a Ghost Town” includes a line lamenting that if the lyricist wants to party during the lockdown, it’s a party of one. True. But it’s always a party of one. If the lockdown ends, if the pandemic ends, will society be any different in the eyes of the solitary,the urban hermit, or the one gone underground?

Anthony Storr, the author of Solitude, A Return to Self, quotes the psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott’s 1958 essay “The Capacity to Be Alone,” where Winnicott notes the popular emphasis on “the fear to be alone or the wish to be alone [rather] than on the ability to be alone.” As Storr and others have since shown, this capacity is not pathological but, in fact, necessary and healthy. And the pandemic is reminding us of this fact.

URLs: Hermitary reviews: https://www.hermitary.com/bookreviews/dostoyevsky.html and https://www.hermitary.com/bookreviews/ellison.html; “Living in a Gost Town”: https://youtu.be/LNNPNweSbp8

Thoughts in a pandemic

The coronavirus pandemic has prompted many columnists, bloggers, and popularizers to comment on solitude, usually addressed as a necessary coping mechanism. They are speaking not of solitude as such but of what author Sue Halpern describes in her book Migrations to Solitude as “involuntary solitude.” But can staying at home, social isolation in a pandemic, equate to the involuntary solitude of the recluse, the prison inmate, the patient with terminal disease, the widowed or bereaved, the mentally ill? A true solitude is not only not involuntary but a profession, a project, an embrace of persona and destiny. Not a small order, compared to what the columnists think of as a spell of isolation calling for lots of time-killers: games and puzzles, movie-binging, and the reading of tomes never intended to be read anyway.

Solitude is the realm of the hermit, the mystic, the creative artist. It belongs to a different realm than physical solitude, than the psychological realm that equates solitude with loneliness. Solitude is assigned to the introvert to a degree, but is otherwise chosen deliberately, if not consciously.

The health worker confronting illness and death is not a solitary, of course. But also not a mere unit working with others as in a military operation. (The vocabulary of war, attack, assault, defense, troops, front lines, etc.is unfortunate and ultimately misleading, revealing how society values the work — and death — of the warrior over that of anyone else.) The health worker holds to a unique and selfless vocation, not an involuntary pursuit. But the moral dimension of their arduous work lifts them, in a time of pandemic, to a loftier realm. Not loftier in an entirely moral sense, for it is not a matter of pointing out heroism versus pedestrianism. All this makes solitude for the person stuck at home–grudgingly conforming to social isolation–an opportunity to pursue better habits. Taking up better habits with reluctance and a willful involuntariness is self-defeating and bad faith.

One good reading source in a time of pandemic is Albert Camus’ The Plague. As an existentialist, Camus is attempting to reveal a necessary truth about any situation, but without moralizing, just plainly and realistically. The plague of the novel is the backdrop to a specific geography and people. Granted that several main characters are clear projections of Camus, that the city is a projection of life itself, does not detract from the detail and suspense of daily existence, or our concern for the fate of the characters.

The chief protagonist is Dr. Rieux, who comes to be in charge of the quarantined city’s medical response, who spends his days and evenings facing the plague and its death ravages unflinchingly. A journalist Rembert wants to escape the city, bribe the sentries that he may break the quarantine and return to Paris, but eventually the example of Rieux convinces him to stay and to work with the doctor. Similarly, the priest Panteloux sermonizes at the beginning that the plague was God’s punishment for the guilty. As the plague continues its course, killing indifferently, Panteloux starts searching for clearer explanations, and joins Rieux in the hospital wards. There, at Rieux’s side, they witness a child die in agony, crying out wretchedly until dying, and the doctor whirls angrily at the priest, stating that the child at least was certainly innocent. We must bend to the mysterious will of God,the priest argues. We must come to love that will. No, replies Rieux. “Until my dying day I shall refuse to love a scheme of things in which children are put to torture.” Panteloux searches for the final word, telling himself that he himself must, therefore, have grace. Rieux demurs. Panteloux congratulates Rieux for working for man’s salvation, like himself. “Salvation is much too big a word for me. I don’t aim so high. I’m concerned with man’s health, and for me his health comes first.”

The character Tarrou offers a lengthy summary of Camus’ philosophy of life.”Each of us has the plague within him,” he says. “We must keep endless watch on ourselves lest in a careless moment we breathe in somebody’s face.” The plague here is not just microbial. It is not just an abstract notion of original sin or human nature. It is the malevolence of the world and society that infects every person. It sits within waiting to manifest itself and infect others. It is, as Tarrou suggests, “a weariness from which nothing remains to set us free except death.” And until that release, “I know no place in the world of today.” When he refused to follow social conventions of war and violence, Tarrou knew that he “doomed” himself to “an exile that can never end. I leave it to others to make history … I’ve learned modesty. All I maintain is that on this earth there are pestilences and there are victims,and it’s up to us, so far as possible, not to join forces with pestilences.”

“It comes to this,” Tarrou said almost casually; “what interests me is learning how to become a saint.”
“But you don’t believe in God.” [Rieux replies].
“Exactly! Can one be a saint without God? — that’s the problem, in fact the only problem.”

In the end, the characters realize that life in the plague is simply life itself. Suffering and death are always around us, are intrinsic to existence, that they are not separate, that we are the plague itself. That is why we are in this together, not because we form society, friendship, or perform acts of heroism, sanctity, or high morals. Rather, because we are human beings, we live and die, all of us. This is the common, the universal fate we all share,and we owe one another a certain “decency,” as Camus puts it, regardless of our personal beliefs.

One last thought. This is the month of April. The opening line of T. S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland” tells us: “April is the cruelest month …” It is the cruelest month because it taunts us with the coming of spring, the passing of winter, sometimes clear and sunny, sometimes filling the air with sleet and snowfall. Pity the plants perked to raise their heads above the ground to welcome a spell of warmth only to be beaten down. And the birds, their cheerful song and carefree flitters cut short by a sudden cold, killing many. Such is the course of life, misinterpreting the signs, trusting in hopes, expectations dashed, refusing to wait long enough to discover the true nature of the cycle of seasons, the cycles of nature, the cycles of life. Patience and observation are the sage’s strengths, never assuming or grasping, practicing Chuang-tzu’s wu-wei, or “no-action” or, at least no harm.

A conversation about meditation

Q. You have been pursuing meditation?

A. Yes. It is going well. Just an aside, though: I notice in reading here and there a growing corporate and institutional interest in meditation. How can they impart the values of meditation when coming from there?

Q. It’s been coming since the late seventies with the 1975 book Relaxation Response by Herbert Benson, a Harvard physician. You could call it a secularization, though its more than that. Benson’s schema was based on Transcendental Meditation, popularized by Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Which was based on reciting a mantra. Benson was trying to address the excess epinephrine or cortisol in the body, which sets off an overreaction to stress, even when stress is not perceived. The issue is far more complex than was made out to be, and continues to be complex, even though drugs address excess epinephrine and high blood pressure. The issue is complex,too, because each individual has multiple points of stress, some more obvious, most unconscious or subconscious. Today most of the recommended regimes of meditation no longer even try to address the more deep-seated sources. The corporate and institutional programs simply try to get workers fortified enough to reenter the work world every Monday morning, to carry on in the midst of stresses, anxiety, worries, insecurities, just living in the world and being productive enough for somebody else.

A. Is it legitimate?

Q. I suppose the effort is trying to help modern people cope with modern society. Although society, the world, has always been this way, to some degree. That’s why practice of meditation arose in the first place, the condition of living. I am not sure how successful the effort is in imparting particular values. Only in terms of reconciling oneself to the world, life, and oneself. The danger of the corporate method is when it is used simply to inoculate employees to their work, highly stressed and perhaps inimical to their mental health, if not irrelevant, demeaning, or pointless.

A. That’s what I thought.

Q. How about your practice? You are following a traditional system of Zen?

A. Yes. It is going well. Plus I am reading reflectively, poets, philosophers, thinkers. I discovered and am following the advice, the mentality, if you will,of Shunryu Suzuki’s beginner’s mind, trying to maintain the simplicity and the renewed energy each time I sit.

Q. That’s very good. Attitude is important. How are the mechanics?

A. Well,for one thing, I am not distracted by images at all. (Laughs.) Perhaps, I thought, it’s because my eyesight is poor. Without glasses I don’t see much, so closing my eyes shuts out a lot of potential image-making.

Q. Like the old comic strip where the sleeper has a dream bubble over his head but the images in it are out of focus. He puts on his glasses (still asleep) and suddenly the images in the dreamer are clear.

A (Laughs.) They were Borges’s dreamtigers, reversed back to childhood. Where they are clear, but don’t mean much.

Q. What about thoughts?

A. Some people say one ought to observe the thought, note what it is, then ignore it, let it float away, like a cloud. Others say just ignore it. The latter, that’s what I do. If I look at it, so to speak, I give it life, give it credence. Better to let it float past, right? Except sometimes it floats away too slowly!

Q. Yes, best ignore it. What about sounds?

A. Ah, now that’s interesting. First off, I don’t like mantras. Why generate or contrive things? Isn’t breathing enough? At least it is normal, necessary, a reflection of a universal sign of being alive, of being itself. But sound, which is noise? Sometimes I repeat conversations, pieces of news reports or the like. I let them go as soon as I can. And music! Even if I recently listened to music, at the time of meditation I have the snippet of music stuck in my head!

Q. What Oliver Sacks, the neurologist, called “earworm” in his book Musicophilia.

A. Exactly. And very hard to get rid of. Didn’t he say that the only way to get rid of an earworm is to replace it with another earworm?

Q. Yes, unfortunately. Until they give out. Earworms are my trouble, too. You know, it just comes down to not listening to music, at least not too frequently or regularly. A regular music fast is good. Replace music with music that has no melody, no tune, and no rhythm. That would be ambient music, at least that genre that has no intentionality, that reflects a quietude the composer found in a particular state of mind. Another “cleansing” genre is the music, the sound, of the shakuhachi, the Japanese flute. Some traditional works are better than modern ones, though Stan Richardson is a top artist in this regard. Also, I am always searching for true minimalist music, though there are a lot of versions of that, not all reliable. But the search is interesting in itself

A. Yes, very good. I will pursue it.

Q. And for how long are you meditating?

A. Started with ten minutes, then fifteen. Much too short to accomplish much. It takes that long just to silence the earworm, you know, or to cast out that lingering thought-cloud. I am finding twenty minutes good for my present level.

Q.Good. If you can do thirty minutes, so much the better. Then forty minutes. And so forth. But you know yourself.

A. Meditating is almost like exercising that long, especially like stretching that long.

Q. Think of it more like going for a walk. A twenty minute walk is the same as forty minutes, just longer. But if you are focused the walk you will not notice the extra time. And walking you have to plan a route, even if doubling over the same terrain. Not so with meditation. You just launch out until the meditation timer calls you back.

A. True enough. The longer the session, the better the breathing, too.

Q. You will find that the first sign, the regularity, the depth, of breathing. After a while, you are not just observing the breathing, which you are supposed to be doing all along, you are actually falling away from any observation, any sort of spying or overseeing, of the breathing. You may find that you are watching your whole self, not merely the breathing. You may find yourself observing from a point beyond your self, indifferent to your self and that your body is being “breathed.” Sometimes observing the breath too literally can get mixed up with causation. The longer meditation period addresses that by detaching the observer even from the breath, and therefore the self from the self that is breathing or is being “breathed.”

A. That’s an interesting way to look at it. You mean you forget that you are there and sitting and breathing?

Q. Yes, in effect. Of course, you always know, but you are not giving primacy, it is falling away to the process. The mind’s emptiness allows this to happen. That is perhaps a goal of meditation, but we don’t want to talk about goals because we are not trying to accomplish or succeed at anything. We are just sitting and letting the universe express itself during the mind’s silence. Or, frankly, not express itself.

A. And from this silence come all the healthful benefits people want from meditation?

Q.That’s right: calmness, relaxation, lower blood pressure and the like. Lots of what I call “secular” programs aim at these results. They don’t see — or don’t care — what the deep resources that proffer these benefits are. They don’t want to promote a philosophy, after all, not a spirituality. But the resources are there, waiting for us, and only need encouragement, nurturing, watering, so to speak. If these deeper resources help, fine, they will say with a wink. But there is always the sad fact that people will not have the fullest sense of meditation and its potential if they don’t dig deeper into the historical origins and resources of meditation. Meditation isn’t just for coping.