Month: August 2003

When we get to the realization that all things are one (this is perhaps best expressed by Vedanta and Zen), we are suddenly confronted with the realization, too, that we are complicitous with everything humans do. It is a sobering, even discouraging, thought, but it also means that everything good that we do is also shared, in that cosmic sense. This is why we pursue simplicity and attempt to practice what is wise. In affecting our daily lives we affect that oneness. The existentialist objects: “The divine mathematics doesn’t add up.” But it doesn’t have to add up because we don’t know what the “numbers” are anyway. Making cosmic sums is a contrived pastime. All we really need to know is what we are doing right now.

The shaman is not a mystic. Perhaps the shaman’s wise advice is what anyone else could have given, or perhaps the shaman’s insights were the product of drugs, as Bill Porter suggests of ancient Chinese shamans and as is known of Yaqui and other North American indigenous peoples. But the mystic shares the shaman’s individuality, his direct link to the divine, circumventing (or defying) authority. Every major world religion has its mystics, all of whom did not fit the established order and its insistence on an institutional and prescribed “way.” Still, the mystic does not fight authority, and only requires solitude. At the same time, also like the shaman, the mystic could be very practical. John of the Cross was a tireless administrator, and many mystics devoted themselves to helping others, like the Russian starets or the Hindu sage Ramakrishna. Being a hermit is a mode of life that, by doing away with contrivances and getting to the real nature of living, can provide a setting for a deep appreciation of mysticism.

Who can vouch for the wisdom of the people? In an agrarian culture, left to their own devices, the people can be wise, for their only teacher is nature. Shamans thrive in such simple circumstances. Their insights are experiences, not doctrines. They teach a wisdom seen, felt, and lived, not inherited. They have no permanent or compelling authority. But this collective wisdom is broken, stolen, and destroyed by the dominance of hunter-based society. Under the hunter, nature’s voice is silenced. At first the propitiation for animal sacrifice is made, but gradually animal sacrifice is an end to itself, and the propitiation of gods merely a symbol, the propitiation of nature forgotten. Then everything must be “run” through the agencies of king or emperor and his warlords and priests. There is no room for shamans with experiences, only priests with doctrines. There is no end to sacrifice: human sacrifice and war become necessary and common. Thus does society create — or, rather, suffer — politics.

Because of the ancient emperor’s absolute authority in all spheres of existence, a good or wise emperor was essential. This is why the ethical literature from Confucius to Lao-tzu and beyond always emphasizes advice to the ruler, as if the emperor must be a sage. Because according to ancient wisdom — he must. An emperor who is not a sage leads us straight to the atrocities of modern civilization. That is what is called totalitarianism. And if the people of modern civilization are not wise also, they become complicitous in the emperor’s doings, his atrocities included. And that is what is called democracy.

We are accustomed to the fragmentation of authority among branches of government, institutions, corporations and the like in modern times. But in ancient societies, the king or emperor was typically the sole authority. Thus the emperor was the responsible model for ethical conduct. In ancient China, the emperor embodied all human potentialities. Hence Confucius made service to the emperor the axis of social and religious expression. Easy was it for him to deal with the emperor’s failure, however. “When the emperor is good,” he advised, “serve. When the emperor is evil, withdraw.” There was no system through which to work out grievances, no checks and balances, recalls or elections, no due process. “Withdraw,” he said simply.

And this was the beginning of eremicism.

I have a wooden bowl from which I eat dry foods, or foods not very wet. Due to ignorance I first neglected the bowl and it cracked a little. Now I know to oil the bowl regularly. Much of the crack is healed, from the inside towards the top, though the tell-tale line, like a scar, remains. The bowl serves faithfully, while quietly reminding me of my own foibles. This is for me an insight into the notion of wabi.

The ditches are full of water from the heavy rains and do not drain much even when the rains stop. Across the surface, waterbugs skim and glide in a straight line that I could not draw. They remind me, though, of the autumn crickets in Chinese and Japanese poetry, unaware that winter is coming. The waterbugs don’t know that eventually the water in the ditches will drain. But, then, we don’t pay much attention to our own winter, to our own little ditches draining, do we? Waterbug, what was your face like before your parents were born? Not quite a koan, but at the moment it seems sufficient.

The solitary or would-be hermit grows emotionally and psychologically by accepting his or her propensity for solitude and reclusion. Such a propensity is based not on introversion, which only needs a good rationale (or excuse) to find itself embracing a solitary life. The introvert must be wary of making eremitism an easy escape from people and the world. (This is why religious orders, east and west, test their would-be hermits with years of spiritual practice.) Our approach to eremitism should be mature in the sense that it develops logically and naturally but also with growing insight. Insight distinguishes the hermit as sage versus the solitary as mere sad misfit. It is always interesting to witness an extroverted person embracing eremitism, or to see a traditional hermit comfortable with visitors from the outside world. But there are dangers to this easy traffic. In the end the hermit is not only alone but embraces solitude because solitude is an insight into the condition of us all. The solitary witnesses to profound realities that the rest of the world misses. The solitary is the unseen flower in the woods or desert, beautiful whether seen or unseen.

The rain falls in torrents. It sounds especially evocative when it hits the metal ladder and stray pails at the rear of the house. Each point of metal evokes a different sound: bass sounds like violas, pitched cadence like lead violins, hollow sounds slightly enriched, like oboes, regular thumps like percussion. But the composition is open to the influence of wind and the physics of water dripping at different rates from the roof and its angles. And the music itself is not reproducible. It only happens once, now, it seems to say, so listen.

Study, for the solitary or would-be hermit, means observing the self, watching the self respond and react in different circumstances. The self becomes an object to observe and to study. But study also refers to the typical pursuit of formal (or informal) study of knowledge, information, history, events, traditions, creative productions. Study can be a useful prerequisite to our chosen eremitical life style. Yes, it sounds like reading and reflecting, but not of the classroom or daily paper variety. In the modern world it is indispensable to learn as much as one can about a body of knowledge or a set of skills. Modern culture intends to overwhelm the individual, to make the individual dependent in thought and heart. Of course, all cultures do this, but the means and methods of technology, institutions, and organizations today seem particularly insidious. To find a congenial and benign setting for learning (and living) will be difficult without a great deal of flexibility and tolerance on one’s part, but also reserve and demurring from the habits and opinions of the world.