Showing posts with label meditation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label meditation. Show all posts

Jul 30, 2020

Consciousness, Redux

Here’s a summary of some of the things I have learned through meditation practice and through listening to skilled practitioners and reading what they’ve written.

  1. Consciousness is the only thing of which I can be certain. (Thank you, Sam Harris!).
  2. I am not entirely sure of what consciousness is. No one seems to be. But I know it when I see it. In me, because that’s the only place where I experience it.
  3. Awareness is different than consciousness. When I am not asleep, I am not conscious of most of what is around me. But I am aware of some things of which I am not conscious.
  4. Attention is different than awareness and consciousness
  5. The Mind Illuminated proposes that both awareness and attention are aspects of consciousness. The goal of meditation is to find an optimum balance.
  6. I am usually not conscious of consciousness, aware of being aware, or paying attention to what I am paying attention to.
  7. In a guided meditation, I am directed to become conscious of consciousness, objects in consciousness, awareness, and attention. When I am invited to become more mindful or aware or attentive, I tend to become so.
  8. One of the attributes of consciousness I have become acutely aware of this: objects arise consciousness, and they pass away. Both happen effortlessly and cannot be prevented other than, I suppose, by being rendered unconscious.
  9. Another: I can partly control attention and awareness, but attention also moves without my bidding, and awareness changes without my direction.
  10. I don’t control what specific thought or experience arises, but I can influence what sorts of thoughts or experiences are likely to arise.
  11. I am conscious of “objects in consciousness” more often than I am conscious of consciousness itself.
  12. The “sense of self” is just one more “object in consciousness.”
  13. When I am conscious of consciousness, all that exists for me (in that moment) is only what is in the “field of consciousness.”
  14. To the degree that I can say that I am certain of something, that certainty ought to be grounded in consciousness. Often it is not.
  15. . I am sometimes conscious of the contents of a dream and yet not conscious of the fact that I am dreaming. I am sometimes conscious of both.
  16. What arises in consciousness is always an illusion. It cannot be otherwise. But I am rarely aware that I am seeing an illusion.

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Equanimity is in the depths

A thought came to me.

Yesterday, a thought came to me, and it was a shitty thought.

Thoughts come to me from time to time.

Ideas.

Notions.

Perhaps they come to you the same way.

How they come

I might be sitting with “nothing on my mind,” and a thought comes to me. It could be about anything.

I might have my attention on a problem, and a thought about how to solve that problem comes to me.

Sometimes a useful thought comes.

Sometimes a useless thought comes.

Sometimes nothing comes.

How I write

Often I sit in front of my keyboard, perhaps to do my 750 words, and have no idea what I am going to write about.

Thoughts about what to write come to me.

If I accept one of those thoughts and turn my attention to it, my fingers start typing. The words and ideas that elaborate the thought come to me. This is the thought process and the process of writing.

Perhaps I sit in front of my keyboard, with a topic in mind. Thoughts about that topic come.

Like now.

Encouraging thoughts

Sometimes I do things that seem to encourage some kinds of thoughts.

It seems to me that I do the things that encourage certain kinds of thoughts, but it does not seem to me that I make any specific thoughts appear.

They seem to arise by themselves.

If I ask myself a question, thoughts that answer the question arise. If I turn my attention in some direction, thoughts appropriate to that direction arise. I can prepare the field of consciousness in which thoughts arise.

But I don’t decide which thoughts arise.

The thoughts that arise might be the result of seeds that I planted some time before. But in the moment, the ideas come to me. The thoughts arise. I don’t do anything.

Yesterday’s shitty thought

As I said at the top of this essay, the thought that came to me yesterday was a shitty thought. It was an angry, annoyed, resentful thought.

I haven’t had thoughts like that in a while, so I was unprepared. For the last several weeks, my mind has been tranquil.

Not yesterday.

Other shitty thoughts followed the first one, including metashitty thoughts about the fact that my mind was being filled with shitty thoughts and metashitty thoughts about how shitty I was for not being able to get rid of them.

Then a memory arose: the first shitty thoughts had begun to appear the previous night, after many days of pleasant thoughts, tranquil thoughts, equanimous thoughts.

I’d had a day filled with frustrations. The code that I was working on didn’t work for mysterious reasons that seemed to go away only after I’d rebooted my computer.

Then it didn’t work for mysterious reasons that turned out to be a stupid mistake on my part.

Then my smartwatch disconnected itself from my phone and reinstalling and rebooting didn’t help.

Then some other shitty little first world problem.

By bedtime, agitation had replaced equanimity. I struggled to get to sleep, and finally, with the help of some chemicals, I got to sleep.

Next morning, more shit

In the morning, I woke up. I briefly looked forward to the day. Then more shitty thoughts arose.

I got crankier and crankier.

I tried to get rid of the shitty thoughts, but more appeared.

The disaster cascaded,

But finally realized this:

Thoughts arise. They appear. They go away,

I couldn’t control what thoughts arose. I might influence what thoughts arose, but I didn’t have control.

So what could I do?

I didn’t know.

A thought ecology

I tried to think ecologically: thoughts seem to arise in an environment that’s prepared for them. Once a thought arises, then like any life form, it may change the environment so that it’s hospitable for other, similar entities.

Perhaps a tranquil environment will attract tranquil thoughts, and an agitated environment invites agitation. A shitty environment invites shitty thoughts.

So what to do when too many shitty thoughts arise?

One thought was to mobilize an “army of tranquility.” But tranquility does not join armies. There can be no army of tranquility. Agitation and anxiety can join forces, but bringing in the tranquility reserve is not going to work.

Instead, I thought that the answer was something like this: to recognize that unlike agitation, which comes and goes, that equanimity is always there.

Equanimity is in the depths

Agitation is on the surface.

Equanimity is in the depths.

Why this might be true is uncertain.

Nor was it true that it is certain.

But those are the thoughts that arose.

Slowly the surface calmed. The storm blew by.

And tranquility reappeared.

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Feb 4, 2020

A meditation on dullness

The Mind Illuminated, which I wrote about here, describes dullness as one of the phenomena a meditator needs to address.
Dullness: A lack of mental energy. There are differing degrees of dullness—from deep sleep or unconsciousness, through strong dullness such as drowsiness, to subtler forms of dullness such as feeling a bit “spaced out.” Dullness is a form of scattered attention. But unlike distractions, where attention “scatters” to other objects of awareness, dullness scatters attention from the breath to a void in which nothing is perceived at all.

My dullness

I hate the feeling of dullness.
As I started writing this morning, dullness began to rise in consciousness.
I hate dullness. Hate it.
Or I might have hated it if I had not been feeling so dull.
Instead, I disliked it in a vapid sort of way.
Severe pain is worse than dullness. Dullness can be a solution to otherwise unbearable pain.
But I’d rather experience mild pain for a long time to dullness for a short time.
Dullness is the slow death of consciousness.

Dullness and duality

To the dual mind, dullness is “bad.” Clarity or alertness, or whatever is opposite, is “good.”
To the non-dual mind, dullness is an experience. Clarity is an experience. Neither is good or bad. They just are.
To the dual mind, a person can either experience dullness or clarity.
To the non-dual mind, one can be dull and clear at the same time.

Dullness revealed

This morning I was writing about my aspirations.
I wrote that I aspired to know all that I could know. I wrote that I aspired to experience all that I could experience.
As I wrote, I became aware of my mind’s dullness.
As I continued to write, I became aware of the dullness growing.
Initially, I experienced what The Mind Illuminated might describe as “subtle dullness.”
Subtle dullness began to grow into what TMI might describe as “strong dullness.”

Making dullness disappear

As I became aware of the growing dullness, I thought: I’d like that dullness to disappear.
Then I thought: dullness is a part of existence.
I wrote that I aspire to experience whatever I can. So I’m willing to continue to experience dullness.
I was willing to experience dullness, I thought, but I was not willing to have that dullness keep me from writing.
I was willing to experience dullness, as long as it didn’t get in my way. The dullness could arise, as long as it was not obstructive.
I was willing to experience dullness—but only conditionally.
But what dullness is obstructive by its nature?

Non-dual dullness

Now we’re back to non-duality.
Can I be obstructed and not-obstructed at the same time? There’s a view of the world that says: no. It’s either, or.
That’s the answer from duality. But is that the final word? Can both be true?
Can I write with dullness as well as I could write without dullness?
Writing does not require dullness or clarity. It merely requires writing. Fingers tap, and words arise. Words connect, and sentences arise.
This writing is ample proof that dullness is no obstacle to writing.
It’s arising right now (or it did as I originally wrote it) alongside strong dullness. The writing arose with dullness just as it arose with clarity.
The words simply appeared.
These words arose:
I’m aware of the dullness, and aware that part of my mind is devoted to resisting it. The dullness has not prevented me from writing this.

It’s always sunny

One lesson I learned flying in airplanes for work: it’s never sunny or cloudy. It’s always sunny. Sometimes it’s sunny without clouds. Other times it’s sunny with clouds.
Cloudiness is a kind of illusion that keeps you from seeing that it’s sunny.
You just can’t see that it’s sunny because the clouds are in the way.

Getting rid of dullness

As the dullness arises, so arises an intention that I might articulate as “get rid of the dullness.”
So arises a belief that I might express as “I must stop what I am doing and get rid of the dullness.”
So arises the thought: “This is impossible. I’ve tried to get rid of dullness just by wanting to and failed.
Then arises the idea that I must stop what I am doing and sleep, or take a cold shower, or eat, or go for a walk or do something other than what I am doing because otherwise, the dullness will persist.
Why struggle to get rid of clouds when it’s sunny?
Dullness or not, when I intend the words to appear and allow them to appear, they appear.
​

Feb 1, 2020

Is that boulder heavy?

This morning I listened to a conversation between Sam Harris (Wikipedia) and Jack Kornfield (Wikipedia) on the Waking Up course about their experiences in practice.
Jack tells this story that I thought worth noting:
I remember walking with [my teacher] Ajahn Chah across a field one morning with our alms bowls and he points to a big boulder across the field, and he says to the monks, “Is that boulder heavy?”
And you know, being Ivy League educated and all, “Of course it is.”
And he said: “Not if you don’t pick it up.”
Don’t pick up things that you don’t need to carry.
​

Jan 5, 2020

Four kinds of awareness

This morning I listened to a conversation between Sam Harris and Diana Winston, a meditation teacher.
Like Sam, Diana traveled to Asia to study with meditation masters. Like Sam, Diana went on long retreats and put in many hours to attain enlightenment. Like Sam, Diana encountered Dzogchen teaching and found it transformative.
Unlike Sam, Diana’s encounter was through a book—“The Tibetan book of living and dying”—and not a teacher.
She says: “That book changed my life. I read it, and it was like my whole mind opened to what I am calling ‘natural awareness,’ this shift in consciousness.
“There’s nowhere to go. There’s nothing to get. You’re here. The mind is already innately pure, luminous, bright.
“Here it is.”
Diana teaches four different styles of meditation, corresponding to four different approaches to awareness.
The first is “focused awareness.” Put your attention on an object. If your mind wanders, as it will, then when you become aware that your mind has wandered, bring it back to your object of attention.
The second she calls “investigative awareness.” When your attention moves, notice what it’s chosen. Pay attention to that thing. Examine it. Then gently return attention to your anchor object.
The third is “choiceless awareness.” Here you let go of your meditation anchor. You don’t try to control or direct anything. You just let your mind do what it does, and you make yourself aware of what’s happening.
The last is “natural awareness,” which comes from the Dzogchen practice. The goal is to realize that your mind is already “pure, luminous, bright.” Your mind is a wide-open space. Instead of paying attention to the clouds, you see the sky.
So here I am, now, doing my own practice.
I see the sky.
​

Jan 3, 2020

Meditation lost

Around November last year, I discovered the waking up course and wrote about it.
Fifty days of lessons created a habit, and I didn’t miss a day for more than 200.
Then I missed a day.
Then a couple.
But I still had a steady practice.
I wrote about my experience, here, and here.
Why meditate?
I wrote about that here.
Then I wrote this because I keep forgetting….
And then I stopped.

What stopped (past) me?

One day Sam Harris asked a question in one of his daily guided meditations.
The question was: “Are you waiting for something to happen?”
My answer was: “I am.”
And then: “Holy shit! I am waiting.”
And realizing that, the roof fell in, or the floor dropped from under me, or some goddamn metaphor.
I was doing the exact opposite of what I was supposed to be doing.
Well, not the exact opposite. But opposite enough.
Instead of being there and being aware of the contents of consciousness, I was sitting there and waiting for something to happen.
And I was not aware that I was doing it.

What stopped (past) me?

I don’t know why that stopped me. Looking back, it doesn’t seem like quite that big a deal. But it was.
How could I do all this work—hours and hours—to get myself pointed north, and then discover that I’m pointed south-southeast?
I wish that Past Me had seen that as an “invitation to inquiry.”
I wish he’d thought deeply about his experience and written a blog post like this one.
But he didn’t. He had to wait for me to appear and do it.
He took a different path.
He let himself unravel.
He abandoned the practices that he’d developed.
Not just the daily meditation, but most of the things that went with it.

What started (present) me?

And then I turned it around. Or a more recent Past Me did.
And now I’m here, with knowledge that I didn’t have before.
I know how to rebuild my practice.
Start with one thing, this thing: Daily Pages. Writing 750 words.
Do it mindfully.
Use the practice to think things through.
And, FFS, read what you write once in a while.
​

Oct 27, 2019

Awareness of awareness

Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche says: “Awareness is always present. We are just not always aware of it.” Or words to that effect.
Every time that I hear him say that (or words to that effect), something changes. I’m delighted. Everything is the same—but different. It’s like a low-rez image suddenly turning high-rez, or a narrow-bandwidth sound suddenly going surround-sound. The content is the same, but the quality is better.
Quality! There we are again. I’ve written about that before. I’ll probably write about it in the future. It’s an important idea.
What will raise the Quality of this moment, this time, as I am writing this?
Merely being aware of its present Quality seems to make a difference.
I can change of the lens through which I experience the process through which these words appear.
Each lens is a different kind of awareness.
In one kind of awareness, the process of writing is taken for granted: “Yeah, big deal, I’m writing something.”
In another, it’s a mystery and a miracle: “Look! Words are appearing. Before my very eyes!”
In yet another, the experience is even more transcendent. The field of awareness is even broader, deeper, more detailed. There are not just words appearing but fingers typing, there is inhaling and exhaling; there’s a heart pumping; sounds arise and pass away; all of this at once.
More.
As the words appear, leaves are turning color. These things are not unrelated.
Water shimmers on the Salt Pond.
Not just typing but the sounds of typing.
All this and more happens on a tiny speck of a planet in the middle of an ocean of darkness, an instant in the span of billions of years.
So much to be aware of.
So little awareness of that awareness.
But that’s fine.
It’s possible to be aware of “things.”
It’s possible to be aware of awareness—which includes and transcends awareness of things.
That’s this morning’s meditation.
I’ll take that as a win, and move on.
​

Jul 4, 2019

When we're a wake


Photo by Zbysiu Rodak on Unsplash Pun by Mike Wolf on Hangouts
For reasons that I think will be fun to figure out, I’m delighted by this pun.
Q: When does water reach the highest level of consciousness?
A: When it’s a wake.
Why?
By some reckoning, I am the creator and pride of authorship explains my delight.
But that’s not true.
I was there, and I can tell you that’s not what happened.
I have no pride of authorship. Only delight in the pun’s existence.

How it happened

I’ll start this story at the moment when the idea that a pun using “awake” and “a wake” might be funny appeared.
Where did that idea come from? I don’t know. It was just there. It appeared in consciousness, like everything else, as if by magic.
So I had this idea—this intention to make a pun. The punch line was clear in mind: “When it’s a wake.” And an old joke appeared in consciousness: “When is a door not a door? When it’s ajar.”
So the pattern that arose was “When is some kind of water not that kind of water.” But nothing good appeared. Then an metaidea about the consciousness of water appeared.
Specific ideas matching that metaidea appeared, and I—or my mind—said “no” repeatedly. Until the one that’s written appeared, and got a “yes.”
So that’s how it happened.

A more comprehensive story

But how did that initial idea appear? And where did the desire to turn that intention into a pun instance originate? And what produced the mechanism that did the work? To answer those questions, we need to start earlier.
13.75 years ago, the universe exploded into existence. It was the Big Bang.
For about 9.25 billion years the matter in the universe evolved. It started as almost pure hydrogen with a little helium. Eventually, it cooled enough to make stars. After billions of years they went nova and produced all the elements needed to make our sun, and the other things that go around our sun, including the planet where I’m writing this. And eventually me.
It took some time.
Once the planet was formed, it took a few billion years fo cool enough for life to appear. And then it took about 3.75 billion years of biological evolution to get to me.
Biological evolution is tough. It’s hard for the survivors and deadly for the rest. Along the way there’s pain and suffering and death. But eventually I was born and began to evolve.
It took more than 76 additional years of evolution for that pun to appear. It would probably not have arisen but for an evolving interest in meditation and the evolution of a small community of people who would appreciate the intended pun once it appeared.
Why would they appreciate it?
Why would I think that they would?
The answer to this—and all other questions—is the same: 13.75 years ago the universe exploded into existence and…it’s the way that the universe evolved.

My enjoyment

I enjoy that pun. As soon as it appeared, I was filled with delight.
Why?
In some sense, it makes no sense. It’s not a great work of art.
Yet, I believe that it pleases me nearly as much as anything I have ever created would please me.

The mysteries and the magic

So these are all mysteries.
How did the intention appear?
How did the pun appear?
How did I know that others would like it?
Where does all this come from?
What is making my fingers type this sentence?
It all just appears. As if by magic.
I live in a universe filled with magic.
You too.
The potential for that pun must have been inherent in the quantum states of particles after the big bang. It just took a lot of time and rearranging of matter to get it out.

The purposes of the universe

Yesterday one of the purposes of the universe was fulfilled: that pun appeared.
Today another purpose was fulfilled: this post appeared.
Was it worth it?
Absolutely.
​

Jun 21, 2019

Waking up and the illusion of the self

Dana asked me some questions about The Waking Up Course. Daniel asked some questions about the practice. Their questions led me to clarify my understanding.
So I’ve written this for them. But really for me, because it’s too fucking long for anyone else to read.
Sorry, anyone else. It’s long. Really long. 2300 words long.

Summary

Humans are subject to illusions that affect our thinking, our choices, and our actions.
It takes skill to see through the illusions that can affect the choices we make.
Fewer illusions mean better choices. Better choices mean better lives.
The biggest illusion, so goes the theory, is the illusion of the conventional self.
We are not what we seem to be. We are not what we think we are.
Seeing through the illusion of self is a big deal.
Meditation can help you with that.

The theory of mindfulness meditation

People meditate hoping it will lead them to “a better life,” whatever that might mean to them.
The theory says that one reason that life isn’t as good as it can be—and sometimes even sucks—is that illusions often fool us. We make bad choices based on these illusions. The choices are “bad” because they lead to unnecessary suffering and sometimes misery—for ourselves or others.
The theory says that if we better understand what’s an illusion and what’s not, we’d make better choices and have better lives.
Seems reasonable, right?
How do we tell if an appearance is an illusion?
The theory says that if we observe something carefully enough, without being distracted by other things or being taken in by illusory characteristics and if we see it in its context we can discover that something is an illusion.
Yay.
The theory says that some illusions are very hard to see through.
We’re unlikely to see through the most compelling illusions unless we can control our attention so we can focus on them despite distractions and we can expand our awareness to understand them in fullest context.
How do we learn to control our attention and expand our awareness?
The theory says we can do that by doing exercises designed to help us improve attention and awareness.
But even that may not be enough.
The most difficult illusions will withstand careful, attentive scrutiny. We may look at them for a long time without seeing through them. But if someone calls our attention to a particular feature of an illusion, or explains how an illusion is created, we might see through it more quickly.
Mindfulness meditation practice also includes exercises that put our attention on common, tricky illusions. It also includes reading books or being guided by someone who can explain how some of those illusions work and how we can look in ways that have helped others reveal the illusion.
Without help, we’re unlikely to see some crucial illusions for what they are.
Like the illusion of the conventional self.

Consciousness

Mindfulness meditation practice is designed to increase the power of consciousness so we can see through illusions.
It’s also designed to help us understand consciousness itself.
So let’s start there.

Consciousness is the only thing we can be sure is not an illusion

There’s exactly one thing that we know cannot be an illusion: one thing, and one thing only — consciousness. We can be fooled about everything else. We can see mirages, hear ringing in our ears, be tricked by magicians. We can take drugs that cause us to see things that violate all the laws of physics. But we can’t be tricked into believing we are conscious: to be tricked we must first be conscious. We can be tricked into believing we are not conscious, but we can’t be tricked into believing that we are.
I also wrote this.
You might have some ideas about what consciousness is and what it might mean. Some of those ideas might be illusions. But the bare fact of consciousness is the one thing that cannot be an illusion.
Understanding consciousness is the foundation of mindfulness practice.

Everything must appear in consciousness

To experience something, it must appear in consciousness.
There might be such a thing as an “unconscious mind,” and there are many events of which we might be unconscious. But we don’t experience anything unless it first appears in consciousness.
Right now, I’m sitting here and typing, and my computer is part of my conscious experience. I don’t put it there. It’s just there. No conscious experience, no computer.
I might have the conscious experience of a memory of a computer. But no conscious experience no memory.
We experience parts of “reality” (whatever that is) only when those parts appear in consciousness. We experience “thoughts” (whatever that might mean) only when those thoughts appear in consciousness.
So whatever else consciousness is, it is “the place” where everything that is experienced appears.

Anything that appears in consciousness could be an illusion.

We know that some of the things that appear in consciousness are illusions. But if we are going to build on a firm foundation, we need to consider that anything in consciousness could be an illusion. We could have been hypnotized or given some drug that causes us to experience reality differently.
Consciousness itself is not an illusion.
But anything that appears in consciousness could be.
So how can you tell what’s an illusion and what’s not? And how can you know what’s behind an illusion?

How to test for an illusion

If you examine something (in consciousness) and it transforms or even disappears, then what you first observed was an illusion.
That’s the first test—but not the only one—for determining whether something is an illusion. Look at it carefully. See if it changes. Examine the nature of the change.
If examining something cause it to change radically, then what you first looked at was an illusion. If it disappears when you examine it carefully, then what had been there was an illusion.
If it transforms, then what you now experience might still be an illusion. So you need to examine a transformed illusion carefully as well.
Seeing through an illusion lets you see what’s behind it and what might be causing it. That might be an illusion, too. So keep paying attention!

You won’t find some illusions

If something does not transform or disappear, it might still be an illusion.
Stage magicians, properly called “illusionists,” don’t do magic. They create illusions. The best illusions are difficult to see as illusions and unexpected—even seemingly impossible. If you can see how the woman gets out of the box before it (and she) is cut in half, it’s not much of an illusion. But if the escape appears to defy reason, it’s a good illusion.
David Copperfield), reportedly the most successful stage magician in history, famously made the Statue of Liberty disappear and reappear on live television before a live audience in 1984. No one can do that—so it must have been an illusion. But how?
Copperfield’s secret was ultimately revealed: when the statue was hidden by a curtain, the platform on which the audience was seated rotated undetectably. When the curtain dropped the statue was hidden behind a support. If you’d been there and knew how it was done, you might have looked carefully enough to see through the illusion.
But absent that knowledge, no one was able to tell.

The risk of believing illusions

We make choices so that reality will move in the direction we want. Our illusions may influence the choices we make, but reality determines what happens.
Some illusions reflect reality. Some might be hyper-real. But some are inconsistent with reality. If you choose and act based on an illusion that does not match reality, reality is unlikely to cooperate and give you the result that you want.
When you understand what’s an illusion and what’s not, you’re likely to make choices that will lead to better outcomes.

The reality we experience is an illusion

Reality may exist, but our experience of reality must be an illusion.
How could it be otherwise?
Our experience of a chair arrives when photons bounce off its surface into our eyes. Our lenses project an upside-down image on our retinal cells. Those cells fire and produce a cascading series of neural events that result in our perception of a chair.
Where’s the chair that we experience? It can’t be the chair that’s out there.
What we experience is the two-dimensional projection of the surface of the part of the chair that entered the eye, sliced and diced, disassembled and reassembled, abstracted and consolidated with knowledge of other such objects to produce a three-dimensional illusion complete with a set of “chairlike” expectations and attributes.
That’s what appears in consciousness: an illusion—based, possibly, on reality. But not necessarily.
The illusion of a chair might be based on hypnotic suggestion, or electrical stimulation of parts of the brain, or drugs.
No matter the cause, what appears in consciousness can only be some kind of illusion.

Useful illusions

The illusion of a chair that we are likely to experience probably matches reality. If so, it’s likely to be useful. It might lead us to the illusion of sitting an illusory body in the illusory chair and thus avoid the uncomfortable illusion of fatigue from the illusion of standing.
If an illusion is useful and matches reality it doesn’t change the fact that it is—and must be—an illusion.
We experience these illusions because they appear in consciousness—as does everything else that we experience.

The illusion of self

According to the meditative traditions, the “conventional self” is an illusion. And failing to understand the nature of the illusion is the root of bad choices and much suffering.
How can we discover whether it’s an illusion?
As with all things—by looking carefully—and by understanding a little about how the illusion is created.
When we are aware of an object across space, it seems as though there’s a location—behind our face, typically—from which we are aware. It seems that there’s a self in that location that controls our attention and from which awareness emanates.
That’s how it seems.
But that can’t be entirely correct. There might be an object out there in reality, but we know that the object that appears in consciousness is an illusion. The face we experience, behind which that self-thing seems to be, is another object in consciousness—and must be an illusion.
So is the self that seems located there is also an illusion? Perhaps there is a self, but if there is, then is what we experience an illusion of the “real self?”
How do you see through an illusion? Look closely. If it’s not there, it was an illusion.

The experiment

Pay close attention to the self that you experience. Direct your attention to wherever you think the self is located and examine what’s there.
To get a strong sense of self you might do this: Look across a space at an object, and get a clear idea of the subject-object relationship—-that you are different from the object, and you are looking at it across a space from some point, perhaps behind your face.
So the object is an object, and you are what’s looking at the object. Get a clear idea of the place from which you are looking at the object.
And then briefly—it should only be briefly—turn your attention to “what’s looking.” Turn your attention to the self that’s looking.
If the self is an illusion, you’ll find that there’s nothing there.
If you have the (momentary) experience that “what was looking” was not there when you looked, then you’ve broken through the illusion of self (momentarily).
The object you’re looking at is an appearance in consciousness. The space you’re looking across is an appearance in consciousness. What’s looking is also an appearance in consciousness.
So when you look for the “looker,” you may find that there’s nothing there.
That’s because it’s all just consciousness.
To do the exercise, you need to take a quick look. This isn’t an intellectual exercise. It’s just a glance.

What I experience

You might have a different experience. It’s not right or wrong. It’s probably closer to right than what you saw when you didn’t look closely.
Here’s what I experience when I glance inward toward where I think my self is located.
Nothing.
I find nothing.
I always find nothing.
There’s no self there.
There’s no self to find.
For an instant, when I look inward for the self, I find myself looking outward.
And in the next instant, I start thinking to myself about what I’ve just experienced. I tell myself that the self has gone and I’m looking at the universe. I ask myself questions about what just happened. The illusion of the self reappears, of course. I can’t talk to myself without a self to talk to (and one that’s talking.) But if I glance again, it disappears again.
If the self the illusion?
Or is the absence of the self the illusion?
Or are they both illusions?

So what?

If something surprising happens when you do the experiment—if you see the self as an illusion, it has important implications, but the consequences may not be obvious. They weren’t to me. I saw the illusion, and I didn’t realize the implications. Until I thought about it while writing this.
If the self is an illusion, what about all the shit that’s connected to the self? What about fears? What about frustrations? What about cravings? Seems like they would be illusions, too. If we saw that they were illusions, seems like they’d be easier to deal with.
Surprisingly, embarrassingly, I knew this and forgot it. I wrote about it.
here
.
WTAF! How could I have forgotten that?
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