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Getting good at nearly anything requires a certain amount of discipline. At the very least, you need the discipline to practice it on a regular basis. You’d expect this for learning violin or karate, but you might not think you’d need it in order to have a peaceful and positive mind.
And perhaps you don’t. But if it’s a struggle for you to maintain a clear, lighthearted, optimistic outlook – if you find yourself often in bondage to a negative mind that has taken the driver’s seat – I would bet that your mind could use some discipline.
Around age 18, I discovered Carlos Castaneda’s books. In case you’re unfamiliar, Castaneda was a doctoral student at UCLA in the 1960s and 70s who studied the use of magical practices and psychedelic herbs by the Yaqui Indians of northern Mexico. After some detective work, and a few meetings with charlatans, he managed to track down the real deal: a secretive shaman named don Juan Matus. Castaneda was bumbling and boastful, and he tried to impress the shaman with his minimal knowledge of these practices.
Don Juan wasn’t fooled, but he kept Castaneda around because he saw in him the makings of a shaman or nagual. In a relationship similar to that of Daniel and Mr. Miyagi in the Karate Kid (but much stranger), don Juan put Carlos through rigorous trainings of body and mind, and fed him a variety of powerful hallucinogenic plants.
All of this was fascinating and mind-opening for me at the time, but there was one element of the training that, while less bizarre, was actually more poignant. Don Juan was intent on teaching Carlos to discipline his mind, and whenever Carlos became anxious or depressed, the shaman would admonish him to stop indulging in his mind’s melodrama. As my teenage self read the word indulge, it really cut through me. My late teens had been full of plenty of melodrama, and I couldn’t help wondering if don Juan would have considered it indulgence. It certainly hadn’t felt like I had any choice in the matter, but what if I did?
Thus began a lifetime’s journey to understand the difference between ME and my mind. To discover my power . . . and lose sight of it . . . and rediscover it . . . and lose sight of it . . . and rediscover it. And because I decided to go into medicine, I’ve had the opportunity to witness and assist many others through the same exploration. Central to the process is the recognition of choice. As it pertains to discipline, this means being disciplined to remember you have a choice and being disciplined to repeatedly exercise this power.
When you suggest to someone in the throes of anxiety or depression that there is an element of choice in their psychological experience, it’s not uncommon for them to feel guilty, offended, and defensive. Because the implication, of course, is that they’ve been making things bad for themselves – that it’s their fault.
But the notion of fault can only serve to degrade the process. While the recognition of choice – AKA free will – is empowering, fault is disempowering. It leads us to think things like, “Why would I do this to myself? Why can’t I stop it?” The answer to those questions is, respectively, confusion and habit. Responding to feelings of fault (blame) with forgiveness and compassion for oneself will neutralize it, and this, too, requires discipline.
Throughout, the overarching practice of discipline is to pay attention to where your mind is going, and to not let it get away with taking you to dark or fearful places. And Mr. Miyagi, don Juan, and any Zen monk would probably add, practice the discipline of being deliberate about everything you do.
The life of a Zen monk, if fact, can teach us a lot about discipline. Discipline is not necessarily army boot camp or the One-Grape-a-Day Diet. It doesn’t imply restriction or deprivation as much as a continuous application of attention. (Our attention is more scattered than ever, due to the many things with screens in our lives.) Zen monks are, by and large, carefree and light of heart. And this results from prioritizing what is here and now, what is real, what is precious, over the moody demands of a wayward mind. Such a practice actually works best when guided by love – when you simply care too much about yourself to let your consciousness be degraded by mental bondage.
Be well,
Dr. Peter Borten
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In 1984, followers of the spiritual guru Osho (Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, 1931-1990) sprinkled salmonella bacteria into the salad bars of ten restaurants in Oregon, sickening 751 people. A few years earlier, Osho had left his commune in India due to pressure from authorities and purchased a defunct ranch in the Pacific Northwest. Thousands of his students moved in, but the land wasn’t zoned for that volume of habitation. They ran into more trouble with the law because of it, and had to find ways to conceal how many people were actually residing there.
Hiding the expansion of the community was difficult as their numbers grew because they wore highly visible red robes – plus they built an airstrip, restaurants, and fire department on the property. It probably didn’t help that they occasionally drove into town in a Jeep with a machine gun mounted on it. They clashed with locals, government officials, and environmental groups, but eventually hit upon a solution: this would all be legal if they could establish the ranch as a city.
There was considerable resistance from the community, however, and this is what led to the salmonella plan. Through what has been called the largest domestic act of bioterrorism in the U.S., they hoped to incapacitate enough voters to secure wins for their own candidates in the upcoming county election. But despite the sickened population, local voter turnout was high enough to keep Osho’s supporters (AKA “Rajneeshees”) from succeeding.
During this time, the guru was observing a long period of seclusion and had ceased contact with all but a small number of close attendants. However, his devotees bought him a collection of 93 Rolls Royces, and each day he would slowly drive one of these luxury cars down a long dirt road where they waited to catch a glimpse of him.
About a year later, Osho himself reported the salmonella attacks to the authorities. The attacks, it turns out, were just the most visible expression of a chaotic fanaticism that had developed in a portion of his followers. Osho claimed they acted without his knowledge or blessing; they said he sanctioned it.
It’s difficult to discern the truth from all the stories, partly because his form of teaching came with an apparent delight in shocking people. He enjoyed cursing, had an irreverent sense of humor, championed free love, and proposed such offensive measures as euthanizing disabled children. He was both scorned and revered. Many intelligent people regard him as one of the greatest contemporary spiritual teachers, and probably millions would credit him with making a positive impact on their lives.
When most people encounter such a button-pushing issue or figure, they feel compelled to take a side. We like things to be black and white. If we can frame something in terms of good and evil or right and wrong, it makes our lives easier. It feels good to have strong, unwavering convictions. But the truth doesn’t usually conform to such convenient categories. Almost everything falls somewhere along the gigantic spectrum between the extremes. And accepting this requires the work of deeper contemplation and possibly the discomfort of admitting that our position isn’t completely correct.
A recent study showed that people who know the least about a subject are the most likely to take a strongly polarized position on it – perhaps even a zealous, foaming-at-the-mouth position. The corollary to this finding is that the more we really understand a person or issue, the more neutral our position becomes, and the more accepting we tend to be of different viewpoints.
In the case of Osho, my opinion is that he was charismatic, brilliant, enlightened, and also manipulative, self-serving, offensive, and extremely eccentric. I also think, as is so often the case with powerful people, he attracted followers who believed they were living in accordance with his teachings and acting on his behalf without really understanding what he stood for. They were intoxicated by his mojo and used that feeling of power to justify their own convoluted drives. My intention isn’t really to pick on Osho and his disciples as much as it to point out the dynamics that occur on the inside and outside of such a phenomenon, which I’ll summarize here:
Tapping into power tends to amplify not just the presentable aspects of ourselves, but our shadow side, too. It partly explains why so many high-level teachers, artists, and executives end up sleeping with their students and employees, or succumbing to some other vice. Perhaps it’s why a guru might enjoy having 93 Rolls Royces. And it’s also why many traditions, such as yoga, emphasize purifying or balancing one’s mind, actions, and senses before attempting the practices that are likely to unleash a bunch of energy. (Did your yoga teacher introduce you to the yamas and niyamas that traditionally come before undertaking asanas or "poses"?)
Potent ideas tend to be degraded as they are transmitted through human minds. It’s like the children’s game operator. Moreover, we like latching onto such ideas – whether we find them enticing or horrible, or both – and running with them, even though the trajectory they carry us on may not be altogether healthy for us. And again, we favor positionality, even though (or maybe because) it implies conflict. That is, taking a fixed, polarized position necessarily engages us against the opposite position. In order to maintain such positionality, we’re best served by keeping ourselves ignorant.
In light of all these analyses of human behavior, I offer you this homework assignment for the week: Innocence. Be innocent, open, and humble. Feel the compulsion to take positions, and instead, be innocent, go deeper, and learn more.
Be well,
Dr. Peter Borten
P.S. For those who haven't encountered any of Osho's teachings, I’ll leave you with an excerpt from Undone Tao, a series of talks he gave on one of my favorite books, the Daoist classic, Dao De Jing:
"Enlightenment is not a search, it is a realization. It is not a goal, it is the very nature of life itself.
As life is, it is enlightened. It needs nothing to be added to it to improve it. Life is perfect. It is not moving from imperfection to perfection. It is moving from perfection to perfection.
You are here to attain something – that is functioning as a barrier. Drop that barrier. Just be here. Forget about any purpose. Life cannot have any purpose; life is the purpose. How can it have any other purpose? Otherwise you will be in an infinite regress: then that purpose will have another purpose, then that purpose will have another purpose… Life has no purpose and that’s why it’s so beautiful.
Hindus have called it leela, a play. It is not even a game. Now in the West, the word “game” has become very important. Hundreds of books have been published within two, three years with the word “game” in the title: The Master Game, The Ultimate Game, Games People Play, and so on. But there is a difference between game and play. Hindus have called life “play,” not “game,” because even a game has something as a purpose: a result to be attained, victory to be achieved, the opponent has to be conquered. When play becomes a game, then it becomes serious.
Grownups play games, children only play. Just the very activity is enough unto itself. It has an intrinsic end; there is no goal added to it. Life is a leela. It is a play. And the moment you are ready to play, you are enlightened.
…
Then you start a totally different way of life. You start being playful. You start being alive moment to moment with nowhere to go. Whatsoever life gives, you accept it with deep gratitude. Grace happens to you."
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[post_content] => After writing about
nondual philosophy a couple weeks ago, I received several requests from readers for more information on nondual Tantric philosophy. Tantra is a complicated subject; there are many forms, and it means different things to different people. In the West, the word “Tantric” is usually combined with the word “sex,” and this pair of words has been used to sell millions of books and workshops on mystical sexual practices that have almost nothing to do with Tantra. But Tantra doesn’t need that lascivious association to be significant; it was hugely influential on the development of yoga, which (in some circles) is almost as popular as sex.
Since I can’t possibly explain this entire system in a brief article, I’m going to focus today on just one of its concepts, called the Five Acts of Divine Consciousness. It is explained in the beginning of a work called Pratyabhijna Hrdayam, “The Heart of Recognition,” written by Rajanaka Kṣemaraja around 1000 A.D.
These five “acts” (pancha kritya) describe the Tantric view of how our reality is created. As Ksemaraja says, “Reverence to the Divine, who ceaselessly performs the Five Acts, and who, by so doing, reveals the ultimate reality of one’s own Self, brimming over with the bliss of Consciousness!” Regardless of where your philosophical and spiritual sensibilities lie, I think you’ll find it an intriguing perspective.
• Srsti. The first act, Srsti, means creation, emission, or the flowing forth of Self-expression. This is the process by which Divine Consciousness (use whatever word you like here – Love, Highest Self, God, Universe, Awareness, Goddess, Divine Light) expresses itself as something. It takes form. It emerges in the world as a person or a flower or a breeze.
• Sthiti. The second act, Sthiti, means holding, preservation, stasis, or maintenance. First Consciousness emerges in manifest form as something, then it holds this form – maybe for a moment, maybe for eons.
• Samhara. The third act, Samhara, means dissolution, resorption, or retraction. After emerging in the world as something and sustaining it for a while, the form dissolves – or is reabsorbed or retracted – back into Consciousness. This is why death of a body is not seen as the end of life in this system – because the body was just a temporary emergence of Consciousness into form, which is then reabsorbed into itself. Thus, none of the vulnerabilities of your body actually threaten what you really are. And consciousness never ends.
• Tirodhana. The fourth act, Tirodhana, means concealment, occlusion, or forgetting. An interesting property to ascribe to the Divine, no? Why would one of its five core acts be to conceal? Well, the explanation is that Undifferentiated Consciousness possesses all possible qualities; in order to manifest as one specific thing, it must conceal all the other qualities that don’t belong to that thing.
Additionally, it explains the limited awareness of sentient beings. When Consciousness emerges as, say, a human, as part of its Divine Play, it imparts itself with only a fraction of its unfathomable awareness. In the process, it forgets what it really is. In this way, rather than acting like its various creations, it immerses itself in them. It becomes them. It’s how you don’t realize you’re Divine Consciousness itself, instead believing you’re “only” a human, disconnected from your Source and all other humans. This also allows for each being to have the experience of free will.
• Anugraha. The fifth act, Anugraha, means revealing (revelation), remembering, or grace. Besides allowing for creative expression, the fourth act (Tirodhana) is also the reason why we suffer. We can’t see the truth of our reality and this is frightening and painful. But this is eventually resolved by Anugraha – when what was hidden is revealed and we remember. As author Christopher Wallis explains, it’s not meant to negate the act of concealment, but to bring it to fruition by revealing its deeper purpose: “Such reconciliation is thus also a reintegration; through it you experientially realize yourself as a complete and perfect expression of the deep pattern of the one Consciousness which moves and dances in all things.”
I’m curious to hear how this concept fits with your own worldview. How do you see things differently? Does this perspective feel more or less liberating than your own? Feel free to share your thoughts below.
Be well,
Dr. Peter Borten
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Getting good at nearly anything requires a certain amount of discipline. At the very least, you need the discipline to practice it on a regular basis. You’d expect this for learning violin or karate, but you might not think you’d need it in order to have a peaceful and positive mind.
And perhaps you don’t. But if it’s a struggle for you to maintain a clear, lighthearted, optimistic outlook – if you find yourself often in bondage to a negative mind that has taken the driver’s seat – I would bet that your mind could use some discipline.
Around age 18, I discovered Carlos Castaneda’s books. In case you’re unfamiliar, Castaneda was a doctoral student at UCLA in the 1960s and 70s who studied the use of magical practices and psychedelic herbs by the Yaqui Indians of northern Mexico. After some detective work, and a few meetings with charlatans, he managed to track down the real deal: a secretive shaman named don Juan Matus. Castaneda was bumbling and boastful, and he tried to impress the shaman with his minimal knowledge of these practices.
Don Juan wasn’t fooled, but he kept Castaneda around because he saw in him the makings of a shaman or nagual. In a relationship similar to that of Daniel and Mr. Miyagi in the Karate Kid (but much stranger), don Juan put Carlos through rigorous trainings of body and mind, and fed him a variety of powerful hallucinogenic plants.
All of this was fascinating and mind-opening for me at the time, but there was one element of the training that, while less bizarre, was actually more poignant. Don Juan was intent on teaching Carlos to discipline his mind, and whenever Carlos became anxious or depressed, the shaman would admonish him to stop indulging in his mind’s melodrama. As my teenage self read the word indulge, it really cut through me. My late teens had been full of plenty of melodrama, and I couldn’t help wondering if don Juan would have considered it indulgence. It certainly hadn’t felt like I had any choice in the matter, but what if I did?
Thus began a lifetime’s journey to understand the difference between ME and my mind. To discover my power . . . and lose sight of it . . . and rediscover it . . . and lose sight of it . . . and rediscover it. And because I decided to go into medicine, I’ve had the opportunity to witness and assist many others through the same exploration. Central to the process is the recognition of choice. As it pertains to discipline, this means being disciplined to remember you have a choice and being disciplined to repeatedly exercise this power.
When you suggest to someone in the throes of anxiety or depression that there is an element of choice in their psychological experience, it’s not uncommon for them to feel guilty, offended, and defensive. Because the implication, of course, is that they’ve been making things bad for themselves – that it’s their fault.
But the notion of fault can only serve to degrade the process. While the recognition of choice – AKA free will – is empowering, fault is disempowering. It leads us to think things like, “Why would I do this to myself? Why can’t I stop it?” The answer to those questions is, respectively, confusion and habit. Responding to feelings of fault (blame) with forgiveness and compassion for oneself will neutralize it, and this, too, requires discipline.
Throughout, the overarching practice of discipline is to pay attention to where your mind is going, and to not let it get away with taking you to dark or fearful places. And Mr. Miyagi, don Juan, and any Zen monk would probably add, practice the discipline of being deliberate about everything you do.
The life of a Zen monk, if fact, can teach us a lot about discipline. Discipline is not necessarily army boot camp or the One-Grape-a-Day Diet. It doesn’t imply restriction or deprivation as much as a continuous application of attention. (Our attention is more scattered than ever, due to the many things with screens in our lives.) Zen monks are, by and large, carefree and light of heart. And this results from prioritizing what is here and now, what is real, what is precious, over the moody demands of a wayward mind. Such a practice actually works best when guided by love – when you simply care too much about yourself to let your consciousness be degraded by mental bondage.
Be well,
Dr. Peter Borten
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