Abhiniveśāḥ - A New Years Post

 "The truth of the matter is just this: No god is a philosopher or seeker after wisdom, for he is wise already; or does any one else who is wise seek after wisdom. Neither do the ignorant seek after wisdom.  For herein is the evil of ignorance, that he who is neither good nor wise is nevertheless satisfied." - Plato, Symposium.

            I've been debating what to write this week. I'd intended to continue to talk about Stoicism and Yoga, but another topic has been on my mind, a topic appropriate to New Years, and something I've been teaching on constantly for about a week.  A dream last night answered the dilemma quite clearly.  It was one of those nights where you know you've been dreaming all night, but can only remember about 30 seconds of actual content.  In my dream I was in the ancient world, probably Rome, and I was on my death-bed.  Whatever ailed me first took my sight, and in the dream my eyes were so weak that I wasn't able to read on my own (although, being a dream, I could see the room clearly).  Then my wife came into the scene.  She knelt by my bed and asked if there was anything I needed, anything to ease the pain.  I asked her to bring me Plato's Phaedo, the famous dialogue dealing with the death of Socrates, and read it to me. She brought the scroll and began to read, and that's all I remember.  The whole scene reminds me of a book I read this summer that depicted the death of that great Stoic and enemy of Caesar, Marcus Cato.  Before his suicide (at least in the fictionalized account I read), he sought solace in the Phaedo, finding comfort in its logical "proofs" of the immortality of the soul, and Socrates' own equanimity and grace in the face of his own death.  The death of Socrates, as depicted in the Phaedo, has been held up as the perfect example of a a philosopher facing death without fear.  Therefore, I thought I’d take a break from the Stoics and write a bit about abhiniveśāḥ. 

            As you might recall from last week’s post, abhiniveśāḥ, translated as “clinging to bodily life” or “fear of death,” is the fifth of the obstacles to Liberation given in the Yoga Sutras.  These obstacles (or kleśas) are listed in a particular order: avidyā (ignorance), asmitā (egoism), rāga (attachment, or desire), dveṣa (aversion), and abhiniveśāḥ.  Ignorance is said to be the ground upon which the others rest, the idea being that the other obstacles vanish when true knowledge (of the eternal Self, or Seer) is achieved through the various yogic practices.  In fact, we can look at these five obstacles as a sequence taking us deeper into bondage:  due to ignorance of the nature of the self, ie. confusing the nature of the Seer (eternal consciousness) with the Seen (matter, mind, etc), we identify with something that is sort of a hybrid; the mind-body complex, animated by the soul.  This is the second obstacle, egoism.  The Yoga Sutras define egoism as considering “the nature of the seer and the nature of the instrumental power of seeing to be the same thing.” (II.6) This is much like the brain thinking it’s the eyeball, or you thinking that you’re your web browser.  Egoism then, is unlimited and unbound consciousness misidentifying itself with a limited (in space, time, etc) body-mind.  I’m reminded as I write this of a line from one of the initiation rituals of the Golden Dawn, a Victorian Rosecrucian order, in which the initiator explains to the candidate that “The Three Fold Cord bound about your waist was an image of the three-fold bondage of Mortality, which amongst the Initiated is called earthly or material inclination, that has bound into a narrow place the once far-wandering Soul.”  Clearly the symbolism and metaphysics are different, but the idea is similar – we are bound into a single individual instance by identification with a mortal body.

            Attachment and Aversion are really just a deepening and reinforcing of this tendency.  We enjoy something through the instrument, and we begin to actually identify with the experience.  Similarly, we identify ourselves by our rejection of other ideas.  This comes across in speech in numerous ways:  “Are you a Republican or Democrat (based on whether you like or dislike their platforms)?”  “Are you a white chocolate person or a dark chocolate person?” “Are you a Mac or a PC?”  I always think of High School when considering this point, a time period that was about “finding ourselves” which really means defining ourselves by our likes and dislikes.  We still do this, but when we were kids we did so unabashed.  I, for instance, was labeled a “metal-head” due to the fact that I enjoyed that type of music and played guitar.  People who enjoyed sports were labeled “jocks,” those who enjoyed school were called “nerds,” and so on.  As the internet flattens interpersonal communication, we see this becoming more evident.  Just log onto Facebook and see how people’s  profiles are set up to define you by when you click the “like” button. 

            All of this is like the ego principal coming into contact with the world of the senses, creating a sort of friction and tension.  Whenever we are confronted with new ideas, we tend to feel naturally a bit uncomfortable, because we don’t yet know how we feel about them.  There’s a sense of uncertainty that most find unpleasant, because it challenges our preconceptions.  The habit of continually relating everything to the self (which we might call egoism) means that new information must be assimilated as quickly as possible – we must discover whether or not we “like” or “dislike” this new thing in order to feel comfortable again.  We arrange our world around ourselves in this way, everything settling into a tidy arrangement of a world view. Having defined ourselves by our likes and dislikes, egoism is expanded outside the mind-body to include our favorite football team, our political party, and our musical tastes. 

            Where it goes from here seems natural.  When we have a pleasant experience, we want to have it again and again.  Similarly, when we manage to avoid something we are averse to, we want to keep on avoiding it.  This is the principal of continuance which we all fall victim to.  The Sutras themselves admit that abhiniveśāḥ, fear of death, afflicts even the wise.  How do we make the leap to fear of death?  Well, the main reason we want to keep living is to continue to enjoy what we enjoy and to avoid what we loathe.  We’re largely afraid of losing what we have (family, friends, pleasure, etc), and we’re afraid of pain in the act of dying, or that once dead we might have to endure something we dislike (like divine retribution).  Hence we see so many conceptions of the afterlife which appear calculated to comfort these fears.  A common conception of the Christian afterlife says that in heaven we’ll meet up with all those we were separated from, and we’ll be with them forever, and that everyone there is eternally happy.  We’re similarly assured that there’s no pain to be found, etc. 

            What does all of this have to do with New Years?  As I’ve shown, the order in which the obstacles are listed can be taken to be a progression into bondage, each obstacle being a reinforcement of the one previous.  It is assumed that your typical person, at the beginning of the yogic path, will be afflicted by each of these obstacles.  If we consider kleśas in the exact opposite order, we see the order in which the obstacles must be attacked.  How do we tangle egoism or ultimate ignorance when we are completely bound up with our attachments, aversions and the desire for their continuation?  Therefore, if we are to make progress in the yogic path (and I’d argue, any spiritual or philosophic life), we must first address abhiniveśāḥ, which I will venture to broaden the definition of as “fear of change.” 

            To me, abhiniveśāḥ boils down to the desire to preserve the status quo due to fear of change.  In the Bhagavad Gita, the 16^th chapter sets divides the qualities of a divinely natured person (read: virtuous) and a demonically natured person (read: animal-natured).  Krishna, beginning with the divine qualities, lists those which we might expect (charity, self-control, compassion, etc), but he gives the most prominent place to something surprising.  Abhyam, fearlessness, is the first word of the chapter (a prominent place).  My interpretation of this is that all fear is essentially related to change, ie. is abhiniveśāḥ. Therefore, before we can bring out the rest of the divine qualities, we must be willing to change.  Without this willingness, and the courage to follow through, growth, as well as Liberation, is impossible.  So the first obstacle we face in our desire for peace is our own resistance to change from the state we’ve become accustomed to. Similarly, the first quality we must try to cultivate is fearlessness in the face of change.

            I mentioned in an earlier post that I knew nothing about Plato and the other classical Western Philosophers, and that I never read any of them, other than in excerpts.  After that post, I started to correct this, reading several of Plato’s dialogues and most of the first volume of Copleston’s epic A History of Philosophy.  If I can keep my enthusiasm going, I’d like to continue my survey of Philosophy into the modern day.  However, in doing so I’m directly confronted with the problems I’ve described above.  As I read ideas of numerous different people which are often in conflict, I naturally relate them to myself and my own established “identity,” that composite of my attachments and aversions.  Am I a Platonist, a Neoplatonist, or a Kantian?  Who do I agree with, and what parts do I disagree with?  Furthermore, some of the philosophers pose some challenging theories that I can’t help but agree with but also conflict with the world view I’ve built around myself.  This creates a little mental tension which can only be resolved by absorbing the new material into the whole of my identity. Clearly, this also explains the timing of my dream last night (in yoga, sight is connected with the 3rd Chakra, the ego, and the sense of identity and self.)  Similarly, studying Sanskrit has been an incredibly bruising experience on my ego.  Considering myself as decently intelligent, I find myself at the level of a child regarding Sanskrit, but not even as well off as a child, as a child doesn’t have to worry about fighting old habits, or unlearning old preconceptions.  Learning, we can see, is not always pleasant, but I think we can argue that it is usually a good thing regardless.  Still, its not hard to see why so many people prefer to remain complacent in their lives and accept the status quo rather than the uncertainty that accompanies change.  Certainly it is easier and more pleasant.  I myself have often been tempted to stop studying because it would be easier to just live with convention, happy with the little I know, content in self-congratulatory ignorance.  The quote at the beginning of this post sums this tendency up nicely.

            So many people choose the easy road of complacency (consciously or not), trying to find stasis in life by building a nest around themselves of material goods and pleasant notions, and trying to make it permanent.  But the truth is in opposition.  Everything in life changes, and fighting change brings us nothing but misery.  Sooner or later, someone is going come along and knock over your neat little applecart. 

            The doctrines of the Stoics, of the Yogis, and of the Buddhists are largely trying to answer the question “how can avoid the suffering brought on by the inevitability of loss and pain?”  The answer given by all three is Non-attachment.  This is the practice (and it takes lots of practice) of not trying to hold on to the objects of life, even the body itself.  This is not to say not to enjoy life, or the things in it, but to recognize that whatever you have, you will have to give back.  The first step in this practice must be to recognize the inevitability of change, and to stop trying to make the world into something its not: static.  We must further recognize this habit in the way we consider ourselves, that we believe we are a certain way.  We say “I’m not that kind of guy,” or “I’m just an angry person,” or “I’m a soft-hearted person,” as if these are the only possibilities available, that we, like our likes and dislikes, are an “either/or”.  We’re not.  Identity, personality, and even most traits are fluid (all traits are actually fluid, because they all come to an end).  Think back to who you thought you were and what you valued (and what you were averse to) when you were 10, 16, 20, 30, 40 years old, and it becomes obvious that you’re not the same person in the conventional understanding of the term.  The first step seems to me to be to loosen our own conception of ourselves, essentially “undoing” the personality to discover its actual nature as impermanent (and I’d argue, largely arbitrary).  The yogic method here shares a singular commonality with the Hermetic doctrine of the Path of Return – of the upraising of the mind from the complex to the simple, the particular to the universal.  Both represent an undoing of the path of “creation” of the particular person into its component parts.  While this may sound like metaphysical suicide at first glance, we must remember that in both systems, there is a single permanent aspect to each of us, the immortal soul, and it is this which remains when its coverings are removed.  But this is starting to take me away from my point...

            With the arrival of New Years, its natural to take account of our lives, and to aspire and hope to better ourselves in the year to come.  The main obstacle to this is our innate fear of change, to a clinging of an apparently fixed identity that is the outgrowth of the conjunction of the Seer and the Seen, of the soul with the body-mind and through it the world.  Therefore, whatever you may wish to become in 2011, resolve to be first fearless of change, and even of death.  After all, after whatever pain involved in actually dying passes, there remains only two possibilities:  there is some sort of afterlife, in which existence continues, or there is not, in which case you won’t care or even notice.  Either way, what is there to fear? 

Happy New Year everybody!

"You're not your fucking khakis." - Tyler Durden

Freedom (from Attachment and Aversion)

            I have an article on New Years Resolutions in the Mahopac News today, however it doesn't appear to be on their website as of yet.  If it ever is, I'll try to link to it.  In the meantime...

            Everyone desires freedom.  We yearn for it, even if we can’t perfectly describe it in words.  Even if we manage to develop an idea of what it is (or isn't), we still might not have the first clue as how to achieve such a state. For milennia, the idea of freedom or liberation has been at the center of the dominant philosophies and religions of the East, but it has also inspired Western thinkers, ancient and modern.  So what is this thing we call freedom?

            Lets check the dictionary first.  Merriam-Webster says: a : the absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action b : liberation from slavery or restraint or from the power of another : independence c : the quality or state of being exempt or released usually from something onerous (freedom from care).  Our understanding of the word then would indicate either a lack of outside obstruction upon our action, a state of independence from the same, or a state of release from the same.  So really, freedom can only be understood in comparison to its opposite – obstruction. 

            From this we draw our conventional idea of freedom.  We think of political freedom as an absence of government interference and equate this with certain rights.  Further, we often equate financial independence with real independence, as we are less moved by financial necessity if we’re rich.  Money helps us with freedom of movement, buys better justice, shortens waits, and brings desires to sometimes instant satisfaction.  Sure, things might go more smoothly with money greasing the wheels, but are rich people significantly happier than poor folks?  Science consistently says no (I should qualify this by saying that this only true over a certain basic level of financial security).  Philosophy usually agrees.  Yoga and the Stoics especially say that this financial freedom is not real freedom, but an illusory independence.  Money can vanish, be stolen, be confiscated, and otherwise be lost.  In fact, when we equate freedom with money, we become dependent upon it, not much better than a slave.  We end up serving it, fearing its loss, working to preserve what we have against the inevitability of its departure.  We must spend time managing our wealth, protecting it like a child, and like any parent, we must often sacrifice for its welfare.  While those in the highest stratosphere of the upper tax brackets may seem immune to this, we must consider what these rare few had to do to achieve their exalted position.  Many had to lie, steal and exploit their way to the top, and these habits of a lifetime are not easily shed once financial success is reached.  Why?  Because the only way to become that rich is greed, and greed is never satiated.  Further, although certain day-to-day frustrations might flee from the super-wealthy, they are necessarily surrounded with sycophantic hanger-ons, all after a piece of the pie.  They become an institution rather than a person, unable to really judge the motives of another except through the lens of monetary protectionism.  Such a person has about as much a chance of finding real peace as a camel has to pass through the eye of a needle. 

            What then is real independence, real freedom?  Well, based on our definition, freedom is not a positive thing that can be possessed or grasped.  Freedom is an absence of obstruction.  Based on this idea, freedom is actually our natural state, if we could imagine ourselves entirely independent of all obstruction.  Lets begin with the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, as they are explicit in terms of what the obstructions to this state are.  These are the five Kleshas, or sources of misery, often translated as “obstructions” or “obstacles.”  The Kleshas include avidya, ignorance; asmitā, egoism; rāga, desire (attachment); dveṣa, aversion; abhiniveśaḥ, clinging to bodily life (fear of death).

            As with most lists that appear in such works, the order in which they appear is significant.  Ignorance is considered the cause, and even the ground upon which the others rest.  In this context, ignorance is the “beginningless” misapprehension of our true nature.  According to the yoga philosophy as presented by Patanjali, our essential being is called Purusha, or the Seer within.  We may see this as analogous with the idea of the immortal soul which is separable from the body.  This has come to be understood (through the medium of Advaita Vedanta) as Consciousness itself.  Patanjali presents this Purusha as a duality in opposition to Prakriti, or matter, which constitutes absolutely everything that is not Prakriti: your computer, the air you breathe, the lungs you breathe with, the brain that regulates breathing, and even the entirety of the mind.  Only consciousness, changeless and eternal, is considered separate.  The entire study of yoga, according to the Yoga Sutras, is concerned with overcoming our in-born ignorance and attaining the realization of our identity as Purusha.  This is different than “thinking” that you’re the Purusha, as in order for the state to mean anything it must be experienced as the true reality.  The meditative and mystic elements of yoga provide this, but for now lets concern ourselves only with the philosophy.

            From this inborn ignorance of our nature, we come to egoism, which is the identification of Consciousness with the mind-body complex.  We begin to believe that we think therefore we are instead of realizing that we are therefore we think.  The body experiences pain and we think it is the self that feels it.  We identify with our gender, our individual form, our birth (nationality, religion, parents), and all of this comes together to form our point of view.  I might say “I’m a male, liberal, half-hispanic yoga teacher from New York, who likes rock & roll.” But this is not really correct, according to the yoga philosophy.  The correct way of putting it would be “I think I’m a male , liberal, half-hispanic yoga teacher from New York, who likes rock & roll due to ignorance of my essential nature.  In reality I’m pure being, consciousness and bliss, eternal and beginningless, and not distinct from any other consciousness anywhere in the universe.”  Clearly this is a radical view.

            From egoism, this identification with what we might call the “small self,” comes rāga and dveṣa, attachment (desire) and aversion, which are really just two sides of the same coin.  Through egoism, we identify with pleasure and pain, and thus relate everything in the world back to ourselves.  We appear to experience pleasure, and we wish to repeat the experience, becoming attached to it, and through it, the various and innumerable sources of pleasure.  Similarly, we become averse to those things which are uncomfortable, challenging, and painful.  The last Klesha, abhiniveśaḥ, “clinging to bodily life” or fear of death, is really about the desire for the continuation of the experiences of attachment and aversion.  We fear death because it represents an uncertain change in circumstance, in which we fear we may not continue to enjoy those things we’re attached to or avoid those things we are averse to.

            According to this philosophy, all of the Kleshas are obstacles to be eliminated, starting with this fear of change, and including the rest.  The method is primarily non-attachment (although this is elaborated a great deal into various parts and methods).  The theory is, by the removal of these obstacles, we become independent and free.  “…the Seer dwells in its own nature,” independent of association with Prakriti (all objects of consciousness – the Seer).  A common metaphor is that when the sluice gate is lifted, water naturally flows into the cultivated fields.

            This is a demanding philosophy.  In its final analysis it requires us to let go of not only our attachments and aversions, but even our very identification with our personality, etc.  Clearly many people will balk at this idea, and I think that’s completely understandable.  But at the same time, I can’t help but feel that this approach is philosophically sound.  Whether it is practical for most is another matter entirely. 

            It is the difficulty of method that has led me to consider whether the ideas of the Stoics could be a supplement to, or perhaps a stepping stone to the achievement of the philosophy of yoga.  Stoicism drew a lot of inspiration from the Cynics, a school of extreme asceticism much like yoga, at least superficially.  The exemplar of Cynicism was Diogenes, famous for having no possessions, and living in a tub in the marketplace.  Stoics tended not to go so far, and practiced a more moderate asceticism.  For the Stoics, freedom was also a lack of constraint, an independence of being, which involved deep consideration of the natural human faculties of desire and aversion.

            To the Stoic, freedom meant essentially only having only experiences that you desire, and not experiencing anything you are averse to.  Sounds wonderful, but there’s a big catch.  The reason why we’re not already at peace is that our attachments and aversions are out of whack.  We desire those things we should avoid (because now or later they will make us miserable), and we avoid those things we should desire (those which will make us happy).  Desire/Aversion is ultimately a matter of judgment, and if our judgment is faulty, we tend to become frustrated, and frustration is the feeling most associated with obstruction.  To re-quote from last week’s post, “It is not events that disturb people, it is their judgments concerning them... So when we are frustrated, angry or unhappy, never hold anyone except ourselves – that is, our judgments – accountable.  An ignorant person is inclined to blame others for his misfortune.  To blame oneself is proof of progress.  But the wise man never has to blame another or himself.” (Epictetus, Enchiridion.)  The idea here is that a wise man, whose judgment is sound, never experiences anything he is averse to and always experiences what he desires.  He has purified and refined his faculties of attachment and aversion, rather than doing away with them entirely as yoga would have us do. 

            “The faculty of desire purports to aim at securing what you want, while aversion purports to shield you from what you don’t.  If you fail in your desire, you are unfortunate, if you experience what you would rather avoid you are unhappy.  So direct aversion only towards things that are under your control and alien to your nature, and you will not fall victim to any of the things that you dislike.  But if your resentment is directed at illness, death or poverty, you are headed for disappointment.

            Remove it from anything not in our power to control and direct it instead towards things contrary to our nature that we do control.  As for desire, suspend it completely for now.  Because if you desire something outside your control you are bound to be disappointed; and even things we do control, which are under other circumstances would be deserving of our desire, are not yet within our power to attain.  Restrict yourself to choice and refusal; and exercise them carefully, with discipline and detachment.”

                                                                        - Epictetus, Enchiridon, Chapter 2.

            The idea here is that we should desire only those things which are under our control, and be averse to the same.  We should desire that which is “good,” ie, that which upraises us – virtue;  and we should be averse to the “evil,” ie, that which degrades us towards the animal state.  Epictetus here clearly recognizes the difficulty in doing this.  We all start the process full of attachments to outside things, and this is where our misery lies.  So he tells us, try to get rid of desire completely, because chances are our judgment is not so wise or strong as of yet to resist the pull of some desires and not others.  It is my opinion that this is the same reason that Patanjali is so adamant against desire, not even suggesting that we cultivate a desire for God, such as other yogic books like the Bhagavad Gita might say. 

            According to Epictetus, we should practice non-attachment, and start by purifying our aversions.  This is the same order implicitly suggested in the sutras (eliminating the Kleshas in the backwards order):  first we eliminate resistance to change (we can’t do anything until we decide to change ourselves), then comes aversion, then attachment, egoism, and lastly (at the very end), the basic underlying ignorance of the Self.  In Stoicism, the attention is mainly on attachment and aversion only. 

            Stoicism very explicitly teaches what should fall under the auspices of our aversions and desire – only those things we are able to control, which really isn’t very much.  We can’t control our family, friends, finances, or even our body, which will age and die despite our willing it otherwise.  Further, the body can be imprisoned, injured or killed by those who are physically stronger, regardless of our desire or aversion.  All of these things are lumped under the idea of “externals.”  The attitude cultivated towards them should be neither attachment or aversion, but complete indifference. 

            What Stoicism calls “internal” essentially means the mind and soul, which since Plato have been consistently linked, and seem to be to be considered roughly interchangeable.  Therefore, what we should desire are mental states independent of external stimuli, and what we should be averse to are different mental states.  We should desire virtue, wisdom, discernment, and character; we should be averse to those degrading mental habits that take us away from these.  This ultimately leads to peace and serenity, at least in theory.  This is the idea of independence:  you can be forced into a jail cell, have your possessions (including the body) taken from you, but no one can change your character or your mind unless you assent.  If you're indifferent towards the things that can be taken, then the peace you’ve achieved is theoretically untouchable by the outside world.

            The main difference between Stoicism and Yoga regarding all this seems to me not a matter of a different understanding of whether or not aversion and attachment are entirely bad, or have beneficial uses, but in the difference in understanding the mind.  Stoicism, unlike Platonism which holds that mind and ideas are immaterial, postulates a material of mind (and, I should note, a material God).  Despite this important distinction, the Stoics nonetheless treated the mind as immaterial in that they seemed to link it with the soul (which they also called material, but seemed to treat as immaterial), and thought that the mind could be independent of the world around it.  Like Plato, the Stoics held the soul to be immortal, but it seems to me that when we connect the idea of an immortal soul to a finite mind, we confuse the issue a great deal.  Mind is clearly related to the body (injure the brain, injure the mind), and therefore should really be classed, by Stoic logic as an external, not an internal.  Just as the body can die, the mind of the most brilliant philosopher can suffer dementia.  By this logic, only the soul is truly internal, and this is the basic yogic distinction between Purusha (the Seer) and Prakriti (the Seen.)  In yoga, the mind is considered material, although far more subtle in constitution than gross matter as we know it through the outer senses.  It is considered external, and separable from the Self, or soul.  In fact, it is this basic separability that is the metaphysical basis of the deepest goals of yogic practice.

            Liberation, as it is understood in yogic philosophy, is about achieving a deep and abiding recognition of the identity with the immortal Soul, independent of the accidents of (or karma-caused) birth.  If the soul is immortal, and perhaps transmigrates (as the yogis and Plato believed), then if we identify not just with this mind/body, but with the common nature of all of our soul’s incarnations, desire and aversion particular to an individual life in this world no longer have the potential for obstructing the freedom of the soul.

            I should point out an important point before ending this already too lengthy post.  In the yogic conception, the soul was never really bound, but it only appeared so to the mind.  When we transcend the mind and identify with the soul, “we” are free, but who is the “we,” if not the soul?  It is the mind which is bound, and it is the mind that is Liberated, and nothing else.  The soul, immortal and unchanging, can only be the impassive witness to the vicissitudes of life, and as it neither desires nor is averse, it is never frustrated, but is always partaking in its essential nature: being, consciousness, and bliss.

            While I think this concept is philosophically sounder than the Stoic conception, in practice it is probably more difficult, at least to one who is determined to live in the world.  I think that Stoicism could be a useful philosophy to consider for a yogi whose interest is perhaps not all-abiding, or someone with children or other responsibilities.  If we practice non-attachment, and can make ourselves desirous only of virtue, and averse only to vice, at the very least we are on the road to greater happiness, contentment and serenity than otherwise.  I seems certain that if someone who was successful in this found that it was imperfect (as it seems to me it would be), then the virtue thereby gained would be more than enough to take the far greater leap to the loft goal of the yoga philosophy of Patanjali.  In my next post, I hope to conclude my discussion of Stoicism in relation to yoga with some practical suggestions from the ancients towards the practice of non-attachment and the achievement of true independence.

             

Virtue, East and West

“Of that unique man

Whose name is not to come from the lips of the wicked.

Theirs is not the right to praise him-

Him who first revealed clearly

By word and by deed

That he who is virtuous is happy.

Alas, not one of us can equal him.”  Aristotle, Fragment 623.

            Much of what is best (to my limited knowledge) of ancient Greek thought is summarized by the above.  Aristotle is specifically referring to his teacher, Plato, and credits him with an important idea, that virtue and happiness are of the same nature. 

This emphasis is also central to the yoga school, whose Yoga Sutras and Bhagavad Gita, two central texts, were written around the same time as the flowering of Greek Thought (around 200BCE).  Virtue and the development of character are central to philosophies both East and West. 

            So what then is virtue anyway?  Typically we think of it as moral excellence, and I in the past have considered it in my relativistic way as the conformity to social standards of behavior and moral values. But let’s consider the word itself.  Our word virtue comes from the Latin word virtūs, meaning manliness, excellence, or worth, as well as moral virtue in general.  Virtūs comes from Vir, the word for man, or true man, husband, or soldier.  Similarly we get words like virile (from virīlis; of a man, manly, bold or firm) and vigor (from vigor, physical or mental energy).  Another related word to consider is vīres, a plural form of the word vīs or vim, meaning strength, control, force, power, resources, value, or meaning.  On the whole, we get an idea of the original meaning of Virtue (at least as the Romans understood it) as great strength and control, as befits a “true man”, ie. a responsible citizen and exemplar of the human race. 

            Interestingly in Sanskrit, we have a similar word, वीर, vīra, which means man, but especially a brave or eminent man, in a word, a hero.  For those of you who are wondering, yes this is the origin of the sanskrit names for vīrāsana (hero’s pose), and vīrabhadrāsana (warrior pose).  From this root, numerous derivatives come, including a word given an important place in the Yoga Sutras, vīrya, meaning strength in a very similar way to the Latin vigor.  As I was writing this, I found an even more interesting connection with the Latin, वीरत्व vīratva, meaning manliness.  Keep in mind that in Latin, the letters v and w are essentially the same (and related to the letter u), and in Sanskrit the letter व can be pronounced either as v or w.  So we can prounce that last word as “veeratwa” which is not particularly far from our word virtue. 

            The Greek word for Virtue is Arete, and means more specifically excellence.  Having never studied Greek, I must rely on Wikipedia, which tells me that Arete would be attributed to excellence in everything, ie, an excellent stove, an excellent car, etc.  The Latin equivillents would only be attributed to a human being.

            It should be clear from the above that our understanding of virtue has changed over time.  Certainly the influence from Christianity cannot be ignored.  Plato’s four cardinal virtues as listed in the Republic are Wisdom, Courage or Fortitude, Temperence, and Justice.  Wisdom is sometimes translated as prudence, which is this sense means the same thing: the ability to judge good actions from bad.  Christianity, while accepting these virtues (allegorial forms of which appear in many churches, stained glass works, and other forms of Christian art), added to them, and due to the Church’s all-pervasive influence in the Middle Ages, thereby substantially changed the way we think of virtue.  

“When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”  Corinthians 13:12-13

            Even here, these virtues are connected to manliness, at least in its sense of adulthood.  I should also note for completeness that the Greek word used here for love, agape, is sometimes given as charity (you may be more familiar with Faith, Hope and Charity from the King James Version), as agape represents the kind of impersonal “brotherly” love existing between all men everywhere.  Charity is clearly a natural extension of this. 
            I’m not judging Christianity’s influence on virtue one way or another (at least not right now), as certainly I can’t find fault with faith, hope or love.  I am pointing out the distinction, as we moderns naturally tend to associate virtue with these ideas, and that is not necessarily the way the word was understood by the Stoics and their contemporaries.  That said, what did the Stoics think about Virtue?
            To Epictetus, a Greek Stoic teaching in the 2^nd Century C.E., like many of the other Greek and Roman Philosophers, the question of Virtue rests primarily with the first of Plato’s four cardinal virtues – wisdom.  Wisdom is the ability to make accurate judgments concerning right and wrong, and it naturally follows that this must be present for the other virtues to exist.  What is the faculty which makes these distinctions?  Stoicism agrees with the Socratics in this absolutely: wisdom is a product of a well-developed reason. 
From this an old debate emerges:  Is it possibly to teach virtue?  The Stoics, like the Socratics, would argue that as virtue (read: wisdom) is a product of reason, it can be taught by means of reason.  By education and cultivation of the intellect, wisdom arises, and as Aristotle pointed out to us at the outset of this post, thereby arises true happiness.  (This interesting op-ed piece by Stanley Fish is an interesting read in this connection.) 
            In the Stoicism of Epictetus, this virtue (wisdom) takes the form of distinguishing between Externals and Internals, or those things we can control, and those we cannot.  As I cannot explain it better than Epictetus, I’ll let him speak for himself:

“We are responsible for some things, while there are others for which we cannot be held responsible.  The former include our judgment, our impulse, our desire, aversion, and our mental faculties in general; the latter include the body, material possessions, our reputation, status – in a word, anything not in our power to control.  The former are naturally free, unconstrained and unimpeded, while the latter are frail, inferior, subject to restraint – and none of our affair.” – Enchiridion (The Manual), 1-2.  (Italics added)

           The development of virtue then, according to Epictetus, is really about the development of those things we can control, in other words, our judgment (wisdom), the mind, and our values. This virtue of wisdom has an important equivalent in yoga, which is called in Sanskrit विवेक viveka, discrimination.  What exactly is discriminated is very different; it is the Self, or immortal, changeless soul (or in a Vedantic gloss, Consciousness itself), discriminated from the world of manifest existance, which includes not only Epictetus’ list of externals, but also the entirety of the list of externals, with a possible, but extremely debatable exception of Judgement (without veering TOO far off course, judgement is associated with the idea of the Buddhi, or highest part of the mind, which is said to be material, but exceedingly subtle.  The problem is whether or not the Self, being changeless and complete in its own nature, has agency.  Hence the debate.) Like Stoicism, the yoga philosophy encourages a renunciation of those things which we cannot control, although in yoga this is because these things (the world) distract us from the realization of the Self, while in Stoicism it is due to the inevitability of dissappointment, trouble and unhappiness which comes from giving valuing externals.

           In Stoicism, virtue is close to its Latin meaning of manliness, strength and control. These faculties are normally directed outward (used for the control of nature, of other people through government, commerce, and physical coersion, of material goods and pleasures, etc) become inwardly directed, and concern themselves primarily with Self-Control.  From this sense of self control come the other virtues; Temperence (a man in control of his desire does not go to excess), Justice (a man uninterested in externals is not personally concerned, ie selfishly concerned about another man’s business, and therefore is able to be just in all his dealings – he has no hidden agenda), and Fortitude.  For this last, I turn to Epictetus once again:

“It is not events that disturb people, it is their judgements concerning them.  Death, for example, is nothing frightening, otherwise it would have frightened Socrates.  But the judgement that death is frightening – now, that is something to be afraid of.  So when we are frustrated, angry or unhappy, never hold anyone except ourselves – that is, our judgements – accountable.  An ignorant person is inclined to blame others for his misfortune.  To blame oneself is proof of progress.  But the wise man never has to blame another or himself.” - Enchiridion (The Manual), 5.

          This matches our modern idea of what it means to be stoic – one who is apparently indifferent to pleasure or pain, which is really the outward impression of someone who is self-controlled and who has renounced the externals.  This may be even taken negatively, as in a person who appears to be unfeeling or unemotional to the extreme, but this is all still on the surface.  If a person gets into a car accident, totaling their vehicle, because another driver wasn’t looking where they were going, the expected reaction is anger towards the other driver.  In fact, if I were the other driver, I’d expect to see anger expressed by the driver of the car I hit.  Now, if I hit a Stoic, someone who viewed their car as an external, and was not particularly concerned about having it totaled, or even the brief inconvenience of a jolt to the body (or injury for that matter, as the body is external), then clearly there would be no anger.  I as the other driver would probably be a little confused by the other guy lack of passion. 

           It’s a sad fact that we come to expect that everyone around us will immediately react to and express emotional impulses full-throatedly, with a big dramatic display.  When someone reacts dispassionately, due to either the yogic pratice of vairagya, non-attachment (to externals), or the Stoic equivalent, everyone around them is often a little thrown off.  I’ve found that sometimes just reacting dispassionately is enough to actually nip a big dramatic display in the bud, and may even stop a fight.  That, of course, is assuming that there isn’t someone present who considers manliness in its lowest form, macho posturing, to be virtue.  In this case, a person who is used to defining all impressions as either “safe” or “threatening” will interpret their confusion and my own lack of a response as a threat, and get angry themselves.  Similarly, others might feel anger for you, rather than at you, almost as if they were trying to teach you how to play their social game.

            Plato defined man as the “reasonable animal” and reason is essentially the capacity for mental reflection.  Turning our strength and power to control from its natural outward focus inwards by reflection seems to me to be the difference between the virtue of an animal and that of a “real man.”  Machismo, and any other expression ruled by pure emotion, is therefore the reaction of not a man, but of an animal in the body of a man.  The philosophers of Greece and Rome, along with those of India hold that the happiness possible for this animal man is inherently unstable, as it is bound to externals, while only in reasonable man is a higher, more firmly grounded happiness (or absolute happiness, ie, Liberation), possible.  You take their stuff, they suffer.  You make them late, they suffer.  You say you don’t like them, they suffer.  All because they’ve chosen to base their happiness on things outside themselves.  We might call this person dependent, much as we would call a child (“put away childish things…”).  You might not be wrong to call that person a slave.  A person who is a slave to passion or objects lacks the power of discrimination between what is good for us, and what is bad for us, or at least the strength or inclination to change one’s habitual responses.  As the Bhagavad Gita says: “Men of demonic nature do not have the discriminative understanding of what should be done and what should be avoided.” (BG 16.7)   Here demonic is used much as I mean animal above.  We must remember that most depictions of demons, East or West, are really nothing more than a hybrid human with various animal traits: horns, tails, large jaws, hooves, etc.

            Stoicism teaches that once we differentiate between those things which we can control, and those we cannot, we must purify our natural tendency for desire (attachment) and aversion, so that we only desire those things which are good and are only averse to those things that are bad for us.  This duality of attachment and aversion plays a prominent place in both Stoicism and Yoga, and that’ll be the next topic I chew on.

            It might be a good idea to mention here that I recognize how hard it is to live up to such ideas of virtue and self-control.  I struggle with it every day, and I feel that I’m far from successful.  After all, I’m not only up against my own animal instincts, but the habits of years.  Even the desire to cultivate virtue comes rather late to me, and those who’ve known me for years may be surprised that I’ve started now.  Still, it seems to me a worthy endeavor, and what success I have had in the practice of non-attachment has shown me a peace and happiness that was not possible only a few years ago.  As they say, the proof is in the pudding.  You’ve got to taste it to know for sure.

Difficulties with Western Philosophy

As I’ve burrowed deeper into the philosophy of yoga and Advaita Vedanta, I’ve realized my own ignorance about the native philosophies of the West.  I studied Art History in school, and the only true philosophy course I ever took (by which I mean, from the University Philosophy Departments) was Aesthetics, and I dropped it after a mere two classes because it seemed entirely ridiculous.  When I think of Western Philosophy, I think of rather obscure and obtuse (if important) thinkers like Kant, whose Critique of Pure Reason I recently tried to smash my head against.  Thankfully, I was left with only a minor concussion; nausea, feelings of disorientation, and a head-ache.  I also think of Plato, Aristotle, and Socrates, those much lauded luminaries of ancient Greece who have had the most lasting impact on the West.  Most of my admittedly limited knowledge of these guys comes from second-hand sources:  an excellent survey of ancient Greek thought and religion at NYU (from the Classics Dept. rather than Philosophy Dept.), whatever I absorbed of Renaissance Neoplatonism from my Italian Art courses, the rather mutated influence of these ideas on esoteric systems such as Kabbalah & 19^th Century Occultism, as well as random tid-bits produced from eclectic reading.  In other words, I’ve never read The Republic, or anything else by these guys other than excerpts and other people's interpretation. 

While this ignorance of the big names of ancient philosophy is something I’d like to remedy, I must confess that based on what I do know of them, I’m not in much of a hurry to do so.  Much of their metaphysics have turned out to be far off the mark, at least to me.  As I understand it (and correct me if I’m wrong), Platonism sets great store by attribute and category, and claims that attributes are inherent in objects, something which I very definitely reject (an upcoming post will go deeper into why).  For instance, redness is an attribute of a red object, existing inside it, rather than the intersection of the senses, the object, and light.  Moreover, Platonists were essentially atomists, ie, they believed that all complex things could be broken down into discrete simple substances (containing specific attributes).  This idea clearly does not jive with our modern conception of matter (by which I mean quantum mechanics,the wave theory of matter, etc), but we can’t fault them too much for that.  What I can fault them for is their lack of empiricism. Experience and common sense were not very important for folks like Plato.  Instead, what is important is the world of Perfect Ideas.  At the risk of ridicule, I quote from Wikipedia:

“According to Socrates, physical objects and physical events are "shadows" of their ideal or perfect forms, and exist only to the extent that they instantiate the perfect versions of themselves. Just as shadows are temporary, inconsequential epiphenomena produced by physical objects, physical objects are themselves fleeting phenomena caused by more substantial causes, the ideals of which they are mere instances. For example, Socrates thinks that perfect justice exists (although it is not clear where) and his own trial would be a cheap copy of it.”

            We have here the idea that something like “perfect justice” exists, out there somewhere, in an ideal state, independent of actual, empirical justice.  The measure of an instance of Justice is how much of the Idea of Perfect Justice is manifested in the singular instance.  Of course, good luck getting two philosophers to agree on exactly what such perfect justice might entail.  The same goes for the Idea of Redness, Beauty, etc.

            To me, attributes, ideas, etc, are products of the mind - a saṁskara, or mental impression, as the yogic philosophy would have it.  These attributes which appear to be in an object, are actually in the mind.  We merely project these ideas onto objects, just as a man might project his own difficulty with his father onto any authority figure in his life without consciously realizing it.  An object itself is nothing to us, excepting the impression it makes on our mind.  Unless we become aware of it, we don’t notice how the immediate impression is reacted upon by memory, creating an emotional or judgemental response.  As the yoga philosophy would put it, our perception of the world is colored by our own saṁskaras, our dormant mental impressions. One great benefit of meditation is catching this coloring of the mind in the act, and clearing it out.  In Buddhism, especially mahāyāna Buddhism, this is the concept of Emptiness, or śūnyatā.  This doctrine holds that nothing possesses an essential, unchangable nature or identity.  In Buddhism, this includes us humans (a point that Vedantins and I disagree with), as well as all external objects (a point which I do agree with). By this idea, Justice is native only to the human mind, its manifestations differ as minds differ, rather than due to an imperfection inherent in the world of experience.  In other words, there is no absolute Justice by which we can measure all justice, merely a relative justice.

            By now you might have observed that I don’t hold with Platonism much at all.  Normally, I’d just say, “Ok, this is just another idea that seems outdated and wrong to my limited understanding.  Lets move onto something else and just leave this be.”  Unfortunately for me however, these Platonic ideas are incredibly pervasive, largely thanks to their popularity throughout the Christian Era.  When you conceive of a single God whose nature is absolute changeless truth, it becomes easy to see why the Church dug these guys.  Socrates’ ideal of Perfect Justice is easy to associate with the idea of Divine Justice, which is perfect in Heaven, but imperfect on this flawed Earth.  The early Church fathers, as well as the much maligned Gnostics couldn’t get enough of Plato, despite his sad pagan origins.  So we have the perpetuation of these ideas right into the Enlightenment.  It wouldn’t be too much of an exaggeration to say that the ideas of Socrates, Plato and Aristotle are the principal foundations of modern Western Philosophy. 

            When I realized this, it made me rather sad.  The philosophies of yoga, Vedanta, and even Buddhism are greatly appealing to me, but to be honest, the culture surrounding them is not.  I’m very much of the West, and I like being of the West.  The thought that the philosophy of my native culture was based on principals with which I cannot agree pained me.  Would I have to reject all of Western Philosophy because of the taint of Platonism? 

            Thankfully, the answer is no.  Antiquity and the Roman Empire, much like the world today, was full of rival philosophies, cults, and gurus of all stripes.  While Socrates was pretty much universally respected (even if his teachings weren’t), there were other philosophers whose schools were just as, or even more popular.  Among these were the Stoics, founded by Zeno of Citium, whose works have been lost.  Most of what we know of Stoicism comes from later writers such as Seneca, the Philosopher-Emperor Marcus Aurelius, and Epictetus.  I’ve been reading the latter recently, and have found a refreshing change from what I’ve come to expect from Western Philosophy.  Like the philosophy of yoga, it is primarily practical, rather than mere speculation and metaphysics.

            In my next post, I’ll write more about the oft misunderstood Stoics, with an emphasis on the surprising intersection of its teachings with the philosophy of the Yoga Sutras, and the intriguing ways in which they differ.  I’d also mention another, more recent philosopher who, while seeming a bit hamstrung by his background in Neoplatonism, also manages to transcend it.  This is Benedict de Spinoza, and when I’m done with my study of his Ethics, I hope to write a bit about his ideas here.

            For an interesting related discussion about the apparent differences between Western and Eastern philosophy, I refer you to an outstanding article that coincidentally was in today’s New York Times.  Their new philosophy column, “The Stone,” has aside from this article been rather disappointing to me thus far, mostly because it smells a bit too much like the worst aspects of modern academic (rather than practical) philosophy.  This article (aside from the author’s lame defense of “no, modern Western philosophy is practical too!  Really!  You just misunderstand it!) is a rare exception. 

            Until next time, Namaste.

And So it Begins...

Ok, here I am, joining the 21^st Century.  Thanks to the encouragement of a few students and friends, I’m going to give blogging a try. 

Let us begin…

Its generally accepted that for most social situations, its best to avoid two particular topics: religion and politics.  Unfortunately for me, those are the two of the main topics I find worth discussing.  I guess that’s why I don’t get invited to many parties these days.  While this may make me a poor dinner guest, it hopefully will make some interesting and possibly even educational reading. 

Of course, choosing these types of topics for discussion clearly risks offending any number of people.  Religion and politics both are kind of unique subjects that way.  We may acknowledge that we know nothing about molecular biology, and to know anything much about it takes years of specialized training, but every last one of us hold that our unexamined opinions concerning religion or politics is perfectly valid.  These are areas of knowledge in which we are expected to accept the opinions of a complete ignoramus as just as valid as someone who has dedicated their life to this type of study.

If a man says “I believe that computers work because inside of each there are little mice running on tread-mills,” we call that man a fool.  If a man says “I believe that the first human female was created from the rib of the first male,” or “I believe that Sarah Palin should be the next president,” we say we have to respect their opinion, even if we disagree.  These statements are suddenly not open to critique.  When beliefs built on weak foundations are challenged, even in merely hearing a counterpoint or just another (contradictory) point of view, people react badly.  Not only might we get offended, but we often dig our heels in, our existential insecurities making us hold on tighter to our sinking ships.  We stand stubbornly, claiming our right to believe as we like. 

Well, I concede that we all have a right to be fools, but I’d argue that few of us actually desire that.  Therefore, we need to look critically at our beliefs and philosophy, as well as its natural extension in the real world – politics.  So, I will brave the risk of offending my readers, and even my yoga students who may have wandered by.  Herein, I’ll be presenting my thoughts and ideas about these subjects, as well as gnawing on the ideas of others throughout history.  If I poke your sacred cow, and this causes offence, I must humbly beg your pardon.  Offense is never my intent, merely the side effect of my own grasping in the dark.  If anything herein bothers you, either discuss it (rationally and dispassionately) in the comments, or go your own way in peace.  You may console yourself with the fact that I’m probably wrong about everything anyway. 

As most if not all of you know, I’m a yoga teacher by profession, so we can expect that I’ll be writing a good bit on that and related topics.  Politics may come up occasionally, but my main focus is on philosophy and religion, although I may well significantly deviate from this to include book or movie reviews, and other less interesting things. 

The title?  Yes, it is a bit strange, I admit.  My sense of humor is odd, and not always in good taste.  “Slouching towards Bethlehem…” is a reference to “The Second Coming,” a poem by W.B. Yeats.  It’s short, so I’ll include it in its entirety.

“The Second Coming”

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

No, I don’t think I’m the second coming.  I just like the poem, and using it speaks to my perverse sense of humor.  Still, for me it defines my real reasons for creating this blog.  This is about drawing some conclusions from a life-long exploration of mysticism and esoteric philosophy.  Its about setting down some of my ideas, bringing some order to the chaos of modern life, and giving form to my own emerging personal philosophy. 

Its hour come round at last, this rough beast of a philosophy is slouching, slowly dragging itself to Bethlehem (much like I drag my lazy ass from the bed to the shower each morning), to be born into the world of men.  To be given life, purpose, and maybe, just maybe, an audience. 

So gather yourselves, ye Gogs and Magogs, for a strange and hopefully entertaining picnic on the green fields of Armageddon.  I’ll bring the basket and blankets, you bring the comments.