Ideas, Practice, Values: Towards an East-West Spirituality

 

Humans have experienced the religious urge for a long time, likely for as long as we have been human.  Throughout most of history, this urge was shaped and funneled through the religious traditions that were available to people in their geographical and cultural ranges.  However, with the spread of culture groups and contact between groups, customs and beliefs having to do with the spirit increasingly became available to people beyond their ethnic and tribal boundaries.  Here in the West, curious people have, since the colonial era and up to the present day, been fascinated by – and to lesser and greater degrees adopted – spiritual beliefs and practices from other parts of the world.  This has been especially true since the “death of God” heralded by Nietzsche and the meaning vacuum created in its wake, as organized religion waned in influence while secular modes – particularly science and a global interconnected economy – began to dominate the human mindset.

This essay is not a scholarly history of the Asian influence on Western spirituality or a learned discourse on Asian spiritual traditions and methodologies.  Neither is it meant to be a manifesto, or an advertisement for or polemic against religion, or any particular religious tradition.  Rather, it is the personal ruminations – a meditation, if you will – of one biracial and bicultural individual who has spent a lifetime reconciling East and West in his own person. 

I was born in Japan to a Japanese mother and a Swiss father, was raised in Japan through most of my childhood, and finished high school in the United States.  Aside from a stint in the Swiss Army as a young adult, I have lived in the United States ever since.  At about the age of thirteen, I became consumed with the notion of the mystical experience: the thought that one could merge with the Absolute in some kind of ecstatic union was very appealing to me.  A nerd from the very start, I read the Upanishads, books on Zen, and whatever works I could find in the school library about Eastern religion.  I was born a little late (1966) for the explosion of cross-cultural spiritual ferment in the 1960s, but eagerly read what I could about yoga and meditation.  In high school I enthusiastically experimented with marijuana and other psychoactive drugs, and, though I had interesting experiences, was disappointed that the drugs did not precipitate what I thought I would recognize as bona fide mystical experiences.

In my continuing quest to understand human beings and our mystical urges, I attended the University of California, Berkeley, and studied anthropology.  I had the wonderful experience of studying with world-renowned professors, and was able to expand my studies beyond anthropology per se, to courses on East Asian religion, the history of Buddhism, linguistic approaches to South Asian ritual, and West African music.  Although my major was in cultural anthropology, in hindsight it is physical anthropology with its Darwinian perspective that made the biggest impact on me intellectually.  The idea of natural selection and adaptation to changing physical and social environments provided an explanatory power that I had previously lacked.  I began to think differently about the issue of mysticism and religious experience.  What if the mystical union that I craved was not the validation of a super-reality that was more real than the reality I experienced day-to-day, but simply one kind of experience among many others, that had some adaptive value for human beings?

This way of thinking about spiritual experiences has stayed with me, and I think it is a valuable lens through which to view religion.  I think we need to abandon the notion that there is a Truth that can be got at, and replace it with an acceptance of the fact that the human experience has generated all kinds of ways of perceiving and thinking about things, and that none is inherently more right than the others.  A scientist might critique this statement, and say that well, yes, we can think about things however we want but science tells us objectively how they actually are.  My response is that the interior world of religious experience is maximally subjective, while the world of science is (ideally) maximally objective, and that neither has much bearing on the other.  In other words, whether or not there is such a thing as “enlightenment,” or “God,” or “reincarnation,” it would appear that human beings have experiences of such things, so it is worth investigating them since they are part of our experience. It is a Western prejudice that there is such a thing as absolute Truth, and it is a prejudice that underlies both Western science and Western religion (it is not uncommon for scientists and monotheists to suffer from the conviction that they are right while everyone else is wrong).  The Westerner, having lost faith in the religion of his or her childhood, seeks a replacement: perhaps Buddhism or Vedanta, or quantum physics or Scientology, holds the Truth, where Catholicism or Judaism failed them.

I think this way of thinking is all wrong.  Instead of operating on the faith that somebody got it right and we just have to find out who so we can follow them, I think we should instead just agree that the search for meaning, and for a connection to something greater than us, are universal human urges, and that it is only natural that different people fulfill these urges in different ways.  It is from this perspective that I think we should approach the question of how to best integrate Eastern and Western spirituality. Generally speaking, I am in favor of a create-your-own-religion approach to questions of the spirit.  While such an approach may smack of cultural appropriation, I think that what you think or do privately in the service of your spiritual wellbeing can and should be a highly personal affair, and there is no harm in borrowing from other cultures as long as you are not portraying yourself as an emissary or representative of those cultures, and are not charging money for the teaching and sharing of whatever it is you are borrowing.  The various cultural and spiritual traditions of East and South Asia offer much to the Westerner trying to forge his or her own spiritual path.  I will discuss these next, under the rubric of Ideas, Practices, and Values.

IDEAS:

Here in the West, religion is largely thought of in terms of what we believe (in most of the rest of the world, religion has much more to do with what we do – more on that in the upcoming sections on practice and values).  I would like to get away from this focus on belief because it supports the outdated notion referred to above, that there is such a thing as absolute Truth, and therefore correct beliefs and incorrect beliefs.  Instead, let us focus on the power and beauty of ideas.  What are some of the ideas coming from the East that can inform one’s spiritual life?  Here are just a few that I have found useful in my own life:

 The idea of self-cultivation: whether one is trying to cultivate moral virtues (Confucianism), alchemical “substances” that transform and circulate within the body (Daoism), or calm non-attachment to the myriad thoughts and distractions caused by the mind (Buddhism), the idea of self-cultivation is central to all Asian spiritual traditions.  The idea that one must rely on one’s own consistent and prolonged effort to achieve any kind of spiritual benefit is so intrinsic to Asian spirituality, and so important, that I devote the entire middle section of this essay to it, the section on Practice.

The idea that nature is sacred: as a child growing up in Japan, I was constantly reminded of the sanctity of nature.  Shinto, the indigenous Japanese religion, is very much a “nature religion,” a religion of place, of mountains and rivers and natural forces.  Whether hiking in the forest or exploring the alleyways of a large city, it was not unusual to stumble upon shrines and temples built around things and places of unusual natural beauty and power: extraordinary trees, strangely-shaped boulders, springs and waterfalls gushing with pure sweet water were often demarcated as holy sites where we would stop, clap our hands together, and offer a prayer.  Another aspect of this exaltation of nature is the attention paid to the seasons.  Traditional East Asian culture is keenly tuned to the changing seasons, and this level of attention to the ever-fluctuating beauty of the natural world elevates nature itself (ziran in Chinese, shizen in Japanese, meaning the “self-so,” the thing that generates itself of itself continually) to be the object of veneration.

The idea that humans are part of a trinity with, and therefore are constantly mutually affecting, Heaven and Earth: this idea is one of the foundations of the classical Chinese worldview, which properly should not be lumped with Daoism or Confucianism or Buddhism, as it precedes any such -isms.  I should point out here that Heaven in the Chinese view is not a place where people go when they die, but another word for the immensity of the Universe, or Nature.

The idea that ritual matters: most of Asian religion is primarily liturgical; the meditative aspects of Buddhism and Hinduism seized on by the West are generally left to the “pros” (monks, nuns, priests) living in monasteries, while most people are content to “go through the motions” of daily or seasonal rituals.  But to say that what they are doing is “just ritual” is to miss the point!  There is a beauty to enacting with one’s activity the movements of the universe and the key ideas and values of your tradition.  It is satisfying and meaning-making.

The idea that everything is made of the same stuff in varying modes of being, and that proper function – of anything: a body, a landscape, a planet – consists of establishing a healthy flow of that stuff, of freeing it where it is stuck and strengthening it where it is weak: this is another foundational part of the ancient Chinese worldview, and is the main idea behind arts such as fengshui, qigong, and acupuncture (I went on to study traditional Chinese medicine some years after college, and it is the source of my livelihood today).  This universal stuff/non-stuff is usually referred to as qi.  I think it is important to retain this universalistic understanding of qi, rather than narrowing it down to an invisible vital energy, as it is usually defined.  The concept of qi is certainly broad enough to contain a sensory aspect, as in the sensations one feels in the body during qigong or acupuncture, and even a metaphysical aspect like the emanations one might perceive radiating from a relic or other holy object, but to reduce it to “vital energy” is to miss the grand sense of qi as the unifying principle that connects all things whether they are physical, energetic, spiritual, psychological, or even imaginary.

The idea that we are literally and infinitely interconnected: in addition to the Chinese view of qi as the connector of all things, another version of this idea comes from Buddhism, where it is called pratityasamutpada or “dependent origination.” If we conceive of things not in terms of individual causes and effects but rather as ONE THING in which every part is intimately connected to and “caused” by every other part, it’s hard not to care, not only about our fellow humans but about other beings and all things.

The idea that non-ordinary states such as dream, deep contemplation, possession, and revelation are as real as the “real world,” and are a source of wisdom and useful information: I suspect that this idea was common in the Western world before the modern era, but in more recent times such states are generally dismissed as neurological aberrations when they are considered at all (“neurotheology” notwithstanding).

The idea that travel is a mode of religious exploration: Yu (travel, or perhaps more properly, “wandering”) is a key idea from Daoism.  Whether one wanders through the forest, or explores a new city, or traverses a foreign land, travel – and especially aimless wandering! - is considered an exemplary mode of embracing the Dao.  I love this idea, because personal experience has shown me that indeed, the spontaneity of the open road and the unanticipated encounter exposes us to what is good about life, about nature, about human nature.

 The idea that one’s body is a locus of divinity, and that what one does in the body, through breath and movement, affects one’s spirit: this idea, which underlies many forms of meditation as well as disciplines such as yoga and martial arts, is not unique to Eastern disciplines, but is certainly a foundational feature of many of them.

 The idea that it is possible to “wake up”: whether one embraces the Hindu idea of moksa (“liberation”) or the Buddhist idea of enlightenment, there is great hope in the thought that one can reach a state in which the distinctions of the conditioned world are transcended.  I think that the popularity of the “Matrix” movies in recent years, and the notion that it is possible to “wake up from the matrix,” is a sign of the appeal of this idea.

The idea that sexual pleasure can be a path to liberation: a natural extension of the previous two ideas, this idea reached its fruition in various schools of South Asian tantra and Chinese Daoism.  Although a bit problematical because sex often brings with it issues of power, control, shame, and attachment, and because there was and is certainly much sexual repression in the East as in the West, nonetheless it is a revolutionary idea when looked at vis-à-vis the Church in European history, which was thoroughly anti-pleasure for centuries (and still is) and would not and could not produce a religious path based on sexual pleasure.

The idea that there is no such thing as a self or soul: the truly radical Buddhist concept of anatman or “non-self” goes so against human nature that I marvel over its being the basis of a world religion.  For those who are so inclined, this powerful idea allows one to view human experience and cognition as a kind of mathematical or biological process rather than as a function of a nonmaterial entity that is running the show (the “ego,” the “self,” the “soul”).

 This is just a short list of some interesting ideas that come from Asian culture and religion.  It is worth doing a deep dive into ideas that are appealing to you, to read and study beyond the Wikipedia entry or Youtube video, to do them justice in their cultural and historical context and give them your full consideration.  Also, it should be obvious that good ideas aren’t the exclusive provenance of Asians, and the world’s literature and the vast living encyclopedias of all the world’s people and cultures should be investigated for their wisdom too (this is why it’s good to read, and to hang out with people who are unlike yourself).  But, ultimately, all ideas are just ideas.  In my opinion, we should not elevate any one idea to the level of unquestioned holy writ.  By insisting that our good ideas are the Truth, we set ourselves up as people who are right, and others as people who are wrong, and this is the start of bigotry and proselytization, both of which should be avoided. Instead, we should shift our focus to what we do.

PRACTICE:

One of the great advantages of Asian spiritual systems is that they tend to come with clearly prescribed practices: things that you do with your mind and body.  Whether you are learning meditation, yoga, swordfighting, or the tea ceremony, part and parcel of the tradition is learning how to be in your body.  When the practice in question is part of a religious tradition, the practice will supplement and encourage your exploration of one or more of the key ideas that inform the tradition.  For instance, Buddhist meditation may help you see that there is no such thing as a self, and in so doing, may lift you out of self-absorption and onto the path towards awakening, or at the very least to calm equanimity.

I would add that a practice is valuable in and of itself, even if it is not specifically tied to a religious tradition.  I once heard an acupuncture teacher say, “In Japan, there is family learning, school learning, and dojo learning.”  The dojo (literally “Place of the Way”) is most often thought of as a martial arts training hall, but it is actually a more general term for a school where one goes to learn a traditional art, whether that art is judo, archery, calligraphy, or flower arranging.  To this day in Japan there is the recognition that dojo learning is distinct from family- and school- learning, and equally important.  In any traditional discipline, dojo learning has to do not only with specific cultural knowledge, but with instruction on inhabiting one’s body with integrity: how to stand, how to sit, how to breathe, how to move.

In Chinese, there is a character, zheng.  Zheng is usually translated as “right,” “upright,” “righteous,” “correct,” “authentic,” “straight.”  It is not a specifically religious term, but has a close association with Confucianism.  Zheng is the enactment of one of the ideas mentioned earlier, that humans are the connector between Heaven and Earth.  What does this mean?  For me it means that when one “is zheng,” when one is upright in posture and attitude, one’s own integrity facilitates the integrity of the cosmos.  Holding your body with integrity affects not only your physical ability to maintain balance and composure, but your ethics, your health, and ultimately your surroundings and the entire universe itself. This is something I learned through judo as a child, and continue to learn via kung fu practice more recently.  But one could learn it through seated meditation or tea ceremony just as well.

To tie this in with another of the ideas mentioned above – that dreams are important and meaningful – about a year ago I had a dream that I now believe is about zheng.  In the dream, I woke up in my bed, and saw a coil of thick copper wire suspended from the ceiling by a string.  The coil began swinging around erratically, as if by some kind of poltergeist activity.  I looked on in alarm, and suddenly the copper wire went from being coiled to being perfectly straight and vertical.  It was held in this position by what I sensed to be an immensely powerful force field.  I felt as if I would die if I would reach for the copper.  I have wondered many times since that dream, about what it signified.  Though I still can’t say with any certainty, I now believe that the coil represents me, and that in its straightening, it embodies zheng and the power that results when one joins Heaven and Earth.

Art is another way to approach spiritual practice.  Although it is certainly possible, and quite common, to produce secular art, all of the world’s religions have traditions of art-making as a form of religious practice.  Christian illuminated manuscripts, Tibetan thangka paintings, Zen calligraphy, and Islamic rugs and textiles are just a few examples. In my experience, the creative process and the physical act of art-making is itself spiritual.  When I am woodworking or metalworking, I find that my perception of time is altered; many hours pass but it feels like no time has passed at all.  My social mind shuts down and I am absorbed by the work and the material; the rasping and polishing of wood or metal becomes a metaphorical polishing of my own soul.  The production of the artwork in its final form is less creation than it is revelation.

Finally, another aspect of practice is what you do, in the world, as an expression of your spiritual ideas and practices.  In my case, in my work as an acupuncturist and herbalist, I try to embody and apply the ideas of ren (kindness, compassion, love), of moving the qi to affect health, of maintaining zheng as I mediate the inner worlds of my patients with the outer worlds of society and nature. A teacher, a nun, a hedge fund manager, and a chef will each approach their work and life differently, and of course every individual does so with a flavor unique to each. I would argue that this approach to life is a direct outcome of one’s spirituality, however one defines the term.  This brings me to the question of values.

VALUES:

Ultimately, spiritual ideas and practices cannot be separated from human values.  Why do you do what you do?  Why work?  Why meditate?  Why pray?  Why feed the poor?  Why have kids?  I think it makes a difference whether one does things because one is trying to avoid going to hell, or trying to spread love and kindness, or just trying to stay alive.  Increasingly, we are immersed in a consumerist culture that values acquisition of material goods over most else; we use technologies that promote discord and hate between us and those who might think differently from us; we are overwhelmed by what looks and feels like our planet collapsing around us.  In the midst of all this, we scramble to put food on the table and a roof over our heads, and hardly have time to think about our core values and their bearing on the world.

In this context, I think it behooves us to think deeply about why we do what we do – what our values are.  Whether or not we point our fingers at the West and its history of colonialism and its legacy of capitalism as the reason for everything going to hell in a hand-basket, the spiritual and cultural traditions of the East are largely based on values that promote kindness, clarity, appreciation, tolerance, ecological balance, and hope, and can offer a much-needed corrective or supplement to what I consider our current crisis of values. 

While maintaining a Western love of reason and critical thinking, in my own life I try to live in a way that is congruent with the ideas, practices, and values that I have absorbed over the years from my parents, my studies, my curiosity, and my life experience.  If I had to summarize, I would say that what I have distilled out of these various influences is an ethic of appreciation and caring. It’s hard to say how much of this ethic comes from my mother, who is a teacher of ikebana and talks to birds; or my father, who is a scientist and loves to tinker, and nibbles on herbs and mushrooms while hiking; or from my wife and children, who surround me with love and laughter; or from martial arts training; or my work as an acupuncturist; or meditation; or study; or travel; or art; or inspiration; or my own character and predilections. I do not insist that everyone do as I do, or adopt for themselves the things that were useful for me, or embrace my particular values.  But I do believe that a process of honest self-inquiry, deep thinking, cultural critique, and cross-cultural study and practice can be an antidote to the anomie that many feel in our increasingly splintered world. 

Religion is about our relationship to the unknown; ultimately it boils down to how we contend with the fact that one day we will die.  Religion offers us different approaches to this uncomfortable knowledge: it can soften its edges with the promise of an afterlife or reincarnation; it can provoke moments of transcendence that make it all worthwhile; it offers us community and fellowship; it gives us the accumulated wisdom and traditions of many generations of people who came before us and wondered about the same things.

I understand the desire for certainty, and I accept that faith is one well-worn route to making sense of the world and our place in it.  But I prefer a spirituality that is comfortable with the mystery.  I am an innately anti-authoritarian and individualistic person.  I do not accept that any one religion has figured out the nuts and bolts of what happens when we die, what it’s all about, what the rules are, who you’re supposed to pray to or burn incense for.  But I do appreciate the history of humankind as a millennia-old natural selection of sorts, countless experiments yielding a million results, with the world’s religions and spiritual traditions a kind of repository of ideas, practices and values that have proven effective for helping us make sense of our existence.  In the end my stance is thoroughly existentialist and postmodern: there is no such thing as divinely-ordered meaning, so create your own meaning!  An East-West approach like the one outlined here is one way to go about doing that.