On pleasure, devas & practice
09/February/2009 04:58 PM
The blog returns, after a long absence! For this gap
in transmission I offer my apologies, along with the
same excuse I offered last time — life in its
intensity. But it’s a new year, and time for a new
start. For this first entry I’d like leave
mindfulness aside to focus on the issue of pleasure,
beginning with the question of why devas don’t have
sex.
The Buddha believed in a range of realms other than the human, including heavens and hells. Heavens are inhabited by devas, and these are part of the kama loka, or realm of desire, in which humans also dwell. Like humans, devas are gendered — they come in male and female forms. But unlike humans, devas are “spontaneously born” (opapatika), and so do not reproduce sexually. Steven Collins, in his book Nirvana and other Buddhist felicities, points out that devas are sensual rather than sexual. Among devas, relations between the sexes consist of sensually charged friendships characterised by an aesthetic rather than erotic quality. Devas are also happier than humans, implying that, for the Buddha, a refined sensuality is more pleasurable than the stimulation of normal human sexuality.
The Buddha believed in a range of realms other than the human, including heavens and hells. Heavens are inhabited by devas, and these are part of the kama loka, or realm of desire, in which humans also dwell. Like humans, devas are gendered — they come in male and female forms. But unlike humans, devas are “spontaneously born” (opapatika), and so do not reproduce sexually. Steven Collins, in his book Nirvana and other Buddhist felicities, points out that devas are sensual rather than sexual. Among devas, relations between the sexes consist of sensually charged friendships characterised by an aesthetic rather than erotic quality. Devas are also happier than humans, implying that, for the Buddha, a refined sensuality is more pleasurable than the stimulation of normal human sexuality.
In Mahasaccaka Sutta (M36) the Buddha recalled his
practice before awakening, when he was a bodhisattva
rather than a buddha. He practised extreme
asceticism, seeking to overcome pain through pain,
but found this led him towards death rather than
awakening. Reflecting on the failure of his approach,
the Bodhisattva remembered an incident in his
childhood when he was sitting “in the cool shade of a
rose-apple tree” and spontaneously entered into
absorption. This memory inspired him to ask himself,
as an adult practitioner, “Why am I afraid of
pleasure?” The answer turned his practice around. He
abandoned ascetic, pain-filled practices for a way of
life characterised by pleasure rather than pain. But
what kind of pleasure was he speaking of? A heavenly
pleasure, both peaceful and diffuse, which arose
spontaneously in his childhood and which, as Collins
points out, bears a striking resemblance to the
“polymorphous perversity” that Freud ascribed to
children.
I was reading Collins’ analysis of pleasure while teaching a retreat at Sasanarakkha Buddhist Sanctuary (SBS) in Malaysia. He seemed to be implying that a new, “child-like” relationship to pleasure is central to meditation practice. I played with this idea during a lunch break. SBS is located on the edge of a beautiful rainforest on the west coast of the Malayan peninsula, overlooking mountains and valleys covered in mist-shrouded forest. The dining hall is open to this view and during lunch I gave myself over to pleasure. The pleasure of the vista. The pleasure of relaxation, found throughout body and mind. The pleasure of sitting in an atmosphere of steady tranquility, provided by the meditators. This pleasure was undirected, open, characterised by ease, play and a sense of innocence.
Then came the pleasure of eating. This was much more focused, directed, task-oriented. It was centred on: the eyes, as they looked at food; the mouth, as food was chewed and tasted; the stomach, as it filled; and the mind, as it anticipated more pleasure to come. This pleasure had an edge to it. It was focused, and disturbed in its focus. The disturbance indicated the presence of what the Buddha called tanha, usually translated “craving.” This pleasure was directed rather than open, characterised by stimulation rather than ease.
Is this the kind of pleasure renounced by the Bodhisattva? Did he renounce it so that he could cultivate a more open, easeful and subtle pleasure that would serve as a vehicle for deep meditation? Does this movement represent a return to a more child-like relationship to the world of pleasure? Perhaps, and perhaps pleasure is something we as practitioners need to study rather than take for granted as something we already understand. Especially as pleasure is a key component of serenity (samatha), which provides the necessary grounding for insight (vipassana). Insight, in other words, requires the cultivation of pleasure, but a particular kind of pleasure, one that could be easily overlooked not just because of its subtlety, but also because it is so natural. Yet for the Buddha, its very subtlety makes it more pleasurable than our normal pursuits.
Something to chew over.
Meanwhile, as I look out my window I notice the Blue Mountains mist has returned, and some upturned soil is dark against the brown-green grass. Pleasurable to notice.
I was reading Collins’ analysis of pleasure while teaching a retreat at Sasanarakkha Buddhist Sanctuary (SBS) in Malaysia. He seemed to be implying that a new, “child-like” relationship to pleasure is central to meditation practice. I played with this idea during a lunch break. SBS is located on the edge of a beautiful rainforest on the west coast of the Malayan peninsula, overlooking mountains and valleys covered in mist-shrouded forest. The dining hall is open to this view and during lunch I gave myself over to pleasure. The pleasure of the vista. The pleasure of relaxation, found throughout body and mind. The pleasure of sitting in an atmosphere of steady tranquility, provided by the meditators. This pleasure was undirected, open, characterised by ease, play and a sense of innocence.
Then came the pleasure of eating. This was much more focused, directed, task-oriented. It was centred on: the eyes, as they looked at food; the mouth, as food was chewed and tasted; the stomach, as it filled; and the mind, as it anticipated more pleasure to come. This pleasure had an edge to it. It was focused, and disturbed in its focus. The disturbance indicated the presence of what the Buddha called tanha, usually translated “craving.” This pleasure was directed rather than open, characterised by stimulation rather than ease.
Is this the kind of pleasure renounced by the Bodhisattva? Did he renounce it so that he could cultivate a more open, easeful and subtle pleasure that would serve as a vehicle for deep meditation? Does this movement represent a return to a more child-like relationship to the world of pleasure? Perhaps, and perhaps pleasure is something we as practitioners need to study rather than take for granted as something we already understand. Especially as pleasure is a key component of serenity (samatha), which provides the necessary grounding for insight (vipassana). Insight, in other words, requires the cultivation of pleasure, but a particular kind of pleasure, one that could be easily overlooked not just because of its subtlety, but also because it is so natural. Yet for the Buddha, its very subtlety makes it more pleasurable than our normal pursuits.
Something to chew over.
Meanwhile, as I look out my window I notice the Blue Mountains mist has returned, and some upturned soil is dark against the brown-green grass. Pleasurable to notice.
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