On points
21/July/2009 05:52 PM Filed in: concentration
In my previous entry I discussed mindfulness as
memory of an extended present — a remembered present
— as distinct from awareness of a present moment.
Lived time is not divided into moments. In fact, it
does not seem to be divided, at all.
The equivalent of a moment in time is a point in space. Just as the language we use when speaking of time is complicated by the idea of a “moment,” so, I have come to feel, is the language we use when speaking of concentration complicated by the idea of a “point.” What do we mean by a point? My OED devotes four columns, extending over a page of small print, for “point” as a noun. High up on the list of meanings is “a minute part … of something; the smallest unit … of measurement.” This notion of a point fits neatly with the idea of concentration as “focus.” If we use a lens to focus the sun’s rays on a single point, for example, the concentrated sunlight creates great heat. Similarly, if we focus our minds on a small and clearly defined aspect of our experience — the breath at the point that it enters and leaves the body, for example — the mind can become very powerful.
The equivalent of a moment in time is a point in space. Just as the language we use when speaking of time is complicated by the idea of a “moment,” so, I have come to feel, is the language we use when speaking of concentration complicated by the idea of a “point.” What do we mean by a point? My OED devotes four columns, extending over a page of small print, for “point” as a noun. High up on the list of meanings is “a minute part … of something; the smallest unit … of measurement.” This notion of a point fits neatly with the idea of concentration as “focus.” If we use a lens to focus the sun’s rays on a single point, for example, the concentrated sunlight creates great heat. Similarly, if we focus our minds on a small and clearly defined aspect of our experience — the breath at the point that it enters and leaves the body, for example — the mind can become very powerful.
But this image does not exhaust the meaning of
concentration, and may obscure it. “Concentration” is
the standard translation of “samādhi.” (If your
computer is Unicode compliant, there should be a
horizontal line — a “macron” — above the final “a” of
this word. Let me know if you can’t see this.) The
word “samādhi” comes from the prefix sam
(“with, together”) + the prefix ā
(“towards”) + the root dha (“to put, to
place.” Samādhi, in other words, refers to everything
being brought together, placed together. It could be
translated as “unification,” rather than
concentration.
When the mind is unified, it might be focused on a small point, or it might be expanded to embrace a wide space. What is central is not the size of the object of awareness, but that the aware mind is not divided, not scattered between different aspects of experience. For example, I might be entirely focused on the breath as it enters and leaves the nostrils, at a single “point” of the body; this is concentration. Or, I might not be focused on any specific aspect of experience, but simply still, centred in the body, and in this stillness allowing all aspects of experience to come and go as they please. Both are states of samādhi; but only the first is being “one-pointed” in the sense of “point” we have been using here. What is important in samādhi, in other words, is not a “point,” but non-scatteredness, or unification. Not the object — small, narrowly defined — but the state of mind — unmoved, undistracted.
Which brings me to the problem of translation. Often we hear or read the term “one-pointedness” as a synonym of concentration. One-pointedness is probably the most common translation of the term ekaggatā, from eka (“one”) + gatā (= “state”). But there is no mention of a point, here. What is expressed by ekaggatā is a singleness or unity of the mind, not any attempt to specify the area of its object of awareness.
This is important because it can influence our attempts to develop samādhi. I find that if I try to “concentrate,“ I strain to hold awareness to a limited point, to prevent it from moving from object to object. But awareness does, naturally, move. So the attempt to stop it involves force, often failure, and even in success, a sense of strain. In contrast, the mind can be still as awareness moves, naturally, from place to place, point to point. This is much more open. It still requires energy, effort, commitment; but does not require strain. I find samādhi comes naturally when I am not attempting to “concentrate,” but instead to unify, settle and contain the mind.
Such is the magic of language. Use one concept, experience moves in a certain direction; use another concept, and it moves in another. How is it for you?
When the mind is unified, it might be focused on a small point, or it might be expanded to embrace a wide space. What is central is not the size of the object of awareness, but that the aware mind is not divided, not scattered between different aspects of experience. For example, I might be entirely focused on the breath as it enters and leaves the nostrils, at a single “point” of the body; this is concentration. Or, I might not be focused on any specific aspect of experience, but simply still, centred in the body, and in this stillness allowing all aspects of experience to come and go as they please. Both are states of samādhi; but only the first is being “one-pointed” in the sense of “point” we have been using here. What is important in samādhi, in other words, is not a “point,” but non-scatteredness, or unification. Not the object — small, narrowly defined — but the state of mind — unmoved, undistracted.
Which brings me to the problem of translation. Often we hear or read the term “one-pointedness” as a synonym of concentration. One-pointedness is probably the most common translation of the term ekaggatā, from eka (“one”) + gatā (= “state”). But there is no mention of a point, here. What is expressed by ekaggatā is a singleness or unity of the mind, not any attempt to specify the area of its object of awareness.
This is important because it can influence our attempts to develop samādhi. I find that if I try to “concentrate,“ I strain to hold awareness to a limited point, to prevent it from moving from object to object. But awareness does, naturally, move. So the attempt to stop it involves force, often failure, and even in success, a sense of strain. In contrast, the mind can be still as awareness moves, naturally, from place to place, point to point. This is much more open. It still requires energy, effort, commitment; but does not require strain. I find samādhi comes naturally when I am not attempting to “concentrate,” but instead to unify, settle and contain the mind.
Such is the magic of language. Use one concept, experience moves in a certain direction; use another concept, and it moves in another. How is it for you?
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