Mindful amid the chaos

Ken, its good to hear from you. And to be reassured that someone out there is reading this.

Your description of life in an urban train station during an international journey raises the classic question of how meditation - generally thought of in terms of silence and withdrawal - relates to our routine experiences of chaotic situations. So let’s use that as the context of our discussion.

I’d like to start by raising a question: Why did the Buddha create a new technical term for meditation - “sati,” which we generally translate as “mindfulness” - if mindfulness means the same as awareness? For I notice that most people use the terms “mindfulness” and “awareness” synonymously. But are they the same? After all, the Buddha had a perfectly good word for “awareness” - vinnana, usually translated “consciousness.” So why invent another technical term?

Firstly, looking at the Pali word sati, it comes from the root smr and literally means “memory.” It is classically defined as “remembering the object.” So mindfulness is more than awareness, it is memory, which in turn implies the reality of the past. But this seems to contradict our contemporary dharma obsession with the present, as distinct from past (and future). Then why is the past, or our relationship to the past, so important?

Let me tell you something that happened during the last Dharma Gathering here in Oz. The gathering was held in an ecology/conference centre in the middle of a small rain forest. The main hall has walls of glass, through which one can see the trees outside. During a number of mornings a bird would sit in a branch just outside the glass wall and look inside. Then he (or she) would suddenly fly toward the wall, crash into it, and stagger back to its branch. It would resume its vigil, and at some point fly toward the wall again, crash again, and stagger back to its branch. And on it would go.

Eventually we figured out that in the morning the light is such that the bird could see its own reflection in the glass, and would fly across to say hello. (Or whatever it is that birds say to each other in the morning.) Now, clearly the bird had awareness, or consciousness. It was “in the present,” it was “here-&-now,” and all that good stuff. Otherwise, it could not have seen its reflection. However, we can be confident that the bird had no mindfulness whatsoever. Why not? Because it never learned from its experience.

When we use the term “experience” in the sense of accumulated knowledge, as when we say, “He is an experienced carpenter,” or “She is very experienced in sorting out problems of this nature,” what do we mean? We are referring to our ability to learn from the past. This implies that a present encounter which is informed by the past has a very different quality to a present encounter which is innocent of any influence from the past. What’s the nature of this difference? I’m suggesting that whatever the difference is, that’s where we will find the nature of mindfulness. That’s where we need to look. So in your experience on the busy railway station: There is clearly awareness; you are aware of the chaos and confusion. But is there mindfulness? And if so, where would you find it? And if not, why is it missing, and how can you tell?

Anyway, that’s enough for this entry. More tomorrow.
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