the empty buddhas…

Saturday, August 6th, 2011

the empty buddha


the tallest Bamiyan buddha before the dynamite...

I was watching a TV program about Afghanistan where the presenter went to look upon the empty niche in Bamiyan that had once held a 55m high buddha carved from the sandstone cliff. This and other colossi were dynamited by the Taliban in 2001 because they considered them idols prohibited by the Koran. Being someone who has a profound reverence for history, I found this act of vandalism appalling.

There is serious talk about rebuilding the destroyed buddhas. What do such reconstructions of lost artefacts and monuments achieve? Surely, what makes such survivals valuable is that they have survived, and their authenticity; that those are the actual chisel marks made by people long ago. When we reconstruct something that has been lost – and there is a lot of this going on across the world – we are replacing something real with something that is fake.

Ultimately, everything physical that we make must disappear – that is the nature of things. There seems to me an unhealthy fetishism in feverishly trying to halt the passage of time. I am reminded of the somewhat creepy mummifying of Lenin. Everything has a life span, and then it should be allowed to die.

In the case of the buddhas in Bamiyan it seems to me that we are missing something quite profound. Why, after all, were these colossi constructed in the first place? No doubt it was an act of devotion. Also, a focus for contemplation. My next question is: what has actually been lost that matters? Consider how imperfect a representation of Buddhism the actual colossi have always been as things in themselves.

It seems to me that those empty niches contain far more potent representations of the buddha than the colossi ever were. What is left are buddha-shaped holes that have not lost their buddhas at all: we still see them there; we feel them there. These empty buddhas, that can never be destroyed (except perhaps by rebuilding them), are surely a more pure fulfilment of their purpose than wrought stone could ever be…

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the perception of time…

Wednesday, September 29th, 2010
life measured by thought and not the senses...

life measured by thought and not the senses...

I have just come back from walking my dog to hear someone talking on the radio about a theory he has of the perception of time that sounds essentially the same as one that I have held for a long time. So I thought I may as well put down my thoughts for the record…

Some years back I came back from shopping and realized that I had been there and back and could barely recall anything that had happened. It was almost as if I had not gone shopping at all – though I had the full bags to prove it… This then provoked in me an insight that gave me an answer as to why it was that time seemed to move faster the older I became…

People are always saying that time seemed to move so much slower when they were children – that the summer holidays seemed to last for ever. It seems to me that the reason for this is simply that, when we are children, we live profoundly ‘in’ our senses – that is, we are constantly monitoring sensory input. An extreme example of this would be a baby learning to take her first steps. The crossing from one side of the room to the other is necessarily a major undertaking. As a consequence, the experience is overwhelming – every totter, every regaining of balance, every step forward is experienced with exquisite awareness. Now, when you or I cross a room, we are no longer aware of our balance, of each footfall and the reason for this is that we’ve automated it. I remember my first driving lessons as being rather analogous to the child tottering. With practice, the mechanical processes of driving a car, that had once left me in a sweat of concentration, slipped into my subconscious, so that now I can drive barely aware that I am doing so.

As we age, we gradually automate everything, until we reach a state where we can negotiate almost our entire lives on ‘automatic’. Though our brain is still processing sensory input, our conscious mind is not. And, when consciousness is untethered to the senses, then we lose that childlike time perception. Apart from our body clocks (that operate in a different way), our perception of time is entirely given to us by what is happening outside us. If we stop paying attention to that, then time becomes entirely fluid, becoming the slave of whatever it is we are paying attention to: if something boring, time drags – if fascinating, it gallops…

So the answer to why time speeds up as we age is that we are progressively disengaging from the real world, the world of our senses, and instead choosing to spend our time in virtual worlds that reside entirely in our heads. Worse, we most of us deliberately annihilate time. How many of us do not sit at our desks longing for the weekend to come? – and by so doing, we compress the weekdays. Or we spend time looking forward to a holiday – and thus compress the weeks to that time…Interestingly, a proof of what I’m saying seems to me to be provided beautifully by holidays – especially those challenging ones where we go to a foreign country. There, our ‘automations’ so often don’t work. Consequently, we are forced back into our senses as we try and ‘make sense’ of things… Thus, on such holidays, a week appears to be a month. Holidays seem to expand time, though, of course, it is not the holiday that is expanded, but the rest of our lives…

So, the rate at which time moves for you is up to you. If while you are eating your cornflakes in the morning you actually pay attention to their taste and texture in your mouth, then your breakfast, rather than being a null-time event, will stretch to occupy a sizable period – an eternity even *grin* Of course, when I got to this point, I realized that this is what Buddhists and yogis have been saying for centuries – all that ‘listening to the breath’ – for, after all, what is listening to your breath other than tuning into the ‘real’ tick-tock of your life, rather than paying attention to that mechanical tyrant on the wall…?

(Incidentally, this is what Legions is talking about in my book The Third God when he says: “Without my senses to anchor me in the now, I have moved swiftly through my own, inner time. A life measured by thought and not the senses is exceeding short.”)

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crucifix versus cross…

Sunday, September 12th, 2010
a crucifix in San Damiano in Assisi...

a crucifix in San Damiano in Assisi...

empty cross in a presbyterian church in Florida...

empty cross in a presbyterian church in Florida...

When I was in Portugal earlier this year, it occurred to me that not a single one of my Portuguese readers has ever mentioned the violence inherent in the Stone Dance, never mind complained about it. This stands in stark contrast with reactions in the English speaking world – where the violence contained in the books is often mentioned. This contrast linked in my mind with a comment my therapist once made to me that “you imbibed Catholicism with your mother’s milk”… At the time I was taken by surprise, being that I am an atheist and that I do not recall even being in a Catholic church (though I was baptised in one). My mother is a devout Christian, but though she was brought up Catholic, when we moved to Scotland, she abandoned Catholicism because she was uninterested in the schisms in Christianity. Her attitude seems to be that she believes in Christ and can’t see the point in denominations. As it happened, she walked down the street and joined the first church that she came to. As this turned out to be the Church of Scotland, she nominally is now a Protestant – though, as I’ve said, she’s not interested in such distinctions.

What, you may be wondering, does this have to do with the Stone Dance. Well, when I was in therapy, I became aware that the Stone Dance has a layer of structure that is profoundly Catholic in its sensibility. In fact, Catholic themes of suffering and redemption run through the books; there are fundamental subversions of the Garden of Eden story, of original sin, of the casting out of Satan from Heaven… All this in spite of me being an atheist and having been brought up with only a moderate smattering of Christian influence… But we can none of us, it seems, be free of what we “imbibe with our mother’s milk”…(see the first epigraph of The Third God)

What then does this have to do with how different cultures react to the violence in the Stone Dance… First: I myself was not really aware of the violence in the books as being an issue – violence seems to be such a natural part of our lives, that for people to take exception to it, seemed to me a tad perverse. I was, after all, writing a book about the world as I see it… and who can claim that that world is not saturated with violence? I began to see that it might not be the violence per se that some people were finding difficult, but rather something about the way that that violence was being portrayed. Please understand that I am here feeling a way through the shadows – I don’t claim to fully understand this – but I now wonder if it could possibly be accidental that the only other group of people who have not noticed the difficulty in this violence should happen to be people from the country in which I was born; that though I was only in Portugal for 8 years of my life… that I am still Portuguese. And what then could it be about being Portuguese that leads to a different attitude towards violence?

My solution, a solution that came to me when I was in Portugal on my recent visit, I can best explain by what I see as a distinction between the crucifix and the cross. In my experience, the dominant symbol in the English speaking world is the bare cross, unadorned, abstract. In Portugal, in the Catholic world in general, this cross has a man suffering on it. How profoundly is a culture shaped, the minds of its children shaped, by the difference between these symbols? The contrast between the abstract instrument of torture and execution, and the instrument being demonstrated in use, viscerally, by having a man depicted on it suffering? And it seems to me that the profound mystery (in the religious sense) here is that a man suffering on a cross should be thrust into the face of people – especially children – as the symbol of the most profound love. This seems to me to provide some insight into the difference in how people react to the violence in the Stone Dance. For that violence is ultimately about sacrifice and redemption. And it seems that I am Catholic enough to have portrayed a unity between violence and redemption, between violence and love, that is immediately understood by people who have grown up with the crucifix and causes much more of a problem for those who have grown up with the plain, bare cross…

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psychic origins…

Tuesday, June 1st, 2010
twisted trunk...

twisted trunk...

Been somewhat busy of late engaging with a massive restructuring of my garden – involving the moving of many tonnes of earth and the building (by stone masons) of some rather lovely retaining walls of local stone… but that’s for a future blog – when I shall attempt to express my delight in natural materials and the skill and craft of human hands…

Now I would like to share what I believe about an aspect of the origins of the individual psyche… This goes to the roots of what I understand about my own psyche.

It could be the case that a psyche is like soup – to which experience is added as ingredients that constantly change its flavour. By this reckoning, it should be possible, by adding a little pinch of this, a little pinch of that, to sweeten the soup if it is to bitter; to add a dash of bitterness if it is too sickly – and thus to transform the psyche to a perfect balance…

Alas, my experience of therapy suggests to me that this is not possible. Instead it seems to me that the psyche is like a seedling that grows into a tree. At any point in its life, the form this tree takes is the sum of all its experiences: the sunlight of love that has fallen on it, the nurture that it has been able to draw up through its roots from the soil in which its seed fell, the storms it has endured. But it is clearly the case that the further back to the seed we go, the more fundamental are the influences on its future form. In its adult form, the psychic tree will need a gale to tear off one of its branches. By contrast, as a seedling, a glancing blow might be enough to take that branch off in its embryonic form…

No form of healing can hope to replace a branch lost in ‘seedlinghood’. What therapy can do is to bring awareness of how small that injury was – though it came to have such massive and lasting consequence – and thus a psyche can come to understand, accept and value the shape it has, without regret, as the natural consequence of its life experiences…

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