Thursday, April 30, 2015

What is the I-Ching?

I follow a series of Podcasts called the "C-Realm" which is put out by a fellow with the "stage name" of KMO.  It's difficult to say exactly what they are "about", because they range a gamut  of many different things from Peak Oil, police theory, gender politics, science fiction, hallucinogenic drugs, and so on.  The unifying element is that KMO attempts to draw psychological insights from the discussion.  I would highly recommend listening to what he and his guests have to say, as many times I have heard some very interesting ideas expressed on his show.

Recently he had a guest in discussing the Philip K. Dick novel The Man in the High Castle.  It piqued my interest, so I got my hands on a copy and read it again after many years.  The novel is widely acknowledged as being brilliant.  It
Philip K. Dick
purports to be a description of the lives of several different protagonists who live in an "alternative history" where Germany and Japan won WWII.  The Eastern half of the USA is controlled by the Reich, and the Western by Japan.  In the middle, a neutral buffer state exists that has some degree of autonomy.

The book is written in a very straight-forward, ordinary style.  But the themes of the book intertwine to create a very complex web of ideas that end up bouncing off each other like light in a hall of mirrors.

One of the themes that is explored is about what exactly makes an antique "valuable".  It seems that the Japanese occupiers of the Western sea board are absolutely "gaga" over antique Americana.  And just like Americans in our historical time line went over to Japan and spent large amounts of money to buy antique swords, so the Japanese in Dick's novel spend big on old black powder revolvers.  It turns out that there is such a demand for these antiques that there is a substantial industry devoted to creating fakes.

But, Dick asks, what is the difference between a genuine artifact---which is worth a lot of money---and a copy that is not?  One of the Japanese characters suggests that there is some inherent, spiritual quality, the "historicity" that makes all the difference.

This is interesting, because this theme parallels the whole idea of an alternative history.  The novel is purporting to be a genuine description of history, even though it is not:  the Axis lost the war.  This point jumps out because a major plot device in the book is that publication of a book titled "The Grasshopper Lies Heavy", which purports to show yet a third timeline, one in which the British Empire and American end up as winners in the war, but where the Russians have been eliminated.  A cold war ensues between the British and the Americans, one which the British ends up winning.

Where is the "historicity"?  Is it in the world where the Axis wins?  The one where the great survivors and rivals are the Americans and Russians?  Or where the British Empire outlasts them all?

Another complexity of the book comes from the discussion of the I-Ching.  As a matter of fact, I understand that Dick wrote The Man in the High Castle using the Oracle of I-Ching to make all his decisions.  And, in the novel, the author who wrote "The Grasshopper Lies Heavy" does the same thing.  Indeed, he makes the statement that the Oracle wrote the novel and he was just a conduit.  Is Dick saying the same thing about the novel he wrote?

The author cements this point home by reference to the art world.  A couple American artisans who have worked for a while creating fake antiques to sell to rich Japanese collectors decide that they want to make original, abstract, art jewelry.  It gets shown to a connoisseur, who initially rejects it.  But he later realizes that this artwork has something different from the "historicity" that he was seeking in Mickey Mouse watches and Civil War belt buckles.  Instead, it has a sort of intrinsic spirit that makes it valuable in and of itself.

Two characters have a revelations about this intrinsic spiritual nature.  A Japanese diplomat does while sitting on a park bench contemplating one of these pieces of jewlry, and walks "out of the novel" for a brief period of time to see the historical world that we live in.  Another goes to greet the author of "The Grasshopper Lies Heavy" and realizes that the Axis lost the war after all.

There are lots of other fine elements to the novel I won't go into.  For example, Dick does a great job of dissecting the various levels of "false consciousness" that manifest themselves in minds of a conquered, colonized people.  But for me, the most interesting question comes down to what is the source of inspiration that allows people to create and appreciate art?  Is art something real, like history?  Or is history itself "real"?  We all know that when the public relations and propagandists get finished with a historical event, precious little that is factually correct is left to tell the tale.

For me, I am left asking "how could one person come up with this incredibly complex and layered story?"  And, actually, did one person?  If Dick used the I-Ching to write the darn book, then we need to ask ourselves what the heck is the I-Ching, really?

I have used the I-Ching myself, although not very often.  I last consulted the Oracle when I was contemplating whether or not I was going to sue Walmart on behalf of a multi-faith group.  At issue was a 600 acre Jesuit retreat centre that was being used by all sorts of different religious groups and which Walmart wanted to build a "super centre" right next to.  I was afraid that if this commercial plaza damaged the experience of the retreats for the Jesuits they would sell out to developers who would build suburban sprawl on this prime parcel of land.

The image that I got was hexagram 48, or "The Well".  The Wilhelm/Baynes book on the I-Ching makes the following judgement about this hexagram.

48, "The Well"
The Well. The town may be changed, but the well cannot be changed.  It neither decreases nor increases.  They come and go and draw from the well.  If one gets down almost to the water and the rope does not go all the way, or the jug breaks, it brings misfortune. 
At the time, I saw this as being a very clear indication that the retreat centre was an important resource for the community.  If it was damaged, it would be a calamity.  So I decided to take the risk of personally suing a huge multinational even though if I lost I could have lost everything I owned.  In the end, it worked out very well.  We settled out of court and in addition to a significant financial payout to the retreat centre, we got a binding, legal agreement that absolutely nothing that happens at the big box mall would be either seen or heard from any part at all on the Jesuit property.

Did I decide to sue Walmart?  Or did the Oracle?  Did Dick write The Man in the High Castle?  Or did the Oracle?  What is artistic creativity, anyway?

Another one of the ideas that KMO has exposed me to is the idea of "the singularity".  This is the idea that computer intelligence will eventually get to the point where it is able to design better and better artificial intelligences, faster and faster, so that machines will in a very short space of time become so much more intelligent than humans that they will be incomprehensible. It appears that for a fraction of the techno elite who live in places like Silicon Valley, the belief in the inevitability of this event parallels the belief in the rapture and the Second Coming of Christ by fundamentalist Christians.

I find this hard to believe because human beings simply do not know enough about what "human intelligence" really is to be able to create any sort of copy of it.  How was Dick able to create such an amazingly complex novel?  And why did he think that the I-Ching was so important in its creation?  Similarly, why did I take such a crazy risk in suing Walmart?  And why did the I-Ching seem to offer me such sage advice in favour of doing so?  Until we can explain what is going on in the heads of human beings when they do such wildly creative and complex things, I don't see how we could even begin to program machines to do anything similar.


Oh, one final announcement to make.  The Ebook version of my book, Walking the Talk, isn't selling.  So I've decided to offer it as a free download.  Just go to anyone of a dozen sites that carry it, and feel free.  I wrote the thing to be read and never expected to make any money on it.  I put a fee on to help the businesses that distribute it for me.  But they seem to be fine with distributing it for free, so help yourself!   Just click on the button on the upper right corner of the website to find it on SmashWords.

Friday, April 3, 2015

Mencius and "Qi"

Last month I tried to expose readers to Mencius by showing how he introduced the concept of Kung Fu (or diligent effort aimed at self-transformation) through the historical examples of people who had cultivated the trait of fearlessness.  He did as an analogy to introduce his ideas about how someone could similarly "still the mind".

His analogy has two interesting elements that bear thinking about.

First of all, he shows that there are different ways of achieving fearlessness. So, a careful read would suggest that he is implying that there are similarly different ways in which a person can still the mind.

Secondly, he sets up a hierarchy of ways in which one can lose fear.  These range from the "juvenile delinquent" approach of Po-kung Yu, who massively retaliated at any sign of "disrespect";  through Meng Shih-she who based his fearlessness on a type of resignation that he ultimately had no control over success or failure;  to Master Tseng who based his courage on total submission to an ethical system that allowed him to rest in the knowledge that he was "doing the right thing".  The implication from the analogy is that there are similarly better and worse ways to still the mind.

Next Mencius mentions something else that is equally interesting, "Meng Shih-she nurtured qi, but that's still nothing like Master Tseng nurturing essentials".

I find this interesting because most people I meet who talk about qi describe in terms that are analogous to impersonal physical forces.  The common parlance is to call it a "force"---something like electricity---that flows through the body.  Yet here is Mencius suggesting that one can develop qi not through specialized physical activity, like heng-ha exercises, or, involved mental gymnastics, such as sitting and forgetting. Instead, he mentions the important point as being Meng Shih-she's Stoic acceptance of his fate.

This is probably a dividing line between Confucianism and Daoism, at least as manifested in modern sensibilities.  People like Mencius were humanists.  Their
The Eight Daoist Immortals
interests were primarily centred on the lived human experience rather than metaphysical speculation.  Moreover, they were concerned about human society instead of focusing on the Gods and exploits of realized men.

I say "as manifested in modern sensibilities" because the Laozi is, after all, a book that is profoundly interested in the affairs of ordinary people. It has been read as an explicit book of statecraft for rulers, although from the beginning it has also been seen as something with useful general advice for all people.

Mencius goes on to make some other comments.  "Meng Shih-she nurtured qi, but that's nothing like Master Tseng nurturing essentials."  Here's another case where knowing the original Chinese would be useful.  What exactly is the word that Hinton is translating as "essentials"?  And what could we think that Mencius is meaning by it?  I suspect that knowing the original word itself wouldn't offer much help, as the book is very old and words fall out of use or if still common, find their meaning changes over the centuries.  At the very least, it appears that Mencius is suggesting that a sort of Stoic acceptance of fate is inferior to an active engagement with a moral system, what he identifies as Confucian "honour".

The modern psycho-physical understanding of qi also posits other things of value:  jing and shen.  I looked up these three items through Google and found the point I was trying make very well made for me.  In the Wikipedia article, these are identified as the "three treasures" of Chinese Medicine, but it goes on to call them the "sanbao".  It goes on to acknowledge the the term "three treasures" actually comes from the Laozi, and referred---just like in Mencius---to ethical/behaviour norms instead of psycho-physical forces (ie:  benevolence, frugality, and, humility.)  Indeed, during the same Google search I found another definition that dispensed with the distinction between Chinese medicine and Daoism altogether, and instead asserted that the Daoist sanbao are qi, jing and shen.  I am not surprised, I often meet Daoist practitioners who see the spiritual path as nothing more than a collection of New Age practices aimed at becoming some sort of groovy super being.

This is why I'm making the effort to write this blog post.  It is exceptionally easy for people to see spiritual practice simply as a mechanism for pursuing some sort of mental or physical state.  When we do taijiquan, yoga, or any form of meditation it is very similar to indulging in intoxicating drugs---only usually without any sort of obviously nasty side effects.  Do too much taijiquan and you run the risk of feeling really good and having excellent physical health.  Spend too much time meditating and you become peaceful and generally get along well with everyone around you.

What's wrong with that?

Well, the problem is that people who focus just on the good vibes are like the "lotus eaters" from Homer's Odyssey.  For those of you unaware of the story, these were people who lived on a blessed land where all their physical needs were provided by the fruit of a tree, called the "lotus".  It had a mild narcotic effect, however, that rendered everyone who eat the fruit passive and totally lacking in ambition to do anything except lay about eating the fruit.  Odysseus has a couple crewmen who eat some of the fruit and he has to bodily drag them back onto the ship and chained to their benches until the effect wore off.

I would suggest that the physco-physical fixation that many modern Daoists follow in their practice makes them into modern "Lotus Easters".  As a result, they do not engage with the society around them and offer service to the humanity according to the Confucian ideal.  I would suggest that part of this results from, or has resulted in, the subtle change in the meaning of key Daoist terms---such as qi and sanbao.  That is why I would suggest that it can be useful to read the ancient texts---such as the Mencius and Laozi, in order to try to understand the subtleties of our spiritual path.  Daoism is not only not incompatible with trying to make the world a better place, there are lots of examples from Chinese history where Daoists actually worked as social activists trying to help the poor and oppressed.

Friday, March 20, 2015

Mencius: What is it to be a Human Being?

I've been very, very sick with the flu for the past four weeks or so.  As a result, I haven't had the energy to do any of the regular things that give my life design and purpose:  taijiquan and writing.  Even reading fell apart, as I was simply too tired to do much more than prop myself in front of the computer and watch cheesy old science fiction shows on YouTube.

As my energy has returned, I did have enough to glance through a translation of Mencius that I have been wanting to read for quite a few years. He is usually considered the second most important author in the Confucian canon, and someone that anyone who is interested in ancient Chinese thought should be interested in learning more about.  He is especially of interest because he promoted the ideal of the "mandate of heaven" and also was interested in the role of meditation in the life of scholars and officials.

I just got into the David Hinton translation.  As you can see from the Wikipedia article, Hinton is a translator and a poet, as opposed to a philosopher or Confucianist.  This tells me to be a bit careful about the translation, as it is possible to be a scholar and good translator, and still not have a clue about what you are translating if you haven't studied the actual field as well. 
David Hinton

So take what follows for what it is worth. the words on the page might actually bear no resemblance to what Mencius actually meant. But having said that, I am responding as a philosopher and someone who is trying to live a life in harmony with the Dao, instead of attempting to be a scholar who is trying to expand our collective understanding of a specific human being who lived thousands of years ago.  

The second part of the third book "Kung-Sun Ch'ou", riveted my attention.  Originally, I was interested about the references to the "qi flood" (more about that in another post), but the more I thought about the piece, the more I was struck by the form that it took and what that says about the human condition.  Mencius is asked a series of questions about specific individuals, and he responds to each by discussing the way those people practised self-cultivation through a specific practice.  It is, if you will, a meditation on the concept of kungfu (specifically as "applied great effort", not to mean just martial arts.)  

The words (pardon me, what do I call this sort of writing?  it clearly isn't an essay) start off referring to the ability to still the mind.  When asked how someone goes about doing this thing, Mencius makes an analogy with someone called Po-kung Yu, who cultivated "valour" by cultivating a state of mind where he never ever back off from a quarrel.  He 
never bowed down and never broke off a stare.  He knew that the least intimidation was as bad as being slapped in the marketplace.  An affront was the same to him whether it came from a peasant or a sovereign who commanded a nation of ten thousand war chariots, he'd run his sword through the august lord as easily as the peasant. He knew every insult had to be returned in kind. 
Mencius then goes on to refer to Meng Shih-she, who also cultivated "valour" and described the process as follows:

I consider defeat victory. To gauge an enemy before attacking, to calculate your chances of success before fighting---that is to live in fear of great armies. How can I ever be certain of victory? All I can do is live without fear.   
Mencius maintains that there was a difference between the two, not in the amount of valour that each manifested, but rather in the way they did it. He argues that Meng did it through the use of qi. "It's impossible to say which of the two had the most profound valour, but Meng Shih-she nurtured his qi".

Next Mencius goes on to another example, Master Tseng:
If you look within and find yourself less than honourable, you'll fear even a peasant as an enemy.  But if you look within and find yourself honourable, you'll face even an army of ten million men.
 Tseng's valour is based not on qi, but something else, Mencius says it is based on "nurturing essentials". (This is the place where knowing old Chinese would be nice, as I don't really know what it is that Hinton is translating as "nurturing essentials".)

As you can see, Mencius is contrasting three different people and their personal "kung fu" or strategies for developing a specific human quality, "valour".  Po-kung Yo built his "valour" (what we would call "physical courage") around a macho, aggressive "don't give me any shit" attitude.  He was like an ancient Chinese version of Peter Tosh constantly singing "Steppin' Razor" to himself.

This is different from Meng Shih-she, who put the emphasis on total indifference to outcome and instead cultivated a totally fatalistic attitude towards life.  A good example of this attitude comes from a Zen story I once heard.  When the Mongols were conquering China they occupied a Buddhist Temple.  Everyone fled except the old Zen Master, who was found quietly meditating in one of the buildings.  A Mongol officer came storming into the Hall and confronted the unruffled old man.  Surprised and annoyed at the lack of fear, he yelled out "Don't you understand that I could kill you without batting an eye!"  At that, the Master replied "And don't you understand that you could kill me without me batting an eye?"

There are problems with these two sources of valour, however.  The first one, the "steppin razor" type, leads to stupid, thuggish behavour and generally ends badly for the people who follow it.  The second also ends badly, because mere courage alone can be manipulated to bad ends by authority figures.  Brian Victoria has built a career around explaining how the cult of fearlessness in Japanese Zen ended up being co-opted into supporting the Imperial Japanese war machine.

The last version that Mencius cites as an example comes from Master Tseng.  It is based on morality.  The courage that he manifests comes from believing that he is "doing the right thing".  Another way of looking at these three "daos" of courage is to see it in terms of the ego.  The first one consists of building the ego up to the point where it overwhelms other considerations.  The second consists of cutting it down to the point where it's continued existence becomes an irrelevance.  And the third is that of putting it in the service of some higher good.

What I find interesting in the exercise are two things.  First, that it is possible to parse out these different ways of being a human being.  Second, that each man developed their own specific tactics to manifest a human quality that they felt valuable. Most people I meet in my day-to-day life take it as a given that the personal psychology they have is something that they were born with and/or had imposed upon them at an early age.  The idea that they can choose to nurture or starve a way of responding the world around them is totally alien.

Of course, this raises one of those "chicken or the egg" discussions.  Do people choose to be the sorts of people who want to become valorous?  Or are people simply born that way?  I'm not going to answer that question to my satisfaction in a blog post.  But it is a good place to end this part of the discussion.  In my next one I think I'll try to figure out what Mencius was going on about with his talk about qi.

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

The Interior Life and It's Limits

Yesterday I was riding the bus to work and I noticed a woman get on, who I know suffers from some sort of psychiatric disorder. She is an older woman who once taught at the university and is of that generation of academic women who at the same time appear very prim and proper in a 1950s sort of way, yet who hold quite radical feminist notions.

As we rode down the road, I could see that she was getting slightly more agitated and eventually, she stood up and curtsied.  She sat down again for a few moments, then she eventually got up and curtsied again. Again, a shorter wait, and she curtsied again.  Eventually she could no longer sit down and got off at the next stop---even though I saw her get a transfer and suspect she had intended to remain on the bus until my destination, where other buses also stop and transfers take place.

What struck me at the time, was that I was in the midst of a bit of a "mind storm" myself in that I had some ideas rattling around in my brain that I simply couldn't stop saying over and over again to myself.  At this time, they were "I wish my wife lived with me" and "I wish my wife wasn't sick."  (She is currently in the midst of a psychotic episode, which happens about once a year or so and she lives a thousand miles away to take care of her invalid mother.)

Mystics talk about something called "the interior life", which is a life spent thinking about and contemplating the nature of human consciousness.  Meditation, "Holding onto the One", "Sitting and Forgetting", Internal Alchemy, etc, are all things that someone does who spends her time thinking about herself and the universe.  One of the things that happens when you do this, however, is that you find that within your mind there are voices and thoughts that need to be controlled or else they will eat you alive.

I suspect that the woman on the bus is someone who periodically loses her battles and that is why she stands up and curtsies.  (I wonder if this was something that she had pounded into her head when she was a little girl and it has become the symbol of her upper class background that fights against her radical feminism---making her consciousness a permanent battleground?  Stupid speculation with too little information, but that is the permanent battleground in my mind!)

A large part of my spiritual practice consists of learning how to control my consciousness.  For example, I will become more and more agitated if I do not work at calming it down on a regular basis.  I've learned, for example, that I need to read, write and do taijiquan at least a little most days or else I become progressively more "scattered" and drained of energy.  I don't know if the process was left long enough I might end up like the woman on the bus, but I fear that it might be a possibility.  I do know that if I stop the taijiquan my body starts to fall apart, though.  I get pain in my feet, knees, and shoulders.  And I start to get migraine headaches.

Last Sunday I had some friends together to try to form an organization to create a co-op retirement community.  Most of us are people who have just finished dealing with the deaths of our parents and don't have any children of our own.  This experience has "riveted out attention" to the question of what we are going to do when we are no longer able to live totally independent lives but have no children to help out. The result was a meeting where we all admitted that we should probably do something and agreed to work together to see if there is something that we can do.

The meeting went well, but I couldn't help noticing something about myself that I found annoying.  I am totally useless at small talk.  I ramble.  I fixate on my own personal problems (not everyone wants to hear about my tendonitis or the fact that my wife is sick) and tell "amusing anecdotes" that are in terrible taste.  The problem is that when we indulge in small talk the flow has to come naturally or else it doesn't come at all.  When I was younger, I didn't even try.  In social settings I would just head off to the bar, get hammered and leave early.  Luckily, while small talk is important, if you are someone who actually has other worthwhile features, good people will eventually realize that you are a bit of a "diamond in the rough" and cut you slack---like my friends at this meeting.  But I still gross myself out with my terrible inability to do the "chit chat" thing.

Last Saturday I went to a party that the city held for an old friend of mine, who has been mayor for many years and recently lost an election and is finally back in private life.  It was odd hearing her talked about by "important" people (a Chief of Police mc'd the event), but one thing was kinda funny.  A Liberal Party apparatchik talked about meeting this friend of mine and realizing that she is basically a shy person (or at least was when she started out.)  The speaker said how surprised she was by this, as most politicians aren't shy people.

This is the great thing about her worship.  She has had an interior life of some great value.  She is very smart, and, she really understands a lot of things that I suspect she will never tell most of the "important" folks she met.  That is a form of discipline I can never begin to understand.  But it is something that I can respect.  Luckily, I suspect that she understands the road I have followed in life has taken me in a different, but equally valuable direction.  The solitude that I follow allows me to work out new thoughts to their ultimate direction.  It also allows me to be frank and honest about things in a way that no politician could ever do.  (Writing a blog post like this one would be political suicide.)  It is this mutual respect that has allowed us to be friends over the years, and I treasure it.

The lives we lead have enormous impact on the way our minds work.  So choose wisely!


One last point, only somewhat related to the above.  In comments to a past post a commentator said that he was surprised that a Blog titled "Diary of a Daoist Hermit" would be written by someone who isn't a "hermit" or even a "Daoist".  I think I have covered these issues in the past, but my wife suggested that I should explain them again.  She didn't understand the terms either until I explained them.

First of all, a "hermit" is not the same thing as a "recluse".  A recluse is someone who has decided to separate themselves from human society.  A hermit, on the other hand, is someone who has isolated himself from an ecclesiastic organization.  Monks are part of a community.  Priests are part of a church.  But a hermit is someone who has to find a way of supporting himself and gets to make his own decisions about his faith.  You will not find this definition in secular dictionaries, but they usually have only the vaguest understanding of spiritual matters.  And religious texts like the Catholic Encyclopedia always twist definitions in a way to exclude anything that might undermine orthodoxy.  But this definition is the way it was explained to me by a Catholic hermit that I met with for years.  Using this specific, technical definition, I am a hermit because I have severed my ties with orthodox religious Daoism.

Secondly, what is or isn't "Daoism" has consumed a great many academic pages, and I am loathe to raise the issue one more time.  But here goes.  The Daoist school of Chinese philosophy arose at roughly the same time as the other schools of "Legalism", "Confucianism", and, "Mozi".  The original authors were as near as I can tell, an oral tradition that resulted in the works of the Dao De Jing, the Nei-Yeh, Zhuangzi and Liezi.  Most scholars believe that these people had absolutely nothing to do with what later became known as religious Daoism.  That is a later development and was created in reaction to Buddhism, and adopted much of its ritual formalism and melded it to native Chinese shamanism, "traditional Chinese religion", and, the teachings of the early Daoists.  I make no bones about not being an orthodox religious Daoist.  But I do try to follow the early philosophy.

Incidentally, I have adopted the religious name of "Cloudwalking Owl" for a very specific reason.  My last name is old Welsh for "member of the Owl Clan".  This is not only something that I read in a book, it is also an old family tradition.  Secondly, in religious Daoism an initiated member of a Daoist Temple sometimes decided to seek wisdom by wandering the countryside and visiting other Temples, hermits and so on, in order to gather wisdom.  Since I have been very ecclectic in my practise and have studied with Buddhist Monks, the Jesuits, studied Philosophy at University, etc, I am very clearly someone who follows the path of "cloudwalking".

Finally, I actually am someone who was initiated into a religious Daoist lineage.  I was invited into the lineage by a recognized priest, offered the three sticks of incense and kowtowed before the altar of the ancestors.  The fact is that there is a very strong argument that I am a "Daoist hermit", who has a legitimate name of "the Cloudwalking Owl".  

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Daoist Diet and FODMAP

I've recently started to put a bit of emphasis on my diet.  Primarily, this has come about because my wife was concerned about the way certain foods affect me.  I have suffered from what would probably be called "Irritable Bowel Syndrome" for most of my life.  I sometimes get terrible gas, horrible diarrhea, and cramps that will go on for days at a time.  I'd just basically given up caring about this problem, and just accepted it as part of life---just like my horribly flat feet. 

But since my dearly beloved is new to all of this, she insisted that I try to do something about it, so she insisted I try a gluten free diet, even though I thought that it was all just a lot of poppycock. I was complaining about this with a friend, but he sent me a link to an essay from the website, "science-based medicine" that suggested that while people might not be helped by cutting gluten out of their diet, a type of sugar that is associated with foods high in gluten might be causing them problems.  Reading this article, then got me interested in a specific diet the "FODMAP" that helps people with Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS).  Basically, this diet tries to reduce some very subtle elements of our diet that seem to cause problems with some people's digestive system.  Studies at Monash University in Australian seem to indicate that this is the only treatment that has ever been found to work with everyone who has IBS. 

This is pretty interesting stuff to anyone who's suffered this disease.  I mentioned it to my MD during my last check-up and he'd heard of it.  His exact words were "Gluten free diets are a silly fad designed to get people to waste money on over-processed foods.  But the FODMAP is legitimate medicine, I recommend it to my patients."  

The diet is pretty involved, but I have tried to follow it to the best of my abilities.  A couple of interesting wrinkles are involved.  For one, it recommends a real reduction in the amount of foods one eats that are high in gluten---except for sour dough wheat bread that has been allowed to slowly rise over a long period of time. The theory is that the digestion process allows the wild yeasts to pre-digest those elements of wheat flour that I have problems with.  As a result, I've begun to make my own sour dough bread.  

And here's a video that discusses this point :  

I also came across this press release from the university where I work that suggests that sour dough bread is good for your blood sugar levels.   

What has this got to do with Daoism?  

Well, what we eat has always been an issue with regard to what the Daoists call "waidan" or "external alchemy".  This is the old school of Daoism that suggested that people should do crazy things like eat mercury in order to become an accomplished man.  This eventually died out and was replaced by "neidan" or "internal alchemy", which was the idea that people should cultivate themselves through meditation and yoga, such as "sitting and forgetting" and taijiquan, respectively.  Modern Daoists still are interested in the effects that come from specific types of diet, however.  Quanhzen Daoists, for example, are supposed to be vegetarians and not eat garlic or onions, for example.  

I've always been very wary of these dietary restrictions because I constantly got conflicting statements about what I should or shouldn't eat.  For example, the school of Daoism I was initiated into is supposed to be vegetarian, but the teacher who ran the school was adamant that everyone should eat meat in order to be healthy.  In fact, if he found out someone was not eating meat, he would sit next to him at meals and take meat off the platter with his chopsticks and put it in the guy's bowl and make him eat it!  

Anyway, when I was at my wife's house over the Winter Solstice, she was adamant that everyone would eat only FODMAP, except for the feast.  She printed off a list of foods, both acceptable and forbidden off this site, and we ate accordingly.  I have to say that the results were quite remarkable.  I haven't felt this good in a long time.  And when I do stray from the rules, I notice problems right away.  I've been trying to figure out where traditional Daoist rules fit into the FODMAP and there doesn't seem to be much correlation at all.  They both are adamantly opposed to garlic and onions, but FODMAP is also opposed to mushrooms, which are something that my Daoist teacher recommended as being very beneficial. Both FODMAP and my teacher are in favour of meat, but Quanzhen Daoism is vegetarian.  

So, go figure.  But the one thing that his has done has got me thinking about diet as a mechanism for pursuing Daoism, which I suppose is something new.  There are a myriad of Daos to pursue in our brief lives!

Friday, January 30, 2015

Walking the Talk now available as a Paperback

Just a quick note, my book on environmental awareness, engagement and the need for practical philosophies, like Daoism, is now available as a paperback. I know that quite a few people are resistant to ebooks, so now you have an alternative.  Only $15 at Lulu Books. 

Friday, January 2, 2015

New Year's Non-Resolution

I've been spending the last two and a half weeks with my dear wife, who resides in another city and country from me because she cares for her invalid mother.  Not having to work during this time, I've been catching up on reading as well as doing things with her.  One thing we did was head off to a thrift store where we loaded up on some old books (they are 15 cents a pound at her favourite one.)

Janwillem van de Wetering
We came across a motherlode of taijiquan, kungfu and Zen books, amongst others.  Included in this embarrassment of riches were the first two books in Janwillen Van De Wittering's trilogy about Zen:  The Empty Mirror, and, A Glimpse of Nothingness. These books have aged well and have created a wealth of thoughts about life, the universe and everything.

Van de Wetering was a fascinating character in that he was a pretty much total generalist.  He was a beatnick who studied Zen under real masters.  He was also a successful businessman.  He had a successful career in the police force (in the reserves) where he quickly rose through the ranks.  (He joined as a means of dealing with problems he had with his national service requirements----Holland allows someone to do other things besides military service.) And he wrote amazingly good detective novels.  I aspire to be as much of a well-rounded guy as him.

If there is an important point that Wetering emphasized in his books on Zen, it was that of what us Daoists would call "the Void".  That is, that we live in a world of complete potentiality, or, as the Laozi would say "Being comes from Nothing".  With regard to our lived experience, the point is to not hem ourselves in with our own personal descriptions of who we are.   We are not fixed in time, prisoners of our past, but rather bubbles of potential that each every moment have the opportunity to engage with the world around us in new and unexpected ways.

Moy Lin Shin
One of the very few times I ever recall hearing Moy Lin Shin (the fellow who initiated me into Daoism) talk about anything was about the importance of getting rid of the ego.  For him (remember, that everything I ever heard him say was strained through absolutely abysmal translators), the "ego" is that little voice that tells you "oh, I couldn't do that!".

That's a pretty important lesson.

In van de Wetering's book his experience with his Japanese teacher was that the trappings of Zen were ruthlessly excised if they were not immediately valuable to his training.  This extend to the point where he was strongly discouraged from formally becoming a Buddhist (what's the point?)  The only thing that mattered to the teacher was for van de Wetering to "wake up".

I feel pretty much the same way.

I recently had a short conversation in the discussion section of a past post with someone who seemed somewhat disappointed that I haven't been putting a lot of effort into writing about Daoism and being a hermit.  I suppose I haven't.  Part of that probably involves changes in my interests, but I think that mostly it comes from my increasing comfort with the essence of Daoism to the exclusion of the trappings.  I don't offer incense to the land god anymore, but I still keep the altar outside my door.  I packed up my internal altars.

I still do taijiquan, and have been teaching myself the Yang spear form to add to my other sets.  I don't do any formal meditation practice either.  But I do find myself spending a lot of time in self-observation and "holding onto the One" in my day-to-day life.

I suspect that a lof of these changes have come about from my being married.  My dear and beloved significant other has become a mirror that reflects back to me many things.  She has precious little time for pretense and "flummery", which is probably why I've packed up a lot of the play-acting with funny robes and incense.  But she is adamant that I write and do taiji.  She also stretches me in very interesting ways.

Yesterday after breakfast she got quite adamant with me about how I was using what she called "white male privilege".  What she was referring to was the way a lot of women will defer (actually shut up and not try to argue) to me when I get emotional about an issue.  We had a long talk about it, and then our day moved on.

A Keisaku being applied very mildly
Van de Wetering talks a bit about being "encouraged" by a Keisaku while formally meditating in Temple.  I've heard a lot of folks say that it is just a gentle "tap", but the way he describes it, he used to get real whacks with it in order to wake up while nodding off.  He talks about it leaving bruises and the monks wearing extra clothes under their robes in order to protect from it.  Like most things, I suspect that the severity varies mightily from Temple to Temple.

I was really upset when Misha (my wife) called me to task on "white male privilege", but in retrospect, she is trying to help me see something that I am oblivious to.  She was administering a much more accurate and effective Keisaku!  The hope is that I will wake up and learn to be more aware of my freedom of action and less trapped by my culture and past personal history.  

The problem is, however, that learning to experience "the Void" isn't just a question of being told something. It involves the emotional upset that I felt when she called me to task. It is hard, hard, hard to fight erase the ego and embrace the Void.

Zen Master with Fly Whisk
One last point I should make, because it might be raised.  I have mentioned Zen Buddhism in this post.  For those readers who might be interested in a bit of history, Zen is a school of Buddhism, but it is one that was profoundly influenced by Daoism.  The trappings of a Zen Master are the same as a Daoist sage---the fly whisk that they carry as a badge of authority was stolen from the iconography.

Daoist Immortal with Fly Whisk
In addition, the famous Ox-Herding Pictures of Zen were adapted from a Daoist source.  And, if you read books like Journey to the West and Seven Daoist Masters, you will see reference after reference to the mutual reverence between Daoists and Zen Buddhists.

But still, why write about Zen Buddhism in a Daoist blog?  Well, the fact of the matter is that until very recently there were no books available about Daoism outside of the Laozi and Zhuangzi.  Even basics like the Liezi were hard to find and the Nei-Yeh was only recently translated into English.

The same situation existed with regard to Zen when van de Wetering first went to Japan, but his book was part of an explosion of publishing that took place in the last decades of the 20th century.  A similar explosion is currently taking place now with regards to Daoism, this blog being part of the phenomenon.  But if I am going to write about Daoist issues, I have to be part of a cultural context in order to make any sense.  If I refuse to make use of available cultural artifacts---like Zen---to explain myself I will be lessening my ability to explain myself.

The point is that what is important is the Void itself, not the shape of the finger that is used to point in its direction.