Gavril Nikolaev – Mindful Spot

About Gavril Nikolaev

I'm a lay Buddhist and founder of MindfulSpot.com, where I write about spiritual growth through the study of Buddhism, philosophy, and art.

Why Did the Buddha Leave His Palace to Become a Wandering Ascetic?

Updated: July 23, 2021 by Gavril Nikolaev Leave a Comment

“I was delicate, most delicate, supremely delicate,” said the Buddha while remembering his days as a prince in his parents’ palace. “Lily pools were made for me at my father’s house solely for my benefit. Blue lilies in one, white lilies in another, red lilies in a third. … A white sunshade was held over me day and night so that no cold or heat or dust or grit or dew might inconvenience me.”

Imagining all this opulence, one can’t help but wonder how someone so fortunate could even think about leaving all of it behind to lead a life of complete renunciation and extreme austerities. Yet that’s exactly what the Buddha did at the age of twenty-nine. Many of us know about his eventual discovery of the Four Noble Truths and the Noble Eightfold Path. But what do we know about the time before that and the reasons that prompted the Buddha to leave his former life of luxury? This is one of many subjects taken up in a wonderful book titled The Life of the Buddha According to the Pali Canon based on the research and translations by a Buddhist scholar-monk Bhikkhu Nanamoli. What this book is trying to accomplish is to present us with the earliest canonical version of the Buddha’s life as described in the scriptures of Theravada Buddhism.

The Buddha in His Youth by Odilon Redon.

In describing his former life, the Buddha said that he “had three palaces; one for winter, one for the summer, and one for the rains.” Indeed, he was surrounded by servants, good food, entertainment, and all the riches of his kingdom were at his disposal. But there was something that troubled him amidst all this wealth. The Buddha recounts:

Whilst I had such power and good fortune, yet I thought, “When an untaught ordinary man, who is subject to ageing, not safe from ageing, sees another who is aged, he is shocked, humiliated and disgusted; for he forgets that he himself is no exception. But I too am subject to ageing, not safe from ageing, and so it cannot befit me to be shocked, humiliated and disgusted on seeing another who is aged.” When I considered this, the vanity of youth entirely left me.

I thought, “When an untaught ordinary man, who is subject to sickness, not safe from sickness, sees another who is sick, he is shocked, humiliated and disgusted; for he forgets that he himself is no exception. But I too am subject to sickness, not safe from sickness, and so it cannot befit me to be shocked, humiliated and disgusted on seeing another who is sick.” When I considered this, the vanity of health entirely left me.

I thought, “When an untaught ordinary man, who is subject to death, not safe from death, sees another who is dead, he is shocked, humiliated and disgusted, for he forgets that he himself is no exception. But I too am subject to death, not safe from death, and so it cannot befit me to be shocked, humiliated and disgusted on seeing another who is dead.” When I considered this, the vanity of life entirely left me.”

He concludes with this reflection, “Why being myself subject to birth, ageing, ailment, death, sorrow and defilement, do I seek after what is also subject to these things? Suppose, being myself subject to these things, seeing danger in them, I sought after the unborn, unageing, unailing, deathless, sorrowless, undefiled supreme surcease of bondage, Nibbana?” And so his main search for the path to transcendence began.

Complement this particular portion of The Life of the Buddha with the Buddha’s simile of teaching as a raft and then revisit Ven. Bhikkhu Bodhi’s lecture on the Noble Eightfold Path.

The Second Self: Sherry Turkle on the Human Spirit in a Computer Culture

Updated: July 23, 2021 by Gavril Nikolaev Leave a Comment

“Technology catalyzes changes not only in what we do but in how we think. It changes people’s awareness of themselves, of one another, of their relationship with the world,” writes Sherry Turkle in her book The Second Self: Computers and the Human Spirit. “The new machine that stands behind the flashing digital signal, unlike the clock, the telescope, or the train, is a machine that “thinks.” It challenges our notions not only of time and distance, but of mind.”

Because of my recent encounter with the incredible capabilities of AI, a science fiction turned everyday reality, I just couldn’t pass on the opportunity to read Sherry Turkle’s magnum opus on the subject of our intimate relationship with our gadgets, and how they alter the matrix our life. In the chapter titled “The Human Spirit in a Computer Culture,” Turkle notes that beyond our understanding of a computer as an analytical engine, lies a deeper level of its second nature as an evocative object, an object that fascinates, disturbs equanimity, and precipitates thought. Sherry Turkle writes:

Ours has been called a culture of narcissism. The label is apt but can be misleading. It reads colloquially as selfishness and self-absorption. But these images do not capture the anxiety behind our search for mirrors. We are insecure in our understanding of ourselves, and this insecurity breeds a new preoccupation with the question of who we are. We search for ways to see ourselves. The computer is a new mirror, the first psychological machine. Beyond its nature as an analytical engine lies its second nature as an evocative object.

Stepping back and realizing that nowadays it’s practically impossible to go anywhere without a “mini-computer” called smartphone, one can’t help but wonder how dependent we’ve become on our devices, how much of our “self” we see in them. But computers are more than just screens onto which we project our personality. They have become a part of how a new generation is growing up. For adults and children who play computer games, who use the computer to manipulate words, information, and visual images, computers enter into the development of personality, identity, and even sexuality. Sherry Turkle writes:

Terrifed of being alone, yet afraid of intimacy, we experience widespread feelings of emptiness, of disconnection, of the unreality of self. And here the computer, a companion without emotional demands, offers a compromise. You can be a loner, but never alone. You can interact, but need never feel vulnerable to another person.

Experts have long argued, Turkle notes, whether or not computers will evolve into true “artificial intelligences,” themselves capable of self-sufficient, humanlike thought. But regardless of where the technology evolution might lead us in the future, in this present moment, computers already affect how we think and the way we construct the concepts of animate and inanimate, conscious and not conscious. Sherry Turkle writes:

Because they stand on the line between mind and not-mind, between life and not-life, computers excite reflection about the nature of mind and the nature of life. They provoke us to think about who we are. They challenge our ideas about what it is to be human, to think and feel. They present us with more than a challenge. They present us with an affront, because they hold up a new mirror in which mind is reflected as machine.

Indeed, as soon as we consider the very probable, almost palpable reality of true artificial intelligence, we face questions about what makes us “us.” Is there something in the depth of our being that AI can’t emulate, no matter how sophisticated it might be? Can intelligence without a living body ever really understand what it is to be human? Sherry Turkle writes:

No matter what a computer can do, human thought is something else. … We are born, we are nurtured by parents, we grow, we develop sexually, we become parents in our turn, we die. This cycle is what gives meaning to our lives. It brings us the knowledge that comes from understanding loss — from knowing that those we love will die and so will we. A being that is not born of a mother, that does not feel the vulnerability of childhood, a being that does not know sexuality or anticipate death, this being is alien. We may be machines, but it is our mortality that impels us to search for transcendence — in religion, history, art, the relationships in which we hope to live on.

Complement these insightful passages from The Second Self, a sobering read for our computer-addicted generation, with the writer, poet, and environmentalist Wendell Berry’s radical manifesto on why he won’t buy a computer, an ideal to which none of us can ever aspire.

Plato’s Famous Allegory of the Cave and What It Can Teach Us About the Nature of Reality Itself

Updated: July 23, 2021 by Gavril Nikolaev Leave a Comment

“What is wisdom? What is moderation? What is courage? What is justice? What is the nature of reality itself? Looking at these questions today, we could just shrug our shoulders and discard them as irrelevant. After all, they seem too abstract and distant from real concerns of our everyday life. Or are they? Two and half millennia ago the Greek philosopher Plato considered answers to these questions vital, if not absolutely necessary, for a happy and fulfilling life, a conviction reflected in his timeless treatise The Republic (paperback | audiobook), where he envisioned a life of ideal society. In today’s post, I would like to draw your attention to one of the most enduring and captivating passages from this book that can serve as a subject for deep contemplation in our meditation practice — the allegory of the cave. In this allegory, we are likened to prisoners sentenced to a lifetime in a dark cave whose walls are full of flickering shadows. Please enjoy this audio performance by an immensely talented William Sigalis as Socrates and Ray Childs as Glaucon.

Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, drawing by Markus Maurer.

THE ALLEGORY OF THE CAVE
from The Republic of Plato

Now, Glaucon, let’s think about the ignorance of human beings and their education in the form of an allegory. Imagine them living underground in a kind of cave. The mouth of the cave, which is far above, is as wide as the cave itself and opens to the light outside. These people have been here since childhood. Their legs and necks are chained so that they cannot move. They can see only what is in front of them because the chains are fastened in a way that keeps them from turning their heads. A fire burns at some distance behind them. If you look carefully, you can see a wall between the fire and the prisoners, like a curtain that hides puppeteers showing their puppets.

I can see that.

Can you also see people passing behind the wall, carrying all kinds of objects above their heads so that they show over the wall? They are carrying statues of humans and animals made of wood, stone, and other materials. Some of them are talking, and others are silent.

That’s a strange image, Socrates, and these are strange prisoners.

They are like us. They see only the shadows the light from the fire throws on the wall of the cave in front of them, their own shadows, or those of the objects passing behind the wall. … If the prisoners were able to talk with each other about these shadows, wouldn’t they believe that they were discussing reality?

That’s right. …

So it’s obvious that for these prisoners, the truth would be no more than the shadows of objects.

That seems inevitable.

Now let’s consider how they might be released and cured of their ignorance. Imagine that one man is set free and forced to turn around and walk toward the light. … He would have to get used to seeing the world outside the cave. First, he will recognize the shadows. Then the reflections of people and other objects in the water. And finally, he could see the objects themselves. Then he will gaze at the night sky, still better able to see the light of the moon and the stars than the sunlight of the sun.

That’s probably how it would be.

But at last, he would be able to see the sun in its proper place, rather than its reflection in the water or somewhere else. Then he will be able to consider its true nature.

Yes. …

Glaucon, my friend, you may now connect this allegory with what we were saying before. What we normally see with our eyes can be compared with the prison where the people dwell. And the fire can be related to the power of the sun. Consider the journey out of the cave and seeing the things there to be the ascent of the soul to the realm of what is knowable. This is my belief which I have shared at your request. It would take God to know whether it is right or wrong. But regardless of whether it’s true or false, I believe that in the realm of what is knowable, the idea of the good appears last of all and can be seen only with great effort. Once we see it, we understand it to be the cause of all things that are right and beautiful, the origin and ruler of light in this world, and the ultimate source of truth and reason beyond it. This must be understood by anyone who wishes to act rationally and effectively, either in public or private life.

Complement this particular passage from The Republic of Plato with another incredibly gratifying audio performance by William Sigalis as Socrates on moderation as a harmony that permeates all aspects of the human soul and then revisit Aristotle on virtues as habits.

Go Out, Focus on Your Senses, and Connect with the Universe: Annie Dillard on Living in the Present Moment

Updated: July 23, 2021 by Gavril Nikolaev Leave a Comment

“Consciousness itself does not hinder living in the present. In fact, it is only to a heightened awareness that the great door to the present opens at all,” writes Annie Dillard in her Pulitzer-winning collection of essays Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. “Self-conscousness, however, does hinder the experience of the present. It is the one instrument that unplugs all the rest.”

Indeed, this interplay of pure consciousness and self-consciousness is the most challenging part of our attempt to be fully in the now. As we move about our lives in a slumber-like state, our entire life becomes mere motions in the shadows. We are nothing but travelers lost in the maze of our psyche, never in accord with whom we are or think we are. Anger, jealousy, and discontent are our frequent companions. All of us harbor some kind of vanity, and there’s an error whose degree we can’t determine. We’re something that goes on during the show’s intermission; sometimes, through certain doors, we catch a glimpse of what may be no more than a tiny fragment of pristine reality. So how do we wake up and open ourselves to the infinite beauty that surrounds us every day? Annie Dillard counsels:

We tune in and out. But moments are not lost. Time out of mind is time nevertheless, cumulative, informing the present. From even the deepest slumber you wake with a jolt — older, closer to death, and wiser, grateful for breath. You quit your seat in a darkened theatre, walk past the empty lobby, out the double glass doors, and step like Orpheus into the street. And the cumulative force of the present you’ve forgotten sets you reeling, staggering, as if you’d been struck broadside by a plank. It all floods back to you. Yes, you say, as if you’d been asleep a hundred years, this is it, this is the real weather, the lavender light fading, the full moisture in your lungs, the heat from the pavement on your lips and palms — not the dry orange dust from horses’ hooves, the salt sea, the sour Coke — but this solid air, the blood pumping up you thighs again, your fingers alive.

As we go out, breathe in, and allow our senses to roam free unhindered by discursive thinking, something changes in the way we perceive things. Everything becomes more vivid, more alive, more present. We marvel at every little detail, we are grateful for just being. Annie Dillard writes:

I am absolutely alone. … Before me extends a low hill trembling in yellow brome, and behind the hill, filling the sky, rises an enormous mountain ridge, forested, alive and awesome with brilliant blown lights. I have never seen anything so tremulous and live. … Shadows lope along the mountain’s rumpled flanks; they elongate like root tips, like lobes of spilling water, faster and faster. A warm purple pigment pools in each ruck and tuck of the rock; it deepens and spreads, boring crevasses, canyons. As the purple vaults and slides, it tricks out the unleafed forest and rumpled rock in gilt, in shape-shifting patches of glow. These gold lights veer and retract, shatter and glide in a series of dazzling splashes, shrinking, leaking, exploding. The ridge’s bosses and hummocks sprout bulging from its side; the whole mountain looms miles closer; the light warms and reddens; the bare forest folds and pleats itself like living protoplasm before my eyes, like running chart, a wildly scrawling oscillograph on the present moment. … I am more alive than all the world.

Enclosed Field with Rising Sun by Vincent van Gogh.

When we allow our attention to take us deeper into the now, another process starts to unfold. A feeling of something greater than us permeates our bodies and takes us beyond the narrow confines of perceived reality. We feel one with the whole. Annie Dillard writes:

The galaxy is careening in a slow, muffled widening. If a million solar systems are born every hour, then surely hundreds burst into being as I shift my weight to the other elbow. The sun’s surface is now exploding; other stars implode and vanish, heavy and black, out of sight. Meteorites are arcing to earth invisibly all day long. On the planet the winds are blowing: the polar easterlies, the westerlies, the northeast and southeast trades. Somewhere, someone under full sail is becalmed, in the horse latitudes, in the doldrums; in the northland, a trapper is maddened, crazed, by the eerie scent of the chinook, the snow-eater, a wind that can melt two feet of snow in a day. The pampero blows, and the tramontane, and the Boro, sirocco, levanter, mistral. Lick a finger: feel the now.

Complement these mesmerizing meditations from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek with Richard Louv on the spiritual necessity of nature for the young and then revisit transcendentalist Henry David Thoreau’s heartfelt contemplations of a solitary life in the woods.

Why Did the Buddha Leave His Palace to Become a Wandering Ascetic?

The Second Self: Sherry Turkle on the Human Spirit in a Computer Culture

Plato’s Famous Allegory of the Cave and What It Can Teach Us About the Nature of Reality Itself

Go Out, Focus on Your Senses, and Connect with the Universe: Annie Dillard on Living in the Present Moment

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