Perfection Within the Imperfect

Asymmetry takes the eye off balance, even creating a sense of anxiety. The natural response is for the eye to resolve the imbalance or to discard it as utterly inconsequential. Yet asymmetry gives space for the unexpected to occur and for perspective to be altered. It allows revelation to transpire.

Asymmetry (Fukinsei) - not adhering to perfection or purposely breaking away from formed perfection

The story of Paul Potts (winner of the 2007 Britain's Got Talent competition) is well known to many Internet surfers by this time. A less-than-handsome, poorly dressed man with a reluctant smile, he was all but dismissed by the judges, especially for wanting to sing opera. No one could have been prepared for the first note he would sing. By his last note, Potts had stunned the judges and audience, disarming whatever expectation they might have had of him.

Had he dashing features, was well dressed and with impeccable manner & breeding, would Potts' talents been recognized in the same way?

Imperfection is what the uninformed eye observes and judges by. For me, “not adhering to perfection” implies giving appropriate time and space for perfection to express itself, as one would give to a butterfly to emerge from the caterpillar. It is to hold to a meditative patience and simply bear witness to what is transpiring.

“Purposely breaking away from formed perfection” allows me to appreciate things just as they are, letting perfection guide itself. Just because I have my own ideas about how things could be better doesn't mean I have to let them out of my mouth or act on them. Only when I can stay out of the way of things will the depths begin to be revealed to me.

Emily Dickinson suggests that ”the soul should always stand ajar” to leave ourselves available to the unexpected possibility. That can happen if I can let myself become comfortable with being off balance as my normal way of being. In interview, Potts would say that from that first audition he would discover that he really was somebody, that he was himself. That is the revealing of perfection.


© Richard Aquino, 2007

The art of Rodney Thompson can be see at his online gallery.

The Muse

Note: The following was extracted from a review written for an art history class years ago.

Reality resides not in the external form of things but in their innermost essence. This face entails the impossibility to express anything real while lingering on the surface of things.

- Constantin Brancusi

I viewed Constantin Brancusi's The Muse After 1918 at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art's Encounters with Modem Art: Works from the Rothschild Family Collection exhibition. It was the last of three such versions of The Muse created from polished bronze; the first was created in 1917, the second in 1918, with this final sculpture completed shortly after the second. These bronze pieces were preceded by the original work done in marble, finished in 1912.

On first impression, the personality I encountered in The Muse was one of indifference. The faceless being refused to betray an expression, refused to betray what was on her mind. The face stared blindly at (perhaps through) me. Her taunt lips served only to make me even more uncomfortable in her presence. I felt distrust in this cold, calculating, almost unkind being.

But a muse is a guiding spirit and a source of inspiration. Considering this, the persona of sculpture began to shift for me. Instead of indifference, the gaze of The Muse became one of wonder! Her forward lean indicated a keen interest. The tilt of her head spoke of a sense of curiosity (even amusement) in what she was beholding. Taunt lips transformed into a smile of understanding and perhaps compassion. What I mistook as eyeless I now knew to be wide-eyed, all seeing. Unlike her sculpture-ancestors, Brancusi's renditions of The Sleeping Muse, this muse is an alert observer! And I saw her figure as having a more kindly disposition. Is this because I had taken a more kindly interest in her?

Looking into that polished surface, I could see her mirroring the scene of the gallery space all that time, ultimately revealing the source of her inner energy for inspiration and awakening: it is life in all its forms. Her reflection embraced me, the gallery and all that could be captured by her presence. Though immobile, fixed upon her pedestal, the sculpture began to take a dynamic role, reflecting an ever-changing wisdom. Now it was as if The Muse was poised like a sage, reversing roles to challenge my understanding of wisdom and the understanding of others who would stand before her.

It's noted that Brancusi included in his studies not only the art of Southeast Asia and India, but also the teachings of the Tibetan Buddhist monk Jetsun Milarepa. One could guess that he was influenced by polished bronze statues of the Buddha which he had invariably encountered. The wisdom-pose struck by The Muse becomes reminiscent of seated statues of Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion. With these influences, it is likely that Brancusi was familiar with the idea of shunyata, that nothing can be seen as having an independent, long-lasting form.

Brancusi's simplicity no longer seems as a mere artistic technique, but as the only way he could achieve a true expression of nature. Like haiku poetry, his work functions not in relating a thought or story that occupies his mind, but in compelling the viewer to attempt to directly experience the sculptor's own insight.

The Muse has become a meditation that moves me to discover that source of inspiration, that essential Self that lies both within and without, the guiding spirit which is constantly redefining itself. She continually offers an invitation to share that understanding, which is Brancusi's.

© Richard Aquino, 2007

Zen Characters of Living

Many years ago, I borrowed a video tape from the public library. It was about Zen Buddhism, a practice that I was just entering into. It covered the history of Buddhism, monastic practice and aspects of Japanese culture influenced by Zen. I was intrigued by what was described as the “seven Zen characters of beauty,” aesthetics that have come to be the hallmarks of the art and craft of Japan:

• Asymmetry (Fukinsei) - not adhering to perfection or purposely breaking away from formed perfection
• Non-attachment (Datsuzoku) - to be open-minded and detached: this is freedom because being without form is of every form
• Naturalness (Shizen) - that which is artless in its natural form; without pretense
• Simplicity (Kanso) - neither complicated nor gaudy; artless simple beauty
• Silence (Seijaku) - limitless silence; the inward looking mind
• Wise Austerity (Koko) - wizened, solitary and stern; dignified like an old tree
• Profound Subtlety (Yugen) - a lingering memory hidden deep inside; limitless implication

These are the exact descriptions from the video. The images of artwork and craft that accompanied the narration were especially haunting. Three years later, I participated in a Jukai ceremony, where I formally became a lay Zen Buddhist practitioner. There one “receives” the Bodhisattva precepts, the precepts being guidelines of sorts that help the Zen student in their training toward enlightenment. Further, it provides a common reference for one's daily conduct and the spiritual evolution of the Zen community.

At some point I felt that the community stopped talking to me. Maybe I stopped listening to it. It is many years later and while I still value the Buddhist precepts, it is no longer a preferred language of understanding. I'm finding that it's useful understand many languages because you never know who you are going to meet and how they would prefer to communicate. What I've noticed is that most people at least have a feel for the language of art aesthetics.

So when I consider the Zen characters of beauty, it is like I'm considering precepts. Not as guidelines per say, but as a way by which I can recognize that I'm growing toward the light and not simply aiming at a reflection.

I would like to think of my life as artwork of the kind described by these characters, or at least moving toward it. It doesn't require that I be a follower of a specific belief system (although I'm not like those would fear religion). Instead, it asks me to become an artist…and there is great stimulation in talking and sharing about art with other artists of all types.

The community I connect to is now a little bit larger; it's a little easier to hear them.

© Richard Aquino, 2007

Strangers, Friends, Community and Giving Thanks

In past years, I would open up my home during the holidays. Not just an opportunity for friends and family to get together, these gatherings were really meant for strangers and displaced souls who didn't to have a a community to share this time with. They were times for engaging interesting conversations, eating international dishes and to making a fair bit of noise. My mother, roommate and I would invite the different people involved in our lives, strangers to each other, to see who would show up and how they would mix it up.

And then like everybody else, I got too busy.

I had taken a job that leveraged off of my workaholic tendencies (again). My connections to friends and family became more tenuous until I no longer had time to participate our usual activities. The workplace became a surrogate for the community I was leaving. My personal experience of community at work was authentic due to the unique relationship I had with all departments and company clients. But a looming specter of fear and lack of staff empowerment diminished that sense of community from being a global corporate experience.

I have a very basic way of knowing when you and I are in community: it's when you and I are in each other's laps, when we are intricately involved in each other's lives. In that sense, "community" is a foreign experience to most people. We only seem to draw to each other under times of acute, regional distress, or when we're forced into it (that's where corporation's idea of "teamwork" comes into play). Otherwise it is much more convenient to commune with our Internet connection and TiVo box. It's not that we've become totally incapable of engaging as community, its just that it has become less obvious why it is necessary to do so.

I now find myself with free time on my hands (having left the workaholic-inducing environment) and with a renewed ability to give myself to these gatherings and other things again. And in this Thanksgiving season, I find myself thankful for particular things: With the recent fires here in San Diego and the losses that some have experienced, we all came through it safely; With the passing of my favorite uncle I was reminded of the importance of generational experience and wisdom, and how it prepares us to meet our future; Even though some of us are moving into "interesting times," we can be utterly surprised by who will walk back into our lives to keep us company through it all.

My cousin's husband defines a friend as someone you are willing to invite into your home. So if you happen to be in the North County San Diego area next week, I invite you to come over for Thanksgiving dinner. By tradition, it's a potluck deal where we supply the meat and you bring something that can keep the mouths of 3-4 people busy. The planned highlight will Mark's famous smoked turkey. This year I thought I'd try something different. The "Main
Event" will be held the Sunday before Thanksgiving Day, with the "Leftovers Event" held on Thanksgiving Day. Come on Thursday and you may not have to worry about bringing a dish! Because people do get busy during the holidays, having two gatherings gives people a chance to stop by.

We run an open house, so arrive at your own leisure. The door opens at 1:00pm and closes when the last person leaves. Invite your friends and family along (children are welcome). Drop by for a few minutes or stay the whole evening. Bring your swimsuits because the Jacuzzi is all warmed up. Bring an appetite. Bring your laptop (I'll have a wireless Internet connection available).

Community is created when at least one other person shows up. Let me know if you need directions.

© Richard Aquino, 2007

Labyrinth: Faith and the Path

Faith isn't believing 50 impossible things before breakfast. Faith isn't believing that the mystery of God can be captured in words. Mature faith is risking your life, throwing yourself into it with abandon.

from The Journey from Fear to Faith by Alan Jones

“Doubt,” we said in answer to his question, “the opposite of faith is doubt.” It seemed fairly obvious.

Alan Jones, the dean of San Francisco's Grace Cathedral, was speaking to us at the beginning our training to become Labyrinth facilitators. He would tell us that no, the opposite of faith is certainty. “When you're absolutely certain you have nothing to learn, there's no mystery; no risk, no real joy.” This was the first time I had heard a Christian teaching that framed faith and religion in terms of the experience and exploration of life.

The Labyrinth offers a metaphor for faith: it's a single path from the entry point to the center. But to look at the path and its convolutions only creates feelings of uncertainty. The eye vainly traces the pattern in attempts to understand where it goes, to make sure where it leads to. And the human tendency is to want the sure thing. But the moment it is unclear that the sure thing is correct, I deviate from the path, perhaps begin seeking a more certain thing. Or perhaps I'm looking for that which is more modern, more relevant, or more to my style. The problem is that in doing so I never get anywhere and I never arrive.

Faith is that which holds me to the path, especially when I come to distrust that path. Even though my mind knows that the Labyrinth path is a single path, there are days when my eye still feels the need to trace it. But rather than be swayed by the rational, I allow myself to be guided by intuition (which has a better sense of where Truth might be). When I can put my faith in the path, I will be led to where I need to be.

So as I walk the Labyrinth, I can begin to become familiar with my feelings of fear and uncertainty as they arise, how they are joined by the feeling for the need to be certain. I come to recognize how those feelings (and the thoughts created with them) begin to control and direct me. When I walk the path of everyday life, it's now easier for me to sense the moments when I would try to delude myself into a life that would be less than, so that I may begin to ease myself out of that delusion.

Understanding faith in this way, I've learned that the spiritual path is not a narrow sliver of dirt, although that's what one tends to see. Rather, the path is boulevard-wide, able to hold space for many people and their experiences, thoughts and beliefs. When I know that faith is about experiencing life, then I can approach life courageously and live it fearlessly each and every day. I can then walk a more direct line toward my Truth.

© Richard Aquino, 2007

A Sunny Day in Hiroshima

Ayako and I were the only ones who were going to practice Tai Chi that morning. Somehow the conversation afterwards wandered to her experience on August 6, 1945, when she was present at the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. It took me by surprise.

I don't use the word “witnessed” because I don't remember her speaking of the immediate devatsation of the explosion. I don't know how far from ground zero she was located. Maybe it didn't matter. She did say how her sister managed dodge the effects of the blast, shielded in the shadow cast by a tree. My mind had created images of Terry as a silhouette etched into the sidewalk. Fortunately, she too practices Tai Chi with us many decades later.

Instead, Ayako would talk about how when riding the bus, she would encounter the countless number of injured people; how she would hear the pervasive moaning of those slowly dying of radiation poisoning. She talked about the ruined city. She also talked of the ruination brought on by starvation and disease that was taking its toll on Japan's civilian population long before a bomb needed to be dropped. She spoke of the emotions of a society and culture that would haunt and go unspoken until the end of one's days.

Ayako is an American citizen. She was born in the United States and left with her parents as they returned to their native country just prior to the start of World War II. Our conversation happened some 14 years before the events of September 11, 2001 would occur. We haven't had a chance to talk about that.

But she is not a bitter person for it. For all she had to experience, she seems to have survived fully and wholly. Ayako has a bright and cheerful personality that everyone enjoys being around. I am humbled when I realize I can't possibly fathom what she and others who must find a normal life in a time of war must have gone through (and are going through even now).

Ayako simply wonders: how do people find it possible to harm each other in such atrocious ways? She wonders how any kind of act of violence can be justified in the name of peace.

Update: from the BBC, When Time Stood Still, a Hiroshima Survivor's Story


© Richard Aquino, 2007

Lighting the Lamp Yourself

It's one thing to have a child be "taught" religion. It can be quite another thing if the education system gives the child the tools to explore religion and spirituality. I like this approach because it allows the student to be immersed in the religious/spiritual environment.

My local Zen center would occasionally play host to student visitors. They ranged from high school to graduate students, coming because of some kind of class assignment. They would arrive armed with a list of questions and it was not unusual for me to become their interview subject. If I did my job right (and objectively) it allowed the religious practice to teach the religion while maintaining the context of secular education. This frequently led to interesting side effects.

I remember one high school freshman that I spoke with. He was a slight boy who was a first generation Vietnamese-American. His family was "culturally Buddhist, but not practicing," only going to temple on high holidays. His father dropped him off at the center with the intent of returning to pick up his son up when the assignment was over. This student chose a bunch of Westerners to find out what Buddhism was about.

I answered all of his questions and instructed him on meditation. Since it was our habit to hold discussion after meditation, I told him that he could ask that evening's meditators any question he wanted. He was quite the novice in the zendo, not moving a bit during the meditation in spite of his discomfort sitting cross-legged for all that time.

After the meditation I introduced him to the group and asked him to put any question to them. He asked a question that was not part of the list he asked me: "Why do you meditate?" You should have seen at the looks of horror on these people's faces! His "innocent" question placed them in a vunerable place, forcing them to reveal themselves not only to him but to each other as well. But how could they refuse to answer, especially considering that many of them were academic teachers themselves? They couldn't easily reject their role. He had them pinned down the way a Zen teacher would.

It was important to him to hear why these people came to Buddhism and meditation, and what they experienced as the benefits of their practice. It was interesting for me to note that none of the reasons given had anything to do with "enlightenment." He discovered a Buddhism that doesn't exist in books.The point is that it was the student's own curiosity that stimulated the question. As a tool, the class assigment created the context so that he could go out and investigate religion on his own, without parents or teachers lording over him. It gave him the opportunity to find out what he wanted to find out and not be drilled with what he should be taught.

The Buddha suggested that we should become lamps unto ourselves. I'd like to think that the Buddha was also suggesting that we choose our own lamps, fill it with an appropriate oil and find the proper flame to ignite it with. Just as there is a proper place for religious tradition, there is also a difference between religion and "my stuff about religion" or the "stuff" that another would try to impose on me. My hope is that this student will continue to visit other churches and temples so that he can encounter the different practices and people that could work for him throughout life.

© Richard Aquino, 2007


"Hey, that's not Buddhism...that's just true!"
Alan Jones, Dean of Grace Cathedral
from What's the Big Deal About Buddhism?

As an aside, this exclamation comes from an entertaining, humorous and informative conversation between Alan Jones and Theravadin monk, Ajahn Amaro. It is an excellent example of what eccumenical dialogue can sound like. Click on the link to listen to this 45 minute recording.

Meditation and Improved Health

I was asked to put this overivew together for a PR firm. Journalists frequqently visit resorts and spas having an interest in writing about the mind-body-spirit aspect of their program. A question that is always asked is, “What is the relationship between relaxation and better health?” Sometimes it's phrased, “How does relaxation help someone loose weight?,” which is a question I prefer not to validate.

The relationship between meditation and improved health has been very well (if not grudgingly) documented by modern medical science. Since the description of the “Relaxation Response” by Dr. Herbert Benson, science has been working toward precisely identifying the underlying mechanisms by which meditation and other “spiritual” practices invoke better health. However, in its focus on material aspects, it is as if science is attempting to craft an explanation that can completely sidestep aspects the “superstitious” traditions that often accompany a meditation practice. While success toward this end is possible, it is also likely that the scope of success may be limited unless one considers the fundamental context for why meditation exists in the first place.

“I believe that the very purpose of our life is to seek happiness,” says the Dali Lama. This sentiment has been expressed in some manner by all of the spiritual geniuses from around the world, across all cultures, throughout all of time. I might embellish it by saying that the purpose of life is to seek happiness, no matter how life presents itself to us . For better or for worse, the human tendency is to create an experience of unhappiness (stress, anxiety, anger, hatred, etc.) when the life experience fails to meet personal, social and cultural expectations. Left unchecked, the unhappiness created by the mind is communicated beyond brain (through well known physiological mechanisms), leading to the actualization of unhappiness in the physical body. This is reflected in muscular tension, high blood pressure and the myriad of stress-induced disease conditions we now know of.

The practice of meditation helps us see how we inadvertently create dysfunctional thought/emotional contexts from our experience. It does so by creating a study space by which we bear witness to that dysfunction-creation process. Meditation/witnessing helps us see how we don't have to be defined or controlled by these dysfunctions, and how this defining and controlling activity can be interrupted. The possibilities for better health and healing now have an opportunity to come forth. It is as if happiness spills out of the brain (through those same physiological mechanisms), to create its own changes in the body.

Meditation does not function like aspirin: it is not so much a curative as it is a “fitness” that requires cultivation. Like a physical fitness program, meditation is a training that is (optimally) performed regularly. It's not unreasonable to think that it should be included as part of a fitness program. Just as our aerobic capacity and muscle strength wanes if we ignore our workout regimen, our ability to distinguish our life experience from the expectations of how we would prefer life to be also wanes unless we give ourselves a frequent chance to notice the differences.

Meditation is not just a long term process: it ultimately becomes our normal way of receiving and being in our life from moment to moment. If the purpose of our life is to seek happiness, then meditation is the tool for conducting that search. And it is that search (and maintenance) of happiness that allows the body to transform and heal.

I recently to a spoke to a friend who is a cancer survivor; he has twice moved through near-death experiences as part of his disease process. He considers his meditation and spiritual practice to include Tai Chi and Chi Kung. When he (once again) mentioned that he literally owes his cancer recovery to Tai Chi and Chi Kung, I asked him if he could describe why he believes that to be so. He said that the enthusiasm of his instructors, the camaraderie and encouragement of his fellow students, his love for the practice and his desire to come to master the “forms”…all that had given him the reason to make it to each weekly class, to live another day, to be enthusiastic about life. Cancer runs rampant in his family history; he was diagnosed with end-stage colon cancer 3 years ago. Today he is cancer free. And while he is quick to admit there are a lot of things in his everyday that brings up feelings of anger for him, he also knows that he does not have to live out that anger.

© Richard Aquino, 2007

Just a Breath Away

Note: Originally written as a sidebar for an upcoming magazine article on meditation.

One way to bring mindfulness into our living is to bring attention to very simple things. Breathing is something we do all the time and because of that, something we tend to take for granted.

Try this: imagine taking in your next breath as if you were taking a sip of cool water. That's something that you have done hundreds of times! As you take that sip, you can feel that coolness enter into your mouth. You can follow that coolness down your throat and all the way into your belly.

Now “drink in your breath” in the very same way. Follow the breath's coolness as it enters the body through the nostrils, down your throat and past your lungs. Instead of catching the breath in your chest (as we are apt to do), follow that coolness all the way down, as you experience that drink into your belly. We create a sense of mindfulness as we experience very ordinary things in unique and different ways. As we take the time to perform this very simple act, our ability to be mindful lingers more and more.

The beauty is that we are never without a breath: mindfulness is always just a breath away.

© 2007 Richard Aquino