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The scientific approach
has been to follow
an explanatory arrow, from logic to mathematics to physics to chemistry
to
biology to psychology, with each previous field grounding the next one.
In this
chain, the largest jumps occur between information and matter and
between
matter and consciousness. They give rise to the riddle of existence and
the
riddle of consciousness. Why is there anything at all, and why do
complex forms
of matter seem to give rise to conscious experience?
I talked about the many levels of
uncertainty that are inherent in what we are doing here in WoK
Forums. Within science, the transition from undergraduate class
work to actual research can be unsettling for a student, who suddenly
has to grope in the dark, instead of having to reproduce knowledge
obtained by the best and the brightest in the past. But at least the framework of a given
field of science is familiar and can be relied upon. In our case,
not only do we grope in the dark as far as our specific research in
ways of knowing is concerned, the whole field itself is not yet well
defined at all. So we proceed uncertainly with a still very
uncertain field.
Within contemplative traditions,
too, a student first learns about the background of a tradition, and
then is asked to practice, in order to realize directly what the
tradition is all about. During this practice, the student is
asked to let go of all preconceived ideas of what insight and
realization might be. Instead, students are forced to see for
themselves, in the most direct way. On the one hand, there is a
clear parallel between the transition from study to research in
science. On the other hand, the jump may well be more radical in
the case of contemplative traditions. A zen student is asked to
jump from a hundred feet pole. Or a student may be asked to leave
the whole world behind, friends, family, everything. But at least
such a student has a teacher who can act as a guru, a light in the
dark, a beacon to follow.
In what we are doing here, we are
trying to follow the model of science, by forming a community of peers,
rather than a more hierarchical teacher-student relationship. This
combines the difficulties of the two approches: we miss the guru role of a
contemplative tradition, and we miss the more structured framework of a
given scientific tradition.
We really try to jump in the dark in a collective way.
Perhaps this is foolish.
Perhaps it will turn out that we really don't know what we are
doing. It may be a total disaster. We may wind up just
chatting about reality without any real break-through or deep insight
worth mentioning. Or it may be a radical success. We may be
able to avoid buying into a picture of a religion that we then later
have to escape from. By not trusting a guide, by not trusting any
fixed framework, we may be growing up faster than what would be the
case in a more traditional spiritual model. We'll have to see
what will happen.
I invite you to live with
uncertainty. I invite you to let go of the certainty of time and
identity. Try to imagine. Imagine that you are not who you
think you are, that the world is not what you think it is, that time is
not what you think it is.
Following my talk, there were
questions about the nature of research, and the nature of total
uncertainty. I pointed out that in scientific research, often the
initial question is modified during research, so much so that the final
question is totally different from the one we started with.
Similarly, in our research with the working hypothesis, we will not
only grope for answers, but also grope for better ways to formulate our
questions.
As for living with total
uncertainty, I mentioned that a real poet lives in uncertainty.
When we see a leaf blowing in the wind, we usually pass it by, or if we
notice it at all, we classify it as a leaf, as something known.
But a true poet can see a leaf with the eye of not-knowing, as if
seeing it for the first time, with total uncertainty about what it is
and stands for.
Finally, I used an image of a
mother and a child. While the child is playing games, the mother
plays along, without buying into the games, but with full
engagement. Similarly, we can treat our own thoughts and emotions
as the antics of the child that we are, without identifying with that
childish person that we normally think we are. Instead, we can
identify with something far more real, that what we really ARE, the
mother in this metaphor. In our community, we can all play the
role of mother, helping ourselves and others deal with our children, in
loving and kind but also sensible ways. We can play the mother
role of what IS while also continuing to play the child role of the
particular person with the particular personal history that we have
learned to identify with.
By now, after almost half a year of
experience, I am pretty much used to talking in Qwaq. The fact
that I could not see how people physically reacted to my talk did not
bother me much. Giving my talk felt a bit like sending out paper
airplanes, seeing them float on the currents of the air, not knowing
where and how they would land, but enjoying their flight. At the
end of my talk, there was a relatively long silence. If this
would have been my first talk in a virtual world, it probably would
have been unsettling. However, being among a group of friends, it
actually felt quite peaceful, and I just waited happily until someone
finally spoke. The subsequent give and take in the discussion
felt rather natural, and I enjoyed the exchange of ideas.