Yesterday I started a discussion of hunger, using Jan Chozen Bays' Mindful Eating as a template. Let me quickly say something about this book before I comment further. Now, first I have to say that this is purely my bias, and I don't want to alienate anyone, but I also don't want anyone to be scared off by the seeming rigidity of the book. So...folks who take up Zen tend to be a bit...doctrinaire. They really seem to like to make up rules and disciplines to follow. It is my observation that this proclivity predates their involvement in Zen. Similarly, I became a nurse because I was already compulsive; nursing didn't make me this way. In any case, just think of this paragraph as a warning label or something. I would love for people to read this book, but I think doing all the exercises and following all the disciplines might just make you (and me) crazy, unless you have a predisposition to this sort of thing, in which case, go for it!
My duty done in that regard, let me continue to comment on Bays' analysis of hunger. I think we can all relate to the idea that not all hunger is created equal, so to speak. The ravenous hunger I feel when I am depressed is entirely different from the ravenous hunger after a vigorous walk. I think she is right on the money when she describes these different hungers. When she described eye hunger, my mind immediately went to the window of a patisserie in Paris. They make their confections so attractive to the eye that I just want to eat them all, and right now. Here's a picture of the one I thought of:
Yum. Another interesting example for me is chocolate. I actually don't particularly like chocolate (I know, that makes me odd man out), but I love the way it looks. Though I would rather eat a carrot, nothing looks half so wonderful as a really good brownie. This is clearly eye hunger. (Nose hunger enters into it; I enjoy smelling chocolate, too!) For some people, coffee is this way; they like the way it looks and the way it smells, but can't stand the taste. (Not me; anyone who knows me well knows that a very strong cup of decaf is pretty much never far from my hand).
Nose hunger is a big one, too. One of the more interesting phenomena I have experienced is when some unrelated smell or experience can invoke in me a distinct olfactory memory of something like strawberry-rhubarb pie (yum!) or a hamburger. I just read an article about some restaurants in the New York area and the man behind their creation was very specific about the smells he wanted these places to emit so as to attract customers. He was clearly aware of how nose hunger works. Nothing is quite so attractive to me as the smell of a good cinnamon roll (hot, gooey, lots of cinnamon, with raisins, no frosting, thank you very much).
But nothing strikes me as being half so perceptive as her description of heart hunger. When I am sad, or when I come to reflect on how hard life seems sometimes, or on my aging and that death will come to me and to those I love, my impulse is to turn to something to fill the hole that feels as if it is gaping in the center of my being. I could eat an entire pan of my mother's macaroni and cheese, or her wonderful apple crisp (which no one other than my big brother--including me--seems able to replicate successfully) when I am feeling sad or forlorn or done badly by. I used to go to alcohol, but that wasn't a very successful strategy (to put it more than a bit mildly), and I have given up pretty much every other intoxicant (see Wise Action in the Fourth Noble Truth post), so what I am left with is food.
When I quit drinking, an image came unbidden into my head, a giant archway with neon and flashing lights that spelled out "End Of Fun", and I thought it was through that archway I was walking. OK, OK, I thought, I have to quit this habit because it is killing me and destroying my relationships and all that, but I am pretty certain I will no longer have ANY FUN ANY MORE EVER. (Of course, this conveniently ignored that it hadn't been fun to drink for a long, long time). When I contemplate not eating whatever I feel like whenever I feel like it, I get this same feeling. I mean, I have given up tobacco, alcohol, marijuana, caffeine, and meat, and now I am supposed to give up Full Tilt ice cream?
Well, no, to begin with. My way of going about this doesn't really deprive me of anything. I will post at another time on the tricky problem of negotiating discipline as a practice, but deprivation is not part of the plan. The point here really goes to the heart of the Buddha's teachings, which is this: when we reach for anything in an attempt to make our bad feelings go away or to create good feelings out of things, we are in the midst of suffering. It may not seem like it, because our minds are convinced that we have just solved the problem with whatever substance or distraction we have taken on but, just like my delusions around alcohol, the fact is that, though I may enjoy it while I am in the midst of gorging myself on Full Tilt, it doesn't really create anything lasting except a larger waist. What does lead to an end of suffering is recognizing the feelings for what they are and incorporating the concept that all things arise and pass away. When our bad feelings stay, it is because we have clung to them, have invested them with more meaning then they actually have.
At one point today, I was very sad. I really couldn't explain it. It didn't seem to be related to anything in my immediate experience or environment. Fortunately (I'm not always this wise), I did not cling to it, try to figure it out, or do anything about it. I just allowed it to arise and pass away. Of course, I am not saying that if there is an action to be taken we should avoid taking that action. But we all know that most of what goes on in our minds is merely a passing show and doesn't relate to anything real. Thus, we can let it pass without clinging, and it evaporates like dew in the sun.
I will continue this discussion of hunger tomorrow.
My duty done in that regard, let me continue to comment on Bays' analysis of hunger. I think we can all relate to the idea that not all hunger is created equal, so to speak. The ravenous hunger I feel when I am depressed is entirely different from the ravenous hunger after a vigorous walk. I think she is right on the money when she describes these different hungers. When she described eye hunger, my mind immediately went to the window of a patisserie in Paris. They make their confections so attractive to the eye that I just want to eat them all, and right now. Here's a picture of the one I thought of:
Yum. Another interesting example for me is chocolate. I actually don't particularly like chocolate (I know, that makes me odd man out), but I love the way it looks. Though I would rather eat a carrot, nothing looks half so wonderful as a really good brownie. This is clearly eye hunger. (Nose hunger enters into it; I enjoy smelling chocolate, too!) For some people, coffee is this way; they like the way it looks and the way it smells, but can't stand the taste. (Not me; anyone who knows me well knows that a very strong cup of decaf is pretty much never far from my hand).Nose hunger is a big one, too. One of the more interesting phenomena I have experienced is when some unrelated smell or experience can invoke in me a distinct olfactory memory of something like strawberry-rhubarb pie (yum!) or a hamburger. I just read an article about some restaurants in the New York area and the man behind their creation was very specific about the smells he wanted these places to emit so as to attract customers. He was clearly aware of how nose hunger works. Nothing is quite so attractive to me as the smell of a good cinnamon roll (hot, gooey, lots of cinnamon, with raisins, no frosting, thank you very much).
But nothing strikes me as being half so perceptive as her description of heart hunger. When I am sad, or when I come to reflect on how hard life seems sometimes, or on my aging and that death will come to me and to those I love, my impulse is to turn to something to fill the hole that feels as if it is gaping in the center of my being. I could eat an entire pan of my mother's macaroni and cheese, or her wonderful apple crisp (which no one other than my big brother--including me--seems able to replicate successfully) when I am feeling sad or forlorn or done badly by. I used to go to alcohol, but that wasn't a very successful strategy (to put it more than a bit mildly), and I have given up pretty much every other intoxicant (see Wise Action in the Fourth Noble Truth post), so what I am left with is food.
When I quit drinking, an image came unbidden into my head, a giant archway with neon and flashing lights that spelled out "End Of Fun", and I thought it was through that archway I was walking. OK, OK, I thought, I have to quit this habit because it is killing me and destroying my relationships and all that, but I am pretty certain I will no longer have ANY FUN ANY MORE EVER. (Of course, this conveniently ignored that it hadn't been fun to drink for a long, long time). When I contemplate not eating whatever I feel like whenever I feel like it, I get this same feeling. I mean, I have given up tobacco, alcohol, marijuana, caffeine, and meat, and now I am supposed to give up Full Tilt ice cream?
Well, no, to begin with. My way of going about this doesn't really deprive me of anything. I will post at another time on the tricky problem of negotiating discipline as a practice, but deprivation is not part of the plan. The point here really goes to the heart of the Buddha's teachings, which is this: when we reach for anything in an attempt to make our bad feelings go away or to create good feelings out of things, we are in the midst of suffering. It may not seem like it, because our minds are convinced that we have just solved the problem with whatever substance or distraction we have taken on but, just like my delusions around alcohol, the fact is that, though I may enjoy it while I am in the midst of gorging myself on Full Tilt, it doesn't really create anything lasting except a larger waist. What does lead to an end of suffering is recognizing the feelings for what they are and incorporating the concept that all things arise and pass away. When our bad feelings stay, it is because we have clung to them, have invested them with more meaning then they actually have.At one point today, I was very sad. I really couldn't explain it. It didn't seem to be related to anything in my immediate experience or environment. Fortunately (I'm not always this wise), I did not cling to it, try to figure it out, or do anything about it. I just allowed it to arise and pass away. Of course, I am not saying that if there is an action to be taken we should avoid taking that action. But we all know that most of what goes on in our minds is merely a passing show and doesn't relate to anything real. Thus, we can let it pass without clinging, and it evaporates like dew in the sun.
I will continue this discussion of hunger tomorrow.
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