I've clutched tightly the idea of "practice," repeated so faithfully through Buddhist texts, even though as a child, I avoided everything that demanded it, refusing to learn piano, and giving up if any smattering of competition entered into my choices (as when I began to learn the guitar but put it down when my older brother picked it up).
As an adult, to practice meant I'd released the idea of a goal, of any end in sight, and was simply focused on this moment. Just what I needed. Yet under that momentary pretense (that I have no goal), I do recognize the assumption that my life will "improve," as the practice will reveal through my own experience. If it does not, why would I continue to practice?
Yet as a child, it was the idea that "Practice makes perfect" that scared me, as I was quite aware of all my perceived imperfections, made even more clear through my dear young parents' efforts at childrearing and their own Christian upbringing, where humanity's imperfections are focused upon to greater reveal the need for a Patriarchal God. I decided I wanted nothing to do with that guarantee of failure.
Of course, "perfection" is a subjective term, as is all of language, I suppose. Dictionaries lend us some agreed-upon terms, but fluid language refuses to remain in those tomes, just as we humans cannot be contained by definitions.
The concept that we are perfect as we are (with all our imperfections), that "the kingdom of heaven is within you," is easier to believe when things are going well.
There is no tidy ending to these thoughts, but somehow, rereading the following makes me feel better:
As an adult, to practice meant I'd released the idea of a goal, of any end in sight, and was simply focused on this moment. Just what I needed. Yet under that momentary pretense (that I have no goal), I do recognize the assumption that my life will "improve," as the practice will reveal through my own experience. If it does not, why would I continue to practice?
Yet as a child, it was the idea that "Practice makes perfect" that scared me, as I was quite aware of all my perceived imperfections, made even more clear through my dear young parents' efforts at childrearing and their own Christian upbringing, where humanity's imperfections are focused upon to greater reveal the need for a Patriarchal God. I decided I wanted nothing to do with that guarantee of failure.
Of course, "perfection" is a subjective term, as is all of language, I suppose. Dictionaries lend us some agreed-upon terms, but fluid language refuses to remain in those tomes, just as we humans cannot be contained by definitions.
The concept that we are perfect as we are (with all our imperfections), that "the kingdom of heaven is within you," is easier to believe when things are going well.
There is no tidy ending to these thoughts, but somehow, rereading the following makes me feel better:
The Five Remembrances
I am of the nature to grow old.
There is no way to escape growing old.
I am of the nature to have ill
health. There is no way to escape ill health.
I am of the nature to die. There is
no way to escape death.
All that is dear to me and everyone
I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated
from them.
My actions are my only true
belongings. I cannot escape the consequences of my actions. My actions are the
ground upon which I stand.
[a Buddhist chant, tr. Thich Nhat
Hanh]
