The Snobbish Monk
At the feedback session of a course I conducted in 2011, a participant commented that I had “changed a lot”. He told the audience that when he first met me in 2007, he found me quite snobbish.
In my mind, that was one of the best compliments I had ever received, and it still is. There were other nice things that he said about me, but that first comment had already made my day.
No doubt, I had been rather snobbish, although it didn’t seem so to me then. Whenever I think of this, I feel grateful for the change that has happened. I sometimes also feel a bit strange; the person that I was seems so remote now.
“Snobbish” was what that man thought of me back then. I think he was being kind. “Arrogant” would have been more accurate. That’s the word my teacher, Bhante Aggacitta, used used to describe me. He said it many times, yet I couldn’t see how I was so.
Perhaps it was impossible for me to see it, because I had ‘become’ it. Just as the eye can’t see itself, neither can the “I”.
Some months ago, I brought up this matter as an example during a talk I gave in Ipoh. The next day, the organiser told me that his wife also commented that I had changed since the last talk I gave there. He said that I seemed like an ‘intellectual snob’ then, to which I immediately admitted. (On that note, to everyone who had to put up with that, please accept my apologies. If there’s anything that I can do to make amends, please let me know.)
I thought about it and told him I had to be a snob. It was my cover. It made me feel good about myself, it made me feel safer and more confident—except that none of all that was real. The cover wasn’t real. I wasn’t real.
My Discovery in Myanmar
The first time I really got to see this cover was during a retreat I had in Shwe Oo Min Dhamma Sukha Tawya (Myanmar), practising under Sayadaw U Tejaniya’s guidance. At first, I noticed thoughts of pride: thoughts of being a better meditator, thoughts of being from a better country, thoughts of being better-looking, etc. When I realised that I was having such thoughts. I felt ashamed of myself. After all, I was supposed to be a better meditator.
The view of being a better meditator was particularly disturbing for me. A lady from China whom I was translating for at the centre was having deep insights and profound joy. Whenever I translated for her, jealousy arose. It had to, since the situation threatened my view of being better.
Looking back, I realise that for a long time I had been relating to such thoughts either by being caught up in them or by trying not to have them. I hadn’t been practising the middle path in regard to them, i.e., meeting them with understanding.
As I became more aware of these thoughts, I came to notice the mental state of pride. I saw it as an energy pattern that felt tense. I could be fairly at ease when alone in the room, but as soon as I got out of it, this energy would come up. If I exited the building, it would become stronger. The more people around, the stronger the energy. To be more accurate, it wasn’t the people but the idea of people in the mind that mattered. I soon began to see it as an automatic effort to assert my presence amongst others. If it could speak, it would say, “Look at me! I’m here. I’m great!”
Sigh!
When the lady I mentioned earlier was about to leave, she said she was grateful that I was there and thanked me for translating for her, as otherwise she would have had much difficulty communicating with the teacher. I took the opportunity to tell her about my trouble with pride. She said she was aware of it, and that on one occasion, while walking past me, she felt it and was shocked at the strength of its energy.
I came to realise that I had been living with this thing unknowingly for a long time. I also came to see it as a thorn. I applied what my teacher taught: to regard it as just a phenomenon—not me, not mine. That itself brought much relief.
The Strange Experience
One day, as I was on the way to the dining hall—a time when many people were around—I felt strangely lighter.
“Something’s missing….”
I looked down at my body to see if I was fully clothed. I was. Even my waist-pouch was there. Yet, I felt… naked.
As I write this, I’m reminded of the recurrent dreams I’d had, in which I would suddenly realise that I was partially or completely naked. I felt embarrassed about it, but people around in my dream didn’t seem to even care. The dreams weren’t the same, but the pattern was. I didn’t understand it then, but now I believe that it’s a reflection of an unresolved issue in me. Come to think of it, I’ve not had such dreams for quite some time now.
That experience felt so strange that I became very curious about it: “Why do I feel naked when I’m actually not?” It occurred to me later that the missing thing can only be something psychological: a psychological cover (or, perhaps more accurately, armour).
The naked feeling lasted for some time before fading away. Had I put the cover back on, or rather recreated it? I wasn’t sure; but I could be sure that it wasn’t under my control. Anyhow, what was important was that I had a glimpse of being without it, and saw that it wasn’t me, but just a psychological cover, a façade that was so persistent that I had taken it to be part of me.
During the next discussion session, I told my teacher what happened. He listened with interest and said a yogi from Canada told him the same thing. I must have looked a bit worried then, because he tried to assure me by saying, “No problem.” Then, raising both his hands up high, he smiled and said, “Naked is freedom!” [sic]
That was a little funny, but to me it was hardly comforting!
The Burden of Being ‘Somebody’
This psychological cover gradually became clearer to my mind. I came to see it as something formed out of the desire to be somebody, and it made me grab at anything that could give me a sense of being somebody. The chief of those things was my intelligence—no, not ‘my’ intelligence. It’s ‘me’, the intelligent person. See where that intellectual snob came from?
While the cover provided a (poor) sense of security, it effectively capped my spiritual growth. In being somebody, the ego naturally becomes stronger. I began to realise why I often felt intimidated by those I regarded as more intelligent, and why I looked down on people I regarded as less intelligent. Stranger than that was feeling intensely irritated by seeming obtuseness. That used to baffle and bother me.
I didn’t just think of myself as being intelligent. I also thought of myself as good-looking (as if it mattered!), a good monk (this one caused me plenty of trouble), emotionally strong (nonsense), someone with a good voice, someone who could save others from their emotional problems, someone who had the answers. By identifying with these attributes, I felt a sense of gratification. I was all of these things—and more. I was somebody.
What an amazing load of I-dentifications! So many be-ings to be liberated from this crowded mind of ‘mine’!
The Fear of Being Nobody
Realising the burden of that, I wondered, “Why do I have to be somebody? Isn’t it okay to live without having to be somebody?” Immediately, the mind reacted with a clear no and profound fear. I was shocked. Why “no”? Why fear? I didn’t know then. All I knew was that not being somebody somehow didn’t feel safe.
I clearly didn’t enjoy the discovery, yet I knew it was exactly what I needed to look into if freedom was to be gained. As the Buddha said, the noble truth of suffering is to be comprehended. So, if I ignore even such obvious suffering, how then can I comprehend suffering? And what good is practising the Dhamma if it doesn’t free me from such suffering?
When a yogi brings up some emotional issue during a discussion with Sayadaw U Tejaniya, he often encourages everyone present to face these issues with wisdom, so that they can be cleared off one by one. Once, I asked him whether it was possible to avoid facing emotional issues on the path to awakening. He said, “No. I don’t think so.” I thought so too, but asked just to check with someone more experienced.
The Root: A Sense of Unworthiness
I left the retreat with the issue still largely unresolved. Besides, it wasn’t the only issue that came up. Another significant one was the sense of not being cared for enough, particularly by authoritative male figures in my life—but that’s another story, though it links with this one. It was a retreat where many unresolved heart matters surfaced. Though out of formal retreat, I continued practising as much as I could back in Malaysia—with a keener eye for these issues.
Months later, a dear friend called up to convey a few observations about me:
I do much to help others solve their problems.
This has been helpful to them.
However, I do so to feel good about myself.
The reason is I don’t feel good about myself. I think that I’m not good enough.
This has to do with a family member.
I immediately understood it, and a profound sense of unworthiness welled up from within. And sadness. Deep sadness. I ended the phone call, and cried….
It had been a long while since I cried that much, and that deeply. Writing about this brought up a memory of sobbing on my pillow in the bedroom when I was about 10. I can’t recall why I cried so much then. I suppose it’s too hurtful for the mind to feel safe enough to visit. I’m curious though.
As I noticed myself crying, I felt immense gratitude that it had finally come up. And gratitude for my friend too. After all that crying, it felt like something had lifted. I felt clearer, lighter (not just due to the loss of tears).
It gradually became clear to me that the whole show was but a coping response to the fear of becoming a nobody—or rather becoming somebody who’s unwanted, because he’s not good enough. It explained why I felt so hurt, and sometimes even resentful, whenever someone put me down. It explained why I felt so bad when I did something that I deem ‘bad’. It explained why I wanted attention and praise; yet when given attention, I felt anxious, and when praised, something in me rejected it. These are issues that I used to avoid facing or blame others for.
As I write this, I notice a residue of these old feelings. By seeing it as not me, I can let it be, and it passes away. Hmm... so much of this ‘my’ life has been under this influence. Poor fellow. So funny. So lamentable. So wonderful.
I wonder what other gremlins lurk in here….
Comments
Post a Comment