Nonduality

The Western view of reality is one of duality: everything is separate from everything else. There are people, animals, rocks, trees, buildings, cars, water, fire, and planets. For each of us there is “me”, and “not me” (i.e., everything/everyone else). This seems obvious: we see a tree, but we are not the tree.

Activity in the dual world involves an ego doing something in order to achieve a result. We lift a weight, throw a ball, or strike a nail with a hammer. A does B in order to get result C. Everything is goal-oriented.

The premise that each of us is separate from everyone and everything else and needs to accomplish feats in order to achieve ends is precisely what allows a sense of alienation. Because everything is foreign to us, life often seems adversarial: people compete with us for money and parking spaces, the weather damages our possessions and ruins our good time, and traffic and power outages inconvenience us. “They” do unpleasant things to “me”. Other things and people are objects that pose dangers and so must be opposed. Even our loved ones sometimes seem to be “against” us.

The ego thrives on duality. It cannot survive without the concept of “me” versus “them”. It has to be in opposition to something or someone. This is why there is so much conflict in the world. All wars, arguments, competitions, manipulation, criticism, and becoming offended are born of the egoic desire to oppose someone or something.

The view of reality held by some Eastern religions is that there are no separate egos or objects. Everything and everyone is part of a unified whole. Rather than an actor performing an action in order to achieve a goal, there is only activity. There is no idea that doing is opposite not-doing. An activity is simply what it is. Likewise, an object is not a tool to be used for some purpose; it simply is what it is. This concept is called nonduality. 

Nonduality might seem preposterous to us Westerners. How can we be a flower, or a giraffe be us? It’s not that simple. Nonduality is not a literal concept. It is a way of perceiving that focuses not on everything’s separateness, but on experiences. In each experience there is no subject or object but an event and/or a perception.

To illustrate the difference between dual and nondual perception, let’s say you look at a beautiful tree. Your dual perspective says, “That’s a tree. It’s green. I think it’s pretty.” You are aware not only of the tree but also of these thoughts. You might also be aware that there is a seer (you) and a seen (tree).  Nondual awareness simply perceives. It does not label anything. Concepts such as tree, you, green, and pretty don’t arise. You are immediately and fully aware of the tree, with no thoughts taking any of your attention, so that you can fully experience the sensation and possibly enjoy it more than you could via dual perception. It’s almost as though you become the experience rather than have the experience.

Many of us have experienced nondual activity. A leisurely stroll is nondual because it is done for its own sake, not in order to get from point A to point B. When we are absorbed in a fun game or sport, without being focused on winning, that is nondual. Anytime we “forget ourselves” (i.e., stop selfing), we have nondualistic experiences.

In nonduality the feeling is that we are “one” with everyone and everything. Not that we are a rock or a butterfly, but that we are wrapped up in a single reality. Sure, we are individual entities with our own feelings and perceptions, but we are all in this together. With this view, we don’t feel that anyone or anything is in opposition to us. After all, if there is just one all-encompassing reality, then there is no “other” to oppose.

Duality makes us seem small. We feel like a very tiny body in a gargantuan Universe. Nonduality has no sense of size. We are part of the Universe, and since we are not separate from it, there is nothing other than us to feel smaller than. Everything seems to be “here”.

Duality is the micro view. It chops up reality into pieces. It perceives individual items, such as a note in a song or a pebble on a beach. It can’t see the forest for the trees. This view is necessary for constructing, analyzing, and finding things, but it is a harsh view that is not conducive to enjoyment or peace. Nonduality is the macro view. It hears a song and sees a beach or a forest. The world is a wonderful symphony.

We started life in nonduality. We simply experienced. For example, we did not think, “That is a teddy bear.” We simply experienced the teddy bear. Eventually we developed an ego, which is a thought system that categorizes, judges, and competes. That is the basic difference between duality and nonduality: duality is a way of thinking, and nonduality is a way of being.

The ego is a functional tool that we use in order to function in the world, getting what we need and preventing other people and things from harming us. Is it possible to be nondualistic and still do these things? Certainly. Living in nonduality does not mean that we don’t go to job interviews or lock our doors or get vaccinated. It means that we do so as a matter of course, without the adversarial mindset. Everything we do is part of the one and only reality, not something we do against a separate “enemy”. Even if we’re on an actual battlefield, we can do what is necessary as a matter of course, not label other soldiers as “enemies” and hate or fear them.

If you can’t grasp nonduality right now, that’s only because you’ve spent decades in duality. Perhaps it has “worked” for you: you’ve accomplished some things and you live a fairly comfortable life. But are you at peace? Or do you find yourself fearing loss, judging others, and viewing the world as a harsh place? That’s what duality does: it pits you against the world. In nonduality it is possible to accomplish while remaining peaceful.

The Universal Disease

Most of us are afflicted with a chronic, painful disease.  It’s called thinking.  We continuously fabricate thoughts, which produce painful feelings.

Thoughts might or might not be triggered by events.  Either way, they distort reality.  For example, let’s say we get a scratch on our car.  Nothing bad happens to us: we don’t suffer any injury, and our car drives just as well as it always has.  But we might think, “I don’t want that scratch there.  My car is ruined!”  If so then we will create pain.  The scratch didn’t hurt us – we hurt us.

We don’t need to think in order to perceive reality.  We perceive a sight, a sound, a flavor, a smell, or a sensation just fine without thinking.  But often we think about them.  This can not only bring pain but also block our experience.  If we analyze a flower then we can’t enjoy its beauty.

We think so much that we equate thinking with being.  When we stop thinking for a moment, there can be the background feeling that, “Oh no, I’m not thinking, so therefore I’m not being.”  Then the thinking process starts again.

Thinking is so painful that we sometimes do things just to force thought to stop.  We drink, engage in dangerous activities, eat, play loud music, or watch television.  It provides temporary relief from thought, but doesn’t solve the problem because we start thinking again once the activity is over.  It seems that we are addicted to thinking.

It is possible to train ourselves to not think, or, more accurately, untrain the mind’s tendency to think.  This involves setting aside time to just be.  Sit, lie down, walk – whatever it takes to keep from getting distracted.  Don’t try to not think, because that is itself a thought process.  Just relax.  At first, thoughts will come uninvited, because our thinking has gained so much momentum that it will continue for a while after we stop feeding it.  Eventually, with practice, it will diminish.

Loss

The things we own can seem like weights that are tied to our hearts via ropes. They might be burdensome, but we cannot drop them because if we do then part of us will be ripped from us and we will feel miserable. This is because the false self is inherently destitute, so it needs externals in order to give itself the illusion of reality.

The false self’s sense that something or someone is part of us makes loss painful. For example, you see an expensive ring that you like. You look at it but decide not to buy it. Does not having it hurt?  Probably not. Now let’s say you buy it. A month later you lose it. That will probably hurt, because you didn’t lose “a” ring but “my” ring. The ego has lost part of its very self, and that hurts.

No loss is painful unless we made whatever we lost part of our identity.

When we find our true selves we see very clearly that we are always complete no matter what possessions or relationships we have or lose. We are immune to what the false self views as misfortune because there is no inherent sense of lack and no burning desire for anything material, so there is no fear of losing anything because it would not equate to loss of self.

Loss is always an opportunity to wake up. The greater the loss, the harder it pushes against the ego. Small losses only push a little, so they might only irritate us rather than shake us awake. A huge loss can be just what we need to wake us up to the fact that we aren’t as dependent on externals as it might seem. After all, we lost something we depended on, and we’re still here. Whatever the size of the loss, how we react determines how much we suffer and whether we wake up. If we resist, become frustrated, hate the loss, and tell ourselves that it “shouldn’t have happened”, then we will remain asleep in our egoic nightmare. If we can drop our egoic resistance, we might be able to emotionally let go of whatever we lost, and then we just might uncover the wellspring of peace and joy that needs nothing external.

Some people voluntarily lose things in order to break the emotional tie to externals. They might give away their money or possessions, or live in a tiny apartment without furniture. While asceticism can work, it depends on one’s mindset, not necessarily outer circumstances. If one still desires worldly things after giving them up, then the emotional tie is not broken. 

A good practice when losing something is to not give in to the urge to become upset, but to ask ourselves, “How big is this loss? Did I really need who/what I lost? Have I been injured?” If it is a loss of relationship we might ask, “Was that person as wonderful as I made them out to be? Do I have no other loved ones?” For loss of a possession we might ask, “Can I not afford to replace it? How much sentimental value did I place on it, and was that warranted?” For financial loss we might ask, “Can I no longer afford my lifestyle? Is there something I want to buy in the future that I now have no hope of affording?”

Loss can be a great spiritual guide, if only we will listen.

Money

We live in a society where we exchange labor for goods and services via an exchange medium called money. The more money we have, the more we can buy. We are told repeatedly that “more is better”, so we pursue money in order to buy more and better clothing, food, vacations, electronics, automobiles, and houses. Since money is a limited commodity, one person can gain only when another loses. Thus, the whole system is based on scarcity, competition, and fear. We worry that we won’t have enough money to buy what we want/need, so we toil, steal, gamble, and manipulate in order to get it.

The majority of what money can buy brings us only temporary enjoyment. A meal satiates us for a few hours. We eventually wear out or grow tired of clothing. Even a house doesn’t bring ever‑present enjoyment since we’re not home all the time. Thus, via selfing, we give up continuous well-being in order to gain temporary enjoyments. We might enjoy some nice vacations, fine food, and watching a big-screen television, but look at all the suffering we endure in between. A lifestyle consisting of less material wealth but also no selfing produces a constant state of well-being, so that “peak” experiences are not necessary. Think about it: if you could be peaceful and content all the time, whether you were taking a walk or at the grocery store or with friends or sitting in your living room, would you feel the need for a big house or a whirlwind vacation?

Because money is something that can be exchanged for almost anything, we might believe that money can “buy” us out of existential pain. This creates the mindset that more money equals less pain, and ipso facto, less money equals more pain. When we lose money, the belief that we are now less able to afford to purchase relief from existential pain causes immediate emotional pain, so it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Meanwhile the belief we react to is false, because nothing that money can buy – possessions, vacations, gourmet meals, a new car – can solve the problem of living via the false self.  In fact, the more stuff we buy, the more we reinforce the false self. Many people get caught up in an endless cycle of buying things, feeling temporary relief, followed by pain, followed by more shopping.

Whether we work, gamble, or steal in order to acquire money, it is a failed system because even when we gain, we get at best temporary relief. Our existential problems do not disappear after we get a bonus or win a blackjack hand. If they did, we could then live happily ever after. Instead, we keep working, stealing, or gambling in order to get more money, because the money we got wasn’t “enough”.

Even lottery winners are usually no happier once the initial thrill of winning and shopping is over. Not only that, eventually most lottery winners go broke.

The bottom line: neither money nor the things it can buy will solve any existential problem.

Emptiness

Emptiness is our true state of being, for we are not the content of our lives, but the container. The container might contain a house, a hut, a minivan, a mule, education, wealth, poverty, American or Swahili. All those contents are interchangeable, temporary, and disposable. Therefore they cannot be us, for who we are – our consciousness – does not change. We are the container that cannot change, regardless of what it contains.

The word “emptiness” is considered bad when we believe that we must fill our lives with content. Not that content is bad. Content can be good, but if we believe that it is essential, then we suffer when we do not get it.

If we define ourselves by our contents, we limit ourselves. If we define ourselves as a member of a particular political party or religion, we must go along with its precepts even if they seem implausible or absurd to us. If we define ourselves as a fan of a particular sports team, we feel compelled to cheer them on and maybe feel helpless or depressed when they lose. The only way to be who we are and feel peaceful doing so is to recognize that we are a container, and that no content can ever change or define us.

The “normal” way of living is to always “fill” our container with stuff. We cut in front of other motorists in order to get somewhere a few seconds sooner. We steal or gamble in order to get more money. We act, talk, or dress to impress others. We compete in various types of competitions. Our efforts might enable us to achieve our selfish, short-term goals, but look at the costs. There is the stress of striving and worrying about not succeeding. There is the possibility of getting in a car accident, or getting a ticket, or being caught and punished for stealing, or losing in the Stock Market or casino. We might be haunted by the thought that others would not like us if we did not put on an act (and therefore they don’t really like us). We might get beaten in a competition and subsequently feel inferior. Even if we succeed, there is a certain hollowness because we realize that the “victory” is only temporary, and we acted selfishly (possibly making enemies along the way).

Our “victories” don’t bring us any lasting peace or happiness. What happens after we get in front of another motorist, or gain money, or impress others, or win a competition? Do we live happily ever after with our gain? No. We then have to cut off another motorist, gain more money, impress other people (or the same people again), or win another competition. No matter how much we accomplish, we are constantly unsatisfied because we are living from a sense of lack. It is a psychological black hole that eats everything we throw at it and hungers for more. Whether we feed it or not, the sense of incompleteness remains, so all our efforts to achieve happiness are fruitless.

This mindset makes us unable to accept the Now. We are always unfulfilled, not because we don’t have certain things, but because we tell ourselves that we cannot be happy without them. It is a big lie.

When we find ourselves as the container and not the content, we are always fulfilled. There is a natural sense of well-being that accompanies the true self. The container is the only thing that lasts, which is why it is the only thing that can bring lasting well-being. Contents are temporary, which is why all they can bring is temporary relief or ego gratification. When we stop believing that we need contents in order to feel good, we will get the peace we want without even trying. 

Does this mean that we can feel good with absolutely nothing?  Well, perhaps no one can feel good in a sensory deprivation chamber, so we do need some form of content, but life will always provide that. Even monastic life offers its own content, such as prayer, chanting, meals, etc. So when we find our true selves, it’s not that we don’t need content, it’s that we don’t need particular content. We can appreciate and feel peaceful with whatever our content is, because enjoyment comes not so much from content as from our state of being. This is why two people with the same content can have very different levels of happiness and peace. If our ego tells us that we must have a particular thing, then we will feel miserable no matter what other content we get. But if we live from our true self, our ego won’t fabricate and dictate particular conditions under which we can be happy, so we will be at peace and enjoy whatever comes along.

Goal Orientation

The way we have all come to view life is as a temporal thing with discrete objects that we must pursue. We are thus very goal-oriented; we pursue things in a game of cause and effect, either succeed or fail, and feel elation or frustration depending on the outcome.

Goal orientation is a guaranteed formula for perpetual dissatisfaction. Until a goal is achieved, there is the nagging feeling that we are not where we want to be. Even if we manage to achieve our goal, there is only temporary gratification; it soon wears off because goal orientation makes us dependent upon achieving goals, so we cannot live the rest of our life satisfied with a single victory. We then need to set a new goal, which starts the cycle of dissatisfaction over.

Beyond this game is the Eternal: the uncaused, that which is always present, with no need to pursue or attain anything. It is our true self. Becoming aware of this, which is an essential part of enlightenment, is something that cannot be attained via pursuit, for any form of pursuit is goal-oriented behavior, which is part of the temporal, cause‑and‑effect way of being, which is, by definition, not enlightenment.

So, how do we become enlightened or realize our true self? By ceasing the cycle of desire, pursuit, success/failure, and emotional reactions. We do not cease this by trying to cease it (for that is pursuit), but by seeing that the idea that we must achieve certain goals in order to be valuable beings is absurd. We are not compelled to desire or do anything, and so we can not-desire and not-do. This is how we find ourselves and stop torturing ourselves with desire, worry, and frustration.

Easier said than done. Someone who is poor and/or homeless is compelled to obtain food and shelter (by working, begging, or stealing). Someone who is being attacked is compelled to fight or flee. How can they not desire?

These extreme situations involve need, not desire. There is a big difference. When there is an urgent need, we are sort of taken along for a ride as we act from deep within ourselves, pushed by our need, without necessarily thinking or worrying. Desire comes not from urgent need but from a thought process in which we seek to expand ourselves by achieving goals. This can be painful. Not that unmet needs aren’t painful, but they are painful in a different way. Unmet needs cause physical sensations such as cold, hunger, and injury, which are usually beyond our control. Unmet desires cause emotional sensations such as worry and frustration, which are self-inflicted.

So, in the absence of need, we (i.e., our egos) create desire for things that we do not need (goals), and this is the source of most of our suffering. Thus the false self keeps us from finding our true self. We believe that we need certain externals, identify with them, regret or worry about their loss, and all the while completely ignore who we really are. We enslave ourselves to a mental fabrication and live in a constant state of compulsion.

The true self does not need to set goals and then achieve them in order to feel that it has worth. If there is nothing it specifically needs, it can enjoy simply being. If there is something it believes is worthwhile pursuing, it moves toward it and enjoys doing so, and does not limit its idea of success to achieving a specific milestone. For example, let’s say our body becomes overweight. If we live via our ego, we will set a goal of losing, say, 30 pounds, make our sense of satisfaction dependent upon that specific goal, and feel unsatisfied until we reach it, which could be six months, a year, or the rest of our life. Our true self, instead of focusing on a specific number of pounds to lose, will focus only on eating right and exercising. This enables us to feel good every day about our healthful diet, our training in the gym, and how much better our body feels and looks, regardless of how much weight we’ve actually lost. That is success.