Taking Refuge

We hear the word “refugee” a lot.  In dictionary.com we learn that “a refugee is a person who flees for refuge or safety, especially to a foreign country, as in time of political upheaval, war, etc.” The word is used to describe those who are suffering from a Sudanese famine, who are fleeing the Iraqi genocide in Kurdistan, or who are fleeing personal persecution by their government, be that the old USSR, Myanmar, or North Korea.

But the root of the word “refugee” is “refuge”, so a refugee is really just one who takes refuge.  I believe that when we take the refuges we become refugees, and I’d like to look at what it means to think of us in these terms.

A refugee takes refuge from personal danger: what is it that we take refuge from as Buddhists?

We are trying to leave Samsara, to find a new home led by a system or a person who will give us comfort and security away from the suffering that is our world.  And if we look close enough—which as a society we condition ourselves not to—we will see we are also taking refuge from death.  As Shantideva says in The Way of the Bodhisattva:

Don't you see how, one by one,

Death has come for all your kind? 

And yet you slumber on so soundly,

Like a Buffalo beside its butcher.

And:

And when the heralds of the deadly king have gripped me,

What help to me will be my friends and kin?

For then life's virtue is my one defense,

And this, alas, is what I shrugged away.

In the same way that a political refugee looks for a government and society that can save him from a life that he finds unsatisfactory, we, too, are looking to be saved from the horror of suffering.  We have tuned into the basic human desire for happiness.  We have realized that the forms of escapism into which we can so easily fall ultimately cannot work, that salvation requires not more artificial joy, but something completely different. We have realized, in a manner analogous to that of the political refugee, that the structure of the society in which we are living is somehow not conducive to the life of happiness we seek.

We are also all refugees from other religious traditions, mostly Christianity, which we fled because the particular savior we found there did not work for us.  We did not find the Christ a satisfactory solution to our need to be saved from suffering, our need for joy.

Many Buddhists find salvation in the Pure Land, a place physically separate from this world where we might go and live with all the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, free from suffering.  This is similar in my conception of it to the freedom promised by Christ in the next life.  This might seem superficially completely antithetical to what we are seeking, which is release now, but I believe that the distinction is not what it appears to be, and I’ll return to the point later.

For now, though, I’ll turn to Zen Buddhism, the tradition and practice of meditation which we all came to, the practice where we all experienced a glimpse of a better life, the possibility of release from suffering.  The practice to which we return, the practice where we sit and take the refuges.

                                                                                   

The Uttaratantra Shastra, which I’ve talked about before, is a wonderful Tibetan text that expounds on the Three Treasures and the act of taking refuge in them as of paramount importance.  It talks of the refuges as being on three levels, with Buddha being the Big One, the highest refuge that trumps the others.  I’d encourage you to read this text, since it really does emphasize the power of the refuges.  In Tibetan Buddhism the act of taking refuge is the point at which one formally becomes a Buddhist, and I’d suggest you look closely at your own practice, for I am pretty sure that whether or not you take the formal recitation of the refuges seriously, you are sincerely taking refuge in Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha in your life as your path to release from suffering, to finding joy, to salvation.

So looking at the refuges in the Shastra’s reverse order, I’ll begin with Sangha:

We all take refuge in Sangha when we come and sit together on Tuesdays and Sundays.  But more than that, by knowing that our sangha is sitting on those days, it is there for us to take refuge in whether we show up or not.  The sangha is always a phone call, an email, a lunch date, or even just a thought away, and we all stay in regular contact.  Taking refuge in sangha is all about connections and relationships and the quality of them.  True sangha relationships are loving and caring and generous.  Whether monastic or lay, they are comfortable and intimate, places of safety.  In our community we have focused much of our practice intentionally on creating an environment in which those relationships can flourish as a resource to us all.  These relationships require cultivation and nurturing if they are to offer benefit to self and other, and we are intentionally working on that together.  In sangha we find real community, real connection, real compassion both given and received.

What does it mean to take refuge in Dharma?  It means to recognize the teachings as something in which we can find safety and release.  It means to study Buddhist texts and through them find a deepening of our understanding that will allow us to see cut through our suffering by identifying its causes and seeing more clearly what is really going on.  There are risks in all practice, and the refuges are no exception.  One of the greatest I see is when we take refuge in dharma, for it is here that there is a tendency to become attached to a teacher.  I recognize the enormous value of a teacher in helping us to penetrate the dharma, but I am troubled by our human tendency to identify with a teacher, to place on a teacher a responsibility for helping us, and perhaps ultimately to turn our teacher into our savior.  This will ultimately fail both teacher and student.  It is critically important that we remember the Buddha’s teaching on this: each of us is responsible for our own salvation.  We cannot look to others, not even to the Buddha, to deliver us from samsara.

So from this standpoint, what can it mean to take refuge in Buddha, the highest of the refuges?

In the first instance we are taking refuge in the Buddha’s teachings and in the second we are taking refuge in his example, which is another form of teaching.  But this is all taking refuge in the Dharma, which we have already discussed.

Taking refuge in the Buddha is about taking refuge in Buddha nature, seeing clearly the reality of the world as it is and taking refuge in this reality.  In many of the texts we read the Hinayana Buddhists are disparaged for running away from this world, for seeking release from suffering without caring for others, and I think this not only as failing to recognize the cultural context within which the teachings occurred, but also a failure to recognize the Buddha’s teachings and the reality of the world in which we live.

Buddha taught that there are two truths: the first is the truth of Indra’s net, that we are all composed of the same stuff, that we come from and return to the same place like drops of rain, and the second that although we are just drops of rain, nonetheless we exist as such in relationship with other drops of rain and with the ground on which we fall.  This is not something we get to choose, it is just the way things are.  We can no more avoid our separateness and our interbeing with other life than we can intentionally avoid breathing.  It just is.  So distinguishing between those who return to save all beings and those who seek to escape is to me rather silly: we cannot avoid being here and ultimately other beings.  The Bodhisattva Vow is not so much a commitment as a statement of reality. 

If we are to follow the teachings of the Buddha, I believe that compassion, love for other, and intimate connection with the world is unavoidable, for what else can we do when we see Buddha nature, see ourselves in the eyes of another?  More, I believe that it is not only unavoidable, but it is precisely in this activity that we have the opportunity to really take refuge in Buddha and truly find our own salvation.  It is not in cultivating silent wisdom away from the world that salvation is to be found, but in engaging with the world in love and care and compassion.  Returning to the salvation of the Pure Land and Christianity, I believe they are also pointing in this direction by creating an environment in which the practitioner is able to transcend the suffering of the world of samsara, and to live a good life for the benefit of others—whether motivated by purifying karma to attain a high rebirth or in the Imitation of Christ.  These traditions point at practices which embody what the Buddha taught: they admonish us to see and experience our connectedness with all of creation and to act with deep empathy and compassion.

There is a perceived risk in opening up to the level of intimacy that comes with Guan Yin taking on the suffering of the world, but like so many risks it is misunderstood and actually we construe it backwards.  It is in opening up and giving ourselves to others that we find ourselves.  Anyone who has children knows this in their bones without even thinking.  But this selfless giving offers possibilities way beyond family, and it gives back to us 100-fold in the joy we can feel.  Compassion is the best cure for us, and it is here that we can find our deepest joy.

Many refugees recognize the wonder of their new life and become the very best of citizens, committing themselves to the political and social processes of their new nation, working hard and contributing more than their fair share: it is no accident that they are also among the most grateful and the happiest of citizens.  As refugees, I would suggest that we, too, should look at our new nation and see the opportunity through giving freely of ourselves in compassion, love, and gratitude to truly find ourselves and to find joy.  And we can remind ourselves of this by taking the refuges.

[Originally delivered to Red Clay Sangha on April 22, 2012]

Compassion in Adversity

Buddhists talk about compassion a lot and aspire to manifest it in our lives.  We do so because we know it’s right, we know it will help us and others, and because we know it’s hard and we need help.  At face value it’s hardest when our own lives are difficult, but I am going to challenge that belief, and will assert that it is precisely when times are tough that it is most important we work on compassion, and it is also then when the practice can do us—and the world—the most good.

Let’s begin by refreshing ourselves on what compassion means.

According to the online dictionary I use, the word “compassion” means, “a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.”  It comes from the Latin “com” meaning “with” and “passio,” the past participle of “pati” which means suffering or submission (unrelated to the English “pity” whose root is “pietat” meaning piety, affection or duty).  This understanding of “passio” is the root meaning of the passion of Christ, a word which represents His suffering. 

With this understanding of the word compassion, it has a very Buddhist resonance, since our practice has at its very heart an understanding of the existence and nature of suffering, and an intentional practice for its relinquishment.  To relinquish suffering, whether one’s own suffering or that of others, one must first really understand it, one must really be with it.  Etymologically this is precisely what compassion means.

Compassion is not limited to Buddhism teachings and practices, though.  It is a universal virtue.  Compassion exists across all the major world religions and philosophies.  In the Christian Bible, Christ says, "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy," and he tells the Parable of the Good Samaritan to exhort his followers to ideal of compassionate conduct, which is to extend love to all, even one's enemies.  In Islam the believer recites several times during each of the five daily prayers, “Bismillah Rahmanir Rahim,” which crudely translates as “In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate,” reflecting that compassion and mercy are foremost among God’s attributes.  And in Hinduism it is one of the three central virtues along with charity and self-control.

I take all of this as very reassuring, for it confirms that the central premise of Buddhism, namely the existence of suffering and the possibility of its cessation, is valid.

We talk a lot about compassion, but we also talk a lot about the advantages of sequestering one’s self from lay life if one is to advance one’s practice.  While there may be benefit in such removal from the world to help one in practice, that is a very different thing from living in a monastic setting and living a truly compassionate life, and I’d like to talk about this possibility for a bit.

There is a tendency to idealize that which is external, especially when it is something we actually know nothing about.  I know nothing of the monastic life, having never lived one, but when I think of this I imagine a secluded, quiet and peaceful environment conducive to meditation practice.  I fully expect there to be lots of hard work—gardening, cleaning and building—and for there to be challenging studies, but equally I expect all of the work to be directed, and for the environment to be fundamentally capable of meeting my human needs of food, clothing and shelter such that I am without real worries.  And I also expect it to be an environment conducive to quieting of the passions, meaning sexual desire, gluttony, and the like.

This is an idealized environment, and I am confident that life in a monastery is not really like that.  I am confident that a monk will find that despite the environment, human passions—and remember this comes from a Latin root meaning sufferings—will arise.  But if the imagined environment actually did exist, I do not believe it would permit compassion, for it would be an environment without passion.  How can one share or be with suffering if there is no suffering?  I suggest that to live in such an environment is, in Buddhist cosmological terms, to live in the realm of heaven.  Such an environment does not facilitate waking up, since it is precisely the coexistence of suffering and intelligence in the human realm that makes this middle realm the optimal existence.

So I suggest that the very idea of compassion requires us to leave such ideals behind and throw ourselves into a world in which we fully accept that we will suffer greatly.  To experience real compassion requires us to experience real suffering, for how else can we understand and be with suffering, whether directly with our own suffering, or empathetically and in understanding with the suffering of another.  By this logic the greatest opportunity for compassion is when we are in the greatest adversity.

So how do we do this?

Buddhist practices across centuries and nations have developed enormous diversity and offers us many ways to cultivate compassion.  For most of my time as a Buddhist my practice was sitting in shiken taza, sitting in silent awareness and staring at a wall without direct attention on compassion, but like many of this sangha I found that when times got really tough for me, this practice did not work.  Dogen famously stated, “to study the way is to study the self, to study the self is to forget the self,” and while I fundamentally agree with this, it is important to use the right tools in that study.  When the internal anxiety levels are high, it takes a remarkable person to forget the self when simply sitting in awareness.  Have you ever responded to the news that a lover or spouse is breaking up with you, that you have been fired from your job, that you have to someone who is really angry with you and in your face, by sitting down in shiken taza?  For me, even after more than a decade of practice, in when the core of my self-existence is challenged with this intensity, I find this a very hard practice—I might honestly say an impossible practice.

Here at Red Clay Sangha we have recently explored other Buddhist teachings and practices around compassion: we have talked about them a little on Sundays, and a lot more in our Tuesday evening reading group.  The other practices we’ve explored are mainly the aspiration to live life for the purpose of saving all beings, manifested by adoption of the Bodhisattva vow, in Tibetan Buddhism, and the metta practices of the Insight Meditation Group.  Using language Wade brought back to us from his Korean training, Zen has taught us to concentrate our minds, and these other practices give us something to do with our them.

And for me they work.

I want to talk a little about why and how they work to allow us to explore whether this is a good thing, and either way to give a sharper edge to our practices.  I want us to look at these and see how they align with the idea of practicing compassion in adversity.

The Bodhisattva Vow and metta practice intentionally focus our energy on happiness, whether by vow or mantra.  With the Bodhisattva Vow we jump directly to the release of suffering and the happiness of all beings, whereas with metta practice we are encouraged to begin by cultivating happiness and peace within ourselves before extending that wish to others; this is consistent with Thich Nhat Hanh’s teaching that if one cannot feel compassion for one’s own suffering, one is certainly unable to truly feel compassion for the other.

I have been playing with these practices for some time now, and I have found in the focus on happiness a kind of breakthrough in understanding.  The Dalai Lama has said, "If you want others to be happy, practice compassion.  If you want to be happy, practice compassion."  I have come to the provisional conclusion—and remember in Buddhism all teachings are provisional, expedient means, and not to be held on to or rejected—that it is all about happiness.

This happiness, though, is not what we might at first think.  It is not the pleasure of a nice bowl of ice-cream, or a hug from your kids.  It is not the release from suffering of estranged kids coming over for dinner.  It is not even of a glass of water in the desert.  It is the experience Socrates was directing us towards when he encouraged us to examine our lives, eudaimonia in Greek, the word for “happiness,” or more accurately, “the flourishing life” or “the good life.”  Socrates did not mean an emotional state or pleasure, but rather a fulfilled life, one that is lived in accord to our deepest values and aspirations not just for ourselves but for our families and community.

The happiness I am talking about is a happiness not dependent upon circumstances.

A lovely little book I lightly read, “The Untethered Soul,” was what most recently alerted me to this way of thinking, a way of thinking that has been reaffirmed in many places since.  The author, Michael Singer, makes the assertion that we actually only have one decision to make in our lives:  “Do you want to be happy from this point forward for the rest of your life, regardless of what happens?” he asks, and continues,  “You just have to give an unconditional answer.  If you decide that you’re going to be happy from now on for the rest of your life, you will not only be happy, you will become enlightened.  Unconditional happiness is the highest technique there is.  You don’t have to learn Sanskrit or read any scriptures.  You don’t have to renounce the world.  You just have to really mean it when you say that you choose to be happy.  And you have to mean it regardless of what happens.”

Noah Levine in “The Heart of the Revolution” expounds the same philosophy, and asserts strongly that our happiness is not related to pleasure or lack of pain.  “Pleasure is fleeting.  Period.  If we make pleasure the source of our happiness, we are happy only a fraction of the time.”

Think about it.  We experience pleasure in smoking a cigarette, in the act of sexual intercourse, in eating a nice meal, but such pleasure must end.  And regardless of how hard we try to avoid it, we will experience the pain of stubbing our toe, of the death of a loved one, of our own sickness and old age.  There is nothing we can do to change this.  If we can cultivate strength of understanding and of will that prevent the vicissitudes of pleasure and pain governing our happiness, why would we not make the decision to be happy regardless of conditions.  And would this decision not give all of our practices a sharper edge?

This, then, is what I mean when I assert that exercising compassion is not harder when our lives are hard, and that it is precisely at that time when working harder on compassion can be of most benefit to self and other.  It is at this time that we are most able to empathize with suffering, for it is at this time that we best understand it, and can therefore truly relate to others’ suffering.  And it is at this time when we can truly work on the happiness that is independent of conditions.

True happiness is the precondition for—is the realization of—Dogen’s “forgetting of the self.  True happiness is the precondition for and the realization of a state of true compassion for self and other without separation.  True happiness is possible regardless of conditions, regardless of whether one is in pleasure or pain, whether one is in adversity or not.  And I believe all of the practices of Buddhism and the other great world religions are simply tools and techniques to cultivate this experience of unconditional happiness, for it is only when one is truly happy that one can manifest as joy, equanimity and compassion in the world and truly be able to help self and other.

Not Knowing Is Most Intimate

"Not Knowing Is Most Intimate" is a koan from the Chinese Buddhist collection, "The Book of Equanimity." (It is number twenty in that collection.)  The koan is as follows:


Preface

A Profound talk of entering the Principle derides the three and rends the four.  The Broad way to the capital runs seven vertically and eight horizontally.  Suddenly opening your mouth to speak decisively, and lifting your foot to tread firmly, you should hang up your travelling bag and howl and break your staff.  Tell me, who is such a person?

The Case

Attention!

Master Jizo asked Hogen, “Where have you come from?”

“I pilgrimage aimlessly” replied Hogen.

“What is the nature of your pilgrimage,” asked Jizo.

“I don’t know,” replied Hogen.

“Not knowing is the most intimate,” replied Jizo.

At that Hogen experienced great enlightenment. 

Capping Verse

Right now, investigation replete, it’s the same as before

Utterly free from minute obstacles, one comes not to know

Short’s short, long’s long.  Cease pruning and grafting.

According with high, according with low, each is even and content.

A family’s manner of abundance or thrift is used freely according to circumstances.

Fields and lands excellent, sportive, one’s feet go where they will.

The manner of thirty years’ pilgrimage—

A clear transgression against one’s pair of eyebrows.

This koan has come to mind a lot recently, I think because it brings together two ideas that have been coming to mind a lot: the first is, “I’ll allow the old Barbarian knows but not that he understands,” and the second the importance in my practice, my life, and my happiness of intimacy.  So it was time for me to return to the study of, “Not knowing is most intimate.”

The superficial point of the case is that as soon as we know something it becomes separate.  Not knowing comes before knowing, and not knowing is closest, most intimate.  When we fall in love, when we are a father or a mother, when our hair stands on end as we watch the sun rise over the Grand Canyon, that is before we start thinking and “knowing.”  If we start to think, to analyze, to come to know, then we start to let ideas and mental constructs replace the reality and create separation.

But to “grok” the koan – to pass it – we need to go deeper  and apply it to our lives and our world.

We are all human beings and it is in our nature to try to survive, to seek safety, to seek comfort.  Learning how things work, putting labels on them and correlating patterns and relationships and predictability allow us to function more effectively in the world.  But we take from these behaviors more than that.  When we know answers we feel safe, and so we fool ourselves into thinking that if we know more answers we will be safer. 

But ultimately we are not safe – we are all going to suffer, to get old, to die.

We go through life accumulating knowledge and letting “knowing” sink deeper and deeper into us until it has become habit.  We “know” without even realizing anymore that that we know.  We mistake the instinctual knowledge that is ingrained in our mental and muscle memory as being the way things are, rather than a representation of the way things are.  This is knowledge that will help us put food on the table, to follow the behavioral rules of our society and to not crash the car, but it is not knowledge that will help us with the things that really matter in life: it won’t help us avoid suffering; it won’t prevent us growing old; and it won’t help us avoid death.  And it won’t, to relate this to the book we are currently reading on Tuesday night, help us be happy.

Happiness is a big one – maybe the big one – but I will leave that topic for a few weeks and return to it when we explore metta practice.  Instead there are two other spaces I want to focus on where our entrenched knowing is a problem.  The first of these relates to the lines from the verse, “Let it be short, let it be long.”  

There is an idea in Zen that we variously label the absolute, darkness, and one-ness.  And many more things besides.  It is a really important idea and a representation of a truth, but it is just an idea.  And like all ideas, we tend to look at them and turn them into knowledge.  We can accept - maybe with our own modifications and tweaks to personalize the truth - and let it become knowledge, destined, like all knowledge, to sink into the subconscious library on which we draw every day.  Alternatively we can resist or reject this idea, as some do.  But in reality this resistance is no different, for it simply creates a different idea.  And actually the mental processes that accompany rejection and formation of a rebellious idea can be even more powerful than acceptance and can create tenacious ideas of their own that often wrap in a lot of self-identity.

The line “Short’s short, long’s long,” in the verse points to the reality that this oneness is not sameness.  As an ancient said, “we do not add to the legs of a duck and cut down the legs of a crane.”  This oneness has nothing to do with eliminating differences.  Rather it is about connectedness, interdependence, recognizing that one cannot exist without the other.  It relates to the story I like to tell that if a knife were slammed through the back of my left hand, my right hand would naturally come over to remove it, recognizing its innate oneness with the left hand.

In my own practice this currently relates to equality in society. 

We all have ideas from childhood, from our environment, and from the media that establish what we “think” equality means, and we build stories rationalizing our beliefs.  My parents were both in some measure racists and misogynists, and so those are influences in my life that I can’t avoid forming ingrained beliefs that I have rationalized.  No amount of unlearning will ever eradicate fully what I learned.  My Dad covered up his racism with humor and with the stories he wove that it was important to be able to talk openly, though he never recognized he was not listening.  A typical recent story that springs to mind is a politician who got into trouble for using the word “niggardly” which means “picky.”  Dad defended the right of the individual to use a word that has been around “forever,” but was blind to the other side of the story and the people who had never heard the word in the context he learned it and therefore found it offensive.  His misogyny he denied completely, citing practical reasons for me riding in the front of the car with him from age 13 while my mother and sisters rode in the back. 

I will be working on these prejudices in my practice for the rest of my life and will never fully eradicate them.  Hopefully they will become, in the language of the verse, my “minute obstacles,” but I will never be totally free of them.  The person who says they are without obstacle is a fool or a liar.  But as I work on them, I will hopefully be moving towards a state of more intimacy with the people of the world.  I will be moving to seeing people of all colors, sizes, races, genders, and sexual orientations as just people.  All totally different and yet still people, and in their individuality and uniqueness part of oneness.  

In personal relationships I am also working on showing up without first judging what is good or bad about me, what I should or should not bring to the table.  I am working hard on showing up completely without barriers and without reservations.  This showing up without self- judgment is the other side of intimacy.

Oneness to me points at equality and at the mess we have made of equality in a society ridden with prejudice and hate.  Whether it manifests on the basis of race, gender, sexual orientation, religion, or whatever other arbitrary basis of “knowing” we choose to impose, prejudice is a violation of oneness.  It is important to me, though, that we do not, as a society, fall into the trap of the Zennie who wrestles with the idea of the absolute, affirming or denying oneness, but that we recognize oneness for what it really is.  This is, of course, beyond words, but since words are all I have for today, I will do the best I can with them.  For me oneness in humanity is embedded in the golden rule, in the admonition of all of the world’s spiritual traditions to see the basic humanity of every person and to treat them all with equal respect, a respect that is no more and no less than your own self-respect as a human being. 

But to bring this back to the koan, “Not knowing is most intimate.”  The reality is that what is really happening is deeper than the ideas that I have just articulated.  As I attend jumma at mosques and Shabbat at synagogues, as I interact with people of all races and colors and creeds, I am finding that I am unlearning more every day and am more aware of each person I meet as a beautiful , radiant manifestation of the same reality that manifests me, not different and not the same.

The second way I want to look at this koan draws from the first line of the verse and informs the idea of equality in humanity.  The line reads:  “Right now, investigation replete, it’s the same as before.”  This idea comes from the same place as “Before enlightenment mountains are mountains and rivers are rivers; after enlightenment mountains are mountains and rivers are rivers.”  Only they are not the same mountains and rivers.  Everything is the same, but it shines and shimmers, analogous to the cascading digits of Neo’s insight in the matrix.

A quote from the commentary on the koan runs, ‘Nansen said, “The way is not in knowing or in non-knowing.  Knowing is false consciousness, not knowing is indifference.” Now when people hear it said that not knowing is most intimate, and that this is where Fayan was enlightened, they immediately go over to just not knowing, not understanding—“just this is it.”’  We need to go beyond not knowing to non-knowing.  When we affirm, we should totally affirm but not settle down in affirmation; when we deny, we should totally deny but not settle down in denial.  

Another quote runs, ‘Master Cizhou said, “In walking, is sitting, just hold to the moment before thought arises, look in to it, and you’ll see not seeing—and then put it to one side.”’  As human beings we are given the gift of our senses and of our minds, and there is nothing wrong with using them.  But we can learn to use them more sensibly, and the training that Master Cizhou offers allows us to do just this.

In going beyond not knowing, in seeing not seeing and putting it aside, we are interacting with the world as it always was, as we always knew it was, but doing so without our categories and labels.  We are seeing a mountain not as a “mountain,” but just as it is.  And in doing so judgments of better or worse, useful or harmful are not so much put aside, but they don’t even arise.  It can be this way too in our interactions with people.

An ancient said, “In the eyes it is called seeing, in the ears it is called hearing, but tell me, in the eyebrows what is it called?”  After a long silence he said, “Everybody knows the useful function, but they don’t know the useless great function.”

[Originally delivered as a dharma talk to Red Clay Sangha on September 2, 2012]