Author Archives: zmanmark

Why Study? Beyond the Grading Principle

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A couple months ago, me and a friend were discussing our grades for the semester. After revealing my grades they responded, “You’re smart.” I then tried to explain why I did not think grades mattered, and how hopefully, if I am smart, it has little to do with grades.

To most people, such a belief is perplexing. Grades are meant to be a mark of intellectual achievement, a sign of intelligence. This is true to an extent. The problem I have, however, is that such an estimation reduces the value of a fact from a personal and adaptable piece of information to a lifeless bit of material that is only seen as important in so much as it externally designates intellectual success.

Grades divorce the fact from an applicability that is relevant to how a person confronts and navigates the conflicts and questions of life. The result is that learning, and the search and attainment of knowledge, is made into a lifeless enterprise. That is, once a person attains the grade, there is no motivation to retain the fact or to see it as having a lasting and flexible quality that can be applied to life. Learning becomes lifeless. Wisdom is divorced from knowledge.

There are scores of people who have achieved academic success, but who cannot engage intimately with what they learned. Conversations with such people are very bland. But of course, such people usually point to their grades to console themselves. Worse is that these same people often fail to have opinions of their own, and are intellectually handicapped in the face of subjective discussions. What happened is that such people took the grade and substituted it in for the fact that it represents. The concern is then for the grade and what society says of people who have good marks. There is no longer a concern or motivation to retain the fact once the grade can stand in for it.

The attraction to holding onto the grade at the expense of the fact itself limits the utility of knowledge and keeps learning from being seen as an evolving and dynamic process. Not only that, the search for knowledge and wisdom is kept from being a way by which an individual connects with the wider world in a deep and meaningful way. The reduction of knowledge to a grade is thus another example of the common human desire to objectify concepts and dynamic processes into actual things. Like all things objectified by the individual, they are meant to correspond to the individuals perception of itself as a fixed thing.

Of course, it is not just the idea of a grade that is at fault. The idea of a fact is also one that is quite stultifying, for without an attitude that understands knowledge to be more than a simple piece of information from long ago, facts appear lifeless and irrelevant to present circumstances. Why should one know the battle of Actium was fought in 31 BCE or that Alexander the Great was Macedonian?

Thus I want to express what learning means to me, and what motivates me to study. My hope is that this will give some sort of an idea into why, once a semester of school ends, I’m still reading and writing papers, and why on some Friday nights I prefer to stay home with a new book and reflect on my thoughts. Lastly, I should point out that this search goes beyond what is commonly referred to as the distinction between “book smarts” and “street smarts.” There is a degree of truth to “street smarts” embracing actual “hands on” experience in a way that academically minded individuals do not, but the same shortsightedness that prevents certain people from moving beyond the grade, prevents those preoccupied with “street smarts” from seeing the dynamic utility of factual application and appropriation.

Learning for me is like interacting with a living breathing entity. There is nothing dead about history or information in general. To see things otherwise is a failure of the imagination and an inability to take seriously what it means to actually live; to be born from a process of causes and effects, and to participate in those causes and effects without limits. One thinks history is dead because one interprets an event as static while also reducing the great figures of history to individuals of an equally static and far away time. Yet both events and the people who participated in them are linked by themes that constantly resound through the ages no matter the time and place. Caesar is gone, along with his Roman Empire, but empires still exist. The men whose desire for power creates them still exist. War still exists. Tough decisions; both communal and existential still exist. The concept of a belief, which governs the making of those decisions, still exists. Internal conflict regarding how to act, who to love, and when to fight, still exist.

It is because such things exist that history is very much alive. Thus one can read Thucydides and perceive a cultural and temporal gap between our time and the Peloponnesian War, but if one engages the text with the right mindset, one realizes that there is no, or very little gap between Pericles decision to go to war with Sparta and decisions that we have to make on a daily basis. That is, we read of a person who had to make a decision; a decision based on beliefs. We then realize that this is something we all do everyday. Thus when we read history we get an understanding for realities of the time and see them recurring in our own. We engage with history to sympathize with other individuals who have had to experience the conflicts of life, and we learn from them. They let us know that as individuals our struggles are not as unique as we imagine. They recur as facets of what it means to be human.

Most people have never been or will never be in a position where they must make a decision that affects a whole country, but everyone knows what it is like to make tough decisions, and to be in conflict with what one may want against what a particular situation affords.

In a similar way as to how history is not dead, literature is not fictitious. The stories themselves are largely made up, but the actual dilemmas and experiences of the characters are ones that individuals understand every day. Moreover, the authors that compose literary works draw from the same emotions, and experiences that face people everyday. That is why literature has such an incredible power to move us. There is no reason history can’t be experienced in the same way.

Thus there is more to be discovered, experienced, and appreciated if one can break through the habit of seeing things simply. Nothing is simple. By this I mean no thing is isolated from the rest of the world. The father of a friend once quipped to me when I was young that, “simple minds are impressed by simple things.” This was in reference to a rock I was looking at. The truth, however, is that only a simple mind finds things to be simple. That rock was not just a rock. If one looks at it closely with a particular probing eye, one sees the thousands of pieces of sediment composed of it. One appreciates how solid it is and the hundreds of years taken to make it so solid. One might see a fossil remnant in it and begin reflecting on what it means to leave an imprint in the world.

Thus one constantly moves from an engagement with an object to that object’s relevance and reflection in one’s own life. A rock was a product of patience. It is engaged in time. It was constructed like all things, and like all things, it will pass. There is no reason that the line that designates animate and inanimate things has to be strict or exist at all. Nor does the line between such things as plants. One can look at a tree, and be inspired by how firm it stands in the middle of a storm. Surely such an appreciation is relevant to an individual’s life where he or she needs strength to be true to one’s beliefs, even in the midst of a storm of contrary opinions?

What this drives at is the realization that every piece of knowledge represents a gateway into a larger world, a world of interconnectivity. This interconnectivity has the power to bring the past to us, and to make it an active, and living presence in one’s life. It has the power to blur the line between living and non-living things. Looking at things deeply allows one to realize that life is constant exchange and relationship.

Thus studying for me is an engagement with the world that molds the past and future into the present moment where living and non-living things find their relevance in a dynamic and constantly changing process that represents, at its core, the very universe itself. Such an appreciation can never be designated by a grade.

Zen and Travel

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I feel compelled to write about my motivations for travel, and where a camera fits in with those motivations. The question of the cameras importance in having a lasting and memorable experience has come up a number of times through friends and family who are often perplexed by my lack of desire to bring a camera on my trips; assuming it is then impossible to document or capture the experience.

This does not mean that I find a camera to be useless or that a person should never use a camera at all while travelling. On the contrary, I completely believe in the medium of photography as a way to get us to see the world differently. I also have faith in its ability to “capture” certain moments from a particular sense. This faith in photography just comes with reservations.

The first time I took a camera traveling was on a trip to Yosemite National park in California. On the hiking trails I remember a feeling of tension; being unable to decide when to stop, where to stop, did I miss a moment? Will I remember this? I took my time and took some lovely pictures, but I walked away with a feeling of failure in not capturing what I had seen. More specifically, I remember looking at the pictures later on and thinking, “These don’t do it justice.”

The next time I took a camera was to Iraq on both deployments. In Iraq there was an even stronger desire to try and capture what I was experiencing. Unlike Yosemite, however, there wasn’t only scenery I wanted to take pictures of, but feelings as well. Through brief moments of optimism I tried to capture what I was going through, but with little success. Walking away from deployment, I had left with many pictures, but I also left with intense emotions, realizations, and experiences. I can remember looking at the pictures later on and feeling frustrated that so many pictures could capture so little.

After my four years in the Marine Corps I went to Egypt for vacation. Here was another chance to “capture the moment.” Accompanying me on the trip was my good friend from the Marine Corps who had recently begun rediscovering his love for photography. It was interesting to watch him work. For me it became real demonstrative of how a person could enter into a dialogue with a place; almost if to become the very thing you were trying to capture. This was different than from what I had done in the past, and from what most other tourists were doing around us: that is, seeing something and trying to capture it as fast as they experienced it even though the feeling that spurred them to capture the moment had already passed. Thus the moment they were trying to catch became a kind of phantasm.

Egypt became a trip of a lifetime, not only because of what I saw, heard, and tasted, but because, much like Iraq, I had felt things at particular moments that transcended almost anything one could call tangible. Whether it was seeing the Pyramids come out from behind the buildings of Cairo, walking into a Muslim wedding, or the feeling of looking off into the Blue Hole while snorkeling off the coast. Again I had taken pictures. I was more patient. I scoped out particular angles, looked for kinds of lighting, considered depth etc. It wasn’t that this method wasn’t successful; the pictures I took gave me satisfaction, and along with my friend’s pictures, gave me a new sense for what a camera could do. It was just that when I reflected, I found that the most powerful experiences had been brief moments into another world; gone before I could acknowledge them, and intense beyond comprehension.  From then on I wanted to travel for those moments; to live for those moments. Needless to say I would still bring a camera on my next trip.

This came two tears later when I went to Turkey with another good friend. I brought a camera, but this time with the intention of using it almost meditatively. I also felt that from past experiences traveling in Egypt, I could get closer to those brief moments into another world.

I made sure to take my time with what I looked at. I would observe animals and insects and try to capture something profound about them. I would place flowers in the perfect corner relevant to a sunset, fog, or the ocean. I took many pictures; pictures with essence, pictures as paintings. Then irony struck:

On a random bus change in the middle of Turkey I dashed out of my seat to transfer to a different bus. An hour or so later I realized that my camera was gone: it had fallen out of my backpack and was now on a bus traveling through Turkey. I was devastated. I felt that I had poured my soul into the pictures I had taken. I tried to console myself with thoughts that my camera might be found by someone less fortunate. Or perhaps someone would find my camera, appreciate the photos, and even develop them so they could hang somewhere in their house. Perhaps I would stumble upon them on some auspicious day during a return trip through Turkey?

Then I realized something that I already knew: that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter I no longer had anything tangible to document my trip because the most powerful experiences were imprinted somewhere else. The pictures I had taken were only small glimpses into a world of feeling that was more profound for me. These were the feelings of being overwhelmed by the history and culture of place; a feeling that one is, on many levels, more than what he or she sees, hears, and tastes. These were the feelings that echoed from moments in Iraq and Egypt; moments from life in general.

The Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh once told his students, “None of you have ever tasted a tangerine before.” After a number of the students countered that indeed they had, Hanh responded by saying, “No you have not because you were never fully present to the moment while you were eating them.” This can be viewed from the perspective of photography. How many pictures had I taken, and never really “seen” anything.” How many times had I neglected surrendering to the moment for the sake of trying to capture something else?

Now that I’ve put some years between my current situation and past travels I can reflect on the things I’ve done and confidently remind myself that the most memorable experiences I’ve had are permanently etched somewhere within. Those moments ran much deeper than anything sensory. They were moments I felt; moments that have given rise to the clichéd expressions, “You had to be there,” “Pictures don’t do it justice,” “It’s beyond words,” or “It was a life-changing moment.” These are the moments that leave us speechless, overwhelmed, changed.

Of course I could give more examples than the ones I described. I could mention the intensity of the heat when I first stepped off the plane into Kuwait. I could mention how it felt to walk off a mountain when I went paragliding over Oludeniz. But these are formalities. All a person needs to do is look back on their own lives and see what unhesitantly comes to mind; what still chokes you up or sends shivers down your spine?

For me there has been freedom in being able to let go in a place; a freedom that removes the distance and appearance of being separate from a place whether it is the sounds one is hearing, the sights one is seeing, or the people with whom one is engaging.

I remain reverent to what a camera can do, and I enjoy the creative possibilities that come with having one. I will probably bring a camera on my next trip. But as a way of capturing the whole moment, I’ll keep my reservations.

A Week at Plum Village

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Plum Village, or Village des Pruniers in French, is a Buddhist monastic community in Southern France. It is the residence of the Vietnamese Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh who established the community in 1982 as a place to practice mindfulness in a communal setting with the aim of teaching and promoting awareness and understanding of individual and social conflicts.

I was in residence at the village for one week in January. This is a summary of that time. Through it I will elaborate on the experiences that had the deepest impact on me.

The first and immediate experience was that of location. Situated an hour by train east of Bordeaux, Plum Village is nestled in the country surrounded by farms and vineyards. One can’t help but feel the life sustaining ability of the growing region as one admires the countless farms and fields. This sense of vitality continues upon entering the village. As a couple days went by I reflected on this feeling of vitality and positive energy that seemed to emanate from everything. For me it made me think of my grandmas house, and how arriving there, especially as a kid, always filled me with positive feelings. Grandmothers tend to do everything with huge amounts of love and affection that it always makes everything seem more full. This is especially true of a grandmas cooking. I’ve been cooking some of my grandma’s recipes recently, but it doesn’t feel as satisfying or sustaining as when she cooks them. I can’t help but feel that more goes into a recipe then just the food. Love, compassion, and care also seem to make a meal nourishing.

Something similar was felt at Plum Village when eating. I felt so sustained by the food that it took me a while to realize that the meals were strictly vegan; something I never expected to wholly embrace, even though I’ve been a vegetarian for over a year. The food was also incredibly delicious.

This positive energy wasn’t just felt at meal times. Roughly every other day or so, lay people would gather for dharma sharing. Dharma sharing involved sitting in a circle in quiet meditation begun by three sounds of a bell. A monk would then lead the discussion as individuals were invited to talk openly about the relevance of a particular topic to their lives. Although participation was voluntary, I found it easy to open up and discuss whatever thoughts or feelings arose within me at the moment, as did a large majority of the retreaters.

A very interesting fact about these fellow retreaters that stuck with me was their background. Many of them came from lives marked by both financial and social success. These people had good jobs, comfortable lives, and social status: all things the world represents as the pinnacle of achievement. Yet many of these individuals were united in a common understanding that they weren’t satisfied. This understanding that material wealth and social status cannot bring ultimate happiness is one of the oldest lessons of a majority of the world’s spiritual and philosophical traditions (It is especially true of Buddhism if one knows the story of the Buddha). But it was nice to re-examine this lesson from a modern standpoint where such high levels of technological achievement may sometimes give the illusion that humans can finally sustain happiness through material possessions. Instead, these individuals recognized an urge to understand more about themselves, and to find a deeper and more lasting connection with the world.

I felt a memorable connection during an exercise called the “tunnel of love.” For the tunnel of love, men and women from both hamlets line up across from each other face to face in two rows and put their arms up and against their partners to form a tunnel that everyone else takes turns walking through. Those walking keep their eyes closed while the others help move them along as they pass; whispering kind words into the blind walkers ears. I was a bit hesitant at first, but as it commenced, the power of this exercise was immediately felt. I was taken back by many of the people, even grown men, crying as they walked through. When my turn came I closed my eyes and began walking. Within seconds I remember surrendering to the help and affections of others. I soon felt a liberating feeling; like a weight had been lifted, as I was guided by virtual strangers who were simultaneously whispering kind words into my ears. At one point someone grabbed my hand, and I couldn’t help but squeeze it. At another, someone simply whispered the word “love” in a clear and precise tone. That word is still echoing in my mind.

The monks at Plum Village live separately from laypersons such as myself who come and visit. But they eat, teach, and practice with everyone. For one of the dharma sharings, the monk who was leading it talked of his feelings over being put in charge of the recycling. He recalled how frustrated he would get at times because of people who would fail to allocate certain materials to the proper recycling bins even though they were clearly marked. What he said next was very touching. He said that after reflecting and meditating on his feelings he realized that being frustrated was perhaps a sign there was trash in his own heart that needed to be recycled.

In the same session another monk reflected on his job of being in charge of payments and processes of those wishing to come on retreat. He remarked that although he didn’t like the job at first, he realized it was because of him that outsiders were given a chance to visit Plum Village and experience a week or two of life changing experiences. And so, seeing his job from this viewpoint made him enjoy it much more.

What I soon realized about these monks was that they were not superhuman in the sense that most westerns might imagine; meditating for hours on end, going without food, being impervious to the elements. Instead they were, to quote Nietzsche, “Human, all too human.” Yet they were human in a free and pure way as a result of the authenticity of their contemplation. What truly made these monks special was their willingness   to confront their emotions instead of repressing them.

A constant theme at the village was that happiness can’t be experienced without suffering. That is, they are really two sides of the same coin. Embracing both sides allows us to feel the world in its un-dualistic nature. A common saying at the monastery is that a lotus flower grows in mud and not marble. More appropriately, what is suffering is actually a useful or necessary step to something more remarkable. We forget that pain is a sign of a healthy body in so much as we are equipped with a warning system for any time we may be injured or over straining ourselves. In Buddhism, pain and suffering are parts of individuals that can’t be alienated form who they are. An individual can only embrace it with compassion and be there for it with hope and faith that it can be transformed. For me this is like a family member who one is bound to through blood. One can’t replace the blood, or the years of growing up together. One can only accept them as a part of their own life.

In Buddhism, suffering is a sign that we feel compassion and empathy for the rest of the world; for those living in poverty, or for those living lives of unabated consumption. We need to be in touch with such suffering as to recognize how are own lives are inextricably linked with the lives of everyone else. For me it is like the day after a workout of some kind: you want your body to be sore as it is a sign of a good workout. Similarly our connection to suffering is the sign of a close connection to the rest of the world.

In this world, especially the West, most kinds of suffering and doubt are expected to be repressed or drowned away in the consumption of other activities: drinking, shopping, watching TV, sex. Yet what ends up being suppressed are feelings and questions of human experience that cannot be avoided; questions that are hard but necessary: Am I really happy? What is the point of life? What is happiness? What is truth? These are human questions that comprise who we are.

These questions are not easy, but asking them with courage is the difference between unknowingly being controlled and carried away by our urges and base desires, or the possibility of a life where one feels lasting happiness. At Plum Village the later begins with a simple activity: being mindful and present to all of one’s thoughts and actions; whether they are based in hate and anger or love and compassion.

As I awoke on the morning of departure and began getting dressed, I remember the feeling of putting my wallet in my pocket for the first time in a week. The moment was both sad and profound. I realized that the “real world” I was going back into was not any less real; only unnecessary.

A few hours later I was back in Bordeaux walking from the train station to my hotel. As I looked around, the feeling was one of joy and sadness. I was sad because I was looking around at all the people who were unable to live in the present moment for more than a few fleeting instances. But I also felt joy at both feeling compassion for them, and for understanding a little bit more how their prospects of joy or sadness are my prospects as well.