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The Attention that Comes First

Thank you all for being here on this hot day. I came across a poem today by Mary Oliver^[1] that I didn't know, and it's had a nice impact on me. It kind of inspired me quite a bit. It wasn't actually the poem that inspired me, it was the title of the poem. And then I looked at it. I liked the poem well enough, but I almost thought that this was probably... I kind of assumed Mary Oliver probably thought of the title first—that was really the poem—and then she had to find a poem to go with the title.

It's a title which I think can be adapted in all kinds of significant ways. It uses the word prayer in it. Some of you might not have much connection to prayer, or might actually not want to hear that word being used. Generally, the Buddhists in our circles don't do much prayer, or any prayer, so we'll see about the word. The title is: The real prayers are not in the words. That's half of it. The real prayers are not in the words, but in the attention that comes first. So here she's associating prayer not to praying for something, but rather a certain kind of attention that comes first. And the question is, what kind of attention is that, that lets you consider attention as a kind of a prayer?

Now we can adapt it into Buddhist terms. Perhaps in Buddhism we talk about meditation, and maybe we can say real meditation is not in the technique, but in the attention that comes first. Real meditation is not in the technique that you're doing, but in the attention that comes first. Or refuge, Buddhist real refuge^[2], is not in the words, "I take refuge in the Buddha, in the Dharma, the Sangha," but rather in the attention that comes first.

So what attention is it that comes first? What way of attending, what way of being in the world, what way of being aware, knowing what's happening? That seems like the obvious question to this title. And so maybe the rest of the poem is the answer to that question. Maybe the rest of the poem is trying to evoke or describe or point to the kind of attention that she's referring to. I'll read the rest of the poem with that background for it and see if this might do it for you. Maybe this evokes a certain kind of attention, or maybe it raises questions about what you are doing when you are paying attention. When you're bringing attention to whatever it is you're paying attention to, what is it that you're doing when you're aware? Can that ever be called a prayer? Can it ever be called a refuge? Would you ever associate this as meditation?

The poem goes like this:

The little hawk leaned sideways and tilted, rode the wind. Its eye at this distance looked like green glass, its feet were the color of butter. Speed, obviously, was joy. But then, so was the sudden, slow circle it carved into the slightly silvery air, and the squaring of its shoulders, and pulling into itself the long, sharp-edged wings, and the fall into the grass where it tussled a moment like a bundle of brown leaves, and then, again, lifted itself into the air, that butter-color clenched in order to hold a small, still body, and it flew off, as my mind sang out, oh all that loose, blue rink of sky, where does it go to, and why?

Here she's watching something that some people will find inspiring or beautiful or captivating. To watch a hawk soar in the wind, soar in the sky, can be quite beautiful to watch and see, and sometimes you can feel lucky to be outdoors and really get a good view of this beautiful, majestic bird. So here she's watching it, and then she watches it as it dives down to catch some prey, and it does. What's remarkable for me is she treats the catching of the prey with the same simplicity and almost like the same kind of awe as she does just watching the hawk circle around. She doesn't seem to miss a beat. She doesn't somehow shudder, "Oh my god, a mouse or gopher has just been caught." It's just nature, watching it.

She's watching all this, but then the most remarkable part of the poem for me is the bird lifts up and goes into the sky. Sometimes if you see a hawk or bird fly into the sky, it kind of disappears high enough. Then she has this question: "Oh all that loose blue rink of sky." The only place I know that the word rink is used is an ice skating rink. This bird is skating, and that's where the bird skates on. She's referring to our sky that way. "Oh all that loose blue rink of sky, where does it go to, and why?"

Have you ever asked that question? It's kind of a silly question, right? Where does the blue sky go to, and why? It's not a question that a really rational, scientific person would ask. In fact, the first time I was out in the high mountains when I was fifteen—a beautiful, high alpine place where I was going to a boarding school, it was a reform school—and it was beautiful, high up in the mountains, snow-capped mountains and stuff. I was walking one of the little country roads with my older friend from school, and I was just in awe of what I was seeing. In that awe I said, "Why are we here? What's this about?" And he looked at me and said, "Don't be silly." Something in my heart closed when he said that, and it took years for that to open.

So here she has this awe and this amazement that she asks a question that—don't tell her she's silly, something might close that shouldn't close. But why this blue sky? Why is it blue? It's not a question that wants an answer. I think it's a question which is just open to amazement, to possibilities, to something that maybe we can't understand or don't want to understand. Or something that is associated with reverence. Is it a kind of respect, mystery, what is it?

She uses this whole example of this hawk, and the hawk soaring off, and having this question, "Where does the sky go, and why?" as an answer to the title: The real prayers are not in the words, but in the attention that comes first. So what is it? What is the attention she's referring to that's being described in the poem? Why is that before prayer? Why is that the prayer? Why would she call that prayer? Why would she see it in those kinds of religious terms, or value it like that? I think that's the question this wonderful poem leaves us with.

Reflections from the Sangha

I don't know, some of you don't care for poetry, I just cared for the title. But what do you think? What kind of attention do you think she's referring to when she says it is found in the attention that comes first, before the prayer? What do you think? Anybody, if you want to—yes, if you could use the mic.

Speaker 1: Is this working? It sounds like it is. Perhaps the simple awareness you referred to at the end of our meditation? I think that's my answer.

Gil Fronsdal: Uh-huh, thank you. Yeah, that was kind of what was in the back of my mind when I did that meditation, was this poem. Maybe even to prepare for hearing the poem. Thank you. Anything else that occurs to you?

Speaker 2: I just think sort of grounding in simple awareness can really open up a lot of space, kind of like you described. I actually was really touched by the quote of when awareness is simple, it leaves space for the heart to participate in the world, or something like that. I didn't quite get the wording right. But I really find that to be true, that when awareness is simple, then there's this beauty, there's this awe, there's this sort of fascination with the world. And perhaps that's what she's referring to.

Gil Fronsdal: Thank you, very nice. What was your name?

Speaker 3: I'm Jon. Jon Sage.

Gil Fronsdal: Jon Sage, hi there.

Jon Sage: I am, in fact, Sage. So the attention that I thought about was a kind of attention that just belongs to people in general. The way the hawk is—I don't know a better word for this—but built to do the thing that it does, and to attack the mouse. I thought it was kind of like a juxtaposition; it just did its thing. Like, the attention is what we do. We've evolved to be able to exert a lot of power over the natural world, but at the same time, why are we evolved to appreciate a blue sky? That doesn't seem necessary. And to ask a question like, "Where does it go and why?" of something that has no utility. That attention sounds like prayer to me.

Gil Fronsdal: Fantastic, I like that. So this idea, if I understood you, that the hawk is doing what it's doing, and there's something about what humans can do when we watch in awe at the hawk and see what's going on and ask questions that have no utility in a sense. We have so many things we can do with our wonderful minds. Why do we do that, when we can go out and make money? We can work extra hours and overtime. Isn't that more important?

What your wonderful statement evokes for me is: you have no utility when it's your time to die. Say if you're lucky enough that you're dying not really in any pain, but you're definitely going. This is the last hour you have. Would you rather be doing your taxes? "Wait a minute, in 1999, I think I paid too much." Or would you rather look at job listings to see, "I need a promotion"? What would you do during that last hour?

In that last hour, with a question that has no utility—would that be really the best way that you spend that time? Would that be the most amazing, wondrous way to be in the last hour, just looking in a certain kind of reverence and awe? We've learned that it's found in the attention that we have in our natural capacity for attention, where attention has been set free of our preoccupations, our fears, our desires, our hates latching on. Even laying on our deathbed and looking up in the air, and the dust motes are glittering through the sunlight—"Wow, where does that light go? Why is it here?" Just watching it. What would you do on your last hour? Which direction would you go? What would you do with your attention? Do you know something about how to be present that becomes your refuge on your deathbed?

It's so easy in this kind of life that many people live here in Silicon Valley to say what Sage said so well. But to do that, some people might say to Sage, "But it has no utility." We have this capacity for awe, for reverence, for using our attention a certain way. Discovering a new character that may be one of the most precious things we have, and to put it in the context of one hour to live just highlights it for you. In that hour, what has utility? What does that mean in that hour? What's most important? This is a very important part of Buddhist training, to consider this kind of thing—like the last hour—because it highlights our values. It highlights what's important, highlights a possibility that we don't have to wait for our last hour to live by. People who shy away from any discussion of death, any consideration of it, are sometimes losing that possibility of using that last hour as a wonderful treasure, as a reference point, as an exercise: how do I want to be now? Anyways, I talked too long. I'd love to hear from some of you more.

Speaker 4: So back to the idea of prayer. I don't see prayer as a different state from meditation. I feel like it's an outpouring of one's heart, whereas I think in meditation I'm more in a receiving mode. It seems to me that the attention is the prerequisite to open your heart to begin with, so it can begin that outpouring. When she says attention is required for prayer to be a real prayer, that's sort of how I connect the dots.

Gil Fronsdal: Great. I like very much how you started off by saying maybe prayer and meditation don't have to be two different things. It depends what you mean by prayer, of course, but I think that there's a profound possibility in prayer that is very similar to what we do in meditation, depending on how we use our attention. Any other thoughts about what kind of attention Mary Oliver might be pointing to? Maybe not trying to explain her, but explaining yourself. How would you understand this for yourself?

Speaker 5: I'm not sure exactly what to say, but there's something about prayer that to me is asking. It's an asking, a request, and the attention is more appreciation or an awareness. They seem different to me.

Gil Fronsdal: Great. Some people associate prayer with asking, and attention is something very different. But not everyone associates prayer with asking. There's whole other associations people have with prayer.

Speaker 6: I'm thinking about this attention, and what comes to my mind is there's no need to interpret anything, no need to assign any meaning. Just watching, and it's kind of like no burden of needing to assign meaning or interpretation. So prayer for me—I think about my grandmother who prayed a lot, and when I asked her any questions about what she was doing, she didn't have any answers. She didn't know, like, "I'm just doing it." There were specific steps, but it didn't seem to have a meaning. She was just doing it. So no interpretation. This freedom from interpretation, freedom of adding anything on top of our experience, or wanting anything from our experience, or avoiding something, just being with something in a very simple way. Maybe that's what she found. And maybe to put words on it... maybe she was a great Zen master, and she knew that putting any explanation or words on it would just ruin it.

Gil Fronsdal: Maybe, great. Anybody else? Yes.

Speaker 7: For me, not so much about the poem, but personally, I grew up Christian as a child. Prayer was just what I learned to do, and it was very much part of my daily routines. I would pray at night before going to bed, thanking for the things that went well and wishing for things that I hoped would go well the next day. Then certain experiences in my life made it such that I couldn't really believe anymore in a kind of omnipotent God that I can directly talk to in that kind of way. There was a difficult period in time for me when that was gone, and the void hadn't been filled. For me, finding meditation and meditative practice in some sense filled that void. It was the switch from prayer to this more attentive kind. There was one TED Talk that I saw some time ago, and I forget exactly who the pastor was, but he said that at least part of the meaning with namaste—that greeting in India—is that "I greet that part of God that I recognize in you." I found that to be very nice because that combined the two things for me in some sense, saying that God is still everywhere, but now it's the awareness that you practice through meditation that you need to recognize it in others. It's a different way of relating to God than it is in this more cognitive, direct way of asking for things or thanking for things. So that was what came to my mind.

Gil Fronsdal: Very nice, thank you. Your words reminded me of something. I did quite a bit of growing up in Europe, and so I had some contact with Catholic monasteries there. I don't know how, but they were kind of on the edges of my life there. At some point when I was a teenager, I had this desire to go become a Catholic monk, and I wondered if they'd take me as an atheist. What attracted me to it was not the religion, but there was something in me that resonated with the lifestyle. It awoke a kind of embodied attention, embodied presence, a kind of embodied awareness that felt like a wholeness. Things felt complete, or felt settled or peaceful. I had this very rich, warm feeling, and I associated this feeling with the monastic life, these monks going around. I have no idea if it's true, but that was what the attraction was to the monastic life back when I was a teenager.

It probably came to a peak when I was eighteen, and I went to a monastery, Mont-Saint-Michel^[3]. I don't know if any of you know of it in France. From a distance, it looks like something they'd draw for a Disneyland cartoon. You're going across the flat plains of northwestern France, near the coast, and on this little island off the coast rises this huge, soaring cathedral with a big spire. When the tide is in, there's a little bridge that goes out to it. I suppose you could walk all the way without the bridge.

I was there, and I don't know why I went there, but I was just traveling around. I found a place to stay—the only place to stay apparently for me was at a Pax Christi^[4] hostel. It was a little Christian hostel, and it felt kind of semi-monastic. It was just very lovely. I loved it; very simple. In the morning I got up, and I went and had a tour of the cathedral and everything. We went all the way around all kinds of places, and we came to the oldest part of the complex. The monastery was a little one-room stone chapel that had been built on top of the island, top of the hill. Everything else had been built around it, and covered it and filled it, but at the very heart there was a soul. We went into this little chapel, and immediately I felt so much peace. It was like, wow. When everybody in my tour group left, I stayed back as long as I thought I could have permission to stay back, just to feel that peace.

That was kind of the peak of it, and then I didn't have that kind of peace again until I started meditating. Then this whole thing that I kind of intuited as a teenager became accessible to me in meditation practice, and then in Buddhist monastic life, which I did for a while. It is a beautiful way of being. For me, this attention that she talks about is something that is not cerebral. It's not like only the eyes looking at something, but a sense of whole presence and attentiveness that's fully here, just present. The seeing and the hearing are part of it, but it's only part of it. There's a bigger whole here, and it comes with a feeling or sense that this is complete, that this is being fulfilled. This is deeply satisfying. It is feeling fulfilled without having to win the lottery, or get a better job, or have a better relationship, or all kinds of things that we're trying to do in the world to make ourselves feel complete.

So that's the prayer. That's the real prayer, attention. I think it's something that's mostly found by being very simple, not filling it with desires and wants, and doing and wanting and running away. Just here, a simple way.

I hope that's nice for you to consider, that real prayers are not in the words, but in the attention that comes first. I think it's a wonderful little thing to consider, and it raises questions. If it does raise questions for you—"What is this?"—maybe it's a kind of question that shouldn't be answered too easily.