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Practicing with Imagination

So good morning everyone. Can you hear me okay? Is it loud enough? Thank you for being here.

To speak personally for myself, I find it really wonderful to meditate together in a group. There's a different kind of grounding, a different kind of settledness when a group of people sit together. Of course, that can be quite wonderful sometimes, and it could also be difficult because it highlights how restless the mind is, or how much impatience there might be. Ordinarily, we wouldn't see that so clearly because we might just get up and turn the TV on, or do something to distract us—go eat or something. But here, maybe because you're with other people, there's a little bit more care to keep the container, to stay within it. Then it can become clear: "I'm really impatient," or "Why is my mind out of control? I can't wait until this is over. Surely they must have slept through the bell."

So we get to see what the mind does. That is one of the gifts of meditation—to see ourselves clearly. We see both what is wonderful but also what is challenging for us, so we can see it honestly and clearly and find a way to work through it.

The topic I want to talk about today is the imagination. The way I was brought up in Buddhism, first in Zen and also in Vipassana^[1], we were kind of the anti-imagination people. Because of imagination, we were like the "just seeing things as they are" people. Just see things as they are directly, the direct experience of what is. Imagination is a way of losing touch with how things are directly. It's like superimposing some ideas, a projection of some fantasy, on a situation that distorts it in some way. At least, that's the way I came into this tradition.

I'm grateful for that. I'm grateful for how much it pulled the rug from underneath me, or clarified how much fantasy I lived in, which was plenty. And how much I artificially projected constructs on top of the world and also on top of myself. There are so many ways in which I imagined who I was, or imagined who I shouldn't be, or measured myself against some imaginary idea of what a person is supposed to be. Imagination played a big role, and having a practice that constantly pointed out, "Don't go there, don't go there," was actually very helpful for me.

But it also limits our full humanity. Imagination is important and part of human life. It's so important that human life is probably unimaginable without it. I think we're always imagining somehow. Even if you go out for a walk on a cloudy day and you imagine what it would be like if it rained—"It might rain"—that's a kind of imagination, and so you take an umbrella. If you hadn't had that imagination, maybe you wouldn't have grabbed the umbrella.

It turns out that in the teachings of the Buddha, there's a lot of different teachings about imagination. However, English translators often don't translate it that way. One of the words that I'd like to translate as "imagination," they might translate as "conceives" (maññati^[2]). I don't know what imagination that evokes for you, but "conceives" feels to me a little more conceptual, like you have a concept you create. What's delightful about "conceives" is it has a connotation that you're inventing something, you're bringing something into birth. You're conceiving something—maybe it is a fantasy that doesn't really exist.

Then there are also words that are sometimes translated as "one regards." What does that mean? The Pali word has the word "see" or "visualize" in it (samanupassati^[3]). The way it's used is just like to visualize or imagine.

Here is the Buddha's use of imagination. I'll give you an example, and it's supposed to evoke your imagination in a way that makes a point, that maybe inspires you, gets you to think about something in a different way, and points to something in yourself or in human nature that is better conveyed through an act of imagination than it is to tell you in prose in a matter-of-fact way. This comes from the Buddha. I'll paraphrase it for you.

In the time of the Buddha, there was a great god in the heavenly realms named Brahma. Brahma was like the ruler of all the gods of his realm, and he had a majestic palace in the sky. He had an august throne. The only person who was supposed to sit on that throne was Brahma himself. Well, one day Brahma was off in some other part of the heavenly realms, doing what Brahma does. There was an ugly little runt of a troll—not that they had trolls in ancient India, but the word is yaksha^[4]. He came into the palace, into the divine court, and jumped up on that throne. This you don't do.

The other gods in the court started telling him, "You shouldn't be up there. That's only for Brahma. Please get down." But he wouldn't get down. A common thing to do when something so important is not being adhered to is to get angry. So voices went up, and the other gods said, "You have to get down, you must get down!" The angrier they were, and the more stern and offensive they were, the more that ugly little yaksha got bigger and bigger, and more beautiful, until he was sitting there huge, radiant, and beautiful on the throne.

This confused the court gods to no end. They went looking for Brahma and explained what was going on. Brahma said, "I know what's happening." So in a snap of his fingers—because he's a god—he returned to his palace. He stood in front of his own throne, bowed deeply to the yaksha, and said, "Nice to see you. We haven't seen each other for a long time. You're quite beautiful and big, and I hope you're comfortable up there. Is there anything I can do for you?"

As he treated him in that way—kindly, generously, with hospitality at his own place—this yaksha started to shrink and get smaller and smaller until finally, poof, he vanished. Then the great god Brahma sat back on his throne and explained to everyone in the court: "This ugly little runt of a troll is an anger-eating troll. If you come with anger, he'll eat it. It nourishes him, and he grows bigger and bigger. But if you don't offer anger, then you're not nourishing this challenging thing, and it gets smaller and smaller."

So that's the story. It's a fable; maybe it happened back then! [Laughter] But to tell that story evokes the act of imagination for the audience. I think for some of us, it's evocative. You can imagine these people getting angry and this person getting bigger. It's a fable for being careful what you do with your anger, because some of the challenging parts of you—if you are angry, something grows in you. Probably none of you have an angry little runt of a troll inside of you, but you have something in there. Sometimes anger is self-fulfilling. We get angry at ourselves and we feel awful and bad, and then we get more angry and blame ourselves more. This idea that there's something that thrives in anger, but diminishes and vanishes in kindness, is a wonderful little story. I've taught it to children. I've been invited to elementary schools to introduce kids to Buddhism, and I've told that story.

That is a use of imagination—harnessing it for the purpose of making a point. The Buddha is full of things like that. He uses them also for the purpose of supporting people's meditation practice. He encouraged people to use their imagination and their memory to recollect things that inspire them, so there's an inspiration of gladness, of joy, of delight that is associated with meditation practice. You don't want to overdo it. Sometimes you're "supposed" to be miserable in meditation—not that you're supposed to make yourself that way, but we are supposed to really meet ourselves as we are. Some people are experts at running away, avoiding, fixing, and not facing what's going on. But can we really face the difficulties, our challenges, and unresolved issues? Can we face them in a way that's inspired, where we're glad to look at our impatience? "Even though I'm restless and want to bolt from meditation, wow, is there some way to feel, okay, this is difficult, but I'm inspired. I want to do this."

The Buddha encouraged people to call on their imagination for that purpose. For example, to imagine your own virtue. If you have enough virtue, that makes you inspired: "Yeah, I'm basically a good person. I haven't killed anyone lately, and I haven't robbed any banks lately. That's pretty good." [Laughter] Unfortunately for this world, it is pretty good because so much bad stuff happens. Or think about somebody else's virtue that you know, that really inspires you. Think about something that makes you happy. I know that I've sometimes been in meditation and struggled, and there's been someone else on the retreat who sat so well. I felt their simple, almost selfless dedication just to be there and practice in a nice way. "Wow, okay, well if that person can do it, I think I'll stay here." Now in my mind's eye, I remember that person sitting there: "Okay, keep going." That's an act of imagination of sorts.

There is a challenge called the Five Hindrances^[5], the five obstacles for meditation: preoccupation with or addiction to sensual desire, ill will, sloth and torpor (stiffness or inertia), restlessness, and doubt. Meditators have to work with these. The Buddha gave one set of similes to describe what it's like to have these, and another set of similes for what it's like to not have them. Here he is using the imagination to give people a palpable, visceral feeling for what it's like when these aren't here, so we can recognize their absence and look at the little opening in our hearts.

Freedom from addiction or preoccupation with sensual desire is visualized—and he uses the word "visualize" here—as a person who has paid off a business loan. The business has prospered, and they can now support their family. Isn't that nice? I don't know if any of you have really been struggling under debt, or what sensual desire is like and how it's exactly a debt. But the freedom from that heavy preoccupation, this constant nagging concern that you have to pay the debt back—that freedom evokes something in the imagination.

Freedom from ill will is visualized as a person who is terribly sick, with no appetite and a weakened body, who recovers and regains their appetite and bodily strength. Some of you have probably been really sick, and finally, when you are well and for the first time can leave your house: "Wow, I'm still weak, but boy is it good to be in fresh air." It's delightful. We've carried resentment for years and years—people carry resentment for a lifetime—but to find it finally lifts. "Oh wow, it's like that illness is gone. I hope I have immunity."

Freedom from this kind of inertia and stiffness, usually called sloth and torpor, is likened to a person freed from prison and bondage without any loss to their wealth. When we're stuck in some kind of heavy, burdensome mental state, it's like being in prison. This is the freedom from prison.

Freedom from restlessness or agitation is compared to a person who had been a slave, dependent on others and unable to go wherever they wished, who becomes a free person, independent of others and able to go anywhere. Agitation is something that's not your choice forcing you to be busy and involved. You feel like a slave to something. Finally, you're independent of it; you're not caught by it.

Freedom from doubt is visualized as a person with many possessions and much wealth who manages to travel through a dangerous desert to safety with no loss in property. Doubt is somehow like being in the desert. It's a dangerous place; if you're caught in doubt, you don't act, you don't protect things, you just don't know what to do. This is finally being free from being lost in the desert.

I don't know if these ancient similes work for you, but the principle the Buddha was passing on was using the act of imagination to try to evoke that for people. There are kind of two general types of imagination the Buddha described. One is what I call "recollective"—recollecting something from your world that you somehow have a connection to. It evokes something you're already familiar with. Hopefully, none of you have been a slave or been in prison, but it's unfortunately part of our wider world. We've read about such things and know they exist. It's recollecting something we've learned about.

The other form of imagination is "inventive." That is, it doesn't really have much to do with the real world except in terms of fantasy.

The recollective imagination has many beneficial purposes. I'll offer you one purpose for a Dharma practice, another act of imagination: recollective imagination is to help the heart sing. Does your heart sing? It's a metaphor for something that feels like a delight, a joy, a lightness, a freedom of expression from our hearts. What a great thing for the heart to be this way! This opening, this kind of delight to make the heart smile, is an act of imagination. Contrast this with the imagination that feels like a burden, like having a heavy weight on your shoulders where the world is closing in on you.

The inventive ones—where we construct a fantasy that is not really part of the real world—are where we often get in trouble. Delusions of grandeur: "I'm better than everyone else, or better than those people." That's easy enough to fall into, and that is inventive, because it's creating something that doesn't really exist. Delusions of grandeur are in contrast to other people. "I'm going to save everyone in the world." That's an invention of the mind that is usually a burden for other people too.

What are the stories, the imagination, that we project on ourselves that diminishes us? We imagine ourselves as being worse than others. We imagine ourselves to be inadequate. It was so bad for me when I was quite young, like in my first year of college, that the only relief I could get sometimes was to imagine that I was invisible. I'd go through campus imagining no one could see me. That was an act of imagination that gave me some relief, because the alternative was so much worse. I was constantly comparing myself as being less than, worse than, or terrible. I felt I was somehow wrong. I didn't have to have a reason to be a wrong person; I was just inherently wrong. It was a relatively simple fantasy to have because it didn't require any proof.

It turns out that there is a famous teaching in Buddhism. The fantasy way in which it's presented—and I say this carefully as a misunderstanding—is that the Buddha teaches "there is no self." Have you heard that idea? He actually didn't teach it that way. What he did teach repeatedly is the use of the word maññati^[2:1]: to imagine what's "me," what's "myself," and who I really am. That is a problem. Don't imagine yourself as a certain kind of self. Don't imagine yourself as possessing certain qualities and activities. Don't build yourself up in a particular way.

One of the main thrusts of this teaching is not to deny the self, but it's also not to build the self up or invent the self with the imagination. Don't imagine it. We have plenty of help in imagining a self. There are people in the advertisement industry who are paid a tremendous amount of money to trick us into imagining ourselves in one way or the other—imagining we're inadequate and would become adequate if we buy a different color lipstick. We're constantly being fed this into the imagination. Politicians do it sometimes. The imagination is used to demonize the enemy or the opposition. They're using our capacity for imagination to construct and invent "the other" in a deleterious way. This thing about imagining a self, or imagining the self of others, is such a dangerous thing. Internalized imagination that other people project—like racism—is projected onto people, and then some internalize it. They adopt it, they believe it, on both sides of the racial divide. It's an act of imagination, an invention of a concept or idea that unfortunately has a tremendous reality in how people treat each other. The teachings around self and non-self have a lot to do with: don't imagine a self.

As we learn to notice this inventive way in which the mind operates, we see these fantasies, condemnations, ideas of who I am, what I am in relationship with other people, and how other people see me. Sometimes we have fantasies as compensation for a lot of suffering. Some delusions of grandeur are a compensation. How often are sexual fantasies about compensation for feeling inadequate and trying to fantasize a wonderful situation where there is connection with someone else?

Part of what we do in mindfulness is to start becoming sensitive and aware of how this constructive, imaginary use of the mind operates. It might help to appreciate that there are useful ways of using the imagination and there are really harmful ways. If imagination is just pushed away, like the way it was when I was a new student, then a healthy part of our human functioning is not included in the practice. Maybe there's an appropriate way to use the imagination to bring us to a time and place where we are free of it. To use imagination to inspire us to practice. To use the imagination to feel or sense where the opening is to greater peace, greater settledness, and greater freedom.

We use it only to the extent that it's helpful. We don't try to use it as a sledgehammer to break through the door to the other side. We're not desperately trying to do something. We use it to say, "I'm desperate now; let me imagine that my breathing is like a soft massage, and I'm going to massage my desperation."

I love water. I grew up in a culture where we were close to the water and on the water a lot. The idea of the waves brushing up against the sand beach is such a welcome homecoming for me. To sit in meditation and imagine the breathing is like waves coming and going up on the sand. Then if I feel something is really hard for me to be with, imagining those waves washing over allows me to stay present for the difficulty and keep it really simple. It's a nice way of using imagination that helps me be with difficulty rather than just being restless and agitated about it.

Partly because of how much time I spent on the water, there's something about water going off into the horizon, and then the sky and the space that goes up forever. Sometimes in meditation, I would imagine with my eyes closed that I'm looking out into the deep universe—the dark, deep universe going out spaciously to nowhere. For me, because of my background, that's a really comforting image. For some people it wouldn't be, but for me, it actually helps me feel at home in this universe. Even when I was a little kid, like eight or nine years old, lying in bed, I would spontaneously have this sense that I was looking out into the universe and I was home. To this day, occasionally, if I find my mind is a little bit uncooperative, it doesn't seem like a big deal. It's not like I have to go do some deep looking at my mind. It's enough to say, "Let me just look into the universe now with my eyes closed," and then things get peaceful and quiet. For me, it's an act of imagination.

So how do you use your imagination? I think that probably most of you do. If you don't realize it, there's a danger that often your imagination is using you in ways that don't support you. It projects fantasies into the future, ideas that it's all going to be catastrophes—catastrophe thinking. Or we use our imagination to reconstruct the past. I've certainly done that. I've held some resentment or annoyance towards someone because I had imagined what "really" happened, only to find out later when I talked to the person, it was nothing like I had imagined! Nothing! I had this annoyance and irritation towards someone that had no basis in reality. Isn't that embarrassing? I said, "Wow, this mind of mine has this capacity to imagine a past that never was there, but I live as if it did."

Luckily, nowadays I know to always check. I've learned very well what my mind is able to construct, and I can see it happening now. This is one of the gifts of meditation: to really be present enough to watch thoughts, images, and ideas arise in the mind, track them, see them well enough to understand what they are, and not be fooled by them. To put a question mark next to them and say, "Well, maybe. Let's go check it out. Let me ask the person."

"When we were together last time, as I left, you said something I couldn't quite hear. I have a little bit of hearing loss, what did you say?" "Oh, I said you're lovely!"

Yeah, and I was living in a fantasy and a story about how they were treating me and all the different wrongs that had happened to me.

I hope this talk evokes a curiosity and interest in how you live in the world of imagination. How can it be done in a way that supports you in your life in a healthy, appropriate way? And how is the imagination not helpful? How is it a burden? How does it put you in prison or limit your life? How does it really weigh you down?

For the Buddha, a major gathering point for a lot of suffering is all the imagination that's used to construct and invent a sense of self and an idea of self. You don't have to be too concerned about the idea that there's not "supposed" to be any self. But when you do Dharma practice, you are supposed to be concerned about how we are inventing a self, imagining a self, and become more and more wise about how this works.

Then the wonderful spiritual question is: who are you when you're not imagining who you are? Then who are you? Or to say it even more powerfully, I think: who are you when you don't answer that question with a thought? Then who?

Even better, probably from a Buddhist point of view, is not "who are you," but what is here? What is left here when you're not imagining? What is left when you don't use thoughts to tell you? Even this innocent use of "who are you" might actually limit something powerful. When you don't let that limit you, then what? What is here? What manifests itself? What flows? What comes?

Use your imagination well. Thank you.

Q&A

So we have a couple of minutes. If anyone wants to ask a question or a comment. And then when I finish here, those who want to come with me out to the parking lot afterwards, we can have a conversation out there with our masks off and just continue this. Yes, does anyone now want to say anything?

Practitioner: Talking about this imagination, especially for the future, I tend to think of it as planning. I think as long as I don't get attached to the one way of a possible future, then I don't see anything wrong with it. I can imagine several possible futures, probable futures, and improbable futures. If I'm not attached to what I thought was a probable future—like in your case, you thought this person was going to say this, but they said that—I don't see it as a way of doing something wrong that I should stop doing. Instead, I say I just shouldn't be attaching myself to what I thought was the probable future. But there's nothing wrong with it. That's why I think seeing things clearly, I'm not imagining it. We have a limited set of words here; English is kind of a funny language.

Gil Fronsdal: To be present here and now wisely includes being aware of the future and what might happen, and includes what happened in the past. The present moment here and now doesn't have to exclude a concern for the past and the present. That's a wise part of life: to plan ahead, to think ahead, and imagine what might happen and prepare contingency plans. Bring the umbrella, you know!

I have a very full life, so I need to take time to think into the future. "This is what's going to happen, this is happening... okay, if I'm going to do them, I better do some things now first and get ready." Let's organize things and set up. In my career as a Dharma teacher, we often have to plan two years in advance so everything can be done, everything works, and is coordinated with everybody else, so I can show up and tell people to "be in the present." [Laughter]

Practitioner: I have a question regarding contemplative practice in general. In other religions, prayer is a form of contemplative practice. In Buddhism, we have meditation; we have different lineages and traditions. But what to you is the key difference between this contemplative practice and others? There is some framework, like taking in some sort of faith-based practice in other religions. Is the key difference whether you talk about emergence—basically be there and see things emerge, and don't limit yourself to one possibility? Some people say the key difference is whether you allow that emergence or contemplative practice to lead you to open-mindedness, or whether you are enforcing your own belief, which could be problematic for the world. So I think the broader question is, what's unique about this practice versus others?

Gil Fronsdal: Thank you. I think it's a reasonable and good question, but I'm not really qualified to talk about other people's practices. I'm certainly not interested in talking about it in a way that makes one better than the other. Different religions have a whole world system, a philosophy, a view of life, and logic where things make sense in their worldview. So you ask: what is the purpose they're offering, and does that worldview and purpose work for me?

In Buddhism, we have a worldview, and we have a purpose within that worldview. It doesn't necessarily have to work for everybody else. So if you're interested in this important question you're asking, I think it's for you to answer really. You have to go and study each one well enough to be able to compare and see: is it apples and oranges, or is it different kinds of apples?

Practitioner: The reason I ask this question is that in my own personal life, I am leaning toward this tradition and this practice. But my family, my husband, they are Christian and have their Christian belief. How do I reconcile that? How do I convince my husband to come do my practice? How do you reconcile the two practices, but also how do you have harmony with your family and your kids?

Gil Fronsdal: This is an important question. There are different ways of answering your question. One is in the terms that you offered. Another way, which you didn't ask but which is the orientation of this practice, is: what's happening in you emotionally, deep down, that's the source of this question? You don't have to answer now, but what happens if you practice with that fear or distress? If the fear goes away, how do you answer the question then?

If the fear remains, the rational answer to the question might not really be addressing what's deep down inside. The interest here with our practice is always to go deep. What are the depths here? Can we clarify that before we clarify some of the things that are not quite as deep? I don't know if that's a satisfying answer for you, but that would be the approach here. Then you're in a better position to answer the question yourself.

Announcements

One announcement. At IMC here, the pandemic in a sense began as something that affected us on a Saturday when we were going to have a one-day meditation retreat here. People showed up, and we had just decided the evening before that we couldn't meet because we were quarantined. People showed up, and we sat outside here and talked for a while, and then we closed. That was it. I don't think we've had a day-long retreat here at IMC since then.

Anyway, we're having one of our first ones this Saturday. So it's been three years. Don Neal is teaching a day-long meditation retreat on the Seven Factors of Awakening^[6]. There are flyers out there on the counter. The time for it is 9:30 to 4:30. People are wearing masks, but you're welcome to come. Don is a great teacher. Things are starting to open up, and people are more comfortable. I suspect that a good number of you are comfortable being here without masks; some of you would never come here without masks. For those of you who are comfortable not wearing masks, I want to thank you for wearing masks and doing it carefully. It's a gift, and I think it helps the environment we're in so people can let go more deeply.

In a few minutes, you can take a folding chair out to the parking lot if you want to meet. Maybe, if you're at all inclined, it would be great if you turned to someone next to you and just said hello to them and welcomed them, even if this is your first time. Thank you.