community had arisen in the meditation hall. When the gong rang to indicate that we could speak again, small talk felt scratchy and awkward; it seemed to interfere with the companionship.
âWell, that was ⦠â said Adina, trailing into silence, when I encountered her on the porch as we made our preparations to leave. Encapsulating the week in a few words seemed futile.
âI know what you mean,â I replied.
By the time I made it onto the train back to New York, I had a throbbing headache: the normal noises of the non-meditating world were too much for my silence-adapted mind. Discovering the number of emails waiting in my inbox didnât help. But the stressed-out thoughts did slide away more swiftly than before. It seemed I could live with a little bad weather.
All this is only one small part of Buddhismâs radical perspective on psychology. But the point is central to any ânegativeâ approach to happiness: it is rarely wise to struggle to change the weather. âClear mind is like the full moon in the sky,â Seung Sahn, a Korean Zen master of the old school, who carried a hitting-stick, told one audience in America in the 1970s. âSometimes clouds come and cover it, but the moon is always behind them. Clouds go away, then the moon shines brightly. So donât worry about clearmind; it is always there. When thinking comes, behind it is clear mind. When thinking goes, there is only clear mind. Thinking comes and goes, comes and goes. You must not be attached to the coming and going.â And if that wasnât sufficient to jolt his listeners into the realisation that they did not need to be attached to their mental storylines, that they could choose to observe their thoughts and feelings non-judgmentally, and thus find peace behind the pandemonium? âThen,â Seung Sahn was fond of saying, âI hit you thirty times with my stick!â
4
Goal Crazy
When Trying to Control the Future Doesnât Work
Future, n. That period of time in which our affairs prosper, our friends are true and our happiness is assured.
â Ambrose Bierce, The Devilâs Dictionary
I N 1996, A TWENTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD from Indiana named Christopher Kayes signed up with an adventure travel company to go trekking in the Himalayas. His intention, though it would prove ironic in hindsight, was to take a relaxing break. A punishing career as a stockbroker, and then as a corporate consultant, had left him burned out. Kayes had always been interested in the psychology of the business world, and so he had decided to pursue a doctorate in organisational behaviour instead. But first he needed time off, and when he saw an advertisement in a travel magazine for a group hiking expedition to Nepal, it seemed like the perfect answer. As the plane descended into Kathmandu, he recalled later, he was looking forward to âa refreshing immersion in Nepalese cultureâ, surrounded by the beauty of the Himalayas. But what Kayes encountered in the mountains was a troubling psychological puzzle that was to dominate his life for years to come.
While Kayes and his fellow hikers were exploring the foothills of Mount Everest, camping at night in tents, a disaster of historical proportions was unfolding near the mountainâs peak. Fifteen climbers died on Everest during that yearâs climbing season, eight of them during a single twenty-four hour period that has since entered mountaineering lore, thanks largely to the bestselling book Into Thin Air, by the climber and journalist Jon Krakauer, who was among those on the mountain at the time. Kayes himself encountered some of the climbers and rescue workers who had been involved â exhausted men, emerging dazed into the foothills, struggling to make sense of what had happened.
Even in the modern era of commercial Everest expeditions, when anyone with sufficient money and some climbing skills can pay to be escorted to the summit, itâs still not
âWell, that was ⦠â said Adina, trailing into silence, when I encountered her on the porch as we made our preparations to leave. Encapsulating the week in a few words seemed futile.
âI know what you mean,â I replied.
By the time I made it onto the train back to New York, I had a throbbing headache: the normal noises of the non-meditating world were too much for my silence-adapted mind. Discovering the number of emails waiting in my inbox didnât help. But the stressed-out thoughts did slide away more swiftly than before. It seemed I could live with a little bad weather.
All this is only one small part of Buddhismâs radical perspective on psychology. But the point is central to any ânegativeâ approach to happiness: it is rarely wise to struggle to change the weather. âClear mind is like the full moon in the sky,â Seung Sahn, a Korean Zen master of the old school, who carried a hitting-stick, told one audience in America in the 1970s. âSometimes clouds come and cover it, but the moon is always behind them. Clouds go away, then the moon shines brightly. So donât worry about clearmind; it is always there. When thinking comes, behind it is clear mind. When thinking goes, there is only clear mind. Thinking comes and goes, comes and goes. You must not be attached to the coming and going.â And if that wasnât sufficient to jolt his listeners into the realisation that they did not need to be attached to their mental storylines, that they could choose to observe their thoughts and feelings non-judgmentally, and thus find peace behind the pandemonium? âThen,â Seung Sahn was fond of saying, âI hit you thirty times with my stick!â
4
Goal Crazy
When Trying to Control the Future Doesnât Work
Future, n. That period of time in which our affairs prosper, our friends are true and our happiness is assured.
â Ambrose Bierce, The Devilâs Dictionary
I N 1996, A TWENTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD from Indiana named Christopher Kayes signed up with an adventure travel company to go trekking in the Himalayas. His intention, though it would prove ironic in hindsight, was to take a relaxing break. A punishing career as a stockbroker, and then as a corporate consultant, had left him burned out. Kayes had always been interested in the psychology of the business world, and so he had decided to pursue a doctorate in organisational behaviour instead. But first he needed time off, and when he saw an advertisement in a travel magazine for a group hiking expedition to Nepal, it seemed like the perfect answer. As the plane descended into Kathmandu, he recalled later, he was looking forward to âa refreshing immersion in Nepalese cultureâ, surrounded by the beauty of the Himalayas. But what Kayes encountered in the mountains was a troubling psychological puzzle that was to dominate his life for years to come.
While Kayes and his fellow hikers were exploring the foothills of Mount Everest, camping at night in tents, a disaster of historical proportions was unfolding near the mountainâs peak. Fifteen climbers died on Everest during that yearâs climbing season, eight of them during a single twenty-four hour period that has since entered mountaineering lore, thanks largely to the bestselling book Into Thin Air, by the climber and journalist Jon Krakauer, who was among those on the mountain at the time. Kayes himself encountered some of the climbers and rescue workers who had been involved â exhausted men, emerging dazed into the foothills, struggling to make sense of what had happened.
Even in the modern era of commercial Everest expeditions, when anyone with sufficient money and some climbing skills can pay to be escorted to the summit, itâs still not
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