In the past, I have dabbled in learning Sanskrit, which is an ancient Indian language, and the foundation of many other modern languages. Sanskrit is to South Asia, what Latin is to western Europe.
Sanskrit is a tricky language though. Speaking from limited experience, it has many grammatical similarities to Latin and Greek (hence they’re all included in the Indo-European language family), but Sanskrit feels like an older language compared to the other two, which is saying a lot. The nouns have 8 declensions compared to 5 in Latin and 4 in Greek, plus it still uses dual-case which was obscure even in ancient Greek times. By the time Latin rolled around, much of this was “smoothed out” and simplified, and Latin in turn has been smoothed out and simplified across the centuries into what we know now as French, Spanish, Italian, Romanian, and so on. But that’s all a story for another day.
The other issue with Sanskrit is the writing system. Actually, systems. Greek and Latin both derive their writing system from the Phoenicians, and these largely did not change. Sanskrit has gone through multiple, separate writing systems, some also descended from the Phoenicians via Aramaic, and each one has its own complex history. Many of them are also gone now, lost to the ages.
Nowadays, Sanskrit is typically written in the beautiful Devanagari script, which is also used in Hindi and many other modern north-Indian languages to various degrees. Devanagari gradually replaced alternative Sanskrit writing systems centuries ago. This also happened roughly around this time that Buddhism died out in India,1 thus you practically never see ancient Buddhist texts composed in Devanagari. Instead, they appear in other, older scripts like Karoshthi based on Aramaic (as in what Jesus spoke natively!), Brahmi script (used by Emperor Asoka), and so on. But one such script still survives, not in India, but in Japan: Siddham script locally called bonji (梵字).
Siddham is preserved in Buddhist texts, but especially in esoteric Buddhist mantras and other practices, particularly in older Japanese Buddhist sects such as Tendai and Shingon. This was the time when esoteric Buddhism was all the rage in Tang Dynasty China, and contacts with India via the Silk Road were still alive and well thus allowing teachers from Central Asia to come and teaching local students. Most other, later Buddhist sects in Japan use it sparingly or not at all because their approach is not really esoteric in nature (Pure Land Buddhism, Zen and Nichiren).
But Siddham shows up in other places too. If you look carefully you can also see it in the Marvel movie Dr Strange:
Here’s an example “stamp” from my pilgrimage book (more on that in a future post) which shows a mix of Japanese calligraphy and Siddham characters:
The stamp above is from the temple of Zojoji Temple in Tokyo, Japan, one of two head temples of the Jodo Shu (Pure Land) sect. Note the red stamp in the middle with the Siddham character hriḥ𑖮𑖿𑖨𑖱𑖾2 which I believe is symbolic of Amida Buddha (the primary devotion in Pure Land Buddhism).
Another example is a stamp I got at a Soto Zen temple named Toyokawa Inari:
This temple, which has an unusually esoteric flavor for a Soto Zen temple, uses Siddham letters in the stamp (red letters in the middle) in the form of a mandala or something similar.
Here’s a couple Youtube videos on how to write Siddham script. I like these videos because they show a simpler, more straightforward way of writing Siddham compared to the flowery, flowing calligraphy used in esoteric Buddhism. This makes it more suitable for writing on paper with a pen, not using an ink brush.
Siddham is something you’ll likely see in Japan, but it’s fascinating once you realize that this writing system from India for composing Sanskrit is now only preserved in far-flung places like Japan even after it has died out in its homeland. It’s a fascinating, often forgotten piece of religous-linguistic history.
1 For this reason, modern textbooks on Sanskrit are good for teachings the grammar of Sanskrit, but not how to read ancient Buddhist texts: the writing system doesn’t match, and culturally the books tend to focus on translating the vast corpus of Hindu literature, not Buddhist literature despite the common origin.
2 in HTML Unicode: & #x115ae;& #x115bf;& #x115a8;& #x115b1;& #x115be; with no spaces between the & and # … yes 5 characters required because it comprises of “ha”, followed by the virama mark which cuts off the subsequent “ra” to form an “r”, and finally the long “i” followed by the two dots (visarga marks). I didn’t say it was easy, but it’s totally doable if you take the time to learn HTML and Unicode and then just apply Siddham Unicode numbers to it.
The lotus-flowers in the lakes, large as chariot wheels, are blue-colored with blue splendor, yellow-colored with yellow splendor, red-colored with red splendor, white-colored with white splendor, and (they are all) the most exquisite and purely fragrant. Shariputra, the land of Sukhavati [the Buddha’s Pure Land] is arrayed with such good qualities and adornments.
The Amitabha Sutra, translation by by Nishu Utsuki and the Educational Department of the West Hongwanji Kyoto, Japan: 1924
April 8th marks the birthday of the Buddha, Shakyamuni, in Japanese culture. This is often known as Hanamatsuri (花まつり) or the “flower festival”. Even in these tough times, it is a time to rejoice for us Buddhists, even if you observe the day on a different calendar.
I admit that I almost forgot this year, if not for my calendar reminder. Growing up in the west, there aren’t a lot of reminders of the Buddha, so it can feel kind of lonely at times, and frankly a little guilty too.
But, I am reminded of this lovely quote from the 3rd chapter of the Lotus Sutra (法華経):
The Tathāgata [the Buddha], freed from
The burning house of the triple world,
Tranquilly lives in seclusion,
Abiding in peace in the woodland.
The Threefold Lotus Sutra, translated by Bunnō Kato, Yoshirō Tamura and Kōjirō Miyasaka (12th ed., 1992)
For me, this quote reminds me that holidays or no holidays, gifts or no gifts, the Buddha dwells in peace beyond the turmoil of life, and looks back toward us with goodwill who have not yet completed the path. And that’s Buddhism at its finest. This is the true legacy that Shakyamuni left us: a vision for peace of mind, goodwill and a path to attain it.
So, happy birthday, Lord Buddha!
P.S. These are just among some of the great Twitter posts I saw in Japanese for Hanamatsuri. I wish I was this creative. 😀
I recently finished the series WandaVision (I am always super slow to catch up on popular shows), and in the big climactic battle between Vision and his other self,1 Vision brings up a famous paradox called the Ship of Theseus which Plutarch, one of my personal favorite people from that era, describes as:
The ship wherein Theseus and the youth of Athens returned from Crete had thirty oars, and was preserved by the Athenians down even to the time of Demetrius Phalereus, for they took away the old planks as they decayed, putting in new and stronger timber in their places, insomuch that this ship became a standing example among the philosophers, for the logical question of things that grow; one side holding that the ship remained the same, and the other contending that it was not the same.
Translated by John Dryden from Plutarch’s “Theseus” written in 75 CE
This issue of the ship and whether it’s the same ship any more or not has been puzzling Western philosophers for many centuries. As an armchair philosopher and nerd, I just learned about this and the paradox (as well as WandaVision) really blew my mind.
However, what really blew my mind is kind of conundrum wasn’t limited to ancient Greek philosophy. Long ago in India, a famous Buddhist treatise, the Dà Zhìdù Lùn (大智度論), was composed in Sanskrit (that version is now lost) and translated into Chinese by the venerable Kumarajiva.2 The Buddhist of this paradox from the Dà Zhìdù Lùn is found here in an essay by Jing Huang and Jonardon Ganeri.
Paraphrasing the story here, a traveler encounters two demons on the road, one of which is carrying a corpse. The other demon grabs the traveler and begins by pulling his arm off. The second demon removes the matching arm from the corpse and somehow attaches it to the man. From there, the demons replace each part of the traveler’s body with the matching part from the corpse until none of the original body is left. The man is distraught because he doesn’t know who he is anymore. As the story continues, he encounters a group of Buddhist monks who then explore the implications (for the benefit of the reader).
Modern versions of this story can be found in science fiction, too. In the novel, Creatures of Light and Darkness by Roger Zelazny, the character Wakim is taking apart and replaced with mechanical parts, and later put back into human form, by Anubis who opines:
“Men may begin and end in many ways,” says Anubis. “Some may start as machines and gain their humanity slowly. Others may end as machines, losing humanity by pieces as they live. That which is lost may always be regained. That which is gained may always be lost.”
“I have made you a machine, Wakim. Now I shall make you a man. Who is to say how you started, where you started? Were I to wipe your memories up to this moment and then re-embody you, you would recollect that you had begun as metal.”
All this is to say, where does one’s true identity begin and end? How much of it is dictated by outside, and how much of it are you born with? Is there anything you can truly call your own?
Further, as Huang and Ganeri cite the famous Buddhist philosopher Nagarjuna (150 CE – 250 CE) who explored this kind of issue at great length:
Nāgārjuna is known in particular for his fondness of dilemmas. He was so fond of them, indeed, that he excelled in converting them into tetralemmas (catuṣkoṭi). To any question, he said, there are four possible answers: yes, no, both, and neither. The unique twist, and what deﬁnes [the Buddhist philosophy of] Madhyamaka as a philosophical system, is to then afﬁrm that none of the possible answers is viable; each one can be shown to end up entailing some absurd or impalatable consequence, which is called a prasaṅga
Is This Me? A Story about Personal Identity from the MahāPrajñāpāramitopadeśa / Dà zhìdù lùn Jing Huang and Jonardon Ganeri, British Journal for the History of Philosophy 2021
The paradox of the Ship of Theseus isn’t limited to ships; the Buddhists felt this issue comprises all phenomena including you and me.
If you think about it, your body has been constantly changing and growing since your conception as an embryo. Cells divide, die, get replaced, etc. On a physical level, the rotting timbers of your body have been replaced countless times over and over and will continue to do so until your dead, in which case your body continues to change as it decomposes into other things, and so on. Is it this still the same body you had from birth? Nagarjuna would say that answers like “yes”, “no”, “maybe”, “both”, “neither”, “42” and so on are all absurd and don’t quite hit the mark
But what about your mind? You retain memories from the past (assuming you can still remember them), but even here Buddhism would argue that none of it is the original mind state, but a constant state of fluidity shifting from one thought to another, with nothing static. Even your memory may not be as reliable as you think it is, colored over time by your thoughts and recollection until it no longer resembles the original in any objective sense.
For me, this really made me realize that I am not defined by my past, the good and the bad. I am not the same person I was 30 years ago, or 30 days ago. For better or worse, that person is gone. There is only me, here and now.
Looking at my life up until now, maybe all we are is just a constant state of flux, becoming and persevering? But, as Nagarjuna might say, that’s not quite it either.
I guess only the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas truly understand:
The true entity of all phenomena can only be understood and shared between Buddhas. This reality consists of the appearance, nature, entity, power, influence, inherent cause, relation, latent effect, manifest effect, and their consistency from beginning to end.”
1 I think this Twitter post explains the finale nicely:
2 The whole mass-translation effort that took place in China during the Tang-Dynasty (7th – 11th centuries) was nothing to sneeze at either. Sanskrit and Chinese have almost nothing in common, and the religious-technical vocabulary that monks brought from India and the Silk Road had to be translated not just verbatim, but in way that could properly convey the meaning to Chinese audiences. Some really talented and dedicated monks, Indian, Chinese and Central Asian really worked hard on this over successive generations to bring us the literature we benefit from today.
Recently while stuck at the dealership waiting for my car to get fixed (flat tire), I got into a weird thought exercise about how to learn Japanese language. I started learning Japanese on my own way back in the late 1980’s (back when Japan Inc was super cool to impressionable teenagers) and then in college in a formal setting, and later again when I studied for the JLPT exam on my own (reached JLPT N2 in 2012).
Needless to say, I’ve learned Japanese a number of ways over the years, and I’ve never quite liked any of them. Japanese as a language is pretty fun and interesting, but I have come to dislike most approaches to explain Japanese grammar because either they weren’t very clear (explaining the differences between particles は and が supposedly can fill a book, I was once told), or they they just didn’t produce good results. I still get the conjugations of 切る and 着る, both read as “kiru” but conjugate different, mixed up on a regular basis, and I don’t want to even mention the Heisig Method of learning kanji.
Thankfully, there are some really nice, modern approaches to Japanese. I really like Tae Kim’s excellent Guide to Japanese and I can say that it helped me to fix some old, bad habits, while also explaining grammar concepts in new, fresh ways. I just wish it had existed when I was learning Japanese.
Meanwhile, as a fun personal exercise under lockdown, I’ve been (re)studying Latin through the Great Courses class taught by Hans-Friedrich Mueller. Learning Latin, probably the most studied language in Western culture since antiquity, made me realize that Latin’s approach to learning is pretty effective in some ways. The way things are categorized, dissected and studied means that if you learn Latin properly, you can learn Latin surprisingly quick. It’s a fair amount of work upfront, but once you get past that first hill, it’s actually not that bad.
As with Japanese, I had learned a bit of Latin before ages ago, but while the books were well-respected (and fun), they were not always effective. I would quickly get bogged down by the time I got to the third-declension nouns, and I never quite recovered. Trying again with a fresh, different approach through the Great Courses really helped me get past the old hurdles, and now Latin makes a lot more sense. The issue was never the language (just as with Japanese), but how it’s conveyed, and how people build foundations.
So, while at the dealership, I got to thinking, can the same approach be applied to a totally different language like Japanese? Is there better ways to build solid foundations in Japanese to avoid future headaches and frustrations? I think “yes”. We can’t always rely on tradition to teach a fascinating language like Japanese, we as language students (and educators) should be tilling the soil over and over to find better and better ways. Latin has had the benefit of this for 2,000 years in the West and there’s no reason why we can’t do the same for other languages.
This post is a first-attempt at applying a Classics-style language course to Japanese. It’s far from perfect, but if you’re studying Japanese and have even a basic Classics education, hopefully this will make sense. And if you have never learned Latin or Greek, I highly recommend Professor Muller’s courses. They’re terrific.
Nouns and Particles
Nouns are particularly easy in Japanese because there’s no conjugation at all. What you see is what you get. The tricky issue comes with how they interact with particles. Particles have no direct analogy in Latin or English, but nevertheless, they can still be translated the same way.
For example in Latin there are five conjugations to express which part of the sentence a noun belongs to (major credit to Professor Muller for this explanation):
nominative (the subject) – mīles, a soldier
genitive (of the noun) – mīlitis, of the soldier
dative (to or for the noun, indirect object) – mīlitī, to or for the soldier
accusative (noun as the direct object) – mīlitem, something done to the soldier
ablative (by, with or from the noun) – mīlite, by with or for the soldier.
Ancient Greek has the first four, for what it’s worth. Plus both Greek and Latin have plural versions of these conjugations too.
Japanese particles fulfill the same roles, though, even if expressed differently. Instead of changing the ending of the noun as shown above, you take on an extra syllable:
nominative: use は (wa) or が (ga, more on this below) – 犬は・が, the dog …
genitive: use の (no) – 犬の, the dog’s, of the dog
dative: use に (ni) – 犬に, to or for the dog
accusative: use を (wo) – 犬を, something done to the dog.
ablative: で (de) or と (to) depending on context: 犬で, by the dog or with the dog (instrumental case), 犬と with the dog (accompanying).
As you can see, Japanese particles do not map 1:1 in usage and context as Latin/Greek cases, but you can see that between them all the essential grammatical bases are covered.
The whole は (wa) or が (ga) issue was hopelessly complicated to me when I was in Japanese language classes in college, but Tae Kim’s Guide to Japanese does a really good job of clarifying this. The particular が in particular is really just there to address three possible questions: who, which and where. By contrast, は just marks the topic, or is used for contrasting with other topics/subjects.
Verbs are important in Japanese, especially since you can have a whole conversation in Japanese with verbs only (everything else is implied by context):
A: tabeta? (from context, “did you eat”?)
B: nn, tabeta. (“yup, I did.”)
Verbs in Japanese have their own inflections that don’t exist in Western languages, and remembering the conjugations can be tricky, especially because there are two types:
ichidan (一段) verbs, sometimes called “ru-verbs”.
godan (五段) verbs, which also include some “ru-verbs” (such as “kiru” above).
Example inflections for 切る (godan) and 着る (ichidan), both read as “kiru”, are as follows:
polite (masu) form
You can see how the subtle differences can throw of a student in Japanese.
So, in Latin (and Greek), verbs are usually expressed as a series of principal parts. The verb “to read” is expressed fully as legō, legere, lēgī, lēctum whereby legō is present active (“I read”), legere is the active infinitive (“to read”), lēgī is the past tense (“I read”) and lēctum is the perfect passive participle (“the X who’s reading”). By memorizing the entire set of principal parts up front, the rest of that Latin verb can be conjugated quick and easy.
To me, the same approach can be applied to Japanese verbs, just with different principal parts. By knowing both the dictionary form, and the te-form of a verb you can quickly identify if it is a ichidan verb or a godan verb and conjugate accordingly. I would probably also throw in the “masu” polite form and maybe something like passive form too for completeness.
So, for 着る, the principal parts in my mind are 着る、着て、着ます (kiru, kite, kimasu). The “ru” stem in dictionary form + the te-form with no small “tsu” tells me that this is an ichidan verb.
Similarly, for 切る: 切る、切って、切ります (kiru, kitte, kirimasu). The “ru” ending in the dictionary form, plus a small “tsu” in the te-form tells me that this is a godan verb, so I can conjugate accordingly.
For other verbs, for example 飲む (nomu): 飲む、飲んで、飲みます (nomu, nonde, nomimasu).
…and so on. The key here is that by memorizing a verb by its principal parts, you can easily intuit what type of verb it is, and know how to form the rest. The te-form is used in many ways, so memorizing it upfront, even you don’t know how to use it yet, saves a lot of headache.
In the case of Japanese this is less crucial in some ways than Latin/Greek because you can easily figure out the rest by converting the verb ending to the right ending for the right conjugation, but knowing the “root forms” that the other conjugations are based off of is a time-saver, especially when dealing with ichidan verbs and godan verbs with “ru” endings. There are quite a few.
Adjectives and Adverbs
Since Japanese doesn’t use grammatical gender like Latin and Greek verbs (no masculine, feminine, etc) they are fairly straightforward to conjugate. Unlike Latin, Greek or English, Japanese adjectives can express negative (not) and past-tense, but again the grammar is very consistent and easy to use.
In place of learning grammatical gender for adjectives (as in Latin/Greek), I think it would be sufficient to teach adjectives simply as their dictionary form + dictionary-negative form. For example:
安い: “cheap” which has forms 安い、安くない
静かな: “quiet” which has 静かな、静かじゃない
For the “na” adjectives, such as “quiet”, I don’t know if it’s proper to include the な at the end of the adjective or not, but since it’s not used in some forms, it seemed proper to leave it out but then again, as with the verbs and principal parts, knowing up front that it has a な will tell you how to apply it to modifying nouns and such based on established grammar rules. The key here is treating these as teaching aids, I think.
This whole mental exercise in expressing Japanese with Classics-style teaching aids needs a lot of work, and folks who are much better at Japanese than me will understandably disagree. What I wanted to do is to stimulate thinking about how to teach Japanese more effectively, more concisely so people can establish good foundations. Japanese is different than English, a lot different, but when you come to grips with its own internal logic and structure, it’s really not that hard. The trouble is how its conveyed in language education, and I hope people will continue finding newer, better ways to overcome that hurdle.
I have been studying Japanese language more or less since I was in college, twenty years ago, and much of that has been self-study. I have never lived in Japan, but my wife is from there, and we visit there every non-pandemic-year to see family, etc. Plus, I passed the JLPT N2 exam in 2012. As such, my language skills in Japanese are in a weird state of not being fluent, but not beginner either.
My wife and kids, who are both fully bilingual, tend to poke fun of my Japanese at times, since my grammar usage and pronunciation are kind of funny. I get mentally “gummed up” and use the wrong Japanese particle, or other funny usage, but conversely, I can read Japanese computer books without too much difficulty. So, in a way, my skills are kind of lop-sided, and the result of too much self-learning, not enough practical application.
Anyhow, my wife recently passed along some advice from my kids’ after-school Japanese-language teacher (who’s a good family friend of ours): practice reading aloud more. This is called ondoku (音読, “Ohn-doh-ku”) in Japanese.
It seemed kind of silly at first, but I realized that my kids had grown up here in the US doing that weekly as their Japanese-language homework: read an essay out loud 10 times. The essays were short, maybe 2-3 minutes of reading at a time, but reading 10 times reinforced the intuitive “flow” of Japanese, while also helping to smooth out their speaking and pronunciation skills, two things I sorely lack.
In fact, this isn’t limited to Japanese. My old Latin textbook, the famous Wheelock’s Latin one, also recommends reading Latin out loud to get used to the flow and pronunciation. Similarly, when I was dabbling in ancient Homeric Greek, the professor in my online course recommended the same thing: read aloud.
The point here is: whatever language you are learning, make a habit of reading aloud small sections of text 10 or so times to get the hang of it, then move on to other texts and repeat.
The idea is to create an easy, low-stress, sustainable routine:
Find some authentic text in that language that is easy to read (if you get hung up on adult Japanese text, with its advanced Chinese Characters, move to an elementary school text and work your way up).
Pick a small excerpt that you can read in 2-3 minutes, not too long, not too short.
Practice reading it 10 times over a week.
Find a new excerpt for next week and repeat the cycle.
For my part, my wife found this 1st grade level science book:
The Japanese is very easy, with no Chinese Characters (even though I can read a fair amount). That way, I can focus on reading out loud. I read one essay last week 10 times, three times in front of my wife, and have started reading a second essay this week.
It’s hard to gauge results since I only started, but I know my kids had been doing it for years, and their conversational skills are quite smooth, so I know it works. And because the activity is fairly easy and low-stress, it’s frankly kind of fun, plus I learn interesting little tidbits, such as why crickets have long antennae. 🦗
To be honest, reading in front of a native speaker can be really embarrassing, but it’s really important not to personalize it, especially when they give you advice. Just roll with it, and remember it’s not meant to humiliate you. It’s meant to help you. Also, I am sure native speakers will appreciate you asking for help, so there’s that too.
So, if you’re learning a language, try reading aloud and have fun!
A month before my entire department was laid off in early 2020 (the very same week lockdown occurred 🤦🏽♂️), I received a nice award from the company for a year-long project that I was involved in. The award was a nice glass photo frame, two pieces of glass that have magnets inside, with the award inserted in between. It was a nice award, and I was proud of what I had helped to accomplish, but of course looking back the award was kind of meaningless after the events of 2020. I was, needless to say, a little bitter.
Then, a week ago, my daughter gave me some simple advice: use the frame for something else, and toss out the award.
So, I did:
I took some of the plum blossoms outside that were scattered on the ground, and pressed them between the glass frames and this is the result. It felt great to re-use this frame for something more positive and less depressing, and a small way to reclaim a part of my life that had been taken away.
More importantly, it was a nice way to make something beautiful out of adversity. 😄
Recently I was reading this great blog post by the blog Sententiae Antiquae which translates some text from 14th-centry Italian scholar Petrarch:
…Thus, almost no one is free. Everywhere there is servitude, the prison, the noose, unless some rare person somehow dissolves the knots of the world with the aid of some heavenly virtue.
Just turn your attention wherever you’d like: no place is free of tyranny. Wherever there are no tyrants, the people tyrannize. When you seem to have escaped the iron fist of one, you fall into the tyranny of the many, unless you can show me some place ruled by a just and merciful king…
From Invective Against a Man of High Rank, translated by Sententiae Antiquae blog
“The poor and the underprivileged are constantly destitute. If, for example, they have no fields, they are unhappy and want them. If they have no houses, they are unhappy and want them. If they have none of the six kinds of domestic animals, such as cows and horses, or if they have no male and female servants, or lack money, wealth, clothes, food, or furnishings, they are unhappy and want those as well. If they possess some of them, others may be lacking. If they have this, they do not have that, and so they wish to possess all. But, even if by some chance they come to possess everything, it will soon be destroyed or lost. Then, dejected and sorrowful, they strive to obtain such things again, but it may be impossible. Brooding over this is to no avail. Exhausted in mind and body, they become restless in all their doings, and anxieties follow on their heels. Such are the troubles they must endure. Breaking out in cold sweats or fevers, they suffer unremitting pain. Such conditions may result in the sudden end of their lives or an early death. Since they have not done any good in particular, nor followed the Way [e.g. the Buddha-Dharma], nor acted virtuously, when they die, they will depart alone to an inferior world. Although they are destined to different states of existence, none of them understands the law of karma that sends them there.
translation by Rev. Hisao Inagaki
Thus, going back to Petrarch, he writes in Latin:
Humani generis mores tibi nosse volenti, sufficit una domus.
“To one who wishes to know the ways of all the human race, One house alone should do the trick.“
From Invective Against a Man of High Rank, translated by Sententiae Antiquae blog
Being able to see the ways of man through one’s house (or even homō unus, one person) is the beginning of wisdom and the foundation of Buddhist metta.
Hey folks, I found this random article on ABC News recently on a mom’s obsession with QAnon and how it gradually consumed her life. This article was really interesting to me because it shows how the slow progression of an idea can become all-consuming to the point that it consumes a person, cutting them off from reality, to their detriment.
This kind of death-spiral isn’t limited to stupid conspiracy theories either. It can be all kinds of things, both fun and terrifying that can occupy your mind so much that they increasingly cut you off from reality into your own little world.
In fact, the entire notion of the venerable Yogacara tradition of Buddhism was that (paraphrasing here) every one of us lives in their own perceptual “bubble” and that our thoughts, actions and choices further color this perception more and more in a kind of feedback loop. The English translation of Reverend Shun’ei Tagawa’s book, Living Yogacara, is an excellent primer on the subject and worth a good read. I need to bring back some of my old posts on Yogacara Buddhism as it is a fascinating tradition.
In any case, as Yogacara Buddhism teaches this constant, mental cycle is a kind of feedback loop whereby your thoughts, actions and choices color your future perceptions, which in turn lead to further thoughts, actions and choices, etc. Thus, a mountain climber and a painter will look at the same mountain differently because of how they color reality based on their ongoing mental “loop”. The upshot though means that if you don’t stop to evaluate your mind from time to time, you can really go off the rails, even when what you’re thinking and doing seems totally reasonable to you.
Thus, from the Buddhist standpoint, it’s OK and healthy to stop from time to time and ask yourself: what am I thinking about now? How do I feel now? Why do I feel this way? and so on.
Even doing that for a few moments can save you countless hours (or more) of pain, anguish and misery that you didn’t have to undergo.
Gionshōja no kane no koe, Shogyōmujō no hibiki ari. Sarasōju no hana no iro, Jōshahissui no kotowari wo arawasu. Ogoreru mono mo hisashikarazu, tada haru no yo no yume no gotoshi. Takeki mono mo tsui ni wa horobin(u), hitoeni kaze no mae no chiri ni onaji.
The sound of the Gion Shōja bells echoes the impermanence of all things; the color of the sāla flowers reveals the truth that the prosperous must decline. The proud do not endure, they are like a dream on a spring night; the mighty fall at last, they are as dust before the wind.
Opening lines of the Tales of the Heike, Helen Craig McCullough’s translation