Steven Laycock 1994, Mind as Mirror and the Mirroring of Nature. New York: Suny Press.
The author is a professor of philosophy, an expert in western phenomenology and has a long-standing Buddhist practice. The subtitle of the volume is ‘Buddhist Reflections on Western Phenomenology’. Phenomenology is often cited as being the western philosophy most comparable to Buddhism. One reason for this is that it is as much an approach or orientation as it is a body of theory. Laycock makes full play of its own meditative leanings.
This is a difficult book, attempting to grapple with the nature of mind – a notoriously difficult endeavour from any perspective, one in which agent and object tend to coalesce. Laycock ranges both widely and deeply across the whole spectrum of the Mahayana, beginning with a comparison of the famous verses from the Platform Sutra. The first by Shen-hsiu:
Body is the Bodhi tree,
The mind a stand of mirror bright.
Take care to wipe it continually,
Allowing no dust to cling.
The second is by Hui-Neng:
There never was a Bodhi Tree,
Nor bright mirror-stand.
Originally, not one thing exists,
So where is the dust to cling?
From the western tradition, he focuses on Husserl, Sartre and the work of Merleau-Ponty, whose later writings are often strikingly ‘Buddhist’ in tone and emphasis.
The central metaphor around which Laycock organizes the material is given in the title. The central questions are: firstly, what is the relationship between consciousness and the ‘object’ of consciousness? If we, for example, see ‘red’, does the mind become like a red crystal or does it remain clear and transparent, as if against a red background? The second central concern is: to what degree can consciousness know itself? Both questions beg another: how do we know? The nature of selfhood and explicitly of ego inevitably lurks in the background – if only in its absence. And that kind of paradoxical formulation is typical of this book – as it is to of the whole of the phenomenological project, western or Buddhist. Language is forced to its limits – and, arguably, beyond.
The value of this book is that it is relatively unusual to find a writer equally at home in western and Buddhist phenomenology. This also highlights its peculiar challenge for the reader and, while Laycock himself almost gets submerged at times in excessive references and footnotes, he at least is a humble and knowledgeable guide who does not insist from the outset that the comparison is valid. He merely attempts a dialogue. The book is actually better at conveying the minutiae of philosophical enquiry and meditative states than in making sweeping arguments. The author fully accepts that Buddhist insight is ultimately ‘prethetic’ and, again somewhat paradoxically, that becomes his thesis. This sits slightly uneasily with Husserlian phenomenology but, with the help of Merleau-Ponty especially, he argues that the western tradition can itself be seen as open-ended and exploratory and he clinches the argument, too, by arguing that the gathas with which he begins are, ultimately, complementary rather than in conflict; that they each, in fact, serve as precursor to the other. In Roger Corless’s term, they “co-inhere”.
The process of epoche is assessed alongside that of vipassana meditation (wisely, Laycock does not insist upon a step-by-step matching of the approaches), the former remaining at the level of “event”, albeit one affording a glimpse into “timeless eidetic truth” (p155), that arguably gets as close as the philosophical mind can do to the well-spring of thought itself. Buddhism has its own state of radical, searching enquiry: the Great Doubt itself. But the Buddhist approach is such that such language of ‘approach’ must ultimately – such is the process of transformation – be jettisoned. One might think that this enlightenment elucidates the difference between philosophical thought and a more expansive consciousness – although Laycock himself does not offer that particular distinction directly.
This leads to an assessment of the role of language (especially in the form of critical thought). This particular reader, too, would have welcomed a more explicit treatment of this. The use of the opening gathas certainly invites it and language – clearly nama, but rupa too – can be both barrier and bridge to insight. Quite when and how it is either or both is surely implicit in the two verses taken together and haunts the distinctions and comparisons that Laycock makes between phenomenology and Buddhist practice. Perhaps that is for another book. He readily attests to the ineffability and inexpressibility of nirvana without quite differentiating as much as he should between finger and moon.
In a nondual realization, the apparent duality between the verbal and the non-verbal must be transcended as much as any other. Perhaps this slight omission rankles because Laycock shows himself to be highly adroit in describing the nuances of inner states.
The author recounts how he asked the Venerable Thich Nhat Hanh whether too much thinking (meaning western philosophical) was at odds with his own meditative practice. The reply was: not necessarily, as long as you allow your thought to ‘seep’ into reality. This book might be recommended on similar terms.
This seems to be such a central aspect of the Dharma that it is hard to know where to begin. There are quite a few subtly interrelated terms, some of which actually enact their own meaning. Rupa, I suppose, is a rupa (and a nama). I don’t say this to be clever – just to indicate how they themselves might be tempting us towards what they highlight and warn against: attachment and, more specifically, attachment to preconceptions. Here ‘preconception’ means something that may have (phenomenological) truth for us but which is actually a construct and which, with practice/insight, can be seen through. Even models of therapy, presumably, must be held to be provisional. If not, the danger is that experience be shoe-horned into the model.
I tend to think that, despite the great usefulness and (at times) great beauty of language, naming raises a barrier between us and the world. The more abstract and/or associative the worse the alienation gets. Association, too, can be so powerful and so entrenched that it might not be easy to unpick at the rational, analytic level – hence, the usefulness of psychodrama and creative expression. Generally, experimenting with perspective is surely a good thing – as it tends to relinquish the stranglehold of our own, a stranglehold which we cherish as our own selfhood. I wonder, though, if such a process can do the opposite – and further entrench our own position. Is this necessarily a bad thing? I suppose it is bad when we identify ourselves with such a position. It is very interesting how our own identity (even one of suffering) can be seen as a form of protection as well as a barrier. I think it was William Faulkner who said, ‘Between suffering and nothing, I’ll take suffering.’ People are (understandably) afraid of “disappearing” – especially if their form of pain (depression, say) already makes them feel that they’re halfway there and that their negative feelings are all they have. Wheels within wheels.
Another thing that struck me in the chapter on other-centred work was that there was no mention (I don’t think) of projection. In other words, the role reversal may not be complete – may, in fact, simply allow the protagonist to express unhelpful/short-sighted attitudes simply in another character. Perhaps this possibility simply has to be ‘held’ as a possibility and itself explored elsewhere in the therapy. I suppose we sometimes layer the defences of our own positions so skillfully that they can take quite a lot of seeing into, seeing through and dismantling.
I’ve never actually used psychodrama to any great degree. As a rupa, I have quite a strong reaction to it. I can’t help thinking it would feel like pretending when it’s ‘supposed’ to be anything but. I often think – with regard to meditation practice – that the more difficult you find it, the more you need to do it! Maybe it’s the same with psychodrama. Resistance to something can, of course, be very telling.