One of my favorite classes at Brandeis was a spring semester course on Buddhist Art. In truth, I had no business taking this course – it had nothing to do with my English degree, and wasn’t even of particular interest to me. Despite this, the description made it sound like a peaceful and almost spiritual experience, and that called to me more than anything else. It was also a time in my life when I was seeking calm. Still entwined in a romantic relationship with a woman, and just starting to question and make sense of my sexuality, it was a tumultuous time for the heart and the head. I was desperately seeking serenity.
A spring semester takes place largely in the winter. At least, that’s where it begins, and the beginning – in those first weeks of snowstorms and weather battles – is what remains most salient. Much of this course involved looking at slides in a darkened amphitheater and listening to our instructor explain the various meanings of the motifs in what we were seeing. One assignment involved going to the Museum of Fine Arts and perusing their collection of Buddhist art, which was not an arduous assignment in the least. I soon learned that connecting the historical aspects of a work of art, and bringing my own personal take to what the scene was conveying, earned me the best grades. Such flowery prose was well within my wheelhouse, and turning art into words was a challenge I embraced. That makes this post somewhat problematic, as it’s a testament to a world beyond words.
As someone who has loved and lived for reading and writing since I was a little boy, it pains me a bit to write this post. I used to think that all things could be solved or least understood when put into words, when analyzed and reconstructed through language and communication. That’s not always the case. Sometimes you simply have to feel.
As human constructs, words and language were always going to be limited in the end. There would always come a point when they didn’t matter. The hard underlying truth could only be fathomed through our five senses, and sometimes it could only be felt on an emotional level that was somewhat spiritual, somewhat emotional, and somewhat mystical. There is room for magic in this world, and magic cannot be contained by words. Neither can enlightenment or meditation.
I’m slowly learning that the best and most effective forms of meditation are not accomplished with a background of Tibetan flute music or the ringing of a prayer bell or even the intoned om of a chant – they are done in complete silence, when the only thing heard is the breath. That is in stark contrast to the bombardment of sounds and sights in our current world. For as long as I can remember I’ve tried to distill that chaotic bombardment into words to make it palatable and easier to digest and understand. I’ve tried to take the confusion of my own mind and flesh it out here and there – online or on paper – to make some sort of sense out of things, to write it down as a form of therapeutic exercise, and it has indeed helped. It simply isn’t everything, and that’s why I’m learning to turn to silence to find a greater peace, and a better understanding.
That said, and that written, I still believe that when used properly and genuinely, a few well-chosen words can change the world. We just need a little something extra to change our hearts.
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