Limitation as Liberation
Limitation as Liberation: Discovering the Buddhist Precepts
Since I would describe myself as a messy person, and as someone who struggles with any and all forms of discipline, I have always been opposed, on a fundamental level, to the idea of rules and limitations. I start to panic at the thought of having any kind of schedule, plan or deadline, feel uncomfortable with the notions of consistency and persistence in general, and -- probably because I’ve spent almost four decades enjoying almost every form of privilege imaginable, and have therefore largely been able to remain free of them -- I feel oppressed by the very existence, even in a purely hypothetical form, of consequences. I like to be able to do what I want, when I want, and trust that if I can, everything will work out.
At the same time, and for precisely the same reason, I think I’ve always also been drawn to the idea of discipline -- secretly attracted to it -- since I know, deep down, that discipline, rules, a schedule, and structure, as well as consequences for not following them, are exactly what I need. As with so many areas of my life, the thing that I want isn’t always the thing that I need; limitations are incredibly healthy and helpful for me, even though, if left to my own devices, I tend to avoid them at all costs. And in contrast, complete freedom, which I cling to so desperately, can end up compromising and undermining me, as I think it does to so many of us. We need rules to exercise our freedom within.
To say it another way: In being forced to give things up that I thought I needed, I often come to realize that not only are they not necessary, but actually I’m better off without them.
It was this dynamic that drew me to the study of the Buddhist precepts, which as I’m sure my teachers would be quick to point out, are not “rules” per se, but are rather practices, aspirations, and also koans: questions without answering, that we strive to answer, constantly, continually, through our actions in the world. The precepts are not the Buddhist answer to the Ten Commandments, thankfully; however, that still seems to be the easiest reference point for comparison for many people in the West who come from a Christian background, personally or culturally. Simply, the precepts are a system for articulating the ethical dimension of Buddhist practice. They are a grid of limitations we explore our freedom within. The precepts are an ethical map.
Admittedly, before I started studying the precepts, the way I thought about the ethical dimension of Buddhism went something like this: I will meditate all the time, alone in my room, or in a monastery, or on a mountain, or in a cave somewhere, for a few years, or decades, and then eventually, one day, I will get enlightened. Then, from that point on, because I’ll be acting from a place of enlightenment, everything that I do will be naturally, effortlessly, flawlessly ethical. You can’t be an enlightened person and continue doing wrong, being foolish, and acting from the same place of selfishness and ignorance you did before, right? My understanding of practice emphasized an impossible goal, while also negating the complexity of the process of arriving there. There is no enlightenment like that, and you don’t get there by meditation alone.
More mature in my practice now (if only infinitesimally), I can laugh at this way of looking at the Buddhist project, but I don’t think I’m alone in having had this early misconception. And if I’m being honest, I know this misconception must still inform my practice and the way I think about it in many ways today. No matter how much we sit, read, and learn about the dharma, it can still be so hard to uproot our early misunderstandings and oversimplifications (or overcomplicatings) of Buddhism, which may form the ground of our entire practice. It is easier to stack new ideas and understandings than it is to deeply unlearn old and erroneous ones.
And at the same time, I also doubt this way of thinking about meditation and “enlightenment” can be separated from one of the aspects of Western Buddhism, and Zen in particular, that draws so many of us to it, which is the absence of what many of us think of as the “trappings” of religion: beliefs, rituals, rules. And ethics -- morality -- represents the worst and most dangerous of these trappings for many people. As much as some people are drawn to Zen because they love the cleanliness of rules and discipline, my experience is that Zen is also especially attractive to people who refuse the rules, who see any structure or limitation as repressive, and who see themselves as free spirits -- not followers.
This isn’t just because the kind of people who may come to Zen practice are often educated, creative and, to some extent, at least in their own minds, rebellious people; it is also because many people who come to Buddhism in general in the West are those who have been scarred by their experience with another religion -- often, but not always, Christianity. People come to Buddhism because it offers peace in place of salvation, and the possibility of freedom from torment; and I think that many of us who are drawn to Buddhist practice are drawn to it specifically because we are tormented people. And finally, Western Buddhism is not marketed as a religion: It’s spirituality, a philosophy, a practice, or a system -- and therefore something acceptable to people who see themselves as too smart or too critical to believe in things.
But in my few years of practicing meditation and being part (at least intermittently) of a Buddhist sangha, it’s the elements of religion that have come to be most helpful and healing to me: not only the practice of meditation itself, but also ceremony and ritual -- and most importantly, ethics, as embodied in the precepts. I rarely feel quite so awakened on my meditation cushion as I do when wisdom and compassion guide, in a new way, my behaviour and decision-making when I am off the cushion, out in the world. If enlightenment is real, it is not a private moment of insight experienced in isolation. Enlightenment is acting differently in the world.
Over the course of a year in 2017-18 I studied the Buddist precepts with my two teachers and a small group of fellow practitioners from my sangha in Vancouver, BC. We would meet once a month to discuss one of the precepts in terms of what we had read and learned about it, and how it looked in practice, and we also sewed rakusus, the ceremonial garment you don after Jukai: the formal receiving of the precepts. Over the course of that year I learned a lot about the precepts and the ethical dimension of Buddhist practice, and how complex the questions captured by the apparent simplicity of the precepts could be. I came to appreciate the truth that the precepts are effectively impossible to practice completely and consistently, and also the urgency of continuing to try to practice them, at every instant. I learned how subjective each person’s interpretation of each precept could be, and also that there is a consistency across the way we understand and try to live them. I learned that each precept contains the entirety of Buddhist practice. Three years later, I feel like I am still just starting my practice and understanding of them.
More straightforwardly, the precepts are invaluable to our practice because they keep us accountable, and provide us with a guide to align our lives with the Buddhist teachings. It is not simply a matter of meditating and getting enlightened and then always knowing what to do. You need some kind of system to follow, to test yourself against, to check yourself with.
Even if you are not able to follow them as truly as you would like, the precepts give you a way of realizing when you are not adhering to your own ethics and values -- in the same way that meditating makes you realize how truly distractible and self-obsessed you really are. When I speak harshly about another person, for example, in violation of the sixth precept, I am aware of the fact that I am violating one of the precepts I chanted following my morning zazen, and I am mindful of the way it feels, physically, to say something judgmental or mean about another person (usually, not good, or a mix of gratifying and guilty), after I vowed not to. Adhering to the precepts is a great challenge for me; but when I do so I feel better. A moment of restraint or newfound consideration towards other beings can be a balm within suffering life.
In my own practice, the precepts are a limitation that liberates me. They illuminate, time and again, day after day, that the path of selfishness, while often initially attractive, is ultimately unsustainable: it poisons our relationships to others, to the world, and to ourselves. The precepts are a beacon, and a guard-railing, reminding us when we are straying from our actual path, which is one of awakening, wisdom and compassion.
In that way, they are each a mindfulness practice, and an ideal to aspire to, and also a koan: a question that is impossible to answer. How is it possible to never speak unkindly about others? How is it possible to never even think unkindly about them? How is it possible to never think unkindly about myself? It is not possible: that is why we practice.