Gradually, bit by bit, India’s vast and venerable storehouse of knowledge has filtered into the West, informing disciplines from philosophy to psychology to medicine, and transforming how we understand religion and express our spirituality. Each new translation of a sacred or philosophical text, each new guru, each new scholarly article, each new pilgrim to swamis and yoga masters in India, and of course each new interpretive book, like this one, adds to the wealth of Indic resources for novice seekers and veteran yogis alike. The ongoing transmission of Vedic knowledge, now more than two hundred years in the making, penetrates our culture more widely and deeply every day. But while large numbers of Westerners are now familiar with concepts like karma and mind-body technologies like meditation and postural yoga, much of the Vedic treasure trove remains untapped or underappreciated. The four purusharthas — the proper aims of life or objects of pursuit — are among those neglected precepts. With this wise and practical book, Ellen Grace O’Brian admirably fills the gap.
Two of the purusharthas, dharma and moksha, are actually quite well known among yogis, meditators, and students of Eastern philosophy. This is because the purveyors of yogic knowledge have discussed those concepts at length in speech and writing and also because no precise equivalents exist in Western philosophical and religious systems. As a result, with varying degrees of depth and seriousness, seekers have delved into the understanding of dharma, a complex term that boils down to action that supports individual spiritual development and the well-being of the larger community; and of moksha, the liberation of the soul in yogic union with the divine. The other two purusharthas, kama (pleasure) and artha (prosperity, the focus of this book), have received far less attention.
The Indian teachers who journeyed West did not exactly neglect the human drive for material comfort and worldly enjoyment. They did not discourage anyone from enjoying life’s safe, simple pleasures, and as leaders of organizations, they were fully aware of the positive uses of money; they had to pay bills, after all, and raise money to finance their work. More important, their success in reaching Western seekers depended on their ability to adapt and articulate age-old wisdom to the people who came to them for guidance. Paramahansa Yogananda and Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (to cite the twentieth century’s best-known gurus in the West) emphasized that the yogic teachings they espoused had value not only for the rare ascetics but for people with jobs and families. They taught that material comfort is compatible with spiritual development and can actually support it by freeing one’s time and energy for spiritual pursuits. They also taught that the reverse is true: Yogic methods that expand consciousness and open the heart can enhance the kind of thinking, acting, and relating that supports material success.
Yogacharya O’Brian is in that lineage, both literally (Yogananda was the guru of her guru, Roy Eugene Davis) and because her perspective accords with the inner/outer, spiritual/material complementarity advocated by the yogic missionaries. Her interpretation of artha, the aim of life addressed in this book, is consistent with that of the gurus who directed their teachings to householders.
This book is commendable for many reasons, among them its unfailingly practical orientation and its lucid explanation of yogic concepts that are often rendered in obtuse prose. Also, O’Brian understands that the purusharthas are connected, intertwined, and mutually reinforcing. As with the legs of a table, when you move one, the others also move. Hence, when pursued correctly, growth in one of the four aims of life enhances growth in the others. In the case of artha, properly obtained prosperity enhances pleasure, the fulfillment of dharma, and progress toward moksha — and, similarly, growth in any of the other three can enhance one’s chances of becoming more prosperous.
Equally admirable is the author’s treatment of prosperity as something more than financial success and material comfort. In her view, spiritual abundance is part and parcel of the proper definition of artha. She recognizes that abundance acquired in the absence of spiritual growth is relatively empty and unfulfilling — and, she contends, ambitious seekers of wealth are advised not to ignore their inner lives, for doing so can actually be detrimental to their material goals.
If you think this sounds as though Yogacharya O’Brian is echoing the many voices that have, for years, urged Americans to find a balance between work and home, or career advancement and personal happiness, you are only partially correct. Her yogic perspective extends beyond ordinary happiness and mental health, pointing the reader to the highest levels of human development and encouraging action that serves the larger society as well as personal goals — not in addition to material success but as integral to the very definition of prosperity.
By presenting this elevated vision of life balance and human aspiration, The Jewel of Abundance is a useful antidote to the hyper-materialism that poisons modern life. And for those who seek the fulfillment of both their souls and their material desires, the book is a wellspring of inspiration and intelligent guidance.
— Philip Goldberg, author of The Life of Yogananda: The Story of the Yogi Who Became the First Modern Guru and American Veda: From Emerson and the Beatles to Yoga and Meditation, How Indian Spirituality Changed the West
We know what fear and hatred and bigotry would do. The question of our time is, what would love do? My book A POLITICS OF LOVE is a handbook for a new American revolution.
I believe that @MarWilliamson is a fresh, dynamic presence on the political stage and represents our deepest yearnings for a leader with authenticity, integrity, responsibility and the highest calling to serve. ❤️
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The Monk and the Philosopher: East Meets West in a Father-Son Dialogue
The most groundbreaking meeting of Eastern philosophy and Western culture to date.In this father-son dialgue, Revel and Ricard explore the most fundamental questions of human existence and the ways in which they are embraced by Eastern and Western thought. In this meeting of the minds, they touch upon philosophy, spirituality, science, politics, psychology and ethics. They raise the enduring questions: does life have meaning? Why is there suffering, war and hatred? Revel's perspective as an internationally renowned philosopher and Ricard's as a distinguished molecular-geneticist-turned-Buddhist-monk results in a brilliant, accessible and accessible conversation-the most eloquent meeting yet of Eastern & Western thought.
I wanted an introduction to Buddhism, this book is a back and forth between a father and his son and they are both so intelligent. It took me a while to read because I learned about so many things, also about the situation in tibet. It's really all the questions you can imagine asking next to a great, concise and very explained answer. It makes you want to be a better and more altruistic person.
つ星のうち5.0
A Warm and Insightful Dialogue
2010年7月19日 - (Amazon.com)
This dialogue between Matthieu Ricard and his father Jean-Francois Revel is similar to Ricard's other East/West philosophical dialogue (The Quantum and the Lotus: A Journey to the Frontiers Where Science and Buddhism Meet), but with more depth, rigor and intimacy - thus real communication and exchange. Ricard and Revel are both well qualified for this exchange in two important respects - first is their philosophical/intellectual and experiential qualification. Revel is a respected thinker and author of both classical and post-modern Western philosophy. Ricard was raised in this mold (in France), but went on to embrace Tibetan Buddhism after completing his PhD in molecular biology to live with and translate for some of the greatest Tibetan Lamas of the 20th century (from 1972 to present). As a result he is perhaps the most qualified and
This dialogue between Matthieu Ricard and his father Jean-Francois Revel is similar to Ricard's other East/West philosophical dialogue (The Quantum and the Lotus: A Journey to the Frontiers Where Science and Buddhism Meet), but with more depth, rigor and intimacy - thus real communication and exchange. Ricard and Revel are both well qualified for this exchange in two important respects - first is their philosophical/intellectual and experiential qualification. Revel is a respected thinker and author of both classical and post-modern Western philosophy. Ricard was raised in this mold (in France), but went on to embrace Tibetan Buddhism after completing his PhD in molecular biology to live with and translate for some of the greatest Tibetan Lamas of the 20th century (from 1972 to present). As a result he is perhaps the most qualified and able representative of the Buddhist tradition in a Western context.
The second qualification these two share is the love, respect and comfortable rapport of being intimately bonded as father and son. Revel's role here is primarily as the scholar interlocutor with a list of predetermined points designed to draw out Ricard's understanding of Buddhism. He is the clear thinking Western materialist and skeptic. Often he relates his son's responses to European philosophy and psychology from ancient Greek to the modern sciences, and appears genuinely surprised and delighted to learn of Asia/Buddhism's theoretical contributions (to human thought) long before Europe's. He is also quick to point out when Buddhism is merely covering old ground that European philosophy has mined extensively as well. Yet he consistently does this with passion and heart. It is especially touching to see his genuine appreciation of his son's deep and clear understanding.
For me this dialogue is very relevant (as a Westerner with longstanding involvement in Tibetan Buddhism). These materialistic questions are just the kind that I come up with on my own, or field from friends and family (and are probably similar to the ones Ricard would pose to his teachers in his role as the Western 'devils advocate'). The fact that Ricard is so well informed (and steeped in Buddhist culture) makes his responses especially instructive and reliable. (At times the two tread on very subtle ground, and Ricard's lifetime of learning and personal experience help keep it clear and on point.)
As in The Quantum and The Lotus there is a decided advantage for the Buddhist side, as Ricard concedes no ground, while his father's more open and dualistic point of view is gradually and steadily worn down by the gentle yet relentless presentation of the Buddha's Middle Way (yet in the end Revel too concedes little ground). My only criticism is that Ricard sometimes is too safe by presenting only the 'party line', with very little personal flavor. He also glosses over some of the Tibetan cultural traits which have contributed to their current situation (loss of national sovereignty and promotion of an easily misunderstood religious tradition steeped in magic and mystery). The result is that this book stays on safe and sometimes superficial ground.
Generally though this makes for a great intellectual beginner's book to Buddhism, the essence of the path and not the form of the traditions, as well as a comparative overview of it's universal message (vis-a-vis Western science, philosophy and religion). What makes this book unique and valuable is the combination of the range of inquiry, depth of clarity and genuine warmth of the dialogue.
One can look at the guru of a fanatical new religion or cult* as either everything or nothing. The everything would acknowledge the guru’s creation of his group and its belief system, as well as his sustained control over it—in which case the bizarre behavior of Aum Shinrikyō could be understood as little more than a reflection of Shōkō Asahara’s own bizarre ideas and emotions. The nothing would suggest that the guru is simply a creation of the hungers of his disciples, that he has no existence apart from his disciples, that any culture can produce psychological types like him, that without disciples, there is no guru. Both views have elements of truth, but the deeper truth lies in combining them, in seizing upon the paradox.
Gurus and disciples are inevitably products of a particular historical moment. They represent a specific time and place, even as they draw upon ancient psychological and theological themes. As our contemporaries, they are, like the rest of us, psychologically unmoored, adrift from and often confused about older value systems and traditions. That unmoored state has great importance. Here I would stress only that a guru’s complete structural and psychological separateness from a traditional cultural institution—in Asahara’s case an established religion—permits him to improvise wildly in both his theology and his personal behavior, to become a “floating guru.” Disciples in turn are open to any strange direction he may lead them and contribute their own unmoored fantasies without the restraining force that a religious or institutional hierarchy might provide.
The guru narrative is always elusive. The guru appears to us full-blown, catches our attention because of what he, with disciples, has done—all the more so when that is associated with any kind of violence, no less mass murder. We then look back on the guru’s life history to try to understand his part in this culminating act. But while we should learn all we can about him, we are mistaken if we believe that his childhood—or his past in general—will provide a full explanation of that act.
No adult is a mere product of childhood. There is always a forward momentum to the self that does not follow simple cause and effect. Each self becomes a constellation or a collage that is ever in motion, a “self-system” or “self-process.” There are, of course, powerful early influences on that self, but outcomes depend upon evolving combinations of experience and motivation that are never entirely predictable. This is especially clear with exceptional people: one would be hard put to explain the extraordinary actions of either a Picasso or a Hitler on the basis of childhood experience alone. With anyone, we can at best connect that childhood to later inclinations, attitudes, or passions, finding certain continuities of talent, destructiveness, or both. But precisely the quality that claims our interest here—what we usually call charisma—tends to leap out of the life narrative and create a special realm of its own.
The British psychoanalyst Anthony Storr offers a useful description of a guru type: a spiritual teacher whose insight is based on personal revelation, often taking the form of a vision understood to come directly from a deity. The revelation, which has transformed his life, generally follows upon a period of distress or illness in his thirties or forties. There is suddenly a sense of certainty, of having found “the truth,” creating a general aura around him that “he knows.” The emerging guru can then promise, as Asahara did, “new ways of self-development, new paths to salvation, always generalizing from [his] own experience.”
But the guru, in turn, needs disciples not only to become and remain a guru but to hold himself together psychologically. For the guru self often teeters on the edge of fragmentation, paranoia, and overall psychological breakdown. We will observe a particularly bizarre and violent version of this in Asahara, and in the manner in which he disintegrated when his closest disciples turned against him. Disciples are crucial to all dimensions of a guru’s psychological struggles in ways that are seldom fully grasped.
What has also been insufficiently recognized is the life-death dimension that pervades the guru-disciple tie, a dimension I have stressed throughout my work. Moving away from the classical Freudian model of instinct, mostly sexual, and defense, mostly repression, I emphasize our struggles with the continuity of life and our ways of symbolizing life and death. At an immediate level these include experiences of vitality as opposed to numbing and inner deadness. But I also include an ultimate level of universal need for human connectedness, for a sense of being part of a great chain of being that long preceded, and will continue endlessly after, one’s own limited life span. This sense of immortality encompasses feelings of living on in our children and their children, in our influences on other human beings, in our “works,” in a particular set of spiritual or religious beliefs, in what we perceive as eternal nature, or in the oneness of transcendent experiences.
In the cult, the guru becomes a crucible for life-power. That life-power is experienced as a surge of vitality, or what was constantly spoken of in Aum as “energy.” One’s previously deadened life now has vigor and purpose, even if the vigor and purpose are borrowed from the guru. That life-power becomes bound up with larger spiritual forces, that is, with a fierce sense of death-defying immortality. This aspect was the most compelling feature of Asahara’s hold on his disciples. The charisma that a guru like him is always said to possess is usually described with phrases like “magnetic attractiveness” or a “naked capacity of mustering assent.” But at the heart of charisma is the leader’s ability to instill and sustain feelings of vitality and immortality, feelings that reach into the core of each disciple’s often wounded, always questing self, while propelling that self beyond itself. Such feelings can be as fragile as they are psychologically explosive.
In this book Asahara, the guru, will be everywhere, most of all inhabiting, even in the wake of Aum’s violence, the minds of the disciples I interviewed. At the same time he will be nowhere, his guruism a phantom force, wavering between hyperreality and nothingness.
Shōkō Asahara’s childhood brings to mind Erasmus’s aphorism “In the country of the blind the one-eyed man is king.” But this particular one-eyed child was apparently an odd and uneasy king. Born in 1955 into the impoverished family of a tatami craftsman in a provincial area of Kyūshū, the southernmost of Japan’s main islands, he was the sixth of seven children and the fourth of five boys. Chizuo Matsumoto (Asahara’s birth name), afflicted with congenital glaucoma, was without sight in one eye and had severely impaired vision in the other. Because he did have some vision he was eligible to attend an ordinary school, but his parents chose to send him to a special school for the blind. It had the advantage of providing free tuition and board, and a completely sightless older brother was already enrolled there.
Having some vision while his fellow students had none, and being bigger and stronger than most of them, he could be a dominating, manipulative, bullying, and sometimes violent figure in the school, where he would remain until he was twenty years old. He would, for instance, force his roommates to strike one another in a contest he called “pro wrestling,” and when he found their efforts unsatisfactory he would himself demonstrate how it should be done. He could be rebellious to the point of threatening teachers but, if challenged, would back down and deny any provocation. He always had a few completely blind followers toward whom he could at times exhibit great kindness, and his teachers observed that he was also capable of tenderness toward his older brother and a younger brother who later became a student at the school. But he was generally coercive, gave evidence of resentment over having been forced to attend this special school, and was prone to quick changes in attitude and demands.
In his early ventures into proto-guruism, this one-eyed “king” did not command wide allegiance. He unsuccessfully ran for class head on several occasions, and each failure left him dejected. Once, after being voted down by fellow students despite an attempt to bribe them with sweets, he accused a teacher of influencing the election by saying bad things about him, but the teacher pointed out to him that the other students were simply afraid of him.
While his actual background was humble enough, there were rumors of a further taint—that his family came from the outcast group known by the euphemism burakumin (literally “village people”) or that they were Korean, also a victimized group in Japan. These rumors, though false, suggest something of others’ attitudes toward him. Yet later he would sometimes himself imply that he was burakumin, in order to identify himself with a despised and victimized group and so to claim extraordinary triumph over adversity.
