“All instruction is but a finger pointing to the moon; and those whose gaze is fixed upon the pointer will never see beyond. Even let him catch sight of the moon, and still he cannot see its beauty.”
A scientist describes her invention. What does it do? What is it like? How can you build one yourself? The invention is a major alteration of her own mind and heart, so she goes on and on about herself. She is even standing up, where others can see clearly, and pointing at herself as she remarks on the differences. Does this deter use of her information? Does it sidetrack attention to the invention itself? She hopes not.
In any case, it is not even her invention, but whatever she did to invite it, she wants others to know. Reading Adyashanti, I’m struck by how well he deflects attention to himself while describing profound transformations in his own awareness. Anyone engaged in the task of spiritual transformation will witness things within themselves that they immediately want to communicate. I liken it to the dance that bees do when they return to the hive after finding a field of flowers. The only problem is that, because the subject matter is oneself, one will inevitably say many things in praise of the changes in oneself. One ceases to look like a bee and more like a preacher. Having grown up in the Bible Belt with a preacher for a grandfather (and a preacher for an estranged father), I’m well acquainted with the preacher persona and its associated snoot, poetically referred to as “holier than thou.” While some preachers do believe they are holier than others, even those with humility run the risk of seeming that way.
Carl Sagan had it easy. His subject of study was astronomy. The more wonder and reverence he directed at the galaxy, the more he evoked it in others. My subject of study is the Divine light. Anywhere I see the Divine light, I am going to gesticulate in awe. In myself. In others. In you. Even in the leaves and soil and water. Point to myself, however, and the danger is that I give the appearance of pride. Point to others, and the danger is that you feel excluded from the truth of it, as though it could never happen to you. So while others are getting “stars upon thars,” you look at your belly and wonder why it seems so empty. Point to you, however, and the danger is that I give the impression of foolish infatuation. You really are beautiful, but don’t take my word for it. Just look at where I am pointing.
The online thesaurus describes a snoot as a “snob, braggart, elitist, highbrow, name-dropper, parvenu, pretender, smarty pants, stiff neck, upstart.” I imagine at least some of these words were applied to me when I first entered graduate school. In my first semester, I gave a presentation on a set of ideas about thought and emotion that had filled my mind day and night for more than ten years. A theory is just a set of ideas about how things are, I thought, so I called it a theory. My theory concerned the domain of emotion, so I called it a “theory of emotion.” Even my own advisor cringed when she saw those words in my talk. The phrase was a major academic faux pas.
They didn’t hear me at all. I was a “plain-bellied Sneetch” who seemed to have her nose in the air. Of course, no plain-bellied Sneetch could possibly know anything, no matter how I put it.
I have a love-hate relationship with words. The moment I speak, I am already half wrong. Words cannot be what words are about, and it’s the being that matters. Yet, words can open the heart like music, and they connect us to the awareness of the speaker, which offers an opportunity for a more direct transmission of being.
It turns out, I really did have an original, useful idea with broad implications, but six years of graduate school have passed, and every presentation I gave elicited only irritation (with some notable exceptions, such as the chair of the department, who stopped me in the stairwell to give me the best five minutes of praise I’ve ever had). At year five, a study nearly identical to one I proposed was published and found its ways into CNN and the LA Times. My fellow students eagerly forwarded the news to me. My advisor said I had been “vindicated,” but they were all missing the point. Their perception of snoot obscured attention to an idea that might have shifted how they see things.
This same danger exists in the domain of spiritual awakening. Awakening has a reputation for being very grandiose, because the effects are so profound, and the bliss is so consuming. Describing an awakening, the danger is that the impression of pride obscures the insights. The person who experiences an awakening experiences a deep desire to transmit it, especially to those who are suffering, but this effort also draws attention to themselves. Krishnamurti and many other awakened humans have insisted that no one call them a teacher, but they become like “the artist formerly known as Prince.” The “human formerly known as Master” still conveys the false sense of being somehow better. Wake up, and you’ll know it’s not true.
A friend recently teased me for claiming to be an Ati yoga practitioner, but it seemed a reasonable way to communicate the context in which my thoughts are embedded.
I don’t think fingers are what most distract us from the moon. The snoot is far more fatal. But if you feel inspired to guide someone to the source of that ineffable moonlight, don’t let such worries stop you. Just focus on the moon and let your love struck words do the rest.
