II
Although in the normal course of our lives we find ourselves in situations where different kinds of functioning are called upon, the clear implication of practice is that we are multiplying these situations by generating them for ourselves. Our function is governed by the quality of our attention, and there are three kinds of attention:
- No attention.
- Engaged, or attracted attention.
- Directed, volitional, voluntary attention.
When I have no attention, I am nothing, nowhere. When my attention is engaged, I begin to notice. Then, recognising that I am noticing, I recognise that my attention is engaged. The practising guitarist may notice that the little finger of their left hand waves about to an alarming degree, even points to the heavens, in the discharging of a simple manoeuvre. This mighty and accomplished being, the guitarist, has no control over a small digit. This is bad news. But the good news is, I have noticed. When I become aware of my hands, I begin to be a human being. After all, this is the animal I inhabit. But shortly, even very shortly, I will forget that I have hands and my little finger will continue to describe celestial motions. But, sooner or later, I shall notice again.
When this next noticing occurs, I have an opportunity. If I bring my attention, as an intentional act, to my hands, I make contact with my body. And I become aware of the condition of my body. The discipline of the hands becomes, by extension, the discipline of the whole of the body. Perhaps I notice that my hands are sluggish today, and recall that last night this body had a large amount of alcohol poured into it, or that it was kept up very late watching the latest hit videos on MTV. Perhaps my hands are gently shaking, a result of the nine cappuccini and French confectionery which I have just pumped into this swelling body. If I take the condition of my hands seriously, perhaps I shall also take seriously—but not solemnly—the condition of my body. I will learn what my body requires to be a reliable, functioning instrument. Perhaps I notice that it rises slowly from eating huge amounts of food, and rises with alacrity from sufficiency. Seeing my body as an instrument of function, I see my mind as an instrument of function also, but with a different field of operation.
The mind is the seat of thinking. What do I notice in the area of my thinking? Within this grey organ, three pounds in weight, driven by glucose and with an output of 25 watts, what is happening? Maybe, a maddening noise of contrary voices. If my little finger was recalcitrant in accepting direction, what hope is there for clarity in the middle of this din? From time to time I notice one of these voices. This is good news. The bad news is, it won’t shut up. Perhaps, I can listen to it. If I can listen to it by directing my attention towards it, perhaps by directing my attention away from it I will cease to hear it. The voice continues, but without an audience. I learn, by noticing and listening over a period of years, that the voices never cease: if not shouting, they will be murmuring. They will never be silent. My freedom lies in this: I do not have to listen to them. This is good news. However, my freedom is governed by the quality of my attention. That is bad news.
Assuming the virtue, that I have some power of direction over my mind, what is the function of the mind to the musician? How does the musician practise the discipline of the mind? The mind is the seat of the imagination. This is, as the word suggests, the visual imagination: the production of images. Probably, the mind can also reproduce other sensory information besides the visual and auditory. It can also move us in space—from place to place—and in time, from moment to moment. A prime concern for us is the mind’s ability to hold patterns. We train the mind to hold in front of us a pattern which has relevance to our needs. For example, this may be a measure of bars, say four bars of five. Then, whichever note we are playing with this space of twenty beats, whichever part of this section we are playing, we have a form of contact with all the other parts within this section of twenty beats. Before, our attention was limited to the one note which we were playing. Now, our attention is stretched in time to, possibly, twenty beats. The quality of this contact will improve with practise. The pattern may change from being merely a pattern held in the mind’s eye, to being a moment within which I am present and engaged, a moment expanded beyond the duration which is customary for me.
How does the musician train the mind to be an efficient, responsive instrument? The answer is simple: by practice. The actuality is also simple, just very hard. It may be too hard. This provides us with a measure of our commitment to our aim. Maybe the aim is set too high; maybe we do not wish for it sufficiently; maybe we do not have the resources at our disposal to realise our aim; maybe our condition is so far from the aim that it is wildly unrealistic. Then, we persist. Maybe our condition is not so far from our aim. Then, we persist. Either way, we persist. We begin again. And every time that we notice that we haven’t been noticing, we begin again…again.
If the little finger is uncontrollable, the mind evasive, untrustworthy, ungovernable, and noisy, can we regard the heart as an instrument of function? What might we say of the operation of the heart? It may seem reasonable, even generally acceptable, to suggest that the highest quality of the heart’s function is to love. But can we love someone we dislike? A real creep, perhaps a member of my group, created especially to come into the world and irritate me? I have the right to avoid them. But, how can I avoid someone in the same band? Can I find a way of working with them despite my dislike of them? It may be that this fellow musician is a person I will never like. Maybe they don’t like themselves.
I may have no freedom in my liking and disliking, but I do not have to act with hostility, and neither do I have to think hostile thoughts. Loathing them as I do it, I may act charitably towards a person, even send them good thoughts. Bringing my attention to the region of my breast, I may wish them well. This is where my freedom lies. In time, I may find that how I regard them changes surprisingly. And then I will have lost an opportunity: every time the creep irritated me, I had been reminded of my aim. How could I not remember my aim, when playing music in the same room as Creepo Face? They were a better friend to me than I knew. I may discover that the friends I like are every bit as restricting as the friends I dislike: I am locked in expectations and the demands of friendship. Fortunately I do not have to look far for someone else to irritate me: they are only a reflection of the irritation I hold, unnecessarily, for myself.
