While Sanskrit words frequently have multiple meanings, the following meetings are germane to the question of practice:
Kunda (कुण्ड) means vessel. Kundalini means circular, or coiled. The relationship is clear enough; before the invention of the potter's wheel, most pottery was coil built. (click on the link to see a fine example.) Ancient craftsmen could make very nearly perfectly round vessels using this "primitive" method.
Tantra (तन्त्र) means loom in sanskrit. Weaving is one of mankind's most ancient crafts; we now know that it appears to been practiced even, perhaps, in the neolithic. (The Jacquard loom, incidentally, was the world's first automated computing device, and originally introduced the use of punchcards, a technology that drove computing from its inception in the middle of the 20th century.)
Together, these simple words inform us regarding the nature of practice. Both relate to ancient crafts, some of the earliest creative actions in man's universe. They are not only creative; they are practical. We need vessels to hold water; we need clothes to cover us.
So the idea of practice that is related to vessels and fabrics indicates a basic need, something that is fundamental to the enterprise of living. These are painstaking acts of assembly, with many stages, that take a great attention to detail and an understanding of the materials. If that sounds familiar, it should be. All religious practice displays these features. Some call religious practice an art; others claim it's a science. In the end, though, it combines both features. It is above all a creative craft, essential to life.
In both ceramic coil building and loom weaving, separate elements are "spun" (figuratively, in the case of clay, which is actually rolled, and literally, in the case of fibers) into strands which are then interlaced together to produce a whole entity. So the idea of practice is the crafting and interlacing of many different related elements to create a whole vessel, or whole piece of fabric. The pieces used to assemble the pot or the piece of cloth only make sense in relationship to one another, and it is only through their interaction and cooperation that anything useful arises.
We are vessels into which the world flows; all of our impressions flow into us and gradually fill us over the course of a lifetime. So the idea of understanding ourselves as vessels is perhaps even more fundamental to the idea of kundalini yoga than the more colorful ideas about serpents or snakes. In yoga, man is seen as a receiver of sacred energies; we need to be intact, untouched, and whole in order to receive our lives. A vessel with a crack in it is unusable; and the potter needs to craft a symmetrical, harmonious, appropriate vessel of the right size, then fire it—an alchemical action that fuses the inner elements together. The analogy to inner work is apparent.
The idea of weaving is an equally compelling analogy. The transmission of the robe, or Kasaya, is a long-standing symbol of passing the authority from generation to generation in Zen. (Interested readers should refer to Dogen's Shobogenzo, Chapter 13, Den-e, for a detailed account of this tradition.) And we find the tradition of specific vestments common to almost every religious practice, because practice is, above all, something we inhabit; a life discipline we craft and wear. Fabric is, in fact, more commonly used than any other material product in signifying value: flags, banners, and clothing itself are all used to express meaning within religious, cultural, and social contexts. Human beings, in other words, instinctively understand fabric as a signifier of identity.
Tantric practice, in its current form, is understood to mean adherence to doctrine of the tantras, that is to say, conforming to that which has been woven together.
We take vessels such as glasses, pots and pans, etc, and the clothes we wear, for granted these days, because it's very easy to get them. We forget that in ancient times, the practices connected with manufacturing these things were intimate and personal, just as the practice of inner work is intimate and personal. They were also intensely demanding; no one who has spun yarn, woven cloth, or made pottery will underestimate the sheer intensity of effort required to reach any result in these crafts.
So tantra and kundalini, words we have heard many times, ultimately reveal a long-standing connection between craftsmanship and religious practice that reaches back into the dawn of time. They are not just part of a heritage of religious practice; they are part of a heritage and tradition of craftsmanship, of attention, of effort. They represent the roots of our humanity itself.
Our ancestors were craftsmen. They were worshipers. And they were human beings. They understood all three of these aspects of their Being.
It's worth thinking about, the next time we pull on our jeans, or drink a glass of water.
No comments:
Post a Comment