"The Journey to Gandhara"

                                                         I
President and Mrs. Oxtoby, members of the board of trustees, professors emeritae and emeriti, distinguished guests, faculty colleagues, returning students, and members of the Class of 2008. Almost forty years ago, I sat where many of you are sitting now, also about to begin my first year at a college like this. Like many of you, I had come a long way: in my case, about five thousand miles, from the Hawaiian islands, an outpost on the far western frontier of the American imperium, to the heartland, St. Paul, Minnesota. Needless to say, I was greeted by stares of disbelief and puzzlement when I told my classmates and teachers that I was from Hawaii. Their responses revealed a paradox that I have spent the last forty years trying to understand: why did I leave a semi-tropical island in the Pacific for the vast expanse of the Upper Midwest, where there were seasons, snow and ice, and bitter cold? Why did I leave home in the first place...? Why did you leave home?

                                                        II
There was a mythical student named Shvetaketu who left home as you did, in his case, to study sacred scripture with a teacher. He studied for twelve years and then returned home. As will happen to all of you when you return home during the winter holiday, Shvetaketu’s parents were curious about what he had learned. “Did you receive the teaching, his father asked, that explains “how what has been unheard becomes heard, how what has been unthought of becomes thought of, and how what has been uncomprehended becomes comprehended?” “What sort of teaching is that?” Shvetaketu asked? It was clear that he had not received it, so his father took it upon himself to present that teaching to his son. “Bring me a fig from that tree,” he commanded.

“Here it is, sir.”
“Break it open.”
“I have broken it open, sir.”
“What do you see?”
“Extremely fine seeds, sir.”
“Break open one of those seeds.”
“I have broken one open, sir.”
“What do you see there?”
“Nothing at all, sir.”
At this point his father explained to Shvetaketu that what he did not see was the essence from which the fig tree had sprung. Then his father instructed him to add some salt to a bowl of water.
The next day, when they continued their lessons, his father asked Shvetaketu to bring the salt that he had put into the bowl of water the day before. Although Shvetaketu looked for the salt, he could not find it, for it had completely dissolved. His father continued:
“Please take a sip of water from this end of the bowl. How does it taste?”
“Salty, sir.”
“Now take a sip from the middle. How does it taste?”
“Salty.”
“Take a sip from that end. How does it taste?”
“Salty.”

Shvetaketu slowly began to realize that even though the “salt was no longer visible, it still was in the water.” His father continued: “Although you do not perceive Being in this world, it is, nonetheless, here. It is a subtle essence, and this whole world has that essence.... That is what is Real. That is the Self. That essence is you, Shvetaketu. It is you.”
This dialogue, from a body of South Asian texts called the Upanishads, is one of my favorites. First, because it is profoundly important: it provides the historical foundation for several spiritual traditions in India, China, Korea, Japan and the countries of Southeast Asia, for what we call Hinduism, Buddhism, Daoism, and Neo-Confucianism. Shvetaketu’s dialogue with his father points to what the South Asians called atman, what the Buddhists called the “buddha nature,” what the Daoists called “virtue,” and what the Neo-Confucians later called the “original nature.”

I like Shvetaketu’s dialogue with his father for another reason: it reminds me of what goes on at this college and what I believe is the most important thing here--the teacher-student relationship. This relationship, I would argue, is more important than anything else--more important than our endowment, our beautiful buildings and well manicured grounds, our rankings in national polls, and our wonderful Southern California weather. After all, what are we but a community of teachers and students engaged in conversation with one another, a community whose size allows us to talk and even to teach one-on-one, as his father did with Shvetaketu. And it is the possibility of this kind of intellectual engagement that distinguishes us from other, much larger institutions of higher learning. Isn’t this why you--the students--are here? It’s certainly why the faculty is here!

I would urge all of you to seek out the teachers who will not only teach you but who will engage you one-on-one, those who will meet you for lunch or coffee, supervise your independent studies, guide you in advanced research, and give you advice as you write your senior thesis. If you don’t do this, if you don’t take full advantage of the opportunities for close intellectual engagement, you won’t be making the most of what the college can offer.
                       

                                                           III
The words “That essence is you, Shvetaketu” make another important point: they are saying that all people have within themselves something linking them to a higher reality. You could call it the “cosmos,” or the “Truth” with a capital “t.” But Shvetaketu’s father doesn’t say much about that other reality except through implication and understatement, nor does he mark out a very clear path to realizing that there are in fact two realities.
This task was left to succeeding generations of religious thinkers and philosophers. Consider the story of a young Buddhist monk who was being trained at a monastery in China. He dutifully followed the path that he was told would lead to enlightenment: he rose early each morning; he did menial labor at the monastery; and he also went off into the neighborhoods surrounding the monastery to beg for food, begging bowl in hand. One morning as he gazed at his begging bowl, he saw what he thought were flies. He waved his free hand over the bowl but nothing moved. He then realized that the flies did not really exist, that they were only an illusion. But even though they were an illusion, the flies still seemed real and thus had a provisional reality.

The story of this young monk tells us, first, that everything is not always what it seems, and, second, that it is necessary to realize this. But how are we to do this? How can we see through the fog of illusion? This search for a way to apprehend the higher, truer reality occupied the best minds in Asia for nearly a millennium and a half. The Daoists blamed language for producing illusions. Others thought that breathing and yogic exercises would help them see clearly. Many Buddhists recommended meditation, which entailed quietly composing oneself and focusing inward. In medieval China, some Neo-Confucian philosophers, at the end of their search for a way to see reality as it is, followed the Buddhists and practiced meditation as well. But other Neo-Confucians insisted on empirical study: they closely observed the world around them and studied the past, believing that if they did this long enough and carefully enough, they would discover the laws governing nature and history.

Although these religious thinkers and philosophers favored different forms of practice, all agreed on the importance of what the Buddhists called upaya, or “skillful means.” The doctrine of upaya, or “skillful means,” is not unlike our idea of the liberal arts, but our conception of upaya has changed over the years. In the nineteenth century, colleges like Pomona were highly sectarian, and most of the faculty were Protestant clergymen ( and, I stress, clergymen). Many of the students were children of clergy, and not surprising, they too became clergy; and some even left home to do missionary work in Asia and Africa. Then in the first half of the twentieth century, something called “general education” was introduced into the curricula of American universities and colleges. At that time “general education” meant an education centered on secular subjects and on what was termed “Western civilization.” In the decades after World War II, “general education” began to include the study of other civilizations. In this Pomona College was way ahead: in 1939 President Edmunds established what we now call “Asian studies.” Indeed, Pomona was the first liberal arts college in this country to have an Asian studies program. Then in the 1950s, the international relations program was founded; in the 1960s black and chicano studies were added; in the 1970s, American studies and women’s studies came into being; in the 1990s, Asian American studies, black studies, German studies, Latin American studies, linguistics and cognitive science, media studies and neuroscience were created; and in the last few years, environmental studies and Russian & East European studies joined the curriculum.

All of you in the class of 2008 will reap the rich harvest of these changes.You will study a variety of things before you graduate: you will take courses in mathematics, biology, chemistry, physics, computer science, psychology or astronomy; in history, politics, economics, sociology, or anthropology; and also in language, literature, music, drama, dance or art. (You’ll be encouraged to do this by what we call the General Education requirements.) And you will also choose a major and explore a particular discipline or field in depth.

With luck, you’ll become critical thinkers, readers and writers. You’ll learn to see through the veil of language and recognize what Confucius called the “clever talkers,” an essential skill in this season of clever talking and calculated deception. You’ll study the myriad manifestations of the past and develop an authentic knowledge and understanding of the dramatic changes that explain today’s geopolitics and expose the blunders that led to our current predicament in Iraq. You’ll also learn to find your way through the enticements of contemporary culture and you’ll see both the bright and dark sides of what is glibly called “globalization.” For instance, you will learn that a cup of Starbuck’s coffee is more than just a cup of coffee.

One other important means of upaya will be offered to you: study abroad. More than half of you will study abroad at some point--for a semester, a year or a summer--in Europe, Latin America, Africa, or Asia. And at the end of four years, like the well-trained monk, you’ll see through many of the things often presented to you as fact.

                                                            IV
So using skillful means to dispell illusion is the message of the parable of the far-sighted monk. Let us consider another example. The Zen Buddhist priest named Takuan is best remembered as the inventor of a crunchy and smelly pickle that bears his name. But he was also a skilled painter, a celebrated tea master, and the creator of memorable landscape gardens. As a result, Takuan was in great demand as a teacher and tutored the rich and powerful, merchants and even a shôgun. Takuan also taught a number of great swordsmen, including Munemori Yagyû, the founder of the Yagyû school of swordsmanship. In fact, I think the polymath Takuan may have been the inspiration for the Star Wars character named Yoda.

One of Takuan’s most famous writings is a long letter he wrote to the master swordsman Yagyû. In this letter, Takuan described the highest and deepest understanding that a person could hope to achieve and he did so in a language familiar to Yagyû: the language of swordsmanship. Imagine yourself in a duel with another swordsman, he wrote to Yagyû. “When you first notice the sword moving to strike you, if you think of striking that sword as it is, your mind will stop at the sword in exactly that position, your own movements will be interrupted, and you will be cut down by your opponent.” Takuan’s point is that the outcome would not be a very happy one.

He continued. “But when you see the sword moving to strike you, if your mind is not distracted by it and you fall in with the rhythm of the advancing sword....the sword intended to cut you down will instead become your own and...will be the sword that cuts down your opponent.” Takuan was warning Yagyû (and perhaps us) that our own preconceptions and rhetoric can trap us and lead to an unhappy and disastrous end.
Takuan’s letter of advice to Yagyû also poses a paradox, namely, that sometimes students with little training in the way of the sword have no difficulty seeing through, and beyond, the attacker’s sword. He explained how this was possible: “It is because the beginner knows nothing about either the correct body posture or the correct positioning of his sword that his mind is not distracted by the attacking sword. Therefore, when a man strikes at him with his sword, the beginner simply meets the attack without any preconceptions.”

With his words “the beginner...simply meets the attack without any preconceptions,” Takuan was elevating those who are not powerful, rich, learned, or senior. What allowed him to do this was his assumption that each person has the potential to achieve this higher understanding, a conceit that resonates with our own notion of universal equality. We might even read his comment on “beginners” as creating a space for women, for those not considered “one of us,” and for those who were “invisible” in his day.
As I think you must realize, Takuan’s advice to Yagyû echoes Shvetaketu’s father’s instructions to his son and rehearses the point of the story about the monk and his begging bowl. Takuan, however, moves beyond his predecessors by reminding us that those who are merely clever and skilled have not achieved the highest level of understanding. Moreover, mere cleverness and skill will lead only to thoughtless and rash action, and even death.

Class of 2008--by the time you leave us in four years you will have begun your quest for that higher understanding. If you achieve it, you will gain the intellectual and moral independence that will enable you to find your way in the world and that will give you the courage to resist anyone who would deny, or encroach upon, your inherent worth and the courage to stand up for, and to act on, what you believe and know to be true.
 
                                                          V
I’d like to close with Shvetaketu’s father’s final words of advice to his son: “Imagine, he said, a person from Gandhara, who has been blindfolded, led away from his home town and then...abandoned in a strange place.... As that person drifts toward the east or the north or the south, he mutters ‘I have been led away from home with my eyes blindfolded and...abandoned here...’ Then someone ...tells him ‘Gandhara lies in that direction, go in that direction.’ And at that point, by asking his way from village to village, he will eventually reach Gandhara.”

Class of 2008, good luck on your journey.