ALOK MATHUR*
To be whole, I believe, is a fundamental yearning in each of us. What does this mean? And how does this urge arise and seek expression in my life? What does this have to do with education, with learning? I briefly explore these questions.
Seeking to be whole arises when there is a poignant awareness of being divided inwardly, fragmented in one’s thought, feeling and action. As we live with many ‘roles’ and ‘identities’ that are ascribed to us, or that we take on, in multiple contexts and relationships, we generate shifting images of ‘self ’ and ‘others’. We find ourselves negotiating the changing contexts and demands of life, at times being pulled this way and that, seeking an elusive balance. Can there not be a feeling of harmony, a relatedness to others, to life and to our work, that has no division: the feeling of being whole?
A wise person once deeply questioned me: have you found out what you love (to do)? And, sir, have you discovered meditation? The implication: if one does not plumb the depth of these questions, life remains conflicted. These questions serve as a lodestar.
As a partial response: I know that I love teaching. I cherish the company of young people, the freshness of human interaction it affords, the communication and exchange of ideas and feelings, its occasional joys and at times pains. Being a teacher provides a measure of ‘who I am’, and with minimal conflict. And yet, even as one may continue to be challenged and grow as a teacher, does one need to shape this as an ‘identity’, ie. something that is inherently separative?
I am also drawn to nature, and have been fortunate to live and work in a valley with magnificent rocks, trees and thriving bird and plant life. Amidst the apprehension of a chaotic, degenerating and fragmented human world, these lighten the spirit whenever one feels their presence and beneficence. They make no demands and yet allow for a vibrant sense of life around. What underlies our place within this other-than-human world? There remain hints of deeper connections to be discovered.
And what of meditation? Is it to do with time set aside for quieting inner rumblings, observing the arising of thoughts in constant transition, questioning the multi-layered sense of ‘self ’? At times there is a slowing down of thinking, a feeling of body, mind and breath being in harmony. There is a subtle silence between thoughts, an awakening of the senses, a feeling of space. All projections of mind momentarily drop, a sense of subjective clarity emerges, and one feels somewhat whole. But surely, there is much more to it. Can this not thread through one’s relationships and mundane daily activities? And could not the light of meditation penetrate the darkness of our divided human world, dissolve its heavy burden?
As an educator, I go back to my initial question: could this call to ‘be whole’ foster a different kind of learning in the young as well as the old, the student and the teacher? Might it nurture the beginnings of a penetration into the inner world that inevitably shapes the outer? Become aware of our divided selves, learn the ways of the ‘self’, and awaken a feeling of wholeness? If this can happen in our educational contexts, it may well be a saving grace for humanity.