Psychoanalysis and Buddhism: An Unfolding Dialogue

PREFACE

The roots of my involvement with Buddhism go back a long way, certainly as far back as my interests in Western psychotherapy and psychoanalysis. I first began meditating at a Zen center in Vancouver prior to beginning graduate training in clinical psychology in the early 1970s and long before undergoing psychoanalytic training. The teacher at the Zen center was an earnest young monk from England. He had a pious manner more reminiscent of my stereotype of a Presbyterian minister than of the iconoclastic Zen masters and Tibetan lamas who have had the greatest impact on me. But to his credit, he did manage to impress upon me the importance of actually sitting down and meditating in a disciplined fashion. Although I can’t claim to have always been the most diligent of practitioners, my interest in Buddhism has remained consistent over the years. Nevertheless, while the influence of Buddhist thought and practice began to explicitly appear in my professional writing as early as 1990, it has taken considerably longer for me to undertake a project such as this one. As to what all the forces are that finally motivated me to attempt to bring my interests in Buddhism and psychoanalysis together as the central focus of a professional project, I can only speculate. No doubt, as Freud taught us, there are multiple determinants, both conscious and unconscious. And as Buddhism teaches us there are karmic determinants as well. What I do know is that the time for this project now feels ripe to me.

Although the dialogue between psychoanalysis and Buddhism has a long history, attempts to examine the interface of these two disciplines in a systematic fashion have been scattered and episodic in nature. Psychoanalysts who have been interested in this dialogue have tended to be on the margins of their field—functioning outside of the mainstream of analytic thinking. In recent years, however, there has been a deepening interest in Buddhism by psychoanalysts that parallels the growing interest in Buddhism both by Western psychotherapists in general and by the culture at large. This book is the first to initiate a formal dialogue between mainstream psychoanalysts and those who write about the interface of psychoanalysis and Buddhism.

It is structured in the form of: primary chapters followed by commentaries, followed by replies written by the authors of the primary chapters in response to the commentaries. The primary chapters are written by authors equally conversant with the worlds of psychoanalysis and Buddhism, and who in many cases have made seminal contributions to this interface in the past. The commentaries are all written by psychoanalytic theorists who in most cases have a rather limited familiarity with the topic of Buddhism, but sufficient interest to be willing to engage in the dialogue. I was fortunate to be able to enlist the participation of a highly prominent group of psychoanalytic thinkers, many of whom have had an important impact on the development of contemporary psychoanalytic theory. Their willingness to participate in this enterprise is a reflection of the changing cultural milieu, among psychoanalysts and the culture at large. Although there has always been an underground of Buddhaphiles within the psychoanalytic community, it is unlikely the type of dialogue represented in this book could have taken place as recently as a few years ago. My hope is that this dialogue will help to raise thinking about the interface between psychoanalysis and Buddhism to a new level of sophistication, and to stimulate an interest in the topic by both a wider audience of psychoanalysts and psychotherapists, and the general public.

I have written the introductory chapter, Psychoanalysis and Buddhism as Cultural Institutions, to provide a context for this dialogue. It does so by sketching out the cultural and historical factors that have influenced the development of both psychoanalysis and Buddhism, and that are currently influencing the accelerating interest in Buddhism. My secondary agenda is to review some of the major themes and developments within both psychoanalysis and Buddhism in order to provide some background for those who may be less familiar with either of these traditions.

A final objective of my introductory chapter, and of the book as a whole, is to provide those who are not familiar with contemporary psychoanalysis with a taste of some of the exciting and forward-looking developments that are taking place within it. Western psychotherapy began with the emergence of psychoanalysis at the beginning of the twentieth century and for many years psychoanalysis was the dominant form of psychological treatment. Although psychoanalysis has always provided a conceptually rich and sophisticated framework for understanding human experience, the discipline provoked tendencies toward reductionistic thinking and pseudoscientific sterility. As psychoanalysis became increasingly well established as a cultural institution, it tended to lose some of its more revolutionary and progressive potential, becoming somewhat arrogant, conservative, and insular. Then, in the 1960s psychoanalysis began to fall upon hard times. Within the field of psychiatry it was superseded by the biological revolution. And as a form of psychotherapy, it was outflanked on one side by the cognitive-behavioral tradition, with its pragmatic emphasis and its claim to scientific legitimacy, and on the other by humanistic psychotherapy emphasizing the fundamental importance of human dignity and potential.

In recent years, however, there has been a revitalization in psychoanalytic theory and practice that has broken the shackles of conservatism and that is shaping it in a direction that is increasingly responsive to the yearnings of the human heart and soul. I see this book as both a reflection of this revitalization process and a continuation of it.

INTRODUCTION:

Psychoanalysis and Buddhism as Cultural Institutions

JEREMY D. SAFRAN

Freud and the Dalai Lama

Although there was a flurry of interest in Buddhism by psychoanalytic thinkers such as Erich Fromm and Karen Horney in the 1950s and 1960s, this interest to some extent went underground until recent years. Currently, however, there is a marked resurgence of interest in the topic, as reflected in the popularity of books by authors such as Mark Epstein (1995, 1998, 2001), Jeffrey Rubin (1996), John Suler (1993), Anthony Molino (1998), and Barry Magid (2002). Epstein’s books in particular seem to have struck a chord with both a nonprofessional audience and the psychoanalytic community. This increased interest parallels the tremendous popularity of Buddhism in popular culture, where, to paraphrase John Lennon’s quip about the Beatles being more popular than Jesus Christ, the Dalai Lama wins the contest with Sigmund Freud, hands down. While the devout analyst may regard this statement as sacrilegious, like it or not, Buddhism gives every sign of being here to stay within our culture. and its influence on psychoanalytic thinking is growing.

How can we understand the growing interest by psychoanalysts in Buddhism? Psychoanalysis emerged at the beginning of the twentieth century when the secular worldview was ascendant. During this period the modernist worldview and the remarkable achievements of scientific rationalism were making the belief in God increasingly difficult for many people. Freud (1927, 1930) recognized that one of the primary functions of religion is to provide people with comfort in the face of the inevitable cruelties and indignities of life. But he believed that religion is an immature and self-deluding attempt to find comfort in the belief in the existence of an all-powerful and divine father figure. Instead, like many secularly oriented people of his day, he placed his faith in science.

Today, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, people no longer have the faith in science they once had, and the existential vacuum created by the death of God has become more pronounced than ever. It has become clear that psychoanalysis is not a science in the same sense that physics or chemistry are, but rather a secular form of spirituality. In some ways it functions to fill the void that was once filled by religion. But psychoanalysis does not focus extensively on the deeper existential questions that religions ask: What is the meaning of life in the face of our mortality? How do we as individuals fit in with the larger cosmos? How do we find meaning in the midst of the pain, suffering, and loss that are inevitably part of life?

Although many people in our culture experience a spiritual hunger, it is difficult if not impossible for somebody with a secular worldview to return to the religious worldview of premodern times. As the sociologist Philip Reiff (1966) has pointed out, the religious man of premodern times has been replaced by psychological man, and psychoanalysis has played an important role in this transformation. One of the appeals of Buddhism to a secular, psychoanalytic culture is that it is not a religion in the Judeo-Christian model, with belief in God and a theological doctrine demanding a leap of faith. As Stephen Batchelor (1997) puts it, Buddhism is a religion without beliefs, or in Alan Watts’s (1996) words, a religion of no-religion. This makes Buddhism an appealing religion for the post-religious, postmodern person with a hunger for religion but no stomach for religious belief.

While the assertion that Buddhism does not require any kind of religious faith is true up to a point, the reality is more complex. Buddhism, like psychoanalysis, is a heterogeneous tradition with different schools and conflicting and seemingly contradictory beliefs. Both Buddhism and psychoanalysis are cultural institutions that originally developed as expressions of the values and the complex tensions and contradictions within their cultures of origins. Both are systems of healing that have evolved over time as culture has evolved, as the configuration of the self has evolved, and as new cultures have assimilated them. And both have transformed the cultures in which they have evolved. Today’s psychoanalysis is very different from Freud’s, and American psychoanalysis is very different from French. The meaning of Buddhism is very different for a contemporary North American or European than for an Indian Buddhist in the Axial Age or for a medieval Chinese Buddhist, and the function that the assimilation of Buddhist ideas into psychoanalytic theory and practice plays can be understood only if we know something about how this process of assimilation expresses contemporary cultural values, tensions, and problems.

In this introduction I examine the cultural contexts in which both psychoanalysis and Buddhism emerged and the ways they have evolved. I also examine some of the internal tensions that both psychoanalysis and Buddhism have struggled with over time, as well as the various ways in which these two traditions have reflected these tensions. One source of this struggle in both traditions has been the tension between the poles of agnosticism (or atheism) and faith (or commitment). Another has been tension between the poles of individualistic and communal orientations. Through cross-cultural comparison I begin a dialogue between Buddhism and psychoanalysis, with the objective of exploring various ways in which the two traditions can complement one another.

The Cultural Origins of Psychoanalysis

As Reiff (1966) has argued, psychoanalysis developed during a period in which the traditional religious values and symbols that held the community together were breaking down. Religious systems play the dual roles of integrating the individual with the community and of providing a system of communally held symbols and rituals that heal individuals who experience emotional distress. These traditional systems of healing function by giving some sense of meaning to the individual’s suffering and by reintegrating the alienated individual into the community. This process of healing involves an act of faith and commitment to the values of the community, and through that commitment, one experiences salvation. For this reason Reiff refers to these traditional systems of healing as commitment therapies. In order for therapies of this sort to work, there has to be an intact, coherent community to which one recommits oneself. When psychoanalysis originated, the religious worldview that had dominated Western culture was no longer functioning in a cohesive and fully viable fashion. The traditional value system was fragmenting. Neitzsche had already proclaimed the death of God, and the secular worldview was securing its hold on the modern mind. Reiff sees psychoanalysis as qualitatively different from traditional systems of healing. From his perspective, psychoanalysis is not a therapy of commitment but rather an approach that liberates people from the type of commitment required by traditional religion and other social institutions.

As he points out, the goal of psychoanalysis for Freud was not to help the individual to recommit himself or herself to the values of the community but rather to learn to manage the strains of living as an individual detached from community. Part of Freud’s concern was that the existing cultural value system was repressive, or at least that people responded to the demands of society through harshly or rigidly repressing their instincts, thereby giving rise to psychological symptoms. He emphasized the importance of becoming aware of our underlying instinctual passions and then using our rational capacities to modulate or tame them in a reflective rather than a rigid fashion. In this way, Freud believed, people could develop the ability to choose how to act, rather than be ruled unconsciously by their instinctual passions or by their unconscious, rigid defenses against them. His emphasis was thus on rational renunciation rather than irrational or unconscious suppression.

Thus, as Reiff sees it, the analyst, unlike the priest who speaks for organized religion, speaks for the individual buried alive, as it were, in the culture. To be thus freed from a tyrannical cultural super-ego is to be properly bedded in the present world. Analysis is not an initiation but a counter-initiation, to end the need for initiations (1966, 77). Freud had no interest in providing people with any form of salvation. In important respects his value system was consistent with the values of science and the modern era. From this perspective, knowledge is power, and self-knowledge allows choice. To Freud’s way of thinking, the mature individual is a realist, and the realist does not need the comforts of religion, which he regarded as illusion.

But as Reiff argues, there has always been an ongoing tension within psychoanalysis between Freud’s insistence that psychoanalysis not be a therapy of commitment in the traditional religious sense, and the need to find the type of meaning and salvation afforded by more traditional cultural institutions of healing. In contrast to Freud’s hermeneutic of suspicion (Ricoeur 1970), Alfred Adler offered a philosophy of social commitment. Jung attempted to breathe new life into religion by relocating the gods inside man as archetypes. Reich developed a psychology of sexual/energetic mysticism. More recently analysts such as Wilfred Bion (1970), Michael Eigen (1998), and James Grotstein (2000) have developed approaches that attempt to reincorporate the spiritual through what can by thought of as a type of psychoanalytic mysticism.

Moreover, what Reiff failed to realize is that in certain respects psychoanalysis itself is a therapy of faith or commitment. Increasingly, analysts are realizing that the analytic process is not free of suggestion and persuasion, and that a certain degree of indoctrination into the analyst’s value system is both inevitable and desirable. Irwin Hoffman (1998) has been particularly articulate in his discussion of the role that analytic authority plays. He reminds us that Freud (1926) himself thought of the analyst as a secular pastoral worker and recognized that he or she plays the role of an intimate, loving authority who has continuity with the kind of authority that parents have. Freud believed that this authority should be used to persuade patients to come to terms with the truth about both their internal and external worlds.

Building on Freud’s own conceptualization of psychoanalysis as an aftereducation, Hoffman borrows the sociological concept of secondary socialization (Berger and Luckmann 1967) to account for the mechanism through which the analytic relationship influences the change process. He argues that just as the child’s initial construction of reality is forged in the crucible of affectively intense human relationships characterized by dependency upon the parent, the change that takes place through psychoanalysis is inevitably dependent upon a new socialization process in which the analyst functions as an intimate and loving authority. Thus in contrast to Reiff, who makes considerable effort to distinguish psychoanalysis from the type of change process that takes place through what he termed therapies of commitment, many contemporary analysts argue that psychoanalysis inevitably involves some degree of socialization into the value system of the analyst and the analytic community (e.g., Hoffman 1998; Renik 1996).¹

Another way in which psychoanalysis has elements of a therapy of commitment is in its tendency to develop doctrinal positions that the faithful must adhere to in order to be considered true analysts. As Greenberg and Mitchell (1983) pointed out, for many years Freud’s drive theory was the litmus test of whether one was a real analyst, and rejection of drive theory could lead to excommunication from the profession. And even within postmodern and pluralistic circles, the belief in the importance of throwing away the book is becoming a new doctrine of sorts (Hoffman 1994; Greenberg 2001).

Psychoanalysis and the Culture of Individualism

Another important shift in psychoanalytic sensibility that has taken place over time has involved an increased emphasis on the importance of the development of an authentic, vital sense of self and on the construction of personal meaning. Freud emphasized the importance of learning to negotiate the tensions between our instincts and civilization in a constructive fashion. As Mitchell has argued, many contemporary analysts are more interested in helping patients construct personal meaning for themselves: What the patient needs is not a rational reworking of unconscious infantile fantasies; what the patient needs is a revitalization and expansion of his own capacity to generate experience that feels real, meaningful, and valuable…. If the goal of psychoanalysis in Freud’s day was rational understanding and control (secondary process) over fantasy-driven, conflictual impulses (primary process), the goal of psychoanalysis in our day is most often thought about in terms of the establishment of a richer, more authentic sense of identity (1993, 24).

This shift in psychoanalytic sensibility corresponds to an important shift in cultural landscape from Freud’s time to ours. Psychoanalysis was born during a period when individualism was in the process of becoming more pronounced. In the Victorian culture of Freud’s time, the self was viewed as dangerous, and an emphasis was placed on self-mastery or self-control (Cushman 1995). Over the last century the culture of individualism has continued to evolve, and the individual has become increasingly isolated from the community. This is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, the more individuated person of contemporary culture is freer of the potentially suffocating influence of the community. On the other, he or she is cut off from the sense of meaning and well-being that potentially flows from being integrated with the wider community.

According to Philip Cushman (1995) the disintegration of the unifying web of belief and values that traditionally brought people together and gave life meaning has resulted in the development of what he refers to as the empty self. This empty self experiences the lack of tradition, community, and shared meaning as an internal hollowness, a lack of personal conviction and worth, and a chronic, undifferentiated emotional hunger.

Christopher Lasch (1979), in a similar vein, argues that the breakdown of traditional cultural values and the fragmentation of societal structures, which traditionally provided a unifying web of meaning, has resulted in the development of a culture of narcissism. The individual in contemporary culture tends to be narcissistic in the sense that he has a grandiose or inflated sense of his own uniqueness and abilities. This grandiose and hyper-individuated sense of self is a defensive attempt to cope with the underlying sense of fragility and isolation resulting from the breakdown of traditional social structures and unifying webs of meaning. As Lasch sees it, the institutions of psychoanalysis and psychotherapy have developed to fill the cultural void left by the breakdown of traditional cultural institutions. The danger, however, is that psychoanalysis and other forms of psychotherapy can perpetuate or exacerbate the pathology that they are attempting to remedy. By focusing on the enrichment of the self they can create pathological individualism. The popularity of theorists such as D. W. Winnicott, with his emphasis on the true self, and Heinz Kohut, with his normalization of narcissism, can be seen as a reflection of the deeply entrenched sense of individualism in contemporary culture.²

Whereas people once saw personal contentment as a byproduct of living a good or moral life, in contemporary culture the pursuit of happiness risks becoming a goal in and of itself. There is thus a perpetuation of the narcissistic goal of pursuing self-enhancement or of shoring up the self. Because of the sense of isolation produced by the breakdown of traditional social structures, people become increasingly desperate in their pursuit of intimacy. However, intimacy becomes unobtainable as a result of the same circumstances that lead to the intensified search for intimacy in the first place. True intimacy involves the letting go of rigid self-other boundaries that are necessary in order to maintain narcissistic defenses. Because people are so preoccupied with shoring up their narcissistic defenses, intimacy becomes increasingly elusive. In addition, because of the intense isolation resulting from the breakdown of traditional social structures, people have unrealistic expectations about their intimate relationships or place unrealistic demands upon them, thereby dooming them to failure. People look for the kind of spiritual transcendence in their intimate relationships that traditionally came from religion.

Relational Developments and the Postmodern Turn

One of the more important developments in contemporary psychoanalysis consists of the relational perspective (Aron 1996; Benjamin 1988; Ghent 1989; Mitchell 1988). This perspective involves a host of related theoretical developments, which share in common an emphasis on the relational field as the basic unit of study, rather than on the individual as a separate entity. Human beings are regarded as being fundamentally interpersonal in nature; mind is regarded as composed of relational configurations; and self is regarded as constructed in a relational context. Although relational theorists trace their roots as far back as Sandor Ferenczi, the growing impact of the relational perspective on the mainstream is, I believe, a reflection of the intensification of the crisis of individualism in contemporary culture. It can be regarded in part as an attempt to remedy the excesses of a more individualistic perspective. It is also interesting to note that although the relational perspective synthesizes theoretical perspectives from both sides of the Atlantic, American culture has played a particularly significant role in its origin and development. This, I believe, is a reflection of the particularly intense sense of individualism and isolation in the United States. While the relational perspective can be seen as a corrective to the excessive individualism of contemporary culture, at another level it represents a further embodiment of that individualism. By emphasizing the mutuality of the analytic relationship and the analyst’s embeddedness in the relational field, it challenges the traditional sources of analytic authority. This is consistent with the Western democratic emphasis on the challenge of tradition and the location of authority within the individual rather than the social institution.

Another important trend in contemporary psychoanalytic thinking consists of the postmodern turn. Increasingly analysts are emphasizing the constructed nature of human knowledge and the inherent limits of our understanding as analysts (Hoffman 1988; Mitchell 1993; Stern 1997). Constructivist epistemology asserts that reality is intrinsically ambiguous and is given form only through our interpretation of it. This perspective has profound implications for the nature of analytic authority and goes hand in hand with the increasing democratization of the therapeutic relationship. As we shall see, the shift toward a constructivist epistemology and the recognition that all knowledge is positional is also consistent with developments in traditional Buddhist philosophy.

Associated with the postmodern turn has been a shift toward viewing the self as multiple rather than as unitary (Bromberg 1998; Mitchell 1993; Pizer 1998). This shift reflects a similar shift across a range of different disciplines including philosophy, literary criticism, anthropology, social psychology, cognitive sciences, and neuropsychology. Although it is beyond the scope of this chapter to speculate extensively about the factors underlying this widespread cultural shift, it is worth dwelling for a moment on its meaning within psychoanalytic thinking, given the parallels between the psychoanalytic conceptualization of self as multiple and the Buddhist conception of self.

In postmodern thought, one of the central impulses underlying the deconstruction of the self is to challenge potentially oppressive functions of tradition and authority. Jacques Derrida, for example, kills the author of a text, deprives him or her of ultimate authority, by arguing that the final meaning of a text cannot be settled with reference to the author’s intentions. Constructing meaning is an endless hermeneutic enterprise, and the notion of truth is replaced by a ceaseless play of infinite meanings. Michel Foucault challenges what he considers the illusion of self as an autonomous free agent by analyzing the way in which intricate decentered networks of power relations within society lead to the construction of the subjective experience of selfhood.

The current psychoanalytic fascination with self-multiplicity has no doubt been influenced by the faddish nature of this type of thinking. But there are other influences. Susan Fairfield (2001) for example, argues that theories of selfhood do not accurately capture some underling reality but are shaped by various intrapsychic needs of the analyst. She draws our attention to the hidden smugness often associated with critiques of monists (believers in a unitary self) who cling to the comforting belief that there is a stable, cohesive, singular self. She also points out the aggressiveness potentially associated with the desire to challenge conventional boundaries. And she suggests that seeing the self as multiple may also be a counter-phobic attempt to master fears of self-fragmentation by arguing that the self really is fragmented. She further adds that North American analysts, consistent with the optimism of their culture, tend to think about self-multiplicity in positive terms. For them, a multiple, contradictory self has more potential than the unitary self. In contrast, European theorists who emphasize multiplicity tend to place more importance on the experience of alienation or loss associated with the lack of a unitary self.

Mitchell (2001), while applauding Fairfield’s thoughts about why one might view the self as multiple, also highlights the clinical implications of this view. His central thesis is that the adoption of the perspective of self as multiple helps to liberate us from a view of mental health that emphasizes conformity. In an argument somewhat reminiscent of Jacques Lacan’s, he claims that the American ego-analytic emphasis on ego integration tends to value rational analysis and synthesis and to pathologize emotional intensity. In contrast, openness to a range of different states of being is conducive to greater unpredictability and passion in life. It is interesting to note that in some respects Mitchell’s understanding of the clinical implications of self-multiplicity is consistent with his earlier emphasis (Mitchell 1993) on the centrality of enriching and revitalizing the self. This sensibility is in keeping with Fairfield’s argument that American analysts tend to view the multiple self as a cornucopia of possibilities.

Origins of Buddhism

Buddhism originated in what is now northeast India during the fifth century B.C.E. During this period Indian civilization was undergoing tremendous ferment. The rural society and agricultural economy were gradually being replaced by a market economy and urban centers. A new culturally diverse and sophisticated merchant class was on the rise; traditional cultural values and religious beliefs were being challenged, and a heightened sense of individualism was emerging. Just as present-day individualism is double-edged, the growing individualism in India seems to have been associated with both malaise and exhilaration.

The agricultural society in which Buddhism developed was static and conservative. It divided society into four rigidly hierarchical castes: priests, warriors, farmers, and servants. These castes were hereditary and were thought to mirror the archetypal order of the cosmos. Ethical conduct consisted of performing the duties and responsibilities appropriate to one’s caste. This worldview, while providing structure and cohesiveness, left little room for social change or individual conscience. The Brahmans, or priests, were in exclusive possession of the sacred knowledge of the Vedas, which spelled out the responsibilities of the castes and the relationships between them. It was the Brahmans’ duty and responsibility to enact various sacred rites including animal sacrifice in order to control the universe.

For some time preceding the emergence of Buddhism, a new religious trend had begun to develop, the Upanishadic tradition. It involved a reinterpretation of the Vedas that emphasized the importance of the internal meaning of things over the external, magical significance of sacred rites. At the same time it enshrined the caste system. Central to Upanishadic philosophy is the concept of atman, which is equivalent in some respects to our concept of soul. The atman is the essence of the person, which transcends phenomenal experience. It is thus the real self in contrast to the experienced self. This atman is conceptualized as identical with the single unified essence behind appearances. The individual experience of self, and all phenomena in the world, are thus illusions, behind which lies a transcendental reality in which all phenomena are one. The failure to see behind this veil of illusion keeps people trapped in the pain of individuation and the suffering of life and death. Those who fail to recognize their true nature as part of the universal essence experience the pain and sorrow of life, and at death are reborn once again into endless rounds of life and death. The goal is to recognize the illusory nature of the self and to unify the true self or atman with the underlying universal essence. As for the historical conditions that led to the perception of life as being so painful, this is a matter of speculation. It may in part have been related to the stress associated with increased urbanization and the breakdown of traditional values. The rapid buildup of urban centers may have led to an increased incidence of plagues (Gombrich 1988). Regardless of the conditions giving rise to this perspective, however, one of its consequences was a devaluing of sensual and worldly experience in favor of the transcendental.

Two primary practices used for gaining transcendence were meditation and mortification of the flesh. Meditation in this context involved sitting quietly and using a variety of concentrative techniques to focus the mind, thereby stilling discursive thought. Mortification of the flesh involved subjecting oneself to various physical extremes of cold, heat, hunger, and so on as a way of conquering the demands of the body, thereby experiencing transcendence.

Early Buddhism can be understood as a reaction to this worldview in a number of ways. To begin with, the Buddha denied the existence of an atman, or of any transcendental self or soul. At the same time, he never taught that the self does not exist (as he is often interpreted to have done), but rather argued that the self is nonsubstantial, in the sense that it is constructed on a moment-by-moment basis out of a variety of components: memories, physical sensations, emotions, concepts, dispositions (including both unconscious and inherited conditioning), and so on. Furthermore, he argued that the construction of self is always influenced by ever changing causes and conditions. There is some similarity between this teaching of the Buddha’s and the Upanishadic formulation of atman. The underlying assumption in both cases is that the experience of the self as a substantial and isolated entity lies at the heart of the problem, and that the modification of that experience is the cure.

The Buddhist perspective is, however, more moderate in some respects. To begin with, it does not conceptualize the individual self as illusory. Again, what is illusory is the experience of self as substantial or unchanging. From a Buddhist perspective, the self, like everything in this world, is transient or impermanent. Death, illness, and loss are unavoidable aspects of life. Suffering arises as a result of attempting to cling to what we desire and to avoid what causes us pain. Liberation emerges as a result of recognizing the impermanent nature of reality and letting go of our self-centered craving. There is no transcendental self to be realized, as is the case in the Upanishadic worldview, and thus no self that is separate from the aggregates of form and psychological or mental experience. In this respect the Buddhist perspective is less dualistic than the Upanishadic worldview and less likely to give rise to extreme forms of asceticism. The Buddha emphatically rejected extreme asceticism as a spiritual practice and instead proposed what is referred to as the Middle Way, that is, a pathway between the extremes of asceticism and hedonism or sensualism. The goal in Buddhism thus becomes not one of transcending worldly experience but rather one of finding a wiser way of living within it.

This difference plays out in the form of the meditation techniques that are used in the two different traditions. In the Upanishadic tradition meditation tends to involve the concentration of attention upon a particular object of focus for purposes of experiencing an absorption. This results in a withdrawal of the senses from worldly experience, a reduction of internal stimulation, and a resulting experience of peace or tranquillity, which is believed to be associated with the transcendental reality that one wishes to realize.

This form of meditation, which is sometimes referred to as concentration meditation constitutes one form of Buddhist meditation, but in and of itself it is not considered to be sufficient for liberation. The second form of meditation, which plays a role in most Buddhist traditions, consists of detached observation of one’s own mind. Concentration meditation plays an important role in helping the individual develop the attentional skill necessary to observe his or her experience in a mindful fashion, but the experience of meditative absorption is not the goal. The objective of this second form of meditation, which is referred to as insight or mindfulness meditation, is to help the meditator develop a greater awareness of the manifold contents of awareness as they unfold, and an ability over time to develop an attitude of nonjudgmental acceptance of the full range of experience. This objective is in keeping with the Buddhist emphasis on learning to live fully in this world rather than on pursuing otherworldly experiences. Mindfulness meditation leads to a greater appreciation of the impermanent or ever changing nature of all phenomena, including the self. It also leads to an appreciation of the role the mind plays in constructing reality.

Another important characteristic of early Buddhist thinking is the rejection of all metaphysical speculation. In this respect Buddhist thinking, at least in its early form and in some contemporary variants, is essentially pragmatic and agnostic in nature. It is pragmatic in the philosophical sense (e.g., Rorty 1982) insofar as truth is defined as that which is effective in relieving human suffering. And it is agnostic in the sense that it refuses to engage in metaphysical speculation. There is a story in which the Buddha used the analogy of a man who is shot by an arrow. In a situation of such urgency, questions such as who made the arrow and what type of bow was used are irrelevant. What is critical is the practical affair of removing the arrow. Similarly, argued the Buddha, metaphysical and cosmological speculation are irrelevant to the task of relieving human suffering. Moreover, committing oneself to a metaphysical view or a theological doctrine is a form of enslavement. It interferes with the openness essential to enlightenment or true existential awakening.

One of the implications of this feature of early Buddhist thinking was that it undermined the theological structure supporting the caste system. At a social level, then, early Buddhist thinking was a profoundly democratizing force. It subverted the authority of the priestly class and denied the value of ritual observances of a magical nature. Ethical behavior was no longer defined as performing one’s duty as a member of one’s caste, and no merit was accrued from observing rituals or depending upon the priestly class. Instead ethical action was defined in terms of acting selflessly, according to the precepts of right action.

In some respects the thrust of the early Buddhist tradition was analogous to the thrust of the Protestant Reformation in Europe. Early Buddhists were interested in purifying the Upanishadic tradition of features that they saw as problematic, just as Luther and Calvin wanted to purify Christianity. They wanted to eradicate the magical or superstitious elements, eliminate empty ritual, and establish a more direct relationship between the individual and the experience of salvation (or what the Buddhists refer to as enlightenment). Just as the Protestant Reformation contained a democratizing element, challenging the role of the clergy as divinely empowered intermediaries between the individual and God, Buddhism eliminated the divinely sanctioned role of the priestly class and emphasized the responsibility of the individual for his or her own spiritual destiny. And just as the attempt to purify Christianity of its magical elements had both desirable and undesirable consequences, so did Buddhism’s attempt to purify Indian religion of its magical elements have such consequences. Both developments placed greater emphasis on the inner meaning of spirituality, but both sacrificed some of the magic and mystery that the human heart hungers for.

Tension and Evolution within Buddhist Thinking

Since its inception, Buddhism has struggled with the tension between the pragmatic/agnostic perspective at its core and the need for faith and epistemological certainty and metaphysical absolutism. In many ways this parallels the tension in psychoanalysis between Freud’s vision of psychoanalysis as a purely rational, scientific, analytic approach and the tendency to develop a new therapy of faith and commitment. One reflection of this tension can be seen in the evolution of Buddhist philosophy. Early Buddhist philosophy and psychology were codified in a body of literature referred to as Abhidharma. This literature emphasizes that the self can be deconstructed into a number of constituent elements. These elements are viewed as arising in dependence upon one another and upon fluctuating causes and conditions. It is on this basis that the self is seen to be lacking in substantiality. In practice, it is held that the meditative process allows one to experience the arising and departing of various constituent elements of the self, and this insight leads to the experience of enlightenment.

Over time, this perspective became reified, and there was a tendency to view the various constituent components of the self as having a fundamental or substantial nature. Various alternative perspectives were offered as to what these fundamental constituents of the self were. Partially in reaction to this trend, the Madhyamika school of philosophy developed. This perspective employed sophisticated linguistic and logical analysis to deconstruct the Abhidharmic analysis of the self into constituent elements and to demonstrate that none of these elements have intrinsic reality. The argument is not that such phenomena are nonexistent, but rather that they are empty of inherent existence. In other words, all phenomena exist in dependence on our construction of them. This perspective anticipated contemporary hermeneutic and constructivist thinking by hundreds of years. The Madhyamika perspective is not a radical constructivism, but rather closer to what Hoffman (1998) refers to as dialectical constructivism. It extends the Buddhist principle of the Middle Way to the epistemological level, by arguing for a position between the extremes of naive realism and radical constructivism. It emphasizes that emptiness itself is only a concept and does not have any intrinsic reality. As Madhyamika philosophers put it, the concept of emptiness is like a medicine—a medicine for the illness of naive realism. But like any medicine, too much of it can make you sick.

Nevertheless, critics of the Madhyamika position interpreted it as a form of radical constructivism, leading to nihilism. The Yogachara school of philosophy attempted to correct what it saw as a tendency toward nihilism in Madhyamika thinking, adopting a position that, in turn, tended toward the metaphysical and transcendental. The Yogachara school holds that both perception and the object of perception spring forth from a single seed, which is contained in a type of substratum consciousness. This substratum consciousness is likened to a river, which is constantly changing and yet remains the same. It has both personal and universal aspects to it.

Then there is what is referred to as Tathagatagarbha tradition in Buddhism, which holds that all sentient beings are endowed with Buddha nature, and thus have the potential for awakening and realizing their intrinsic identity as enlightened beings. This Buddha essence, also referred to as suchness, or in Sanskrit as tathata, is often spoken of as equivalent to emptiness, but it has a more positive quality. It is described as beginningless and endless and as pervading everything. In some traditions this concept of Buddha essence or suchness appears to be taken more literally, thus bordering on the type of substantialism that early Buddhism was reacting against. In other traditions, however, the concept is subjected to the type of deconstructive logic characteristic of the Madhyamika approach.

At a more practical level, the tension between the poles of pragmatism/agnosticism and faith/absolutism is reflected in the way in which the Buddha is conceptualized in different Buddhist traditions. In early Buddhism, and in some forms of contemporary Buddhism, the Buddha is emphatically not seen as a divine figure. He is a human being who became enlightened through his own efforts, and who serves as a model for other spiritual seekers. After his death he was seen as no longer directly active in the world. The Buddha is thus not somebody to be prayed to. Over time various doctrines and traditions developed that viewed the historical Buddha as only one embodiment of the principle of enlightenment. In this view, the cosmos is inhabited by an infinite number of Buddhas—past, present, and future, all of whom have an active presence in the world and help sentient beings attain enlightenment. In various Buddhist traditions, practitioners pray to or petition one or another of the Buddhas, just as Catholics pray to the saints. At the level of philosophical doctrine, there is recognition that these Buddhas do not exist in any absolute sense, that like all phenomena they are empty of intrinsic existence. Nevertheless, at a psychological level they function for people in the same way that saints function in the Catholic tradition, or that gods and goddesses function in premodern cultures.

Another example of this tension can be seen in the role that the belief in rebirth plays in various Buddhist traditions. Despite the fact that early Buddhism rejected the notion of an eternal self or atman, it accepted a notion of rebirth. As in the Upanishadic tradition, a formulation of the goal in early Buddhism was (and in some forms of contemporary Buddhism continues to be) obtaining release from samsara, or the cycle of death and rebirth. This state of release, referred to as nirvana, is conceptualized as one in which all self-centered craving ceases. And yet at the level of practice the goal is often regarded as one of achieving a better life at the next cycle of rebirth. My impression is that there has always been a tension between the official Buddhist doctrine of anatman, or no-self, and the belief in rebirth. Buddhist philosophy attempts to reconcile this tension in various ways. For example, it is argued that what continues from life to life is not a substantial selfor soul but rather a subtle causal connection. The analogy that is used is that of flame passed from candle to candle. The flame that passes from one candle to a next is not exactly the same, but not exactly different either. But to my mind, this resolution is less than completely satisfying. Some Buddhist traditions downplay the importance of the doctrine of rebirth. The Zen tradition, for example, tends to emphasize that good rebirths and bad rebirths are both states of mind.

On the other hand, Tibetan Buddhism places considerable emphasis on the principle of rebirth. In fact there is a tradition of picking important spiritual leaders at an early age because they are believed to be reincarnations of deceased spiritual leaders. For example, the Dalai Lama, who is the supreme spiritual and temporal leader of Tibet, is viewed as the fourteenth incarnation of the first Dalai Lama.

When Buddhism spread to China, it was transformed by the existing culture and by the Taoist and Confucian philosophies that were dominant at the time. Although a variety of different forms of Buddhism developed in China, Chan Buddhism (more commonly known by its Japanese name, Zen) is perhaps the most distinctively Chinese. Zen is often characterized by its direct and down-to-earth quality. Ancient Indian culture tended to prize abstract philosophical thought and metaphysical speculation. It tended to have a world-weary quality. As we have seen, in Upanishadic thinking, life is suffering, and the goal is to seek liberation from the endless round of rebirth by seeing through the illusion of one’s individuality. Ancient Chinese thinking had a more optimistic, humanistic, and earthy flavor to it. In Taoist thinking, liberation is obtained by attuning oneself to the natural, spontaneous harmony of the universe—the Tao. This Tao is not something that can be defined in words or grasped conceptually, and in fact any attempt to do so only interferes with one’s ability to function in harmony with it. One can act in accordance with the Tao only when one is able to let go of attempting to grasp it, thereby acting in a spontaneous and unselfconscious fashion. This allows one to be attuned and receptive to the configuration of the moment.

Although the Buddha originally served as a model for the way in which all human beings could become enlightened through their own efforts, subsequent developments in Indian Buddhism tended to present enlightenment as a more and more extraordinary, rarefied, and otherworldly state, available to only the few. Zen tends to bring enlightenment down to earth, as it were, and to demystify and demythologize it.

There is an iconoclastic element to Zen, which was probably influenced by the ancient Taoist image of a sage as somebody who was liberated from convention and from stereotypical thinking. Enlightenment in the Zen tradition tends to be associated with spontaneity and freedom from inhibiting self-consciousness and conformity. Enlightenment is conceptualized as a state in which events are experienced immediately, without the intrusion of reflective self-consciousness. There is a selfless openness to experience.

Buddhism in Tibet took a very different turn from Chinese Buddhism. In Tibet certain developments in Indian Buddhism (referred to as Tantric Buddhism) blended with the indigenous Tibetan tradition of Bon, which had strong magical and shamanistic elements. This resulted in the development of an interesting synthesis of magical and shamanistic practices with Buddhist worldview and epistemology. The Tibetan tradition places great emphasis on the importance of the teacher (referred to as the guru or lama), who is seen as an embodiment of the Buddha and as the gateway to enlightenment. Tibetan Buddhist cosmology is populated by a pantheon of male and female deities, who are invoked during meditation sessions that involve elaborate visualizations. Yet at the same time, these deities are seen as empty of inherent existence and as creations of the meditator’s own mind.

In Tibetan Buddhism, one of the foundational meditation practices is what is referred to as guru yoga. The purpose of guru yoga is to facilitate the development of faith and devotion to one’s lama. In psychoanalytic terms the Tibetan tradition attempts to cultivate an idealizing transference toward the teacher, and to use that as a vehicle for change. This transference provides an ongoing inspiration for the student to continue on the arduous pathway of spiritual development despite its many difficulties, by helping to generate and maintain faith that change (or relief from suffering) is possible. The lama or guru serves as a living reminder that such change is possible, since he functions as an embodiment of the principles that the student aspires to realize. In addition, being in relationship with a lama who embodies special qualities helps the student feel empowered.

In the Tibetan tradition, the relationship with the lama is never interpreted as it is in psychoanalysis. From the beginning, however, the student is taught to cultivate a paradoxical attitude toward the lama, who is seen, on the one hand, as an embodiment of the highest ideals and values in the Buddhist traditions and, on the other, as a human being with human flaws and failings.

As with so much of the Tibetan tradition, guru yoga is reminiscent of the old Indian rope trick, in which the yogi climbs up a rope suspended in midair, pulls the rope up after him, and disappears. The student is taught to conjure up a world of meditation deities in his imagination, or to imbue the lama with special powers, and then to use the constructed images of his imagination in order to help him to cultivate certain attitudes toward reality. At the end of every meditation session, the meditator dissolves the image back into the nothingness from which it arose. He pulls up the rope.

Although there are many variations of guru yoga, they all involve some combination of visualization practice and prayer or incantation designed to help the student see the lama as an embodiment of the Buddha (and of the qualities a Buddha embodies) and establish a deep connection with him, thereby ultimately internalizing his qualities. For example, the meditator visualizes the lama as manifesting in the form of a Buddha or other deity surrounded by a retinue of important figures in the lineage and by various dakinis (female deities visualized in order to focus the mind). Various colors of light are then visualized as emanating from the dakinis and from the lama, bathing and purifying the meditator of self-centered craving and helping him or her to recognize all phenomena as empty of inherent existence.

This particular practice illustrates two characteristics of Tibetan Buddhist visualization practices. First, the visualization is permeated by a kind of transitional logic or reality, to use Winnicott’s term. Although the visualization is intentionally constructed by the meditator, it is also treated as if it had a life of its own (you pray to the visualized lama). At the same time you explicitly remind yourself by means of prescribed incantations that neither the visualization nor even the lama himself has any inherent existence. The meditator thus attempts to enter into a type of transitional space in the sense that the boundaries between subjective and objective reality are intentionally blurred. He or she strives to maintain a type of double vision, on the one hand knowing that the experience is subjective and, on the other, treating it as if it were objective or real.

Second, it involves the imaginary construction of a world in which the normal boundaries of personal identity become permeable. In the visualization the lama becomes identical with the Buddha, and the lama’s mind becomes inseparable from that of the meditator. This identification helps to loosen the constraints of ordinary dualistic logic and challenges the conventional self-other distinction. When the meditator conjures up an entire pantheon of lesser and greater deities and, while doing so, recognizes that they both are and are not creations of the mind, the meditator taps into a rich and vast experience that dwarfs conventional reality.

Buddhism and the Culture of Psychoanalysis

SECULARIZATION AND THE RETURN OF THE REPRESSED

The trend toward secularization in the modern world, while profoundly liberating in some respects, has also contributed to the experience of the self as empty, and in some more traditional cultures has been seen as a form of oppression and an assault on traditional ways of life. In some cases this has caused a resurgence of religious interest in a variety of different forms, a type of return of the repressed. In the middle of the twentieth century, few would have predicted that religion would once again become an important