In my previous post, I mentioned that I’ve been teaching meditations inspired by a Buddhist teaching called the Honeyball or Honeycake Sutta. This teaching focuses on helping us relax our sense of separation from the world. On one level, it’s about simply experiencing what’s happening without reacting to it. That’s the approach most people take. On a deeper level, it involves not identifying with our experiences as “me” or “mine.” Instead of thinking, “this is my experience” or “this is me experiencing,” we recognize that there is just experiencing happening, without attaching it to a specific self. This practice is straightforward once you grasp it, and I aim to help people find their way into it.
As often happens, my meditation practice evolved in unexpected ways while teaching these meditations. It’s as if the practice has a life of its own, and it’s fascinating to see where it leads. Toward the end of the series, I started viewing my experiences as if they were part of a movie. This viewpoint was interesting, but before I delve into that, I’d like to mention another teaching by the Buddha that intersected with the Honeycake Sutta. This teaching is called the Phena-Pindupama Sutta. “Phena” means foam and “Pindupama” means lump, so it translates to the Discourse on the Lump of Foam.
In the Phena-Pindupama Sutta, the Buddha, standing on the banks of the Ganges River, talks about how our experiences are illusory in nature. Using metaphors related to water, he explains that the physical forms we see, including our bodies, are like lumps of foam floating downriver. Someone with discernment would find that foam is empty and without substance. Similarly, when we examine physical form, we realize it’s the same.
But what does this mean? Isn’t it obvious that our bodies are solid? In meditation, when we deeply focus on the body, we don’t actually experience solidity or substance. All we know are sensations. The mind interprets these sensations as “substance” or “solid,” but they are just sensations of resistance. Looking closely, these sensations are anything but solid. They’re fleeting points of perception, constantly appearing and disappearing. We can all verify this through dedicated observation skills.
The Buddha likens feelings to bubbles formed by raindrops hitting the river. Feelings seem to persist over time, but upon close examination, they are just internal sensations—each one as brief as a splash on the river’s surface. When examined closely, feelings, too, are momentary points of sensation that flicker in and out of existence. The Buddha asks, “What substance could there be in feeling?”
The Buddha then uses different metaphors: thoughts and concepts are like a mirage on hot ground, emotional impulses like the pith of a banana tree (which has no heartwood), and consciousness like a magic trick. All these aspects of our experience lack substance. This can also be verified in our personal experience. There’s no real substance in the sounds and images of memory or imagination, in emotions like anger or desire, or in consciousness itself.
These metaphors were apt for the Buddha’s time and remain useful today. However, in my own life, I find a more fitting analogy in cinema. My physical, emotional, and mental experiences are like watching a movie. My body generates sensations, my brain produces feelings, and my mind creates sounds, images, and concepts. All these are insubstantial, and we can observe them like a movie.
Our experiences can be deeply engaging, much like a film. When my feelings are hurt, that hurt feels very real. Anger feels real too, and I believe the stories I tell myself about the person who hurt me. But what if I realize I’m watching a movie?
Recognizing that my body and mind are creating a movie helps me take it less seriously. I can enjoy the experiences, whether they bring pleasure or discomfort, much like appreciating the tender and tense moments in a movie. I can see my feelings, whether pleasant or unpleasant, as part of the film. Unloving or unhelpful impulses can be allowed to dissolve because they’re unreal. Seeing my thoughts, memories, and future imaginings as movies playing in my mind is liberating.
Seeing life as a movie is simple, effective, and a new perspective for me, so I’m still refining my understanding. Some people might mistakenly think this means nothing matters, but that’s not true. What’s important is to love everything, especially the parts of us and others that take the movie to be real. These parts need our love and compassion. Love and meaning are part of the movie too, and they are ultimately its core. Understanding this deepens our sense of connectedness and compassion.
If we lack a sense of love, meaning, or purpose, embracing this perspective could be unwise. However, when we have a healthy sense of these qualities, seeing life as a movie can enhance them further. It frees us from attachment to beliefs and clinging that obscure the reality of our connectedness and compassion, our true nature.
Thank you for helping me build this awareness.
I’ve been asked how this concept of life as a movie came to be and if I have any further thoughts. It’s not entirely new; I’ve heard the metaphor of viewing thoughts as a movie, meaning to observe them mindfully without getting caught up in the story. This goes deeper, recognizing that all experience is illusory. For instance, you don’t really have a body; you just experience sensations created within the body. The brain interprets certain things as either threats or benefits, creating patterns of sensation we call feelings. Thoughts are fabrications too, although we often take them seriously.
This realization came from my meditation practice, leading me to this experience intermittently. I’m now trying to articulate it. We can still act as if things are real when necessary, like avoiding a dog bite. But if we’re in pain, seeing it as a constellation of sensations can be helpful.
Thank you for sharing your appreciation and reflections. I’m glad my writing resonates and provides a helpful framework, especially the emphasis on self-compassion.
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