Boorstein’s book is about the ten paramis (Sanskrit paramitas), written from a Theravadan perspective. She is a practicing psychologist and vipassana teacher, hanging out with folks like Jack Kornfield and Sharon Salzberg. This would seem to stand her in good stead, though I confess I was less than blown away by her book. It had a rambling, chatty, fluffy feeling to it, almost like she sat down at her computer with a cup of coffee and just started writing whatever came to mind. Often the stories she told to illustrate her “points” did not seem particularly connected to the virtue under discussion, be it loving kindness, renunciation, generosity, or whatever. They could go on a bit too–a not particularly illuminating conversation with a cab driver concerning whatever covered three pages (pp. 117-9)! Similarly, the quotes at the heads of the chapters often didn’t seem related to the chapter subject.
The most instructive and original part of her book was the “periodic table of virtue” (pp. 28ff). This was not only insightful but helpful. It reminded me of the table I created off Acariya Dhammapala’s “Treatise on the Paramis” in an earlier post. A few of her stories were also quite good. I especially recommend the one about Bret and his retreat experience (memories of getting mugged) from pp. 236ff, and Boorstein’s musings on her own ten year long grudge against a fellow meditation teacher (168ff). Then there is the hilarious–though totally irrelevant–piece about Seung Sahn and Kalu Rinpoche. I once met the former and am familiar with his book titles, every one of which prefaces his name with the self-styled title “Zen Master.” He never impressed me and Boorstein’s story (on p. 196) not only confirmed my opinion of him but also put me on notice that it really is possible to be too Zen. The story is so priceless I quote it here in full:
Students of the Korean teacher Seung Sahn, the founder of the Providence Zen Center, and students of Kalu Rinpoche, a lama (priest) in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, arranged for the two venerable lineage holders to appear together for a public dialogue. Seung Sahn took an orange out of the sleeve of his robes, held it up for Kalu Rinpoche to see, and said, in the forthright style characteristic of Zen, “What is this?” Kalu Rinpoche’s interpreters translated the question for him, but he seemed mystified. ”What is this?” Seung Sahn repeated the question. Still the lama remained mystified. Seung Sahn asked a third time.
Kalu Rinpoche turned to his interpreter and said, “What’s the matter with him? Don’t they have oranges in Korea?”
While I am always happy to be amused, I would have liked more serious practice related suggestions, such as…”here’s a parami, and these are ways you can develop it.” Even when she did attempt “practice points” they were mostly bland mindfulness exercises which, while good in themselves, lacked the specificity to really develop that particular trait. I would have also liked more context. As noted, this book is about the paramis from a Theravadan perspective so, perhaps stereotypically, there was no discussion of the bodhisattva’s career–Acariya Dhammapala and his like are totally absent. While I won’t hold that against Boorstein, in the Theravada the paramis are traditionally associated with particular Jataka stories and the use of some of these as illustrations of the different virtues would have added greatly.
This brings me to what may be the most distressing aspect of the book: the lack of a goal for these practices. I mean, why should anyone bother? Why be generous? Why give up your pleasures, venial or otherwise? This we are never told. The reason, I think, we are never told is because the version of the Buddha’s teaching that comes through in these pages is hopelessly watered down. For example, when Boorstein discusses the Four Noble Truths (pp. 15ff), the third is reduced to simply having a “peaceful mind.” Well, this could mean anything, from post coital slumber to sharing a Bud Lite with your friends on the beach. Another example of this sort of bland evasion of the Dharma’s edgy nuts and bolts is her rendition of the third of the the three marks of existence (annicca, dukkha, anatta), usually translated as not-self or impersonality. Boorstein describes it this way (p. 112):
Nothing has a substantive existence separate from everything else, or indeed any existence at all apart from contingency, apart from being the result of complex causes and a factor in subsequent experience (insight into interdependence).
Huh? Why, I wonder, would she want to make something simple and profound into something vague and garrulous? It seems she is trying to straddle Mahayana and Theravada chairs and falling down between them. In the process, the teaching of anatta is obscured and the third noble truth–the point of the whole enterprise–remains unillumined.
Why? I ask again. Well, I think what we have here is an example of the muddiness of what David Chapman has called “consensus Buddhism“–that is the impetus in certain quarters to take the various Buddhist schools, with all their nuances, contradictions and specific flavors, stick them in a blender, and puree them to a bland mixture that we all have to agree is something called “Buddhism” on account of the lack of a better term. The resulting concoction appeals to the masses but doesn’t say much of anything very well. This is a whole topic unto itself, and Chapman has really run with the ball on this. I suggest spending time on his sites to see what it’s all about. For here and now, though, I will only point out that what consensus Buddhism can never offer is an intellectually challenging platform for practice because that might make some people uncomfortable.
This is not a bad book, but it is by no means great, either, despite all the gushing recommendations from Boorstein’s fellow Dharma teachers. If you are earnestly inquiring into the bodhisattva project I would suggest you pass on it.
My Amazon rating: 3 stars