You know how statues of the Buddha sit cross-legged, peaceful, eyes closed or nearly closed, not alert, but not wholly relaxed, the posture good (not slouched), the fingers of one hand arranged in a gesture of spiritual significance, while the other hand is placed upon the knee or in the lap? So that it seems, when you look at them, that they are not quite doing something, are not going anywhere, are not expending any effort other than that which involves their absorption in that moment of their existence, and with whatever might be present to their consciousness? Even if what is present to that consciousness is an attempt to dissociate from it? Or to experience it more fully? And that any of their urges, or drives, have been deemed by them subordinate? Or, anyway, not for them a necessity to which they must attend? And that they, the Buddhas, would remain thus, stationary, as long as they could, even if they weren’t statues? As if the purpose of life came not from striving for something more than what one has, nor from maintaining what one does have (a level of comfort, say, as one proceeds through time), but rather from abiding, or enduring, without ambition of any degree; not precipitating one’s demise, or hurrying toward it, but doing nothing to elude it, or to put it off? As exemplified by their seated inaction?
It is this image of the statue of the Buddha that occurs to me when I hear the word “Progress” applied to humankind, as it would relate to our destiny, or our trajectory as a species, insofar as the notions I associate with the Buddha, and with ‘buddhahood,’ seem to call into question what we often take for granted — that ‘Progress’ is, for the individual and for the collective, in any pursuit we can conceive of, be it scientific or economic or personal or social, not illusory, or a change in outward measure alone, but something real, valuable, and ensured of an end that can be realized.