The two truths

A dose of Buddhism explained through art

At the risk of excessively narrativizing, I am finally starting to see what’s in front of me. After taking the proverbial hero’s journey, I came back to discover that the things I sought were always here.

As a wee college student, I remember encountering a Buddhist philosophical theory called the two truths. On the one hand, there’s conventional truth: what we consider the normal, readily perceivable world. And then there’s ultimate truth: something akin to connection and oneness with all.

A seemingly hidden world hovers just beyond sensory perception. Perhaps it’s possible to avoid contact with it and ignore those tingly signs. Yet once acknowledged, you realize it’s been there all along.

The Buddhists explain the two truths by perceiving a mountain. So the teaching goes, you encounter a mountain and at first, that’s what it is: a mountain is a mountain.

But the longer you sit with that mountain, observe it, and be with it, it changes. Like saying a word over and over again until it becomes mush, suddenly the mountain is no longer a mountain.

This is ultimate truth. A dissolving of the boundaries of the conventional world to reveal something different beneath.

Many writers play with the concept through art. My Brilliant Friend’s Lila perceives and explores the edges of her existence until one day, she disappears. And any Murakami novel, notably The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, contains a murky underbelly some hapless character encounters while living an otherwise conventional life. A beautiful rendering appeared in Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow—2023’s hot novel about video game programmers. Their famous game involves a split world, which I suppose also calls to mind the TV show “Stranger Things”… I could go on but, that feels like enough references for now.

Despite its prevalence in art, modern society seems to look down upon people who too-heavily promote or rely on ultimate truth. It’s considered uncultured, woowoo, and perhaps prone to abuse. Of course, some people get lost and take it too far.

The point of understanding the two truths isn’t to stay in the ultimate. Instead, the final step is to come around to seeing the mountain again. After experiencing ultimate truth—the mountain is not a mountain—it’s time to bring that learning back to the conventional world. The mountain is a mountain, and has always been.

Art is the perfect way to explore this duality. There’s a safety in abstraction that can express what logic cannot.

Yet I carry this mindset into my logical work, too. I know I’m ready to write an argument when I’ve gone full circle around it. I start with certainty—a mountain is a mountain. Then, the more I outline and research and probe, I enter deep doubt. I see my argument’s flaws and the flaws of the system and laws upon which it rests. A mountain is not a mountain. I sit in discomfort. I flounder. Until, usually after a good sleep, I wake up to see the mountain again. It’s solid. It’s defensible. It’s something I can write.

These are the truths of my life, as articulated by someone wandering the Indian countryside in sixth century BCE. It’s funny to think about societal “progress” since then. We’ve come so far! (A mountain is a mountain.) Or wait, we really haven’t. The essential struggles of humanity are the same, have always been, even before human existence. (A mountain is not a mountain.) But then again, here we are. Look at all we’ve done, what we’ve built, and who we’ve become.

A mountain is a mountain. I can see it now, out my window across the valley. Brown streaked with white as the sun melts the last remnants of winter’s snow.

Film from a recent hike looking out at Ship Creek.

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this reflection, please share it. I self-publish these newsletters in part so that it’s easier for people to find my writing. It’s beautiful and at times excruciating to put words into the universe without institutional backing. Any indication that you’ve stuck around this far makes it all the more worthwhile.