Ahimsa and the Centipede
Illustration from the 16th century book, Mira calligraphiae monumenta (The Model Book of Calligraphy), a collaboration between master scribe Georg Bocskay, and Flemish artist Joris Hoefnagel. publicdomainreview.org
In sangha last week there was a beautiful teaching opportunity, which I missed in the moment. It came to me later, as is often the case. Our very funny friend told us a story about a giant house centipede she found and caught, just before settling down to meditation. What trouble she had concentrating, because she kept expecting another centipede to appear!
We shuddered and commiserated, “They are SO creepy!” One of us has a phobia of these creatures. I have a very powerful urge to smash them, and I do, if I am quick enough. They are so large, so alien, so speedy! We bonded in sympathy with each other’s aversion.
But then the lone male voice in our group very gently pointed out that they are helpful, these creepy crawlies. They eat smaller bugs in the house, like ants and termites. The Toronto variety is not poisonous to people, they don’t bite. They just crawl, creepily and fast.
Even that sense of creepiness is completely subjective. My young nephew LOVES bugs, adored them even before he had words to name them. His mom has had to temper her powerful aversion in sympathy for her boy’s love; her compassion for his attraction demands some taming of her aversion (a kind of exposure therapy!).
These two opposing responses to bugs (aversion and attraction) appear in gendered ways, which suggests to me they are on some level learned. There may be good reasons to have a hard-wired aversion to crawly bugs with way too many legs. In some parts of the world they are extremely poisonous, but in some cultures they are yummy food. And there are also good reasons to be attracted enough to learn about them, to know if they are dangerous, and what part they play in the local ecology. It might not feel like it, but there is some choice in how we respond.
And then I thought about how I feel, when I do the violence of killing centipedes in my kitchen. I know they cannot hurt me, and I do in fact feel an empathetic shudder of pain, as well as shame, when I kill them. Did I not commit myself to the principle of ahimsa? In truth, every act of violence I do leaves an uncomfortable trace of violence on me. I can suppress this feeling, make it small, justify my actions. To live in an old house in an old neighbourhood and not be overrun by bugs and mice and other invaders I can justify all sorts of killing. But I would rather not.
At the end of 2019, I began framing my yoga classes around the yamas and niyamas, which are ten guiding principles, or ethics, of yoga philosophy. I listed them out loud at the beginning of each class, and invited participants to choose the most resonant principle, the one that caught their ear, and to draw into deeper consideration of it. The one that I keep coming back to all through this year, is the one taught first, and the seed of all the others: ahimsa, or non-killing, non-harming, non-violence.
In my instantaneous movement toward himsa—lashing out—I find my teacher. I have learned to capture a wasp or a fly or a spider and release it outside my house. Can I learn to do that for a centipede? Can I tolerate my centipede-aversion long enough to “live and let live”?
This may seem a trite example, to kill or not-kill a big, ugly bug. But really, it is a perfect place to exercise the muscles of compassion and awareness. To take a quarter-breath’s pause between aversion and lashing out — this skill can apply in so many arenas of our lives, and it is a practice I want to keep training, to keep working with. I fail, again and again, because I am a human being with strong preferences and instincts, and my hate, fear, aversion, and rejection muscles are well-developed. And sometimes, I can make better choices, more aligned with ideals.
In a recent dharma talk, Chakung Jigme Wangdrak Rinpoche gave this teaching, which I paraphrase:
A monk drinks a cup of tea and finds a bug swimming desperately in it, nearly drowned. He scoops the bug out of the tea to save its life, and sets it free. The monk’s act earns kharmic merit instantly. We could invent a longer story about the bug, that it holds the soul of some special person in the monk’s life, or that the bug will in rebirth become a buddha, and that this is the source of merit. But really, the monk’s kharma benefits instantly from this act of compassion in a very direct way. His act of kindness warms his own mind with kindness.
As Beop Jeong wrote:
Do not forget that
the fork in the road between a dark life
and a bright life
depends upon your own present
brightness and darkness.
In every moment, our brightness or darkness can prevail. To warm up my mind with compassion further, I remember that without fear, I would not have learned how to be brave. Without aversion, I would not develop healthy boundaries. Without knowing hate, I would not need to learn how to turn toward compassion. I have to accept that I came into the world with all the ugly potential that exists in human beings, just as I came wired for love and beauty and compassion and connection. The principle of ahimsa is one of many signposts that remind me along the way.
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(See this gorgeous little film about kinetic wind sculptures, many-legged, walking beauties.)
