Historical Sense and a Search for a Teacher

As the 20th century developed, one of my favorite poets and thinkers established an important term for literary study: “historical sense.” T. S. Eliot effectively called out authors that wrote without awareness of the historical lineage of the literature they were writing, called out people who used devices and metaphors without understanding the historical associations they would bring. In his essay “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” he wrote: “Tradition is a matter of much wider significance. It cannot be inherited, and if you want it you must obtain it by great labour. It involves, in the first place, the historical sense... and the historical sense involves a perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence; the historical sense compels a man to write not merely with his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the whole of the literature of Europe from Homer and within it the whole of the literature of his own country has a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order.”

Intellectually, this idea resonated with me primarily because it helped explain some of the failures of heroes, symbolism, tropes, and more in any form of media (books, film, music, and more). To explain, imagine someone creating what they would proclaim as a revolutionary rock song or film only to recite tired and overly used tropes, unaware of what has already been done? Imagine proclaiming a poetic movement as being revolutionary or being the first to do something only to look back in history 20 or 30 years and find that same pattern repeated? Or possibly writing a piece of literature that, frankly, has no relevance to the history and place and moment it was composed in? This is historical sense: the awareness of what place, time, history, and lineage a work or idea possesses when the creator creates it.

So what does this have to do with Buddhism?

Recently, I was on a search for my first sangha that I would actively engage in. I have been in the ‘forest’ of my practice for quite some time, wandering like Hesse's Saddartha, often slighting others (admittedly) in my own arrogance. In my search, I found the absence of historical references to be a serious red flag in any Buddhist practice or Sangha. There are dozens of meditation or yoga or mindfulness practice groups, but how many of them are clear and aware of the historical ideas they appropriate for their use?

The world of Buddhism is vast and different. To say someone is Buddhist is, well, saying that someone is philosophically Christian. Yet, how different are Christians? How many perceive their Christ as serving one purpose, while to another group he serves another? How many Christians follow the institution of the church much like they follow the teachings of Christ? How many narrow Christianity to simply Christ, while others expand to the saints, the officials, other doctrines outside of the Bible, and more? How many view the Bible as the only text necessary, while others view it as an expression of part of Christ, something beyond the scope of that book? How many require ritual for salvation, while others require internal acceptance of Christ?

Every single one of these statements could be applied with Buddhism, with the substitution of Buddha for Christ, or the Sangha for the church, or the Dharma for the Bible.

Yet mindfulness, meditation, yoga practice, internalization, and more are all taught frequently from a secular perspective in my California context. These elements are further expanded on, interconnected, and used each for a purpose often associated with the nebulous statement “Mental Health,” Yet which practices are they using and for what purpose? How many of them have the historical sense to know from where these practices came from, and what their purposes are? And how many conveniently remove the historical associations needed in order to appropriate these traditions and practices for their own goals, so that they can confirm their biases and see what they want to see?

In Buddhism, the relationship between the practitioner and the teacher is key. Dōgen, for instance, asserted that people should seek a “true teacher” to practice zen. This true teacher he defined as follows: “Regardless of his age or experience, a true teacher is simply one who has apprehended the true teaching and attained the authentic teacher’s seal of realization. He does not put texts first or understanding first, but his capacity is outside any framework and his spirit freely penetrates the nodes in bamboo. He is not concerned with self-views and does not stagnate in emotional feelings. Thus, practice and understanding are in mutual accord. This is a true master” (36). In essence, a true teacher is one that practices the true way rather than learns it; practice over learning. He also asserted that “Until you have a true teacher, it is better not to study” (Moon in a Dewdrop). The irony is not lost on me that while I speak of the importance of a teacher, I am without one and while Dōgen speaks of relying on one, I continue to study.

But what is the function of a teacher or a mentor? I am not opposed to one, but I will be lying if I were to say I am not distrustful of teachers. 

Mentors and teachers serve to function and guide people from falling into traps of confirmation bias and illusion. In other words, as people look internally for their answers, mentors and teachers help bring to light possible biases and attachments that would skew their truths. In other words, as the seeds of the ideas begin to grow, mentors and teachers would act as supports for the trunk and branches to ensure the tree grows upright. At times, this tree would require trimming and the cutting off of branches. But the ultimate end goal would be to ensure the tree grows healthy, upright (like the spine in zazen), with its roots firmly in the ground, ready to handle any sort of torrential weather and wind.

And historical sense is the vehicle of these teachers. A thing that a teacher has, regardless of learning, is a historical sense for the teachings, the context they are from, and how the teachings are to be applied. A teacher without historical sense would, frankly, be a poor teacher and a poor guide. A teacher without historical sense would be an illiterate Christian preacher, unable to read the words they supposedly believe and merely using the nebulous cloud of ancillary resources in the hopes that they could possibly direct the followers.

Such has been the function of literature in my path so far. Literature, both Buddhist and not, has been my gateway to dharma. It has been my teacher, my path to the universality that impermanence the dharma brings, and my intuitive enemy has always been hypocrisy; a distrust and disdain for the teachers that understand more than they practice, that have learned more than they have acted. I hope to grow this disdain into detached but authentic pity in time.

So what key qualities, in my opinion, do teachers need to have? Well, historical sense consists of awareness of  the language that is being used. That language carries a history with it, and the awareness of the Pali, Sanskrit, Chinese, Tibetan, and Japanese influences on the English words used in Buddhism is essential. This is not to say that a proper master needs to be educated in every language, but rather that in order to be a good teacher, the teacher needs to be aware that each of these words (or signs in semiotics) shifts meaning whenever it is changed. In other words, a good teacher needs to be aware of the “origin of words,” as Dōgen describes it, which is that words themselves are often unstable and inaccurate vehicles for conveying truth: “To study words you must know the origin of words. To endeavor in practice you must know the origin of practice.” Dōgen further emphasizes that words cannot be depended upon, rewriting a verse from Xuedou: “...even if you thoroughly investigate myriad forms / nothing can be depended upon” (60). Words cannot be depended upon because of the constant emptiness and fluctuations and impermanence they themselves embody. They encounter their own deaths, their own births, and the illusion of permanence they bring in Western culture is especially frightening.

I have more on the language problem in this essay, if you’re curious: “Many Words Make Much Good Meaning Problems.”

From there, historical sense would have awareness of the present historical context. Mingyur Rinpoche mentioned in In Love with the World that a person is comprised of numerous “social categories” that “play a dominant role in our personal stories.” People are often plagues with “social identities” that “are molded and confined by context.” However, all of these labels, social identities, and titles all exist “within a boundless reality.” This, he calls, is the “relative self” (4). But this is not simply Mingyur Rinpoche, but rather an expression of Tibetan Buddhism, more specifically the Tergar school of Buddhism. This view on Buddhism explicitly takes into account the social and historical influences of a person and their time, and this view attempts to be especially cognizant as to how social environments shape the presence of an ego and identity.

But before I move on, notice how I am applying my own historical sense in my own practice to be a good student and potential teacher? Notice how I give credit to the sources, the practitioners, and the systems that have contributed to my beliefs?

As I’ve grown as an academic and thinker, I have begun to think myself as a spider. I do not so much create a new thing as I use my web to weave the connections between the two. My web of language bridges the gap in a temporary, hopefully beautiful and intricate connection that, when lighted, will hopefully be appreciated. In the end, I am a spider proud of his web, weaving, constructing, and using it to nourish my body and soul.

But as a spider, I try to show my web, too, because you are not my prey. Instead, I see you all as fellow spiders, weaving, thinking, constructing your own connections and meanings. Moreover, we are all surrounded by different trees, foliage, and matter that will be the basis of our webs; some will be grounded in stones that never move, others will be forced to rebuild their webs regularly as their environment crumbles around them. Some will migrate and use their web to consistently change their settings and contexts and embracing the fluidity of creation.

But if a spider if trying to keep their web hidden, and if a spider is attempting to make their structures invisible, that means you are prey to them. That means that you are the nutrients they are trying to catch, that they are not trying to share in the creation of a web but rather have you be embodied and consumed by their web. And that this is all driven by their cannibalistic, ego-driven nature.

Now this final claim is probably the most aggressive and cruel, but it is one I feel rather certain about: without historical sense, without an awareness of the history, contexts, and language that make up our ideas, what is left to fill that void? That void must be filled, but it will be filled with ego and vanity.

Buddhism is adamant that answers need to be found internally first. In other words, we need to cultivate a strong, clear, detached internal mind, then the process of internal reflection and the cultivation of a compassionate integrity internally will ultimately find itself within our daily actions. I do not want to expand too much on this point, but here are the first of the eight noble truths: Right vision, right intention, right speech, right action. This kind of pattern (internal to external) is incredibly common to see in the hundreds of lists and patterns found in Buddhist practice.

But the problem of attachments remains because like virtue, attachments, avarice, the ego, greed, and all these other non-virtuous elements of life (often categorized under the Buddhist devil Mara) also exist internally. Therefore, how do we distinguish between what is found internally that is virtuous and what is found internally that is attachment? 

If we were to picture ourselves as a bowl, everything that would fill that bowl would be our being. But the nutritious elements of our being are found alongside our poisons. Therefore, when we look into our bowl, how can we determine what is safe to consume and safe to provide nutrition for our being, and what will poison us? For even food that looks like it could provide nutrients could be the deaths of our souls, and even food that was nutritious for another could provided an allergic reaction and revolution unexpected.

That is where historical sense comes in. When we look into the bowl of our existence, we are using historical sense, our sangha, Buddhist texts and Sutras, these discussions, to ensure that everything in our bowl is safe to eat. Even this website is, essentially, me showing you what it in my bowl: do you think is looks safe to eat, my friends?

But a teacher that refuses to use the language of the practice they borrow from, and a person that refuses to acknowledge that the mindfulness practice they took from is Buddhist, and avoid the language of Buddhism, and avoids mentioning meditation as zen as chan as dhyana as gom or refuses to see how the poison of materialism has made way into their bowl, that is a teacher lacking historical sense and that is a teacher poisoning the group they are gathering the spiritual food for. Such teachers, however well-intentioned, risk serving food they don’t know how to taste themselves; food that may nourish some, but harm others. Without historical sense, they risk becoming blind chefs in a sacred kitchen

Written on July 15, 2025

Last Edited July 15, 2025