Many Words Make Much Good Meaning Problems
Many Words Make Much Good Meaning Problems
Advaya and The Joy of Not Knowing What We’re Talking About
Advaya and The Joy of Not Knowing What We’re Talking About
I was having a quiet conversation with one of my Catholic family members when we found ourselves reflecting on the hopes we held for my boys. I told her, with deep sincerity, that more than anything, I wanted my kids to find happiness in this world. “I don’t want them to be happy,” she said. “I want them to find joy.” At first, I felt an internal jolt, as if we were somehow misaligned, speaking past each other. But then I paused, called upon that old literary training, and asked myself the question that lives at the heart of so many misunderstandings: what are we actually trying to say to each other?
As we continued to talk, it became clear that our disagreement wasn’t about values but about language. To her, “happiness” conjured images of fleeting pleasures and shallow gratifications, or the kind of momentary highs that fade just as quickly as they appear. “Joy,” by contrast, was something rooted, spiritual, enduring, more specifically a connection to God’s love that carried one through suffering. But for me, coming from a Buddhist lens, “happiness” was never about "pleasure." It meant something closer to peace, to inner stillness, to the kind of contentment that arises when we loosen our grip on the world. What she called “joy,” I had been calling “happiness;" what she called "happiness," I called "pleasure." Her “light of God” and my “connection to Dharma” were pointing, I believe, to the same luminous truth.
How often do we find ourselves divided by vocabulary? How many disagreements are born not from actual conflict, but from different words attempting to point to the same truth? How much of our social, spiritual, or even political tension stems from an inability to reconcile the instability of language, the way signifiers shift and meanings blur?
That conversation with my Catholic relative reminded me how easily we speak past one another, even when our hearts are aligned. We wanted the same thing for our children: a life of depth, peace, and rootedness. But our traditions gave us different words for that desire. We weren’t in disagreement. Instead, we were simply navigating different linguistic paths toward the same signified. What if, instead of debating the words, we slowed down long enough to listen for the shared meaning underneath it all?
If you were to ask someone if a food tasted good, the question carries far more complexity than it seems on the surface. My immediate questions could range from: what aspect of the food am I evaluating? What measure or rubric for evaluation should I use? When they say good, is it the same as my good? When I say good, what does that mean to them? Is it good compared to the momentary experience I am having while eating it, or is it good only in comparison to other food of this style? Or am I comparing it to other good food of different styles as well? It is good tasting or good healthy?
It is for this reason that our family often uses the terms good or very good to narrow the binary. Is it just normal, tasty food (which we have regularly) or is it something special, something beyond the ordinary goodness we have on a regular basis? Even then, this is not enough for a proper review, or something formal; this is just what we use in our home to try to narrow down the vague complexity of goodness.
This problem is not of food, but of language as a whole. This is also not a problem specific to English, but rather all language. Language, after all, is a tool. In western linguistics, there is a field called semiotics which attempts to explain how words and signs and things, in general, carry meaning. In semiotics, language and words don't exist. Instead, they have things called signs, and a sign is a combination of a signifier and a signified. In other words, a word is a combination of its symbol or written thing plus the meaning or idea it attempts to expression: a cat is a combination of the written letters c-a-t (signifier) and the idea of a cat that is popping up in your head (signified); platonic idea, if you are philosophically inclined.
So what does this have to do with Buddhism, communication, or the 'Language Problem' this editorial is dedicated to? Semiotics does not differentiate between words, hieroglyphics, shapes, emojis, or anything else that communicates meaning. To semiotics, all of these things are signifiers ('words' to us lay-people) and any associations or meanings are the signifieds.
Remember that whole good thing from earlier? All of those issues and questions arose because of that division between the signifier and the signified. So the signifier "good" has so many different associations for different people, meaning the signifieds are ranging, branching, and basically infinite. Jacques Derrida, the famous French deconstructionist, called this endless chain of signifieds difer or the diférence of meaning. It was one of his key arguments that laid the foundation for the deconstructionist school of English and linguistics now studied in universities around the world.
One more important idea we need to establish before we continue is that language (all language) is defined by binaries, too. Good is defined as 'good' only because of the opposite, 'not good.' It could be represented with other signifiers: bad, horrible, mundane, but those signifiers will change depending on how people perceive the binaries. For instance, I create the binary good or really good when we talk about food in our home, taking control of the signifiers in order to ensure that I am able to channel the signifieds and minimize the associate meanings.
But I have a bit of a bone to pick with Western society because, frankly, Buddhism did this first. And if it didn’t do it first, it certainly did it long before Derrida or the rise of semiotics. Yet Buddhism (and Eastern thought more broadly) is often dismissed in Western academic circles as too nebulous, too mystical, or too rooted in subjective experience to be taken seriously within analytic or empirical frameworks. Ironically, it is precisely because of signifiers and their instability that Buddhist thought predates and even anticipates many of the insights now celebrated in postmodern philosophy.
Let me explain.
As I continue to study central Buddhist texts, The Diamond That Cuts Through Illusion (Vajracchedikā Prajñāpāramitā Sūtra) stands out as especially relevant to my own observations of the world. The version I’m reading was translated by Thich Nhat Hanh from the original Sanskrit, and its structure and content continue to resonate deeply with both my philosophical and personal reflections.
This particular text has a fascinating argumentative structure. Let me have you experience it for yourself, before I explain it. If you are unfamiliar or new to Buddhist titles, "Tathagata" is a title or epithet for the Buddha; same signified (meaning) but different signifier (word):
What the Tathagata has called the highest, transcendent understanding is not, in fact, the highest, transcendent understanding. That is why it is truly the highest, transcendent understanding. (13)
What are called all dharmas are, in fact, not all dharmas. That is why they are called all dharmas. (17)
... what the Tathagata calls different mentalities are not in fact different mentalities. That is why they are called different mentalities. (18)
What the Tathagata calls a perfectly formed body is not in fact a perfectly formed body. That is why it is called a perfectly formed body. (20)
There are probably a dozen more examples I could pick from the text, but instead, I would like to start exploring the structure. This logical structure has 3 parts and finds its way in many different Buddhist texts, including Dōgen (Japanese Sōtō Zen). I personally love to terrorize my students with this structure when explaining them things, to see if they catch onto the meaning and significance of this logical structure:
What Mr. Tretyak calls an A is, in fact, not an A. That is precisely why we call it an A.
What we call learning is not learning. That is why we call it learning.
What our society defines as success is called success precisely because it is not success. That is why we call it success.
What you call strange or 'my teacher is losing his mind' is called that precisely because it is not that at all. Yet, that is exactly why we call it strange or 'losing his mind.'
Broken down, there are three parts to this structure: affirmation, negation, then a verbally ironic affirmation that acts as a deliberate exposure of illusion. I should note, as an English teacher, that verbally ironic does not mean sarcasm always; all sarcasm is verbally ironic, but not all verbal irony is sarcasm. Verbal irony is the manipulation or usage of terms where the binary and meaning of a term is broken down. If you are familiar with 1984, the entire premise of 'New Speak' is based on verbal irony. However, it is not based on sarcasm.
Let's also reference Dōgen while we're here. In the introduction to his writings in Moon in a Dew Drop, Kazuaki Tanahashi explains that Dōgen's rhetorical structure in his writings and poetry is based on "a three-step demonstration: affirmative, negative, and affirmative. The tripartite elucidation of the fundamental Buddhist perspective, unlike Hegel's thesis, antithesis, and synthesis, does not develop from a lower to a higher leve; rather each step is given an absolute value, and each step is inclusive of the others" (18). Tanahashi connects this contradictory structure to the nonduality of Buddhism, stating "In this realm of nonduality, all things have buddha nature" (15). Dōgen's structure mimics this structure heavily, allowing for the affirmation, the negative, then the disillusion of the binary.
Nāgārjuna, the founder of the Madhyamaka school, expands this kind of nondual reasoning into a fourfold logical method called the catuṣkoṭi, or tetralemma. Rather than affirming or denying a proposition in the typical binary way, the catuṣkoṭi explores four logical positions: (1) it is, (2) it is not, (3) it both is and is not, and (4) it neither is nor is not. This structure is not meant to confuse for confusion’s sake but to dismantle the illusion that reality can be captured through fixed conceptual categories. In Nāgārjuna’s hands, even seemingly simple claims (like “the self exists” or “nirvāṇa is separate from saṃsāra”) collapse under scrutiny. Each position reveals the limitations of language and points to the ultimate emptiness (śūnyatā) of all views. The catuṣkoṭi is, in effect, a philosophical riddle intended to enlighten: it doesn’t provide answers so much as liberate us from the need to cling to any.
So let's revisit the sutras with that understanding:
What the Tathagata calls a perfectly formed body... Affirmation. This is the affirmation that the 'perfectly formed body' exists.
...is not in fact a perfectly formed body. Negation. This is the negation of one side of the binary for preference of the opposite side.
That is why it is called a perfectly formed body. Ironic re-affirmation. An acknowledgement that the binary was never true to begin with.
This, in a nutshell, is deconstruction. For Derrida, the task was to identify binaries, unravel their internal contradictions, and reveal that the relationship between signifiers and signifieds is inherently unstable. Language, in this view, doesn’t point to fixed meaning but to an endless chain of associations. Yet, through this process, something genuine, something deeply human, still emerges. Buddhism, too, invites us to observe the world carefully, to recognize that all things are mental constructions, and that our labels and perceptions (however useful) are ultimately unreliable. And yet, beyond those illusions, there remains something real, something palpable, something honest. Both traditions, in their own ways, use the collapse of certainty as a doorway into deeper truth. The only differences lie in the signifiers; same signifieds, different signifiers.
It is relatively easy to find companion signifiers in Buddhism that mesh with and lie adjacent to the terms and tensions found in deconstruction. For instance, the Sanskrit term vikalpa (विकल्प), referring to conceptual proliferation, mirrors the endless chain of signifieds in Derrida’s différance, where meaning is deferred indefinitely through linguistic associations. Likewise, nāma-rūpa (नामरूप), or name-and-form, echoes the structuralist division between signifier and signified, exposing the fragility of naming and the illusion of fixed identity. The Buddhist concept of śūnyatā (शून्यता), or emptiness, aligns strikingly with the deconstructive notion of absence or groundlessness or the recognition that beneath all signifiers, there is no stable essence, only interdependence. Finally, the principle of upāya (उपाय), or skillful means, offers a Buddhist validation for the creative, contextual use of language (even flawed language) as a provisional guide toward insight. My redefinition of good or very good in family meals, or ironic affirmations in teaching, become upāya in action: imperfect expressions leading toward deeper understanding.
Without this understanding, many Buddhist texts can appear contradictory, even hypocritical or naïvely indulgent. The ornate descriptions of wealth, perfection, and divine beauty might seem at odds with a tradition rooted in renunciation and emptiness. But these apparent contradictions dissolve when read through the lens of nonduality and rhetorical irony. For instance, the Lalitavistara is filled with references and descriptions of the riches of the Buddha and the aesthetics that emphasize grand wealth, Jewels, and 'perfection' of body. It was not without intention that I referenced the body part of The Diamond Sutra twice in this article as I found Māyā's depiction in the Lalitavistara particularly relevant:
"Her body was like a golden image, radiating light in all directions. Her limbs were smooth and lovely like the stalk of a lotus. Her complexion surpassed the brightness of the moon. She was adorned with celestial garments, garlands, and unguents, and she walked with the grace of a swan gliding over a lake."
(Lalitavistara Sūtra, Ch. 2–3, paraphrased from translations by Bhikkhu Dharmamitra and the 84000 Project)
In this passage, the lush imagery of wealth and beauty tempts the reader to cling to Māyā's perfection. Māyā is upheld to this impossible standard and is given this role of birthing the final incarnation of Buddha because of her physical features and passive demeanor. Yet, she is all of these things precisely because she is not. That is why she must be called perfect in form and compared to jewels, because she is not those things at all.
It is especially fitting that her name is Māyā which means literally “illusion.” The text seems to play with this irony deliberately. On the surface, it dazzles the reader with imagery of celestial beauty, wealth, and perfection, perhaps as a skillful means (upāya) to engage those still attached to material or external ideals. But for those who recognize the deeper logic of Buddhist rhetoric (affirmation, negation, and ironic re-affirmation) these descriptions function more like intentional illusions: symbolic jewels designed to attract, only to be relinquished. In this way, the Lalitavistara leaves interpretive breadcrumbs (Dharmic "easter eggs") as glittering signifiers that point beyond themselves, gently reminding the attentive reader not to mistake the golden body for the truth it’s cloaking.
In the end, the goal here is not to suggest theft by Derrida or anyone else. Instead, I wanted to bring up one of my most belovéd parts of Buddhism: its acknowledgement of language's failure to communicate reality. This is a consistent theme within all of the teachers and texts I have explored and I am often frustrated when other philosophies, practices, or religions do not understand or acknowledge the instability of signs or words. This is a key truth perpetuated and multiplied through the emphasis on emptiness (śūnyatā) and nonduality (advaya or advaya-jñāna).
For me, this cycle of affirmation, negation, and ironic affirmation is the essential path of thought that turns the wheel of my practice. It pushes me to destroy the nondualities and divisions found in my life and often allows me to reframe my suffering:
I am suffering precisely because I am not truly suffering. That is why I call is suffering. (Implied: Because my suffering is a creation of my mind)
I am desiring material wealth precisely because it is not wealth. That is why I call it wealth. (Implied: I am attached to the western idea that my life needs material goods to have value)
I am lonely precisely because I am not lonely. That is why I call it loneliness. (Implied: I know the feeling of love and attachment that my kids and wife give to me. When that feeling is not immediately present, I feel more attached than ever, which means that my love for them and them for me is stronger than ever)
This kind of framing of thought has fascinating implications for religion, too. To me, the Dharma is something far more universal than the divisions language brings; something beyond the signifiers we give it. Whether it is called truth or love or the dharma or scripture or validity or anything else, is irrelevant to me. If everything were to collapse, the Dharma would rise again by another signifier (another name) and still exist as the Dharma.
Even in our current world, I see the Dharma everywhere. I see it in the teachings of Jesus when he calls us to love our enemies and care for the least among us. I see it in the commandments given to Moses that emphasize justice, humility, and care for the stranger. I see the Dharma in the quiet, consistent kindness of philanthropic people who ask for nothing in return, in the resilience of those who suffer and still choose to be gentle.
I see Buddha nature in animals: in the protective gaze of a mother bird or the quiet dignity of a grazing deer. I see the Dharma in science experiments that reveal the astonishing interdependence of life systems, in theories that show how one small action ripples outward into a network of causes and conditions. I see it in weather patterns, in the wind brushing against tree leaves and reminding me that change is constant, and nothing arises alone.
Call it love, or truth, or justice, or God, or physics, or grace. Call it whatever signifier feels right. But if the thing we’re pointing to is rooted in compassion, in interconnection, in the soft dissolving of ego and the care of others, then we are speaking, in essence, of the same thing. To me, we are speaking of the Dharma, regardless of the signifiers we choose to use.
The divisions we create are divisions of language, not reality; there is no tree, only the forest. But that is precisely why we call it a forest, because there is a tree. And the more I attempt to explain this, the more I am writing signifiers that continue to mean a whole bunch of signifieds that confuse themselves, contradict themselves, and ultimately come out to mean whatever the person wants them to mean.
In the end, there is no logical, linguistic reason to be kind or compassionate. In the end, this seems like something beyond an endless chain of signifiers and signified. In the end, this seems like something we have to feel our way through, whatever feel means...
Written July 10, 2025
Last Edited July 10, 2025