A name is imposed on what is thought to be a thing or a state and this divides it from other things and other states. But when you pursue what lies behind the name, you find a greater and greater subtlety that has no divisions. Atoms of dust are not really atoms of dust but are merely called that. In the same way, a world is not a world but is merely called that.
Visuddhi Magga
It is said that as soon as you give a child a name for something, it ceases to know that thing. I don’t know about you but I have great respect for this truth.
I remember numerous occasions when, in the company of friends, upon hearing a piece of music (often classical), someone would volunteer its title or the name of its composer. From that would ensue a discussion along a number of familiar trails such as the period of the composition, or its performance by a certain ensemble or orchestra or some related anecdote. Often the discussion would be underscored with personal biases, attractions and aversions. Meanwhile, the music itself would have long been forgotten, relegated to the walls of the room we were in, once more serving as a safe backdrop for guarded conversation.
Likewise, I have observed the irresistible urge by people to name something that I may not be familiar with, or that they assume I am not familiar with, whether it is a plant, an animal, a musical group or a type of cuisine. It is as if they believe that without its name, that thing has little or no meaning or value.
In my experience, nothing could be further from the truth. After all, the names that we give things are constructions of a mind needing to differentiate. Naming a composition ‘Beethoven’s Symphony Number Nine’ distinguishes it from all other compositions by Beethoven and all other symphonies by Beethoven and other composers.
The question I often find myself asking on these occasions of ‘naming’ is:
‘How does this enhance my experience of this thing?’
The answer is almost invariably ‘It doesn’t’.
My direct, linguistically free/unmediated experience of something, whether it is a leaf, a sunset, the light on my desk, the sound from an unfamiliar instrument or a new taste in my mouth is infinitely deeper and wider than any word could possibly permit. Why then would I want to diminish my experience with something so inadequate as a name or label?
It is not that words are useless. They are very useful, if not necessary, for the kind of life we live where we need to communicate with each other in efficient ways. If I wanted to give you directions to a certain place, I would need at least a few words to do so, unless a map was available. Likewise, if I wanted to report an incident or get some information from you I would need words. But neither the speed nor the convenience of linguistic communication adequately conveys the accuracy and richness of an experience we have had or one we could have.
Our eagerness to ‘name‘ everything robs us of the fullness of experience we could have without such naming. To be with or in the presence of a tree, an ant, an ocean, a moonlight without the distraction of the many labels we have constructed to describe them is to be in the space of ‘is-ness’ or ‘such-ness‘ as Buddhism describes it. It is an experience of boundlessness, of the infinite and eternal now-ness of a thing, which itself is dynamic and encompassing. More than anything else, it offers us the wondrously sacred experience of oneness.
Such experiences can only heal us of the falsehood of separation and all the fears it gives rise to. Such experiences can only draw us closer to everyone and everything else. Compared to them, what does naming offer us? Does it make you wonder how we might be different if we weren’t bounded by our individual names? Just a little?
That people are unknowing does not mean that they are unknowing like cows or goats. Even ignorant people look for a pathway to reality. But, searching for it, they often misunderstand what they encounter. They pursue names and categories instead of going beyond that name to that which is real.
Digha Nikaya
