The metaphor often used to describe Buddhism is that of a ‘path.’ Buddhism regards itself as the ‘central path’ (or the ‘Middle Way’). But this is a fluid notion that can be continuously expanded. In the Buddha’s first discourse it is presented as a moral resolve to avoid the extreme behaviours of indulgence and mortification. By the time of Nagarjuna -- some six hundred years later -- it has become a philosophical perspective that avoids the pitfalls of asserting either Being or Nothing as absolutes. In both cases it remains a metaphor: a device that creatively imagines a link between an everyday reality (a road, a street, a highway) and an organizing principle in a system of thought and practice. While Buddhist orthodoxies have sought to fix this link with dogmatic definitions of ‘path,’ the ambiguity and contingency of its metaphorical nature keep breaking out in playful irreverence.

      This is noticable in Ch’an (Zen). A monk visits the Ch’an Master Chao-chou and asks: ‘Where is the great way?’ (Now to complicate matters, remember that the Sanskrit marga (path) was translated by the Chinese tao, which in English we prefer to render as ‘the Way’ (replete with definite article and capital to lend it spiritual legitimacy, forgetting the absence of either definite articles or capitals in either Sanskrit or Chinese). Having fallen for this linguistic sleight of hand myself, I was able to be surprised while standing on a street corner in Hong Kong and reading on the street sign: ‘squiggle’ ‘squiggle,’ followed by one of the few Chinese characters I could recognize, ‘tao’ -- and beneath it in English ‘Prince Edward Road.’) ‘Where is the great way?’ asks the monk. And Chao-chou replies: ‘Go back to the lights, turn left and it’s the second on the right’ (or words to that effect).

     I was once walking along the coastal path between Kingswear and Brixham in South Devon. The footpath threaded through a patch of woodland on the cliff edge and in post-monastic fashion I contemplated the track about six feet in front of me. I was suddenly hit, like a soft blow in the stomach, by what it meant for this thing to be a path. It was a path: (1) because it led somewhere, (2) because it was free of obstructions, and (3) because it was used by others. In what sense is the Buddhist ‘path’ comparable to these aspects of a footpath? How could I link this visceral insight of walking on a path with the metaphor of ‘path’ as spoken of in Buddhism? To what extent did my internalized Buddhist idea of a ‘path’ contribute to my experiencing this actual path in such a way? Might this be an instance of how an idea from another culture is digested?

     A path is most explicitly experienced as such when you find it again after having lost it. When driving at a constant 70mph along a motorway, we are oblivious to the path-like nature of the experience. Like a telephone, or a hand, we tend only to notice a path when we lose it or it breaks down. At the moment of finding it again or recovering its use, we experience exhilaration, gratitude and relief - but no sooner have these feelings surfaced than we forget the startling, gift-like nature of the thing and once more take it for granted.

     At the moment of its recovery, a path reveals itself. Even if we haven’t a clue where it will lead, we know it will lead somewhere--which is infinitely preferable to the terror of being lost. And simultaneous with the recovery of purpose and direction, we recover freedom of movement. A path is a negation; it is what it is due to the absence of obstruction. Being lost entails not only loss of direction but also loss of the freedom to move. We get entangled in brambles and undergrowth, stuck in gullies, bogged down in sand and mud. A path is nothing but a stretch of ground from which such obstacles have either been removed or circumvented. And simultaneous with the recovery of direction and freedom, we recover community. For recent footprints show that others have followed the same track. A path is witness to the presence of creatures like ourselves, while to be lost is to be terribly alone. Even if the path is deserted, even if no one has passed by in days, we are reconnected to the human (and animal) community. And simply by walking along it, we too maintain it for those who will come later. Being on a path implies both indebtedness to those who have preceded us and responsibility for those who will follow.

     Do these implicit elements of a path illuminate the metaphor of ‘path’ in Buddhism? How does the central path embody purposeful direction, unobstructed freedom of movement and realization of community? There are parallels with the doctrine of ‘taking refuge in the three Jewels.’ The three Jewels (Buddha, Dharma and Sangha) are the primary, non-negotiable values in which commitment to a Buddhist way of life is rooted. A Buddhist is even defined as a person who consciously commits him or herself to these values.

     ‘Buddha’ here refers not to the historical figure of Gautama, but to the awakened perspective on life (enlightenment) realized by Gautama. It is the goal, the destination of the path. Just as walking along a path draws one to an as yet unknown but intimated destination, so the practice of Buddhism draws one to an as yet unknown but intimated meaning. Engaging in the practice grants one confidence in the direction and purpose of one’s life. ‘Dharma’ refers not only to the teaching of Gautama but more crucially to the application of that teaching in the world. It is equivalent to the act of walking along the path. Like walking, it requires a rhythmic and unimpeded pace, unobstructed by the thickets of hesitation, aggression, attachment, restlessness and lethargy. And ‘Sangha’ means community. This practice entails participation in a communal endeavour. It cannot take place in isolation. For we belong to a tradition; we follow in the footsteps of those who have preceded us. But this tradition evolves. The path is maintained for those who will come later only by what we do now. In practising this way of life, we are simultaneously indebted to and responsible for a community of which we are a part.

     So ‘taking refuge in the three Jewels’ ceases to be merely the formal act of admission to the Buddhist religion, and becomes instead a metaphor of sustained authenticity in treading the path. (‘Jewel’ in Sanskrit, by the way, is ratna, the common word for a precious gem. When it came to be translated into Tibetan, instead of the common word for jewel, the Tibetans chose (or coined?) the term dkon mchog - literally: ‘supreme rarity.’ So the ‘three Jewels’ become the ‘three Supreme Rarities.’ ‘Supreme Rarity’ was subsequently used by Christian missionaries in the nineteenth century to translate ‘God.’)

     Yet this path is not (like an ordinary path) something apart from oneself on which one treads. One creates this path within the contours of one’s own internal and communal landscape. It is like a thread weaving its way through the unfolding fabric of experience. A many-stranded thread, though, irreducible to any particular activity (like meditation). Embracing one’s vision, ideas, speech, action, livelihood, resolve, mindfulness and concentration, it encompasses the complexity of being in a world.

Over time metaphors undergo shifts of nuance and association. Is it still possible to understand the metaphor of path today as it would have been understood in the societies of Asia where it originated? What does a path mean for someone used to the rectilinear grid of a modern city? Probably little more than one of several possibilities for recreation. In an urban environment paths have become a functional network of streets that go everywhere and nowhere, whose macadam surface is welded to the concrete and brick on either side. Wilderness has been either sealed over or trapped within parks. Elsewhere it is mapped, owned, legislated, fenced off, monitored from the air, criss-crossed with roads.

     In those traditional societies where this metaphor of path evolved, wilderness was dangerous and unknown. You would not walk alone on the paths that threaded through it. You would travel in well-organized caravans, in the company of those you trusted, armed to the teeth. Paths were rare and one’s survival depended on them. But this has changed. Today wilderness itself has become a ‘Supreme Rarity,’ a value in danger of being lost, the survival of which is under threat. While path (in its contemporary guise of roads, railways, air lanes, the information superhighway) is becoming a metaphor of domination rather than freedom.

     The large authoritarian institutions that Buddhist societies have created reflect the clumsy, slow-moving but protective caravans that crossed the forests, steppes and deserts of Asia. Today the individual in search of awakening may well start out on those well-trodden and familiar roads but, growing in self-confidence, may want to branch off onto footpaths and seek indistinct trails that peter out. Such a person longs not for the security of the path but for those unknown places where there is little trace of marauding humanity. He or she may be more deeply inspired by the metaphor of open, untrammelled wilderness rather than that of a path.

     So might we discern a trend in Buddhism of moving away from dependence on organized religious institutions towards a more individuated form of practice, in which each person finds his or her own way within the dharmadhatu: the ‘Dharma realm’? A way of life that subverts the traditional legitimating myth of ‘path’ with a myth of recovered wilderness? After centuries in premodern societies, Buddhism finds itself abruptly catapaulted into postmodern societies, where even its central metaphor of ‘path’ is questionable.