The Prisoners Who Saw Only Shadows
Twenty-four hundred years ago, the Greek philosopher Plato told a story that perfectly captures what we're exploring this week. Imagine prisoners who have been chained in a cave their entire lives, facing a wall, unable to turn their heads. Behind them, people pass by carrying objects, casting shadows on the wall in front of the prisoners.
The prisoners have never seen the actual world—only shadows. They develop elaborate theories about these shadows, give them names, become experts at predicting which shadow will appear next. To them, the shadows are reality.
One day, a prisoner breaks free. At first, he's blinded by the light outside the cave. Gradually, his eyes adjust, and he sees the world as it actually is—not shadows of things, but the things themselves. The sun, trees, people, the sky. For the first time, he understands that everything he thought he knew was just a shadow of something much more real and interconnected.
Filled with excitement, he returns to tell his fellow prisoners what he's discovered. But they don't believe him. They can't believe him. They've spent their entire lives thinking the shadows were reality. His description of the "real world" sounds like nonsense to them.
This is the human condition, according to Buddhist understanding. Most of us spend our lives looking at the shadows of reality rather than reality itself. We see separate objects, isolated events, independent selves. We miss the deeper truth: everything is interconnected and constantly changing.
Everything Depends on Everything Else
The Buddha said, “This is because that is. This is not because that is not.” In other words, everything depends on everything else. Let's start with something simple, sitting near you—maybe a table, a chair, or your phone. Buddhist teaching invites us to look deeper: what does this thing actually depend on to exist?
Take a wooden table. It exists because of wood, which came from a tree. The tree existed because of soil, water, sunlight, and air. The soil was formed by countless geological processes. The water came from clouds, which formed from evaporation. The sunlight came from the sun, which exists because of nuclear fusion. The air contains oxygen from plants and other gases from various sources.
But it's not just the materials. The table exists because of the carpenter who built it, the tools that were used, the knowledge of how to build tables that was passed down through generations. It exists because of the truck that delivered the wood, the driver who drove the truck, the roads that were built to transport materials.
You can keep going: the table exists because of the economic system that made the transaction possible, the laws that govern business, the language that allowed people to communicate about making and buying tables. It exists because human beings evolved the cognitive ability to imagine furniture, the physical ability to manipulate tools, the social structures that allow specialization of labor.
When you really look, you realize there's virtually nothing this table doesn't depend on for its existence. The entire universe had to be arranged in exactly the way it's arranged for this particular table to exist in this moment.
This isn't mystical speculation—it's just careful observation. Everything that exists came into being because of countless causes and conditions, and those causes and conditions have their own causes and conditions, stretching back to the beginning of time and out to the edges of space.
The Cake That Isn't There
Here's another way to think about it. Imagine a delicious chocolate cake sitting on your counter. You see it as one thing—"a cake"—and that's useful for practical purposes. But is there actually a cake there?
What you're calling a cake is really flour, eggs, sugar, cocoa, butter, baking powder, heat from an oven, time, and the knowledge and work of whoever baked it. If you remove the flour, is it still a cake? If you remove the eggs? The sugar? The heat that baked it?
None of these individual elements is "the cake," yet without any of them, there's no cake. The cake doesn't exist independently—it's the coming-together of all these interdependent elements. And each of those elements depends on countless other things. The flour comes from wheat, which depends on soil, rain, farmers, farming equipment, and so on, infinitely.
Buddhist teachings call this "emptiness," but it's important to understand what this means. It doesn't mean the cake doesn't exist or that it's an illusion. You can eat it and taste its sweetness. It means the cake is "empty" of independent existence—it exists only in relationship to everything else.
This applies to everything, including ourselves. We exist, but not independently. We're like cakes—a temporary coming-together of countless interdependent processes.
You Are Something the Universe Is Doing
Alan Watts, a philosopher who helped bring Buddhist ideas to the West, put it beautifully: "You are something that the universe is doing in the same way that a wave is something that the whole ocean is doing."
Think about that wave. Is it separate from the ocean? Of course not. You can point to it, name it, watch it move across the surface, but it's never separate from the ocean. It's a temporary pattern in the water, arising from wind, currents, and countless other conditions.
We're like waves in the ocean of existence. We have our own characteristics, our own movement patterns, our own temporary boundaries, but we're never separate from the whole. We're expressions of the same fundamental reality that expresses itself as everything else.
This might sound abstract, but it has immediate practical implications. If you're a wave in the ocean, what happens to the ocean affects you, and what happens to you affects the ocean. You're not isolated. You're not fighting against the ocean—you are the ocean, expressing itself as a wave.
The River That's Never the Same
The Greek philosopher Heraclitus said you can never step into the same river twice. From a Buddhist perspective, the insight goes even further: the river is never the same, not even in the very instant you step into it, because it is already flowing and changing. And the same is true of you. The person who steps into the water is not the same person who steps out, because in those moments, your body and mind have already shifted.
Picture a river or creek you know well, maybe one you’ve walked beside or driven past many times. The water that was there yesterday has flowed downstream. The water there now came from somewhere else and is already moving on. The riverbed is slowly changing as water carries sediment. The banks are shifting. The river itself changes, and so does our way of seeing it. The names we give it, the meanings we attach to it, even our memories of it—all shift over time.
Yet, we point to it and say "the river," as if it were a permanent, unchanging thing. We do the same with ourselves. We say "I am" as if we were permanent, unchanging entities, when actually we're more like rivers—constant flows of sensation, thought, emotion, memory, all arising and passing away.
The you that started reading this sentence is slightly different from the you that finishes it. Cells in your body are constantly dying and being replaced. Within 7–10 years, most of your body’s cells will have turned over. Even now, new thoughts have arisen, and your understanding has shifted, however slightly. You are a process, not a thing.
The Fire That's Always New
Here's another metaphor I find helpful. Look at a candle flame. It seems like the same flame for as long as the candle burns, but actually, it's completely new every moment. The flame exists only because it's constantly consuming fuel and oxygen, constantly releasing heat and light. It's a process, not an object.
If you tried to capture the flame—put it in a box, separate it from the candle and oxygen—it would immediately cease to exist. The flame exists only in relationship to everything that sustains it.
We're like that flame. We exist only in relationship to air, food, water, warmth, other people, language, culture, and countless other causes and conditions. We seem continuous, but we're actually being reborn every moment, sustained by everything around us.
Why This Matters: The End of Isolation
Understanding interdependence can be profoundly liberating. So many of our problems come from the illusion that we're separate, isolated beings trying to make it on our own in a hostile or indifferent universe.
When someone treats you rudely, the sense of separateness makes you take it personally: "They're attacking me." When you understand interdependence, you might see it differently: "This person is expressing pain or confusion that has complex causes and conditions. Their behavior is the result of their history, their current circumstances, and their level of understanding. It's not really about me."
When you fail at something, the illusion of separation creates shame: "I'm a failure." Understanding interdependence helps you see: "This outcome arose from countless conditions, many beyond my control. Some conditions were favorable, others weren't. This is information, not identity."
When you succeed, the illusion of separation creates either pride or anxiety: "I did this" (pride) or "I have to maintain this" (anxiety). Interdependence helps you see: "Success arose from favorable conditions coming together. I played a role, but so did my teachers, my circumstances, luck, and countless other factors. I can appreciate this without carrying the burden of being solely responsible."
Impermanence: The Only Constant Is Change
Closely related to interdependence is impermanence. Because everything depends on causes and conditions, and these are always changing, everything is always changing. Change isn't something that happens to things—change is the nature of things.
We intuitively understand impermanence in certain areas of life. We know that day turns to night, that seasons shift, that flowers bloom and wither. Change in these cases feels obvious and expected. But when it comes to the things we care about most—our relationships, our health, our circumstances—we often resist this same truth. We hold on as if they should remain steady, even though they, too, are always in flux.
The Buddha distinguished between two types of impermanence:
Gross impermanence: The obvious changes we can see. People age and die. Seasons change. Buildings crumble. Empires rise and fall. This kind of impermanence is undeniable, though we often live as if we've forgotten about it.
Subtle impermanence: The constant, moment-to-moment change that's harder to notice. Your body is replacing millions of cells every day. Your thoughts are arising and passing away constantly. Your emotions are shifting continuously. Even while you sit still, you're breathing, your heart is beating, your brain is processing—you're in constant flux.
Understanding both levels of impermanence can transform how you relate to life. When something good is happening, you can appreciate it more fully because you know it won't last forever. When something difficult is happening, you can find strength in knowing “this too shall pass”.
Life is Like Tetris
I often use the analogy of life being like a game of Tetris rather than chess. In chess, you have complete information and total control over your pieces. You can develop long-term strategies and execute them precisely. In Tetris, pieces just keep falling—you don't control what piece comes next or when. Your skill lies in working creatively with whatever appears.
Understanding interdependence and impermanence makes life feel more like Tetris. You realize you're not playing against an opponent (the universe) trying to defeat you. You're not in complete control of what happens. Your skill lies in responding wisely to whatever conditions arise, moment by moment.
A difficult piece (a challenging situation) isn't personal persecution—it's just what appeared. A helpful piece (favorable circumstances) isn't proof of your superiority—it's just what appeared. Your job is to work skillfully with whatever shows up.
This doesn't make you passive. In Tetris, you're constantly making choices about where to place pieces, how to rotate them, when to drop them quickly, or let them fall slowly. The skill is in responding rather than controlling.
The Empty Cup Revisited
Remember the story from Week 1 about the Zen master pouring tea into an already-full cup? That story illustrates what we might call "conceptual emptiness." Just as the physical cup needs to be empty to receive tea, our minds need to be "empty" of fixed concepts to perceive reality clearly.
When you look at that table, you see "table"—a solid, permanent, independent object. But the concept or label "table" might prevent you from seeing the incredibly dynamic web of relationships that actually constitutes what you're calling a table.
This doesn't mean concepts are bad. The concept "table" is useful for navigating daily life. But when you mistake the concept/label for reality, you miss the deeper truth. It's like the prisoners in the cave who mistake shadows for the actual world.
"Emptying your cup" means holding concepts more lightly, remaining open to seeing beyond your habitual categories. It means recognizing that your thoughts about reality and reality itself are not the same thing.
Practical Applications
So, how does understanding interdependence and impermanence change how you live day to day?
In relationships: Instead of thinking "My partner is making me angry," you might think "Anger is arising in this situation that involves both of us, our histories, our current stresses, our different ways of seeing things." This doesn't eliminate anger, but it creates space for a more skillful response.
With possessions: Instead of clinging desperately to things, you can appreciate them while you have them and let them go gracefully when conditions change. You understand that everything is borrowed from the universe for a while.
With achievements: Success and failure become information rather than identity. You can work wholeheartedly for positive outcomes while understanding that results depend on countless factors beyond your control.
With problems: Instead of asking "Why is this happening to me?" you can ask "What conditions contributed to this situation, and how can I work with it skillfully?" Problems become puzzles to solve rather than punishments to endure.
With emotions: Strong feelings become weather patterns rather than permanent states. Just as you wouldn't go outside in a thunderstorm and yell at the sky to stop raining, you can let difficult emotions move through without taking them so personally.
The Autobiography in Five Chapters
There's a poem by Portia Nelson that beautifully illustrates how understanding interdependence and impermanence can gradually transform your relationship to life's challenges:
Chapter One: I walk down the street. There's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in. I am lost. I am hopeless. It isn't my fault. It takes forever to find a way out.
Chapter Two: I walk down the same street. There's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don't see it. I fall in again. I can't believe I'm in the same place. But it isn't my fault. It still takes a long time to get out.
Chapter Three: I walk down the same street. There's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it there. I still fall in. It's a habit. My eyes are open. I know where I am. It is my fault. I get out immediately.
Chapter Four: I walk down the same street. There's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it.
Chapter Five: I walk down another street.
This progression shows the gradual development of wisdom. At first, you feel like a victim of circumstances beyond your control. Slowly, you begin to recognize patterns and take responsibility for your role in creating them. Eventually, you develop enough awareness to avoid repeating the same mistakes. Finally, you gain the wisdom to change the conditions themselves.
Each chapter represents a different understanding of interdependence. In the early chapters, you see yourself as separate from and victimized by circumstances. In the later chapters, you recognize your participation in creating the conditions you experience.
Put It Into Practice
This week, practice tracing interdependence. Choose different objects, experiences, or situations and explore their web of relationships. Ask questions like:
- What had to exist for this to be here?
- What conditions are sustaining this right now?
- What will this become when conditions change?
Also, practice noticing impermanence in real time. Set a timer to go off randomly a few times each day. When it rings, pause and notice:
- What in your experience right now is changing?
- What thoughts just arose and passed away?
- What sensations are shifting in your body?
- How is this moment different from the one five minutes ago?
You're not trying to make anything happen—just becoming more aware of the constant flow of experience.
Journaling Prompts
- Think of something you consider "yours"—your house, your car, your job, even your body. In what ways does it depend on countless other things and people? Trace the web as far as you can.
- What impermanent things do you find yourself clinging to as if they were permanent? How might your life change if you truly accepted their temporary nature?
- Describe a time when your perspective on a situation completely changed. What happened? How did changing how you saw it change the situation itself?
- Think of a recent problem or challenge. Can you see it as arising from interdependent conditions rather than as something that "happened to you"? What conditions contributed to it? How might understanding this change your response?
- If you really understood that you're interconnected with everyone and everything else, how would this change how you treat yourself? How you treat others? How you treat the environment?
Going Deeper
To explore these themes further, listen to Episode 3 of the Secular Buddhism podcast: "Seeing With I's of Wisdom."
In the next module, we'll explore what it means to live mindfully in a world where everything is interconnected and constantly changing. We'll look at death as a teacher, karma as cause and effect, and practical tools for waking up to the fullness of life.
We're moving from understanding how things are to learning how to live skillfully with that understanding.