The air in the small temple room feels thin, the silence broken only by the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the old clock somewhere distant. My mind, however, is anything but silent. It buzzes, a frantic collection of to-do lists, deferred tasks and anxieties about the future. This internal chatter is the default setting. Buddhist teachings, particularly the concept of detachment, have always resonated deeply with me, not as a call to apathy, but as an invitation to clarity. It’s about releasing the grip – the desperate need to control outcomes, to possess, to be certain of the next moment. It’s about seeing things as they are, without the distortion of clinging or aversion.
Then came the digital age, and with it, a new kind of noise, a different kind of hum. Our minds are constantly fed, curated, and amplified by technology. News feeds whip us into a frenzy; notifications demand instant attention; surveillance algorithms record, predict and shape our desires, often without our conscious awareness. It feels like an externalization of that internal chatter, a relentless stream of stimuli and social validation that pulls us ever further into the past (what happened?) and the future (what will happen?).
And then, the LLMs arrived. These complex systems, capable of generating text on almost any topic, became tools for reflection. At first, I was skeptical. Could a machine truly help with something as nuanced and personal as Buddhist practice? Could it offer insights, or was it just sophisticated pattern-matching?
Instead of seeing it as a source of answers, I treated it like a mirror to reflect. An ideator.
The process is strange, yet compelling. I type, and the AI generates text. Sometimes it’s profound, echoing familiar themes or offering perspectives I hadn’t considered. Sometimes it’s nonsensical, revealing the limits of its understanding or the inherent biases in its training data. More often, it’s a mix, sometimes insightful, sometimes frustratingly unoriginal.
But the practice itself shifts my focus. I use a commandline interface for LLMs. This slows the process of using the AI. When I engage with the LLM, I'm doing so consciously. I pause. I type slowly, considering my words. The act of formulating a question or prompt becomes a moment of intentionality, a break from the automatic scrolling or reacting.
The slowness of my computer in producing 4 to 5 tokens per second which is a measure of the speed of AI text generation is not a hindrance. The waiting for a response creates a gap in my mental timeline – a pause that allows me to breathe, to notice the physical sensation of waiting. It’s a micro-dharma practice. Slowness dulls the entitlement of instant gratification. It subverts the impotence of rapid scrolling in hope of discovery.
The LLM offers a different avenue for reflection, forcing me to articulate my thoughts, my questions, my struggles in a way that might be less immediate or emotionally charged than thinking them. It externalizes the internal, creating space for observation.
This use feels like a bridge between the ancient practice of mindful reflection and the contemporary reality of technological immersion. We are living in a time defined by constant connectivity, information overload and rapid change. The Buddhist urge to detach from the craving for constant stimulation, the attachment to digital identities, the aversion to feeling left out or behind – these are as relevant now as they were two millennia ago.
Using an LLM for reflection is, in a way, a practice in detachment. I detach from the immediate need for a quick answer or a dopamine hit from social media validation. I engage intentionally, asking the question, receiving the response, and then, crucially, noting it without immediately accepting or rejecting it. I detach from the ego's desire for control over the outcome of the conversation, trusting the process (even if it's just a complex algorithm) to provide a response.
I am present to the machine, just as I might be present to a fellow practitioner or a meditation cushion. The technology is the context, not the core of the experience. The core is the mind engaging with the process, observing the arising and passing away of thoughts, including those about the AI itself. The presentness of the moment is confirmed by the sound of the computer's fan speeding up as the the AI writes its output. The fans turn off once the generative stream ends marking the passage of time.
There is, of course, a danger. We can become overly reliant, seeking external validation or answers from the machine rather than turning inward. We can anthropomorphize the AI, projecting human qualities onto it. We can also forget the simple, direct practices of mindfulness – the feeling of the breath, the sensation of the body, the quiet observation of thoughts without commentary. The LLM is a tool, not a replacement. It’s a conversation partner, not a guru.
Yet, there is also immense potential. This intersection allows us to explore complex ideas – the nature of consciousness, the impact of technology on the mind, ethical dilemmas in the digital age – in a way that was previously unimaginable. It democratizes access to diverse perspectives, including those rooted in different contemplative traditions.
So, perhaps this is the path forward: a mindful engagement with technology. We use these powerful tools, like LLMs, not as distractions, but as aids to reflection, practice, and perhaps even connection. We practice detachment not by withdrawing from the world, but by understanding our relationship to it, and to the tools that mediate our experience.
We sit at the intersection of generative text and technological wave, not as observers, but as participants; bringing the same non-judgmental awareness, the same willingness to simply be with whatever arises, whether it’s a thought, a feeling, or a line of text generated by an algorithm.
It’s about finding the present moment, even amidst the constant hum of the digital age, and simply noting it so that we can be here now.
~ Victor Khong
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