Has anyone ever noticed that certain really experienced meditators, particularly monks, can sometimes come across as kind of blank or impersonal. It's like talking to a robot or a zombie or something. Like they don't smile or seem to have facial expressions at all. They're looking at you, but you might as well be a rock or cucumber or anything. 

I just had this experience with a meditation teacher, but I've noticed it before. I was wondering if anyone else has ever noticed this, and if it ever made you feel disconcerted. It makes me feel very weirded out. Of course, the reason is probably my own to desire to be "important" or "special." That being said, I don't know if I'd ever want to apsire to be so blank.

One of the reasons that I have always liked Daniel's work is that he seems very much to still be a unique person, who's aware of the people around him. 

Has anyone ever noticed that certain really experienced meditators, particularly monks, can sometimes come across as kind of blank or impersonal. It's like talking to a robot or a zombie or something. Like they don't smile or seem to have facial expressions at all. They're looking at you, but you might as well be a rock or cucumber or anything.

Some time ago I stayed with an eminent meditation teacher in Burma. On my arrival I went to his suite to pay my respects and found him sitting on a gilt teak throne surrounded by a large retinue of devotees, mainly rich matrons. It was a little like entering the court of a petty monarch. We had some connection to each other and I was interested to talk to him about it but he was uncommunicative and hardly acknowledged my presence. After my polite inquiries about his health etc met with no more than a few grunts I lapsed into an awkward silence and was eventually led out by an attendant who showed me to my room. Towards dusk I happened to see the teacher in the garden and decided to go and try to make contact again. He greeted warmly, asked me what I had been doing of late and we had an interesting exchange on the matter I had wanted to discuss with him. Why this apparent change? Because in front of the public he, like all sincere Theravadin monks, must present the facade of the arahat-like individual – controlled, unsmiling and indifferent – otherwise he would simply not be taken seriously. It is only when he is ‘off duty’ as it were, that he can relax and be himself. The naïve psychology of Theravada equates detachment with having a blank stare, never a smile. It is not relaxed self-confidence which is indicative of virtue but being inflexible about minor rules. Proof of meditational progress is not a heightened sensitivity and openness but sour withdrawal. This is what Theravadins believe an arahat to be like and so this is what they try to become, or at least to appear to be in front of their devotees. This control and suppression combined with the strain of continually pretending to be what they are not, robs Theravadin monks of the humanness and warmth that makes Tibetan monks so attractive. An American I know who practiced vipassana for years before becoming a Tibetan Buddhist once said to me, ‘Being with a rimpoche is like sitting on a comfortable rug beside a warm fire. Being with a Theravadin meditation master is like sitting in a refrigerator with a tight corset on.’ This is not always true but the point is well taken.