The Buddha taught Four Noble Truths, applicable to everyone. The First Noble Truth states that inherent in all things are the seeds of dissatisfaction that inevitably lead to suffering, both mental and physical.

This is so, the Buddha realized, because everything in the universe is changing, in a state of constant flux, impermanent and insubstantial. Nothing remains the same even for a moment.

On some personal level we, too, recognize this: a sense that everything is not right, that something is missing, or might be impossible to keep if acquired. Circumstances change; what we previously wanted no longer matters. Control is erratic, if not illusory. Fleeting pleasures give no lasting satisfaction; genuine fulfillment seems remote, elusive and ephemeral—beyond our grasp.

This insecurity impels us to search for something constant, dependable and secure—something pleasant that will guarantee permanent happiness. However, since everything is in perpetual flux, the quest is fundamentally futile. This fact of incessant craving for satisfaction is the Second Noble Truth.

Through his supreme efforts, the Buddha realized the Third Noble Truth: there can be an end to the suffering we experience in life.

The Fourth Noble Truth is the Eightfold Noble Path, the way that leads to real peace and real liberation. This Path has three divisions: sīla (morality), samādhi (concentration, or mastery over the mind), and paññā (wisdom, or purification of mind).

Morality is a training to refrain from actions—mental, verbal and physical—that might harm others or ourselves. Making effort to live a wholesome life is a necessary base for learning to control the mind. The second division of the Path is development of concentration, a deeper training to calm the mind and train it to remain one-pointed. The third division, the acquisition of wisdom, is achieved through Vipassana meditation, the technique the Buddha discovered to completely eradicate the conditioning and habit patterns that reinforce our unhappiness and dissatisfaction.

The Buddha said that purification of mind is a long path, one that can take many lifetimes to complete. He taught that we have lived through an incalculable number of lives, cycles upon cycles of life and death—some full of bliss, some tormented, all laced with good and bad, pleasant and unpleasant, all lived in reactive blindness to the reality within.

If we are fortunate enough to hear about Vipassana, if we are ready to learn, to make changes in our lives, we might take the practice to heart and begin to dismantle these patterns of reaction conditioned by ignorance. We notice that we seem happier and more stable, less reactive and more tolerant of others. We want to learn more. We begin to share the Dhamma with others. But common questions persist: How will I be at death? Will I be serene? Will I be strong enough to face death peacefully?

Death, the inevitable ending of life, is feared by nearly all. It is often mired in pain and suffering, of both body and mind. Yet the Buddha taught that death is a pivotal moment on the path to freedom from suffering.

At the moment of death a very strong saṅkhāra (mental conditioning) will arise in the conscious mind. This saṅkhāra generates the necessary impetus for new consciousness to arise in the next life, a consciousness bearing the qualities of this saṅkhāra. If the saṅkhāra is characterized by unhappiness or negativity, the new consciousness will arise in similar negativity and unhappiness. If, on the other hand, it is replete with virtue and contentment, then this rebirth is likely to be wholesome and happy.1

Developing a balanced moment-to-moment awareness of the impermanence of physical sensations in our daily lives, even in the most difficult situations, also creates very deep saṅkhāras— positive ones. If the saṅkhāra of awareness with the understanding of anicca (the constantly changing nature of all

1 Whether we believe in rebirth or not, practicing Vipassana meditation makes our lives easier to live no matter what the situation. We learn how to establish a balanced mind that becomes a strong habit pattern that will help us through all of life’s challenges, even death. things) is strengthened and developed, then this saṅkhāra will arise at death to give a positive push into the next life. The mental forces at the instant of death will carry us, as Goenkaji says, “magnetically,” into a next life in which Vipassana can continue to be practiced.

Walking on the Eightfold Noble Path is an art of living. Living a life in Dhamma—a life of virtue, awareness, and equanimity—not only enhances our daily existence, it also prepares us for the moment of death and for the next life. A calm awareness of anicca at death is a telling measure of progress in mastering the art of living, of progress on the path of peace, the path to nibbāna.

Āo logoṅ jagata ke,

caleṅ Dharama ke pantha. 

Isa patha calate satpuruṣha, 

isa patha calate santa. 

Dharma pantha hī śhānti patha.

Dharma pantha sukha pantha.

Jisane pāyā Dharma patha, maṅgala milā ananta. 

Āo mānava-mānavī, 

caleṅ Dharama ke pantha.

Kadama-kadama calate hue, 

kareṅ dukhoṅ kā anta. 

Come, people of the world! Let us walk the path of Dhamma. On this path walk holy ones; on this path walk saints 

The path of Dhamma is the path of peace; the path of Dhamma is the path of happiness. Whoever attains the path of Dhamma gains endless happiness.

Come, men and women! Let us walk the path of Dhamma. Walking step by step, let us make an end of suffering.

—Hindi dohas from Come People of the World, S.N. Goenka

Yathāpi vātā ākāse vāyanti vividhā puthū;

Puratthimā pacchimā cāpi, uttarā atha dakkhiṇā.

Sarajā arajā capi, sītā uṇhā ca ekadā; 

Adhimattā parittā ca, puthū vāyanti mālutā.

Tathevimasmiṃ kāyasmiṃ samuppajjanti vedanā; 

Sukhadukkhasamuppatti, adukkhamasukhā ca yā. 

Yato ca bhikkhu ātāpi, sampajaññaṃ na riñcati;

Tato so vedanā sabbā, parijānāti paṇḍito. 

So vedanā pariññāya diṭṭhe dhamme anāsavo; 

Kāyassa bhedā dhammaṭṭho, saṅkhyaṃ nopeti vedagū.

Through the sky blow many different winds, from east and west, from north and south, dust-laden and dustless, cold as well as hot, fierce gales and gentle breezes—many winds blow. In the same way, in this body, sensations arise, pleasant, unpleasant, and neutral. When a meditator, practicing ardently, does not neglect the faculty of thorough understanding, then such a wise person fully comprehends all sensations, and having fully comprehended them, within this very life becomes freed from all impurities. At life’s end, such a person, being established in Dhamma and understanding sensations perfectly, attains the indescribable stage.

—Paṭhama-ākāsa Sutta, Saṃyutta Nikāya 1.260

Ahaṅkāra hī janma kā, 

jarā mṛityū kā mūla. 

Ahaṅkāra mite binā, 

miṭe na bhāva-bhaya śhūla.

Self-centeredness is the root 

of birth, decay and death. 

Unless ego is removed, 

the torment and fear of becoming will not end. 

—Hindi doha, S.N. Goenka

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The  Law of Dependent Origination

According to the Buddha, our present is the fruit of our past thoughts, words and deeds. Thus, moment by moment our future is shaped by the things we think, say and do in the present. The Buddha’s message is profound. Practicing seriously, we realize its unavoidable truth, facing it head-on in our meditations and as we carry out our daily lives. The fact that we are responsible for our future, and that by mastering our minds we can shape it, becomes very clear. Our understanding and acceptance of this law—the law of dependent origination, paṭicca samuppāda—is what brings us peace of mind and opens the door to our liberation.

The Buddha spent eons developing the qualities necessary to become fully enlightened—to learn the way out of suffering. Out of deep compassion he offered his discovery to all beings— fearful, angry, greedy, helpless, discouraged, ill, old and dying— so that they too could free themselves from their suffering.

It is a long and difficult path. It can seem so much easier to stick to our old familiar habits of mind, to prefer the pain and suffering of patterns we already know, than to face the discomforts of change that come with training the mind.

Our lives are difficult. There are many days when we feel exhausted and stressed. Rather than face the internal source of our misery, we crave distraction and pleasantness; and so we allow meditation to slip to the bottom of our priority list. Breaking the powerful old habit of craving the pleasant to avoid the unpleasant can seem impossible. But when we are ready to make the effort, the Buddha has provided the perfect tool to make fundamental change.

Following is Goenkaji’s explanation of paṭicca samuppāda, from Day 5 of The Discourse Summaries.

Obviously the sufferings of life—disease, old age, death, physical and mental pain—are inevitable consequences of being born. But what is the reason for birth? Of course the immediate cause is the physical union of parents, but in a broader perspective birth occurs because of the endless process of becoming in which the entire universe is involved. Even at the time of death the process does not stop: the body continues decaying, disintegrating, while the consciousness becomes connected with another material structure and continues flowing—becoming.

And why this process of becoming? It was clear to the Buddha that the cause is the attachment one develops. Because of attachment one generates strong reactions, saṅkhāras, that make a deep impression on the mind. At the end of life, one of these saṅkhāras will arise in the mind and give a push so that the flow of consciousness continues.

Now what is the cause of this attachment? The Buddha found that it arises because of the momentary reactions of liking and disliking. Liking develops into great craving; disliking into great aversion, the mirror image of craving; and both turn into attachment.

Why do these momentary reactions of liking and disliking arise? Anyone who observes himself will find that they occur because of bodily sensations. Whenever a pleasant sensation arises, one likes it and wants to retain and multiply it. Whenever an unpleasant sensation arises, one dislikes it and wants to be rid of it.

What causes these sensations? Clearly they occur because of contact between any of the senses and an object of that particular sense: contact of the eye with a vision, of the ear with a sound, of the nose with an odor, of the tongue with a taste, of the body with something tangible, of the mind with a thought. As soon as there is contact, a sensation is bound to arise—pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral.

What is the reason for contact? Obviously, the entire universe is full of sense objects. So long as the six senses—the five physical ones, together with the mind—are functioning, they are bound to encounter their respective objects.

And why do these sense organs exist? It is clear that they are inseparable parts of the flow of mind and matter; they arise as soon as life begins.

Then why does the life-flow, the flow of mind and matter, occur? It is because of the flow of consciousness from moment to moment, from one life to the next.

So why do we have this flow of consciousness? The Buddha found that it arises because of saṅkhāras, the mental reactions. Every reaction gives a push to the flow of consciousness; the flow continues because of the impetus given to it by reactions.

And why do reactions occur? He saw that they arise because of ignorance. One does not know what one is doing, does not know how one is reacting, and therefore one keeps generating saṅkhāras. As long as there is ignorance, suffering will remain.

The source of the process of suffering, the deepest cause, is ignorance. The chain of events by which one generates mountains of misery for oneself starts from ignorance. If ignorance can be eradicated, suffering will be eradicated.

How can one accomplish this? How can one break the chain? The flow of life, of mind and matter, has already begun. Committing suicide will not solve the problem; it will only create fresh misery. Nor can one destroy the senses without destroying oneself. So long as the senses exist, contact between them and their respective objects is bound to occur, and whenever there is contact a sensation is bound to arise within the body.

And it is here, at the link of sensation, that one can break the chain. Previously, every sensation gave rise to a reaction of liking or disliking that developed into great craving or aversion—great misery. But now, instead of reacting to sensation, you are learning just to observe with equanimity, understanding: “This will also change.” In this way sensation gives rise only to wisdom, to the understanding of anicca. One stops the turning of the wheel of suffering and starts rotating it in the opposite direction, towards liberation.

Any moment in which one does not generate a new saṅkhāra, one of the old ones will rise to the surface of the mind and, along with it, a sensation will start within the body. If one remains equanimous, it passes away and another old reaction arises in its place. One continues to remain equanimous toward the physical sensations and the old saṅkhāras continue to arise and pass away, one after another. If, out of ignorance, one reacts to sensations, then one multiplies the saṅkhāras, multiplies one’s misery. But, if one develops wisdom and does not react to sensations, then one after another, the saṅkhāras are eradicated, and misery is eradicated.

The entire path is a way to eradicate misery. By practicing, you will find that you stop tying new knots, and that the old ones are automatically untied. Gradually you will progress toward a stage in which all saṅkhāras leading to new birth, and therefore to new suffering, have been eradicated: the stage of total liberation, full enlightenment.

To start the work, it is not necessary that one should first believe in past lives and future lives. In practicing Vipassana the present is most important. Here in the present life, we keep generating saṅkhāras and continue to make ourselves miserable. Here and now one must break this habit and start coming out of misery. If you practice, certainly a day will come when you will be able to say that you have eradicated all the old saṅkhāras, have stopped generating any new ones, and so have freed yourself from all suffering.

—S.N. Goenka

There is no cause without an effect and there is no effect without a cause. The law of kamma is supreme and inevitable. What you have now is the result of what you have done in the past. Until we get rid of the forces of kamma which belong to us, once and for all, and enter the supreme nibbāna, there is bound to be some trouble or other, here and there, during the remainder of our existence, that we must put up with, using the strength of anicca. Anicca will surely prevail upon them and you will keep yourself in good stead in spite of all these difficulties. Anicca is power. Thorns in the way are inevitable. Make use of the power of anicca with diligence and peace will be with you.

—Sayagyi U Ba Khin

Every life is a preparation for the next death. If one is wise, one will use this life to the best advantage and prepare for a good death. 

—S.N. Goenka

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This account by Graham Gambie’s widow, Anne Doneman, reveals the peace of mind experienced by a meditator who has reaped the benefits of Dhamma. It was excerpted from a longer piece originally published in Realizing Change—Vipassana Meditation in Action, Vipassana Research Institute, July 2003, p. 168.

We returned home to Australia in February and in May conducted a 10-day course. Graham appeared to be in a state of near-total collapse at the beginning of the course. In the meditation hall, he was barely conscious on the dais and when he gave instructions he could not construct a sentence correctly. At night his breathing was barely audible. Our concern grew, and so we telephoned a neurologist in Sydney and made an appointment for the day the course ended, intending to fly to New Zealand on the following day.

Fortunately, by Day 10 Graham was fully alert and apparently totally recovered. After the course we traveled to Sydney and met the neurologist, who initially dismissed the lapse as probable short-term memory loss from which white-collar workers sometimes suffer. However, he ordered a CT brain scan, and while waiting for the results Graham and I enjoyed a special lunch. We returned to the neurologist who, without saying a word, took the films from their folder and placed them on a display panel. He pointed out a tumor that filled what seemed to be 50 percent of the brain’s left hemisphere. On top of the tumor was a very large cyst.

I was numb and uncomprehending. Yes, we would cancel our air tickets to New Zealand. Yes, we could get Graham directly into hospital that afternoon. The numbness turned to tears as I phoned to arrange accommodation with dear friends in Sydney. I wasn’t making sense explaining to them what was happening, so Graham took the telephone and made the arrangements himself. He was calm and collected.

While getting Graham into hospital and making sure he was comfortable, I somehow managed to be outwardly cheerful. But as soon as I left his company I was in tears again. That night, as I meditated, a deep sense of peace arose that was to stay with me throughout Graham’s ordeal. It was not the peace that comes from rationalization or intellectualization; it was just something that “kicked in.”

Within two days Graham was under the scalpel. The surgeons were not able to remove the entire tumor and, consequently, the prognosis was not good. The neurosurgeon told us that, due to the nature of the tumor, an astrocytoma, he had a maximum of five years to live—and by the end, mentally, he would be a vegetable.

Such news was devastating, yet he took it in his stride. I once heard him say to visitors, “How can I be attached to this body and mind when they are constantly changing? There is nothing to hold onto.” Fellow journalists, workmates, police contacts, and those whom he knew through meditation came to visit him. One colleague remarked, “I came expecting to see a body on the bed and to console him. Instead I ended up telling him all about my problems and forgot about his.”

The days passed—and I am grateful to have spent every one of them at his side. He was discharged from hospital but within 10 days was back in again. He was having difficulty with his legs, which had become so tender that he could barely walk.

On the morning of June 27, six weeks after the tumor had been diagnosed, I arrived at the hospital. All I could think of was that I really wanted to be close to him that day—there would be no popping out to run errands. We had a lovely time together, and that night while saying goodbye I felt I couldn’t get close enough to him. I hopped up on the side of the bed and began to put on lipstick. He asked, “Why?” I said I wanted to look nice for him. He then went on to say the sweetest things about what a wonderful wife I was and how he felt. I was happy and he was happy. We said goodbye.

After dinner that night I was enjoying the last sip of a hot chocolate. I took a breath and at that moment experienced a deep sense of absolute peace and tranquility. The phone rang, a junior nurse calling—could I come quickly? Graham was having a heart attack (later found to have been caused by a blood clot)

But it was clear that there was really no need to hurry. He was gone.

It was Friday, late. As I traveled to the hospital, neon lights were shining and people were out strolling, window shopping, eating. Feelings of fear and vulnerability arose. Such a casual picture of life could not be trusted. What seemed so real, so permanent, was an illusion. We were all walking on very thin ice, blind to the fact that we could fall through at any moment.

I arrived at the hospital and went upstairs to the room where we had exchanged words only hours before. It was deserted, but I was immediately struck by the vibrancy of the atmosphere. It was entirely clear that no one was there. Though Graham’s body lay on the bed, it looked like a cast-off coat that could no longer serve its owner. This was all that remained of the person with whom I had just spent four very special years of my life.

What a wonderful life he had lived. I received letters from people who knew him in the past, each one recounting something that Graham had done to help them. I heard how, when he was traveling in India, he would give his last rupee to someone who needed it, how he used to feed street children with money he received from a small investment he had. When I realized how much he had loved and helped others during the time we had together, it became evident that the wonderful good deeds he had performed had all gone with him.

There were no more tears. How could there be tears? The relationship had come full circle. There was nothing left unsaid or unresolved. Yes, it had been the hardest thing I had ever done, but the fruits were so great and so numerous. I was truly fortunate to have briefly shared my life with such a human being.

At the funeral the pews were full and people lined the walls. They came from all persuasions, from all walks of life, each with his or her own personal reason for being there. It was strange to return home to see his clothes just as he had left them, and to know that there was no one to claim ownership.

—Anne Doneman

Phuṭṭhassa lokadhammehi, 

cittaṃ yassa na kampati, 

asokaṃ virajaṃ khemaṃ; 

etaṃ maṅgalamuttamaṃ.

When faced with life’s vicissitudes, one’s mind is unshaken, free from sorrow, impurity or fear. This is the highest welfare.

—Maṇgala Sutta, Sutta Nipāta 2.271

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Following is an account of how Shri Satya Narayan Goenka faced his last moments, on Sunday, September 29, 2013

Sometimes the end of life comes as peacefully as the passing of the day.

In the last months of his long life, Goenkaji was confined to a wheelchair and faced increasing pain, yet he strove to carry on with his daily routine. Often he had recalled how the Buddha served until his last moments. It was clear that Goenkaji intended to follow that great example. He continued to meet with visitors and to take a close interest in the Dhamma work.

On his last day, at breakfast time Goenkaji asked his son Shriprakash how work was proceeding at the Global Vipassana Pagoda. Shriprakash replied that he would be visiting the Global Pagoda that day and would make a full report on his return.

During the day, Goenkaji worked on a selection of 500 of his dohas (couplets) for possible future publication. As always, this was a labor of love for him.

At lunch, Goenkaji said, “I am relieved of the doctors.” Mataji attached no special significance to these words; she thought he was referring to a particular doctor who had recently visited him. However, it was obvious that Goenkaji wanted to spend the day quietly, undisturbed.

After teatime, Goenkaji reviewed major stories in the newspapers, as he was accustomed to do every day. He then meditated in a chair in his room. He came to the table for the evening meal but kept silent during it and returned directly to his room afterwards. 

He remained seated there for some time and then asked to be helped to bed. As soon as he was lying down, he started breathing faster. Noticing this when she entered the room, Mataji asked Shriprakash to come. Goenkaji opened his eyes and recognized his son but spoke no word. Shriprakash called the family doctor, and then a doctor who lived in the same building and was able to come at once. But events moved swiftly to their end. The breath came in, the breath went out and then ceased. The heart had stopped beating. There was no sign of pain or stress on Goenkaji’s face, and the atmosphere in the room was serene and peaceful. The time was 10:40 p.m.—the end of the day and a fitting close to a long life of Dhamma

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This essay by Goenkaji originally appeared in the Sayagyi U Ba Khin Journal, Vipassana Research Institute, December 1991, and later in the Vipassana Newsletter, April 1992.

To understand what happens at death, let us first understand what death is. Death is like a bend in a continuous river of becoming. It might appear that death is the end of a process of becoming—and certainly it may be so in the case of an arahant (a fully liberated being) or a buddha—but for an ordinary person this flow of becoming continues even after death. Death puts an end to the activities of one life and the very next instant starts the play of a new life. On one side is the last moment of this life and on the other side is the first moment of the next life. It is as though the sun rises as soon as it sets, with no interval of darkness between. It is as if the moment of death is the close of one chapter in the book of becoming, and another chapter of life opens the very next moment.

Although no simile can exactly convey the process, one might say that this flow of becoming is like a train running on a track. It reaches the station of death and, after slightly decreasing speed for a moment, carries on again with the same speed as before. It does not stop at the station even for an instant. For one who is not an arahant, the station of death is not a terminus but a junction from where 31 different tracks diverge. The train, as soon as it arrives at the station, shifts onto one or another of these tracks and continues. This speeding train of becoming, running on the electricity of the kammic reactions of the past, keeps on traveling from one station to the next, on one track or the other—a continuous journey that goes on without ceasing.

This switching of tracks happens automatically. As the melting of ice into water and the cooling of water to form ice happen according to laws of nature, so also the transition from life to life is controlled by set laws of nature. According to these laws, the train not only changes tracks by itself, it also lays the next tracks for itself.

For this train of becoming, the junction of death where the change of tracks takes place is of great importance. Here the present life is abandoned; this is called in Pāli cuti (disappearance, death). The demise of the body takes place, and immediately the next life starts, a process called paṭisandhi (conception, or beginning of the next life). The moment of paṭisandhi is the result of the moment of death; the moment of death creates the moment of conception. Since every death moment creates the next birth moment, death is not only death but birth as well. At this junction, life changes into death and death into birth.

Thus, every life is a preparation for the next death. If one is wise, one will use this life to best advantage and prepare for a good death. The best death is the one that is the last, not a junction but a terminus: the death of an arahant. Here there will be no track on which the train can run further. But until such a terminus is reached, one can at least ensure that the next death gives rise to a good birth and that the terminus will be reached in due course. It all depends on us, on our own efforts. We are the makers of our own future; we create our own welfare or misery, as well as our own liberation.

How is it that we are the creators of the tracks that receive the onrushing train of becoming? To answer this question we must understand what kamma (action) is. Mental volition, whether skillful or unskillful, is kamma. Whatever wholesome or unwholesome volition arises in the mind becomes the root of all mental, vocal or physical action. Consciousness (viññāṇa) arises due to a contact at a sense door, then perception and recognition (saññā) evaluate the experience, sensations (vedanā) arise, and a kammic reaction (saṅkhāra) takes place.

These volitional reactions are of various kinds. Some are like a line drawn on water, disappearing immediately; some like a line drawn on sand, fading away after some interval; and others are like a line chiseled in rock, lasting for a very long time. If the volition is wholesome, the action will be wholesome and the fruits beneficial. But if the volition is unwholesome, the action will be unwholesome and will give fruits of misery.

Not all of these reactions result in a new birth. Some are so shallow that they do not give a significant result. Others are a bit deeper, but will be erased in this lifetime and not carry over into the next. Others, being still deeper, continue with the flow of this life and into the next birth, and can also multiply during this life and the next.

Many kammas, however, are bhāva-kammas or bhāva-saṅkhāras, those that give a new birth, a new life. Each one gives rise to the process of becoming and carries a magnetic force in tune with the vibrations of a particular plane of existence. The vibrations of that bhāva-kamma and the vibrations of that bhāva-loka (world, plane) attract each other and the two will unite according to universal laws pertaining to forces of kamma.

As soon as one of these bhāva-kammas is generated, this railway train of becoming gets attracted to one or other of the 31 tracks at the station of death. Actually, these tracks are the 31 planes  of  existence:  the  11  kāma  lokas  (realms  of sensuality—the four lower realms of existence, the human world, and six celestial realms), the 16 rūpa-brahma lokas (where fine material body remains), and the four arūpa-brahma lokas (non-material realms, where only mind exists).

At the last moment of this life a specific bhāva-saṅkhāra will arise. This saṅkhāra, capable of giving a new birth, will become connected with the vibrations of the related realm of existence. At the instant of death all 31 realms are open. The saṅkhāra that arises determines which track the train of existence runs on next. Like shunting a train onto a new track, the force of the bhāva-kamma reaction provides a push to the flow of consciousness into the next existence. For example, a bhāva-kamma of anger or malice, having heat and agitation as characteristics, will unite with some lower field of existence. Similarly, one like mettā (compassionate love), having peaceful and cool vibrations, can only unite with a brahma-loka. This is a law of nature, and these laws are so perfectly ordered that there is never any flaw in their operation. It must be understood, of course, that there is no passenger on the train except the force of accumulated saṅkhāras.

At the moment of death, generally, some intense saṅkhāra will arise. It may be of a wholesome or unwholesome nature. For example, if one has murdered one’s father or mother or perhaps some saintly person in this lifetime, then the memory of that event will arise at the moment of death. In the same way, if one has developed some deep meditation practice, a state of mind similar to that will arise.

When there is no such intense bhāva-kamma, then a comparatively less intense kamma will arise. Whatever memory is awakened will manifest as the kamma. One might remember the wholesome kamma of giving food to a saintly person, or the unwholesome kamma of hurting someone. Reflections on such past kammas as these can arise. Otherwise, objects related to that kamma might arise: the plate of food that was offered as dāna (donation) or the weapon used to harm. These are called the kamma-nimittas (signs, images).

Or perhaps a sign or a symbol of the next life might appear. This is called gati-nimitta (departing sign). These nimittas correspond to the bhāva-loka towards which the flow is attracted. It could be the scene of some celestial world, or perhaps of the animal world. The dying person will often experience one of these signs as a precursor, just as a train’s headlight illuminates the track ahead. The vibrations of these nimittas are identical to the vibrations of the plane of existence of the next birth.

A good Vipassana meditator has the capacity to avoid tracks leading to the lower realms of existence. He or she clearly understands the laws of nature and practices to be ready for death at all times. If one has reached an advanced age, there is all the more reason to remain aware every moment.

What preparations should one undertake? One practices Vipassana by remaining equanimous with whatever sensations arise in the body, thereby breaking the habit of reacting to them. Thus, the mind, which is usually generating new unwholesome saṅkhāras, develops the habit of being equanimous.

At the approach of death it is not unlikely that one will experience very unpleasant sensations. Old age, disease and death are dukkha (misery), and often, therefore, produce gross unpleasant sensations. If one is not skillful in observing these sensations with equanimity, one will likely react with feelings of fear, anger, sadness, or irritation, providing an opportunity for a bhāva-saṅkhāra of like vibration to arise. However, as in the cases of some well-developed meditators, one can work to avoid reacting to these immensely painful sensations by maintaining equanimity at the time of death. Then, even those related bhāva-saṅkhāras lying deep in the unconscious will not have an opportunity to arise.

A meditator at the point of death will be fortunate to have close relatives or friends nearby who can practice Vipassana and generate beneficial vibrations of mettā, which will create a peaceful Dhamma atmosphere, free from lamenting and gloom.

An ordinary person will usually remain apprehensive, even terror-stricken, at the approach of death, and thus allow a fearful bhāva-saṅkhāra to surface. In the same way, grief, sorrow, depression, and other feelings might arise at the thought of separation from loved ones, and the related saṅkhāra will come up and dominate the mind. A Vipassana meditator, by observing all sensations with equanimity, weakens these saṅkhāras so that they will not arise at the time of death. The real preparation for death is this: developing a habit pattern of repeatedly observing the sensations manifesting in the body and mind with equanimity and with the understanding of anicca.

At the time of death this strong habit of equanimity will automatically appear and the train of existence will switch to a track on which it will be possible to practice Vipassana in the new life. In this way one saves oneself from birth in a lower realm and reaches one of the higher ones. Because Vipassana cannot be practiced in the lower realms, this is very important.

At times a non-meditator will attain a favorable rebirth due to the manifestation at the time of death of wholesome bhāva-saṅkhāras such as generosity, morality, and other strong, wholesome qualities. But the special achievement of an established Vipassana meditator is to attain an existence where he or she can continue to practice Vipassana. In this way, by slowly decreasing the stock of accumulated bhāva-saṅkhāras, one shortens one’s journey of becoming and reaches the goal of liberation sooner.

One comes into contact with the Dhamma in this life because of the great merits one has performed in the past. Make this human life successful by practicing Vipassana, so that when death comes the mind is full of equanimity, ensuring well-being for the future.

—S.N. Goenka

Handadāni, bhikkhave, āmantayāmi vo, vayadhammā saṅkhārā, appamādena sampādetha. 

Now, monks, I exhort you: All conditioned things have the nature of decay. Strive on diligently. 

—Mahāparinibbāna Sutta, Dīgha Nikāya 2.185

Kāmayogena saṃyuttā, 

bhāvayogena cūbhayaṃ; 

Ditthiyogena saṃyuttā, 

avijjāya purakkhatā. 

Sattā gacchanti saṃsāraṃ, 

jātimaraṇagāmino.

Bound by desire, tied to becoming, fettered tightly by false opinions, yoked to ignorance, whirled about: thus beings wander through saṃsāra, dying only to be born again.

—Aṅguttara Nikāya 4.10

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art of Dying – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và nhiều tác giả khác.

The following article first appeared in the Vipassana Newsletter, Dhamma Giri edition in April 1997.

Dr. Tara Jadhav attended her first Vipassana course in 1986. Her search was over; she had found the pure path of Dhamma and felt no need to explore any other path or technique. With single-minded dedication she began to walk on this path.

Since Tara did not have other responsibilities, she spent most of her time progressing in Dhamma. With her abundant store of pāramitā (virtuous qualities), she was able to practice Vipassana easily. Like a fish in water that does not have to be taught to swim, Tara did not have to be given any special training. No doubt she had walked on the path of Dhamma in many previous lives.

She had the technique as well as facilities available for practice, and so she became engrossed in making best use of her time. Since the qualities of mettā (loving-kindness) and karuṇā (compassion) and a capacity for selfless service were well developed in her, she was appointed an assistant teacher in 1989 and a senior assistant teacher in 1995. In spite of old age she continued to give Dhamma service with great devotion. While guiding students in Vipassana she kept strengthening her pāramī of dāna.

At the ripe age of 82 she came to Dhamma Giri to take part in a Teachers’ Self-Course. On the morning of December 2, 1996, the course started with ānāpāna, as usual. She practiced intently throughout the day. After meditating in her cell from 6 to 7 pm she came to the Dhamma hall for the discourse.

At about 7:30 pm, as soon as the discourse began, she knelt with palms and head upon the floor to pay her respects. Once, twice, and after she touched her head to the floor for the third time, she did not raise it again. She breathed her last in the traditional posture of the Dhamma salutation.

Women meditators sitting nearby were surprised to see her bowing thus, because respects are usually paid three times only at the end of a discourse. Why was she offering her respects at the beginning? All three times, while lowering her body, she softly repeated, “Anicca, anicca, anicca”—her last words. How could they have known this was to be her final salutation in this life?

All serious meditators are taught that they should never pay respects mechanically. Only when one is equanimous, aware of the impermanence of sensations at the top of the head, is the salutation meaningful. Tara would always bow in this deliberate manner. Her final salutation was all the more deliberate and meaningful.

Tara would tell her Dhamma sisters, “In this twilight of my life I have only one desire: I should give up my body while meditating on this Dhamma land.” Her strong Dhamma wish was fulfilled. Becoming established in Vipassana, on the path of liberation, she lived a life of Dhamma and ultimately achieved an exemplary death.

—S.N. Goenka

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art of Dying – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và nhiều tác giả khác.

In 1985 a student asked Goenkaji whether it is possible to feel sensations at the time of death. In reply, he related the following story about his adoptive mother’s death (previously published in the April 1992 issue of the Vipassana Newsletter).

I am one of six sons. I was adopted at a young age by my uncle and aunt, Mr. Dwarkadas and Mrs. Ramidevi Goenka, who at the time had six daughters but no son.

My adoptive mother was a devoted student of my teacher Sayagyi U Ba Khin. She made great progress in her years of practicing Vipassana under Sayagyi’s guidance, and Sayagyi was quite fond of her. As far as is known, she was the only student of Sayagyi to die in his presence.

In 1967, when my mother was about 70 years old, she was diagnosed with an advanced stage of liver cancer. We in the family did not know how long she had suffered because she never complained. It was only a week before her death that she casually spoke about some pain in the area of her liver. When her daughter-in-law (my wife, Mrs. Goenka) asked her to describe the pain, she replied, “Well, the pain is similar to what a mother suffers when she gives birth—except this has no break.”

By then she had been meditating very seriously for seven years. She went to the meditation center every time there was a course, whether for 10 days, one month, or any other period. Her bag was always packed. She also did self-courses at home. Although she came from a devout Hindu background, she was no longer interested in rites and rituals; she had left them behind.

From the time she was diagnosed with cancer until she died seven days later, she would not allow anyone to talk to her about her disease. She gave strict orders that only Vipassana meditators were to come into her room, and then only to meditate. They could meditate for a half hour, an hour or many hours, and then were to leave quietly.

In our Hindu community it was customary for the friends of a dying person to come to the house to pay respects. My mother was very popular and she had many people wishing to visit her in her final illness. For those who were not meditators, she gave instructions that they were welcome to visit but not come into her room. They could sit quietly outside her door. 

My mother was not interested in receiving treatment, but as her son it was my duty to arrange it for her. Every day our family doctor and a specialist visited her. When they questioned her about her pain she said, “Yes, there is pain. So what? Anissa, anissa (the Burmese pronunciation of the Pāḷi word anicca— impermanence).” She attached no importance to it.

One morning the specialist was concerned that the pain of the cancer might be interfering with her sleep. When he asked, “Did you sleep soundly last night?” she answered, “No, I had no sleep.” He wrote a prescription for some sleeping pills that she took that night. The next day the doctor came and asked if she had slept, and she replied, “No.” Again on the third day he asked, and again she responded, “No.”

Even though she did not complain, the doctor was worried that she was not sleeping because she was suffering so much. Not knowing, because of drug shortages, which particular medicine would be available, he wrote prescriptions for three different strong sleeping pills intending that only one pill be purchased. However, all three were available and bought, and by mistake she was given a triple dose. Once more the next morning she reported that, although her eyelids had become heavy, she had not slept all night.

It then occurred to me that the doctor did not understand. To a Vipassana meditator sleep is unimportant, especially on one’s deathbed. Despite sedation, my mother’s strong determination had kept her alert. She had been practicing Vipassana every moment. I explained to the doctor that sleeping pills would not help, but he couldn’t comprehend. He said, “I have given her this strong medicine and even it does not help her sleep. That must mean that she is in great pain.” “It’s not the pain,” I replied. “It is Vipassana that is keeping her awake, aware of her sensations.”

As we came out of her room he remarked, “There is something special about your mother. A woman of the same age in a neighboring house also has liver cancer. She is in great misery and cries out in pain. We feel so sorry to see her in this wretched condition, but cannot console her. And here is your mother who, when we come, just smiles.”

The night she died, some family members were meditating with her. About 11 pm she said to us, “It’s late. All of you go to sleep now.” About midnight the nurse who was on duty noticed that there was no pulse in her wrists. She became worried and, thinking death was near, asked, “May I awaken your children?” “No, no,” my mother answered. “My time has not yet come. When it does, I will tell you.” At 3 am she told the nurse, “Now is the time. Awaken all the family members. I have to go now.”

And so we were all awakened. We came and discovered there was no pulse in many parts of her body. We telephoned Sayagyi and the family doctor, who both came quickly. When the doctor arrived, he said she had only a few minutes left.

Sayagyi arrived shortly thereafter. My mother was lying on her back. There was no pulse in her wrists, as in death, but as soon as she saw her teacher she found the strength to raise her hands and fold them together, paying respect to him.

About five minutes before she died she looked at me and said, “I want to sit.” I turned to the doctor who advised, “No, in a few minutes she is going to die; let her die peacefully. If you move her, her death will be painful. She is already suffering; leave her.” She heard what he said but again told me, “No, let me sit.” I thought, “This is her last wish. She doesn’t care about the pain, so what the doctor says is unimportant. I must help her sit.”

I placed some pillows at her back. With a jerk she sat erect in a meditation position with folded legs and looked at all of us. I asked her, “Do you feel sensations? Do you feel anissa?” She raised her hand and touched the top of her head. “Yes, yes, anissa.” She smiled … and in half a minute she died. In life her face was always aglow. In death, too, there was a radiant glow on her face.

—S.N. Goenka

Soon after his mother’s death Goenkaji left Burma to bring the teaching of the Buddha back to India, the land of Buddha’s birth. From India, with the help of thousands of Goenkaji’s students, it has spread around the world.

Yogā ve jāyatī bhūri,

ayogā bhūrisaṅkhayo. 

Etaṃ dvedhāpathaṃ ñatvā, 

bhavāya vibhavāya ca; 

Tathāttānaṃ niveseyya, 

yathā bhūri pavaḍḍhati. 

Truly, from meditation wisdom arises; Without meditation wisdom vanishes.

Knowing this branching path leading to gain or loss, One should conduct oneself so that wisdom may increase. 

—Dhammapada 20.282

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art of Dying – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và nhiều tác giả khác.

On June 27, 1986, assistant teacher of Vipassana Graham Gambie died after a short illness.

Graham was among the earliest Western students of S.N. Goenka. After his first Vipassana course at Bodhgaya in 1971, Graham remained in India. From the time Dhamma Giri was purchased in November 1974, he lived, served and meditated there for the next five years. He was one of the first assistant teachers appointed by Goenkaji and, after returning to Australia in 1979, he worked tirelessly to help develop Dhamma Bhūmi, the first Vipassana center “down under.”

Graham was known to meditators around the world, many of whom he inspired with his Dhamma insight and enthusiasm. What follows is a brief memoir by Graham about his growth in Dhamma.

The thought arises that nearly twelve years have now gone past since my first tremulous arrival in India. Twelve years. Difficult to understand how it all happened or even what actually happened—but one thing is certain, and that is that it did happen. Twelve years.

Who was that person who arrived, driven out of his sanity by all the horrors of Western life and by his own loveless existence as well, with so many disappointments, with so many failed romances, with such a high opinion of himself, and with such a monstrous collection of memories and fears? What happened to that ape-like ancestor? The question often arises. It does not seem possible that he disappeared. That would be too much to hope for. It seems more likely that he never existed at all beyond the bundle of miseries and false hopes. What actually disappeared were the sufferings of yesterday, and what remains are the sufferings of today: the decay into middle age, the inability to adjust to reality, the shoddy burden of failed ambitions, the passions, the talkativeness.

But over the years has it become any easier to accept the anonymous nature of these miseries—to see that the present person is as unreal as his ludicrous predecessor? Oh no. Who gives in willingly to his own ego death? Who gives up the ghost smilingly, without a struggle? Perhaps that is why there is so little love in the world. All we know are those two phantoms, “You” and “I,” and not the dissolution of both, which is love.

There is no claim that in twelve years love and joy have taken full command of this mind so infested, as it is, with negativities. But certainly, a lot of the tension has unwound itself, much of the heat of hate has died down, and much of the fear hidden within has disappeared.

Having the power to produce the problem surely confers the right to apply the remedy also. And the only cure for agitations of one kind or another is silence. Looking back, it seems the real journey was not from one country to another, but from agitation to silence; from doing everything and achieving nothing, to doing nothing and letting everything occur. The simpler it is, the more difficult it is to understand. Only a silent mind can see things as they are, and this is the first and last step, the one and only thing to do: the letting be of being.

So many years spent just sitting as silently as possible, experiencing the terrifying collection of sensations, dreams, grasping, and fears that somehow have given rise to the idea of “Me.” Those who have never tried might imagine meditation to produce all kinds of ecstasies, spiritual visions, illuminations, and the kinds of things that books are full of. But the real peace is the relief from the terrifying banalities of everyday life, the petty likes and dislikes, the interminable conversations of the mind, the wished for, the lost, the abandoned.

And behind all that … is there anything beyond? Yes: a simple life getting simpler—an ordinary man finding real peace and happiness where he never looked before: in the ordinary things of life. Actually, there are no “ordinary” things of life. Coming to your senses out of your dreams, you find the ordinary is quite miraculous and the miraculous quite ordinary. It is only then that you realize, as one poet put it, that you are alive in search of life.

There is no magic or miracle beyond plain awareness. What can be more magical than a crystal-clear mind—motionless, silent? What can be more miraculous than to be beyond both the search for pleasure and the avoidance of fear? Many think that magic shows are given only on stage or by some bearded guru, without understanding that they themselves are the magic, the magician, the theatre, the audience, and, for that matter, the world too.

Who, living, has escaped the miseries and pleasures of this beastly/blissful world? Why seek security in a world where everything passes, where every final payment is a handful of dust? Why bother to try? What one cannot change, that one must accept. The choice is to accept it with good or bad grace. How your life would change if you could smile at everything!

Meditation then, like love, is not something that can be twisted to suit the ugly dictatorship of the “I.” It has practical by-products, but again like love, its end result is dissolution of the ego and its prison, the world. It is its own end, as love is its own reward. Achievements, success, prestige, and saving the world are all in the domain of the “Me” that wants so much and is capable of so little.

A superficial view of life can see only the miseries that produce pessimism, or pleasures that produce a feeling of optimism. In retrospect, the miseries of this mind seem the most valuable, since it was due to that unbearable pain that the search for a cure began. The pleasures too were helpful: through their brevity and unsatisfactory nature the desire arose to take the medicine, bitter as it is. Beyond hope and fear—the Truth. And slowly, ever so slowly, came the understanding that the disease is only in the mind.

To whom should one attribute all that has happened? Whom can we praise or blame for the inevitable? The law of Truth is a homeless orphan who has the disturbing habit of turning up anywhere, any time, completely uninvited, clothed in the strength of meekness, deafening in silence, invincible and empty-handed. This child is you and me.

And now what is to be done? Where to go from here? Where is forward, where back? What to do with all these possibilities, and with tomorrow? When we can obviously take it no more, shall we go on taking it? When will enough be enough? When will we stop to listen to the poet singing the last song:

In the rising of the light wake with those who awake, Or go on in the dream reaching the other shore Of the sea which has no other shore.

—Verse by Pablo Neruda, The Watersong Ends

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art of Dying – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và nhiều tác giả khác.

Satya Narayan Goenka (affectionately called “Goenkaji” by his students) was a teacher of Vipassana meditation in the tradition of Sayagyi U Ba Khin of Myanmar.

Although Indian by descent, Goenkaji was born and raised in Myanmar. While living there he had the good fortune to come into contact with U Ba Khin, and to learn the technique of Vipassana from him. After receiving training from his teacher for 14 years, Goenkaji settled in India and began teaching Vipassana in 1969. In a country still sharply divided by differences of caste and religion, the courses offered by Goenkaji attracted thousands of people from every part of society. In addition, many people from countries around the world came to join courses in Vipassana meditation.

Goenkaji taught tens of thousands of people in more than 300 courses in India and in other countries, East and West. In 1982 he began to appoint assistant teachers to help him to meet the growing demand for courses. Meditation centers were established under his guidance in India, Canada, the United States, Australia, New Zealand, France, the United Kingdom, Japan, Sri Lanka, Thailand, Myanmar, Nepal and other countries.

The technique taught by S.N. Goenka represents a tradition that is traced back to the Buddha. The Buddha never taught a sectarian religion; he taught Dhamma—the way to liberation— which is universal. In the same tradition, Goenkaji’s approach is totally non-sectarian. For this reason, his teaching has had a profound appeal to people of all backgrounds, of every religion and no religion, and from every part of the world.

In his lifetime, Goenkaji was the recipient of many honors but insisted that they were all really for the Dhamma.

S.N. Goenka peacefully breathed his last on Sunday evening September 29, 2013, at his home in Mumbai, India. He was in his 90th year and had served half his life as a teacher of Vipassana meditation. His legacy will continue as long as people around the world seek to learn the teaching of liberation. 

Satya Narayan Goenka (affectionately called “Goenkaji” by his students) was a teacher of Vipassana meditation in the tradition of Sayagyi U Ba Khin of Myanmar.

Although Indian by descent, Goenkaji was born and raised in Myanmar. While living there he had the good fortune to come into contact with U Ba Khin, and to learn the technique of Vipassana from him. After receiving training from his teacher for 14 years, Goenkaji settled in India and began teaching Vipassana in 1969. In a country still sharply divided by differences of caste and religion, the courses offered by Goenkaji attracted thousands of people from every part of society. In addition, many people from countries around the world came to join courses in Vipassana meditation.

Goenkaji taught tens of thousands of people in more than 300 courses in India and in other countries, East and West. In 1982 he began to appoint assistant teachers to help him to meet the growing demand for courses. Meditation centers were established under his guidance in India, Canada, the United States, Australia, New Zealand, France, the United Kingdom, Japan, Sri Lanka, Thailand, Myanmar, Nepal and other countries.

The technique taught by S.N. Goenka represents a tradition that is traced back to the Buddha. The Buddha never taught a sectarian religion; he taught Dhamma—the way to liberation— which is universal. In the same tradition, Goenkaji’s approach is totally non-sectarian. For this reason, his teaching has had a profound appeal to people of all backgrounds, of every religion and no religion, and from every part of the world.

In his lifetime, Goenkaji was the recipient of many honors but insisted that they were all really for the Dhamma.

S.N. Goenka peacefully breathed his last on Sunday evening September 29, 2013, at his home in Mumbai, India. He was in his 90th year and had served half his life as a teacher of Vipassana meditation. His legacy will continue as long as people around the world seek to learn the teaching of liberation.

Student: It seems that mettā works, for it is a common experience that when we meet a saintly person we feel better. When we share mettā with someone who has died, does this person feel better? Also, there is a belief that, by giving dāna in the name of someone who has died, an ancestor or friend, it helps them. Does this belief accord with Dhamma?

Goenkaji: When you say that mettā “works,” what does this mean? It means that if your mind is pure and you are practicing mettā, you are generating vibrations of mettā. These vibrations can go anywhere—to this loka or that loka, to a lower field or a higher field, anywhere. When your mettā vibrations come in contact with the being to whom you direct them, he or she feels happy because these are vibrations of Dhamma, of peace, of harmony.

When you donate something in the name of someone who has passed away and say, “May the merit of my donation go to so-and-so,” whatever you donated obviously does not go to that person. However, your volition to help this person is one of mettā, and those vibrations will flow toward your ancestor or friend and he or she will feel a sense of elation from them. Because these vibrations have a base of Dhamma, something or other will happen to take him or her toward Dhamma in this or a future life. That is how we are helping those who are in lower fields, or even in higher ones.

And now, what do you donate? You donate the best thing you have—your own meditation. Therefore, at the end of your meditation hour or at the end of a meditation course, you remember anyone who is very dear to you or who has passed away, and you say, “I share the merits of my meditation with you.” This is your mettā. Because you have meditated, the vibrations going to that person are the strong vibrations of Dhamma. You are sharing your meditation with the person.

Naturally it is very helpful.

I worry that those who are getting on in years will keep going through continuous rounds of birth and death because of their attachments—my mother, who is attached to constantly worrying, and a friend very near death who feels that she has been wronged all her life. Can anything be done? Perhaps mettā?

Yes. Mettā. In addition, keep explaining the law of nature: the more you worry the more you are harming yourself. And there is a technique that can relieve you of this worry.

One cannot say for sure, but they may have a seed of Dhamma from the past. If they get a few words of encouragement, they might be attracted to Dhamma and learn how to relieve themselves of their misery.

If your parents have died, can you benefit them in some way?

Yes, you can. After each of your sittings of meditation, remember them and share your merits with them: “I share with you whatever merits I have gained. May you also feel peaceful and happy.” These vibrations will touch them wherever they are. It is not the vibrations themselves that will work some wonder for them; rather, your parents will get attracted toward Dhamma and, who knows, they might find the path. This is the only way: share your merits.

How can family members help at the time of death?

It is always beneficial for the dying person if members of the family are Vipassana meditators. They should make a point of being present so they can meditate and generate mettā. When everybody is calm and quiet, this is wonderfully supportive for the dying person and will help him or her in retaining a calm and quiet mind at the time of death.

Quite often people who are dying in a lot of pain are given strong painkillers such as morphine. For a meditator, is it better to try to work with the pain so that the mind is clear at the moment of death?

It depends on how much the meditator can endure at the time. If, because of pain, the person is reacting with aversion: “Oh, I can’t bear this pain!” then you can’t be sure that he or she will die with equanimity. So offer some pain medication.

But if the meditator is working with the pain with a balanced mind, wanting to observe things as they are, then don’t impose anything. If a meditator is dying and observing calmly without taking medicine, that is his or her choice.

As my mother was dying, she was not happy when we gave her sleeping pills; they made her eyes heavy. Even after taking the sleeping pills, she didn’t sleep. She said, “I’m quite happy if I don’t get sleep. Why do you want me to sleep?” In her mind, pills were unnecessary and interfered with her meditation.

At the time, there was another old lady next door who was also dying of cancer. The pain for her was unbearable. Her room was on the fourth floor but her cries could be heard on the first. So it all depends on the attitude of the patient.

If the dying person is a meditator, how can we help?

This is wonderful. Meditate with her. Give mettā. Listen to some chanting. Because she is a meditator, these things can be done easily.

You can ask her to practice ānāpāna or, if she can feel sensations, to stay with sensations. Like this, help her very gently to maintain the awareness of anicca. She will be receptive because she is a meditator, so offer her guidance even in meditating. Someone may do that; others can sit and meditate. Listen to some quiet chanting—not too loud; even an experienced meditator may find loud sounds too intense. The Karaṇīya-mettā Sutta and the Maṅgala Sutta would be beneficial.

Otherwise, remain very quiet. Members of the family, even if not meditators themselves, will know what meditation is. They will know that a Vipassana meditator is dying, and they should abstain from creating an atmosphere of sadness or distress that might tend to make her a little sad as well. One has to be very careful.

If the dying person is not a meditator, can we presume to give Dhamma advice if he has shown no interest in the Dhamma in the past?

No. If he still does not have any faith in Dhamma and you start giving advice, he could generate negativity—“What are these people talking about?”—and it will be harmful. That is why, even in courses, we cannot give Dhamma unless someone requests it. Dhamma should only be given to someone who is receptive. If he is not receptive, that means he is not requesting Dhamma and so we are imposing it. And if, at the time of death, you try to impose something and negativity arises in his mind, then you have started to harm him. However, if you feel that he is positive toward Dhamma, although he has not taken a course, and he can appreciate what you are saying, then you may say a few words about Dhamma.

Can a Vipassana meditator help dying friends and relatives?

If the dying person is a Vipassana meditator, then other meditators can sit nearby and practice Vipassana. This helps to charge the atmosphere with vibrations of purity, love and compassion for this friend or relative. It helps the person retain her purity of mind at the time of death—this has been witnessed many times. If the dying person is not a Vipassana meditator, meditating still helps to purify the atmosphere around her, but obviously it is not as effective as with a meditator.

Jātipi dukkhā, 

jarāpi dukkhā, 

byādhipi dukkho, 

maraṇampi dukkhaṃ, 

appiyehi sampayogo dukkho, 

piyehi vippayogo dukkho, 

yampicchaṃ na labhati tampi dukkhaṃ, 

saṇkhittena pañcupādānakkhandhā dukkhā.

Birth is suffering, 

aging is suffering, 

sickness is suffering, 

death is suffering, 

association with the unpleasant is suffering,

dissociation from the pleasant is suffering,

not to get what one wants is suffering:

in short, the five aggregates of attachment are suffering.

 —Dhammacakkappavattana Sutta, Saṃyutta Nikāya 5.1081

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art of Dying – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và nhiều tác giả khác.

For many years my husband and I were editors of the Vipassana Newsletter. This afforded us a unique opportunity to hear and see many inspiring stories about meditators who had died bravely and peacefully, filled with the wisdom of their meditation practice. We have read accounts of the deaths of parents, partners, children and friends. Often, as they witnessed their beloved die with contentment and equanimity, those present were filled with an unexpected happiness on an occasion of irreplaceable loss.

The Buddha said, “Two things only do I teach: misery and the way out of misery.” This collection of writings—Goenkaji’s explanations of the teaching of the Buddha, the Buddha’s scriptural verses, poetical stories of monks and nuns from the time of the Buddha, accounts from fellow meditators—is born of the acceptance of the truth of suffering. It contains inspiring examples of people gaining strength and a taste of freedom through their practice, and demonstrates convincingly the efficacy of the Path, the way out of misery.

I have gathered these stories not only to help sustain and strengthen established Vipassana meditators in their quest, but also to encourage others searching for peace and understanding to take up the practice of getting to “know thyself” truly, on an experiential level—to develop their own wisdom.

May you experience the fruits of the Path taught by the Buddha: freedom from the suffering and sorrow that we face throughout our lives.

—Virginia Hamilton

January 2014

About Vipassana Meditation

Vipassana, which means to see things as they really are, is one of India’s most ancient techniques of meditation. It was rediscovered by Gotama Buddha more than 2,500 years ago, who taught it as a universal remedy for universal ills—an “art of living.”

This nonsectarian technique aims for the total eradication of mental impurities and the resultant highest happiness of full liberation. Its purpose is not the mere curing of disease, but the essential healing of human suffering.

Vipassana is a method of self-transformation through self-observation. It focuses on the deep interconnection between mind and body. This mind-and-body connection can be experienced directly by disciplined attention to the physical sensations that form the life of the body, and that continuously condition the life of the mind. It is this observation-based, self-exploratory journey to the common root of mind and body that dissolves mental impurity, resulting in a balanced mind full of love and compassion.

The scientific laws that underlie one’s thoughts, feelings, judgments and sensations become evident. How one grows or regresses, how one produces suffering or frees oneself from suffering, is understood through direct experience. Life becomes characterized by increased self-control, awareness, non-delusion, and peace.

—www.dhamma.org

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art of Dying – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và nhiều tác giả khác.

THE ART OF DYING

THIỀN SƯ VIPASSANA S. N. GOENKA VÀ NHIỀU TÁC GIẢ

Sưu tầm và biên soạn nguyên tác Anh ngữ 

Virginia Hamilton

*********

Manopubbaṅgamā dhammā, manoseṭṭhā manomayā; Manasā ce paduṭṭhena, bhāsati vā karoti vā; Tato naṃ dukkhamanveti, cakkaṃva vahato padaṃ. Manopubbaṅgamā dhammā, manoseṭṭhā manomayā; Manasā ce pasannena, bhāsati vā karoti vā; Tato naṃ sukhamanveti chāyāva anapāyinī.

Dhammapada 1.1-2

Tâm ý dẫn đầu các pháp, Tâm ý là quan trọng nhất. Bất kỳ điều gì ta trải qua trong cuộc sống, Không gì khác hơn là sản phẩm của chính tâm ý mình. Nếu ta nói năng hay hành động với tâm ý ô nhiễm, Khổ đau sẽ theo sau, Giống như bánh xe phải theo sau con bò kéo xe. Nếu ta nói năng hay hành động với tâm ý thanh tịnh, Hạnh phúc sẽ theo sau, như hình với bóng không tách rời.

Kinh Pháp Cú, Phẩm thứ nhất, Kệ số 1 và 2.

https://youtu.be/a1N4Rg_uHGQ

Ý dẫn đầu các pháp, Ý làm chủ, ý tạo; Nếu với ý ô nhiễm, Nói lên hay hành động, Khổ não bước theo sau, Như xe, chân vật kéo. Ý dẫn đầu các pháp, Ý làm chủ, ý tạo, Nếu với ý thanh tịnh, Nói lên hay hành động, An lạc bước theo sau, Như bóng, không rời hình.

Bản dịch của Ngài Thích Minh Châu

Kính dâng

Tuyển tập này gồm những câu chuyện, bài giảng và thơ văn nói về cái chết và sự chuẩn bị cho cái chết thông qua thiền tập Vipassana, xin kính dâng lên Ngài S. N. Goenka. Ngài đã sẵn lòng nhận lấy trách nhiệm từ bậc thầy Sayagyi U Ba Khin để truyền dạy pháp thiền Vipassana ra khắp thế giới và hoan hỷ chia sẻ Phật pháp với tấm lòng rộng mở.

Tập sách này cũng xin kính dâng lên những con người đã đối diện với cái chết của chính mình hoặc của người thân yêu mà chuyện kể về các vị luôn gợi nguồn hứng khởi để chúng tôi phấn chấn và chuyên cần tu tập theo lời Phật dạy.

Mặc dù chúng tôi luôn cố gắng để nội dung sách này được dễ hiểu với tất cả mọi người, nhưng thỉnh thoảng có nhiều từ ngữ tiếng Pāli và tiếng Hindi vẫn phải được dùng đến. Những thuật ngữ này sẽ được định nghĩa ở lần đầu tiên xuất hiện và sau đó đưa vào Bảng thuật ngữ ở cuối sách. Vài thuật ngữ quan trọng cũng được giải thích ngay dưới đây.

Tiếng Pāli là một ngôn ngữ cổ xưa của Ấn Độ được sử dụng để ghi chép lại những lời Phật dạy. Những cứ liệu về mặt lịch sử, ngôn ngữ học và khảo cổ học đều cho thấy đây là ngôn ngữ được sử dụng ở miền bắc Ấn Độ vào thời đức Phật hoặc gần lúc đó. Những tham chiếu về các bài kệ tiếng Pāli trong sách này được lấy từ Tam tạng Pāli (Pāli Tipiṭaka) theo bản in của Viện Nghiên cứu Vipassana (Vipassana Research Institute).

Dhamma (Sanskrit: Dharma) gồm các nghĩa:

– Tất cả các hiện tượng

– Đối tượng của tâm ý

– Thế giới tự nhiên

– Luật tự nhiên, quy luật vận hành tất nhiên

– Nguyên lý giải thoát, Giáo pháp, nghĩa là lời dạy của một bậc giác ngộ, [khi làm theo đúng sẽ được giải thoát].

Doha (những câu thơ kệ có vần điệu), là thể loại thi ca có từ thời sơ khai của văn học Ấn Độ. Các bài doha trong sách này được thầy Goenka biên soạn và ngâm tụng bằng tiếng Hindi, được thiền sinh lắng nghe trong giờ nghỉ của thời khóa thiền buổi sáng tại các trung tâm thiền Vipassana ở Ấn Độ.

1 Tiếng Sanskrit gọi là Bắc Phạn và là nguồn Kinh điển Bắc truyền, được chuyển dịch hầu hết sang Hán tạng. Tiếng Pāli gọi là Nam Phạn và là ngôn ngữ ghi chép Kinh điển Nam truyền, đã được Hòa thượng Thích Minh Châu và một số vị sau này chuyển dịch sang Việt ngữ. Tiếng Pāli và tiếng Sanskrit thường khá giống nhau nhưng có nhiều khác biệt về cách viết.

https://youtu.be/DrWsAfUSToY

Đôi nét về Ngài S. N. Goenka

S.N. Goenka (1924-2013)

Ngài Satya Narayan Goenka (1) (thường được các thiền sinh kính mến gọi là Goenkaji) là một thiền sư Vipassana theo truyền thống của ngài Sayagyi U Ba Khin ở Miến Điện (trong tiếng Miến Điện, chữ “ji” được thêm vào sau tên người để tỏ ý kính trọng.)

Mặc dù Goenkaji là người Ấn Độ, nhưng ngài sinh ra và lớn lên tại Miến Điện. Trong thời gian này, ngài may mắn gặp được ngài U Ba Khin và theo học phương pháp thiền Vipassana. Sau khi theo học với thầy 14 năm, ngài Goenkaji sang định cư ở Ấn Độ và bắt đầu dạy thiền Vipassana từ năm 1969. Trong một đất nước vẫn còn sự chia cách sâu sắc bởi những khác biệt về giai cấp và tôn giáo nhưng những khóa thiền do Goenkaji tổ chức đã thu hút hàng ngàn người từ đủ mọi thành phần xã hội khác nhau. Thêm vào đó còn có nhiều người trên khắp thế giới cũng tìm đến tham gia các khóa thiền Vipassana.

Goenkaji đã dạy thiền cho hàng chục ngàn người trong hơn 300 khóa học ở Ấn Độ và các nước khác, Đông phương cũng như Tây phương. Năm 1982, ngài bắt đầu bổ nhiệm các thầy cô phụ giảng nhằm đáp ứng nhu cầu tăng thêm các khóa thiền. Những trung tâm thiền được thiết lập dưới sự hướng dẫn của ngài ở Ấn Độ, Canada, Mỹ, Úc, Tân Tây Lan, Pháp, Anh, Nhật, Sri Lanka, Thái Lan, Miến Điện, Nepal và nhiều nước khác.

Kỹ thuật thiền do Goenkaji giảng dạy tiêu biểu cho một truyền thống cổ xưa từ thời đức Phật. Những gì đức Phật dạy không mang tính cách tín ngưỡng, tôn giáo. Ngài dạy Dhamma – con đường giải thoát – phổ biến cho tất cả. Cũng trong truyền thống đó, những giảng dạy của Goenkaji hoàn toàn không mang tính giáo phái. Vì vậy, sự giảng dạy của ngài có sự thu hút cực kỳ mạnh mẽ đối với nhiều người thuộc những tầng lớp khác nhau, thuộc mọi tín ngưỡng cũng như không tín ngưỡng và từ khắp mọi nơi trên thế giới.

Trong cuộc đời mình, Goenkaji đã từng nhận rất nhiều sự vinh danh nhưng ngài luôn nhấn mạnh rằng tất cả những sự vinh danh đó thật sự là dành cho Dhamma.

1. N. Goenka trút hơi thở bình yên cuối cùng vào chiều Chủ nhật ngày 29 tháng 9 năm 2013 tại nhà riêng ở Mumbai, Ấn Độ. Đó là năm ngài 90 tuổi và đã phụng sự cả nửa cuộc đời trong vai trò một thiền sư Vipassana. Di sản của ngài sẽ còn tiếp tục lưu truyền khi nhân loại trên thế giới này vẫn còn tìm cầu giáo pháp giải thoát.

Một ngày qua

Dưới đây là ghi chép mô tả cách thức Shri Satya Narayan Goenka đối diện với những giây phút cuối cùng của ngài vào Chủ nhật, ngày 29 tháng 9 năm 2013.

Đôi khi sự kết thúc của một cuộc đời cũng êm ả như một ngày trôi qua.

Vào những tháng cuối cùng của đời mình, Goenkaji buộc phải dùng xe lăn và đối diện với sự đau đớn ngày càng gia tăng. Tuy vậy, ngài vẫn nỗ lực để tiếp tục nếp sống bình thường như trước. Ngài thường nhắc lại việc đức Phật đã giáo hóa như thế nào cho đến những giây phút cuối cùng. Rõ ràng là Goenkaji có ý muốn noi theo tấm gương vĩ đại của đức Phật. Ngài tiếp tục gặp gỡ khách viếng thăm và quan tâm chặt chẽ đến các pháp sự.

Vào ngày cuối cùng, lúc ăn sáng Goenkaji đã hỏi con trai là Shriprakash về tiến trình xây dựng ở Global Vipassana Pagoda. Shriprakash đáp rằng hôm nay anh sẽ đến Global Vipassana Pagoda và khi trở về sẽ có một báo cáo đầy đủ.

Trong ngày hôm đó, Goenkaji đã duyệt lại một tuyển tập gồm 500 bài doha (thi kệ) của ngài để chuẩn bị cho việc xuất bản. Bao giờ cũng vậy, ngài luôn yêu thích công việc này.

Vào lúc ăn trưa, Goenkaji nói: “Ta không cần đến các bác sĩ nữa.” Vợ ngài, bà Mataji không liên tưởng đến ý nghĩa đặc biệt nào của câu nói này. Bà cho là ngài đang nói đến vị bác sĩ gần đây đã đến khám. Tuy nhiên, rõ ràng là Goenkaji muốn có một ngày thật yên tĩnh, không bị quấy rầy.

Sau giờ uống trà, Goenkaji xem qua những tin chính trên báo, như ngài vẫn quen làm như vậy mỗi ngày. Sau đó, ngài ngồi thiền trên ghế trong phòng riêng. Ngài đến bàn ăn để ăn tối nhưng giữ yên lặng suốt buổi và rồi đi thẳng về phòng ngay sau đó.

Ngài tiếp tục ngồi một lúc rồi nhờ người giúp nằm xuống giường. Ngay khi vừa nằm xuống, ngài bắt đầu thở nhanh hơn. Mataji nhận ra điều này khi vừa bước vào phòng nên bà gọi Shriprakash đến ngay. Goenkaji mở mắt nhìn và nhận ra con trai nhưng không nói gì. Shriprakash gọi điện cho bác sĩ gia đình. Và rồi một bác sĩ sống trong cùng tòa nhà ấy đã đến ngay lập tức.

Nhưng mọi việc diễn ra và kết thúc quá nhanh. Hơi thở ngài đi vào, đi ra rồi dừng lại. Quả tim đã ngừng đập. Không có dấu hiệu nào của sự đau đớn hay căng thẳng trên khuôn mặt Goenkaji. Bầu không khí trong phòng thật thanh thản và bình yên.

Lúc đó là 10 giờ 40 phút tối, một ngày đã trôi qua và cũng vừa vặn kết thúc một cuộc đời dài sống trong Chánh pháp.

Bài viết được trích từ cuốn Nghệ Thuật Chết – The Art Of Dying – Thiền Sư S.N. Goenka và nhiều tác giả. Tải sách file PDF tại đây.

AUDIOS CUỐN SÁCH NGHỆ THUẬT CHẾT

Included in this list are Pāḷi (and some Hindi and Burmese) terms that appear in the text.

ānāpāna – Respiration; inhalation-exhalation. Frequently used as a shortened version of ānāpāna-sati: Awareness of respiration.

anattā – Not self, egoless, without essence, without substance. One of the three basic characteristics of phenomena, along with anicca and dukkha.

anicca – Impermanent, ephemeral, changing. One of the three basic characteristics of phenomena, along with anattā and dukkha.

arahant – Liberated being; one who has completely destroyed all mental impurities.

bhāva – Becoming; the continuity of life and death.

bhāvanā – Mental development; meditation. The two divisions of bhāvanā are the development of tranquility (samatha-bhāvanā), concentration of mind (samādhi); and the development of insight (vipassanā-bhāvanā), wisdom (paññā). Development of samatha leads to states of mental absorption; development of vipassanā leads to liberation.

bhāvatu sabba maṅgalaṃ – Traditional wish of good will— literally, “May all beings be well, be happy.”

bhikkhu – Monk; meditator.

bhikkhunī – Nun; meditator.

brahma-loka – One of the 20 highest planes of existence.

Buddha – Enlightened person; one who discovers the way to liberation, practices it, and reaches the final goal by his own efforts.

dāna – Generosity, charity; donation.

deva – Deity; a heavenly being. Also, devaputta – son of a deva.

dhamma – Phenomenon; object of mind; nature; natural law; law of liberation, i.e., teaching of an enlightened person. (Sanskrit, dharma.)

doha – (Hindi) Rhyming couplet. 

dukkha – Suffering, unsatisfactoriness; one of the three basic characteristics of phenomena, along with anattā and anicca.

gāthā – Verse of poetry.

Gotama – Clan or family name of the historical Buddha. (Sanskrit, Gautama)

Goenkaji – Mr. S.N. Goenka. The suffix “-ji” indicates affection and respect.

Jainism – Ancient, non-theistic, Indian religion stressing nonviolence, morality, wisdom, and the necessity of self-effort to achieve liberation.

kāma – Desire, sensual pleasure.

kamma – Action; specifically, a mental, verbal, or physical action producing an effect. (Sanskrit, karma.)

loka – Universe; world; plane of existence.

maṅgala – Welfare, blessing, happiness.

maraṇānusati – Awareness of death.

Mataji – (Hindi) Mother. In this context, Mrs. Goenka.

mettā – Loving-kindness; selfless love, good will.

mettā bhāvanā – systematic cultivation of mettā through meditation.

 nibbāna – Extinction; freedom from suffering, liberation; the ultimate reality; the unconditioned. (Sanskrit, nirvāṇa)

Pāli – Line; text. Texts recording the teaching of the Buddha, hence the language of these texts. Historical, linguistic, and archaeological evidence indicates that Pāli was spoken in northern India at or near the time of the Buddha.

paññā – Wisdom. Third of the three trainings by which the Noble Eightfold Path is practiced. See ariya aṭṭhaṅgika magga. There are three kinds of wisdom: suta-mayā paññā (received wisdom, i.e., wisdom gained from listening to others); cintā-mayā paññā (wisdom gained by intellectual analysis); and bhāvanā-mayā paññā (wisdom developed by direct, personal experience). Only bhāvanā-mayā paññā, cultivated by the practice of vipassanā-bhāvanā, can totally purify the mind.

pāramī / pāramitā – Perfection, virtue; wholesome mental qualities.

paṭicca-samuppāda – Dependent origination, conditioned arising, causal genesis. The process, born of ignorance, by which beings generate suffering.

rūpa – Matter; visual object.

sādhu – “Well done; well said.” Traditional expression of approval or agreement, usually spoken three times.

samādhi – Concentration, control of one’s mind. Second of the three trainings by which the Noble Eightfold Path is practiced. See ariya aṭṭhaṅgika magga. When cultivated as an end in itself, leads to the attainment of the states of mental absorption (jhāna), but not to total liberation of mind.

saṃsāra – Cycle of rebirth; conditioned world; realm of suffering.

saṅkhāra – Volitional activity; mental formation or mental conditioning; mental reaction. One of the four mental aggregates or processes, along with viññāṇa, saññā, and vedanā. (Sanskrit, samskāra.)

saññā – Perception, recognition. One of the four mental aggregates or processes, along with viññāṇa, vedanā, and saṅkhāra. Saññā is conditioned by one’s past saṅkhāras and therefore conveys a distorted image of reality. In the practice of Vipassana, saññā changes to paññā, the understanding of reality as it is: anicca-saññā, dukkha-saññā, anattā-saññā, asubhasaññā— perception of impermanence, of suffering, of no-self, of the illusory nature of beauty.

sāsana – Dispensation of a Buddha; period of time in which the teaching of a Buddha is available.

sati – Awareness. Ānāpāna-sati – awareness of respiration. Sammā-sati – right awareness, a constituent of the Noble Eightfold Path. See ariya aṭṭhaṅgika magga.

satipaṭṭhāna – Establishing of awareness, in four aspects:

kāyānupassanā – of the body,

vedanānupassanā – of sensations within the body,

cittānupassanā – of mind,

dhammānupassanā – of mental contents.

All four are included in the observation of vedanā since sensations are directly related to both body and mind.

sayadaw – (Burmese) Literally, “royal teacher.” Abbot or senior monk of a monastery.

sayagyi – (Burmese) Lit. “big teacher.” An honorific or respectful title.

sīla – Morality, abstention from physical and vocal actions that harm oneself or others. First of the three trainings by which the Noble Eightfold Path is practiced. See ariya aṭṭhaṅgika magga.

sutta – Discourse attributed to the Buddha or one of his leading disciples. (Sanskrit, sutra.)

Tipiṭaka – Literally, “three baskets.” (Sanskrit, tripiṭaka)

The three collections of the teachings of the Buddha:

vinaya-piṭaka – monastic discipline, sutta-piṭaka – discourses

abhidhamma-piṭaka – systematic philosophical exegesis of the Dhamma.

U – (Burmese) Mister.

vedanā – Sensation; bodily feeling. One of the four mental aggregates or processes, along with viññāṇa, saññā, and saṅkhāra. According to the doctrine of Dependent Origination, taṇhā (craving), arises dependent on vedanā (sensation). See paṭicca-samuppāda. Having both mental and physical aspects, vedanā is a convenient object for investigation of body and mind. By learning to observe vedanā objectively, one can avoid new reactions of craving or aversion, and experience directly within oneself the reality of anicca (impermanence). This experience is essential for the development of upekkhā (equanimity), leading to liberation of the mind.

viññāṇa – Consciousness, cognition. One of the four mental aggregates or processes, along with saññā, vedanā, and saṅkhāra.

vipassanā – Literally, “seeing in a special way.” Introspection. Insight that purifies the mind; specifically, insight into the impermanent, unsatisfactory, and substanceless nature of mind and body. Also, vipassanā-bhāvanā – the systematic development of insight through observation of sensations within the body.

Pragyā jāge balavatī,

aṅga-aṅga rama jāya. 

Aṇu-aṇu cetana ho uṭhe, 

cita nirmala ho jāya.

May wisdom arise, mighty in power, and spread throughout your being, enlivening every atom and purifying the mind.

—Hindi doha, S.N. Goenka

Most of the articles contained in this anthology bear the name of Mr. S.N. Goenka (SNG). The editors would like to express their gratitude to Goenkaji and the Vipassana Research Institute (VRI), Igatpuri, India, for use of this material.

Articles from the Vipassana Newsletter include: “My Mother’s Death in Dhamma” by SNG, “As It Was / As It Is” by Graham Gambie, “Tara Jadhav: An Exemplary Death” by SNG, “Kamma—The Real Inheritance” by SNG, “Ratilal Mehta: A Life and Death in Dhamma” by SNG, “Parvathamma Adaviappa: Equanimity in the Face of Terminal Illness” by Mr. S. Adaviappa, “Work Out Your Own Salvation” by SNG, and “Seventy Years Are Over” by SNG.

Other material from VRI includes: “What Vipassana Is”, “The Art of Living: Vipassana Meditation”, “The Practice of Mettā Bhāvanā in Vipassana Meditation” and the Glossary, as well as different quotation and scriptural translations by SNG and Sayagyi U Ba Khin. All Hindi dohas (couplets) are from Come People of the World by SNG. Questions To Goenkaji, Parts I, II, and III came from various sources, including the Vipassana Newsletter and private interviews.

“Graham’s Death” by Anne Doneman previously appeared in Realizing Change by Ian Hetherington, Vipassana Research Publications.

“What Happens at Death” by SNG first appeared in the Sayagyi U Ba Khin Journal, VRI.

“Paṭicca Samuppāda—The Law of Dependent Origination” is from The Discourse Summaries, Day 5, VRI.

Quotations from the Venerable Webu Sayadaw are from The Way to Ultimate Calm, translated by Roger Bischoff, Buddhist Publication Society 2001.

Material for Living in the Present Moment and Facing Death Head-on originated in private interviews with Susan Babbitt, and with Terrell and Diane Jones. Part of Living in the Present

Moment was also published as Join the Cosmic Dance, Thee Hellbox Press.

The Rodney Bernier interview, Smiling All the Way to Death, was provided by Evie Chauncey.

The Flood of Tears translated by C.A.F. Rhys Davids was taken from The Book of Kindred Sayings Part II, Pali Text Society.

The Undying Gratitude letter by John Wolford was supplied by John’s mother, Laurie Campbell. Thanks also to Laurie and to Gabriela Ionita for granting permission to print their personal letters to Goenkaji.

Ambapālī’s Verses—translated by Amadeo Solé-Leris, from Great Disciples of the Buddha: Their Lives, Their Works, Their Legacy, by Nyanaponika Thera and Helmuth Hecker. Copyright 2003 by Buddhist Publication Society. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Wisdom Publications, www.wisdompubs.org.

Dhammapada verses 41, 128, 165, 288 and 289 are Harischandra Kaviratna’s translation, courtesy of the Theosophical University Press, Pasadena, California.

Paṭhama-ākāsa Sutta appeared in the Vipassana Journal, VRI.

Aṅguttara Nikāya II, 10, Translated by Ven. S. Dhammika, is in Gemstones of the Good Dhamma, Buddhist Publication Society.

The sources of other Tipiṭaka verses quoted are, unfortunately, unknown. The editors sincerely apologize to the rightful translators for using their work without citations.

Front cover designed by Irek Sroka, and back cover designed by Julie Schaeffer.

Photo credits: Graham Gambie courtesy of Anne Donemon, Rodney Bernier taken by Patrick McKay, and Ratilal Metha courtesy of Himanshu Mehta.

Line editing done by Luke Matthews, Ben Baroncini, Michael Solomon, Peter Greene, William Hart, Frank Tedesco, Julie Schaeffer, and others.

Photo editing done by Eric M. Madigan.

Finally, thanks to my husband Bill for his wisdom and unfailing patience while assisting with the preparation of this anthology in all its stages.

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art of Dying – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và nhiều tác giả khác.

a paper presented at the Seminar on Vipassana Meditation, convened at Dhamma Giri, India, in December 1986

 The practice of mettā-bhāvanā (meditation of loving-kindness) is an important adjunct to the technique of Vipassana meditation—indeed, its logical outcome. In mettā-bhāvanā one radiates loving-kindness and good will toward all beings, deliberately charging the atmosphere around with calming, positive vibrations of pure and compassionate love. Buddha instructed his followers to develop mettā in order to lead more peaceful and harmonious lives, and to help others do so as well. Students of Vipassana are encouraged to follow that instruction because mettā is the way to share with all others the peace and harmony we are developing.

The Tipiṭaka commentaries state: Mijjati siniyhatiṛti mettā— “That which inclines one to a friendly disposition is mettā.” It is a sincere wish, without a trace of ill will, for the good and welfare of all. Adosoṛti mettā—“Non-aversion is mettā.” The chief characteristic of mettā is a benevolent attitude. It culminates in the identification of oneself with all beings— recognition of the fellowship of all life.

To grasp this concept at least intellectually is easy enough, but it is far harder to develop this attitude in oneself. To do so some practice is needed, and so we have the technique of mettā-bhāvanā, the systematic cultivation of good will toward others. To be really effective, mettā meditation must be practiced along with Vipassana meditation. So long as negativities such as aversion dominate the mind, it is futile to formulate conscious thoughts of good will, and doing so would be merely a ritual devoid of inner meaning. However, when negativities are removed by the practice of Vipassana, good will naturally wells up in the mind. Emerging from the prison of self-obsession, we begin to concern ourselves with the welfare of others.

For this reason, the technique of mettā–bhāvanā is introduced only at the end of a Vipassana course, after the participants have passed through the process of purification. At such a time meditators often feel a deep wish for the well-being of others, making their practice of mettā truly effective. Though limited time is devoted to it in a course, mettā may be regarded as the culmination of the practice of Vipassana.

Nibbāna can be experienced only by those whose minds are filled with loving-kindness and compassion for all beings. Simply wishing for that state is not enough: we must purify our minds to attain it. We do so by Vipassana meditation; hence the emphasis on this technique during a course.

As we practice, we become aware that the underlying reality of the world, ourselves included, is a moment-to-moment arising and passing away. We realize that the process of change continues beyond our control and regardless of our wishes. Gradually we understand that any attachment to what is ephemeral and insubstantial produces suffering for us. We learn to be detached and to keep the balance of our minds in the face of any transient phenomena. Then we begin to experience what real happiness is: not the satisfaction of desire or the forestalling of fear, but rather liberation from the cycle of desire and fear. As inner serenity develops, we clearly see how others are enmeshed in suffering, and naturally the wish arises, “May they find what we have found: the way out of misery, the path of peace.” This is the proper volition for the practice of mettā-bhāvanā.

Mettā is not prayer, nor is it the hope that an outside agency will help. On the contrary, it is a dynamic process producing a supportive atmosphere in which others can act to help themselves. Mettā can be directed toward a particular person or it may be omnidirectional. The realization that mettā is not produced by us makes its transmission truly selfless.

In order to conduct mettā, the mind must be calm, balanced, and free from negativity. This is the type of mind developed in the practice of Vipassana. A meditator knows by experience how anger, antipathy, or ill will destroy peace and frustrate any effort to help others. Only as hatred is removed and equanimity developed can we be happy and wish happiness for others. The words “May all beings be happy” have great force only when uttered from a pure mind. Backed by this purity, they will certainly be effective in fostering the happiness of others.

We must therefore examine ourselves before practicing mettā-bhāvanā to check whether we are really capable of transmitting mettā. If we find even a tinge of hatred or aversion in our minds, we should refrain at that time; otherwise, we would transmit that negativity, causing harm to others. However, if mind and body are filled with serenity and well-being, it is natural and appropriate to share this happiness with others: “May you be happy; may you be liberated from the defilements that are the causes of suffering. May all beings be peaceful.”

This loving attitude enables us to deal far more skillfully with the vicissitudes of life. Suppose, for example, one encounters a person who is acting out of deliberate ill will to harm others. The common response—to react with fear and hatred—is self-centered, does nothing to improve the situation and, in fact, magnifies the negativity. It would be far more helpful to remain calm and balanced, with a feeling of good will, especially for the person who is acting wrongly. This must not be merely an intellectual stance, a veneer over unresolved negativity. Mettā works only when it is the spontaneous outflow of a purified mind.

The serenity gained in Vipassana meditation naturally gives rise to feelings of mettā, and throughout the day this will continue to affect us and our environment in a positive way. Thus, Vipassana ultimately has a dual function: to bring us happiness by purifying our minds, and to help us foster the happiness of others by preparing us to practice mettā. What, after all, is the purpose of freeing ourselves of negativity and egotism unless we share these benefits with others? In a retreat we temporarily cut ourselves off from the world in order to return and share with others what we have gained in solitude. These two aspects of the practice of Vipassana are inseparable.

In these times of widespread malaise, economic disparity, and violent unrest, the need for mettā-bhāvanā is greater than ever. If peace and harmony are to reign throughout the world, they must first be established in the minds of all its inhabitants.

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art of Dying – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và nhiều tác giả khác.

The Art of Living:

Vipassana Meditation

based on a public talk by S.N. Goenka, delivered in Bern, Switzerland

Everyone seeks peace and harmony, because this is what we lack in our lives. From time to time we all experience agitation, irritation, disharmony. And when we suffer from these miseries, we don’t keep them to ourselves; we often distribute them to others as well. Unhappiness permeates the atmosphere around someone who is miserable, and those who come in contact with such a person also become affected. Certainly this is not a skillful way to live.

We ought to live at peace with ourselves and at peace with others. After all, human beings are social beings, having to live in society and deal with each other. But how are we to live peacefully? How are we to remain harmonious within, and maintain peace and harmony around us, so that others can also live peacefully and harmoniously?

In order to be relieved of our misery, we have to know the basic reason for it, the cause of the suffering. If we investigate the problem, it becomes clear that whenever we start generating any negativity or impurity in the mind, we are bound to become unhappy. Negativity in the mind, a mental defilement or impurity, cannot coexist with peace and harmony.

How do we start generating negativity? Again, by investigating, it becomes clear. We become unhappy when we find someone behaving in a way that we don’t like, or when we find something happening that we don’t like. Unwanted things happen and we create tension within. Wanted things do not happen, some obstacle comes in the way, and again we create tension within—we start tying knots within. And throughout life, unwanted things keep on happening, wanted things may or may not happen, and this process of reaction, of tying knots—Gordian knots—makes the entire mental and physical structure so tense, so full of negativity, that life becomes miserable.

Now, one way to solve this problem is to arrange that nothing unwanted happens in life—that everything keeps happening exactly as we desire. Either we must develop the power, or somebody else who will come to our aid must have the power, to see that unwanted things do not happen and that everything we want happens. But this is impossible. There is no one in the world whose desires are always fulfilled, in whose life everything happens according to his or her wishes, without anything unwanted happening. Things constantly occur that are contrary to our desires and wishes. So the question arises: how can we stop reacting blindly when confronted with things that we don’t like? How can we stop creating tension and remain peaceful and harmonious?

In India, as well as in other countries, wise saintly persons of the past studied this problem—the problem of human suffering—and found a solution. If something unwanted happens and you start to react by generating anger, fear or any negativity, then, as soon as possible, you should divert your attention to something else. For example, get up, take a glass of water, start drinking—your anger won’t multiply; on the other hand, it’ll begin to subside. Or start counting: one, two, three, four. Or start repeating a word, or a phrase, or some mantra, perhaps the name of a god or saintly person towards whom you have devotion. The mind is diverted, and to some extent you’ll be free of the negativity, free of the anger.

This solution was helpful; it worked. It still works. Responding like this, the mind feels free from agitation. However, the solution works only at the conscious level. In fact, by diverting the attention you push the negativity deep into the unconscious, and there you continue to generate and multiply the same defilement. On the surface there is a layer of peace and harmony, but in the depths of the mind there is a sleeping volcano of suppressed negativity that sooner or later may erupt in a violent explosion.

Other explorers of inner truth went still further in their search and, by experiencing the reality of mind and matter within themselves, recognized that diverting the attention is only running away from the problem. Escape is no solution; you have to face the problem. Whenever negativity arises in the mind, just observe it, face it. As soon as you start to observe a mental impurity, it begins to lose its strength and slowly withers away.

A good solution; it avoids both extremes—suppression and expression. Burying the negativity in the unconscious will not eradicate it, and allowing it to manifest as unwholesome physical or vocal actions will only create more problems. But if you just observe, then the defilement passes away and you are free of it.

This sounds wonderful, but is it really practical? It’s not easy to face one’s own impurities. When anger arises, it so quickly overwhelms us that we don’t even notice. Then, overpowered by anger, we perform physical or vocal actions that harm ourselves and others. Later, when the anger has passed, we start crying and repenting, begging pardon from this or that person, or from God: “Oh, I made a mistake, please excuse me!” But the next time we are in a similar situation, we again react in the same way. This continual repenting doesn’t help at all.

The difficulty is that we are not aware when negativity starts. It begins deep in the unconscious mind, and by the time it reaches the conscious level it has gained so much strength that it overwhelms us, and we cannot observe it.

Suppose, then, that I employ a private secretary, so that whenever anger arises he says to me, “Look, anger is starting!” Since I cannot know when this anger will start, I’ll need to hire three private secretaries for three shifts, around the clock! Let’s say I can afford it, and anger begins to arise. At once my secretary tells me, “Oh look—anger has started!” The first thing I’ll do is rebuke him: “You fool! You think you’re paid to teach me?” I’m so overpowered by anger that good advice won’t help.

Perhaps wisdom does prevail and I don’t scold him. Instead, I say, “Thank you very much. Now I must sit down and observe my anger.” Yet, is it possible? As soon as I close my eyes and try to observe anger, the object of the anger immediately comes into my mind—the person or incident which initiated the anger. Then I’m not observing the anger itself; I’m merely observing the external stimulus of that emotion. This will only serve to multiply the anger, and is therefore no solution. It is very difficult to observe any abstract negativity, abstract emotion, divorced from the external object that originally caused it to arise.

However, someone who reached the ultimate truth found a real solution. He discovered that whenever any impurity arises in the mind, physically two things start happening simultaneously. One is that the breath loses its normal rhythm. We start breathing harder whenever negativity comes into the mind. This is easy to observe. At a subtler level, a biochemical reaction starts in the body, resulting in some sensation. Every impurity will generate some sensation or other within the body.

This presents a practical solution. An ordinary person cannot observe abstract defilements of the mind—abstract fear, anger or passion. But with proper training and practice it is very easy to observe respiration and body sensations, both of which are directly related to mental defilements.

Respiration and sensations will help in two ways. First, they will be like private secretaries. As soon as negativity arises in the mind, the breath will lose its normality; it will start shouting, “Look, something has gone wrong!” And we cannot scold the breath; we have to accept the warning. Similarly, the sensations will tell us that something has gone wrong. Then, having been warned, we can start observing the respiration, start observing the sensations, and very quickly we find that the negativity passes away.

This mental-physical phenomenon is like a coin with two sides. On one side are the thoughts and emotions arising in the mind; on the other side are the respiration and sensations in the body. Any thoughts or emotions, any mental impurities that arise manifest themselves in the breath and the sensations of that moment. Thus, by observing the respiration or the sensations, we are in fact observing mental impurities. Instead of running away from the problem, we are facing reality as it is. As a result, we discover that these impurities lose their strength; they no longer overpower us as they did in the past. If we persist, they eventually disappear altogether and we begin to live a peaceful and happy life, a life increasingly free of negativities.

In this way the technique of self-observation shows us reality in its two aspects, inner and outer. Previously we only looked outward, missing the inner truth. We always looked outside for the cause of our unhappiness; we always blamed and tried to change the reality outside. Being ignorant of the inner reality, we never understood that the cause of suffering lies within, in our own blind reactions toward pleasant and unpleasant sensations.

Now, with training, we can see the other side of the coin. We can be aware of our breathing and also of what is happening inside. Whatever it is, breath or sensation, we learn just to observe it without losing our mental balance. We stop reacting and multiplying our misery. Instead, we allow the defilements to manifest and pass away.

The more one practices this technique, the more quickly negativities will dissolve. Gradually the mind becomes free of defilements, becomes pure. A pure mind is always full of love— selfless love for all others, full of compassion for the failings and sufferings of others, full of joy at their success and happiness, full of equanimity in the face of any situation.

When one reaches this stage, the entire pattern of one’s life changes. It is no longer possible to do anything vocally or physically which will disturb the peace and happiness of others. Instead, a balanced mind not only becomes peaceful, but the surrounding atmosphere also becomes permeated with peace and harmony, and this will start affecting others, helping others too.

By learning to remain balanced in the face of everything experienced inside, one develops detachment towards all that one encounters in external situations as well. However, this detachment is not escapism or indifference to the problems of the world. Those who regularly practice Vipassana become more sensitive to the sufferings of others, and do their utmost to relieve suffering in whatever way they can—not with any agitation, but with a mind full of love, compassion and equanimity. They learn holy indifference—how to be fully committed, fully involved in helping others, while at the same time maintaining balance of mind. In this way they remain peaceful and happy, while working for the peace and happiness of others.

This is what the Buddha taught: an art of living. He never established or taught any religion, any “ism.” He never instructed those who came to him to practice any rites or rituals, any empty formalities. Instead, he taught them just to observe nature as it is, by observing the reality inside. Out of ignorance we keep reacting in ways that harm ourselves and others. But when wisdom arises—the wisdom of observing reality as it is— this habit of reacting falls away. When we cease to react blindly, then we are capable of real action—action proceeding from a balanced mind, a mind that sees and understands the truth. Such action can only be positive, creative, helpful to ourselves and to others.

What is necessary, then, is to “know thyself”—advice which every wise person has given. We must know ourselves, not just intellectually in the realm of ideas and theories, and not just emotionally or devotionally, simply accepting blindly what we have heard or read. Such knowledge is not enough. Rather, we must know reality experientially. We must experience directly the reality of this mental-physical phenomenon. This alone will help us be free of our suffering.

This direct experience of our own inner reality, this technique of self-observation, is what is called Vipassana meditation. In the language of India in the time of the Buddha, passanā meant seeing in the ordinary way, with one’s eyes open; but vipassanā is observing things as they actually are, not just as they appear to be. Apparent truth has to be penetrated, until we reach the ultimate truth of the entire psycho-physical structure. When we experience this truth, then we learn to stop reacting blindly, to stop creating negativities—and naturally the old ones are gradually eradicated. We become liberated from misery and experience true happiness.

There are three steps to the training given in a meditation course. First, one must abstain from any action, physical or vocal, that disturbs the peace and harmony of others. One cannot work to liberate oneself from impurities of the mind while at the same time continuing to perform deeds of body and speech that only multiply them. Therefore, a code of morality is the essential first step of the practice. One undertakes not to kill, not to steal, not to commit sexual misconduct, not to tell lies, and not to use intoxicants. By abstaining from such actions, one allows the mind to quiet down sufficiently in order to proceed further.

The next step is to develop some mastery over this wild mind by training it to remain fixed on a single object, the breath. One tries to keep one’s attention on the respiration for as long as possible. This is not a breathing exercise; one does not regulate the breath. Instead, one observes natural respiration as it is, as it comes in, as it goes out. In this way one further calms the mind so that it is no longer overpowered by intense negativities. At the same time, one is concentrating the mind, making it sharp and penetrating, capable of the work of insight.

These first two steps, living a moral life, and controlling the mind, are very necessary and beneficial in themselves, but they will lead to suppression of negativities unless one takes the third step: purifying the mind of defilements by developing insight into one’s own nature. This is Vipassana: experiencing one’s own reality by the systematic and dispassionate observation within oneself of the ever-changing mind-matter phenomenon manifesting as sensations. This is the culmination of the teaching of the Buddha: self-purification by self-observation.

It can be practiced by one and all. Everyone faces the problem of suffering. It is a universal malady that requires a universal remedy, not a sectarian one. When one suffers from anger, it’s not Buddhist anger, Hindu anger, or Christian anger. Anger is anger. When one becomes agitated as a result of this anger, this agitation is not Christian, or Jewish, or Muslim. The malady is universal. The remedy must also be universal.

Vipassana is such a remedy. No one will object to a code of living which respects the peace and harmony of others. No one will object to developing control over the mind. No one will object to developing insight into one’s own nature, by which it is possible to free the mind of negativities. Vipassana is a universal path.

Observing reality as it is by observing the truth inside—this is knowing oneself directly and experientially. As one practices, one keeps freeing oneself from the misery of mental impurities. From the gross, external, apparent truth, one penetrates to the ultimate truth of mind and matter. Then one transcends that, and experiences a truth that is beyond mind and matter, beyond time and space, beyond the conditioned field of relativity: the truth of total liberation from all defilements, all impurities, all suffering. Whatever name one gives this ultimate truth is irrelevant; it is the final goal of everyone.

May you all experience this ultimate truth. May all people be free from misery. May they enjoy real peace, real harmony, real happiness. 

May all beings be happy.

—S.N. Goenka

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art of Dying – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và nhiều tác giả khác.