Included in this list are Pāli terms that appear in the text as well as some other terms of importance in the teaching of the Buddha

ānāpāna. Respiration. 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. anusaya. The unconscious mind; latent, underlying conditioning;dormant mental impurity (also anusaya-kilesa).

arahant/arahat. Liberated being. One who has destroyed all impurities of the mind.

ariya. Noble; saintly person. One who has purified the mind to the point of having experienced ultimate reality (nibbāna).

ariya aṭṭhaṅgika magga. The Noble Eightfold Path leading to liberation from suffering. It is divided into three trainings, namely—

sīla. morality, purity of vocal and physical actions: sammā-vācā. right speech, sammā-kammanta. right actions, sammā-ājīva. right livelihood;

samādhi. concentration, control of one’s own mind:

sammā-vāyāma. right effort,

sammā-sati. right awareness,

sammā-samādhi. right concentration;

paññā. wisdom, insight which totally purifies the mind: sammā-saṅkappa. right thought, sammā-diṭṭhi. right understanding.

ariya sacca. Noble truth. The Four Noble Truths are (1) the truth of suffering; (2) the truth of the origin of suffering; (3) the truth of the cessation of suffering; (4) the truth of the path leading to the cessation of suffering.

bhaṅga. Dissolution. An important stage in the practice of Vipassana. The experience of the dissolution of the apparent solidity of the body into subtle vibrations that are continually arising and passing away.

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

bhāvanā-mayā paññā. Experiential wisdom. See paññā. bhikkhu. (Buddhist) monk; meditator. Feminine form

bhikkhuṇī—nun.

Buddha. Enlightened person. One who has discovered the way to liberation, has practised it, and has reached the final goal by his own efforts.

cintā-mayā paññā. Intellectual wisdom. See paññā.

citta. Mind. Cittānupassanā—observation of the mind. See sati-

paṭṭhāna.

dhamma. Phenomenon; object of mind; nature; natural law; law of liberation, i.e., teaching of an enlightened person. Dhammānu-passanā—observation of the contents of the mind. See satipaṭṭhāna. (Sanskrit dharma.)

dukkha. Suffering, unsatisfactoriness. One of the three basic characteristics of phenomena, along with anatta and anicca.

Gotama. Family name of the historical Buddha. (Sanskrit Gautama.)

Hīnayāna. Literally, “lesser vehicle.” Term used for Theravāda Buddhism by those of other schools. Pejorative connotation.

jhāna. State of mental absorption or trance. There are eight such states which may be attained by the practice of samādhi, or samatha-bhāvanā. Cultivation of them brings tranquility and bliss, but does not eradicate the deepest-rooted mental defilements.

kalāpa. Smallest indivisible unit of matter.

kamma. Action, specifically an action performed by oneself which will have an effect on one’s future. (Sanskrit karma).

kāya. Body. Kāyānupassanā—observation of the body. See sati-paṭṭhāna.

Mahāyāna. Literally, “greater vehicle.” The type of Buddhism that developed in India a few centuries after the Buddha and that spread north to Tibet, Mongolia, China, Viet Nam, Korea, and Japan.

mettā. Selfless love and good will. One of the qualities of a pure mind. Mettā-bhāvanā—the systematic cultivation of mettā by a technique of meditation.

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

Pāli. Line; text. The texts recording the teaching of the Buddha; hence the language of these texts. Historical, linguistic, and archaeological evidence indicate that Pāli was a language actually spoken in northern India at or near the time of the Buddha. Later the texts were translated into Sanskrit, which was exclusively a literary language.

paññā. Wisdom. The third of the three trainings by which the Noble Eightfold Path is practised (see ariya aṭṭhaṅgika magga). There are three kinds of wisdom: suta-mayā paññā—literally, “wisdom gained from listening to others,” i.e., received wisdom; cintā-mayā paññā—wisdom gained by intellectual analysis; and bhāvanā-mayā paññā—wisdom developing from direct, personal experience. Of these, only the last can totally purify the mind; it is cultivated by the practice of vipassanā-bhāvanā.

paṭicca-samuppāda. The Chain of Conditioned Arising; causal genesis. The process, beginning with ignorance, by which one keeps making life after life of suffering for oneself.

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

sammā-sati. Right awareness. See sati.

sampajañña. Understanding of the totality of the human phenomenon. i.e., insight into its impermanent nature at the level of sensations 

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

saṅgha. Congregation; community of ariyas, i.e., those who have experienced nibbāna; community of Buddhist monks or nuns; a member of the ariya-saṅgha, bhikkhu-saṅgha, or bhikkhuṇī-saṅgha.

saṅkhāra. (Mental) formation; volitional activity; mental reaction; mental conditioning. One of the four aggregates or processes of the mind, along with viññaṇa, saññā, and vedanā. (Sanskrit samskāra.) 

saṅkhāra-upekkhā / saṅkhārupekkhā. Literally, equanimity toward the saṅkhāras. A stage in the practice of Vipassana, subsequent to the experience of bhāṅga, in which old impurities lying dormant in the unconscious rise to the surface level of the mind, manifesting themselves as physical sensations. By maintaining equanimity (upekkhā) toward these sensations, the meditator creates no new saṅkhāras, and allows the old ones to be eradicated. Thus, the process gradually leads to the eradication of all saṅkhāras.

saññā. Perception, recognition. One of the four mental aggregates or processes, along with vedanā, viññāṇa, and saṅkhāra. It is ordinarily conditioned by one’s past saṅkhāras, and therefore conveys a distorted image of reality. In the practice of Vipassana, saññā is changed into paññā, the understanding of reality as it is. It becomes anicca-saññā, dukkha-saññā, anattā-saññā, asubhasaññā—that is, the perception of impermanence, suffering, egolessness, and the illusory nature of beauty.

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

satipaṭṭhāna. the establishing of awareness. There are four interconnected aspects of satipaṭṭhāna: (1) observation of the body (kāyānupassanā); (2) observation of sensations arising within the body (vedanānupassanā); (3) observation of the mind

(cittānupassanā); (4) observation of the contents of the mind (dhammānupassanā). All four are included in the observation of sensations, since sensations are directly related to both body and mind.

Siddhattha. Literally, “one who has accomplished his task.” The personal name of the historical Buddha. (Sanskrit Siddhārtha.)

sīla. Morality, abstaining from physical and vocal actions that cause harm to others and oneself. The first of the three trainings by which the Noble Eightfold Path is practised (see ariya aṭṭhaṅgika magga).

suta-mayā paññā. Received wisdom. See paññā.

Sutta. Discourse of the Buddha or one of his leading disciples.

(Sanskrit sūtra).

taṇhā. Literally, “thirst.” Includes both craving and its reverse image of aversion. The Buddha identified taṇhā as the cause of suffering in his first sermon, the “Discourse Setting in Motion the Wheel of Dhamma” (Dhamma-cakkappavattana Sutta). In the Chain of Conditioned Arising, he explained that taṇhā originates as a reaction to sensation (see above, p. 49).

Tathāgata. Literally “thus-gone” or “thus-come” One who by walking on the path of reality has reached the ultimate reality, i.e., an enlightened person. The term by which the Buddha commonly referred to himself.

Theravāda. Literally, “teaching of the elders.” The teachings of the Buddha, in the form in which they have been preserved in the countries of South Asia (Burma, Sri Lanka, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia). Generally recognized as the oldest form of the teachings.

Tipiṭaka. Literally, “three baskets.” The three collections of the teachings of the Buddha, namely: (1) Vinaya-piṭaka—the collection of monastic discipline; (2) Sutta-piṭaka—the collection of discourses; (3) Abhidhamma-piṭaka—“the collection of higher teaching,” i.e., systematic philosophical exegesis of the Dhamma. (Sanskrit Tripiṭaka.)

vedanā. Sensation. One of the four mental aggregates or processes, along with viññaṇa, saññā, and saṅkhāra. Described by the Buddha as having both mental and physical aspects; therefore vedanā offers a means to examine the totality of mind and body. In the Chain of Conditioned Arising, the Buddha explained that taṇhā, the cause of suffering, originates as a reaction to vedanā (see above, p. 49). By learning to observe vedanā objectively, one can avoid any new reactions of craving or aversion, and can experience directly within oneself the reality of impermanence (anicca). This experience is essential for the development of detachment, leading to liberation of the mind. Vedanānupassanā—observation of sensations within the body. See satipaṭṭhāna.

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

vipassanā. Introspection, insight that totally purifies the mind. Specifically, insight into the impermanent nature of mind and body. Vipassanā-bhāvanā—the systematic development of insight through the meditation technique of observing the reality of oneself by observing sensations within the body.

yathā-bhūta. Literally, “as it is.” Reality.

yathā-bhūta-ñāṇa-dassana. Wisdom arising from seeing the truth as it is.

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In his discourses the Buddha frequently referred to the importance of awareness of sensation. Here is a small selection of passages on the subject.

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

—S. XXXVI (II). ii. 12 (2), Paṭhama Ākāsa Sutta

And how does a meditator dwell observing body in body? In this case a meditator goes to the forest, to the foot of a tree, or to a solitary abode. There he sits down cross-legged with body erect, and fixes his attention in the area around the mouth. With awareness he breathes in and breathes out. Breathing in a long breath he knows rightly, “I am breathing in a long breath.” Breathing out a long breath he knows rightly, “I am breathing out a long breath.” Breathing in a short breath he knows rightly, “I am breathing in a short breath.” Breathing out a short breath he knows rightly, “I am breathing out a short breath.” “Feeling the entire body I shall breathe in”; thus he trains himself. “Feeling the entire body I shall breathe out”; thus he trains himself. “With bodily activities calmed I shall breathe in”; thus he train himself. “With bodily activities calmed, I shall breathe out”; thus he trains himself.

—D. 22/M. 10, Satipaṭṭhāna Sutta, Ānāpāna-pabbaṃ

When a sensation arises in the meditator, pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral, he understands, “A pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral sensation has arisen in me. It is based on something, it is not without a base. On what is it based? On this very body.” Thus he abides observing the impermanent nature of the sensation within the body.

—S. XXXVI (II). i. 7, Paṭhama Gelañña Sutta

The meditator understands, “There has arisen in me this pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral experience. It is composed, of a gross nature, dependent on conditions. But what really exists, what is most excellent, is equanimity.” Whether a pleasant experience has arisen in him, or an unpleasant, or a neutral one, it ceases, but equanimity remains.

—M. 152, Indriya Bhāvanā Sutta

There are three types of sensation: pleasant, unpleasant, and neutral. All three are impermanent, composed, dependent on conditions, subject to decay, to decline, to fading away, to ceasing. Seeing this reality, the well-instructed follower of the Noble Path becomes equanimous toward pleasant, unpleasant, and neutral sensations. By developing equanimity, he becomes detached; by developing detachment, he becomes liberated.

—M. 74, Dīghanakha Sutta

If a meditator abides observing the impermanence of pleasant sensation within the body, its decline, fading away and ceasing, and also observing his own relinquishing of attachment to such sensation, then his underlying conditioning of craving for pleasant sensation within the body is eliminated. If he abides observing the impermanence of unpleasant sensation within the body, then his underlying conditioning of aversion toward unpleasant sensation within the body is eliminated. If he abides observing the impermanence of neutral sensation within the body, then his underlying conditioning of ignorance toward neutral sensation within the body is eliminated.

—S. XXXVI (II). i. 7, Paṭhama Gelañña Sutta

When his underlying conditionings of craving for pleasant sensation, of aversion toward unpleasant sensation, and of ignorance toward neutral sensation are eradicated, the meditator is called one who is totally free of underlying conditionings, who has seen the truth, who has cut off all craving and aversion, who has broken all bondages, who has fully realized the illusory nature of the ego, who has made an end of suffering.

—S. XXXVI (II). i. 3, Pahāna Sutta

The view of reality as it is becomes his right view. Thought of reality as it is becomes his right thought. Effort toward reality as it is becomes his right effort. Awareness of reality as it is becomes his right awareness. Concentration on reality as it is becomes his right concentration. His actions of body and speech and his livelihood become truly purified. Thus the Noble Eightfold Path advances in him toward development and fulfillment.

—M. 149, Mahā-Saḷāyatanika Sutta

The faithful follower of the Noble Path makes efforts, and by persisting in his efforts becomes mindful, and by remaining mindful becomes concentrated, and by maintaining concentration develops right understanding, and by understanding rightly develops real faith, being confident in knowing, “Those truths of which before I had only heard, now I dwell having experienced them directly within the body, and I observe them with penetrating insight.”

—S. XLVIII (IV). v. 10 (50), Āpana Sutta (spoken by Sāriputta, chief disciple of the Buddha)

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The teaching of the Buddha is a system for developing self-knowledge as a means to self-transformation. By attaining an experiential understanding of the reality of our own nature, we can eliminate the misapprehensions that cause us to act wrongly and to make ourselves unhappy. We learn to act in accordance with reality and therefore to lead productive, useful, happy lives.

In the Satipaṭṭhāna Sutta, the “Discourse on the Establishing of Awareness,” the Buddha presented a practical method for developing self-knowledge through self-observation. This technique is Vipassana meditation.

Any attempt to observe the truth about oneself immediately reveals that what one calls “oneself” has two aspects, physical and psychic, body and mind. We must learn to observe both. But how can we actually experience the reality of body and mind? Accepting the explanations of others is not sufficient, nor is depending on merely intellectual knowledge. Both may guide us in the work of self-exploration, but each of us must explore and experience reality directly within ourselves.

We each experience the reality of the body by feeling it, by means of the physical sensations that arise within it. With eyes closed we know that we have hands, or any of the other parts of the body, because we can feel them. As a book has external form and internal content, the physical structure has an external, objective reality—the body (kāya)—and an internal, subjective reality of sensation (vedanā). We digest a book by reading all the words in it; we experience the body by feeling sensations. Without awareness of sensations there can be no direct knowledge of the physical structure. The two are inseparable.

Similarly, the physic structure can be analyzed into form and content: the mind (citta) and whatever arises in the mind (dhamma)—any thought, emotion, memory, hope, fear, any mental event. As body and sensation cannot be experienced separately, so one cannot observe the mind apart from the contents of the mind. But mind and matter are also closely interrelated. Whatever occurs in one is reflected in the other. This was a key discovery of the Buddha, of crucial significance in his teaching. As he expressed it, “Whatever arises in the mind is accompanied by sensation.”1 Therefore observation of sensation offers a means to examine the totality of one’s being, physical as well as mental.

These four dimensions of reality are common to every human being: the physical aspects of body and sensation, the psychic aspects of mind and its content. They provide the four divisions of the Satipaṭṭhāna Sutta, the four avenues for the establishing of awareness, the four vantage points for observing the human phenomenon. If the investigation is to be complete, every facet must be experienced. And all four can be experienced by observing vedanā.

For this reason the Buddha specially stressed the importance of awareness of vedanā. In the Brahmajāla Sutta, one of his most important discourses, he said, “The enlightened one has become liberated and freed from all attachments by seeing as they really are the arising and passing away of sensations, the relishing of them, the danger of them, the release from them.”2 Awareness of vedanā, he stated, is a prerequisite for the understanding of the Four Noble Truths: “To the person who experiences sensation I show the way to realize what is suffering, its origin, its cessation, and the path leading to its cessation.”3

What exactly is vedanā? The Buddha described it in various ways. He included vedanā among the four processes that compose the mind (see Chapter Two). However, when defining it more precisely he spoke of vedanā as having both mental and physical aspects.4 Matter alone cannot feel anything if the mind is not present: in a dead body, for example, there are no sensations. It is the mind that feels, but what it feels has an inextricable physical element.

This physical element is of central importance in practising the teaching of the Buddha. The purpose of the practice is to develop in us the ability to deal with all the vicissitudes of life in a balanced way. We learn to do so in meditation by observing with equanimity whatever happens within ourselves. With this equanimity, we can break the habit of blind reaction, and instead can choose the most beneficial course of action in any situation.

Whatever we experience in life is encountered through the six gates of perception, the five physical senses and the mind. And according to the Chain of Conditioned Arising, as soon as a contact occurs at any of these six gates, as soon as we encounter any phenomenon, physical or mental, a sensation is produced (see above, p. 49). If we do not give attention to what happens in the body, we remain unaware, at the conscious level, of the sensation. In the darkness of ignorance an unconcious reaction begins toward the sensation, a momentary liking or disliking, which develops into craving or aversion. This reaction is repeated and intensified innumerable times before it impinges on the conscious mind. If meditators give importance only to what happens in the conscious mind, they become aware of the process after the reaction has occurred and gathered dangerous strength, sufficient to overwhelm them. They allow the spark of sensation to ignite a raging fire before trying to extinguish it, needlessly making difficulties for themselves. But if they learn to observe the sensations within the body objectively, they permit each spark to burn itself out without starting a conflagration. By giving importance to the physical aspect, they become aware of vedanā as soon as it arises, and can prevent any reactions from occurring.

The physical aspect of vedanā is particularly important because it offers vivid, tangible experience of the reality of impermanence within ourselves. Change occurs at every moment within us, manifesting itself in the play of sensations. It is at this level that impermanence must be experienced. Observation of the constantly changing sensations permits the realization of one’s own ephemeral nature. This realization makes obvious the futility of attachment to something that is so transitory. Thus the direct experience of anicca automatically gives rise to detachment, with which one can not only avert fresh reactions of craving or aversion, but also eliminate the very habit of reacting. In this way one gradually frees the mind of suffering. Unless its physical aspect is included, the awareness of vedanā remains partial and incomplete. Therefore the Buddha repeatedly emphasized the importance of the experience of impermanence through physical sensations. He said

Those who continually make efforts

to direct their awareness toward the body,

who abstain from unwholesome actions

and strive to do what should be done,

such people, aware, with full understanding,

The cause of suffering is taṇhā, craving and aversion. Ordinarily it appears to us that we generate reactions of craving and aversion toward the various objects that we encounter through the physical senses and the mind. The Buddha, however, discovered that between the object and the reaction stands a missing link: vedanā. We react not to the exterior reality but to the sensations within us. When we learn to observe sensation without reacting in craving and aversion, the cause of suffering does not arise, and suffering ceases. Therefore observation of vedanā is essential in order to practise what the Buddha taught. And the observation must be at the level of physical sensation if the awareness of vedanā is to be complete. With the awareness of physical sensation we can penetrate to the root of the problem and remove it. We can observe our own nature to the depths and can liberate ourselves from suffering.

By understanding the central importance of the observation of sensation in the teaching of the Buddha, one can gain fresh insight into the Satipaṭṭhāna Sutta.6 The discourse begins by stating the aims of satipaṭṭhāna, of establishing awareness: “the purification of beings; the transcending of sorrow and lamentation; the extinguishing of physical and mental suffering; the practising of a way of truth: the direct experience of the ultimate reality, nibbāna.”7 It then briefly explains how to achieve these goals: “Here a meditator dwells ardent with thorough understanding and awareness, observing body in body, observing sensations in sensations, observing mind in mind, observing the contents of the mind in the contents of the mind, having abandoned craving and aversion toward the world.”8

What is meant by “observing body in body, sensations in sensations” and so forth? For a Vipassana meditator, the expression is luminous in its clarity. Body, sensations, mind, and mental contents are the four dimensions of a human being. To understand this human phenomenon correctly, each of us must experience the reality of ourselves directly. To achieve this direct experience, the meditator must develop two qualities: awareness (sati) and thorough understanding (sampajañña). The discourse is called “The Establishing of Awareness,” but awareness is incomplete without understanding, insight into the depths of one’s own nature, into the impermanence of this phenomenon that one calls “I.” The practice of satipaṭṭhāna leads the meditators to realize their essentially ephemeral nature. When they have had this personal realization, then awareness is firmly established—right awareness leading to liberation. Then automatically craving and aversion disappear, not just toward the external world but also toward the world within, where craving and aversion are most deep-seated, and most often overlooked—in the unthinking, visceral attachment to one’s own body and mind. So long as this underlying attachment remains, one cannot be liberated from suffering.

The “Discourse on the Establishing of Awareness” first discusses observation of the body. This is the most apparent aspect of the mental-physical structure, and hence the proper point from which to begin the work of self-observation. From here observation of sensations, of mind, and of mental contents naturally develops. The discourse explains several ways to begin observing the body. The first and most common is awareness of respiration. Another way to begin is by giving attention to bodily movements. But no matter how one starts the journey, there are certain stages through which one must pass on the way to the final goal. These are described in a paragraph of crucial importance in the discourse:

In this way he dwells observing body in body internally or externally, or both internally and externally. He dwells observing the phenomenon of arising in the body. He dwells observing the phenomenon of passing away in the body. He dwells observing the phenomenon of arising and passing away in the body. Now the awareness presents itself to him, “This is body.” This awareness develops to such an extent that only understanding and observation remain, and he dwells detached without clinging to anything in the world.9

The great importance of this passage is shown by the fact that it is repeated not only at the end of each section within the discussion of observation of the body, but also within the succeeding divisions of the discourse dealing with the observation of sensations, of mind and of mental contents. (In these three later divisions, the word “body” is replaced by “sensations,” “mind,” and “mental contents” respectively.) The passage thus describes the common ground in the practice of satipaṭṭhāna. Because of the difficulties it presents, its interpretation has varied widely. However, the difficulties disappear when the passage is understood as referring to the awareness of sensations. In practising satipaṭṭhāna, meditators must achieve a comprehensive insight into the nature of themselves. The means to this penetrating insight is the observation of sensations, including as it does the observation of the other three dimensions of the human phenomenon. Therefore although the first steps may differ, beyond a certain point the practice must involve awareness of sensation.

Hence, the passage explains, meditators begin by observing sensations arising in the interior of the body or externally, on the surface of the body, or both together. That is, from awareness of sensations in some parts and not in others, they gradually develop the ability to feel sensations throughout the body. When they begin the practice, they may first experience sensations of an intense nature which arise and seem to persist for some time. Meditators are aware of their arising, and after some time of their passing away. In this stage they are still experiencing the apparent reality of body and mind, their integrated, seemingly solid and lasting nature. But as one continues practising, a stage is reached in which the solidity dissolves spontaneously, and mind and body are experienced in their true nature as a mass of vibrations, arising and passing away every moment. With this experience now one understands at last what body, sensations, mind, and mental contents really are: a flux of impersonal, constantly changing phenomena.

This direct apprehension of the ultimate reality of mind and matter progressively shatters one’s illusions, misconceptions, and preconceptions. Even right conceptions that had been accepted only on faith or by intellectual deduction now acquire new significance when they are experienced. Gradually, by the observation of reality within, all the conditioning that distorts perception is eliminated. Only pure awareness and wisdom remain.

As ignorance disappears, the underlying tendencies of craving and aversion are eradicated, and the meditator becomes freed from all attachments—the deepest attachment being to the inner world of one’s own body and mind. When this attachment is eliminated, suffering disappears and one becomes liberated.

The Buddha often said, “Whatever is felt is related to suffering.”10 Therefore vedanā is an ideal means to explore the truth of suffering. Unpleasant sensations are obviously suffering, but the most pleasant sensation is also a form of very subtle agitation. Every sensation is impermanent. If one is attached to pleasant sensations, then when they pass away, suffering remains. Thus every sensation contains a seed of misery. For this reason, as he spoke of the path leading to the cessation of suffering, the Buddha spoke of the path leading to the arising of vedanā, and that leading to its ceasing.11 So long as one remains within the conditioned field of mind and matter, sensations and suffering persist. They cease only when one transcends that field to experience the ultimate reality of nibbāna.

The Buddha said:

A man does not really apply Dhamma in life just because he speaks much about it.

But though someone may have heard little about it,

if he sees the Law of Nature by means of his own body, then truly he lives according to it,

and can never be forgetful of the Dhamma.12

Our own bodies bear witness to the truth. When meditators discover the truth within, it becomes real for them and they live according to it. We can each realize that truth by learning to observe the sensations within ourselves, and by doing so we can attain liberation from suffering.

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art Of Living – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và William Hart.

I feel very fortunate that I was born in Burma, the land of Dhamma, where this wonderful technique was preserved through the centuries in its original form. About one hundred years ago my grandfather came from India and settled there, and so I was born in that country. And I feel very fortunate that I was born into a family of businessmen, and that from my teens I started working to gain money. Amassing money was my chief purpose in life. I am fortunate that from an early age I succeeded in earning a lot of money. If I had not myself known the life of riches, I would not have had the personal experience of the hollowness of such an existence. And had I not experienced this, some thought might always have lingered in a corner of my mind that true happiness lies in wealth. When people become rich, they are given special status and high positions in society. They become officers of many different organizations. From my early twenties I began this madness of seeking social prestige. And naturally all these tensions in my life gave rise to a psychosomatic disease, severe migraine headaches. Every fortnight I suffered an attack of this disease, for which there was no cure. I feel very fortunate that I developed this disease.

Even the best doctors in Burma could not cure my sickness. The only treatment that they had to offer was an injection of morphine to relieve an attack. Every fortnight I required an injection of morphine, and then I faced its after-effects: nausea, vomiting, misery.

After a few years of this affliction the doctors began to warn me, “Now you are taking morphine to relieve the attacks of your disease, but if you continue, soon you will become addicted to morphine, and you will have to take it every day.” I was shocked at the prospect; life would be horrible. The doctors advised, “You often travel abroad on business; for once make a trip for the sake of your health. We have no cure for your disease, and neither, we know, have doctors in other countries. But perhaps they have some other pain-killer to relieve your attacks, which would free you from the danger of morphine dependence.” Heeding their advice I travelled to Switzerland, Germany, England, America, and Japan. I was treated by the best doctors of these countries. And I am very fortunate that all of them failed. I returned home worse than when I had left.

After my return from this unsuccessful trip, a kind friend came and suggested to me, “Why not try one of these ten-day courses in Vipassana meditation? They are conducted by U Ba Khin, a very saintly man, a government officer, a family man like yourself. To me it seems that the basis of your disease is actually mental, and here is a technique that is said to free the mind of tensions. Perhaps by practising it you can cure yourself of the disease.” Having failed everywhere else I decided at least to go to meet this teacher of meditation. After all, I had nothing to lose.

I went to his meditation centre and talked with this extraordinary man. Deeply impressed by the calm and peaceful atmosphere of the place and by his own peaceful presence, I said, “Sir, I want to join one of your courses. Will you please accept me?”

“Certainly, this technique is for one and all. You are welcome to join a course.”

I continued, “For a number of years I have suffered from an incurable disease, severe migraine headaches. I hope that by this technique I may be cured of the disease.”

“No,” he suddenly said, “don’t come to me. You may not join a course.” I could not understand how I had offended him; but then with compassion he explained, “The purpose of Dhamma is not to cure physical diseases. If that is what you seek, you had better go to a hospital. The purpose of Dhamma is to cure all the miseries of life. This disease of yours is really a very minor part of your suffering. It will pass away, but only as a by-product in the process of mental purification. If you make the by-product your primary goal, then you devalue Dhamma. Come not for physical cures, but to liberate the mind.”

He had convinced me. “Yes, sir,” I said, “now I understand. I shall come only for the purification of my mind. Whether or not my disease may be cured, I should like to experience the peace that I see here.” And giving him my promise, I returned home.

But still I postponed joining a course. Being born in a staunch, conservative Hindu family, from my childhood I had learned to recite the verse, “Better to die in your own religion, your own

dharma*; never go to another religion.” I said to myself, “Look, this is another religion, Buddhism. And these people are atheists, they don’t believe in God or in the existence of a soul!” (As if simply believing in God or in the soul will solve all our problems!) “If I become an atheist, then what will happen to me? Oh no, I had better die in my own religion, I will never go near them.”

For months I hesitated in this way. But I am very fortunate that at last I decided to give this technique a try, to see what would happen. I joined the next course and passed through the ten days. I am very fortunate that I benefited greatly. Now I could understand one’s own dharma, one’s own path, and the dharma of others. The dharma of human beings is one’s own dharma. Only a human being has the ability to observe himself in order to come out of suffering. No lower creature has this faculty. Observing the reality within oneself is the dharma of human beings. If we do not make use of this ability, then we live the life of lower beings, we waste our lives, which is certainly dangerous.

I had always considered myself to be a very religious person. After all, I performed all the necessary religious duties, I followed the rules of morality, and I gave a lot to charity. And if I was not in fact a religious person, then why had I been made the head of so many religious organizations? Certainly, I thought, I must be very religious. But no matter how much charity or service I had given, no matter how careful I had been of my speech and actions, still when I started observing the dark chamber of the mind within, I found it to be full of snakes and scorpions and centipedes, because of which I had had to endure so much suffering. Now, as the impurities were gradually eradicated, I began to enjoy real peace. I realized how fortunate I was to receive this wonderful technique, the jewel of the Dhamma.

For fourteen years I was very fortunate to be able to practise this technique in Burma under the close guidance of my teacher.Of course I fulfilled all my worldly responsibilities as a family man, and at the same time, every morning and evening, I continued

There is a play here on the various meanings of the word dhamma, or dharma in Sanskrit and modern Hindi. In India today, the word is given a narrow, sectarian meaning, which is here contrasted with its much wider ancient meaning of “nature.” meditating, every weekend I went to the center of my teacher, and every year I undertook a retreat of ten days or longer.

In early 1969 I had to make a trip to India. My parents had gone there a few years earlier and my mother had developed a nervous disease which I knew could be cured by the practice of Vipassana. But there was no one in India who could teach her. The technique of Vipassana had long been lost in that country, the land of its origin. Even the name had been forgotten. I am grateful to the government of Burma for allowing me to go to India; in those days they did not commonly permit their citizens to travel abroad. I am grateful to the government of India for allowing me to come to their country. In July of 1969, the first course was held in Bombay, in which my parents and twelve others participated. I am fortunate that I was able to serve my parents. By teaching them Dhamma I was able to repay my deep debt of gratitude to them.

Having fulfilled my purpose in coming to India, I was ready to return home to Burma. But I found that those who had participated in the course started pressing me to give another, and another. They wanted courses for their fathers, mothers, wives, husbands, children, and friends. So then the second course was held, and the third, and the fourth, and in this way the teaching of Dhamma began to spread.

In 1971, while I was giving a course in Bodh Gaya, I received a cable from Rangoon announcing that my teacher had passed away. Of course the news was shocking, being completely unexpected, and certainly it was very saddening. But with the help of the Dhamma he had given me, my mind remained balanced.

Now I had to decide how to pay back my debt of gratitude to this saintly person, Sayagyi U Ba Khin. My parents had given me birth as a human being, but one still enclosed in the shell of ignorance. It was only with the help of this wonderful person that I was able to break the shell, to discover truth by observing the reality within. And not only that, but for fourteen years he had strengthened and nurtured me in Dhamma. How could I repay the debt of gratitude to my Dhamma father? The only way that I could see was to practise what he had taught, to live the life of Dhamma; this is the proper way to honor him. And with as much purity of mind, as much love and compassion as I could develop, I resolved to devote the rest of my life to serving others, since this is what he wished me to do.

He often used to refer to the traditional belief in Burma that twenty five centuries after the time of the Buddha, the Dhamma would return to the country of its origin, from there to spread around the world. It was his wish to help this prediction come to pass by going to India and teaching Vipassana meditation there. “Twenty five centuries are over,” he used to say, “the clock of Vipassana has struck!” Unfortunately, political conditions in his later years did not allow him to travel abroad. When I received permission to go to India in 1969, he was deeply pleased and told me, “Goenka, you are not going; I am going!”

At first I thought that this prediction was merely a sectarian belief. After all, why should something special happen after twenty five centuries if it could not happen sooner? But when I came to India I was amazed to find that, although I did not know even one hundred people in that vast country, thousands started coming to courses, from every background, from every religion, from every community. Not only Indians, but thousands started coming from many different countries.

It became clear that nothing happens without a cause. No one comes to a course accidentally. Some perhaps have performed a wholesome act in the past, as a result of which they now have the opportunity to receive the seed of Dhamma. Others have already received the seed, and now they have come to help it grow. Whether you have come to get the seed or to develop the seed that you already have, keep growing in Dhamma for your own good, for your own benefit, for your own liberation, and you will find how it starts helping others too. Dhamma is beneficial for one and all.

May suffering people everywhere find this path of peace. May they all be released from their misery, their shackles, their bondage. May they free their minds of all defilements, all impurities.

My all beings throughout the universe be happy.

May all beings be peaceful.

May all beings be liberated.

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art Of Living – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và William Hart.

QUESTION: May we tell others about the meditation?

N. GOENKA: Certainly. There is no secrecy in Dhamma. You may tell anyone about what you have done here. But guiding people to practise is something totally different, which should not be done at this stage. Wait until you are firmly established in the technique and trained to guide others. If someone whom you tell about Vipassana is interested in practising, it, advise that person to come to a course. At least the first experience of Vipassana must be in an organized ten-day course, under the guidance of a qualified teacher. After that one can practise on one’s own.

I practise yoga. How can I integrate this with Vipassana?

Here at a course, yoga is not permitted because it will disturb others by drawing their attention. But after you return home, you may practise both Vipassana and yoga—that is, the physical exercises of yogic postures and breath control. Yoga is very beneficial for physical health. You may even combine it with Vipassana. For example, you assume a posture and then observe sensations throughout the body; this will give still greater benefit than the practice of yoga alone. But the yogic meditation techniques using mantra and visualization are totally opposed to Vipassana. Do not mix them with this technique.

How about the different yogic breathing exercises?

They are helpful as physical exercise, but do not mix these techniques with ānāpāna. In ānāpāna you must observe natural breath at it is, without controlling it. Practise breath control as a physical exercise, and practise ānāpāna for meditation.

Am I—is not this bubble—becoming attached to enlightenment?

If so, you are running in the opposite direction from it. You can never experience enlightenment so long as you have attachments. Simply understand what enlightenment is. Then keep on observing the reality of this moment, and let enlightenment come. If it does not come, don’t be upset. You just do your job and leave the result to Dhamma. If you work in this way, you are not attached to enlightenment and it will certainly come.

Then I meditate just to do my work?

Yes. It is your responsibility to cleanse your own mind. Take it as a responsibility, but do it without attachment.

It’s not to achieve anything?

No. Whatever comes will come by itself. Let it happen naturally.

What is your feeling about teaching Dhamma to children?

The best time for that is before birth. During pregnancy the mother should practise Vipassana, so that the child also receives it and is born a Dhamma child. But if you already have children, you can still share Dhamma with them. For example, as the conclusion of your practice of Vipassana you have learned the technique of mettā-bhāvanā, sharing your peace and harmony with others. If your children are very young, direct your mettā to them after every meditation and at their bedtime; in this way they also benefit from your practice of Dhamma. And when they are older, explain a little about Dhamma to them in a way that they can understand and accept. If they can understand a little more, then teach them to practise ānāpāna for a few minutes. Don’t pressure the children in any way. Just let them sit with you, observe their breath for a few minutes, and then go and play. The meditation will be like play for them; they will enjoy doing it. And most important is that you must live a healthy Dhamma life yourself, you must set a good example for your children. In your home you must establish a peaceful and harmonious atmosphere which will help them grow into healthy and happy people. This is the best thing you can do for your children.

Thank you very much for the wonderful Dhamma. 

Thank Dhamma! Dhamma is great. I am only a vehicle. And also thank yourself. You worked hard, so you grasped the technique. A teacher keeps talking, talking, but if you do not work, you don’t get anything. Be happy, and work hard, work hard!

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art Of Living – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và William Hart.

Of all our preconceptions about ourselves, the most basic is that there is a self. On this assumption we each give highest importance to the self, making it the center of our universe. We do this even though we can see without much difficulty that among all the countless worlds, this is only one; and among all the countless beings of our world, again this is only one. No matter how much we inflate the self, it still remains negligible when measured against the immensity of time and space. Our idea of the self is obviously mistaken. Nevertheless we dedicate our lives to seeking self-fulfillment, considering that to be the way to happiness. The thought of living in a different way seems unnatural or even threatening.

But anyone who has experienced the torture of self-consciousness knows what a great suffering it is. So long as we are preoccupied with our wants and fears, our identities, we are confined within the narrow prison of the self, cut off from the world, from life. Emerging from this self-obsession is truly a release from bondage, enabling us to step forth into the world, to be open to life, to others, to find real fulfillment. What is needed is not self-denial or self-repression, but liberation from our mistaken idea of self. And the way to this release is by realizing that what we call self is in fact ephemeral, a phenomenon in constant change.

Vipassana meditation is a way to gain this insight. So long as one has not personally experienced the transitory nature of body and mind, one is bound to remain trapped in egoism and therefore bound to suffer. But once the illusion of permanence is shattered, the illusion of “I” automatically disappears, and suffering fades away. For the Vipassana meditator, anicca, the realization of the ephemeral nature of the self and the world, is the key that opens the door to liberation.

The importance of understanding impermanence is a theme that runs like a common strand through all the teaching of the Buddha. He said,

Better a single day of life

seeing the reality of arising and passing away than a hundred years of existence remaining blind to it.1

He compared the awareness of impermanence to the farmer’s plowshare, which cuts through all roots as he plows a field; to the topmost ridge of a roof, higher than all the beams that support it; to a mighty ruler holding sway over vassal princes; to the moon whose brightness dims the stars; to the rising sun dispelling all darkness from the sky.2 The last words that he spoke at the end of his life were, “All saṅkhāras—all created things—are subject to decay. Practise diligently to realize this truth.”3

The truth of anicca must not merely be accepted intellectually. It must not be accepted only out of emotion or devotion. Each of us must experience the reality of anicca within ourselves. The direct understanding of impermanence and, along with it, of the illusory nature of the ego and of suffering, constitutes true insight which leads to liberation. This is right understanding.

The meditator experiences this liberating wisdom as the culmination of the practice of sīla, samādhi, and paññā. Unless one undertakes the three trainings, unless one takes every step along the path, one cannot arrive at real insight and freedom from suffering. But even before beginning the practice one must have some wisdom, perhaps only an intellectual recognition of the truth of suffering. Without such understanding, no matter how superficial, the thought of working to free oneself from suffering would never arise in the mind. “Right understanding comes first,” the Buddha said.4

Thus the first steps of the Noble Eightfold Path are in fact right understanding and right thought. We must see the problem and decide to deal with it. Only then is it possible to undertake the actual practice of Dhamma. We begin to implement the path with training in morality, following the precepts to regulate our actions. With the training of concentration we begin to deal with the mind, developing samādhi by awareness of respiration. And by observing sensations throughout the body, we develop experiential wisdom which frees the mind of conditioning. 

And now, when real understanding arises from one’s own experience, again right understanding becomes the first step along the path. By realizing one’s ever-changing nature through the practice of Vipassana, the meditator frees the mind of craving, aversion, and ignorance. With such a pure mind it is impossible to even think of harming others. Instead one’s thoughts are filled only with good will and compassion toward all. In speech, action, and livelihood, one lives a blameless life, serene and peaceful. And with the tranquility resulting from the practice of morality, it becomes easier to develop concentration. And the stronger the concentration, the more penetrating one’s wisdom will be. Thus the path is an ascending spiral leading to liberation. Each of the three trainings supports the others, like the three legs of a tripod. The legs must all be present and of equal length or the tripod cannot stand. Similarly, the meditator must practise sīla, samādhi, and paññā together to develop equally all facets of the path. The Buddha said,

From right understanding proceeds right thought; from right thought proceeds right speech; from right speech proceeds right action;

from right action proceeds right livelihood; from right livelihood proceeds right effort; from right effort proceeds right awareness;

from right awareness proceeds right concentration; from right concentration proceeds right wisdom; from right wisdom proceeds right liberation.5

Vipassana meditation also has profound practical value here and now. In daily life innumerable situations arise that threaten the equanimity of the mind. Unexpected difficulties occur; unexpectedly others oppose us. After all, simply learning Vipassana is not a guarantee that we shall have no further problems, any more than learning to pilot a ship means that one will have only smooth voyages. Storms are bound to come; problems are bound to arise. Trying to escape from them is futile and self-defeating. Instead, the proper course is to use whatever training one has to ride out the storm.

In order to do so, first we must understand the true nature of the problem. Ignorance leads us to blame the external event or person, to regard that as the source of the difficulty, and to direct all our energy toward changing the external situation. But practice of Vipassana will bring the realization that no one but ourselves is responsible for our happiness or unhappiness. The problem lies in the habit of blind reaction. Therefore we ought to give attention to the inner storm of conditioned reactions of the mind. Simply resolving not to react will not work. So long as conditioning remains in the unconscious, sooner or later it is bound to arise and overpower the mind, all resolutions to the contrary notwithstanding. The only real solution is to learn to observe and change ourselves.

This much is easy enough to understand, but to implement it is more difficult. The question remains, how is one to observe oneself? A negative reaction has started in the mind—anger, fear, or hatred. Before one can remember to observe it, one is overwhelmed by it and speaks or acts negatively in turn. Later, after the damage is done, one recognizes the mistake and repents, but the next time repeats the same behavior.

Or, suppose that—realizing a reaction of anger has started—one actually tries to observe it. As soon as he tries, the person or situation one is angry at comes to mind. Dwelling on this intensifies the anger. Thus to observe emotion dissociated from any cause or circumstance is far beyond the ability of most.

But by investigating the ultimate reality of mind and matter, the Buddha discovered that whenever a reaction arises in the mind, two types of changes occur at the physical level. One of them is readily apparent: the breath becomes slightly rough. The other is more subtle in nature: a biochemical reaction, a sensation, takes place in the body. With proper training a person of average intelligence can easily develop the ability to observe respiration and sensation. This allows us to use changes in the breath and the sensations as warnings, to alert us to a negative reaction long before it can gather dangerous strength. And if we then continue observing respiration and sensation, we easily emerge from the negativity.

Of course the habit of reaction is deeply ingrained and cannot be removed all at once. However, in daily life, as we perfect our practice of Vipassana meditation, we notice at least a few occasions when instead of reacting involuntarily, we simply observe ourselves. Gradually the moments of observation increase and the moments of reaction become infrequent. Even if we do react negatively, the period and intensity of the reaction diminish. Eventually, even in the most provocative situations, we are able to observe respiration and sensation and to remain balanced and calm.

With this balance, this equanimity at the deepest level of the mind, one becomes capable for the first time of real action—and real action is always positive and creative. Instead of automatically responding in kind to the negativity of others, for example, we can select the response that is most beneficial. When confronted by someone burning with anger, an ignorant person himself becomes angry, and the result is a quarrel that causes unhappiness for both. But if we remain calm and balanced, we can help that person to emerge from anger and to deal constructively with the problem.

Observing our sensations teaches us that whenever we are overwhelmed by negativity, we suffer. Therefore, whenever we see others reacting negatively, we understand that they are suffering. With this understanding we can feel compassion for them and can act to help them free themselves of misery, not make them more miserable. We remain peaceful and happy and help tthers to be peaceful and happy.

Developing awareness and equanimity does not make us impassive and inert like vegetables, allowing the world to do what it likes with us. Nor do we become indifferent to the suffering of others while remaining absorbed in the pursuit of inner peace. Dhamma teaches us to take responsibility for our own welfare as well as for the welfare of others. We perform whatever actions are needed to help others, but always keeping balance of mind. Seeing a child sinking in quicksand, a foolish person becomes upset, jumps in after the child, and himself is caught. A wise person, remaining calm and balanced, finds a branch with which he can reach the child and drag him to safety. Jumping after others into the quicksand of craving and aversion will not help anyone. We must bring others to the firm ground of mental balance.

Many times in life strong action is necessary. For example, we may have tried to explain in mild, polite language to someone that he is making a mistake, but the person ignores the advice, being unable to understand anything except firm words and actions. Therefore one takes whatever firm action is required. Before acting, however, we must examine ourselves to see whether the mind is balanced, and whether we have only love and compassion for the person who is misbehaving. If so, the action will be helpful; if not, it will not really help anyone. If we act from love and compassion we cannot go wrong.

When we see a strong person attacking a weaker one, we have a responsibility to try to stop this unwholesome action. Any reasonable person will try to do so, although probably out of pity for the victim and anger toward the aggressor. Vipassana meditators will have equal compassion for both, knowing that the victim must be protected from harm, and the aggressor from harming himself by his unwholesome actions.

Examining one’s mind before taking any strong action is extremely important; it is not sufficient merely to justify the action in retrospect. If we ourselves are not experiencing peace and harmony within, we cannot foster peace and harmony in anyone else. As Vipassana meditators we learn to practise committed detachment, to be both compassionate and dispassionate. We work for the good of all by working to develop awareness and equanimity. If we do nothing else but refrain from adding to the sum total of tensions in the world, we have performed a wholesome deed. But in truth the act of equanimity is loud by its very silence, with far-reaching reverberations that are bound to have a positive influence on many.

After all, mental negativity—our own and others’—is the root cause of the sufferings of the world. When the mind has become pure, the infinite range of life opens before us, and we can enjoy and share with others real happiness.

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art Of Living – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và William Hart.

QUESTION: I wonder whether we can treat obsessive thoughts in the same way that we treat physical pain.

N. GOENKA: Just accept the fact that there is obsessive thought or emotion in the mind. It is something that was deeply suppressed and now has appeared at the conscious level. Do not go into the details of it. Just accept emotion as emotion. And along with it, what sensation do you feel? There cannot be an emotion without a sensation at the physical level. Start observing that sensation.

Then do we look for the sensation related to that particular emotion?

Observe any sensation that occurs. You cannot find which sensation is related to the emotion, so never try to do that; it is indulging in a futile effort. At a time when there is emotion in the mind, whatever sensation you experience physically has a relation to that emotion. Just observe the sensations and understand, “these sensations are anicca. This emotion is also anicca. Let me see how long it lasts.” You will find that you have cut the roots of the emotion and it passes away.

Would you say that emotion and sensation are the same?

They are two sides of the same coin. Emotion is mental and sensation is physical, but the two are interrelated. Actually every emotion, anything that arises in the mind, must arise along with a sensation in the body. This is the law of nature.

But emotion itself is a matter of the mind?

A matter of the mind, surely.

But the mind is also the whole body?

It is closely related to the entire body.

Consciousness is in all the atoms of the body?

Yes. That is why sensation related to a particular emotion can arise anywhere within the body. If you observe sensations throughout the body, you are certainly observing the sensation related to that emotion. And you come out of the emotion.

If we are sitting but not able to feel any sensation, is there still any benefit in the practice?

If you sit and observe respiration, it will calm and concentrate the mind, but unless you feel sensation, the process of cleansing cannot work at the deeper levels. In the depths of the mind, reactions start with sensation, which occurs constantly.

During daily life if we have a few moments, is it helpful to be still and observe sensations? 

Yes. Even with open eyes, when you have no other work, you should be aware of the sensations within you.

How does a teacher recognize that a student has experienced nibbāna?

There are various ways to check at the time when someone is actually experiencing nibbāna. For this a teacher must be properly trained.

How can meditators know for themselves? 

By the change that comes in their lives. People who have really experienced nibbāna become saintly and pure-minded. They no longer break the basic five precepts in any major way, and instead of concealing a mistake, they admit it openly and try hard not to repeat it. Clinging to rituals and ceremonies drops away, because they recognize them as only external forms, empty without the actual experience. They have unshakable confidence in the path that led them to liberation; they do not continue to search for other ways. And finally, the illusion of ego will be shattered in them. If people claim to have experienced nibbāna but their minds remain as impure and their actions as unhealthy as before, then something is wrong. Their way of life must show whether they have really experienced it. 

It is not appropriate for a teacher to issue “certificates” to students— to announce that they have attained nibbāna. Otherwise it becomes an ego-building competition for teacher and for students. The students strive only to get a certificate, and the more certificates a teacher issues, the higher is his reputation. The experience of nibbāna becomes secondary, the certificate takes primary importance, and it all becomes a mad game. Pure Dhamma is only to help people and the best help is to see that a student really experiences nibbāna and becomes liberated. The whole purpose of the teacher and the teaching is to help people genuinely, not to boost their egos. It is not a game.

How would you compare psychoanalysis and Vipassana?

In psychoanalysis you try to recall to consciousness past events that had a strong influence in conditioning the mind. Vipassana, on the other hand, will lead the meditator to the deepest level of the mind where conditioning actually begins. Every incident that one might try to recall in psychoanalysis has also registered a sensation at the physical level. By observing physical sensations throughout the body with equanimity, the meditator allows innumerable layers of conditioning to arise and pass away. He deals with the conditioning at its roots and can free himself from it quickly and easily.

What is true compassion?

It is the wish to serve people, to help them out of suffering. But it must be without attachment. If you start crying over the suffering of others, you only make yourself unhappy. This is not the path of Dhamma. If you have true compassion, then with all love you try to help others to the best of your ability. If you fail, you smile and try another way to help. You serve without worrying about the results of your service. This is real compassion, proceeding from a balanced mind.

Would you say that Vipassana is the only way to reach enlightenment? 

Enlightenment is achieved by examining oneself and eliminating conditioning. And doing this is Vipassana, no matter what name you may call it. Some people have never even heard of Vipassana, and yet the process has started to work spontaneously in them. This seems to have happened in the case of a number of saintly people in India, judging from their own words. But because they did not learn the process step by step, they were unable to explain it clearly to others. Here you have the opportunity to learn a step-by-step method that will lead you to enlightenment.

You call Vipassana a universal art of living, but won’t it confuse people of other religions who practise it?

Vipassana is not a religion in disguise that is in competition with other religions. Meditators are not asked to subscribe blindly to a philosophical doctrine; instead they are told to accept only what they experience to be true. It is not the theory but the practice that is most important, and that means moral conduct, concentration and purifying insight. What religion could object to that? How could it confuse anyone? Give importance to the practice, and you will find that such doubts are automatically resolved.

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art Of Living – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và William Hart.

A mother sent her son with an empty bottle and a ten-rupee note to buy some oil from the nearby grocer’s shop. The boy went and had the bottle filled, but as he was returning he fell down and dropped it. Before he could pick it up, half of the oil spilled out. Finding the bottle half empty, he came back to his mother crying, “Oh, I lost half the oil! I lost half the oil!” He was very unhappy.

The mother sent another son with another bottle and another ten-rupee note. He also had the bottle filled, and while returning fell down and dropped it. Again half of the oil spilled out. Picking up the bottle, he came back to his mother very happy: “Oh look, I saved half the oil! The bottle fell down and could have broken. The oil started spilling out; all of it might have been lost. But I saved half the oil!” Both came to the mother in the same position, with a bottle that was half empty, half full. One was crying for the empty half, one was happy with the filled part.

Then the mother sent another son with another bottle and a ten-rupee note. He also fell down while returning and dropped the bottle. Half of the oil spilled out. He picked up the bottle and, like the second boy, came to his mother very happy: “Mother, I saved half the oil!” But this boy was a Vipassana boy, full not only of optimism, but also of realism. He understood, “Well, half of the oil was saved, but half was also lost.” And so he said to his mother, “Now I shall go to the market, work hard for the whole day, earn five rupees, and get this bottle filled. By evening I will have it filled.” This is Vipassana. No pessimism; instead, optimism, realism, and “workism”!

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art Of Living – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và William Hart.

“Whatever has the nature of arising also has the nature of cessation.”1 The experience of this reality is the essence of the teaching of the Buddha. Mind and body are merely a bundle of processes that are constantly arising and passing away. Our suffering arises when we develop attachment to the processes, to what is in fact ephemeral and insubstantial. If we can realize directly the impermanent nature of these processes, our attachment to them passes away. This is the task that meditators undertake: to understand their own transient natures by observing the ever-changing sensations within. Whenever a sensation occurs they do not react, but allow it to arise and to pass away. By doing so they allow the old conditioning of the mind to come to the surface and pass away. When conditioning and attachment cease, suffering ceases, and we experience liberation. It is a long task requiring continual application. Benefits appear at every step along the way, but to attain them requires repeated effort. Only by working patiently, persistently, and continuously can the meditator advance toward the goal.

Penetration to Ultimate Truth

There are three stages in one’s progress on the path. The first is simply learning about the technique, how it is done and why. The second is putting it into practice. The third is penetration, using the technique in order to pierce to the depths of one’s reality and thereby to progress toward the final goal.

The Buddha did not deny the existence of the apparent world of shapes and forms, colours, tastes, smells, pains and pleasures, thoughts and emotions, of beings—oneself and others. He stated merely that this is not the ultimate reality. With ordinary vision, we perceive only the large-scale patterns into which more subtle phenomena organize themselves. Seeing only the patterns and not the underlying components, we are aware primarily of their differences, and therefore we draw distinctions, assign labels, form preferences and prejudices, and commence liking and disliking—the process that develops into craving and aversion.

In order to emerge from the habit of craving and aversion, it is necessary not only to have an overall vision, but to see things in depth, to perceive the underlying phenomena that compose apparent reality. This is precisely what the practice of Vipassana meditation allows us to do.

Any self-examination naturally begins with the most obvious aspects of ourselves: the different parts of the body, the various limbs and organs. Closer inspection will reveal that some parts of the body are solid, others are liquid, others are in motion or at rest. Perhaps we perceive the bodily temperature as distinct from the temperature of the surrounding atmosphere. All these observations may help to develop greater self-awareness, but they are still the result of examining apparent reality in a composed shape or form. Therefore distinctions persist, preferences and prejudices, craving and aversion.

As meditators we go further by practising awareness of sensations within. These certainly reveal a subtler reality of which we were previously ignorant. At first we are aware of different types of sensations in different parts of the body, sensations that seem to arise, to remain for some time, and eventually to pass away. Although we have advanced beyond the superficial level, we are still observing the integrated patterns of apparent reality. For this reason we are not yet free from discriminations, from craving and aversion.

If we continue practising diligently, sooner or later we arrive at a stage where the nature of the sensations changes. Now we are aware of a uniform type of subtle sensations throughout the body, arising and passing away with great rapidity. We have penetrated beyond the integrated patterns to perceive the underlying phenomena of which they are composed, the subatomic particles of which all matter is constituted. We experience directly the ephemeral nature of these particles, continually arising and vanishing. Now whatever we observe within, whether blood or bone, solid, liquid, or gaseous, whether ugly or beautiful, we perceive only as a mass of vibrations that cannot be differentiated. At last the process of drawing distinctions and assigning labels ceases. We have experienced within the framework of our own bodies the ultimate truth about matter: that it is constantly in flux, arising and passing away.

Similarly, the apparent reality of mental processes may be penetrated to a subtler level. For example, a moment of liking or disliking occurs, based on one’s past conditioning. Next moment the mind repeats the reaction of liking or disliking, and reinforces it moment after moment until it develops into craving or aversion. We are aware only of the intensified reaction. With this superficial perception we begin to identify and discriminate between pleasant and unpleasant, good and bad, wanted and unwanted. But just as in the case of apparent material reality, so with intensified emotion: when we start to observe it by observing sensations within, it is bound to dissolve. As matter is nothing but subtle wavelets of subatomic particles, so strong emotion is merely the consolidated form of momentary likings and dislikings, momentary reactions to sensations. Once strong emotion dissolves into its subtler form, it no longer has any power to overwhelm.

From observing different consolidated sensations in different parts of the body, we proceed to awareness of subtler sensations of uniform nature, arising and vanishing constantly throughout the physical structure. Because of the great rapidity with which the sensations appear and disappear, they may be experienced as a flow of vibrations, a current moving through the body. Wherever we fix the attention within the physical structure, we are aware of nothing but arising and vanishing. Whenever a thought appears in the mind, we are aware of the accompanying physical sensations, arising and passing away. The apparent solidity of body and mind dissolves, and we experience the ultimate reality of matter, mind, and mental formations: nothing but vibrations, oscillations, arising and vanishing with great rapidity. As one who experienced this truth said,

The entire world is ablaze,

the entire world is going up in smoke.

The entire world is burning

the entire world is vibrating.

To reach this stage of dissolution (bhaṅga), the meditator need do nothing but develop awareness and equanimity. Just as a scientist can observe more minute phenomena by increasing the magnification of his microscope, so by developing awareness and equanimity one increases the ability to observe subtler realities within.

This experience, when it occurs, is certainly very pleasant. All the aches and pains have dissolved, all the areas without sensation have disappeared. One feels peaceful, happy, blissful. The Buddha described it as follows:

Whenever one experiences

the arising and passing away of the mental-physical processes, he enjoys bliss and delight.

He attains the deathless, as realized by the wise.3

Bliss is bound to arise as one advances on the path, when the apparent solidity of mind and body has been dissolved. Delighting in the pleasant situation, we may think that it is the final goal. But it is only a way-station. From this point we proceed further to experience the ultimate truth beyond mind and matter, to attain total freedom from suffering.

The meaning of these words of the Buddha becomes very clear to us from our own practice in meditation. Penetrating from apparent to subtle reality, we begin to enjoy the flow of vibrations throughout the body. Then suddenly the flow is gone. Again we experience intense, unpleasant sensations in some parts, and perhaps no sensation in other parts. Again we experience intense emotion in the mind. If we start feeling aversion toward this new situation and craving for the flow to return, we have not understood Vipassana. We have turned it into a game in which the goal is to achieve pleasant experiences and to avoid or overcome unpleasant ones. This is the same game that we have played throughout life—the unending round of push and pull, of attraction and repulsion, which leads to nothing but misery.

As wisdom increases, however, we recognize that the recurrence of gross sensations, even after the experience of dissolution, indicates not regression but rather progress. We practise Vipassana not with the aim of experiencing any particular kind of sensation, but in order to free the mind of all conditioning. If we react to any sensation, we increase our suffering. If we remain balanced, we allow some of the conditioning to pass away and the sensation becomes a means to liberate us from suffering. By observing unpleasant sensations without reacting, we eradicate aversion. By observing pleasant sensations without reacting, we eradicate craving. By observing neutral sensations without reacting, we eradicate ignorance. Therefore no sensation, no experience is intrinsically good or bad. It is good if one remains balanced; it is bad if one loses equanimity.

With this understanding we use every sensation as a tool to eradicate conditioning. This is the stage known as saṅkhāra-upekkhā, equanimity toward all conditioning, which leads step by step to the ultimate truth of liberation, nibbāna.

The Experience of Liberation

Liberation is possible. One can attain freedom from all conditioning, all suffering. The Buddha explained:

There is a sphere of experience that is beyond the entire field of matter, the entire field of mind, that is neither this world nor another world nor both, neither moon nor sun. This I call neither arising, nor passing away, nor abiding, neither dying nor rebirth. It is without support, without development, without foundation. This is the end of suffering.4

He also said

There is an unborn, unbecome, uncreated, unconditioned. Were there not an unborn, unbecome, uncreated, unconditioned, no release would be known from the born, the become, the created, the conditioned. But since there is an unborn, unbecome, uncreated, unconditioned, therefore a release is known from the born, the become, the created, the conditioned.5

Nibbāna is not just a state one goes to after death; it is something to be experienced within oneself here and now. It is described in negative terms not because it is a negative experience but because we have no other way in which to describe it. Every language has words to deal with the entire range of physical and mental phenomena, but there are no words or concepts to describe something that is beyond mind and matter. It defies all categories, all distinctions. We can describe it only by saying what it is not.

In fact it is meaningless to try to describe nibbāna. Any description will only be confusing. Rather than discussing and arguing about it, the important thing is to experience it. “This noble truth of the cessation of suffering must be realized for oneself,” the Buddha said.6 When one has experienced nibbāna, only then is it real for him; then all arguments about it become irrelevant.

In order to experience the ultimate truth of liberation, it is necessary first to penetrate beyond apparent reality and to experience the dissolution of body and mind. The further one penetrates beyond apparent reality, the more one desists from craving and aversion, from attachments, and the nearer one approaches to ultimate truth. Working step by step, one naturally reaches a stage where the next step is the experience of nibbāna. There is no point in yearning for it, no reason to doubt that it will come. It must come to all who practise Dhamma correctly. When it will come, no one can say. This depends partly on the accumulation of conditioning within each person, partly on the amount of effort one expends to eradicate it. All one can do, all one need to do to attain the goal, is to continue observing each sensation without reacting.

We cannot determine when we shall experience the ultimate truth of nibbāna, but we can ensure that we keep progressing toward it. We can control the present state of mind. By maintaining equanimity no matter what occurs outside or within us, we achieve liberation in this moment. One who had attained the ultimate goal said, “Extinction of craving, extinction of aversion, extinction of ignorance—this is called nibbāna.”7 To the extent that the mind is freed of these, one experiences liberation.

Every moment in which we practise Vipassana properly, we can experience this liberation. After all, Dhamma by definition must give results here and now, not only in the future. We must experience its benefits at every step along the way, and every step must lead directly to the goal. The mind that at this moment is free from conditioning is a mind at peace. Each such moment brings us closer to total liberation.

We cannot strive to develop nibbāna, since nibbāna does not develop; it simply is. But we can strive to develop the quality that will lead us to nibbāna, the quality of equanimity. Every moment that we observe reality without reacting, we penetrate toward ultimate truth. The highest quality of the mind is equanimity based on full awareness of reality.

Real Happiness

Once the Buddha was asked to explain real happiness. He enumerated various wholesome actions which are productive of happiness, which are real blessings. All these blessings fall into two categories: performing actions that contribute to the welfare of others by fulfilling responsibilities to family and society, and performing actions that cleanse the mind. One’s own good is inextricable from the good of others. And at last he said,

When faced with all the ups and downs of life, still the mind remains unshaken,

not lamenting, not generating defilements, always feeling secure; this is the greatest happiness.8

No matter what arises, whether within the microcosm of one’s own mind and body or in the world outside, one is able to face it— not with tension, with barely suppressed craving and aversion—but with complete ease, with a smile that comes from the depths of the mind. In every situation, pleasant or unpleasant, wanted or unwanted, one has no anxiety, one feels totally secure, secure in the understanding of impermanence. This is the greatest blessing.

Knowing that you are your own master, that nothing can over-power you, that you can accept smilingly whatever life has to offer—this is perfect balance of the mind, this is true liberation. This is what can be attained here and now through the practice of Vipassana meditation. This real equanimity is not merely negative or passive aloofness. It is not the blind acquiescence or apathy of one who seeks escape from the problems of life, who tries to hide his head in the sand. Rather, true mental balance is based on full awareness of problems, awareness of all levels of reality.

The absence of craving or aversion does not imply an attitude of callous indifference, in which one enjoys one’s own liberation but gives no thought to the suffering, of others. On the contrary, real equanimity is properly called “holy indifference.” It is a dynamic quality, an expression of purity of mind. When freed of the habit of blind reaction, the mind for the first time can take positive action which is creative, productive, and beneficial for oneself and for all others. Along with equanimity will arise the other qualities of a pure mind: good will, love that seeks the benefit of others without expecting anything in return; compassion for others in their failings and sufferings; sympathetic joy in their success and good fortune. These four qualities are the inevitable outcome of the practice of Vipassana

Previously one always tried to keep whatever was good for oneself and pass anything unwanted on to others. Now one understands that one’s own happiness cannot be achieved at the expense of others, that giving happiness to others brings happiness to oneself. Therefore one seeks to share whatever good one has with others. Having emerged from suffering and experienced the peace of liberation, one realizes that this is the greatest good. Thus one wishes that others may also experience this good, and find the way out of their suffering.

This is the logical conclusion of Vipassana meditation: mettā-bhāvanā, the development of good will toward others. Previously one may have paid lip service to such sentiments, but deep within the mind the old process of craving and aversion continued. Now to some extent the process of reaction has stopped, the old habit of egoism is gone, and good will naturally flows from the depths of the mind. With the entire force of a pure mind behind it, this good will can be very powerful in creating a peaceful and harmonious atmosphere for the benefit of all.

There are those who imagine that always remaining balanced means that one can no longer enjoy life in all its variety, as if a painter had a palette full of colours and chose to use nothing but gray, or as if one had a piano and chose to play nothing but middle C. This is a wrong understanding of equanimity. The fact is that the piano is out of tune and we do not know how to play it. Simply pounding the keys in the name of self-expression will only create discord. But if we learn how to tune the instrument and to play it properly, then we can make music. From the lowest to the highest note we use the full range of the keyboard, and every note that we play creates nothing but harmony, beauty.

The Buddha said that in cleansing the mind and attaining “wisdom brought to full perfection,” one experiences “joy, bliss tranquility, awareness, full understanding, real happiness.”9 With a balanced mind we can enjoy life more. When a pleasant situation occurs, we can savour it completely, having full and undistracted awareness of the present moment. But when the experience passes, we do not become distressed. We continue to smile, understanding that it was bound to change. Equally, when an unpleasant situation occurs, we do not become upset. Instead we understand it and by doing so perhaps we find a way to alter it. If that is not within our power, then we still remain peaceful, knowing full well that this experience is impermanent, bound to pass away. In this way, by keeping the mind free of tension, we can have a more enjoyable and productive life.

There is a story that in Burma people used to criticize the students of Sayagyi U Ba Khin, saying that they lacked the serious demeanor proper to those who practise Vipassana meditation. During a course, the critics admitted, they worked seriously, as they should, but afterward they always appeared happy and smiling. When the criticism came to the ears of Webu Sayadaw, one of the most highly respected monks in the country, he replied, “They smile because they can smile.” Theirs was a smile not of attachment or ignorance, but of Dhamma. Someone who has cleansed the mind will not go about with a frown. When suffering is removed, naturally one smiles. When one learns the way to liberation, naturally one feels happy.

This smile from the heart expressing nothing but peace, equanimity and good will, a smile that remains bright in every situation, is real happiness. This is the goal of Dhamma.

]]> https://thienvipassana.net/nothing-but-seeing-the-art-of-living/ Tue, 05 May 2020 03:36:31 +0000 https://thienvipassana.net/?p=3446 Nothing But Seeing

There lived a recluse near where Bombay now stands, a very saintly man. All who met him revered him for his purity of mind, and many claimed that he must be fully liberated. Hearing himself described in such high terms, naturally this man began to wonder, “Perhaps I am in fact fully liberated.” But being an honest person, he examined himself carefully and found that there were still traces of impurities in his mind. Surely as long as impurities remained, he could not have reached the stage of perfect saintliness. So he asked those who came to pay respects to him, “Is there not anyone else in the world today who is known to be fully liberated?”

“Oh yes sir,” they replied, “there is the monk Gotama, called the Buddha, who lives in the city of Sāvatthī. He is known to be fully liberated, and he teaches the technique by which one can achieve liberation.”

“I must go to this man,” the recluse resolved. “I must learn from him the way to become fully liberated.” So he started walking from Bombay across all of central India and came at last to Sāvatthī, which is in the modern-day state of Uttar Pradesh, in northern India. Having arrived in Sāvatthī he made his way to the meditation center of the Buddha, and asked where he might find him.

“He has gone out,” one of the monks replied. “He has gone to beg for his meal in the city. Wait here and rest from your journey; he will return shortly.”

“Oh no, I cannot wait. I have no time to wait! Show me which way he has gone and I shall follow.”

“Well if you insist, there is the road he took. If you like, you can try to find him along the way.” Without wasting a moment the recluse set off again, and came to the centre of the city. There he saw a monk going from house to house to beg for his food. The wonderful atmosphere of peace and harmony which surrounded this person convinced the recluse that he must be the Buddha, and asking a passer-by he found that it was indeed so.

There in the middle of the street, the recluse approached the Buddha, bowed down, and caught hold of his feet. “Sir,” he said, “I am told that you are fully liberated, and that you teach a way to achieve liberation. Please teach this technique to me.”

The Buddha said, “Yes, I teach such a technique, and I can teach it to you. But this is not the proper time or place. Go and wait for me at my meditation center. I’ll soon return and teach you the technique.”

“Oh no sir, I cannot wait.”

“What, not for half an hour?”

“No sir, I cannot wait! Who knows? In half an hour I may die. In half an hour you may die. In half an hour all the confidence I have in you may die, and then I shan’t be able to learn this technique. Now, sir, is the time. Please teach me now!”

The Buddha looked at him and saw, “Yes, this man has little time left; he will die in just a few minutes. He must be given Dhamma here and now.” And how to teach Dhamma while standing in the middle of the street? He spoke only a few words, but those words contained the entire teaching: “In your seeing, there should be only seeing; in your hearing nothing but hearing; in your smelling, tasting, touching nothing but smelling, tasting, touching; in your cognizing, nothing but cognizing.” When contact occurs through any of the six bases of sensory experience, there should be no valuation, no conditioned perception. Once perception starts evaluating any experience as good or bad, one sees the world in a distorted way because of one’s old blind reactions. In order to free the mind from all conditioning, one must learn to stop evaluating on the basis of past reactions and to be aware, without evaluating and without reacting.

The recluse was a man of such pure mind that these few words of guidance were enough for him. There by the side of the road, he sat down and fixed his attention on the reality within. No valuation, no reaction; he simply observed the process of change within himself. And within the few minutes left to him to live, he attained the final goal, he became fully liberated.4

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art Of Living – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và William Hart.

QUESTION: This afternoon I tried a new position in which it was easy to sit for longer without moving, keeping my back straight, but I could not feel many sensations. I wonder, will the sensations eventually come, or should I go back to the old position?

N. GOENKA: Do not try to create sensations by deliberately choosing an uncomfortable position. If that were the proper way to practise, we would ask you to sit on a bed of nails! Such extremes will not help. Choose a comfortable position in which the body is upright, and let the sensations come naturally. Don’t try to create them by force; just allow them to happen. They will come, because they are there. It may be that you were looking for sensations of the type you felt before, but there might be something else.

There were subtler sensations than before. In my first position it was hard to sit more than a short time without moving.

Then it is good that you have found a more suitable position. Now leave the sensations to nature. Perhaps some gross sensations have passed away and now you must deal with subtler ones, but the mind is not yet sharp enough to feel them. To make it sharper, work on the awareness of respiration for some time. This will improve your concentration and make it easy to feel subtle sensations.

I thought it was better if the sensations were gross, because that meant an old saṅkhāra was coming up.

Not necessarily. Certain impurities appear as very subtle sensations. Why crave for gross sensations? Whatever comes, gross or subtle, your job is to observe.

Should we try to identify which sensation is associated with which reaction?

That would be a meaningless waste of energy. It would be as if someone washing a dirty cloth stopped to check what caused each stain in the cloth. This would not help him to do his job, which is only to clean the cloth. For this purpose the important thing is to have a piece of laundry soap and to use it in the proper way. If one washes the cloth properly, all the dirt is removed. In the same way you have received the soap of Vipassana; now make use of it to remove all impurities from the mind. If you search for the causes of particular sensations, you are playing an intellectual game and you forget about anicca, about anattā. This intellectualizing cannot help you come out of suffering.

I am confused about who is observing and who or what is being observed.

No intellectual answer can satisfy you. You must investigate for yourself: “What is this ‘I’ who is doing all this? Who is this ‘I’?” Keep on exploring, analyzing. See whether any ‘I’ comes up; if so,  observe it. If nothing comes then accept, “Oh, this “I” is an illusion!”

Aren’t some types of mental conditioning positive? Why try to eradicate those?

Positive conditioning motivates us to work toward liberation from suffering. But when that goal is attained, all conditioning is left behind, positive and negative. It is just like using a raft to cross a river. Once the river is crossed, one does not continue on one’s journey carrying the raft on one’s head. The raft has served its purpose. Now there is no more need for it, and it must be left behind.3 In the same way, one who is fully liberated has no need of conditioning. A person is liberated not because of positive conditioning, but because of purity of mind.

Why do we experience unpleasant sensations when we start practising Vipassana, and why do pleasant sensations come later?

Vipassana works by eradicating the grossest impurities first. When you clean a floor, first you sweep together all the rubbish and pieces of dirt, and with each succeeding sweeping you gather finer and finer dust. So in the practice of Vipassana: First the gross impurities of the mind are eradicated and subtler ones remain which appear as pleasant sensations. But there is a danger of developing craving for these pleasant sensations. Therefore you must be careful not to take a pleasant sensory experience as the final goal. You must keep observing every sensation objectively in order to eradicate all conditioned reactions.

You said that we have our dirty linen, and we also have the soap to wash it. I feel today as if I almost ran out of soap! This morning my practice was very powerful, but in the afternoon I began to feel really hopeless and angry, and to think, “Oh, what’s the use!” It was just as if when the meditation was strong, an enemy inside me— the ego perhaps—matched that strength and knocked me out. And then I felt I did not have the strength to fight it. Is there some way to sidestep so that I don’t have to fight so hard, some clever way to do it? 

Maintain equanimity; that is the smartest way! What you have experienced is quite natural. When the meditation seemed to you to be going well, the mind was balanced, and it penetrated deeply into the unconscious. As a result of that deep operation, a past reaction was shaken and came to the surface level of the mind, and in the next sitting you had to face that storm of negativity. In such a situation equanimity is essential, because otherwise the negativity will overpower you, and you cannot work. If equanimity seems weak, start practising the awareness of respiration. When a big storm comes, you have to put down your anchor and wait until it passes away. The breath is your anchor. Work with it and the storm will pass. It is good that this negativity has come to the surface, because now you have the opportunity to clear it out. If you keep equanimity it will pass away easily.

Am I actually getting that much good out of the practice if I don’t have pain?

If you are aware and balanced, then—pain or no pain—you are certainly progressing. It is not that you must feel pain in order to make progress on the path. If there is no pain, accept that there is no pain. You just observe what is.

Yesterday I had an experience in which my entire body felt as if it had dissolved. It felt like it was just a mass of vibrations everywhere. 

Yes?

And when this happened, I remembered that when I was a child I had a similar experience. All these years I have been looking for a way to come back to that experience. And then there it was again 

Yes? 

So naturally I wanted the experience to continue, I wanted to prolong it. But it changed and passed away. And then I was working just to make it come back again, but it didn’t come back. Instead, by this morning I had only gross sensations. 

Yes? 

And then I realized how unhappy I was making myself by trying to get that experience. 

Yes? 

And then I realized that in fact we aren’t here to get any particular experience. Right?

Right.

That in fact we are here to learn to observe every experience without reacting. Right? 

Right.

So what this meditation is really about is developing equanimity. Right?

Right!

It seems to me that it would take forever to eliminate all past saṅkhāras one by one.

That would be so if one moment of equanimity meant exactly one less saṅkhāra of the past. But in fact awareness of sensations takes you to the deepest level of the mind and allows you to cut the roots of past conditioning. In this way in a relatively short time you can eliminate entire complexes of saṅkhāras provided your awareness and equanimity are strong.

Then how long should the process take?

That depends on how great a stock of saṅkhāras you have to eliminate, and how strong your meditation is. You cannot measure the past stock but you can be sure that the more seriously you meditate, the more quickly you are approaching liberation. Keep working steadfastly toward that goal. The time is bound to come— sooner rather that later—when you will reach it.

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art Of Living – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và William Hart.

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art Of Living – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và William Hart.

Awareness and equanimity—this is Vipassana meditation. When practised together, they lead to liberation from suffering. If either is weak or lacking, it is not possible to progress on the path toward that goal. Both are essential, just as a bird requires two wings to fly or a cart needs two wheels to move. And they must be equally strong. If one wing of a bird is weak and the other powerful, it cannot fly properly. If one wheel of a cart is small and the other large, it will keep going around in circles. The meditator must develop both awareness and equanimity together in order to advance along the path.

We must become aware of the totality of mind and matter in their subtlest nature. For this purpose it is not enough merely to be mindful of superficial aspects of body and mind, such as physical movements or thoughts. We must develop awareness of sensations throughout the body and maintain equanimity toward them.

If we are aware but lack equanimity, then the more conscious we become of the sensations within and the more sensitive we become to them, the more likely we are to react, thereby increasing suffering. On the other hand, if we have equanimity, but know nothing about the sensations within, then this equanimity is only superficial, concealing reactions that are constantly going on unknown in the depths of the mind. Thus we seek to develop both awareness and equanimity at the deepest level. We seek to be conscious of everything that happen within and at the same time not to react to it, understanding that it will change.

This is true wisdom: the understanding of one’s own nature, an understanding achieved by direct experience of truth deep within oneself. This is what the Buddha called yathā-bhūta-ñāna-dassana, the wisdom that arises on observing reality as it is. With this wisdom one can emerge from suffering. Every sensation that occurs will give rise only to the understanding of impermanence. All reactions cease, all saṅkhāras of craving and aversion. By learning how to observe reality objectively, one stops creating suffering for oneself.

The Stock of Past Reactions

Remaining aware and balanced is the way to stop producing new reactions, new sources of misery. But there is another dimension to our suffering which must also be dealt with. By ceasing to react from this moment forward, we may create no further cause of misery, but each one of us has a stock of conditioning, the sum total of our past reactions. Even if we add nothing new to the stock, the accumulated old saṅkhāras will still cause us suffering.

The word saṅkhāra may be translated as “formation,” both the act of forming and that which is formed. Every reaction is the last step, the result in a sequence of mental processes, but it can also be the first step, the cause in a new mental sequence. Every saṅkhāra is both conditioned by the processes leading to it and also conditions the processes that follow.

The conditioning operates by influencing the second of the mental functions, perception (discussed in Chapter Two). Consciousness is basically undifferentiating, non-discriminating. Its purpose is merely to register that contact has occurred in mind or body. Perception, however, is discriminative. It draws on the store of past experiences in order to evaluate and categorize any new phenomenon. The past reactions become the points of reference by which we seek to understand a new experience; we judge and classify it in accordance with our past saṅkhāras.

In this way the old reactions of craving and aversion influence our perception of the present. Instead of seeing reality, we see “as through a glass darkly.” Our perception of the world outside and of the world within is distorted and blurred by our past conditioning, our preferences and prejudices. In accordance with the distorted perception, an essentially neutral sensation immediately becomes pleasant or unpleasant. To this sensation we again react, creating fresh conditioning which distorts our perceptions further. In this way each reaction becomes the cause of future reactions, all conditioned by the past and conditioning the future in turn.

The dual function of saṅkhāra is shown in the Chain of Conditioned Arising (see pp. 48 & 49). The second link in the chain is saṅkhāra, which is the immediate precondition for the arising of consciousness, the first of the four mental processes. However, saṅkhāra is also last in the series of processes, following consciousness, perception, and sensation. In this form it reappears, later in the chain, after sensation, as the reaction of craving and aversion. Craving or aversion develop into attachment, which becomes the impetus for a new phase of mental and physical activity. Thus the process feeds on itself. Every saṅkhāra unleashes a chain of events that result in a new saṅkhāra, which unleashes a fresh chain of events in an endless repetition, a vicious circle. Every time that we react, we reinforce the mental habit of reaction. Every time that we develop craving or aversion, we strengthen the tendency of the mind to continue generating them. Once the mental pattern is established, we are caught in it

For example, a man prevents someone from attaining a desired object. The thwarted person believes that man is very bad and dislikes him. The belief is based not on a consideration of the man’s character, but only on the fact that he has frustrated the second person’s desires. This belief is deeply impressed in the unconscious mind of the thwarted person. Every subsequent contact with that man is coloured by it and gives rise to unpleasant sensation, which produces fresh aversion, which strengthens further the image. Even if the two meet after an interval of twenty years, the person who was thwarted long ago immediately thinks of that man as very bad and again feels dislike. The character of the first man may have changed totally in twenty years, but the second one judges him using the criterion of past experience. The reaction is not to the man himself, but to a belief about him based on the original blind reaction and therefore biased.

In another case, a man helps someone to achieve a desired object. The person who received assistance believes that man is very good, and likes him. The belief is based only on the fact that the man has helped to satisfy the second person’s desires, not on careful consideration of his character. The positive belief is recorded in the unconscious and colours any subsequent contact with that man, giving rise to pleasant sensation, which results in stronger liking, which further strengthens the belief. No matter how many years pass before the two meet again, the same pattern repeats itself with each fresh contact. The second person reacts not to the man himself, but only to his belief about him, based on the original blind reaction.

In this way a saṅkhāra can give rise to fresh reaction, both immediately and in the distant future. And each subsequent reaction becomes the cause of still further reactions, which are bound to bring nothing but more misery. This is the process of repetition of reactions, of suffering. We assume that we are dealing with external reality when actually we are reacting to our sensations, which are conditioned by our perceptions, which are conditioned by our reactions. Even if from this moment we stop generating new saṅkhāras, still we have to reckon with the accumulated past ones. Because of this old stock, a tendency to react will remain and at any time may assert itself, generating new misery for us. So long as this old conditioning persists, we are not entirely free from suffering.

How can one eradicate the old reactions? To find the answer to this question it is necessary to understand more deeply the process of Vipassana meditation.

Eradicating Old Conditioning

In practising Vipassana, our task is simply to observe sensations throughout the body. The cause of any particular sensation is beyond our concern; it is sufficient to understand that every sensation is an indication of an internal change. The change may be either mental or physical in origin; mind and body function interdependently and often cannot be differentiated. Whatever occurs at one level is likely to be reflected at the other.

At the physical level, as discussed in Chapter Two (pp. 25-26), the body is composed of subatomic particles—kalāpas—which every moment arise and pass away with great rapidity. As they do so, they manifest in an infinite variety of combinations the basic qualities of matter—mass, cohesion, temperature, and movement— producing within us the entire range of sensations.

There are four possible causes for the arising of kalāpas. The first is the food we eat; the second is the environment in which we live. But whatever occurs in the mind has an effect on the body and can be responsible for the arising of kalāpas. Hence particles may also arise because of a mental reaction occurring at the present moment, or because of a past reaction which influences the present mental state. In order to function, the body requires food. If one stops feeding the body, however, it will not collapse at once. It can continue to support itself, if necessary, for weeks by consuming the energy stored in its tissues. When all the stored energy is consumed, at last the body will collapse and die: the physical flow comes to an end.

In the same way the mind requires activity in order to maintain the flow of consciousness. This mental activity is saṅkhāra. According to the chain of conditioned arising, consciousness originates from reaction (see p. 48). Each mental reaction is responsible for giving impetus to the flow of consciousness. And while the body requires food only at intervals throughout the day, the mind requires constant fresh stimulation. Without it, the flow of consciousness cannot continue even for an instant. For example, at a given moment one generates aversion in the mind: in the next moment the consciousness that arises is the product of this aversion, and so on, moment after moment. One keeps repeating the reaction of aversion from one moment to the next, and keeps giving new input to the mind.

By practising Vipassana, however, the meditator learns not to react. At a given moment, he creates no saṅkhāra, he gives no fresh stimulation to the mind. What happens then to the psychic flow? It does not stop at once. Instead, one or another of the accumulated past reactions will come to the surface of the mind in order to sustain the flow. A past conditioned response will arise and from this base consciousness continues for another moment. The conditioning will appear at the physical level by causing a particular type of kalāpa to arise, which one then experiences as sensation within the body. Perhaps a past saṅkhāra of aversion arises, manifesting itself as particles, which one experiences as an unpleasant burning sensation within the body. If one reacts to that sensation with disliking, fresh aversion is created. One has started giving fresh input to the flow of consciousness, and there is no opportunity for another of the stock of past reactions to rise to the conscious level.

However, if an unpleasant sensation occurs and one does not react, then no new saṅkhāras are created. The saṅkhāra that has arisen from the old stock passes away. In the next moment, another past saṅkhāra arises as sensation. Again, if one does not react, it passes away. In this way, by maintaining equanimity, we allow accumulated past reactions to arise at the surface of the mind, one after another, manifesting themselves as sensations. Gradually, by maintaining awareness and equanimity toward sensation, we eradicate the past conditioning.

So long as conditioning of aversion remains, the tendency of the unconscious mind will be to react with aversion when facing any unpleasant experience in life. So long as conditioning of craving remains, the mind will tend to react with craving in any pleasant situation. Vipassana works by eroding these conditioned responses. As we practise, we keep encountering pleasant and unpleasant sensations. By observing every sensation with equanimity, we gradually weaken and destroy the tendencies of craving and aversion. When the conditioned responses of a certain type are eradicated, one is free of that type of suffering. And when all conditioned responses have been eradicated one after another, the mind is totally liberated. One who well understood this process said,

Impermanent truly are conditioned things, having the nature of arising and passing away. If they arise and are extinguished,

their eradication brings true happiness.1

Every saṅkhāra arises and passes away, only in the next moment to arise again in endless repetition. If we develop wisdom and start observing objectively, the repetition stops and eradication begins. Layer after layer, the old saṅkhāras will arise and be eradicated, provided we do not react. As much as the saṅkhāras are eradicated, that much happiness we enjoy, the happiness of freedom from suffering. If all the past saṅkhāras are eradicated, we enjoy the limitless happiness of full liberation.

Vipassana meditation therefore is a kind of fasting of the spirit in order to eliminate past conditioning. Every moment for the whole of our lives we have generated reactions. Now, by remaining aware and balanced, we achieve a few moments in which we do not react, do not generate any saṅkhāra. Those few moments, no matter how brief, are very powerful; they set in motion the reverse process, the process of purification.

To trigger this process, we must literally do nothing; that is, we must simply refrain from any fresh reaction. Whatever might be the cause of the sensations we experience, we observe them with equanimity. The very act of generating awareness and equanimity will automatically eliminate old reactions, just as lighting a lamp will dispel the darkness from a room.

The Buddha once told a story about a man who had made great gifts of charity. But in concluding, the Buddha commented,

Even if he had performed the greatest charity, it would have been still more fruitful for him to take refuge with an accepting heart in the enlightened one, in the Dhamma, and in all saintly persons. And had he done so, it would have been still more fruitful for him to undertake with an accepting heart the five precepts. And had he done so, it would have been still more fruitful for him to cultivate good will toward all just for the time it takes to milk a cow. And had he done all of these, it would have been still more fruitful for him to develop the awareness of impermanence just for the time it takes to snap one’s fingers.2

Perhaps the meditator is aware of the reality of sensations in the body only for a single moment, and does not react because he understands their transient nature. Even this brief moment will have a powerful effect. With patient, repeated, continuous practice, those few moments of equanimity will increase, and the moments of reaction will decrease. Gradually the mental habit of reacting will be broken and the old conditioning eradicated, until the time comes when the mind is freed of all reactions, past and present, liberated from all suffering.

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art Of Living – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và William Hart.

A rich old man died leaving two sons. For some time the two continued living together in the traditional Indian way, in a single joint household, a joint family. Then they quarrelled and decided to separate, dividing all the property between them. Everything was divided fifty-fifty, and thus they settled their affairs. But after the settlement had been made, a small packet was discovered which had been carefully hidden by their father. They opened the packet and found two rings inside, one set with a valuable diamond, and the other an ordinary silver ring worth only a few rupees.

Seeing the diamond, the elder brother developed greed in his mind, and he started explaining to the younger one, “To me it appears that this ring is not the earning of our father, but rather an heirloom from his forefathers. That is why he kept it separate from his other possessions. And since it has been kept for generations in our family, it should remain for future generations. Therefore I, being elder, shall keep it. You had better take the silver ring.”

The younger brother smiled and said, “All right, be happy with the diamond ring, I’ll be happy with the silver one.” Both of them placed their rings on their fingers and went their ways.

The younger brother thought to himself. “It is easily understandable that my father kept the diamond ring; it is so valuable. But why did be keep this ordinary silver ring?” He examined the ring closely and found some words engraved on it: “This will also change.” “Oh, this is the mantra of my father: ‘This will also change!’ ” He replaced the ring on his finger.

Both brothers faced all the ups and downs of life. When spring came, the elder brother became highly elated, losing the balance of his mind. When autumn or winter came, he fell into deep depression, again losing his mental balance. He became tense, developing hypertension. Unable to sleep at night, he started using sleeping pills, tranquilizers, stronger drugs. Finally, he reached the stage where he required electric shock treatments. This was the brother with the diamond ring.

As for the younger brother with the silver ring, when spring came, he enjoyed it; he didn’t try to run away from it. He enjoyed it, but looked at his ring and remembered, “This will also change.” And when it changed, he could smile and say, “Well, I knew it was going to change. It has changed, so what!” When autumn or winter came, again he looked at his ring and remembered, “This will also change.” He didn’t start crying, knowing that this would also change. And yes, it also changed, it passed away. Of all the ups and downs, all the vicissitudes of life, he knew that nothing is eternal, that everything comes just to pass away. He did not lose the balance of his mind and he lived a peaceful, happy life.

This was the brother with the silver ring.

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art Of Living – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và William Hart.

QUESTION: Why must we move our attention through the body in a certain order?

N. GOENKA: Because you are working to explore the entire reality of mind and matter. To do this you must develop the ability to feel what is happening in every part of the body; no part should remain blank. And you must also develop the ability to observe the entire range of sensations. This is how the Buddha described the practice: “Everywhere within the limits of the body one experiences sensation, wherever there is life within the body.”7 If you allow the attention to move at random from one part to another, one sensation to another, naturally it will always be attracted to the areas in which there are stronger sensations. You will neglect certain parts of the body, and you will not learn how to observe subtler sensations. Your observation will remain partial, incomplete, superficial. Therefore it is essential always to move the attention in order. 

How do we know that we are not creating sensations?

You can give yourself a test. If you are doubtful whether the sensations you feel are real, you can give yourself two or three commands, auto-suggestions. If you find that the sensations change according to your commands, then you know that they are not real. In that case you must throw away the entire experience and start again, observing respiration for some time. But if you find that you cannot control the sensations, that they do not change according to your will, then you must throw away the doubt and accept that the experience is real.

If these sensations are real, why don’t we feel them in ordinary life?

You do, at the unconscious level. The conscious mind is unaware, but every moment the unconscious mind feels sensations in the body and reacts to them. This process happens twenty-four hours a day. But by practising Vipassana, you break the barrier between conscious and unconscious. You become aware of everything that happens within the mental-physical structure, of everything that you experience.

Deliberately allowing ourselves to feel physical pain—this sounds like masochism.

It would be if you were asked just to experience pain. But instead you are asked to observe pain objectively. When you observe without reacting, automatically the mind starts to penetrate beyond the apparent reality of the pain to its subtle nature, which is nothing but vibrations arising and passing away every moment. And when you experience that subtle reality, the pain cannot master you. You are the master of yourself, you are free of the pain.

But surely the pain can be that the blood supply has been cut off in a part of the body. Is it wise to ignore that signal?

Well, we have found that this exercise does not cause harm; if it did, we would not recommend it. Thousands of people have practised this technique. I do not know of a single case where someone who was practising properly injured himself. The common experience is that the body becomes more supple and flexible. The pain goes away when you learn to face it with a balanced mind.

Isn’t it possible to practise Vipassana by observing at any of the six sense doors, for example, by observing the contact of the eye with vision and the ear with sound?

Certainly. But still that observation must involve awareness of sensation. Whenever a contact occurs at any of the six sense bases— eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, mind—a sensation is produced. If you remain unaware of it, you miss the point where reaction begins. In the case of most of the senses, contact may be only intermittent. At times your ears may hear a sound, at times not. However, at the deepest level there is a contact of mind and matter at every moment, continually giving rise to sensations. For this reason, observing sensations is the most accessible and vivid way to experience the fact of impermanence. You should master this before attempting to observe at the other sense doors.

If we should just accept and observe everything as it comes, how does progress come about?

Progress is measured according to whether you develop equanimity. You have no other real choice but equanimity, because you cannot change sensations, you cannot create sensations. Whatever comes, comes. It may be pleasant or unpleasant, of this type or that, but if you maintain equanimity, you are certainly progressing on the path. You are breaking the old mental habit of reaction.

That is in meditation, but how do you relate that to life?

When a problem arises in daily life, take a few moments to observe your sensations with a balanced mind. When the mind is calm and balanced, whatever decision you make will be a good one. When the mind is unbalanced, any decision you make will be a reaction. You must learn to change the pattern of life from negative reaction to positive action.

So if you are not angry or critical, but you see that something could be done differently, in a better way, then you go ahead and express yourself?

Yes. You must act. Life is for action; you should not become inactive. But the action should be performed with a balanced mind.

Today I was working to feel sensation in a part of the body that was dull, and as the sensation came up my mind gave me a kick; it felt just like hitting a home run. And I heard myself mentally yell “Good!” And then I thought, “Oh no, I don’t want to react like that.” But I wonder, back in the world, how can I go to a baseball game or a football game and not react?

You will act! Even in a football game you will act, not react, and you will find that you are really enjoying it. A pleasure accompanied by the tension of reaction is no real pleasure. When the reaction stops, the tension disappears, and you can really start to enjoy life.

So I can jump up and down and yell hooray?

Yes, with equanimity. You jump with equanimity.

What do I do if my team loses?

Then you smile and say “Be happy!” Be happy in every situation!

This seems to me the basic point.

Yes!

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art Of Living – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và William Hart.

Neither sīla nor samādhi is unique to the teaching of the Buddha. Both were well known and practised before his enlightenment; in fact, while searching for the way to liberation, the future Buddha was trained in samādhi by two teachers with whom he studied. In prescribing these trainings the Buddha did not differ from the teachers of conventional religion. All religions insist on the necessity of moral behavior, and they also offer the possibility of attaining states of bliss, whether by prayer, by rituals, by fasting and other austerities, or by various forms of meditation. The goal of such practices is simply a state of deep mental absorption. This is the “ecstasy” experienced by religious mystics.

Such concentration, even if not developed to the level of the trance states, is very helpful. It calms the mind by diverting attention from the situations in which one would otherwise react with craving and aversion. Counting slowly to ten to prevent an outburst of anger is a rudimentary form of samādhi. Other, perhaps more obvious, forms are repetition of a word or mantra, or concentration on a visual object. They all work: when the attention is diverted to a different object, the mind appears to become calm and peaceful.

The calm achieved in this way, however, is not real liberation. Certainly the practice of concentration confers great benefits, but it works only at the conscious level of the mind. Nearly twenty-five centuries before the invention of modern psychology, the Buddha realized the existence of the unconscious mind, which he called the anusaya. Diverting the attention, he found, is a way to deal effectively with craving and aversion at the conscious level, but it does not actually eliminate them. Instead it pushes them deep into the unconscious, where they remain as dangerous as ever even though dormant. At the surface level of the mind there may be a layer of peace and harmony, but in the depths is a sleeping volcano of suppressed negativity which sooner or later will erupt violently. The Buddha said,

If the roots remain untouched and firm in the ground, a felled tree still puts forth new shoots.

If the underlying habit of craving and aversion is not uprooted, suffering arises anew over and over again.1

So long as conditioning remains in the unconscious mind, it will put forth fresh shoots at the first opportunity, causing suffering. For this reason even after reaching the highest states attainable by the practice of concentration, the future Buddha was not satisfied that he had achieved liberation. He decided that he must continue his search for the way out of suffering and the path to happiness.

He saw two choices. The first is the path of self-indulgence, of giving oneself free license to seek the satisfaction of all one’s desires. This is the worldly path which most people follow, whether they realize it or not. But he saw clearly that it cannot lead to happiness. There is no one in the universe whose desires are always fulfilled, in whose life everything that is wished for happens and nothing happens that is not wished. People who follow this path inevitably suffer when they fail to achieve their desires; that is, they suffer disappointment and dissatisfaction. But they suffer equally when they attain their desires: they suffer from the fear that the desired object will vanish, that the moment of gratification will prove transitory, as in fact it must. In seeking, in attaining, and in missing their desires, such people always remain agitated. The future Buddha had experienced this path himself before leaving worldly life to become a recluse, and therefore he knew that it cannot be the way to peace.

The alternative is the path of self-restraint, of deliberately refraining from satisfying one’s desires. In India 2500 years ago, this path of self-denial was taken to the extreme of avoiding all pleasurable experiences and inflicting on oneself unpleasurable ones.

The rationale for this self-punishment was that it would cure the habit of craving and aversion and thereby purify the mind. The practice of such austerities is a phenomenon of religious life throughout the world. The future Buddha had experienced this path as well in the years following his adoption of the homeless life. He had tried different ascetic practices to the point that his body was reduced to skin and bones, but still he found that he was not liberated. Punishing the body does not purify the mind.

Self-restraint need not to be carried to such an extreme, however. One may practise it in more moderate form by abstaining from gratifying those desires that would involve unwholesome actions. This kind of self-control seems far preferable to self-indulgence since in practising it, one would at least avoid immoral actions. But if self-restraint is achieved only by self-repression, it will increase the mental tensions to a dangerous degree. All the suppressed desires will accumulate like floodwater behind the dam of self-denial. One day the dam is bound to break and release a destructive flood.

So long as conditioning remains in the mind, we cannot be secure or at peace. Sīla, beneficial though it is, cannot be maintained by sheer force of will. Developing samādhi will help, but this is only a partial solution that will not work at the depths of the mind where the roots of the problem lie, the roots of the impurities. So long as these roots remain buried in the unconscious, there can be no real, lasting happiness, no liberation.

But if the roots of conditioning themselves can be removed from the mind, then there will be no danger of indulgence in unwholesome actions, no necessity for self-repression, because the very impulse for performing unwholesome action will be gone, Freed of the tensions either of seeking or denying, one can live at peace.

To remove the roots a method is required with which we can penetrate to the depths of the mind in order to deal with the impurities where they begin. This method is what the Buddha found: the training of wisdom, or paññā, which led him to enlightenment. It is also called vipassanā-bhāvanā, the development of insight into one’s own nature, insight by means of which one may recognize and eliminate the causes of suffering. This was the discovery of the Buddha—what he practised for his own liberation, and what he taught others throughout his life. This is the unique element in his teachings, to which he gave the highest importance. He repeatedly said, “If it is supported by morality, concentration is very fruitful, very beneficial. If it is supported by concentration, wisdom is very fruitful, very beneficial. If it is supported by wisdom, the mind becomes freed of all defilements.”2

In themselves, morality and concentration, sīla and samādhi, are valuable, but their real purpose is to lead to wisdom. It is only in developing paññā that we find a true middle path between the extremes of self-indulgence and self-repression. By practising morality, we avoid actions that cause the grossest forms of mental agitation. By concentrating the mind, we further calm it and at the same time shape it into an effective tool with which to undertake the work of self-examination. But it is only by developing wisdom that we can penetrate into the reality within and free ourselves of all ignorance and attachments.

Two parts of the Noble Eightfold Path are included within the training of wisdom: right thought and right understanding.

Right Thought

It is not necessary for all thoughts to cease in meditation before one begins vipassanā-bhāvanā. Thoughts may still persist, but if awareness is sustained from moment to moment, that is sufficient to start the work.

Thoughts may remain, but the nature of the thought pattern changes. Aversion and craving have been calmed down by awareness of breathing. The mind has become tranquil at least at the conscious level, and has begun to think about Dhamma, about the way to emerge from suffering. The difficulties that arose on initiating awareness of respiration have now passed or at least have been overcome to some extent. One is prepared for the next step, right understanding.

Right Understanding

It is right understanding that is real wisdom. Thinking about truth is not enough. We must realize truth ourselves, we must see things as they really are, not just as they appear to be. Apparent truth is a reality, but one that we must penetrate in order to experience the ultimate reality of ourselves and eliminate suffering.

There are three kinds of wisdom: received wisdom (suta-mayā paññā), intellectual wisdom (cintā-mayā paññā), and experiential wisdom (bhāvanā-mayā paññā). The literal meaning of the phrase suta-mayā paññā is “heard wisdom”—wisdom learned from others, by reading books or listening to sermons or lectures, for example. This is another person’s wisdom which one decides to adopt as one’s own. The acceptance may be out of ignorance. For example, people who have grown up in a community with a certain ideology, a system of beliefs, religious or otherwise, may accept without questioning the ideology of the community. Or the acceptance may be out of craving. Leaders of the community may declare that accepting the established ideology, the traditional beliefs, will guarantee a wonderful future; perhaps they claim that all believers will attain heaven after death. Naturally the bliss of heaven is very attractive, and so willingly one accepts. Or the acceptance may be out of fear. Leaders may see that people have doubts and questions about the ideology of the community, so they warn them to conform to the commonly held beliefs, threatening them with terrible punishment in the future if they do not conform, perhaps claiming that all unbelievers will go to hell after death. Naturally, people do not want to go to hell, so they swallow their doubts and adopt the beliefs of the community.

Whether it is accepted out of blind faith, out of craving, or out of fear, received wisdom is not one’s own wisdom, not something experienced for oneself. It is borrowed wisdom.

The second type of wisdom is intellectual understanding. After reading or hearing a certain teaching, one considers it and examines whether it is really rational, beneficial, and practical. And if it is satisfying at the intellectual level, one accepts it as true. Still this is not one’s own insight, but only an intellectualization of the wisdom one has heard.

The third type of wisdom is that which arises out of one’s own experience, out of personal realization of truth. This is the wisdom that one lives, real wisdom that will bring about a change in one’s life by changing the very nature of the mind.

In worldly matters, experiential wisdom may not always be necessary or advisable. It is sufficient to accept the warnings of others that fire is dangerous, or to confirm the fact by deductive reasoning. It is foolhardy to insist on plunging oneself into fire before accepting that it burns. In Dhamma, however, the wisdom that comes of experience is essential, since only this enables us to become free from conditioning.

Wisdom acquired through listening to others and wisdom acquired through intellectual investigation are helpful if they inspire and guide us to advance to the third type of paññā, experiential wisdom. But if we remain satisfied simply to accept received wisdom without questioning, it becomes a form of bondage, a barrier to the attainment of experiential understanding. By the same token, if we remain content merely to contemplate truth, to investigate and understand it intellectually, but make no effort to experience it directly, then all our intellectual understanding becomes a bondage instead of an aid to liberation.

Each one of us must live truth by direct experience, by the practice of bhāvanā, only this living experience will liberate the mind. No one else’s realization of truth will liberate us. Even the enlightenment of the Buddha could liberate only one person, Siddhattha Gotama. At most, someone else’s realization can act as an inspiration for others, offering guidelines for them to follow, but ultimately we each must do the work ourselves. As the Buddha said,

You have to do your own work;

those who have reached the goal will only show the way.3

Truth can be lived, can be experienced directly, only within oneself. Whatever is outside is always at a distance from us. Only within can we have actual, direct, living experience of reality.

Of the three types of wisdom, the first two are not peculiar to the teaching of the Buddha. Both existed in India before him, and even in his own time there were those who claimed to teach whatever he taught.4 The unique contribution of the Buddha to the world was a way to realize truth personally and thus to develop experiential wisdom, bhāvanā-mayā paññā. This way to achieve direct realization of truth is the technique of vipassanā-bhāvanā.

Vipassanā-bhāvanā

Vipassanā is often described as being a flash of insight, a sudden intuition of truth. The description is correct, but in fact there is a step-by-step method which meditators can use to advance to the point that they are capable of such intuition. This method is Vipassanā-bhāvanā, the development of insight, commonly called Vipassana meditation.

The word passanā means “seeing,” the ordinary sort of vision that we have with open eyes. Vipassanā means a special kind of vision: observation of the reality within oneself. This is achieved by taking as the object of attention one’s own physical sensations. The technique is the systematic and dispassionate observation of sensations within oneself. This observation unfolds the entire reality of mind and body.

Why sensation? First because it is by sensations that we experience reality directly. Unless something comes into contact with the five physical senses or the mind, it does not exist for us. These are the gates through which we encounter the world, the bases for all experience. And whenever anything comes into contact with the six sensory bases, a sensation occurs. The Buddha described the process as follows: “If someone takes two sticks and rubs one against the other, then from the friction heat is generated, a spark is produced. In the same way, as the result of a contact to be experienced as pleasant, a pleasant sensation arises. As the result of a contact to be experienced as unpleasant, an unpleasant sensation arises. As the result of a contact to be experienced as neutral, a neutral sensation arises.”5

The contact of an object with mind or body produces a spark of sensation. Thus sensation is the link through which we experience the world with all its phenomena, physical and mental. In order to develop experiential wisdom, we must become aware of what we actually experience; that is, we must develop awareness of sensations.

Further, physical sensations are closely related to the mind, and like the breath they offer a reflection of the present mental state. When mental objects—thoughts, ideas, imaginations, emotions, memories, hopes, fears—come into contact with the mind, sensations arise. Every thought, every emotion, every mental action is accompanied by a corresponding sensation within the body. Therefore by observing the physical sensations, we also observe the mind.

Sensation is indispensable in order to explore truth to the depths. Whatever we encounter in the world will evoke a sensation within the body. Sensation is the crossroads where mind and body meet. Although physical in nature, it is also one of the four mental processes (see Chapter Two). It arises within the body and is felt by the mind. In a dead body or inanimate matter, there can be no sensation, because mind is not present. If we are unaware of this experience, our investigation of reality remains incomplete and superficial. Just as to rid a garden of weeds one must be aware of the hidden roots and their vital function, similarly we must be aware of sensations, most of which usually remain hidden to us, if we are to understand our nature and deal with it properly.

Sensations occur at all times throughout the body. Every contact, mental or physical, produces a sensation. Every biochemical reaction gives rise to sensation. In ordinary life, the conscious mind lacks the focus necessary to be aware of all but the most intense of them, but once we have sharpened the mind by the practice of ānāpāna-sati and thus developed the faculty of awareness, we become capable of experiencing consciously the reality of every sensation within.

In the practice of awareness of respiration the effort is to observe natural breathing, without controlling or regulating it. Similarly, in the practice of vipassanā-bhāvanā, we simply observe bodily sensations. We move attention systematically throughout the physical structure from head to feet and feet to head, from one extremity to the other. But while doing so we do not search for a particular type of sensation, nor try to avoid sensations of another type. The effort is only to observe objectively, to be aware of whatever sensations manifest themselves throughout the body. They may be of any type: heat, cold, heaviness, lightness, itching, throbbing, contraction, expansion, pressure, pain, tingling, pulsation, vibration, or anything else. The meditator does not search for anything extraordinary but tries merely to observe ordinary physical sensations as they naturally occur.

Nor is any effort made to discover the cause of a sensation. It may arise from atmospheric conditions, because of the posture in which one sits, because of the effects of an old disease or weakness in the body, or even because of the food one has eaten. The reason is unimportant and beyond one’s concern. The important thing is to be aware of the sensation that occurs at this moment in the part of the body where the attention is focused.

When we first begin this practice, we may be able to perceive sensations in some parts of the body and not in others. The faculty of awareness is not yet fully developed, so we only experience the intense sensations and not the finer, subtler ones. However, we continue giving attention to every part of the body in turn, moving the focus of awareness in systematic order, without allowing the attention to be drawn unduly by the more prominent sensations. Having practised the training of concentration, we have developed the ability to fix the attention on an object of conscious choosing. Now we use this ability to move awareness to every part of the body in an orderly progression, neither jumping past a part where sensation is unclear to another part where it is prominent, nor lingering over some sensations, nor trying to avoid others. In this way, we gradually reach the point where we can experience sensations in every part of the body.

When one begins the practice of awareness of respiration, the breathing often will be rather heavy and irregular. Then it gradually calms and becomes progressively lighter, finer, subtler. Similarly, when beginning the practice of vipassanā-bhāvanā, one often experiences gross, intense, unpleasant sensations that seem to last for a long time. At the same time, strong emotions or long-forgotten thoughts and memories may arise, bringing with them mental or physical discomfort, even pain. The hindrances of craving, aversion, sluggishness, agitation, and doubt which impeded one’s progress during the practice of awareness of breathing may now reappear and gain such strength that it is altogether impossible to maintain the awareness of sensation. Faced with this situation one has no alternative but to revert to the practice of awareness of respiration in order once again to calm and sharpen the mind.

Patiently, without any feeling of defeat, as meditators we work to re-establish concentration, understanding that all these difficulties are actually the results of our initial success. Some deeply buried conditioning has been stirred up and has started to appear at the conscious level. Gradually, with sustained effort but without any tension, the mind regains tranquility and one-pointedness. The strong thoughts or emotions pass away, and one can return to the awareness of sensations. And with repeated, continuous practice, the intense sensations tend to dissolve into more uniform, subtler ones and finally into mere vibrations, arising and falling with great rapidity.

But whether the sensations are pleasant or unpleasant, intense or subtle, uniform or varied is irrelevant in meditation. The task is simply to observe objectively. Whatever the discomforts of the unpleasant sensations, whatever the attractions of the pleasant ones, we do not stop our work, do not allow ourselves to become distracted or caught up in any sensation; our job is merely to observe ourselves with the same detachment as a scientist observing in a laboratory.

Impermanence, Egolessness, and Suffering

As we persevere in meditation, we soon realize one basic fact: our sensations are constantly changing. Every moment, in every part of the body, a sensation arises, and every sensation is an indication of a change. Every moment changes occur in every part of the body, electromagnetic and biochemical reactions. Every moment, even more rapidly, the mental processes change and are manifested in physical changes.

This is the reality of mind and matter: It is changing and impermanent—anicca. Every moment the subatomic particles of which the body is composed arise and pass away. Every moment the mental functions appear and disappear, one after another. Everything inside oneself, physical and mental, just as in the world outside, is changing every moment. Previously, we may have known that this was true; we may have understood it intellectually. Now, however, by the practice of vipassanā-bhāvanā, we experience the reality of impermanence directly within the framework of the body. The direct experience of the transitory sensations proves to us our ephemeral nature.

Every particle of the body, every process of the mind is in a state of constant flux. There is nothing that remains beyond a single moment, no hard core to which one can cling, nothing that one can call “I” or “mine.” This “I” is really just a combination of processes that are always changing.

Thus the meditator comes to understand another basic reality: anattā—there is no real “I,” no permanent self or ego. The ego to which one is so devoted is an illusion created by the combination of mental and physical processes, processes in constant flux. Having explored body and mind to the deepest level, one sees that there is no immutable core, no essence that remains independent of the processes, nothing that is exempt from the law of impermanence. There is only an impersonal phenomenon, changing beyond one’s control.

Then another reality becomes clear. Any effort to hold on to something, saying “This is I, this is me, this is mine” is bound to make one unhappy, because sooner or later this something to which one clings passes away, or else this “I” passes away. Attachment to what is impermanent, transitory, illusory, and beyond one’s control is suffering, dukkha. We understand all this not because someone tells us it is so, but because we experience it within, by observing sensations within the body.

Equanimity

Then how is one not to make oneself unhappy? How is one to live without suffering? By simply observing without reacting: Instead of trying to keep one experience and to avoid another, to pull this close, to push that away, one simply examines every phenomenon objectively, with equanimity, with a balanced mind.

This sounds simple enough, but what are we to do when we sit to meditate for an hour, and after ten minutes feel a pain in the knee? At once we start hating the pain, wanting the pain to go away. But it does not go away; instead, the more we hate it the stronger it becomes. The physical pain becomes a mental pain, causing great anguish.

If we can learn for one moment just to observe the physical pain; if even temporarily we can emerge from the illusion that it is our pain, that we feel pain; if we can examine the sensation objectively like a doctor examining someone else’s pain, then we see that the pain itself is changing. It does not remain forever; every moment it changes, passes away, starts again, changes again.

When we understand this by personal experience, we find that the pain can no longer overwhelm and control us. Perhaps it goes away quickly, perhaps not, but it does not matter. We do not suffer from the pain any more because we can observe it with detachment.

The Way to Liberation

By developing awareness and equanimity, one can liberate oneself from suffering. Suffering begins because of ignorance of one’s own reality. In the darkness of this ignorance, the mind reacts to every sensation with liking and disliking, craving and aversion. Every such reaction creates suffering now and sets in motion a chain of events that will bring nothing but suffering in the future.

How can this chain of cause and effect be broken? Somehow, because of past actions taken in ignorance, life has begun, the flow of mind and matter has started. Should one then commit suicide? No, that will not solve the problem. At the moment of killing oneself the mind is full of misery, full of aversion. Whatever comes next will also be full of misery. Such an action cannot lead to happiness.

Life has started, and one cannot escape from it. Then should one destroy the six bases of sensory experience? One could pluck out the eyes, cut out the tongue, destroy the nose and ears. But how could one destroy the body? How could one destroy the mind? Again it would be suicide, which is useless.

Should one destroy the objects of each of the six bases, all the sights and sounds, and so on? This is not possible. The universe is full of countless objects; one could never destroy them all. Once the six sensory bases exist, it is impossible to prevent their contact with their respective objects. And as soon as contact occurs, there is bound to be a sensation.

But this is the point at which the chain can be broken. The crucial link occurs at the point of sensation. Every sensation gives rise to liking or disliking. These momentary, unconscious reactions of liking and disliking are immediately multiplied and intensified into great craving and aversion, into attachment, producing misery now and in the future. This becomes a blind habit which one repeats mechanically.

By the practice of vipassanā-bhāvanā, however, we develop awareness of every sensation. And we develop equanimity: We do not react. We examine the sensation dispassionately, without liking or disliking it, without craving, aversion, or attachment. Instead of giving rise to fresh reactions, every sensation now gives rise to nothing but wisdom, paññā, insight: “This is impermanent, bound to change, arising to pass away.”

The chain has been broken, suffering has been stopped. There is no fresh reaction of craving or aversion, and therefore no cause from which sufferings can arise. The cause of suffering is the kamma, the mental deed, that is, the blind reaction of craving and aversion, the saṅkhāra. When the mind is aware of sensation but maintains equanimity, there is no such reaction, no cause that will produce suffering. We have stopped making suffering for ourselves.

The Buddha said,

All saṅkhāras are impermanent.

When you perceive this with true insight, then you become detached from suffering; this is the path of purification.6

Here the word saṅkhāra has a very wide meaning. A blind reaction of the mind is called saṅkhāra, but the result of that action, its fruit, is also known as saṅkhāra; like seed, like fruit. Everything that we encounter in life is ultimately the result of our own mental actions. Therefore in the widest sense, saṅkhāra means anything in this conditioned world, whatever has been created, formed, composed. Hence, “All created things are impermanent,” whether mental or physical, everything in the universe. When one observes this truth with experiential wisdom through the practice of vipassanā-bhāvanā, then suffering disappears, because one turns away from the causes of suffering; that is, one gives up the habit of craving and aversion. This is the path of liberation.

The entire effort is to learn how not to react, how not to produce a new saṅkhāra. A sensation appears, and liking or disliking begins. This fleeting moment, if we are unaware of it, is repeated and intensified into craving and aversion, becoming a strong emotion that eventually overpowers the conscious mind. We become caught up in the emotion, and all our better judgment is swept aside. The result is that we find ourselves engaged in unwholesome speech and action, harming ourselves and others. We create misery for ourselves, suffering now and in the future, because of one moment of blind reaction.

But if we are aware at the point where the process of reaction begins—that is, if we are aware of the sensation—we can choose not to allow any reaction to occur or to intensify. We observe the sensation without reacting, neither liking nor disliking it. It has no chance to develop into craving or aversion, into powerful emotion that can overwhelm us; it simply arises and passes away. The mind remains balanced, peaceful. We are happy now, and we can anticipate happiness in the future, because we have not reacted.

This ability not to react is very valuable. When we are aware of the sensations within the body, and at the same time maintain equanimity, in those moments the mind is free. Perhaps at first these may be only a few moments in a meditation period, and the rest of the time the mind remains submerged in the old habit of reaction to sensations, the old round of craving, aversion, and misery. But with repeated practice those few brief moments will become seconds, will become minutes, until finally the old habit of reaction is broken, and the mind remains continuously at peace. This is how suffering can be stopped. This is how we can cease producing misery for ourselves.

Bài viết này được trích từ cuốn sách The Art Of Living – Thiền Sư S.N.Goenka và William Hart.

Two young boys, who were very poor, lived by begging for their food from house to house in the city and in the countryside. One of them was blind from birth, and the other helped him; in this way they made their rounds together, begging for food.

One day the blind boy fell sick. His companion said, “Stay here and rest. I’ll go round to beg for us both, and I’ll bring the food back for you.” And he went off to beg.

That day it so happened that the boy was given a very delicious dish: khir, Indian style-milk pudding. He had never tasted this dish before and enjoyed it very much. But unfortunately he had no container in which to bring the pudding back to his friend, so he ate it all.

When he came back to his blind companion, the boy said, “I am so sorry, today I was given a wonderful dish, milk pudding, but I could not bring any back for you.” 

The blind boy asked him, “What is this milk pudding?” “Oh, it is white. Milk is white.”

Being blind from birth, his companion did not understand. “What is white?”

“Don’t you know what white is?”

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s the opposite of black.”

“Then what is black?” He did not know what black was either. “Oh, try to understand, white!” But the blind boy could not

understand. So his friend looked about him and seeing a white crane, he caught hold of the bird and brought it to the blind boy saying, “White is like this bird.”

Not having eyes, the blind boy reached out to touch the crane with his fingers. “Ah, now I understand what white is! It is soft.”

“No, no, it has nothing to do with being soft. White is white! Try to understand.”

“But you told me it is like this crane, and I examined the crane and it is soft. So the milk pudding is soft. White means soft.” 

“No, you have not understood. Try again.”

Again the blind boy examined the crane, passing his hand from the beak to the neck, to the body, to the tip of the tail. “Oh, now I understand. It is crooked! The milk pudding is crooked!”

He cannot understand because he does not have the faculty to experience what white is. In the same way, if you do not have the faculty to experience reality as it is, it will always be crooked for you.

Source: The Art Of Living book – by S.N. Goenka & William Hart