This book is an
introduction to the Buddhist practice of training
the heart. It is taken from the talks of Phra Ajaan
Lee Dhammadharo, a teacher in the Thai forest
tradition of meditation, and is called Food for
Thought because it invites the reader to fill in
the spaces suggested by the talks -- to reflect on
how the images and teachings they contain relate to
one another and to one's own situation in life.
Two of the talks
included here, "Quiet Breathing" and "Centered
Within," briefly describe a technique of breath
meditation aimed at giving rise to a centered and
discerning state of mind. The rest of the talks deal
with how to use such a state of mind in dealing with
the problems of life: the day-to-day problems of
anger, anxiety, disappointment, etc., and the larger
problems of aging, illness, and death.
In other words, this
is a book concerned less with the techniques of
meditation than with its meaning and worth: the
questions of why should one train the heart to begin
with, what personal qualities are involved in its
training, and how to make the best use of it as it
becomes trained. Readers interested in more detailed
instructions in the techniques of formal meditation
can find them in Ajaan Lee's other books --
especially Keeping the Breath in Mind and
Inner Strength -- although it is wise to reflect
on the sorts of questions raised by this book before
actually sitting down to the practice.
The talks translated
here are actually reconstructions of Ajaan Lee's
talks made by two of his followers -- a nun, Arun
Abhivanna, and a monk, Phra Bunkuu Anuvaddhano --
based on notes they made while listening to him
teach. Some of the reconstructions are fairly
fragmentary and disjointed, and in presenting them
here I have had to edit them somewhat, cutting
extraneous passages, expanding on shorthand
references to points of formal doctrine, and filling
in gaps by collating passages from different talks
dealing with the same topic. Aside from changes of
this sort, though, I have tried my best to convey
both the letter and spirit of Ajaan Lee's message.
I have also tried to
keep the use of Pali words in the translation to a
minimum. In all cases where English equivalents have
been substituted for Pali terms, I have chosen to
convey the meanings Ajaan Lee gives to these terms
in his writings, even when this has meant departing
from the interpretations given to these terms by
scholars. A few Pali terms, though, have no adequate
English equivalents, so here is a brief glossary of
the ones left untranslated or unexplained in this
book:
Arahant:
A person who has gained liberation from mental
defilement and the cycle of death and rebirth.
Brahma:
An inhabitant of the heavens of form and
formlessness corresponding to the levels of
meditative absorption in physical and non-physical
objects.
Buddho:
Awake; enlightened. An epithet of the Buddha.
Dhamma (Dharma):
The truth in and of itself; the right natural order
of things. Also, the Buddha's teachings on these
topics and the practice of those teachings aimed at
realizing the true nature of the mind in and of
itself.
Kamma (Karma):
Intentional acts, which create good or bad results
in accordance with the quality of the intention.
Kamma debts are the moral debts one owes to others
for having caused them hardships or difficulties.
Nibbana (Nirvana):
Liberation; the unbinding of the mind from mental
defilement and the cycle of death and rebirth. As
this term refers also to the extinguishing of fire,
it carries connotations of stilling, cooling, and
peace. (According to the physics taught at the time
of the Buddha, a burning fire seizes or adheres to
its fuel; when extinguished, it is unbound.)
Sangha:
The followers of the Buddha who have practiced his
teachings at least to the point of gaining entry to
the stream to Liberation. To take refuge in the
Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha means to take them as the
guide in one's search for happiness and to make the
effort to give rise to their qualities within
oneself.
My hope is that the
teachings in this book will serve as more than just
food for thought, and that they will inspire you to
search for the inner worth and happiness that come
with the practice of training the heart.
Thanissaro Bhikkhu
(Geoffrey DeGraff)
January, 1989
August 4, 1957
Most of us tend to
concern ourselves only with short, small, and narrow
things. For instance, we think that there isn't much
to human life -- we're born and then we die -- so we
pay attention only to our stomachs and appetites.
There's hardly anyone who thinks further than that,
who thinks out past death. This is why we're
short-sighted and don't think of developing any
goodness or virtues within ourselves, because we
don't see the truth and the extremely important
benefits we'll gain from these things in the future.
Actually, the
affairs of each person are really long and drawn
out, and not at all short. If they were short, we'd
all know where we came from and how we got where we
are. The same would hold true for the future: If our
affairs were really a short story, we'd know where
we're going and what we'll be after death.
But the truth of the
matter is that almost no one knows these things
about themselves. The only ones who do know are
those whose minds are strong in goodness and virtue,
and who have developed purity to the point where
they gain the intuitive understanding that enables
them to see where they've come from and where
they're going. These people have the inner eye,
which is why they are able to see things past and
future. Sometimes they can see not only their own,
but also other people's affairs. This is what makes
them realize the hardships and difficulties suffered
by human beings and other living beings born into
this world. They see the cycle of birth, aging,
illness, and death. They see their past lives, both
good and bad, and this makes them feel a sense of
dismay and dispassion, disenchanted with the idea of
ever being born again. As a result, they try to
develop their goodness and virtues even further so
that they can reduce the number of times they'll
have to be reborn. For example, Stream-enterers --
those who have entered the stream to Liberation (nibbana)
-- will be reborn at most only seven more times and
then will never have to be reborn again. Once-returners
will be reborn in the human world only once more,
while Non-returners will be reborn in the Brahma
worlds and gain Liberation there.
As for
Stream-enterers, even though they have to be reborn,
they're reborn in secure places. They aren't reborn
in states of deprivation, such as the realms of
hungry shades, angry demons, or common animals.
They're reborn as human beings, but as special human
beings, not like the rest of us. How are they
special? They have few defilements in their hearts,
not thick defilements like ordinary people. They
have a built-in sense of conscience and
scrupulousness. Even though they may do wrong from
time to time, they see the damage it does and feel a
sense of shame, so that they won't want their
various defilements to lead them into doing wrong
ever again.
People disenchanted
with rebirth make an extra effort to build up their
virtues so that they won't have to come back and be
reborn. If you want to cut down the number of times
you'll take rebirth, you should steadily increase
your inner quality and worth. In other words, make
your heart clean and bright with generosity, moral
virtue, and meditation. Keep your thoughts, words,
and deeds at equilibrium, secluded from evil both
inside and out. If you have no vices in word and
deed, that's called being secluded from outside
evil. If your mind is firmly centered in
concentration and free from obstructing
distractions, that's called being secluded from
inside evil. This way you can be at peace and at
ease both within and without. As the Buddha said,
"Happy is the person content in seclusion."
When this kind of
seclusion arises in the mind, all sorts of
worthwhile qualities will come flowing in without
stop. The heart will keep growing higher and higher,
until it no longer wants anything at all. If you
used to eat a lot, you won't want to eat a lot. If
you used to eat in moderation, there'll be times
when you won't want to eat at all. If you used to
talk a lot, you won't want to talk a lot. If you
used to sleep a lot, you'll want to sleep only a
little. However you live, the heart will be entirely
happy, with no more danger to fear from anyone. This
is how you cut down the number of times you'll take
rebirth.
* * *
If you see any areas
in which you're still lacking in inner worth, you
should try to fill in the lack right away. Be steady
in your practice of meditation and make your mind
clear, free from the distractions that will drag it
down into the dirt. Dirt is where animals live --
pigs, dogs, ducks, chickens, and cows. It's no place
for human beings. If you're really a human being,
you have to like living in clean places, free from
danger and germs. This is why the Buddha praised
seclusion as the well-spring of happiness. So try to
find a secluded spot for yourself to stay within the
mind, secluded from hindering distractions. Make
your mind as bright as a jewel, and don't let
temptation come along and try to trade garbage for
the good things you've got. You have to be mindful
at all times, so don't let yourself be absent-minded
or forgetful.
* * *
If your mind doesn't
stay with your body in the present, all sorts of
evil things -- all sorts of distractions -- will
come flowing in to overwhelm it, making it fall away
from its inner worth, just as a vacant house is sure
to become a nest of spiders, termites, and all sorts
of animals. If you keep your mind firmly with the
body in the present, you'll be safe. Like a person
on a big ship in the middle of a smooth sea free
from wind and waves: Everywhere you look is clear
and wide open. You can see far. Your eyes are quiet
with regard to sights, your ears quiet with regard
to sounds, and so on with your other senses. Your
mind is quiet with regard to thoughts of sensuality,
ill will, and harm. The mind is in a state of
seclusion, calm and at peace. This is where we'll
let go of our sense of "me" and "mine," and reach
the further shore, free from constraints and bonds.
August 28, 1957
Normally, our hearts
can hardly ever sit still. They have to think about
all kinds of thoughts and ideas, both good and bad.
When good things happen, we keep them to think
about. When bad things happen, we keep them to think
about. When we succeed or fail at anything, we keep
it to think about. This shows how impoverished the
mind is. When it thinks about things it likes, it
develops sensual craving. When it thinks about
things that are possible, it develops craving for
possibilities. When it thinks about things that are
impossible, it develops craving for impossibilities,
all without our realizing it. This is called
unawareness. It's because of this unawareness that
we have thoughts, judgments, and worries that form
the well-spring for likes, dislikes, and
attachments.
Sometimes the things
we think about can come true in line with our
thoughts; sometimes they can't. While there's at
least some use in thinking about things that
are possible, we like to go to the effort of
thinking about things that are out of the question.
I.e., when certain things are no longer possible, we
still hold onto them to the point where we feel
mistreated or depressed. We keep trying to get
results out of things that can no longer be. When
our hopes aren't satisfied, we latch onto our
dissatisfaction; when they are satisfied, we
latch onto our satisfaction. This gives rise to
likes and dislikes. We latch onto thoughts of the
future and thoughts of the past. Most of us, when we
succeed at something, latch onto our happiness. When
we don't succeed, we latch onto our disappointment.
Sometimes we latch onto things that are good --
although latching onto goodness leaves us some
way to crawl along. Sometimes we actually latch onto
things that are clearly bad.
This is what made
the Buddha feel such pity for us human beings. In
what way? He pitied our stupidity in not
understanding what suffering is. We know that red
ants can really hurt when they bite us, yet we go
stick our heads in a red ant nest and then sit
around in pain and torment. What good do we get out
of it?
When we see good or
bad sights with our eyes, we latch onto them. When
we hear good or bad sounds with our ears, we latch
onto them. When we smell good or bad odors, taste
good or bad flavors, feel good or bad sensations, or
think good or bad thoughts, we latch onto them -- so
we end up all encumbered with sights dangling from
our eyes, sounds dangling from both of our ears,
odors dangling from the tip of our nose, flavors
dangling from the tip of our tongue, tactile
sensations dangling all over our body, and thoughts
dangling from our mind. This way, sights are sure to
close off our eyes, sounds close off our ears, odors
close off our nostrils, flavors close off our
tongue, tactile sensations close off our body, and
thoughts close off our mind. When our senses are
completely closed off in this way, we're in the dark
-- the darkness of unawareness -- groping around
without finding the right way, unable to go any way
at all. Our body is weighed down and our mind is
dark. This is called harming yourself, killing
yourself, destroying your own chances for progress.
Thoughts are
addictive, and especially when they're about things
that are bad. We remember them long and think of
them often. This is delusion, one of the
camp-followers of unawareness. For this reason, we
have to drive this kind of delusion from our hearts
by making ourselves mindful and alert, fully
conscious with each in-and-out breath. This is what
awareness comes from. When awareness arises,
discernment arises as well. If awareness doesn't
arise, how will we be able to get rid of craving?
When awareness arises, craving for sensuality,
craving for possibilities, and craving for
impossibilities will all stop, and attachment won't
exist. This is the way of the Noble Path.
Most of us tend to
flow along in the direction of what's bad more than
in the direction of what's good. When people try to
convince us to do good, they have to give us lots of
reasons, and even then we hardly budge. But if they
try to talk us into doing bad, all they have to do
is say one or two words and we're already running
with them. This is why the Buddha said, "People are
foolish. They like to feed on bad preoccupations."
And that's not all. We even feed on things that have
no truth to them at all. We can't be bothered with
thinking about good things, but we like to keep
clambering after bad things, trying to remember them
and keep them in mind. We don't get to eat any meat
or sit on any skin, and yet we choke on the bones.
"We don't get to eat
any meat:" This means that we gather up imaginary
things to think about, but they don't bring us any
happiness. A person who opens his mouth to put food
in it at least gets something to fill up his
stomach, but a person who clambers around with his
mouth open, craning his neck to swallow nothing but
air: That's really ridiculous. His stomach is empty,
without the least little thing to give it weight.
This stands for thoughts that have no truth to them.
We keep searching them out, gathering them up, and
elaborating on them in various ways without getting
any results out of them at all, aside from making
ourselves restless and distracted. We never have any
time to sit still in one place, and instead keep
running and jumping around until the skin on our
rears has no chance to make contact anywhere with a
place to sit down. This is what is meant by, "We
don't get to sit on any skin." We can't lie down, we
can't stay seated -- even though our bodies may be
seated, our minds aren't seated there with them. We
don't get to eat any meat and instead we choke on
the bones. We try to swallow them, but they won't go
down; we try to cough them up, but they won't come
out.
When we say, "We
choke on the bones," this refers to the various bad
preoccupations that get stuck in the heart. The
"bones" here are the five Hindrances.
(1) Sensual desire:
The mind gets carried away with things it likes.
(2) Ill will: Things
that displease us are like bones stuck in the heart.
The mind fastens on things that are bad, on things
we dislike, until we start feeling animosity, anger,
and hatred. Sometimes we even gather up old
tasteless bones that were thrown away long ago --
like chicken bones that have been boiled to make
stock: The meat has fallen off, the flavor has been
boiled away, and all that's left are the hard,
brittle bones they throw to dogs. This stands for
old thoughts stretching back 20 to 30 years that we
bring out to gnaw on. Look at yourself: Your mind is
so impoverished that it has to suck on old bones.
It's really pitiful.
(3) Torpor &
lethargy: When the mind has been feeding on trash
like this, with nothing to nourish it, its strength
is bound to wane away. It becomes sleepy and
depressed, oblivious to other people's words, not
hearing their questions or understanding what
they're trying to say.
(4) Restlessness &
anxiety: The mind then gets irritable and
distracted, which is followed by --
(5) Uncertainty: We
may decide that good things are bad, or bad things
are good, wrong things are right, or right things
are wrong. We may do things in line with the Dhamma
and not realize it, or contrary to the Dhamma -- but
in line with our own preconceptions -- and not know
it. Everything gets stuck in our throat, and we
can't decide which way to go, so our thoughts keep
running around in circles, like a person who rows
his boat around in a lake for hours and hours
without getting anywhere.
This is called
harming yourself, hurting yourself, killing
yourself. And when we can do this sort of thing to
ourselves, what's to keep us from doing it to
others? This is why we shouldn't let ourselves
harbor thoughts of envy, jealousy, or anger. If any
of these five Hindrances arise in the heart, then
trouble and suffering will come flooding in like a
torrential downpour, and we won't be able to hold
our own against them. All of this is because of the
unawareness that keeps us from having any inner
quality as a mainstay. Even though we may live in a
seven- or nine-storey mansion and eat food at $40 a
plate, we won't be able to find any happiness.
People without any
inner quality are like vagrants with no home to live
in. They have to be exposed to sun, rain, and wind
by day and by night, so how can they find any relief
from the heat or the cold? With nothing to shelter
them, they have to lie curled up until their backs
get all crooked and bent. When a storm comes, they
need to scurry to find shelter: They can't stay
under trees because they're afraid the trees will be
blown down on top of them. They can't stay in open
fields because they're afraid lightning will strike.
At midday the sun is so hot that they can't sit for
long -- like an old barefooted woman walking on an
asphalt road when the sun is blazing: She can't put
her feet down because she's afraid they'll blister,
so she dances around in place on her tiptoes, not
knowing where she can rest her feet.
This is why the
Buddha felt such pity for us, and taught us to find
shelter for ourselves by doing good and developing
concentration as a principle in our hearts, so that
we can have an inner home. This way we won't have to
suffer, and other people will benefit as well. This
is called having a mainstay.
People with no
mainstay are bound to busy themselves with things
that have no real meaning or worth -- i.e., with
things that can't protect them from suffering when
the necessity arises. A person without the wisdom
to search for a mainstay is sure to suffer
hardships. I'll illustrate this point with a
story. Once there was a band of monkeys living in
the upper branches of a forest, each one carrying
its young wherever it went. One day a heavy wind
storm came. As soon as the monkeys heard the sound
of the approaching wind, they broke off branches and
twigs to make themselves a nest on one of the bigger
branches. After they had piled on the twigs, they
went down under the nest and looked up to see if
there were still any holes. Wherever they saw a
hole, they piled on more twigs and branches until
the whole thing was piled thick and high. Then when
the wind and rain came, they got up on top of the
nest, sitting there with their mouths open,
shivering from the cold, exposed to the wind and
rain. Their nest hadn't offered them any protection
at all, simply because of their own stupidity.
Eventually a gust of wind blew the nest apart. The
monkeys were scattered every which way and ended up
dangling here and there, their babies falling from
their grasp, all of them thoroughly miserable from
their hardship and pain.
People who don't
search for inner worth as their mainstay are no
different from these monkeys.
They work at amassing money and property, thinking
that these things will give them security, but when
death comes, none of these things can offer any
safety at all. This is why the Buddha felt such pity
for all the deluded people in the world, and went to
great lengths to teach us to search for inner
quality as a mainstay for ourselves.
People who have
inner quality as their mainstay are said to be kind
not only to themselves but also to others as well,
in the same way that when we have a house of our
own, we can build a hut for other people to live in,
too. If we see that another person's hut is going to
cave in, we help find thatch to roof it; make walls
for the left side, right side, the front, and the
back, to protect it from storm winds; and raise the
floor to get it above flood level. What this means
is that we teach the other person how to escape from
his or her own defilements in the same way that
we've been able, to whatever extent, to escape from
ours. When we tell others to practice concentration,
it's like helping them roof their house so that they
won't have to be exposed to the sun and rain. Making
walls for the front and back means that we tell them
to shut off thoughts of past and future; and walls
for the left and right means that we tell them to
shut off thoughts of likes and dislikes. Raising the
floor above flood level means we get them to stay
firmly centered in concentration, keeping their
minds still with their object of meditation.
Once people have a
house with good walls, a sound roof, and a solid
floor, then even if they don't have any other
external belongings -- just a single rag to their
name -- they can be happy, secure, and at peace.
But if your house is sunk in the mud, what hope is
there for your belongings? You'll have to end up
playing with crabs, worms, and other creepy things.
Your walls are nothing but holes, so that people can
see straight through your house, in one side and out
the other. Even from four to five miles away they
can see everything you've got. When this is the
case, thieves are going to gang up and rob you --
i.e., all sorts of bad thoughts and preoccupations
are going to come in and ransack your heart.
As for your roof,
it's nothing but holes. You look up and can see the
stars. Termite dust is going to sift into your ears
and eyes, and birds flying past will plaster you
with their droppings. So in the end, all you can do
is sit scratching your head in misery because you
haven't any shelter.
When this is the
case, you should take pity on yourself and develop
your own inner worth. Keep practicing concentration
until your heart matures, step by step. When you do
this, you'll develop the light of discernment that
can chase the darkness of unawareness out of your
heart. When there's no more unawareness, you'll be
free from craving and attachment, and ultimately
gain Liberation.
For this reason, we
should all keep practicing meditation and set our
hearts on developing nothing but inner goodness,
without retreating or getting discouraged. Whatever
is a form of goodness, roll up your sleeves and
pitch right in. Don't feel any regrets even if you
ram your head into a wall and die on the spot. If
you're brave in your proper efforts this way, all
your affairs are sure to succeed in line with your
hopes and aspirations. But if evil comes and asks to
move into your home -- your heart -- chase it away.
Don't let it stay even for a single night.
* * *
People who like to
gather up thoughts, worries, etc., to hold onto are
no different from prisoners tied down with a ball
and chain. To fasten onto thoughts of the past is
like having a rope around your waist tied to a post
behind you. To fasten onto thoughts of the future is
like having a rope around your neck tied to a door
in front. To fasten onto thoughts you like is like
having a rope around your right wrist tied to a post
on your right. To fasten onto thoughts you don't
like is like having a rope around your left wrist
tied to a wall on your left. Whichever way you try
to step, you're pulled back by the rope on the
opposite side, so how can you hope to get anywhere
at all?
As for people who
have unshackled themselves from their thoughts, they
stand tall and free like soldiers or warriors with
weapons in both hands and no need to fear enemies
from any direction. Any opponents who see them won't
dare come near, so they're always sure to come out
winning.
But if we're the
type tied up with ropes on all sides, nobody's going
to fear us, because there's no way we can take any
kind of stance to fight them off. If enemies
approach us, all we can do is dance around in one
spot.
So I ask that we all
take a good look at ourselves and try to unshackle
ourselves from all outside thoughts and
preoccupations. Don't let them get stuck in your
heart. Your meditation will then give you results,
your mind will advance to the transcendent, and
you're sure to come out winning someday.
July 1, 1958
Inner wealth,
according to the texts, means seven things --
conviction, virtue, a sense of conscience,
scrupulousness, breadth of learning, generosity, and
discernment -- but to put it simply, inner wealth
refers to the inner quality we build within
ourselves. Outer wealth -- money and material goods
-- doesn't have any hard and fast owners. Today it
may be ours, tomorrow someone else may take it away.
There are times when it belongs to us, and times
when it belongs to others. Even with things that are
fixed in the ground, like farms or orchards, you
can't keep them from changing hands.
So when you develop
yourself so as to gain the discernment that sees how
worldly things are undependable and unsure, don't
let your property -- your worldly possessions -- sit
idle. The Buddha teaches us to plant crops on our
land so that we can benefit from it. If you don't
make use of your land, it's sure to fall into other
people's hands. In other words, when we stake out a
claim to a piece of property, we should plant it
full of crops. Otherwise the government won't
recognize our claim, and we'll lose our rights to
it. Even if we take the case to court, we won't have
a chance to win. So once you see the weakness of an
idle claim, you should hurry up and plant crops on
it so that the government will recognize your claim
and issue you a title to the land.
What this means is
that we should make use of our material possessions
by being generous with them, using them in a way
that develops the inner wealth of generosity within
us. This way they become the kind of wealth over
which we have full rights and that will benefit us
even into future lifetimes.
September 29, 1958
This body of ours:
Actually there's not the least bit of it that's
really ours at all. We've gotten it from animals and
plants -- the pigs, prawns, chickens, fish, crabs,
cows, etc., and all the various vegetables, fruits,
and grains that have been made into the food we've
eaten, which the body has chewed and digested and
turned into the blood that nourishes its various
parts. In other words, we've taken cooked things and
turned them back into raw things: ears, eyes, hands,
arms, body, etc. These then become male or female,
they're given ranks and titles, and so we end up
falling for all of these conventions. Actually these
heads of ours are lettuce heads, our hair is pigs'
hair, our bones are chicken bones and duck bones,
our muscles are cows' muscles, etc. There's not one
part that's really ours, but we lay claim to the
whole thing and say it's this and that. We forget
the original owners from whom we got it all and so
become possessive of it. When the time comes for
them to come and take it back, we're not willing to
give it back, which is where things get messy and
complicated and cause us to suffer when death comes
near.
If all the various
animals we've eaten were to come walking out of each
of us right now (here I'm not talking about the
really big ones, like cows and steers; say that just
all the little ones -- the shrimps, fish, oysters,
crabs, chickens, ducks, and pigs -- came walking
out) there wouldn't be enough room for them all in
this meditation hall. None of us would be able to
live here in this monastery any more. How many pigs,
ducks, chickens, and shrimp have each of us eaten?
How many bushels of fish? If we were to calculate it
all, who knows what the figures would be -- all the
animals we ourselves have killed for food or that
we've gotten from others who've killed them. How do
you think these animals won't come and demand
repayment? If we don't have anything to give them,
they're sure to repossess everything we've got.
Right when we're at death's door: That's when
they're going to crowd around and demand that we
repay our debts. If we don't have anything to give
them, they're going to knock us flat. But if we have
enough to give them, we'll come out unscathed.
In other words, if
we develop a lot of inner goodness, we'll be able to
contend with whatever pains we suffer, by giving
back the body with good grace -- in other words, by
letting go of our attachment to it. That's when
we'll be at peace. We should realize that the
body leaves us and lets us go, bit by bit, every
day. But we've never left it, never let it go at
all. We're attached to it in every way, just as when
we eat food: We're attached to the food, but the
food isn't attached to us. If we don't eat it, it'll
never cry even once. All the attachment comes from
our side alone.
The pleasure we get
from the body is a worldly pleasure: good for a
moment and then it changes. It's not at all lasting
or permanent. Notice the food you eat: At what point
is it good and delicious? It looks good and inviting
only when it's arranged nicely on a plate. It's
delicious only for the brief moment it's in your
mouth. After it goes down your throat, what is it
like then? And when it gets down to your intestines
and comes out the other end, what is it like then?
It keeps changing all the time. When you think about
this sort of thing, it's enough to make you
disillusioned with everything in the world.
Worldly pleasure is
good only when it's hot and fresh, like fresh-cooked
rice piled on a plate when it's still hot and
steaming. If you leave it until it's cold, there's
no taste to it. If you let it go until it hardens,
you can't swallow it; and if you let it sit
overnight, it spoils and you have to throw it away.
As for the pleasure
of the Dhamma, it's like the brightness of stars or
the color of gold. The brightness of stars is clear
and glittering. Whoever sees it feels calmed and
refreshed. When depressed people look at the stars,
no matter when, their depression disappears. As for
the color of gold, it's always gleaming and golden.
No matter what the gold is made into, its color
doesn't change. It's always gleaming and golden as
it always was.
In the same way, the
pleasure of the Dhamma is lasting and gives delight
throughout time to those who practice it. For this
reason, intelligent people search for pleasure in
the Dhamma by giving up their worthless, meaningless
worldly pleasures, to trade them in for lasting
pleasure by practicing meditation until their minds
and actions reach the level of goodness, beauty, and
purity that goes beyond all action, all suffering
and stress.
July 6, 1959
Beautiful things
come from things that are dirty, and not at all from
things that are pleasant and clean. Crops and trees,
for instance, grow to be healthy and beautiful
because of the rotten and smelly compost and
nightsoil with which they're fertilized. In the same
way, a beautiful mind comes from meeting with things
that aren't pleasant. When we meet with bad things,
the mind has a chance to grow.
"Bad things" here
refers to loss of wealth, loss of status, criticism,
and pain. When these things happen to a person whose
mind is rightly centered in concentration, they turn
into good things. Before, they were our enemies, but
eventually they become our friends. What this means
is that when these four bad things occur to us, we
can come to our senses: "Oh. This is how loss of
wealth is bad. This is how loss of status, how pain
and criticism are bad. This is how the ways of the
world can change and turn on you, so that you
shouldn't get carried away with their good side."
When meditators meet
with these four kinds of bad things, their minds
develop. They become more and more dispassionate,
more and more disenchanted, more and more detached
from the four opposites of these bad things --
wealth, status, pleasure, and praise -- so that when
these good things happen, they won't be fooled into
getting attached or carried away with them and can
instead push their minds on to a higher level. When
they hear someone criticize or gossip about them,
it's as if that person were taking a knife to
sharpen them. The more they get sharpened, the more
they grow to a finer and finer point.
Loss of wealth is
actually good for you, you know. It can teach you
not to be attached or carried away with the money or
material benefits other people may offer you.
Otherwise, the more you have, the deeper you sink --
to the point where you drown because you get stuck
on being possessive.
Loss of status is
also good for you. For instance, you may be a
person, but they erase your good name and call you a
dog -- which makes things even easier for you,
because dogs have no laws. They can do what they
like without any constraints, without anyone to fine
them or put them in jail. If people make you a
prince or a duke, you're really in bad straits. All
of a sudden you're big: Your arms, hands, feet, and
legs grow all out of size and get in your way
wherever you try to go or whatever you do.
As for wealth,
status, pleasure, and praise, there's nothing the
least bit constant or dependable about them. The
more you really think about them, the more
disaffected and disenchanted you become, to the
point where you find that you're indifferent,
neither pleased nor displeased with them. This is
where your mind develops equanimity and can become
firm in concentration so that it can grow higher and
higher in the practice -- like the lettuce and
cauliflower that Chinese farmers plant in rows: The
more they get fertilized with nightsoil, the faster,
more beautiful, and more healthy they grow. If they
were fed nothing but clean, clear water, they'd end
up all sickly and stunted.
This is why we say
that when people have developed mindfulness and
concentration, they're even better off when the ways
of the world turn ugly and bad. If the world shows
you only its good side, you're sure to get
infatuated and stuck, like a seed that stays buried
in its shell and will never grow. But once the seed
comes out with its shoot, then the more sun, wind,
rain, and fertilizer it gets, the more it will grow
and develop -- i.e., the more your discernment will
branch out into knowledge and wisdom, leading you to
intuitive insight and on into the transcendent, like
the old Chinese vegetable farmer who becomes a
millionaire by building a fortune out of plain old
excrement.
June 23, 1958;
August 23, 1958
When we first meet
with the fires of greed, aversion, and delusion, we
find them comforting and warm. We're like a person
sitting by a fire in the cold season: As he sits
soaking up the warmth, he gets more and more sleepy
and careless until he burns his hands and feet
without realizing it, and eventually falls
head-first into the flames.
* * *
The pleasures felt
by people in the world come from looking at things
only on the surface. Take a plateful of rice, for
instance. If you ask people what's good about rice,
they'll say, "It tastes good and fills you up, too."
But the Buddha wouldn't answer like that. He'd
answer by talking about rice both when it goes in
your mouth and when it comes out the other end. This
is why his view of things covered both cause and
effect. He didn't look at things from one side only.
The Buddha saw that
the ease and happiness of ordinary pleasures is
nothing lasting. He wanted an ease and happiness
that didn't follow the way of the worldly pleasures
that most people want. This was why he left his
family and friends, and went off to live in
seclusion. He said to himself, "I came alone when I
was born and I'll go alone when I die. No one hired
me to be born and no one will hire me to die, so I'm
beholden to no one. There's no one I have to fear.
In all of my actions, if there's anything that's
right from the standpoint of the world, but wrong
from the standpoint of the truth -- and wrong from
the standpoint of my heart -- there's no way I'll be
willing to do it."
So he posed himself
a question: "Now that you've been born as a human
being, what is the highest thing you want in this
world?" He then placed the following conditions on
his answer: "In answering, you have to be really
honest and truthful with yourself. And once you've
answered, you have to hold to your answer as an
unalterable law on which you've affixed your seal,
without ever letting a second seal be affixed on
top. So what do you want, and how do you want it?
You have to give an honest answer, understand? I
won't accept anything false. And once you've
answered, you have to keep to your answer. Don't be
a traitor to yourself."
When he was sure of
his answer, he said to himself, "I want only the
highest and most certain happiness and ease: the
happiness that won't change into anything else.
Other than that, I don't want anything else in the
world."
Once he had given
this answer, he kept to it firmly. He didn't allow
anything that would have caused the least bit of
pain or distraction to his heart to get stuck there
as a stain on it. He kept making a persistent effort
with all his might to discover the truth, without
retreat, until he finally awakened to that truth:
the reality of Liberation.
If we search for the
truth like the Buddha -- if we're true in our intent
and true in what we do -- there's no way the truth
can escape us. But if we aren't true to ourselves,
we won't find the true happiness the Buddha found.
We tell ourselves that we want to be happy but we go
jumping into fires. We know what things are poison,
yet we go ahead and drink them anyway. This is
called being a traitor to yourself.
* * *
Every person alive
wants happiness -- even common animals struggle to
find happiness -- but our actions for the most part
aren't in line with our intentions. This is why we
don't get to realize the happiness we want, simply
because there's no truth to us. For example, when
people come to the monastery: If they come to make
offerings, observe the precepts, and sit in
meditation for the sake of praise or a good
reputation, there's no real merit to what they're
doing. They don't gain any real happiness from it,
so they end up disappointed and dissatisfied. Then
they start saying that offerings, precepts, and
meditation don't give any good results. Instead of
reflecting on the fact that they weren't right and
honest in doing these things, they say that there's
no real good to the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha, that
the Buddha's teachings are a lot of nonsense and
lies. But actually the Buddha's teachings are an
affair of the truth. If a person isn't true to
the Buddha's teachings, the Buddha's teachings won't
be true to that person -- and that person won't
be able to know what the Buddha's true teachings
are.
* * *
When we practice
virtue, concentration, and discernment, it's as if
we were taking the jewels and robes of royalty and
the Noble Ones to dress up our heart and make it
beautiful. But if we aren't true in our practice,
it's like taking robes and jewels and giving them to
a monkey. The monkey is bound to get them dirty and
tear them to shreds because it has no sense of
beauty at all. Whoever sees this kind of thing
happening is sure to see right through it, that it's
a monkey show. Even though the costumes are genuine,
the monkey inside isn't genuine like the costumes.
For instance, if you take a soldier's cap and
uniform to dress it up as a soldier, it's a soldier
only as far as the cap and uniform, but the monkey
inside is still a monkey and not a soldier at all.
For this reason, the
Buddha teaches us to be true in whatever we do --
true in being generous, true in being virtuous, true
in developing concentration and discernment. Don't
play around at these things. If you're true, then
these activities are sure to bear you the fruits of
your own truthfulness without a doubt.
May 22, 1959
In Christianity they
teach that if you've done wrong or committed a sin,
you can ask to wash it away by confessing the sin
and asking for God's forgiveness. God will then have
the kindness to hold back punishment, and you'll be
pure. But Buddhism doesn't teach this sort of thing
at all. If you do wrong, you are the one who
has to correct the error so as to do away with the
punishment on your own behalf. What this means is
that when a defilement -- greed, anger, or delusion
-- arises in your heart, you have to undo the
defilement right there so as to escape from it. Only
then will you escape from the suffering that would
otherwise come as its natural consequence.
We can compare this
to a man who drinks poison and comes down with
violent stomach cramps. If he then runs to a doctor
and says, "Doctor, doctor, I've drunk poison and my
stomach really hurts. Please take some medicine for
me so that the pain will go away," there's no way
that this is going to cure the pain. If the doctor,
instead of the sick man, is the one who takes the
medicine, the sick man can expect to die for sure.
So I ask that we all
understand this point: that we have to wash away our
own defilements by practicing the Dhamma -- the
medicine of the Buddha -- in order to gain release
from any evil and suffering in our hearts; not that
we can ask the Buddha to help wash away our mistakes
and sufferings for us. The Buddha is simply the
doctor who has discovered the formula for the
medicine and prepared it for us. Whatever disease we
have, we need to take the medicine and treat the
disease ourselves if we want to recover.
July 28, 1959
If the heart doesn't
have any inner nourishment, it won't have any
strength, because it's hungry and thin. When it
doesn't have any nourishment, it goes out eating
whatever it can find -- bones and old dry skins --
without finding any decent food to eat or water to
drink at all. This is why it ends up shriveled and
dry, because the heart, if it doesn't have any inner
goodness, is thin and gaunt, and goes running around
all sorts of back alleys, scraping together whatever
it can find just for the sake of having something to
stick in its mouth. It doesn't get to eat anything
good at all, though. It can't find a single thing to
give it any flavor or nourishment. But if the heart
is strong and well-fed, then whatever it thinks of
doing is sure to succeed.
The Buddha saw that
we human beings are thin and malnourished in this
way, which is why he felt compassion for us. He
taught us, "The mind that goes around swallowing
sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and tactile
sensations is eating a ball of fire, you know. Not
any kind of food." In other words, "The eye is
burning." Everything we see with the eye is a form,
and each of these forms contains a ball of fire,
even though on the outside it's coated to look
pretty and attractive. "The ear is burning." All the
pleasing sounds we search for, and that come passing
in through our ears from the day we're born to the
day we die, are burning sounds, are flames of fire.
The heat of the sun can't burn you to death, but
sounds can burn you to death, which is why we
say they're hotter than the sun. "The nose is
burning." We've been smelling smells ever since the
doctor cleaned out our nose right after birth, and
the nature of smells is that there's no such thing
as a neutral smell. There are only two kinds: good
smelling and foul-smelling. If our strength is down
and we're not alert, we swallow these smells right
into the mind -- and that means we've swallowed a
time bomb. We're safe only as long as nothing
ignites the fuse. "The tongue is burning." Countless
tastes come passing over our tongue. If we get
attached to them, it's as if we've eaten a ball of
fire: As soon as it explodes, our intestines will
come splattering out. If we human beings let
ourselves get tied up in this sort of thing, it's as
if we've eaten the fire bombs of the King of Death.
As soon as they explode, we're finished. But if we
know enough to spit them out, we'll be safe. If we
swallow them, we're loading ourselves down. We won't
be able to find any peace whether we're sitting,
standing, walking, or lying down, because we're on
fire inside. Only when we breathe our last will the
fires go out. "The body is burning." Tactile
sensations are also a fire that wipes human beings
out. If you don't have any inner worth or goodness
in your mind, these things can really do you a lot
of damage.
* * *
Greed, anger, and
delusion are like three enormous balls of red-hot
iron that the King of Death heats until they're
glowing hot and then pokes into our heads. When
greed doesn't get what it wants, it turns into
anger. Once we're angry, we get overcome and lose
control, so that it turns into delusion. We forget
everything -- good, bad, our husbands, wives,
parents, children -- to the point where we can even
kill our husbands, wives, parents, and children.
This is all an affair of delusion. When these three
defilements get mixed up in our minds, they can take
us to hell with no trouble at all. This is why
they're called fire bombs in the human heart.
But if, when greed
arises, we have the sense to take only what should
be taken and not what shouldn't, it won't wipe us
out even though it's burning us, because we have
fire insurance. People without fire insurance are
those with really strong greed to the point where
they're willing to cheat and get involved in
corruption or crime. When this happens, their inner
fires wipe them out. To have fire insurance means
that even though we feel greed, we can hold it in
check and be generous with our belongings by giving
donations, for instance, to the religion. Then even
though we may die from our greed, we've still gained
inner worth from making donations as an act of
homage to the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha -- which is
like keeping our insurance payments up. This way,
even though our house may burn down, we'll still
have some property left.
Anger. When this
defilement really gets strong, it has no sense of
good or evil, right or wrong, husband, wives, or
children. It can drink human blood. An example we
often see is when people get quarreling and one of
them ends up in prison or even on death row,
convicted for murder. This is even worse than your
house burning down, because you have nothing left at
all. For this reason, we have to get ourselves some
life insurance by observing the five or eight
precepts so that we can treat and bandage our open
sores -- i.e., so that we can wash away the evil and
unwise things in our thoughts, words, and deeds.
Even if we can't wash them all away, we should try
at least to relieve them somewhat. Although you may
still have some fire left, let there just be enough
to cook your food or light your home. Don't let
there be so much that it burns your house down.
The only way to put
out these fires is to meditate and develop thoughts
of good will.
The mind won't feel any anger, hatred, or ill will,
and instead will feel nothing but thoughts of
sympathy, seeing that everyone in the world aims at
goodness, but that our goodness isn't equal. You
have to use really careful discernment to consider
cause and effect, and then be forgiving, with the
thought that we human beings aren't equal or
identical in our goodness and evil. If everyone were
equal, the world would fall apart. If we were
equally good or equally bad, the world would have to
fall apart for sure. Suppose that all the people in
the world were farmers, with no merchants or
government officials. Or suppose there were only
government officials, with no farmers at all: We'd
all starve to death with our mouths gaping and dry.
If everyone were equal and identical, the end of the
world would come in only a few days' time. Consider
your body: Even the different parts of your own body
aren't equal. Some of your fingers are short, some
are long, some small, some large. If all ten of your
fingers were equal, you'd have a monster's hands. So
when even your own fingers aren't equal, how can you
expect people to be equal in terms of their
thoughts, words, and deeds? You have to think this
way and be forgiving.
* * *
When you can think
in this way, your good will can spread to all people
everywhere, and you'll feel sympathy for people on
high levels, low levels, and in between. The big
ball of fire inside you will go out through the
power of your good will and loving kindness.
This comes from
getting life insurance: practicing tranquillity
meditation so as to chase the defilements away from
the mind. Thoughts of sensual desire, ill will,
lethargy, restlessness, and uncertainty will vanish,
and the mind will be firmly centered in
concentration, using its powers of directed thought
to stay with its meditation word -- buddho --
and its powers of evaluation to create a sense of
inner lightness and ease. When the mind fills itself
with rapture -- the flavor arising from
concentration -- it will have its own inner food and
nourishment, so that whatever you do in thought,
word, or deed is sure to succeed.
July, 1958; August
10, 1957
There are two kinds
of food for the mind: the kind that gives it
strength and the kind that saps its strength. What
this refers to is (1) the food of sensory contact --
the contact that takes place at the eye, ear, nose,
tongue, body, and intellect. There are six mouthfuls
of this kind of food. (2) The food of consciousness,
i.e., the consciousness of contact that takes place
at each of the six senses. There are six mouthfuls
of this kind, too. (3) The food of intention or
mental concomitants, i.e., the thoughts that are
formed in the heart, leading it to think of the past
or future and to know if things are good or bad,
pleasant or painful. Once we know that our body and
mind depend on these kinds of food, we should use
our discernment to reflect on them and evaluate them
carefully.
Discernment is what
forms the teeth of the mind. When children are
small, they need to depend on others to mince or
strain their food; but when they grow up, they have
their own teeth and don't need to depend on anyone
else. If people are really discerning, they don't
need to chew coarse food at all. For example, an
intelligent hunter, once he's killed an animal, will
remove the feathers and wings or cut off the antlers
and hooves and take home just the useful part. Then
he cuts the meat off in pieces so that it can serve
as food. In other words, if he's intelligent, he
throws away the inedible parts piece by piece.
In the same way,
intelligent people who want the inner quality of
dispassion have to take the discernment that comes
from concentration and use it to evaluate sights,
sounds, smells, tastes, etc., so that these things
can serve a purpose and not do them any harm.
Whoever eats an entire fish -- bones, scales, fins,
feces, and all -- is sure to choke to death on the
bones. For this reason, we have to find a knife and
chopping block -- in other words, use mindfulness to
focus on, say, a visual object, and discernment to
consider what kind of object it is. Is it something
we should get involved with or not? What kind of
benefits or harm will it cause for the mind? If it's
a visual object that will cause harm to the mind,
you shouldn't get involved with it. If it's a
good-looking object, look for its bad side as well.
Be a person with two eyes. Sometimes an object looks
good, but we don't look for its bad side. Sometimes
it looks bad, but we don't look for its good side.
If something looks beautiful, you have to focus on
its bad side as well. If it looks bad, you have to
focus on its good side, too.
If you aren't
selective in what you eat, you can ruin your health.
Pleasing objects are like sugar and honey: They're
sure to attract all sorts of ants and flies.
Disagreeable objects are like filth: In addition to
carrying germs, they're sure to attract all sorts of
other bad things, too, because they're crawling with
flies and worms. If we aren't discerning, we'll
gobble down the filth together with the worms and
smelly parts, and the sugar together with the ants
and flies. Your heart is already in poor health, and
yet you go gobbling down things that are toxic. When
this happens, no one can cure you but you yourself.
For this reason, you
have to keep the heart neutral, on the middle path.
Don't be pleased by the objects you think are
pleasing; don't hate the objects you think are
disagreeable. Don't be a person with only one eye or
one ear. When you can do this, you're equipped with
discernment. You can spit visual objects, sounds,
smells, tastes, etc., out of the heart. Once you can
see that "good" has "bad" hiding behind it, and
"bad" has "good" hiding behind it -- in the same way
that the body has both a front and a back -- you
shouldn't let yourself fall for sights, sounds,
smells, etc. You have to consider them carefully.
The mind has two
basic sorts of food: good mental states and bad
mental states. If you think in ways that are good,
you'll give strength to the mind. If you're
discerning, you'll get to eat fine food. If you
aren't, you'll have to eat crude food -- e.g.,
you'll get a crab and you'll eat the whole thing
raw, without knowing how to boil it and peel away
the shell and the claws. The effort of meditation is
like a fire; concentration is like a pot;
mindfulness, like a chopping block; and discernment,
a knife. Intelligent people will use these things to
prepare their food so that its nourishment -- the
nourishment of the Dhamma -- will permeate into the
heart to give it five kinds of strength:
(1) The strength of
conviction.
(2) The strength of
persistence: The heart, when we're persistent, is
like the wheels of an automobile that keep turning
and propelling it toward its goal, enabling us to
see the gains that come from our persistence.
(3) The strength of
mindfulness: Having mindfulness is like knowing when
to open and when to close your windows and doors.
(4) The strength of
concentration: Concentration will be firmly
established in the mind whether we're sitting,
standing, walking, lying down, speaking, or
listening. We can listen without getting stuck on
what's said, and speak without getting stuck on what
we say.
(5) The strength of
discernment: We'll gain wisdom and understanding
with regard to all things, so that eventually we'll
attain purity of mind -- by letting go of all
thoughts of past and future, and not being pleased
or displeased by any sights, sounds, smells, tastes,
etc., at all.
October 6, 1958
There are three ways
in which people order their priorities: putting the
world first, putting themselves first, and putting
the Dhamma first.
Putting the world
first:
There's nothing at all dependable about the affairs
of the world. Stop and think for a moment: Ever
since you were born, from your first memory up to
the present day, what is the best thing that has
ever happened in your life? What is the most
enjoyable thing? What have you liked the most? If
you answer, you have to say that of all the things
in the world, only 50 percent are satisfactory; the
other 50 are unsatisfactory. But if you asked me,
I'd answer that there's nothing satisfactory about
the world at all. There's nothing but stress and
misery. You get friends and they take advantage of
you. You get possessions and you have to worry about
them. You get money and you end up suffering for it.
The people you work with aren't as good as you'd
like them to be. Your family and relatives are
nothing but trouble. In short, I don't see anything
that really brings a person any real happiness. You
get money and it brings trouble. You get friends and
they make you suffer. The people you live and work
with don't get along smoothly. This is the way it is
with the world. For this reason, anyone whose mind
runs along in the current of the world is bound for
nothing but pain and sorrow. The Buddha taught, "For
the mind not to be affected by the ways of the world
is to be serene and free from sorrow: This is the
highest good fortune."
The world has eight
edges, and each edge is razor sharp, capable of
slicing human beings to bits without mercy. The
eight edges of the world are, on the one side, the
edge of wealth, the edge of status, the edge of
praise, and the edge of pleasure. These four edges
are especially sharp because they're things we like.
We keep polishing and sharpening them, and the more
we do this the sharper they get, until ultimately
they turn around and slit our throats.
The other side has
four edges too, but actually they're not so sharp,
because no one likes to use them. No one wants them,
so no one sharpens them, and as a result they're
dull and blunt -- and like dull knives, they can't
kill anyone. These four edges are loss of wealth,
loss of status, criticism, and pain. No one wants
any of these things, but they have to exist as part
of the world.
How are the sharp
edges sharp? Take status for an example. As soon as
people gain status and rank, they start swelling up
larger than they really are. You don't have to look
far for examples of this sort of thing. Look at
monks. When they start out as ordinary junior monks,
they can go anywhere with no trouble at all, along
highways and byways, down narrow alleys and back
streets, anywhere they like. But as soon as they
start getting a little ecclesiastical rank, they
start getting abnormally large. The roads they used
to walk along start feeling too narrow. They have
trouble walking anywhere -- their legs are too long
and their feet too heavy. Their rears are too large
for ordinary seats. (Of course, not all high-ranking
monks are like this. You can find ones who don't
swell up.) As for lay people, once they're hit by
the edge of status, they start swelling up too, to
the point where they can hardly move. Their hands
get too heavy to raise in respect to the Buddha.
Their legs get so big they can't make it to the
monastery to hear a sermon or observe the precepts
-- they're afraid they'd lose their edge. This is
how one of the edges of the world kills the goodness
in people.
As for the edge of
wealth, this refers to money and possessions. As
soon as we get a lot, we start getting stingy. We
become wary of making too many offerings or of being
too generous with others because we're afraid we'll
run out of money. This is why rich people tend to be
stingy and drown in their wealth. As for poor
people, they can give away everything and then work
to replace it. They can give offerings and be
generous, with rarely any sense of regret. Their
arms and legs aren't too big, so they can come to
the monastery with no trouble at all.
The edge of pleasure
is very sharp, because wherever you get your
pleasure, that's where you get stuck. If your
pleasure comes from your friends, you're stuck on
your friends. If your pleasure comes from your
children or grandchildren, you're stuck on your
children and grandchildren. If your pleasure comes
from eating, sleeping, or going out at night, then
that's where you're stuck. You're not willing to
trade in your pleasure for the sake of inner worth
because you're afraid of letting your pleasure fall
from your grasp. You can't observe the five or eight
precepts because they make you force and deny
yourself. If you observe the eight precepts, you
can't go see a movie or show and can't sleep on a
nice soft mattress. You're afraid that if you miss
one evening meal, you'll get hungry or weak. You
don't want to sit and meditate because you're afraid
your back will hurt or your legs will go numb. So
this is how the edge of pleasure destroys your
goodness.
As for the edge of
praise, this too is razor sharp. When people are
praised, they start floating and don't want to come
down. They hear praise and it's so captivating that
they forget themselves and think that they're
already good enough -- so they won't think of making
the effort to make themselves better in other ways.
All four of these
edges are weapons that kill our goodness. They're
like the paint people use on houses to make them
pretty: something that can last only a while and
then has to fade and peel away. If you can view
these things simply as part of the passing scenery,
without getting stuck on them, they won't do you any
harm. But if you latch onto them as really being
your own, the day is sure to come when you'll have
to meet with disappointment -- loss of wealth, loss
of status, criticism, and pain -- because it's a law
of nature that however far things advance, that's
how far they have to regress. If you don't lose them
while you're alive, you'll lose them when you die.
They can't stay permanent and lasting.
Once we realize this
truth, then when we meet with any of the good edges
of the world we shouldn't get so carried away that
we forget ourselves; and when we meet with any of
the bad edges we shouldn't let ourselves get so
discouraged or sad that we lose hope. Stick to your
duties as you always have. Don't let your goodness
suffer because of these eight ways of the world.
Putting yourself
first:
This means acting, speaking and thinking whatever
way you like without any thought for what's right or
wrong, good or bad. In other words, you feel you
have the right to do whatever you want. You may see,
for instance, that something isn't good, and you
know that other people don't like it, but you like
it, so you go ahead and do it. Or you may see that
something is good, but you don't like it, so you
don't do it. Sometimes you may like something, and
it's good, but you don't do it -- it's good, but you
just can't do it.
When you're
practicing the Dhamma, though, then whether or not
you like something, you have to make yourself do it.
You have to make the Dhamma your life, and your
life into Dhamma if you want to succeed. You
can't use the principle of giving priority to your
own likes at all.
Putting the Dhamma
first:
This is an important principle for those who
practice. The duties of every Buddhist are (1) to
develop virtue by observing the precepts, (2) to
center the mind in concentration, and (3) to use
discernment to investigate the truth without giving
rein to defilement.
The basic level of
virtue is to prevent our words and deeds from being
bad or evil. This means observing the five precepts:
not killing any living beings, not stealing, not
engaging in illicit sex, not lying, and not taking
intoxicants. These are the precepts that wash away
the gross stains on our conduct. They're precepts
that turn us from common animals into human beings
and prevent us from falling into states of
deprivation and woe.
The intermediate
level of virtue turns human beings into celestial
beings. This refers to restraint of the senses:
keeping watch over the way we react to our senses of
sight, hearing, smell, taste, feeling, and ideation
so that they don't give rise to bad mental states.
This can turn human beings into celestial beings,
but even then we haven't escaped from death and
rebirth, because when celestial beings run out of
merit they have to come back and be reborn as human
beings again. They still have to keep swimming
around in the cycle of rebirth.
Those who can gain
release from all forms of evil, however, won't have
to be reborn as animals, human beings, or celestial
beings ever again. This refers to people who
practice concentration and can abandon all evil in
their hearts by developing the stages of absorption
(jhana) and discernment until they reach the
level of Non-returning. When they die, they go to
the Brahma worlds, and there they develop their
hearts still further, purifying them of all
defilements, becoming arahants and ultimately
attaining total Liberation.
The basic level of
virtue protects our words and deeds from being evil.
The intermediate level protects our senses and keeps
them clean -- which means that we don't let the
three defilements of passion, aversion, and delusion
be provoked into action by what we see, hear, smell,
taste, touch, or think.
As for the highest
level of virtue -- inner virtue -- this means giving
rise to Right Concentration within the mind:
(1) On this level,
"not killing" means not killing off your goodness.
For instance, if bad thoughts arise and you aren't
careful to wipe them out, their evil will come
pouring in and your goodness will have to die. This
is because your mind is still caught up on good and
evil. Sometimes you use good to kill evil. Sometimes
you use evil to kill good: This is called killing
yourself.
(2) "Stealing" on
this level refers to the way the mind likes to take
the good and bad points of other people to think
about. This sort of mind is a thief -- because we've
never once asked other people whether they're
possessive of their good and bad points or are
willing to share them with us. For the most part,
what we take is their old dried up garbage. I.e., we
like to focus on their bad points. Even though they
may have good points, we don't let ourselves see
them. We take our own opinions as our guide and as a
result we end up as fools without realizing it.
(3) "Illicit
sensuality" on this level refers to the state of
mind that is stuck on sights, sounds, smells,
tastes, tactile sensations, and ideas, or that lies
fermenting in greed, anger, and delusion. In other
words, the mind is impure and is always involved
with sensual objects and moods.
(4) "Lying" on this
level means not being true. How are we not true? We
come to the monastery but our minds are at home. We
listen to the sermon but our hearts are thinking of
something else. Our bodies may be sitting in the
meditation position, just like the Buddha, but our
minds are roaming around through all sorts of
thoughts, gnawing on the past, nibbling at the
future, not finding any meat at all. This is called
lying to yourself and to others as well. How is it
lying to others? Suppose you go home and someone
asks, "Where did you go today?" and you answer, "I
went to the monastery to listen to a sermon."
Actually, your body came, but you didn't come. Your
body listened, but you didn't listen. This has to be
classed as a kind of lying.
(5) "Intoxication"
on this level refers to delusion and
absentmindedness. If we're going to contemplate
body, feelings, mind, and mental qualities, our
minds have to be still and really focused on these
things. But if we're absentminded and forgetful, our
minds go down the wrong path, weaving in and out,
back and forth like a drunkard. Sometimes we end up
falling down in a stupor and lying there on the side
of the road. Nothing good will come of it.
Those who are
careful to keep their minds firmly centered in
concentration and to keep the five precepts on this
level pure and whole, though, are said to be
developing the highest perfection of virtue --
showing respect for the Dhamma above and beyond the
world, above and beyond themselves. This is called
putting the Dhamma first in a way befitting those
who practice it. This is what it means to be a true
Buddhist in a way that will eventually lead us to
release from all suffering and stress.
Now I'd like to
explain a little about how to meditate. Sitting in
meditation is a worthwhile activity. The outer part
of the activity is to sit in a half-lotus position
with your right leg on top of your left leg; your
hands palm-up in your lap, your right hand on top of
your left. Keep your body erect. Close your eyes,
but don't close them off like a person asleep. Your
optic nerves have to keep working to some extent or
else you'll get drowsy.
These activities are
the outer aspects of good meditation, but they
aren't what makes the meditation good. You also need
to have the right object for the mind to dwell on,
and the right intention: the intention to keep the
in-and-out breath in mind, to adjust it so that it's
comfortable, and to keep the breath and mind
together so that they don't slip away from each
other. When you can do this properly, you'll gain
beneficial results in terms of both body and mind --
i.e., the right quality you're looking for, termed
"inner worth," which means a soothing sense of ease,
comfort, fullness, and well-being.
When you sit and
meditate, keep noticing whether or not your mind is
staying with the in-and-out breath. You have to keep
mindfulness in charge of the mind. For example, when
you breathe in, think bud; when you breathe
out, think dho. Bud-dho. Be mindful.
Don't let yourself forget or slip away. Put aside
all your outside responsibilities and let go of all
outside thoughts and perceptions. Keep your mind
with nothing but the breath. You don't have to turn
your attention to anything else.
Usually when you sit
and meditate, though, thoughts of past and future
tend to appear and get in the way of the quality of
your meditation. Thoughts of this sort -- whether
they're about things past or yet to come, about the
world or the Dhamma -- have no good to them at all.
They'll simply cause you trouble and suffering. They
make the mind restless and disturbed so that it
can't gain any peace and calm -- because things that
are past have already passed. There's no way you can
bring them back or change them. Things in the future
haven't reached us yet, so we can't know whether or
not they'll be in line with our expectations.
They're far away and uncertain, so there's no way
they'll be any help to our thinking at all.
For this reason, we
have to keep hold on the mind to keep it in the
present by fixing it on nothing but the breath. To
think about the breath is called directed thought,
as when we think buddho together with the breath --
bud in, dho out, like we're doing
right now. When we start evaluating the breath, we
let go of buddho and start observing how far
the effects of each in-and-out breath can be felt in
the body. When the breath comes in, does it feel
comfortable or not? When it goes out, does it feel
relaxed or not? If it doesn't feel comfortable and
relaxed, change it. When you keep the mind
preoccupied with investigating the breath, let go of
buddho. You don't have any need for it.
Mindful awareness will fill the body, and the
in-breath will start to feel as if it's permeating
the body throughout. When we let go of buddho,
our evaluation of the breath becomes more refined;
the movement of the mind will calm down and become
concentration; outside perceptions will fall silent.
"Falling silent" doesn't mean that our ears go blank
or become deaf. It means that our attention doesn't
go running to outside perceptions or to thoughts of
past or future. Instead, it stays exclusively in the
present.
When we fix our
attention on the breath in this way, constantly
keeping watch and being observant of how the breath
is flowing, we'll come to know what the in-breath
and out-breath are like, whether or not they're
comfortable, what way of breathing in makes us feel
good, what way of breathing out makes us feel good,
what way of breathing makes us feel tense and
uncomfortable. If the breath feels uncomfortable,
try to adjust it so that it gives rise to a sense of
comfort and ease.
When we keep
surveying and evaluating the breath in this way,
mindfulness and alertness will take charge within
us. Stillness will develop, discernment will
develop, knowledge will develop within us.
August 13, 1956
When you sit and
meditate, you should keep in mind the factors that
make it a worthwhile activity:
(1) The right object
for the mind -- i.e., the breath, which is the theme
of your meditation.
(2) The right
intention. This means that you focus your mind
steadily on what you're doing and nothing else, with
the purpose of making it settle down firmly in
stillness.
(3) The right
quality -- inner worth -- i.e., the calm and ease
you gain from your practice of concentration.
* * *
To have the right
object while you sit and meditate, you should have
your mind set on giving your heart solely to the
qualities of the Buddha. What this means is that you
focus on your in-and-out breathing together with the
word buddho, without thinking of anything
else. This is your object or foundation for the
mind. The mental side of the object is the word
buddho, but if you just think, buddho, buddho,
without joining it up with your breathing, you won't
get the results you want, because simply thinking on
its own is too weak to have a hold on the mind, and
as a result it doesn't fulfill all the factors of
meditation. The mind won't be snug enough with its
object to stay firmly put in its stillness, and so
will show signs of wavering.
Since this is the
case, you have to find something to give it some
resistance, something for it to hold onto, in the
same way that a nail you drive into a board will
hold it firmly to a post and not let it move. A mind
without something to hold onto is bound not to be
snug and firm with its object. This is why we're
taught to think also of the breath, which is the
physical side of our object, together with
buddho, thinking bud in with the
in-breath, and dho out with the out.
As for the factor of
intention in your meditation, you have to be intent
on your breathing. Don't leave it to the breath to
happen on its own as you normally do. You have to be
intent on synchronizing your thought of the
in-breath with the in-breath, and your thought of
the out-breath with the out. If your thinking is
faster or slower than your breathing, it won't work.
You have to be intent on keeping your thinking in
tandem with the breath. If you breathe in this way,
this is the intention that forms the act (kamma)
of your meditation (kammatthana). If you
simply let the breath happen on its own, it's no
longer a theme of meditation. It's simply the
breath. So you have to be careful and intent at all
times to keep the mind in place when you breathe in,
and in place when you breathe out. When you breathe
in, the mind has to think bud. When you
breathe out, it has to think dho. This is the
way your meditation has to be.
The quality of inner
worth in centering the mind comes when you make the
body and mind feel soothed and relaxed. Don't let
yourself feel tense or constricted. Let the breath
have its freedom. Don't block it or hold it, force
it or squeeze it. You have to let it flow smoothly
and easily. Like washing a shirt and hanging it out
to dry: Let the sun shine and the wind blow, and the
water will drip away by itself. In no time at all
the shirt will be clean and dry. When you meditate,
it's as if you were washing your body and mind. If
you want the body to feel clean and fresh inside,
you have to put it at its ease. Put your eyes at
ease, your ears at ease, your hands, feet, arms, and
legs all at their ease. Put your body at ease in
every way and at the same time don't let your mind
get involved in any outside thoughts. Let them all
drop away.
* * *
When you wash your
mind so that it's clean and pure, it's bound to
become bright within itself with knowledge and
understanding. Things you never knew or thought of
before will appear to you. The Buddha thus taught
that the brightness of the mind is discernment. When
this discernment arises, it can give us knowledge
about ourselves -- of how the body got to be the way
it is and how the mind got to be the way it is. This
is called knowledge of form and name or of physical
and mental phenomena.
Discernment is like
a sail on a sailboat: The wider it's spread, the
faster the boat will go. If it's tattered and torn,
it won't catch the wind, and the boat will have to
go slowly or might not even reach its goal at all.
But if the sail is in good shape, it will take the
boat quickly to its destination. The same holds true
with our discernment. If our knowledge is only in
bits and pieces, it won't be able to pull our minds
up to the current of the Dhamma. We may end up
sinking or giving up because we aren't true and
sincere in what we do. When this is the case, we
won't be able to get any results. Our good qualities
will fall away and sink into our bad ones. Why will
they sink? Because our sails don't catch the wind.
And why is that? Because they're torn into shreds.
And why are they torn? Because we don't take care of
them, so they wear out fast and end up tattered and
torn.
This is because the
mind spends all its time entangled with thoughts and
ideas. It doesn't settle down into stillness, so its
discernment is tattered and torn. When our
discernment is in bits and pieces like this, it
leads us down to a low level -- like a log or post
that we leave lying flat on the ground, exposed to
all sorts of dangers: Termites may eat it or people
and animals may trample all over it, because it's
left in a low place. But if we stand it up on its
end in a posthole, it's free from these dangers,
apart from the minor things that can happen to the
part buried in the ground.
The same holds true
with the mind. If we let it drift along in its
ideas, instead of catching hold of it and making it
stand firmly in one place -- i.e., if we let it make
its nest all the time in concepts and thoughts
--it's bound to get defiled and sink to a low level.
This is why the Buddha taught us to practice
centering the mind in concentration so that it will
stand firm in a single object. When the mind is
centered, it's free from turmoil and confusion, like
a person who has finished his work. The body is
soothed and rested, the mind is refreshed -- and
when the mind is refreshed, it becomes steady,
still, and advances to a higher level, like a person
on a high vantage point -- the top of a mountain,
the mast of a boat, or a tall tree -- able to see
all kinds of things in every direction, near or far,
better than a person in a low place like a valley or
ravine. In a low place, the sun is visible for only
a few hours of the day, and there are corners where
the daylight never reaches at all. A mind that
hasn't been trained to stand firm in its goodness is
sure to fall to a low level and not be bright. But
if we train our minds to a higher and higher level,
we'll be sure to see things both near and far, and
to meet up with brightness.
These are some of
the rewards that come from centering the mind in
concentration. When we start seeing these rewards,
we're bound to develop conviction. When we feel
conviction, we become inspired to pull our minds
even further -- in the same way that a sail that
isn't torn can take a boat to its destination
without any trouble. This is one point I want to
make.
Another point is
that discernment can also be compared to an airplane
propeller. When we sit here stilling our minds, it's
as if we were flying an airplane up into the sky. If
the pilot is sleepy, lazy, or in a blur, we're not
safe. No matter how fantastic the plane may be, it
can still crash us into a mountain or the forest
wilds, because the pilot doesn't have any
mindfulness or alertness. So when we sit meditating,
it's like we're flying an airplane. If our
mindfulness is weak and our mind keeps wandering
off, our airplane may end up crashing. So we have to
keep observing the body to see where at the moment
it feels painful or tense; and keep check on the
mind to see whether or not it's staying with the
body in the present. If the mind isn't with the
body, it's as if the pilot isn't staying with his
airplane. The Hindrances will have an opening to
arise and destroy our stillness. So when we sit and
meditate, we have to make sure that we don't get
absentminded. We have to be mindful and alert at all
times and not let the mind slip away anywhere else.
When we can do this, we'll develop a sense of
comfort and ease, and will begin to see the benefits
that come from mental stillness.
This insight is the
beginning of discernment. This discernment is like
an airplane propeller. The more we practice, the
more benefits we'll see. We'll be able to take our
plane as high as we want, land it whenever we feel
like it, or try any stunts that occur to us. In
other words, when we develop discernment within
ourselves we can have control over our mind. If
we want it to think, it'll think. If we don't want
it to think, it won't think. We know how to keep our
own mind in line. If we can't keep ourselves in
line, there's no way we can expect to keep anyone
else in line. So if we're intelligent, it's like
being a pilot who can keep a plane under his full
control. We can keep the mind in line. For example,
if it thinks of something bad, we can order it to
stop and rest, and the thought will disappear. This
is called keeping the mind in line. Or if we want it
to think, it will be able to think and to know. Once
it knows, that's the end of the matter, and so it
will then stop thinking. Whatever we want it to do,
it can do for us. According to the Buddha, people
like this are called sages because they have
discernment: Whatever they do, they really do. They
know what is harmful and what isn't. They know how
to put a stop to their thinking and as a result they
very rarely meet with suffering.
As for stupid
people, they simply fool around and drag their feet,
pulling themselves back when they should go forward,
and forward when they should go back, spending their
days and nights thinking about all kinds of nonsense
without any substance. Even when they sleep, they
keep thinking. Their minds never have any chance to
rest at all. And when their minds are forced to keep
working like this, they're bound to run down and
wear out, and won't give any good results when
they're put to use. When this happens, they suffer.
But if we have the
discernment to be alert to events, we can let go of
what should be let go, stop what should be stopped,
and think about what needs to be thought about. We
can speak when we should speak, act when we should
act -- or simply stay still if that's what's called
for. People who work day and night without sleeping,
without giving their bodies a chance to rest, are
killing themselves. In the same way, thoughts and
concepts are things that bring on the end of our
life and destroy our mind -- because they keep the
mind working whether we're sitting, standing,
walking, or lying down. Sometimes, even when we're
just sitting alone, we keep thinking -- which means
we're killing ourselves, because the mind never gets
a chance to rest. Its strength keeps eroding away;
and eventually, when its strength is all gone, its
good qualities will have to die.
So when we sit here
centering our minds, it's like eating our fill,
bathing ourselves till we're thoroughly clean, and
then taking a good nap. When we wake up, we feel
bright, refreshed, and strong enough to take on any
job at all.
This is why the
Buddha was able to develop such strength of mind
that he was able to do without food, for example,
for seven full days and yet not feel tired or weak.
This was because his mind was able to rest and be
still in the four levels of absorption. His
concentration was strong and gave great strength to
his body, his speech, a
