Sankhāra es una de las palabras más versátiles y desafiantes que se encuentran en las enseñanzas budistas. Se basa en una raíz etimológica que significa “hacer” o “hacer” (√kr), y por tanto está relacionada con la palabra karma. Karma tiene tanto un sentido activo, que se refiere a las acciones que realizamos en el momento, como un sentido más pasivo, que apunta a las consecuencias pasadas y futuras de esas acciones.

La palabra sankhāra refina esto aún más al utilizarse en tres sentidos: 1) las intenciones o cualidades de la mente que dan forma a una acción; 2) las actividades de cuerpo, habla y mente que ejecutan dichas acciones; y 3) el residuo kármico que resulta de esas acciones, que luego sirve como campo subyacente del que surgen nuevas intenciones y acciones. Por ejemplo, la emoción de la ira da lugar a una palabra, un acto o un pensamiento de ira, lo que hace que la persona se sienta más inclinada a la ira en el futuro. Debido a esta inclinación, una persona que ha practicado el enfado durante mucho tiempo ha moldeado su personalidad de tal forma que podríamos decir que está predispuesta al enfado.

Por supuesto, todo esto aplica también a los estados mentales y emocionales positivos. Cuando una persona siente compasión, la pone en práctica con hechos, palabras o pensamientos, y genera tendencias habituales subyacentes hacia la compasión, convirtiéndose en una persona predispuesta a la compasión. O sea que los estados mentales inducen comportamientos que dan lugar a los rasgos de personalidad correspondientes.

Así pues, el concepto de sankhāra se sitúa en el centro de un proceso de fabricación mediante el cual nos formamos a nosotros mismos a través de nuestras continuas respuestas al mundo. En un modelo psicológico que carece de un yo fijo, el yo se forma y se vuelve a formar a cada momento por la naturaleza de nuestras intenciones, acciones y disposiciones resultantes. Estamos continuamente “formando formaciones”, como dice un texto (sankhāram abhisankharoti, que utiliza la palabra como sustantivo y como verbo), con lo que nos moldeamos y remodelamos constantemente tanto a nosotros mismos como al mundo por la calidad de nuestras respuestas.

Sankhāra es también el nombre de uno de los cinco agregados, las cinco funciones de la mente y el cuerpo que interactúan regularmente entre sí para dar forma a nuestra experiencia. Mientras que la forma material, el tono de los sentimientos, la interpretación perceptiva y la conciencia nos ayudan a comprender lo que ocurre en cada momento, el agregado de formaciones (sankhāra) guía como actuamos al respecto.

El reto consiste en responder con habilidad en lugar de con torpeza, y el sankhāra es una herramienta que puede manejarse con ilusión o con sabiduría.

♦

This article previously appeared on Tricycle as What’s in a Word: Sankhāra. 

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As the Buddha describes the workings of the mind, a moment of experience builds from the incoming information of sensory input and gradually becomes more complex. The mind is not a preexisting thing but an unfolding interactive process.

When a sense object impinges on a sense organ, an episode of awareness occurs—consciousness emerges as an interaction between the body and its environment. This moment of contact also gives rise to a feeling tone, which is to say the sense object is felt as pleasant, painful, or something in between. 

At the same moment the sense object is felt, it is also perceived, which is to say that we interpret what it is in light of past experience, conceptual knowledge, and language. Perception is a form of “making sense” of what we are seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling, touching, or thinking, labeling it in some way so it fits into the story we are always creating and living.

Next, we are likely to “think about” that object and that story. Once we have an image or a word in mind, we can turn that over and reflect upon it. This is where our powers of recognition, association, prediction, and imagination show themselves. These thoughts then serve as further inputs into the system, building upon and interacting with one another to weave the tapestry of a rich inner life.

But sometimes this process gets carried away, and this is where papañca comes in. Sometimes the thoughts come in such profusion that it can feel relentless and even overwhelming. Sometimes we just can’t stop thinking about things, or we can’t stop ruminating with the same patterns of thought over and over. This is papañca—perhaps you have experienced it yourself?

The word is based on the idea of something “spreading out,” or proliferating, much as weeds might take over a garden or spilled water might spread out to cover a table. The mind, which at its best can be a powerful tool for examining and understanding the world, becomes an out-of-control train hurtling relentlessly down the track. This affliction seems widespread in the modern world and is both a source and a symptom of much stress, anxiety, and unhappiness.

Papañca can be managed, just as a wild elephant can be tamed. It requires patience, discipline, kindness, understanding, and many of the states of heart and mind that are cultivated with the practice of mindfulness.

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Sankhāra is one of the more versatile and challenging words found in Buddhist teachings. It is based on a root meaning “to do” or “to make” (√kr), and is therefore related to the word karma. Karma has both an active sense, referring to the actions we perform in the moment, and a more passive sense, pointing to the past and future consequences of those actions.

The word sankhāra refines this further by being used in three ways: 1) the intentions or qualities of mind that shape an action; 2) the activities of body, speech, and mind that execute the actions; and 3) the karmic residue that results from the actions, which then serves as an underlying field from which new intentions and actions emerge. For example, the emotion of anger gives rise to an angry word or deed or thought, which then makes one more inclined to anger in the future. Because of this inclination, a person who has practiced being angry for a long time has shaped their personality such that we might say they are disposed to anger.

Of course this all works for positive mental and emotional states as well. When a person feels compassion, acts it out by deed or word or thought, and thereby generates underlying habitual tendencies toward compassion, these render them disposed to compassion. Another way to say this is that states of mind induce behaviors that result in corresponding personality traits.

The concept of sankhāra thus lies at the heart of a process of fabrication by which we shape ourselves through our ongoing responses to the world. In a psychological model lacking a fixed self, the self is formed and re-formed every moment by the nature of our intentions, actions, and ensuing dispositions. We are continually “forming formations,” as one text puts it (sankhāram abhisankharoti—using the word as both a noun and a verb), thereby constantly shaping and reshaping both ourselves and our world by the quality of our responses.

Sankhāra is also the name of one of the five aggregates, the five functions of mind and body that regularly interact with one another to shape our experience. While material form, feeling tone, perceptual interpretation, and consciousness help us understand what is going on each moment, the aggregate of formations (sankhāra) guides what we do about it.

The challenge is to respond skillfully rather than unskillfully, and sankhāra is a tool that can be wielded with delusion or with wisdom.  

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Like many important Buddhist words, anicca points to what something is not rather than to what it is. The Sanskrit word nitya (spelled nicca in Pali) denotes what is constant, perpetual, and therefore eternal. It has the sense of something being regularly occurring, or always occurring in a regular manner.

When the prefix a- is added, the meaning is reversed. Thus the Buddhist term anitya, or anicca, which is almost always translated as “impermanent,” might be more precisely rendered “inconstant” or “changeable.” It recognizes that human experience is always changing, becoming something different than it is, and uncovers the truth that because of this it is unstable.

For example, in the early Buddhist texts, gratification is commonly said to be found in things such as the sense organs and their corresponding objects, since they can give rise to both physical and mental pleasure. But there is also a danger inherent in them because they inevitably change and become something other—they are inconstant and unreliable. The only solution or escape from this limitation is the removal of desire for such changeable things.

In the Buddha’s very first discourse, he pointed to the impermanence of all phenomena and revealed that because of this inconstancy, everything is ultimately unsatisfying and tainted with suffering. The gratification we find in things is sure to collapse as they change.

This is the reason nothing is fit to be regarded as constituting or belonging to a consistent self. The core Buddhist teaching of nonself is not so much stating that a self does not exist as it is identifying the self as being as impermanent, inconstant, and unsubstantial as every other conditioned thing.

Insight into these three characteristics of phenomena—impermanence, suffering, and nonself—lies at the heart of wisdom. Giving careful attention to the perception of impermanence is thus an important practice for developing this wisdom.

In mindfulness meditation one closely observes the arising and passing away of bodily sensations, feeling tones, states of mind, and mental objects, thereby discerning their impermanence. You can actually see for yourself how the mind is “moving and tottering, impermanent, changing, becoming otherwise,” as one text (Samyutta Nikaya 35.93) puts it, by simply looking inward.

Perhaps the most intimate and profound encounter any of us can have with the truth of impermanence is the recognition of how fleeting, and thus precious, this human life—even this very moment—actually is. 

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The Buddha walked around the Ganges Valley for forty-five years, teaching and interacting with kings, merchants, monks, nuns, wanderers of other traditions, and laypeople of all kinds. He told stories, invented metaphors, gave examples, and generally responded creatively to whatever situations he encountered as he conveyed his teachings. In doing so, he also laid out a remarkably consistent and cohesive body of oral literature composed of numerous lists and repeating refrains of prose and verse that overlapped and reiterated one another.

His words were remembered, as was the custom of this preliterate age, and were recited in groups on a regular basis to keep them fresh and accurate. Like those given by other wandering sages of the time, his teachings were organized around theory, practice, and discipline. The dharma (Pali, dhamma) recorded his formal teachings, while the vinaya preserved guidelines for the lifestyle of the monks and nuns of his community (sangha).

Alongside these two collections there grew up an additional body of work called abhi-dharma, or material “having to do with the dharma,” that further expanded his teachings into what became the third of the “three baskets” (tripitaka) of classical Buddhist literature. Abhidharma texts used a different literary style that was devoid of stories and parables, instead consisting of lists of technical terms in twos and threes, definitions of technical vocabulary, and psychological maps of the many complex ways mental states can arise and pass away interdependently. The impulse to treat the Buddha’s teachings in a more abstract and systematic way was likely started by Shariputra, the follower most highly praised by the Buddha for his wisdom, and the project continued to evolve for several centuries.

The abhidharma literature was originally rooted in the description of meditative experience, but as time progressed the approach became more philosophically sophisticated. It developed along two parallel lines, one in the South using the Pali language, and one in the North using Sanskrit. This abhidharma tradition followed Buddhism into China and Tibet, continuing to mature over time.

In one version, for example, we find: 28 material phenomena (18 concrete, 10 non-concrete);  89 levels of consciousness (54 sense-sphere, 15 fine material-sphere, 12 immaterial and 8 supramundane); 52 mental factors (7 universal, 6 occasional, 14 unwholesome, and 25 wholesome); arising and passing away in 17-mind-moment cognitive series; all conditioning and being conditioned over 3 time periods by 24 causal relationships.

All of this is described in exhaustive detail.

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In Sanskrit the word ātman is used by Hindus for the soul, that most essential part of the self that is deeply embedded in the body but is immaterial and indestructible and reincarnates when one dies. Buddhists reject this idea as a comforting but mistaken viewpoint that does not stand up to deep empirical investigation and posit instead a foundational concept of anātman (“not-ātman” or “non-ātman”), which in Pali is spelled anattā.

The Buddhist critique of ātman is subtle and goes beyond simply denying that a self exists. At the heart of the matter is how to regard the very word “exists.” According to Buddhism, phenomenological events do occur, but ontological entities do not underlie them. The functions associated with a self, such as thoughts and emotions, “exist” in the sense that they happen, but it is a projection of our language and imagination to say further that a solid entity, a spiritual essence, an unchanging substance or a transcendent energy therefore “exists” as something beyond these occurrences.

The processes known as the five aggregates really do take place: Bodies unfold as transient material configurations in a changing material environment; feelings of pleasure and pain arise and pass away according to circumstances; the mind perceptually interprets the information flowing in upon the senses to create stories; emotional responses take place every moment and result in volitional actions; and awareness of all this unfolds in a stream of conscious moments, one following another. The Buddhist insight is simply that there is nothing that remains constant amid all this change. No agent is in control of what happens, and there is no one to whom it all belongs. Even rebirth is a flowing on of the stream from one life to another: the one who is born is not the same as the one who dies.

Early Buddhists emphasized that there is no person within the five aggregate functions outlined above, and therefore the interdependent psychological factors co-arising to construct lived experience are best described by the word “non-self” or “not-self.” Later Buddhists extended this thought to declare that there are no substantial realities underlying the interdependent metaphysical phenomena making up the entire cosmos—it is all best described as empty of self.

The concept need not be as mysterious as it is often taken to be. Just see the difference in your own experience, next time it rains on your picnic or someone cuts you off in traffic, if you don’t take it personally. This is just what is happening; no self, no problem.

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Meditation is something you do on a cushion, right? Okay, maybe at a retreat center like the Insight Meditation Society you also do it walking slowly back and forth, and maybe even while standing, lying down, and eating. But at work? Work is what you come back to (usually quite reluctantly) after you have been on retreat, right? Or, maybe it is possible to meditate doing some kinds of work, like chopping wood or carrying water. The slow, steady repetition of simple manual tasks might be a fruitful field of practice. But a fast-paced, high-powered, high-stress professional job? Couldn’t be. How can a busy executive or office worker practice meditation without leaving the office or even holding all calls? There is, I submit, a simple answer: By doing Vipassana.

When most people think of meditation, they probably think of someone sitting serenely on a cushion in some pristine setting—beside a brook, in a Zen garden, or at a retreat center. Everything is calm and still; a half-smile on one’s face hints at the bliss one feels while breathing in and savoring the serenity. This is indeed an ideal setting for samatha or concentration meditation, but Vipassana, or insight meditation, is something different. Insight meditation is about mindfulness, whether or not it is accompanied by deep concentration.

Is it possible to perform at high speed in complex situations with mindfulness? I think it is. A challenging—even overwhelming—job can be an ideal practice ground for insight meditation. In my own experience, I have found it makes all the difference to keep in mind three basic things:

Change is OK

The first is that change—even high-speed change—is OK. It is inevitable, unavoidable, inescapable, natural. Constant change is the medium within which we work, the very ocean in which we swim. Recognizing this, we can embrace it. It is our friend, not our enemy. So much of our stress, and therefore our suffering, comes from resistance to, or resentment of, change.

If we accept at a very basic level that things will always come up, that we will always be interrupted, that each moment is born anew and nothing intrudes on anything else, then stress never has a chance to develop. If we pay attention—are mindful—in that narrow instant between the change and the attachment or aversion with which we respond to the change, then we have undermined the entire apparatus which produces and nurtures stress.

The Whole World is Imperfect

The second thing I find enormously helpful is recognizing that the whole world—including myself—is imperfect. Everything is so subtly but profoundly flawed that nothing will ever be “just right.” You will never “get there.” Something will always go wrong. Anything that works will surely break. This truth is sometimes called the law of entropy, sometimes “Murphy’s Law,” and, in ancient Buddhist texts, the noble truth of suffering. It is not a form of pessimism, for it is not to say that anything is bad or evil, just that our tendency to want to perfect things is unrealistic.

For the busy professional, or for anyone doing any kind of work, recognizing the limitations of our own capabilities, of our abilities to influence the environment, and of the environment itself in which we work, can be very liberating. It is not an excuse for shoddy work, and it leaves plenty of room for the notion of excellence. But knowing when to stop, when to let go of something, when to say (as carpenters do) “close enough, nail it!” frees us up to face the next moment, the next challenge, the next project. The tendency in many of us towards perfectionism can be debilitating. Either we get so bogged down on one thing that something else is neglected and we lose perspective, or we get so discouraged by the result of our labors not turning out good enough that we often do not get from our work the sense of satisfaction we deserve.

Everything is Empty

Thirdly, and probably most importantly, I find it helpful to recognize that everything in the world—including myself—is empty. Everything we are dealing with in our universe of experience is an idea, a construction, a fabrication. Words, symbols, money, plans, thoughts—all of it is just a mirage, an illusion, a theatrical performance we conjure up and participate in moment after moment. One of my favorite expressions, attributed to Chuang-tzu, comes in a discussion of epistemology when he says (in Burton Watson’s translation): “What makes things so? Making them so makes them so.” In other words, this whole world we’ve put together is all thoroughly arbitrary.

It can be profoundly comforting to realize that there is no intrinsic value to anything. Everything has only as much value as we decide to give it. Again, this is not a teaching of despair; it is not to say that everything is meaningless and therefore there is no point in getting engaged. Quite the contrary. Giving value to what we are doing is crucial, precisely because it has no intrinsic value of its own. Everything we do, everything we say, and even every little thing we think, is tremendously important—it just, ultimately, doesn’t matter all that much.

If we attend to everything we do in our lives with great care and precision, with mindfulness and clear comprehension, then we are investing our work with meaning. If we lose sight of the fact that it all has no meaning beyond what we give it, then we can get caught—very caught—by our affairs. If the work we do takes on too much significance, especially if it takes on significance we are not aware of having given it ourselves, then we become the slaves of our work. Our happiness, our very sense of meaning and self-worth, then rises or falls on the shirt-tails of something “out there” over which we often have almost no control.

In moments capable of creating the greatest amount of stress, when things are almost overwhelming, I often remark to myself or to a colleague, “Boy, it’s a good thing everything is empty!” With those words comes a great sense of relief, a great lightening of the load. If it were not all empty, then we would have to take everything so seriously and get so locked in to things that there would be no room for freedom. Recognizing the emptiness of everything does not diminish what we have to do to attend to a matter with responsibility and excellence, but it does dramatically change our relationship to what we have to do.

A busy, challenging work situation is like one of those video games where everything is rushing at you at immense speed and you are called upon to respond instantaneously. The pace and complexity of things are in your face, demanding your full attention and calling upon you to be present at every moment. What a gift for the practice of mindfulness! If you are sincere about developing and nurturing Buddhist values, you do not have the luxury of losing your temper, of treating people harmfully, of using wrong speech, or of a whole array of unhealthy states. And if you are not right there with every experience, it is so easy to lose your freedom.

If you are tied in to everything, without accepting change, without realizing the imperfection of it all, without the space between yourself and the world given by the perspective of emptiness, then you can’t help but react to events with those latent tendencies that incline you to cling to the things that give you pleasure and resist the things associated with pain. But when you embrace change, accept the inherent limitations of oneself and others, and use mindfulness to access the space of freedom, then you can survive and even thrive on the challenging complexity of a busy life. Every little detail, every thought, word, and deed, becomes immensely important—but, with the right perspective, they become our playthings rather than our tormentors.

⧫

From the Spring 1995 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 11, No. 2) Text © 1995–2020 by Andrew Olendzki

Related Inquiring Mind article:

• “Getting Real About Exhaustion”
  

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The person known to us as the Buddha went by many names in his time. While growing up, he was known by his given name, Siddhartha; when wandering as a renunciate, he used a name from his mother’s lineage, Gautama; sometimes he was called the sage of his father’s Shākya line, Shākyamuni; and his followers always addressed him with the honorific title Bhagavā, which is usually translated as “Lord” or “Blessed One.” After his enlightenment, however, whenever he referred to himself, he invariably used the curious term Tathāgata.

The Buddha himself seems to have invented this word. The first half of the term is straightforward: it is the common adverb “thus” (tathā-). But the second half, based on the past participle of the verb meaning “to go,” can be taken either as “gone” (-gata) or “come” (-āgata). We tend to favor the former and translate it literally as “The One Who Has Thus Gone.” But what does this mean?

To begin with, the term is referring to a process rather than an entity, which is in keeping with the Buddha’s teachings about everything being in flux. All agent nouns are contingent constructions anyway, so it would not do for him to go by an ordinary name. Even buddha is a descriptive title rather than a name, referring to one who has awakened to an enlightening experience.

Hints of the origins of the term can be found in the suttas. One such hint is in a touching poem in the Khuddaka Nikaya that soothes a mother’s grief at the loss of her son (Therīgāthā 127–132). We find birth and death referred to twice in the poem as a process of “coming and going” (āgatassa gatassa), followed by the expression “As he has come, so has he gone” (yathāgato tathā gato). The phrase gato means “to depart,” but in the case of the Buddha we know he was not reborn, so the term would necessarily apply to him in a different way.

We find another clue in a story told of seafarers who release a bird they’ve brought with them when they think they’re approaching shore (Anguttara Nikaya 6.54). If the bird does not return to the boat (a sign that it has found land nearby), the story says, it is “gone for good” or “truly gone” (tathāgatako).

It is likely that the label Tathāgata refers to the Buddha as a person who has quenched the fires of greed, hatred, and delusion such that he will no longer be reborn. He will live out his life, wandering and teaching, but after the inevitable dissolution of his body he will be truly gone, leaving no traces behind—other than the dhamma and the sangha, of course.

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As is the case in most languages, the root term for the concept “to be” (bhū) in Sanskrit and Pali can cover a lot of territory. It underlies the word for the earth (bhūmi, “ground, soil”), can refer to the elements (bhūta, “that which has come to be”) or a ghost (bhūta, “one who has been”), and is used to designate the various cosmological spheres of existence (bhāva, “that which exists”).

Buddhist thought is based on process thinking, wherein all things are so thoroughly becoming something else that they never actually exist as anything in themselves. Thus, the simple verb “to be” more often carries a sense of movement or development than one of static existence (bhavati, “coming to be”).

There is also a so-called causative grammatical form in these languages (bhāveti, “causing to be”) from which the most common Pali word for “meditation” (bhāvanā, “causing to develop”) emerges. Meditation is thus regarded as a process of gradual cultivation, of slowly encouraging certain (healthy) mental and emotional states to arise and strengthen while allowing other (unhealthy) states to diminish and pass away.

The most familiar example of this usage is probably the cultivation of lovingkindness (Pali, mettā-bhāvanā). Here a person calls up the emotion of caring for oneself and others and systematically “causes it to develop” by steadily expanding and reinforcing the presence of lovingkindness in the heart. This is done by visualizing an ever-widening sphere of inclusion, from oneself to others and eventually to all beings, a practice that is supported by reciting such phrases as “May I/you/they be safe, well, and happy.”

Notice that the method of cultivating this healthy mind state, of causing it to develop, is to repeat it often, and the word for this (bahulī-kata, “practiced frequently”) is commonly found paired with bhāvanā. For example, developing and often practicing (bhāvanā bahulīkata) the factors of awakening, such as mindfulness, inclines a person toward greater wisdom and eventual liberation.

We also find the word applied to the cultivation of insight (vipassanā–bhāvanā). This is the meditation practice that steadily observes what is arising and passing away moment by moment in the stream of experience, with an attitude of equanimity. When practiced often, insight into the constant change, the inherent instability, and the impersonal nature of all phenomena gradually develops and matures into wisdom that is able to see clearly the way things actually are.

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The word samvega, spelled the same in Pali and Sanskrit, comes from a verbal root meaning “to tremble” or “to move in agitation” and is sometimes translated simply as “fear.” It is a special kind of fear, however—one that is useful and beneficial and that has a positive sense relating to the teachings of the Buddha.

When a lion roars in the forest, all the animals tremble and scurry to their places of refuge. This is not the fear of a helpless victim but a fear that stirs them to action for their own safety. In the same way, when a Buddha roars out the truth of aging, sickness, and death—the truth of impermanence, suffering, and nonself—those who are wise are moved by the profound sense of spiritual urgency called samvega, which spurs them to follow the teachings and clear their minds of greed, hatred, and delusion before death overcomes them.

This trembling sense of urgency that motivates people and stirs up energy can be triggered by any of the Buddha’s teachings, but those pointing toward the fragile and fleeting nature of the human condition are especially effective. Some catch on by merely hearing that life is short and will surely end. Even mindfulness of the body is said to incline the mind toward a supreme sense of urgency, as one becomes intimate with the passing away of moments. Others must first experience the passing away of an acquaintance or a loved one, and still others are driven to action only when they are themselves touched by illness or directly face death.

We are used to thinking of fear as a negative emotion, but unlike other forms of alarm, samvega is not rooted in underlying mental toxins and can lead to happiness when properly understood and acted upon.

Samvega often is paired with the bright and beneficial quality of pasada (Skt., prasada)—the confidence and clarity that comes from knowing that the Buddha, dharma, and sangha offer a sure way out of trouble: the teacher has shown the way by his example, he has left clear instructions for others to follow, and an enduring community exists to support all who seek refuge.

Together, samvega and pasada act as stick and carrot to inspire us all to liberation. The goad urges us on, while the goal shines brightly in view ahead.

♦

Scholar Trent Walker examines the central role that the concepts of samvega and pasada play in the lyrics and performance of Cambodian dharma songs in his article “Dharma Songs to Stir and Settle.”

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