Once a week, for more than five years, seven Buddhist devotees met with Phra Atid, a resident monk at Wat Thao Thaen Noi, outside of Chiang Mai, Thailand, where they would study English and practice meditation together. This simple community connection was taken for granted until March 2020, when everything changed. “There were no Buddha Day ceremonies, monks had to wear masks on alms rounds, people could not come to the temple, and monks could not go to their homes. Everything was quiet. Monks were afraid of COVID-19, and people were also afraid of catching COVID from monks. This has never happened before,” recalls Phra Atid. 

In temples across Thailand, daily life for monks is typically filled with community interaction. From the morning alms round to the evening chanting at the temple, laypeople interact with monks as both supporters and spiritual companions. Laity stop by temples in the afternoon to make offerings of “monk baskets” (known as sangkhathan), where they offer necessities like toilet paper, soap, and toothpaste. They invite monks to their homes and businesses to provide blessings. When someone dies or is ordained, or during Buddhist holidays, groups of family members arrive to help cook, clean, and decorate temples. Most temples even have a regular group of volunteers, usually older men and women, whom they count on to provide the materials and organization necessary for daily affairs and special events.

The pandemic disrupted this important codependent relationship. In March 2020, temples had to limit their availability to outside community members, the majority of whom weren’t allowed to return until July 2022. During that time, there were occasional periods when Thai Buddhists were allowed to enter temples, but these often led to temple closures and further monastic isolation from the outside world. 

To the uninitiated, Buddhist monks might appear to be isolated figures who would not necessarily be disturbed by a global pandemic. But the Buddha purposefully designed monastic life to depend on laity so that monks would not retreat into themselves. The Buddha taught his lay followers to take care of monastic material needs, and monks to take care of laity’s spiritual needs. The Itivuttaka: The Group of Fours, a collection of short sayings from the Pali Canon, makes it plain:

Monks, brahmans, and householders are very helpful to you, as they provide you with the requisites of robes, alms food, lodgings, and medical requisites for the sick. And you, monks, are very helpful to brahmans and householders, as you teach them the Dhamma [dharma] admirable in the beginning, admirable in the middle, admirable in the end; as you expound the holy life both in letter & meaning, entirely complete, surpassingly pure. In this way the holy life is lived in mutual dependence, for the purpose of crossing over the flood, for making a right end to stress.

The pandemic directly challenged this built-in, mutual support. During the height of the pandemic, the laity, particularly the elderly, were afraid to be close to the monks during their alms rounds, and with shops and markets closed or operating in limited capacities, the collection of alms became impossible for lengthy periods. 

Likewise, at the beginning of the pandemic, monks were too afraid to let laypeople inside the temple. After hearing of job losses and other economic troubles, however, they realized that the monastics needed to take care of the community, not turn away from it. Wat Sansai Don Kok, a temple on the outskirts of Chiang Mai, organized a fundraiser to donate to those in need. In May 2020, the temple’s monks set up an offering table, where around 200 people donated daily. With all the food and money collected, both monks and laypeople handed out meals to feed the community. This reversal of roles, with monks offering material goods to laity, is unusual but not unheard of in extreme circumstances and is an example of the symbiotic relationships monastics form with the community.

There was also an unexpected trend in the support that village temples received over city temples, with village monks often receiving more support than city monks. For example, two monks who studied at Chiang Mai–based monastic college Mahachulalongkornrajavidyalaya University but who live in the village temples of Wat Sansai Don Kok and Wat Thao Thaen Noi—both situated outside the city—felt supported by their temple’s lay community, even during isolation. One monk stated: “We are lucky to stay outside the city because at least we get enough food. In the city temples, like Wat Phra Singh and Wat Chedi Luang, friends told me it’s hard to get enough food for everyone, because the number of monks is more crowded there.”

Phra Jarun lives at Wat Sansai Don Kok, where a handful of dedicated community members regularly support the monks. One middle-aged layman, Phra Jarun recalled, was particularly dedicated before the pandemic. He arrived early for every temple activity, and whenever the temple was fundraising for construction or renovation projects, he could be counted on to donate. These close relationships, built over many years, translated into continued support and concern during COVID.

Wat Thao Thaen Noi has about forty regular supporters. After the pandemic began, several of these regular attendees called to inquire about the monks’ health and needs. The monastic residents received food that was dropped off at the front gates of the temple, instead of in their alms bowls. Although the four monks in the temple were well-fed, Phra Atid missed the intimacy of the community. At the same time, he felt grateful for the care and support offered to him and the other monks at the temple, reasoning that, “Because I used to walk on alms round to collect food before COVID, people knew me and that I would need food during lockdown. That is why they thought to ask what we needed. If monks didn’t used to go on alms round, then people might think they are OK in the temple. If you don’t go on alms round, then it’s difficult to make connections.”

City temple communities, by contrast, are more diffuse, making city monks more dependent on the donations of a variety of people. Some of these city monks are fortunate enough to have a main sponsor for their needs. However, these monks found it hard to request daily meals, when usually the support would be spread out amongst the community. Monks living in city temples also rely on invitations to conduct funerals or blessings for new homes, cars, or businesses, at least once a week, and they receive monetary donations for these services. These invitations stopped entirely because of COVID-19 protocols. Moreover, with the economy suffering, many city workers returned to their home villages. 

This distance between monks and laity during the last two years also influenced monastic education and recruitment. High school teachers at monastic schools usually take a few weeks before the school year begins to visit several rural villages, locating families who would like their sons to study as novice monks. Novices are boys under 20 who ordain with ten precepts, instead of the 227 rules of the fully ordained male monk (bhikkhu). At Wat Nong Bua, a temple school outside of Chiang Mai, only 108 novices enrolled in 2022, compared with 180 novices of 2019. 

Parents in these rural villages became accustomed to being home with their children, and now consider sending their children to the nearby public high school instead of monasteries, which may be hours away. It is difficult to know if links such as these will be repaired quickly or if the severed connections between temple schools and villages will have more long-lasting effects.

The pandemic also disrupted temporary ordination, another common monastic recruitment effort. Temples typically host summer novice ordination programs for middle- to high-school–aged boys, followed by a kind of summer camp, for three weeks of the school holiday in March and April each year. These camps occur at temples with facilities large enough to invite boys from the countryside to participate. Before the pandemic, up to a hundred novices might ordain at one of these camps. Not all the boys stay on with the monastery, but a significant number, usually from more disadvantaged families, remain and create a pipeline of monastics for temple life. At Wat Chetuphon in Chiang Mai, about a dozen used to stay in robes, but for the last two years, there has been no camp, resulting in low monastic recruitment.

Unfortunately, monastic enrollment decreased, while the number of monks disrobing increased. According to a teacher at Wat Nong Bua, for recently ordained boys, the experience of monasticism and education was boring because they were forced to study online and spend all their time inside the temple. Many of these boys decided to disrobe, preferring to attend weekend school and to work during the week. 

Without monks and laity being able to interact regularly, monks were unable to share teachings, give blessings, or receive offerings. At the same time, laity had limited access to merit, the temple environment, or developing relationships with monks. As well, fewer boys participated in monastic life and education, making the future generation of monastics uncertain. Laity have gotten out of the habit of going to the temple, and the new generation has not yet followed the custom of regularly making offerings to monks and attending temple festivities.  

This lack of participation in the monastic life and interaction with the laity during the pandemic will have a ripple effect for the future of monasteries across Thailand.  

After finally being able to collect alms again and offer blessings after one year of feeling trapped in his temple, Phra Achinta of Wat Suan Dok felt “like the freedom of leaving jail.” He missed teaching meditation to the laity and all the discussions he would have with fellow monks from other city temples. Clearly, there are monks who missed the regularity of the monastic life, which they could count on as a way to spread and practice the dharma. However, for those young men who are not yet accustomed to the joys of temple life, the pandemic made staying in robes a more difficult proposition. It remains to be seen whether these two years will have a lasting effect on the monastic population in Thailand, or if the dharma will continue to attract those willing to put forth the effort.

The post COVID Inside the Monastery appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

The second installment in the series of women in the Vinaya (the division of the Buddhist canon that lays out the structure of monastic life), what follows is a retelling of a story recorded in the Kshudrakavastu, a scripture from the Vinaya of the Mulasarvastivada school of the Sanskrit tradition. 

It’s the story of the nun Krsha Gautami, who survived a series of staggering personal losses, as well as horrific violence, in her life. Even after all of this, however, she went on to achieve states of great realization. (Note: There is no relation to Gautama Buddha, but Venerable Krsha will be familiar to readers of the Pali canon, where she’s referred to as Kisa Gautami.)

As it is told in Pali scripture, after losing her young son, Krsha Gautami begged the Buddha to restore him to life. By way of response, the Buddha gave her the famous instruction involving a mustard seed. As told in Sanskrit, her story is longer and her losses are greater. The story’s first half is this: 

Before she was a nun, Krsha was a young woman married to the son of a close family friend. She had already borne one child, and as the time drew near for her to give birth to their second, they set out for her mother’s house. When Krsha went into labor early, her husband drew their chariot to the side of the road. Not knowing how to help her, he fell asleep beneath a tree, and Krsha gave birth alone in the chariot, their toddler son nearby.

Somehow pulling herself together soon after giving birth, she stepped out of the chariot and carried their newborn to where her husband lay—only to find that he had been bitten by a venomous snake in his sleep, and died. As Krsha stood weeping over his body with her infant and toddler in her arms, a thief made off with the horse that drew their chariot, stranding them. 

At that moment, the sky filled with dark clouds and it started to rain. Water overtook the road with shocking swiftness. There was no choice but to wade through it.

“If I try to cross with the children,” she realized, with growing alarm, “all three of us will drown.”

Indeed the water was treacherous, and the two children together unwieldy. She left the toddler on the near bank, and waded across carrying the baby, who she set down on the far bank, then began doubling back for the other.

She was mid-river when a fox appeared. The water was high enough to prevent her from moving quickly. In the time it took her to turn around, the fox had snatched up the baby and carried it into the woods. Krsha froze, then began to leap up and down, waving her hands and crying out after the fox. The toddler, thinking she was calling him, stepped toward her, off the bank and into the water. He disappeared into the river. To her horror, Krsha was unable to save either one of them.

Husband and children torn from her, she was devastated. She stood on the riverbank in the middle of the wilderness, with nothing but a cloth wrapped around her lower body, and heard only the sound of the rushing water and the crying birds. She sobbed for her husband, for her toddler, and for the newborn. All but choking with tears of pity and compassion, with her hands she drew together a mound of earth.

Amid great hardship Krsha fights her way back to her family. Finally she arrives and finds that in the interim, her parents too had passed away. She was overcome by a second wave of traumatic grief. Her reflections appear in verse, in the manner of the sutras.

Why did I remain at home?
What profit did it bring me?
Husband, friends and family ripped away—
I shall go, for it makes no sense to linger.
Better to stay in the forest, alone,
Than to live in an empty house.
The household life is sin—of what use is it, then?
It multiplies our sorrows and suffering.

She goes off into the forest, intending to remain alone for the rest of her life. There she met a kindly older woman who invited her home. When Krsha had recovered enough, they began spinning thread together, eking out a living through shared labor. 

Despite Krsha’s stated wish to remain alone, her elder friend pressed her to remarry—specifically, to marry a handsome young man who returned often to their house to buy thread.

“Daughter,” the elder woman said, “the young weaver asked after you. He has no wife. You should assent, and be happy.”

“Enough—never speak of this again,” the younger woman said. “I’m disenchanted with household life. Come what may, I’ll never live that way again.”

“Daughter,” said the elder, “a woman’s life is tenuous. We dwell in states of suffering. Such opportunities are rare. Reflect on our condition, give him your assent, and stay with him. If you don’t, it will be a mistake.”

Eventually Krsha relented, and on a suitable day, date, and time the young weaver took her into his house. But he was cruel…

In light of the extremely graphic violence that unfolds over the course of their marriage, we will refrain from narrating it. It is enough to say that when finally Krsha escaped her monstrous husband, her body, spirit, and mind were battered to the point of utter brokenness. Her mind turned again and again to all the ways she had been hurt.

Exposed to the elements, and starving, she went mad and tossed away her lower garment. Her hands and feet were cracked, her coarse hair long and grey, her appearance grotesque. She wandered aimlessly until she came to Śrāvastī.

Now, the Buddha has stated that the ripening of sentient beings’ karma is inconceivable. And the fruits of Krsha’s past actions flowered such that she had the experience of coming to Jetavana…

The Buddha sat in Jetavana Grove, teaching the dharma to a vast assembly of monks. To Krsha he appeared to shine, like a bright lamp placed in a golden vessel, if that vessel were hung high in a tree, and that tree were covered with gems. Just the sight of him was enough to return her to her senses. Realizing that she was unclothed amid the monastic assembly, she ran and huddled in a corner.

One can imagine the shock of the assembly of male monastics at her presence. As for the Buddha, his response was an expression of his infinite compassion. He turned to his assistant. “Ananda, give a cloak to the caravan leader’s wife Krsha Gautamī,” he said, referencing her happy first marriage, “and I shall give her a discourse on the dharma.”

Venerable Ananda brought her a cloak. Krsha Gautami wrapped it around herself, and went to where the Blessed One was seated, bowing before she took a seat at one side.

It would be hard for most of us to find the right words to say to Krsha Gautami at such a moment of extreme distress, but the Buddha understood her exactly. Although the story does not share the teaching he offered, it must have been perfectly suited to her heart. She immediately attained the realization of a stream enterer, buoyed up by a newfound understanding that would carry her inevitably, all the way to awakening.

Eyes wide, Krsha stood and requested ordination into the order of nuns. “Lord,” she said, “I wish to go forth from home life, to become a novice and achieve the state of full ordination in the monastic discipline and dharma which you have spoken so beautifully. Will the Blessed One permit me to practice the religious life in his presence?”

The Buddha assented, and handed her over to Mahaprajapati, the woman who had raised him and was now the head of the nun’s order. Mahaprajapati ordained her as a novice, then conferred upon her full ordination, trained her in the discipline, and gave her personal instruction. It was not long before Venerable Krsha attained arhatship, the state beyond all emotional distress. In time, the Buddha would commend her as foremost among the fully ordained nuns in upholding the monastic discipline.

***

Later, a group of younger nuns were questioning their decision to become ordained and curious about the pleasures of household life—whether it held something for them that they could not find as nuns. When they asked Venerable Krsha for advice, she offered them the story of all that had happened to her—the grief and pain that made up her former life.

As she recounted one by one the losses of her first husband, children, mother, and father, they grew disenchanted with their imaginings. As she turned to the violence of her second marriage, goosebumps covered their bodies, and they trembled as they listened.

It was then that Venerable Krsha, knowing what was in their hearts, gave them a discourse on the dharma such that they realized for themselves the four noble truths.

As her story is told in Pali, Kisa Gautami finds healing and renunciation as she goes door to door. Hearing the stories of others’ grief, she realizes the universality of suffering—no one suffers alone. This understanding begins to lift her despair.

As told in Sanskrit, the learning comes the other way round. As Venerable Krsha tells her story to the younger nuns, renunciation dawns within them. The two versions of the story agree: shared grief becomes the way to freedom.

♦

See here for the story of Mahaprajapati, the Buddha’s stepmother and the first nun.

The post Through Grief to Freedom: The Story of Krsha Gautami appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

The Setting in Motion of the Wheel of Dhamma” is a typical English translation of dhammacakkappavattana, the title of the discourse (sutta in Pali, or sutra in Sanskrit—a Buddhist scriptural text) that recounts the Buddha’s delivery of his first teaching. The elevated tone of this translation highlights the reverential image of the teaching conveyed by this discourse. And the discourse itself is revered. According to tradition, it reports the Buddha’s first teaching following his awakening, and it’s also considered first in importance among the many thousands of discourses in the Pali Buddhist scriptures. It’s a discourse with its own holiday—Asalha Puja—when some 150 million Theravada Buddhists celebrate it as embodying the Buddha’s entire teaching. There’s an alternative translation for the title, though. This alternative is just as accurate, and no less respectful than “The Setting in Motion of the Wheel of Dhamma.” It may be less lofty in tone, but the alternative I’m going to suggest is more respectful of the significance of the discourse. Rather than an authoritative image of the first teaching, this alternative foregrounds the spirit of the Buddha’s teachings more broadly: the view that the teachings themselves reveal of the story the discourse tells and the doctrines it conveys.

But first, the image—the story and doctrines of the first teaching. The discourse begins with the Buddha addressing five former fellow renunciants from his pre-enlightenment life. Succinctly, the Buddha sets forth to these five disciples-to-be the wisdom that he attained on the night of his transcendence: the middle way, the noble eightfold path, and the four noble truths. Just hearing the Buddha synopsize these never-before-heard doctrines in bare outline immediately propels one of the five, Kondanna, into a vision that precipitates his enlightenment. The cries of celestial beings approving the teaching—and the commencement of its propagation—rise up through the eight heavenly realms. The 10,000 worlds of the universe tremble as a radiance heralding the advent of the Buddha’s teaching issues into reality.

The absolute confidence of the fully enlightened teacher, the potency of the doctrines, and the endorsement of the deities all contribute to an image of supreme religious authority. This image of the teaching implies a revealed, capital-“T” Truth, from an inerrant Buddha who bestows it on humanity fully-formed, inviolable and beyond question.

Beyond the portentous tone, translations of dhammacakkappavattana like “The Setting in Motion of the Wheel of Dhamma” accord with the language and symbolism of the discourse. Pavattana means “setting in motion.” The Pali word dhamma is fairly represented, of course, by “Dhamma.” When dhamma refers to the Buddha’s teachings, some monastic translators always translate it as capital-“D” Dhamma—not only in titles—though the earliest scripts that record Pali have no capital letters. Some monastics simply translate it as “Truth” (yes, capital “T”), though it’s never used even to mean “truth” in the Pali Canon.  In our title, dhamma means “teachings”—specifically, the Buddha’s teachings.

Cakka certainly means “wheel.” Judging by the title, the wheel was apparently as important a Buddhist symbol when the discourse was framed as now. The point of the symbolism follows from the story in the discourse: once people start to take these teachings up, they will inevitably pass from person to person due to their intrinsic value, just as a wheel, due to its shape, will continue to roll once set in motion. 

And this isn’t just any wheel. The title brings to mind a great, massive, powerful wheel, an image of grandeur and majesty. This is a wheel that turns with relentless, irresistible momentum—perhaps with an extra associative push from another weighty Buddhist symbol, the wheel of dependent origination. The closed circle of the wheel conveys an impression of the teachings as unitary, complete, and perfect. The symbolism reinforces our sense of the first teaching as revelation.

So our usual English-language title for the discourse reflects its reverential image of the first teaching rather well. As I mentioned though, there’s an alternative that takes us beyond this image. Consider that pavattana means not only “setting in motion” but also “set turning” or “get rolling.” And that cakka means not only “wheel” but also “eye” (and by extension, “vision”), “sphere,” “circle,” “discus,” and (among other meanings) “ball.” With these meanings in view, cakkappavattana can be translated literally as “getting the ball rolling.”

As a translation of dhammacakkappavattana, “Getting the Ball of the Dhamma Rolling” has much to recommend it. It may not pack the gravitas of “The Setting in Motion of the Wheel of Dhamma.” But this is what recommends it. I’m not really joking with this suggestion (though I hope you’ll see the humor)—we do well by the Buddha’s teachings to ratchet down the loftiness of our translation a peg or two.

From a broader viewpoint, we can understand the doctrines announced in the first teaching not as the foundation of the teachings that would follow—for instance, the gradual training, the dependent origination, and the three characteristics of existence—but rather as interlocking with and complementary to them (and sometimes as complicating or contradicting them). For instance, the first teaching posits the four noble truths—the Buddha’s teaching on the nature and resolution of suffering— as encompassing all of the other teachings, just as the expanse of the “elephant’s footprint” (as in MN 28) accommodates the footprints of every other animal in the forest. But the doctrine of the three characteristics—the main topic of many other discourses—offers a similarly comprehensive map of our existence, one we can understand in turn as encompassing the four noble truths.

Actually, the three characteristics make an uncredited cameo in our discourse—in Koṇḍañña’s pronouncement as he opens his eyes (literally, his “dhamma eye”) to the Buddha’s first teaching. Koṇḍañña exclaims, “whatever is subject to arising is subject to ceasing” (yaṅkiñci samudayadhammaṃ sabbantaṃ nirodhadhamman ti). With this declaration, he bears witness to anicca (“transience” or “impermanence”), the first of the three characteristics this doctrine ascribes to all phenomena. The other two, anatta (“lack of immutable self, soul, or essence”), and dukkha (“imperfection,” “unsatisfactoriness,” or “suffering”—the subject of the four noble truths), intertwine with and are entailed by this first characteristic. A key point is that these three characteristics, again, mark all phenomena.

So this teaching extends to the teachings themselves. The ideas expressed in the Buddha’s teachings—and certainly the texts that record them—are anicca, subject to change, and therefore we must consider how they may have changed since the Buddha’s time. Viewing them as natural phenomena (as opposed to supernatural ones), we’d imagine them to have evolved. In their passage through the minds of countless human beings over the course of Buddhist history—for several hundred years as oral tradition, and then for several thousand through imperfectly-transmitted manuscripts—they would have developed into just the intricate, overdetermined web of ideas that we now regard as Buddhist ideas.

From this perspective, the Buddha’s first teaching in the discourse reads less like a first presentation of new ideas than, in the words of scholar Richard Gombrich, “a set of formulae, expressions which are by no means self-explanatory but refer to already established doctrines” (my italics). Johannes Bronkhorst points to versions of the discourse in other canons that omit the four noble truths entirely, arguing on this and other evidence that this doctrine represents a later addition to the Pali Canon version. The four noble truths and perhaps other core doctrines may have originated not as chronologically first or even early teachings, but as systematized formulations from a later time.

Gombrich cautions, “of course we do not really know what the Buddha said in his first sermon.” This acknowledgment of uncertainty resonates with the teachings of Thai forest master Ajahn Chah, who saw uncertainty itself as an aspect of anicca.  Rather than regretting or denying uncertainty, Ajahn Chah encourages us to observe it, reflect on it, and meditate on it. “Whatever pops up,” Ajahn Chah teaches, “just stick this one label on it all—‘not sure.” He explains, “what we call uncertainty, here, is the Buddha. The Buddha is the dhamma. The dhamma is the characteristic of uncertainty.”

None of this diminishes the value of the Dhammacakkappavattana Sutta or the ideas it conveys. From the viewpoint of anicca, we don’t need an inerrant Buddha whose words are true because he said them, or because someone said he said them. We don’t need a fully-formed, beyond-question dharma. Such conceptions of the Buddha and the dharma incline us towards—as surely as they are products of—the authoritarian religious impulse. (If “authoritarian” seems excessive here, reflect that authoritarianism, at root, simply means commitment to authority—typically, an idealized, original authority—as a first principle.)

Buddhist ideas, like any ideas, are true or useful not because of who said them, or how ancient they are, or whether they reflect the intended meaning of a sacred text. They are true to the degree that they correspond to how things are. And they are useful to the degree that they are beneficial. The four noble truths are both true and useful not as revealed dogma but as sources of insight to spur our own wise responses to our deepest problems. We oughtn’t to locate the truth or goodness of the Buddha’s teachings in their origins or in orthodoxy. We can have truth—if only imperfectly—for our authority, rather than authority for our truth (to paraphrase Lucretia Mott).

We are as prone to the authoritarian religious impulse as the ancient monastics who enshrined it in some but not all of the canonical teachings, as well as orthodox traditionalists through the ages who infused some but not all of our Buddhist practices and traditions with it. We can rely not on unquestioned tradition, but rather on our clear-eyed, self-aware discernment, which values tradition critically and creatively, recognizing and resisting the authoritarian impulse.

We can regard the Buddha as a wise but human teacher, an innovator who introduced a set of original, insightful, useful ideas, or perhaps just the germs of such ideas (and possibly, some less useful ones). We don’t need him to have been inerrant, omniscient, or otherwise perfect. We can understand the Buddha’s ideas as natural phenomena, rather than supernatural ones—and therefore, in dharma terms, as anicca, uncertain and subject to change.

Our English title for the discourse on the first teaching is also anicca. Where now we have “The Setting In Motion of the Wheel of Dhamma,” the phrase cakkappavattana may once have had just the same idiomatic meaning in Pali as “get the ball rolling” does for us today. In English, the idiom simply means, “get something started.” The narrative frame of the discourse, if not its image of the first teaching, suggests that the Pali phrase did have this idiomatic meaning. Getting something started is just what the Buddha does in this discourse. This is ample cause for celebration on Asalha Puja, also known as “Dhamma Day.”

To understand the Dhammacakkappavattana Sutta strictly from the orthodox, authoritarian viewpoint—as announcing not just the start, but also the middle and end of the dharma (the “Truth”)—is to miss the point of the dharma itself. So let’s update our title here. “Getting the Ball of the Dhamma Rolling” sets us up for a discourse in a modern sense of “discourse”: a conversation we can join.

The Buddha got the ball rolling. We can pick up the ball of the dharma and roll it further along ourselves. We can be “Buddhists” as followers of a human Buddha, a teacher who offered his valuable discoveries for others who came before, and now us, to take up, practice with, benefit from, experiment with, modify, and improve.

♦ 

This article is adapted from the author’s website, findingsanti.org.

The post Getting the Ball Rolling appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

After a two-year hiatus brought on by the pandemic, the International Tipitaka Chanting Program will return to India this year. When Wangmo Dixey, executive director of The Light of the Buddhadharma Foundation International (LBDFI), started the program 16 years ago, 250 local monks gathered to chant the Tipitaka, or the Pali canon, in Bodhgaya. The ceremony has since become one of the largest international gatherings in the Buddhist world, and, as Dixey explains, its impact extends far beyond the merit-making of reciting the sacred texts. 

In the summer of 2005, Dixey’s father, Venerable Tarthang Tulku, asked his daughter to find ways to connect with the eleven countries of the South East Asian Theravada community, and encourage them to return to India, particularly to Bodhgaya. Tarthang Tulku, who brought the Nyingma tradition of Tibetan Buddhism to the United States, wanted to preserve and protect the roots of Buddhism in India. “Think of a pillar,” Dixey says. “If you don’t have a foundation, how can you have the top?” 

Dixey grew up visiting Bodhgaya and was well versed in the power of gathering at the pilgrimage site thanks to her experience at the Nyingma Monlam Chenmo World Peace Ceremony, located there, which her father founded in 1989. She established the first Tipitaka Chanting Ceremony in February 2006, bringing together monks and Buddhist leaders, including the Dalai Lama and the Karmapa. In 2012, what had become an annual ceremony expanded outside of Bodhgaya to include chanting events at sacred sites like Vaisali, Shravasti, and Kushinagar. At the various pilgrimage sites, monks and local laypeople now recite the suttas that the Buddha taught there. “By bringing an auspicious event to a site, we support the local Indian people in reviving their sacred sites so they’re no longer seen as ancient monuments. They become alive through the sangha and the activity,” Dixey explains.

Every year concludes with a multi-day ceremony under the Bodhi tree, where monks from eleven countries gather to hear dharma talks and chant 1,000 pages of the Tipitaka. To date, the ceremony has brought together almost 50,000 participants, with around 5,000 participants gathering each year. This year’s program starts in New Delhi on March 22 and culminates in a 10-day ceremony in Bodhgaya starting on April 6, where the international sangha will finish chanting the Sutta Pitaka. The Light of the Buddhadharma Foundation International will also live stream certain events

Another significant development since the ceremony’s founding is the “one voice, one sound” initiative, which LBDFI introduced six years ago. At first, different sanghas would recite text simultaneously, which resulted in a cacophony of sound coming from all the different countries represented in Bodhgaya. Now, different countries’ sanghas take turns reciting parts of the Tipitaka. Every two days, a different country leads the chanting, which covers about 100 pages per day.

For the last two years, the pandemic made it unsafe for the ceremony to take place, but Dixey was determined to revive the tradition this year. “After a gap of two years, the local economy in Bodhgaya has really suffered, all the way from hoteliers, to shopkeepers, to rickshaw drivers,” Dixey says, referring to the major decrease in tourism spurred by COVID-19. “I hear in their voices a sense of sadness. The world should see the importance of making these places come alive.” 

Though fewer monks will attend this year, the domain of the ceremony continues to grow with the addition of a new site: Lucknow, chosen to deepen the connection with the Ambedkar community. 

The inclusion gets to the spirit of the Tipitaka Chanting Ceremony, which Dixey recalls by the generosity she observes each year. “The offerings are all so heartfelt. One year, we were in a big tent of 7,000 people, all being offered food by the lay people, when an older lady from Vietnam arrived. She came with a jar of honey that she had collected from her mountain village, and wanted to make it an offering,” Dixey says. “Coming from the West, where we have so much, to see this authentic giving is a teaching in itself.” 

This year will also see the offering of a Maitreya statue—more than seven feet tall—to the main Bodhgaya temple. “For the first time, at the seat of enlightenment, we’re seeing the image of Maitreya,” Dixey says. 

In addition to bringing together the communities and generating merit, the Tipitaka Chanting Program is also an important way for LBDFI to achieve its mission of revitalizing the roots of Buddhism in India. The Foundation doesn’t just support ceremonies and activate pilgrimage sites. It also impresses upon government officials the importance of these sites and works to support the local communities by encouraging economic development. Together with the Khyentse Foundation, The Corporate Body of the Buddha Educational Foundation, and the International Buddhist Confederation, LBDFI also prints and distributes dharma texts, and finally, perhaps most important to Dixey, the organization trains Indian monks.  

“We aim to train 108 monks within all the Indian states to be the holders of the Buddhist Pali canon. In the 16 years of being on the ground, we’ve seen the need to offer encouragement to Indian Buddhist groups, and assist them in their role of representing the heartland of Buddhist culture.” Both through and outside of the Tipitaka Chanting Program, Dixey works to connect Theravada masters from Southeast Asia with monks in India to help strengthen Buddhist sanghas and practice on the subcontinent. 

“I’ve learned so much from them and feel so blessed to be able to partake,” Dixey says of the masters and monks who come together for the chanting ceremony. “It shows us the true meaning of sangha and that it is possible to move from “I” to “we.”

♦

See here for more information and to join the Tipitaka Chanting Ceremony livestream.

The post After a Two-Year Hiatus, the International Tipitaka Chanting Program Returns to India This Spring appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

In his book Reading the Buddha’s Discourses in Pali, Venerable Bhikkhu Bodhi presents original sutta text from the Saṃyutta Nikāya, the third part of the Sutta Pitaka of the Pali Canon, followed by two translations: a literal translation of each sentence and a more natural English rendering, which is in bold below. The book is meant for students who have a basic grasp of Pali and want to progress in their reading, and for anyone who hasn’t studied Pali grammar but is interested in the idioms of the text. The following passage—which includes the original sutta text and the two translations—comes from chapter five and focuses on The Five Aggregates: form (rupa); perceptions (samjna); feeling (vedana); mental formations (sankhara); and consciousness (vijnana).

[1. Form]

Ekaṃ samayaṃ bhagavā ayojjhāyaṃ viharati gaṅgāya nadiyā tīre. Tatra kho bhagavā bhikkhū āmantesi: “Seyyathāpi, bhikkhave, ayaṃ gaṅgā nadī mahantaṃ pheṇapiṇḍaṃ āvaheyya. Tamenaṃ cakkhumā puriso passeyya nijjhāyeyya yoniso upaparikkheyya. Tassa taṃ passato nijjhāyato yoniso upaparikkhato rittakaññeva khāyeyya, tucchakaññeva khāyeyya, asārakaññeva khāyeyya. Kiṃ hi siyā, bhikkhave, pheṇapiṇḍe sāro?

One occasion the Blessed One at Ayojjhā was dwelling, of Ganges River on the bank. There the Blessed One the monks addressed: “Suppose, monks, this Ganges River a great foam-­lump would carry along. That-­this an eye-possessing man would see, would ponder, thoroughly would investigate. To him that seeing, pondering, thoroughly investigating, void-­just would appear, hollow-­just would appear, insubstantial-­just would appear. What for could be, monks, in foam-­lump substance?

On one occasion the Blessed One was dwelling at Ayojjhā on the bank of the Ganges River. There the Blessed One addressed the monks: “Suppose, monks, this Ganges River would carry along a great lump of foam. A clear-sighted man would see this, ponder it, and thoroughly investigate it. As he is seeing it, pondering it, and thoroughly investigating it, it would appear to him to be just void, it would appear just hollow, it would appear just insubstantial. For what substance could there be in a lump of foam?

“Evameva kho, bhikkhave, yaṃ kiñci rūpaṃ atītānāgatapaccuppannaṃ ajjhattaṃ vā bahiddhā vā oḷārikaṃ vā sukhumaṃ vā hīnaṃ vā paṇītaṃ vāyaṃ dūre santike vā, taṃ bhikkhu passati nijjhāyati yoniso upaparikkhati. Tassa taṃ passato nijjhāyato yoniso upaparikkhato rittakaññeva khāyati, tucchakaññeva khāyati, asārakaññeva khāyati. Kiṃ hi siyā, bhikkhave, rūpe sāro?

“Just so, monks, whatever form past-­future-­present, internal or external or, gross or subtle or, inferior or superior or, which far near or, that a monk sees, ponders, thoroughly investigates. To him that seeing, pondering, thoroughly investigating, void-­just would appear, hollow-­just would appear, insubstantial-just would appear. What for could be, monks, in form substance?

“So too, monks, whatever form there is, whether past, future, or present, internal or external, gross or subtle, inferior or superior, far or near: a monk sees it, ponders it, and thoroughly investigates it. As he is seeing it, pondering it, and thoroughly investigating it, it would appear to him to be just void, it would appear just hollow, it would appear just insubstantial. For what substance could there be in form?

[2. Feeling]

“Seyyathāpi, bhikkhave, saradasamaye thullaphusitake deve vassante udake udakabubbuḷaṃ uppajjati c’eva nirujjhati ca. Tamenaṃ cakkhumā puriso passeyya nijjhāyeyya yoniso upaparikkheyya. Tassa taṃ passato nijjhāyato yoniso upaparikkhato rittakaññeva khāyeyya, tucchakaññeva khāyeyya, asārakaññeva khāyeyya. Kiṃ hi siyā, bhikkhave, udakabubbuḷe sāro?

“Suppose, monks, in autumn-­time, when the big-­drops sky raining, on the water a water-­bubble arises and ceases and. That-­this an eye-­possessing man would see, would ponder, thoroughly would investigate. To him that seeing, pondering, thoroughly investigating, void-­just would appear, hollow-­just would appear, insubstantial-­just would appear. What for could be, monks, in water-­bubble substance?

“Suppose, monks, in the autumn, when the sky is raining with big raindrops falling, a water bubble arises and ceases on the water. A clear-sighted man would see this, ponder it, and thoroughly investigate it. As he is seeing it, pondering it, and thoroughly investigating it, it would appear to him to be just void, it would appear just hollow, it would appear just insubstantial. For what substance could there be in a water bubble?

“Evameva kho, bhikkhave, yā kāci vedanā atītānāgatapaccuppannā ajjhattaṃ vā bahiddhā vā oḷārikaṃ vā sukhumaṃ vā hīnaṃ vā paṇītaṃ vā yaṃ dūre santike vā, taṃ bhikkhu passati nijjhāyati yoniso upaparikkhati. Tassa taṃ passato nijjhāyato yoniso upaparikkhato rittakaññeva khāyati, tucchakaññeva khāyati, asārakaññeva khāyati. Kiṃ hi siyā, bhikkhave, vedanāya sāro?

“Just so, monks, whatever feeling past-­future-­present, internal or external or, gross or subtle or, inferior or superior or, which far near or, that a monk sees, ponders, thoroughly investigates. To him that seeing, pondering, thoroughly investigating, void-­just would appear, hollow-­just would appear, insubstantial-­ just would appear. What for could be, monks, in feeling substance?

“So too, monks, whatever feeling there is, whether past, future, or present, internal or external, gross or subtle, inferior or superior, far or near: a monk sees it, ponders it, and thoroughly investigates. As he is seeing it, pondering it, and thoroughly investigating it, it would appear to him to be just void, it would appear just hollow, it would appear just insubstantial. For what substance could there be in feeling?

[3. Perception]

“Seyyathāpi, bhikkhave, gimhānaṃ pacchime māse ṭhite majjhanhike kāle marīcikā phandati. Tamenaṃ cakkhumā puriso passeyya nijjhāyeyya yoniso upaparikkheyya. Tassa taṃ passato nijjhāyato yoniso upaparikkhato rittakaññeva khāyeyya, tucchakaññeva khāyeyya, asārakaññeva khāyeyya. Kiṃ hi siyā, bhikkhave, marīcikāya sāro?

“Suppose, monks, of summer in last month, when stood mid-­day time, a mirage shimmers. That-­this an eye-­possessing man would see, would ponder, thoroughly would investigate. To him that seeing, pondering, thoroughly investigating, void-­just would appear, hollow-­just would appear, insubstantial-­ just would appear. What for could be, monks, in a mirage substance?

“Suppose, monks, in the last month of the hot season, at midday, a mirage shimmers. A clear-sighted man would see this, ponder it, and thoroughly investigate it. As he is seeing it, pondering it, and thoroughly investigating it, it would appear to him to be just void, it would appear just hollow, it would appear just insubstantial. For what substance could there be in a mirage?

“Evameva kho, bhikkhave, yā kāci saññā atītānāgatapaccuppannā ajjhattaṃ vā bahiddhā vā oḷārikaṃ vā sukhumaṃ vā hīnaṃ vā paṇītaṃ vā yaṃ dūre santike vā, taṃ bhikkhu passati nijjhāyati yoniso upaparikkhati. Tassa taṃ passato nijjhāyato yoniso upaparikkhato rittakaññeva khāyati, tucchakaññeva khāyati, asārakaññeva khāyati. Kiṃ hi siyā, bhikkhave, saññāya sāro?

“Just so, monks, whatever perception past-­future-­present, internal or external or, gross or subtle or, inferior or superior or, which far near or, that a monk sees, ponders, thoroughly investigates. To him that seeing, pondering, thoroughly investigating, void-­just would appear, hollow-­just would appear, insubstantial-­just would appear. What for could be, monks, in perception substance?

“So too, monks, whatever perception there is, whether past, future, or present, internal or external, gross or subtle, inferior or superior, far or near: a monk sees it, ponders it, and thoroughly investigates it. As he is seeing it, pondering it, and thoroughly investigating it, it would appear to him to be just void, it would appear just hollow, it would appear just insubstantial. For what substance could there be in perception?

[4. Volitional activities]

“Seyyathāpi, bhikkhave, puriso sāratthiko sāragavesī sārapariyesanaṃ caramāno tiṇhaṃ kuṭhāriṃ ādāya vanaṃ paviseyya. So tattha passeyya mahantaṃ kadalikkhandhaṃ ujuṃ navaṃ akukkukajātaṃ. Tamenaṃ mūle chindeyya; mūle chetvā agge chindeyya; agge chetvā pattavaṭṭiṃ vinibbhujeyya. So tassa pattavaṭṭiṃ vinibbhujanto pheggumpi nādhi-gaccheyya, kuto sāraṃ? Tamenaṃ cakkhumā puriso passeyya nijjhāyeyya yoniso upaparikkheyya. Tassa taṃ passato nijjhāyato yoniso upaparikkhato rittakaññeva khāyeyya, tucchakaññeva khāyeyya, asārakaññeva khāyeyya. Kiṃ hi siyā, bhikkhave, kadalikkhandhe sāro?

“Suppose, monks, a man heartwood-­needing, heartwood-­seeking, heartwood-­search wandering, a sharp axe having taken, a woods would enter. He there would see a large plaintain-­trunk, straight, fresh, without shoots. That-­this at the root would cut; at the root having cut, at the top would cut; at the top having cut, the coil would unroll. He its coil unrolling softwood even not would find, how then heartwood? That-­this an eye-­possessing man would see, would ponder, thoroughly would investigate. To him that seeing, pondering, thoroughly investigating, void-­just would appear, hollow-­just would appear, insubstantial-­just would appear. What for could be, monks, in plantain-­trunk substance?

“Suppose, monks, a man needing heartwood, seeking heartwood, wandering on a search for heartwood, would take a sharp axe and enter a woods. There he would see a large plantain trunk, straight, fresh, without an inflorescence. He would cut it down at the root; having cut it down at the root, he would cut it off at the crown; having cut it off at the crown, he would unroll the coil. As he unrolls the coil, he would not find even softwood, how then heartwood? A clear-sighted man would see this, ponder it, and thoroughly investigate it. As he is seeing it, pondering it, and thoroughly investigating it, it would appear to him to be just void, it would appear just hollow, it would appear just insubstantial. For what substance could there be in a plantain trunk?

“Evameva kho, bhikkhave, ye keci saṅkhārā atītānāgatapaccuppannā ajjhattaṃ vā bahiddhā vā oḷārikaṃ vā sukhumaṃ vā hīnaṃ vā paṇītaṃ vā yaṃ dūre santike vā, taṃ bhikkhu passati nijjhāyati yoniso upaparikkhati. Tassa taṃ passato nijjhāyato yoniso upaparikkhato rittakaññeva khāyati, tucchakaññeva khāyati, asārakaññeva khāyati. Kiṃ hi siyā, bhikkhave, saṅkhāresu sāro?

“Just so, monks, whatever volitional-­activities past-­future-­present, internal or external or, gross or subtle or, inferior or superior or, which far near or, that a monk sees, ponders, thoroughly investigates. To him that seeing, pondering, thoroughly investigating, void-­just would appear, hollow-­just would appear, insubstantial-­just would appear. What for could be, monks, in volitional-­activities substance?

“So too, monks, whatever volitional activities there are, whether past, future, or present, internal or external, gross or subtle, inferior or superior, far or near: a monk sees them, ponders them, and thoroughly investigates them. As he is seeing them, pondering them, and thoroughly investigating them, they would appear to him to be just void, they would appear just hollow, they would appear just insubstantial. For what substance could there be in volitional activities?

[5. Consciousness]

“Seyyathāpi, bhikkhave, māyākāro vā māyākārantevāsī vā catummahāpathe māyaṃ vidaṃseyya. Tamenaṃ cakkhumā puriso passeyya nijjhāyeyya yoniso upaparikkheyya. Tassa taṃ passato nijjhāyato yoniso upaparikkhato rittakaññeva khāyeyya, tucchakaññeva khāyeyya, asārakaññeva khāyeyya. Kiṃ hi siyā, bhikkhave, māyāya sāro?

“Suppose, monks, a magician or a magician-­apprentice or at a crossroads a magical-­illusion would display. That-­this an eye-­possessing man would see, would ponder, thoroughly would investigate. To him that seeing, pondering, thoroughly investigating, void-­just would appear, hollow-­just would appear, insubstantial-­just would appear. What for could be, monks, in a magical-­illusion substance?

“Suppose, monks, a magician or a magician’s apprentice would display a magical illusion at a crossroads. A clear-sighted man would see this, ponder it, and thoroughly investigate it. As he is seeing it, pondering it, and thoroughly investigating it, it would appear to him to be just void, it would appear just hollow, it would appear just insubstantial. For what substance could there be in a magical illusion?

“Evameva kho, bhikkhave, yaṃ kiñci viññāṇaṃ atītānāgatapaccuppannaṃ ajjhattaṃ vā bahiddhā vā oḷārikaṃ vā sukhumaṃ vā hīnaṃ vā paṇītaṃ vā yaṃ dūre santike vā, taṃ bhikkhu passati nijjhāyati yoniso upaparikkhati. Tassa taṃ passato nijjhāyato yoniso upaparikkhato rittakaññeva khāyati, tucchakaññeva khāyati, asārakaññeva khāyati. Kiṃ hi siyā, bhikkhave, viññāṇe sāro?

“Just so, monks, whatever consciousness past-­future-­present, internal or external or, gross or subtle or, inferior or superior or, which far near or, that a monk sees, ponders, thoroughly investigates. To him that seeing, pondering, thoroughly investigating, void-­just would appear, hollow-­just would appear, insubstantial-­just would appear. What for could be, monks, in consciousness substance?

“So too, monks, whatever consciousness there is, whether past, future, or present, internal or external, gross or subtle, inferior or superior, far or near: a monk sees it, ponders it, and thoroughly investigates it. As he is seeing it, pondering it, and thoroughly investigating it, it would appear to him to be just void, it would appear just hollow, it would appear just insubstantial. For what substance could there be in consciousness?

[6. Liberation]

“Evaṃ passaṃ, bhikkhave, sutavā ariyasāvako rūpasmimpi nibbindati, vedanāyapi nibbindati, saññāyapi nibbindati, saṅkhāresupi nibbindati, viññāṇasmimpi nibbindati. Nibbindaṃ virajjati. Virāgā vimuccati. Vimut-tasmiṃ vimuttamiti ñāṇaṃ hoti. ‘Khīṇā jāti vusitaṃ brahmacariyaṃ kataṃ karaṇīyaṃ nāparaṃ itthattāyā’ti pajānātī”ti.

“Thus seeing, monks, the learned noble-­disciple in form-­too is disenchanted, in feeling-­too is disenchanted, in perception-­too is disenchanted, in volitional-­activities-­too is disenchanted, in consciousness-­too is disenchanted. Being disenchanted, becomes dispassionate. Through dispassion is liberated. In liberated ‘liberated’ thus knowledge occurs. ‘Finished birth, lived the spiritual-­life, done what-­is-­to-­be-­done, not-­further for such-­a-­state,’ understands.”

“Thus seeing, monks, the learned noble disciple becomes disenchanted with form, disenchanted with feeling, disenchanted with perception, disenchanted with volitional activities, disenchanted with consciousness. Being disenchanted, he becomes dispassionate. Through dispassion he is liberated. In regard to what is liberated, the knowledge occurs thus: ‘Liberated.’ He understands: ‘Finished is birth, the spiritual life has been lived, what had to be done has been done, there is no further for this state of being.’”

The post The Simile of the Lump of Foam  appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

“Meditation” is a vague term.

Even in English it has two opposing meanings: thinking and not-thinking. But unsurprisingly, since the word meditation is derived from Latin, the term can be even more confusing when it comes to Buddhist meditation and its recent offshoot, secular mindfulness.

In the Pali canon, there’s no single word for meditation. Mindfulness (sati) is part of vipassana bhavana, or the cultivation of insight. It’s also part of the eightfold path—though the Pali word “sati” may or may not correspond to Jon Kabat-Zinn’s helpful definition of nonjudgmental, moment-to-moment noticing.

But sati is only one of the meditative elements of the eightfold path—the other major one is samadhi, or concentration. And here’s where things get interesting. In most of the Pali canon’s discussion of samadhi, it’s described not simply as one-pointed concentration in general, but as the ability to enter the four jhanas—distinct, concentrated mind states—in particular.

Eventually, dhyana, the Sanskrit for jhana, became chan in Chinese, and later zen in Japanese. These words became roughly synonymous with meditation itself and later identified with various specific meditation practices such as zazen.

But a funny thing happened to the jhanas within Theravadan traditions, particularly in the “dry insight” Burmese lineages that evolved into Western insight meditation and from there into secular mindfulness: jhana practically disappeared.

Why? Perhaps the problem is that the meaning of jhana was never entirely clear. The suttas do describe what these states are like. The second jhana, for example, is often described as “gaining of inner stillness and oneness of mind . . . without applied and sustained thinking, and in which there are joy and pleasure born of concentration.” Sounds nice, right? Dozens of such descriptions appear in the Pali canon.

But how do I get there, exactly? How do I know it’s a jhana and not just a passing pleasant mind state? What does it mean to “enter and remain” in that state?

Commentaries, especially the fifth-century Visuddhimagga, said that for jhana to be real, it has to be a wholly immersive and absorptive mind state. If you can hear anything, think anything, or even note the passage of time, you weren’t experiencing jhana.

With that high of a standard, cultivating jhana became a practice only for elites. Regular chumps like you and me didn’t have a chance.

Thus, while developing concentration remained central to these forms of Buddhist practice, jhana itself did not. This was an unfortunate development for two reasons.

First, given that the Buddha spells out exactly what he means by Right Concentration [one of the required spokes of the eightfold path]— cultivating jhana—surely it must be a mistake to jettison the practice entirely. Why would the Buddha say that jhana is essential and that the path is accessible to anyone, and then prescribe a practice that is inaccessible to all but a few?

Moreover, as my teacher Leigh Brasington summarized in his recent book, Right Concentration, there are numerous instances of nonabsorptive jhana in the suttas themselves. In one such account, practitioners talk to one another while experiencing jhana, which hardly comports with the notion that jhana is all-absorptive. (The Visuddhimagga says they must have been psychic.)

Now, it’s clear that jhana can be absorptive, and it is deeply profound when it is. I’ve had those experiences on long retreats, and many teachers still teach that way today. But jhana is also powerful without full absorption. As the Thai Forest teacher Ajahn Chah put it, the four jhanas are like four pools of water; they can be deeper or shallower, but they’re the same four pools.

Which is the second reason why it’s a shame to jettison jhana: because jhana is good for you. In my experience practicing and teaching the jhanas, there are numerous benefits to both beginner and advanced meditators. The states themselves are so profound as to be transformative in themselves, especially for shaking the mind free from attachment to other pleasant mind states, whether spiritual or pharmacological or otherwise. The pleasure they bring is regarded as “pure.”

And then there’s their main benefit: they spur you toward awakening. In one famous Tibetan analogy, building concentration is like sharpening the sword that cuts off the head of delusion. On its own, concentration doesn’t get you anywhere. But concentration, and jhana in particular, can make any meditation practice easier, sharper, and more effective.

There are two other, more modern reasons why a contemporary meditator should consider adding jhana to their repertoire.

The first is variety. We all get in dharma ruts now and then. Practices get stale, and even sitting with the staleness gets stale. Cultivating jhana really is different from mindfulness and other popular forms of meditation; it inclines the mind differently, builds different skills, yields different fruit. And while it’s difficult to attain jhana off retreat, it’s not hard to translate jhana skills into everyday life, infusing regular sits with concentration or noticing the wholesome feelings of bliss, equanimity, and so on when they arise. Jhana spices up meditation.

Cultivating jhana also, I think, addresses some of the big reasons laypeople meditate today: stress reduction, relaxation, and the pursuit of bliss. Despite its use for stress reduction, mindfulness done properly can often be stress inducing, as you see harmful habits of mind, deconstruct the self, or notice how everything arises and passes so quickly. I actually think that it’s the concentration aspect of mindfulness meditation—the calming, centering, focusing part—that actually holds appeal for most beginning meditators.

Of course, meditation’s not meant to be a narcotic. But most beginners are experiencing real dukkha [suffering] and they are searching for ways to lessen it. Mindfulness, meta-cognition, insight, and building witness consciousness are great ways to do so. But so are building concentration, focus, and calm—and that’s where jhana meditation excels.

And not just for beginners! Personally, I have a “day job” as a political pundit and columnist. I can vouch from firsthand experience that building samadhi is a key part of my own meditation toolkit. Creating islands of calm amid the insanity of our culture enables me to rest, recharge, and go back to the work of justice.

Leigh Brasington authorized me to teach jhana in the lineage of his teacher, the Ven. Ayya Khema. This method cultivates jhana as described in the Pali canon, rather than in the commentaries. In my experience, jhana meditation can lead to transformative experiences, aid in the work of insight, add variety to meditation practice, and provide valuable tools for modern life. It’s a vital part of the eightfold path.

Which I guess is why it’s there.

This article was originally published September 22, 2016.

The post Jhana: The Spice Your Meditation Has Been Missing appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

The foreword of The First Free Women: Original Poetry Inspired by the Early Buddhist Nuns begins with senior nun Bhikkhuni Anandabodhi declaring, “These poems you hold in your hands are like jewels to me. They call us to remember our greatest potential—our potential to be free.” The poems in question are interpretations of those found in the Therigatha, or “Verses of the Elder Nuns,” the sacred text in the Pali canon written over two millennia ago by and about some of the first Buddhist women. In addition to calling upon our capacity for freedom, the poems are personal, evocative, and at times even comedic. They offer insight into the daily thoughts and lives of these early nuns, as well as the lives they lived before. 

Though many translations of the Therigatha exist, Matty Weingast penned a recent interpretation of the poems that expands on the Pali text for renditions that resonate deeply today. In a review of The First Free Women: Original Poetry Inspired by the Early Buddhist Nuns for Tricycle, Dan Zigmond wrote,

Weingast’s poems. . . are more reimaginings than they are direct translations, and at times he takes considerable liberties with the Pali sources. For this reason, it can be jarring to compare his versions to the earlier editions. And yet the nuns’ voices, not his own, are what shine through. It is as if he has brought these wise women back to life, conjuring the poems they might have written if they were walking among us today.

Due to concerns that the original presentation of this book may have given the false impression that it consisted of literal translations of the Therigatha, Shambhala Publications released a second edition with a revised title, The First Free Women: Original Poetry Inspired by the Early Buddhist Nuns, in June 2021. (Learn more here.) 

Below is a selection of poems from the collection:

***

Sumana ~ Flowering Jasmine

Walk through
the mind
all day
and
all night.

When you find
each thought
ending
right
where
it began—

here your circling ends.

Sangha ~ Community

When I left the only home I’d ever known,
I thought I’d left everything behind. 
But I was still carrying 
all the years  
of running  
back and forth 
and around in circles 
after this or that. 

Just sitting still, 
those circles  
have broken apart 
and been carried away 
by this simple wind 
blowing in  
and out.

All your old thoughts like snow  
falling 
on  
warm  
ground. 

Just sit back and watch.

Another Uttama* 

The entire Path,
and all you will ever need
to walk it,
you will find inside.

So the Buddha taught me.

Once I took a closer look,
all the running around
started to seem a little silly.

Things changed so quickly—
by the time I got anywhere,
I’d be someone else.

You are your mother.
You are your daughter.

One
moment
gives birth
to the
next.

What we do is who we become.

(*Uttama is another Pali word for theri, which means elder and is used to refer to senior nuns.)

Soma ~ Happiness

He said:
How could a woman,
who knows no more than how to cook,
clean, and make babies,
possibly reach the further shore—
on the way to which so many good men
have drowned or turned back?

I said:
The mind is neither male nor female.

When directed towards the arising
and passing away
of all things,
it easily penetrates
this mass of darkness.

Be serious.

What’s a few inches of meat
compared to the immeasurable reaches
of the liberated mind?

Mahapajapati ~ Protector of Children 

I know you all.

I have been your mother,
your son,
your father,
your daughter.
You see me now in my final role—
kindly grandmother.

It’s a fine part to go out on.

You might have heard
how it all began—
when my sister died
and I took her newborn son
to raise as my own.

People still ask,

Did you know then what he would become?

What can I say?
What mother doesn’t see a Buddha in her child?

He was such a quiet boy.

The first time he reached for me.
The first time I held him while he slept.
How could I not know?

To care for all children
without exception
as though each
will someday
be the one
to show
us all
the
way
home.

This is the Path.

From The First Free Women: Original Poems Inspired by the Early Buddhist Nuns by Matty Weingast © 2020 by Matty Weingast. Reprinted in arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Inc. Boulder, CO.

The post Five Powerful Poems Inspired by Some of the First Buddhist Women appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

While many contemporary Buddhist teachers work diligently to make meditation instructions accessible to a modern audience, we can sometimes lose sight of the practices’ origins in classical Buddhist texts. One way to reconnect with those roots is by reading the suttas (Sanskrit, sutras), the discourses of the Buddha collected by his disciples in the Pali Canon, which contains some of the earliest-dated Buddhist texts.

Many of the suttas contain practical meditation instruction. The Satipatthana Sutta, for example, covers the Buddha’s teachings on mindfulness, and is widely known and taught.

Below, Buddhist scholar Andrew Olendzki introduces the lesser-known Bhikkhunivasako Sutta (SN 47.10; Thai, Bhikkhunupassaya). As Olendzki points out, this sutta offers instructions for using “directed” and “undirected” meditation practices. In directed meditation, a practitioner focuses on a particular object (recalling an image of the Buddha, for example). In undirected meditation, which is sometimes called “open awareness” meditation, the practitioner focuses their mind on whatever naturally arises in experience, shifting attention from one object to another.

♦

What the Buddha says here about directed and undirected meditation is particularly interesting in light of the modern integration of metta [lovingkindness] practice with vipassana [insight] practice. The Buddha seems to acknowledge that mindful awareness is sometimes difficult to come by, and that there are times when one’s “mind becomes scattered” by the arising of challenging mind states. (Has this ever happened to you?)

His response here is not the warrior’s tone sometimes found in the texts, whereby the practitioner should just overcome the unwholesome thoughts and rouse up sufficient heroic energy to re-establish mindfulness. Nor is it the gentler response we often hear in the dhamma [dharma] hall, to just be aware of what is arising, without judgment of any kind, gently returning our attention to the breath or other primary object of meditation. Rather, the Buddha’s suggestion is a deliberate redirection of our attention to a “satisfactory image.”

The Pali words here are pasadaniya nimitta. A nimitta is an image or manifestation that appears in the mind—something akin to a sign, a vision, or an appearance of an object in the “mind’s eye.” It is the term used in visualization meditations, and even has a slight connotation of “conjuring up” something in the mind.

The adjective pasadaniya is translated by F. L. Woodward in the Pali Text Society edition as “pleasurable,” but this sort of term is too easily misconstrued in Buddhist contexts. I don’t think the Buddha is suggesting here that we seek something pleasant in order to avoid the arising discomfort. Rather he is suggesting a short-term strategy for the practical disarming of the mind’s defense mechanisms.

The 5th-century Indian Theravada Buddhist commentator Buddhaghosa suggests that the image of the Buddha might be an example of a satisfactory image, but probably anything wholesome and that will not produce a strong craving (of attachment or aversion) will do. The idea is just to redirect the mind to flow around the obstacle that has appeared, but not to use something that will itself become another obstacle.

The practical effect of this redirection of attention is the natural calming of the mind and relaxation of the body. Only from tranquillity can true alertness arise—otherwise the mind’s attentiveness is just busy or restless.

But as the ensuing passage confirms, this excursion into the deliberate cultivation of a specific image can be abandoned as soon as its mission, the restoration of concentration, has been fulfilled. Insight meditation has never been about cultivating blissful states of mind or body for their own sake.

As a skillful means for helping our understanding “become ever greater and more excellent,” it seems to be a useful technique. I think we need to rely upon the guidance of experienced meditation teachers, however, to help us discern when it is appropriate to apply this strategy. The mind is so capricious: it may turn to a more pleasurable object of awareness just to escape the growing pains of evolving insight; or it may mislead itself into thinking it is practicing undirected meditation when it is actually just spacing out.

One important thing to notice about this passage is that the undirected meditation is occurring squarely within the context of the foundations of mindfulness [body, feeling, mind, and mental states]. This is not “object-less awareness” (which is not even possible in the early Buddhist models of mind), or the “awareness of awareness itself” that is mentioned in some traditions.

The meditator understands his awareness to be free and undirected, while contemplating body as body, feeling as feeling, mind as mind, and mental states as mental states. What distinguishes undirected meditation from directed meditation is simply the role of intention in the process.

Another interesting aspect of this sutta is that the framing story shows clearly that women were diligent and successful practitioners of insight meditation in the Buddha’s time, and that they were well-supported in this pursuit. Ananda, the Buddha’s cousin and lifelong assistant, was a great champion of the nuns’ cause and would often visit communities of nuns to encourage their dhamma practice. The Buddha seems to take the opportunity of Ananda’s report to expound on some of the details of mindfulness technique.

—Andrew Olendzki

Bhikkhunivasako Sutta – At the Nuns’ Residence

The venerable Ananda arose early one morning, and taking up his robe and bowl approached a certain settlement of nuns, where he sat down on a seat that had been prepared. A number of nuns approached the venerable Ananda, and after greeting him, sat down to one side. So seated, these nuns said this to the venerable Ananda: “There are here, Ananda sir, a number of nuns who abide with minds well established in the four foundations of mindfulness. Their understanding is becoming ever greater and more excellent.”

“So it is, Sisters, so it is!” replied Ananda. “Indeed for anybody, Sisters, whether monk or nun, who abides with a mind well established in the four foundations of mindfulness—it is to be expected that their understanding becomes ever greater and more excellent.”

[Ananda later relates this exchange to the Buddha, who approves of his response and then elaborates:]

Here, Ananda, a monk abides contemplating body as body—ardent, fully aware, mindful—leading away the unhappiness that comes from wanting the things of the world. And for one who is abiding contemplating body as body, a bodily object arises, or bodily distress, or mental sluggishness, that scatters his mind outward. [This passage is repeated for the other three foundations of mindfulness: feelings as feelings; mind as mind; mental states as mental states.] Then the monk should direct his mind to some satisfactory image. When the mind is directed to some satisfactory image, happiness is born. From this happiness, joy is then born. With a joyful mind, the body relaxes. A relaxed body feels content, and the mind of one content becomes concentrated. He then reflects: “The purpose for which I directed my my mind has been accomplished. So now I shall withdraw [directed attention from the image].” He withdraws, and no longer thinks upon or thinks about [the image]. He understands: “I am not thinking upon or thinking about [anything]. Inwardly mindful, I am content.” This is directed meditation.

And what is undirected meditation? Not directing his mind outward, a monk understands: “My mind is not directed outward.” He understands: “Not focused on before or after; free; undirected.” And he understands: “I abide observing body as body—ardent, fully aware, mindful—I am content.” This is undirected meditation.

And so, Ananda, I have taught directed meditation; and I have taught undirected meditation. Whatever is to be done by a teacher with compassion for the welfare of students, that has been done by me out of compassion for you. Here are the roots of trees. Here are empty places. Get down and meditate. Don’t be lazy. Don’t become one who is later remorseful. This is my instruction to you.

♦

This translation was reprinted with permission from dhammatalks.org.

The post Directed and Undirected Meditation appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

In a dialogue where the Buddha listed the duties of teachers to their students (DN 31), the final and most prominent item on the list was this: that the teacher provide the student with protection in all directions. Of course, this didn’t mean that teachers were duty-bound to follow their students around with shields to ward off potential dangers. Instead, it meant that teachers should provide their students with knowledge that the students could use to protect themselves in every situation. And in a dialogue where the Buddha criticized some teachers of other sects for leaving their students unprotected (AN 3:62), he made clear that protective knowledge was expressed in terms of a duality: clearly seeing the difference between what should and shouldn’t be done.

That’s right: a duality. For all the dualities the Buddha avoided, this was one he adhered to consistently in his role as a responsible teacher.

The need for this kind of protective knowledge is based on the Buddha’s analysis of how we shape our experience. Instead of being a passive recipient of the results of past kamma (karma), we’re proactive: Through our desires—expressed in acts of attention, perception, and intention—we take the input of the senses, which comes from past kamma, and shape it into a present-moment experience. For example, we don’t just passively register the sight of an apple as it occurs. If we’re already looking for food, then by the time we’re aware of the apple, we’ve already decided whether we want to eat it or not. If we’re not looking for food, the apple hardly registers at all because we have our eye out for something else.

The problem is that we’re often ignorant of what we’re doing, so we shape things unskillfully and suffer as a result. And when we suffer, we react in two ways. The first reaction is bewilderment: “Where does this suffering come from?” The second is a search: “Is there anyone who knows a way out of this suffering?” The search explains why people go looking for teachers in the first place. The bewilderment explains why we can easily look to the wrong people for help.

So we need two sorts of protection: protection against ourselves, to overcome our ignorance of what we’re doing; and protection against teachers—and this can include anyone who offers advice, even well-meaning friends and acquaintances—who might wittingly or unwittingly do us harm.

The knowledge that the Buddha offered as protection attacked these problems on many levels—and the word attack is appropriate here. In the Tittha Sutta (“Sectarians,” AN 3:62), he did something that he rarely ever did, which was to seek out other teachers and denounce them sharply for their doctrines. The harm they were causing was that serious. He criticized, in particular, three teachings: that whatever pleasure or pain you experience is (1) determined by past actions, (2) determined by a creator god, or (3) occurs randomly, without cause of condition.

In each case, his criticism was the same: If you adopted any of these teachings, you’d believe yourself powerless in the present moment to change things here and now. You’d have no motivation to think in terms of what should and shouldn’t be done, because the choice would be meaningless. Since all your actions in the present moment, in your eyes, would either be predetermined or ineffectual, the duality between good and evil would be an empty convention.

The Buddha’s argument was the same in each of the three cases, so here are his words on just the first:

In that case, a person is a killer of living beings because of what was done in the past. A person is a thief… uncelibate… a liar… a divisive speaker… a harsh speaker… an idle chatterer… greedy… malicious… a holder of wrong views because of what was done in the past.’ When one falls back on what was done in the past as being essential, there is no desire, no effort (at the thought), ‘This should be done. This shouldn’t be done.’ When one can’t pin down as a truth or reality what should & shouldn’t be done, one dwells bewildered & unprotected.

The implication here is that if a teaching is going to protect you, the first level of protection has to be on the theoretical level. You have to understand that your present actions are free, to at least some extent, to shape the present moment—for good or bad—and to have an impact on the future. This understanding of kamma would then provide you with motivation for looking carefully at what should and shouldn’t be done right now to avoid causing suffering.

And this is precisely the understanding of kamma that the Buddha taught. As he pointed out in the Loṇaphala Sutta (“The Salt Crystal,” AN 3:101), past actions do have an impact on the present moment, but how that impact is experienced is filtered through your present-moment mind-state. This is one of the reasons that Buddhist meditation focuses on being alert to what the mind is doing right now. If you’re sensitive to your present actions, you can shape them well enough to mitigate the influences from any past bad kamma and, through your present skillful kamma, to provide conditions for pleasure and happiness now and into the future.

So the first level of protection lies in the realm of general theory. However, the dualistic knowledge offered by the Buddha doesn’t stop there. It also goes into specific examples of what should and shouldn’t be done, and from there into general principles to be used in judging for yourself what should and shouldn’t be done in instances not covered by the examples.

The examples are offered as rules and precepts, such as the precepts against killing, stealing, illicit sex, lying, and taking intoxicants. Many people don’t like rules, seeing them as small-minded and confining, but it’s hard to argue with some of the rules the Buddha offers for your protection. They give you clear warning signs for when your ignorance is blinding you to behavior that will, in the long term, cause harm. The rules give you objective standards for judging not only your own behavior but also the behavior of people who offer themselves as teachers.

The monks, for example, have a rule that if a monk even suggests to a student—or anyone at all, for that matter—that she would benefit from having sex with him, he has to undergo a penance for six days. During the penance, he is stripped of his seniority and has to confess his offense to all his fellow monks daily. If he hides the offense, then when he’s found out he has to undergo an added probation for as many days as he hid the offense. If he actually has sex with anyone, he’s out—automatically stripped of his status as a monk and prohibited from re-ordaining for the rest of this lifetime.

The existence of these rules doesn’t guarantee that people won’t break them, but they do serve as red flags and to indicate that the Buddha had no tolerance for this sort of behavior. Students aware of these rules would then know for sure when a monk—or any teacher—had stepped out of bounds. If knowledge of these rules were available in all Buddhist communities, it would prevent a lot of confusion and grief.

You sometimes hear the argument that awakened people are beyond observing the precepts because they have abandoned the fetter of “grasping at precepts and practices” (silabbata-paramasa), but this argument is based on a misunderstanding of what “grasping” means here. Actually, as the Vera Sutta (“Animosity,” AN 10:92) shows, people who have abandoned this fetter never intentionally break the precepts. Their precepts are “untorn, unbroken, unspotted, unsplattered, liberating, praised by the observant, ungrasped at, leading to concentration.” The fact that they’re untorn means that they’re observed consistently. “Ungrasped at” means that even though such people are virtuous, they don’t fashion any sense of self around their virtues (MN 78).

This means that awakened people are consistently virtuous, but—unlike ordinary people still grappling with the precepts—they have freed themselves from having to construct an identity around virtue in order to maintain it. In other words, they don’t have to keep reminding themselves of the precepts, but their behavior still falls perfectly in line with what the precepts teach.

As for the general principles the Buddha taught for deciding what should and shouldn’t be done, they start on a very basic level with the instructions he gave to his son, Rahula, on how to purify his actions (MN 61). These boil down to the principle that you judge your actions both by the intentions motivating them and by the results they yield. If you can foresee that an action you want to do will cause harm, either to yourself or to others, you shouldn’t do it. If you don’t foresee harm, you can go ahead and do it but—in line with the power of actions to shape both the present and the future—you have to check for the results of the action both while you’re doing it and after it’s done. If, in the course of doing the action, you find that you’re causing unexpected harm, you stop. If you find out only after the fact that it caused harm, you talk it over with someone more advanced on the path and resolve not to repeat the mistake. This way you gain practical experience, based on your own powers of observation, in mastering the dualistic principle of what should and shouldn’t be done.

The duality of this principle extends to more advanced teachings as well. The four noble truths, for example, are basically dualistic, and not just because four is a double duality. Suffering (the first noble truth) and the end of suffering (the third) are two very different things. You may have heard the Buddha quoted as saying, “I teach one thing and one thing only: suffering and the end of suffering,” which sounds like he’s offering a non-dualistic perspective on suffering and its end. But that wasn’t what he actually said. His actual words were much more straightforward and dualistic: “Both formerly and now, it’s only suffering that I describe, and the cessation of suffering.” (SN 22:86)

And the duties appropriate to the four noble truths show that this is a genuine duality: The origination of suffering (the second noble truth) should be abandoned. The path to the cessation of suffering (the fourth truth) should be developed. Abandoning and developing are two opposite things. And the path is composed of eight right factors clearly differentiated from eight corresponding wrong factors. All of this continues the dualistic pattern of the Buddha’s protective teaching: having a solid grounding for deciding what should and shouldn’t be done.

This pattern extends even to the Buddha’s subtlest teaching, dependent co-arising, his detailed explanation of all the many factors that go into causing suffering. This teaching is sometimes hailed as non-dualistic, and it is true that the Buddha’s explanation of these factors avoids the duality of saying that everything is either a Oneness or a plurality. So to that extent, they are non-dual.

But when the Buddha explained dependent co-arising in detail, he repeatedly presented it in terms of a different duality: how it should and shouldn’t be approached (see, for starters, the many discourses in SN 12). If, when dealing with the factors as they actually present themselves, you approach them in ignorance, you cause suffering. If you approach them in terms of knowledge of the four noble truths and their duties, you bring suffering to an end.

So here, again, even on the most refined levels of the dharma, there’s a clear distinction between what should and shouldn’t be done.

Which means that even though the Buddha taught metaphysical non-duality with regard to some issues, he didn’t take a blanket non-dual approach to all issues, and especially not to moral ones. The distinction between actions that should and shouldn’t be done is a duality that offers protection, inside and out, on every level of the practice, from the most basic to the most advanced.

If we look at the Buddha’s teachings on this duality in terms of Western psychoanalysis, we can see that what he’s teaching is a healthy super-ego, the functions of the mind that provide you with a strong sense of what should and shouldn’t be done. However, unlike the Western super-ego that Sigmund Freud studied, the Buddhist super-ego is not heedless of your happiness, and it’s not forced on you against your will. Instead, its primary concern is focused directly on your true happiness, and the Buddha offers his shoulds as conditional. He’s not demanding that you take on his shoulds, but from his vast experience he’s advising you that if you want true happiness, if you want to protect yourself, and if you want to end your bewilderment, this is how it has to be done. The choice to take on these shoulds—or not—is yours.

The sad irony is that the basic duality of the Buddha’s protective teachings has become so deeply obscured over the centuries. A teaching that the Buddha denounced—that the present moment is determined by your past kamma—has become widely accepted as the standard Buddhist explanation of kamma. Non-duality has been proclaimed as superior and more advanced than duality in all areas, including the distinction between right and wrong, what should and shouldn’t be done. The ego has been so demonized that many students are led to believe that all ego and super-ego functions have to be obliterated if they want to gain awakening.

The result is that many people who encounter these unsafe teachings when coming to Buddhism actually find themselves stripped of whatever protective sense of “should and shouldn’t be done” they might already have. This has led, as we’ve all too often seen, to their exploitation by unscrupulous teachers.

It would clearly be for the good of the world if the Buddha’s protective teachings were dusted off and returned to their rightful, central place in every school of practice that claims to take inspiration from him. This might not prevent the exploitation of students in all cases. After all, there will always be people, both students and teachers, who see rules as an incitement to rebel. But—unlike the blanket teachings of ego-destruction and the non-duality of right and wrong—the clear distinction between what should and shouldn’t be done would provide no room at all for justifying such bewildered and unsafe behavior as “compassionate” or “advanced.”

♦

Further reading: Here’s another take on the duality of good and evil by eco-dharma pioneer David Loy, a look at the sexual abuse scandals in Buddhist communities, and an article by Thanissaro Bhikkhu on everything you wanted to know about karma but were afraid to ask.

The post Safety in Duality appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

In the Abhaya Sutta (Fearless Sutta), the Buddha explains how we transcend the fear of death. When we fear death, we’re likely to suffer in this human life. On the other hand, when we’re able to move beyond the fear of death, we’re greatly served in our efforts to know happiness in life.

 At the sutta’s outset, the Buddha is visited by a brahman by the name of Janussoni. Janussoni tells the Buddha that it’s his opinion that everybody is afraid of death. The Buddha disagrees. Some people are, indeed, afraid of death, the Buddha says. Others, he says, are not.

The Buddha describes four types of people who will, invariably, be afflicted by the fear of death. First is the person “who has not abandoned passion, desire, fondness, thirst, fever, & craving for sensuality.” When the Buddha speaks about sensuality, he’s referring to the composite of actions, thinking, narratives, and self-identification that is involved in grasping after the pleasures of the world. When we spend our lives seeking sense pleasure—food, sex, entertainment, the instant gratification that technology offers—then we’re bound to grow fearful as we approach death, realizing that we’ll no longer be able to indulge in these worldly affairs.

Second, the person “who has not abandoned passion, desire, fondness, thirst, fever, & craving for the body” will fear death. The attachment to the body is something that most of us suffer to a rather large extent. We’re dependent on the body—how it feels, how it functions, what it looks like—for our happiness. We identify with the body; we believe that the body is “ours” to own or that it is who we are. So when death approaches, those of us who cling to the body are apt to experience the terror of losing it.
The third person who fears death “has not done what is good, has not done what is skillful, has not given protection to those in fear, and instead has done what is evil, savage, & cruel.” The Buddha calls actions unskillful when they cause harm to others and ourselves. Unskillful actions are imbued with desire and aversion and bring about suffering. So the person who hasn’t acted skillfully becomes fearful as he considers the unpleasant “destination” he’ll go to after he dies. We also may be stricken with remorse or fear that we haven’t made the most of our human life. We may become anxious about leaving behind an unfortunate legacy.

Lastly, the Buddha speaks about the person “in doubt & perplexity, who has not arrived at certainty with regard to the True Dhamma.” Having failed to practice the dharma and discern the truths of the Buddha’s path, this person is likely to experience the fear of death in the face of the unknown.

In the next part of the sutta, the Buddha describes the four kinds of people who do not fear death. First, there’s the person “who has abandoned passion, desire, fondness, thirst, fever, & craving for sensuality.” The dharma student learns to relinquish her “craving for sensuality” by seeing the drawbacks in her craving, seeing that looking for happiness in sense pleasure brings about suffering. She learns to see that all the pleasures of the world—the lovely sunsets, the ice cream, the images on the computer screen, the streaming movies—are decidedly impermanent. When we see their inconsequential and ephemeral nature, we lose interest in them. Having developed this wisdom, we’re no longer afraid of losing these pleasurable things.

Related: What Does It Look Like To Die Well? 

Likewise, the second type of fearless person learns to become disenchanted with the body. The dharma student investigates the body and comes to understand that it is impermanent, or inconstant. She realizes that she does not own the body and that it is, in large part, beyond her control. By conducting an ongoing study of the body, she cultivates this insight, lets go of her attachment to the body and is freed from her fear of losing it.

In laying out the third case, the Buddha suggests that person who has lived a skillful life is not afraid when death approaches. Having refrained from taking harmful actions, the dharma student isn’t afraid of ending up, after death, in an unfavorable “destination.” She doesn’t suffer the remorse and compunction of having lived in an unskillful manner informed by desire and aversion. She knows that, when it’s time to leave this earthly plane, she will have left behind beneficial gifts. Simply put, she has lived well, so when death comes her heart is filled with love, compassion, joy, and peace.

The last case is the person “who has no doubt or perplexity, who has arrived at certainty with regard to the True Dhamma.” When we understand the dharma and comprehend the truth, we’re able to transcend the fear of death. As dharma students develop virtue, concentration, and insight, we come to see that all conditioned experience is impermanent. It’s not-self. It’s not ours. The various sense pleasures, the body, thoughts, and emotions—including fear itself—are conditioned things and are subject to birth and death. Knowing this, truly, in the heart, we no longer attempt to hold on to these facets of human experience because we know they can’t be held onto. And we stop expecting to find true happiness in things that, by their nature, come and go.

Wisdom manifests, ultimately, in understanding that which is not impermanent, an ever-present truth (Thai, akaliko) that doesn’t die because it transcends time and space. This deathless quality is called nibbana (nirvana). The deathless isn’t only an object of faith; the dharma student is asked to know it as the third noble truth, the realization of cessation.

Related: How to Write a Living Will 

Mindfulness of death is one of the most important practices we can engage in to know the deathless. As the Buddha says, “Mindfulness of death—when developed & pursued—is of great fruit & great benefit. It gains a footing in the Deathless, has the Deathless as its final end.” (AN 6.20) At first, we may glimpse moments of the deathless. As Insight teacher Joseph Goldstein says, “small moments, many times.” The Buddha rarely described this experience specifically, but it can be understood as a consciousness that doesn’t land on any objects, a “consciousness without feature.” (DN 11) And when we finally know this truth that transcends death, we can fully abandon our fear, because we know that there is a true unconditional happiness: nibbana—a happiness that doesn’t die.

The post Sutta Study: Fearless appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.