Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 04 | Ven. Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | Nihada Arana

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Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 04 | Ven. Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | Nihada Arana 

Gnanaweera Thero:

Today, we will continue our discussion on consciousness without feature (anidassana viññāṇa) from where we left off yesterday. I will ask the Venerable Nun to proceed with the discussion from that point. Please read from the text. We are on page 75. I believe we are to begin our discussion today with the verse starting ‘na saññasaññī’.


Venerable Nun:

Venerable Sir, with your permission.

Namo Tassa Bhagavato Arahato Sammāsambuddhassa

Namo Tassa Bhagavato Arahato Sammāsambuddhassa

Namo Tassa Bhagavato Arahato Sammāsambuddhassa

Page 75, the second paragraph:

The answer to this question is presented in the form of a paradox:

na saññasaññī, na visaññasaññī, nopi asaññī, na vibhūtasaññī.

evaṃ sametassa vibhoti rūpaṃ, saññānidānā hi papañcasaṅkhā.

(Sutta Nipāta, verse 874)

He is not one endowed with ordinary perception. He is not one with distorted perception. Nor is he without perception. Nor is he one who has eliminated perception. It is for one with such a state of mind that form (rūpa) ceases. This is because the proliferations of conceptualization (papañca-saṅkhā) are founded upon perception (saññā).

What is present here is an utterly extraordinary level of perception. It is a complete release from form (rūpa), which is the fundamental basis for the structure of that perception. Presenting this state through a paradoxical set of terms indicates that the transcendence mentioned here is not achieved by temporarily or permanently suppressing perception. Instead, this phrasing suggests a state of having penetrated perception. What kind of penetration is this? If one were to ask whether the person who has attained this mental state is one who has perception of sensory objects, or is without perception, or has abandoned perception, the answer must be ‘no’ to all of these.


Gnanaweera Thero:

Very well. Now, regarding that section, let's turn to the Kalahavivāda Sutta to understand the context of that verse. Let's listen to the verses from the sutta. By examining the Kalahavivāda Sutta, we can understand the question to which the Buddha gave this answer.


Venerable Nun:

The question is presented in verse 873:

kathaṃ sametassa vibhoti rūpaṃ, sukhaṃ dukhaṃ vāpi kathaṃ vibhoti,

etaṃ me brūhi yathā vibhoti, taṃ jāniyāma iti me mano ahu.

For one practicing in what way does form cease? And how do pleasure and pain cease? Please explain to me how this ceases, for my mind is set on knowing this.

For a person practicing in what way does form (rūpa) cease to be? How do pleasure and suffering cease to be? Please explain the way in which this ceases. A mind arose in me to know this.


Gnanaweera Thero:

So here, the Blessed One is asked, "How does one go beyond this form (rūpa), in which the view of 'I' is established? What is the path to escape it? How does one transcend this feeling (vedanā) of pleasure and pain?" He asks, "Please explain to me the way in which this ceases." And in response, the Blessed One gives a beautiful verse, explaining how form ceases to be. This is how form does not arise, how feeling does not arise. The Blessed One shows that this is the way in which the element of liberation (Nibbāna dhātu) and consciousness without feature (anidassana viññāṇa) become a reality. He reveals the nature of that consciousness without feature here. Please, let's read that.


Venerable Nun:

The answer, verse 874:

na saññasaññī, na visaññasaññī, nopi asaññī, na vibhūtasaññī.

evaṃ sametassa vibhoti rūpaṃ, saññānidānā hi papañcasaṅkhā.

He does not perceive with an ordinary perception, nor with a distorted one. He is not without perception, nor has he gone beyond perception. As he abides by the noble path, he escapes from form. For perception itself is the root of all the whirl of unwholesome states.

He is not endowed with normal perception, nor is he one with distorted, insane perception. He is not one without perception. He is not one with a transformed perception. For a person who practices thus, form (rūpa) ceases to be. Conceptual proliferations (papañca-saṅkhā) arise with perception (saññā) as their cause.


Gnanaweera Thero:

Right. So today, in the section where Venerable Katukurunde Thero explains consciousness without feature (anidassana viññāṇa), this is the verse we are going to focus our attention on. He says that for a person to reach the state where form (rūpa) does not arise, where feeling (vedanā) does not arise, they must be in a state of ‘na saññasaññī.’ This means they cannot possess an ordinary perception. They cannot abide in the kind of perception that worldly people use. Then, ‘na visaññasaññī.’ Here, Venerable Katukurunde Thero explains this to mean that perception cannot be distorted. That is, it cannot be a distortion of perception. For instance, you cannot simply distort the perception of 'mother' by deciding to call her 'younger sister'. That's not the way. But at the same time, you cannot remain with the ordinary, conventional perception of 'mother' either. One is not operating from the ordinary perception of 'mother', yet one has not distorted that perception either. This means one hasn't just mentally relabeled the person perceived as 'mother' into 'the elements' or something similar, thereby creating another kind of distorted perception. Nor does one achieve this by distorting perception in other ways, for instance, through the perception of foulness (asubha). He is saying that one does not arrive at this state where form (rūpa) does not arise—this nature of non-arising and non-manifestation—through such distortions of perception. The word 'not' (na) in the verse signifies that this is not the way. What this means is that for one who has realized this truth, there is neither ordinary perception nor distorted perception. Perceptions have not been distorted.

Then, the verse says ‘nopi asaññī’—'nor without perception'. This means one is not in a state of non-perception (asañña). There is no such thing as being in a complete blank, with no perception whatsoever. One has not erased all perceptions. One has not become devoid of perception.

Next comes ‘na vibhūtasaññī’—'nor one who has eliminated perception'. This means this person is not someone who, through some practice, has blanked out all perceptions. In other words, perceptions have not been transformed or blanked out. It means one has not done anything with the thought 'perception is gone' or anything of that sort.

Then the verse says, ‘evaṃ sametassa vibhoti rūpaṃ’—'It is for one with such a state of mind that form ceases.' The Blessed One explains that it is for one who has this kind of mind, this kind of nature, that form (rūpa) ceases to be. Form does not arise for one who is not bound by ordinary perception, has not distorted perception, is not without perception, and has not eliminated perception. If one attains this very understanding, this very nature, it is for that person that form (rūpa) completely ceases to arise. This is what it means to transcend the view that 'I am this body.' He is saying that one has to attain this kind of mental state. Because without attaining it, it is of no use to merely think conceptually, 'Form is not me, it is not a self.' That is just more thinking (vitakka), just another heap of concepts. What the Blessed One points to is the need to attain this state.

Then, he points to the line: ‘saññānidānā hi papañcasaṅkhā’. Why is this? It is because conceptual proliferations arise from perception. These conceptualizations, which we take to be 'things,' are experienced as such because perception (saññā) is their foundation. It is due to this perception that the world is divided up for us. 'Things' appear as separate, 'people' appear as separate, and the act of acquiring 'things' occurs. This means that acquiring things, comprehending, and understanding—all of these experiences arise with perception as their foundation.

Alright. Now, as I see it, when we try to understand this verse, it feels like we are touching the very core of the Dhamma. It seems to me that in this Kalahavivāda Sutta, there are a couple more verses that follow, where another question is asked. It is as if by bringing this sutta forward, the very root of the Blessed One's core teaching is revealed. The problem lies in perception (saññā). It is with perception as the foundation that this dualistic world of 'me' with 'things' and an 'external world' is constructed. Proliferation (papañca) happens based on perception. Therefore, one must transcend ordinary perception—one must be free from it. But one must do so without falling into distorted perception, without trying to empty out perceptions, without blanking the mind and trying to annihilate it completely, and without entering a plane of non-perception (asañña).

Now, the way I understand this, more than being something we can simply do, it is something that requires a deep understanding of perception. One way we gain some understanding about perception is through associating with noble friends (kalyāṇa-mitta). Generally, when we speak of perception, we are talking about recognition; we recognize something. However, for something to be recognized, there must necessarily be a conjunction, a coming together. We cannot recognize something in isolation. For anything to become a perception, there must be a duality, a relationship—what we call conditioning (paccaya). There has to be a connection, a coming together.

Let me give you an example. Imagine, as we are sitting here right now, we are not consciously aware of sitting on a cushion. We do not have an active recognition, 'I am sitting on a cushion.' Such a perception is not present for us. But the moment I mention it, it arises instantly, doesn't it? You might say, 'Ah, Venerable Sir, now I feel that I am sitting on the cushion. I can feel it.' Our attention is drawn to it. So, we can ask: Before your attention was directed there, what was actually felt? It wasn't 'a cushion' or 'the surface.' It was just a sensation. A certain attention, a certain knowing, a certain awareness arose. Then I might ask you, "Before I reminded you, before your attention went there, before you were told to be aware, did you feel such a thing?" The truth is, we didn't feel it. We were not aware of it. We had no such recognition, did we? In other words, before I told you to place your attention there, we had no perception (saññā), no recognition of 'I am sitting on a cushion.' So, in that previous state, there was no perception.

But then, we must investigate: how does this present recognition, 'I am now feeling myself sitting on the cushion,' arise? When we look into how this kind of recognition, this kind of perception, comes to be, you might say, "Well, Venerable Sir, now that you've told me to pay attention to sitting on the cushion, I feel it." Then I ask, "But you weren't feeling it all this time, were you?" You might reply, "That's right, Venerable Sir, I didn't feel it until now." Then I ask, "But at that time, did you recognize that you were not feeling it?" No, that too was not the case. I did not recognize 'I am not feeling it.' So now, our current recognition of 'I am feeling it now' is conditioned by the idea that 'I was not feeling it before.' This means the recognition is relational.

But in order to generate a perception now, we rely on the idea of a prior state of 'not knowing,' even though we never actually experienced that 'not-knowing' state. It's like when we say we have woken up in the morning. We recognize 'being awake' in contrast to 'no longer being asleep.' But during the state of sleep itself, there was no recognition of 'this is sleep,' was there? After sleeping at night and waking up, we might say, "I woke up from sleep," but during that state of sleep, there was no perception, no recognition of it as 'sleep.' It's just like when you were told to pay attention to sitting; before that moment, there was no recognition of either sitting or not sitting.

However, we do not recognize this state of 'being awake' in isolation. For anything to be recognized, for any perception to arise, it cannot be a singular, independent event. It isn't a single unit. It must necessarily be conditioned by, or related to, something else. But the condition we refer to is not something we actually experienced. We never experienced the state of 'sleep' while we were in it, did we? We cannot form a perception of either the existence or non-existence of something we have not experienced. We cannot recognize it. This is because we have no way of recognizing the state that existed before the sensation of the body being on the cushion arose. Look at this point very carefully. If we cannot even recognize the existence of something, how can we speak of its non-existence? Focus well on this point. Then you will understand the illusory nature of perception (saññā), how deceptive this act of recognition is. This is why the Buddha said it is like a mirage.

The simile the Blessed One gave for perception (saññā) is a mirage. Now, many people get confused by this. They think of a mirage as something that exists but is illusory. But the point of the mirage simile is not that a mirage is a 'thing' that exists. It's an analogy used to show that water will never be found there.

What is the reason for this? It is because a 'mirage' as a substantial thing is never found. Though something appears like water, water has not arisen there at all. That is what a mirage is. That is precisely why the Blessed One uses the simile of a mirage for perception; it is to show that a perception cannot be grasped as a real entity. The simile of the mirage is used to show that the act of recognition itself never truly occurs in the way we assume. Why? Because we can never actually find a 'thing' called a mirage. Just as it appears like water, but no water has actually been born there, so too is perception.

But what do we do? We first posit 'perception' as a real, existing thing, and then we add another layer of analysis, another recognition, by saying, "Perception is like a mirage," or "Perception is false." Do you see the problem there? It can be a little difficult to grasp. We go beyond what the Blessed One is trying to show. For us, the existing perception—this thing we call 'perception'—has become a solid entity. We even misinterpret the very similes used to explain it. So now, in this context, look very closely at how this perception (saññā) is constructed. When we speak of perception, of recognizing something, it means there is always a relationship, a conjunction. For instance, take sleeping and waking. We speak of 'waking' in relation to 'sleeping,' and we speak of 'sleeping' in relation to 'waking.' They are connected. The Blessed One uses the simile in the Naḷakalāpa Sutta of two sheaves of reeds leaning against each other. They stand only by supporting one another. It is just like that.

However, if you look closely, you will understand that we never actually experience sleep. So, we define our present state of 'being awake' by referencing the absence of something—sleep—that we never actually experienced or recognized while it was happening. We say we are 'awake' meaning 'not asleep.' But when did we ever encounter this 'sleep'? It is only in this very state of being awake. And at what moment did 'sleep' cease? It ceased when we woke up. The very act of waking up is the absence of sleep. Therefore, the existence of sleep and the non-existence of sleep—both are recognized simultaneously in a single act of perception. Why? Because none of us has an independent experience of 'sleep' as sleep. Yet, we use that very concept as the reference point to recognize that we are 'awake.' We take 'being awake' to mean 'the absence of sleep.' But then, when did we come to know 'sleep'? You see? When you investigate this, you understand that although these two are linked, that very linkage is the recognition itself.

Take another example, like front and back. We recognize 'this is the front.' We do so with the idea that it is 'not the back.' But have we ever actually seen 'the back'? Whichever way I turn, it becomes the 'front'. No matter which direction I face, what I see is the 'front.' So, we have never experienced 'the back.' How can we, who have never experienced a 'back,' recognize something by its absence or its presence?

Now, look at the front. We only speak of the 'front' by holding on to the idea of a 'back.' 'Front' means 'not back.' But we understand very well that we have never had an independent experience of a 'back.' We have never independently recognized a 'back' as a thing in itself. That is why it is said that perception (saññā) is a mirage. This act of recognition is itself without substance. This recognition has no intrinsic meaning. How can we, who have never experienced a 'back,' speak of a 'front'? Now, without the concept of a 'back,' can we even speak of a 'front'? Try to see if you can recognize 'front' by 'front' alone. You cannot. To define 'this is the front,' if someone asks how, we must say, "Venerable Sir, because it is not the back." But if they ask, "Then where is the back?" and we turn around, what we see is a new 'front.' 'The back' is never found. So if 'the front' is recognized through the absence of 'the back,' then can we recognize a 'front' without a 'back'? Think about it. Although we speak of a 'front,' that very recognition is a mirage. The same applies whether we say 'back' or 'front,' 'sleep' or 'awake.'

When you see this, you begin to understand why the Blessed One compared perception (saññā) to a mirage. This act of recognition is not something that has actually happened in reality.

Let me give you another definition of perception. Perception is described as the conjunction, the linking together, of naming and numbering. That is, the number and the name. There too, there is a connection. Let me give an example. Look, when I pick up this cup, you recognize it by naming it 'cup.' But when you name it 'cup,' do you realize that within that is the idea that it is one cup? A cup. Then if we take another cup, it becomes two cups. Do you see? You cannot name something without a number. And a number cannot exist without a name. We think that numbers—one, two, three—exist separately, and that names exist separately. But these two are also intertwined, just like front and back, or sleeping and waking.

Look, when we say 'mother,' what is implied? The name 'mother' and the number: one mother. Do you see? Always, when these two are linked, when a number is applied to a name—'one mother,' 'one father,' 'one cup'—this conjunction of the name and the number creates a recognition of 'something.' And it is through this that something—whether one or many—appears to have an existence. Look closely at this process of perception (saññā) to understand it. When we speak of perception, of recognizing something, it means we are dealing with name-and-form (nāma-rūpa). And this name-and-form is what we can call 'naming' and 'numbering.' Now, you cannot have naming if you remove numbering, and you cannot have numbering if you remove naming.

Consider when we speak of realizing the truth and attaining 'oneness' (ekatva). Look, within the very name 'oneness' is hidden the number: 'all is one.' Do you see the number? It is a number. Or consider 'duality' (dvaitatā). The very name implies 'two.' Do you see how this perception works? We get the feeling that such a thing actually exists. Why? Because every act of naming is bound up with a number.

Under every name there lies a number, and every number has a name. This means there is no name (nāma) without a form (rūpa), and no form without a name. This is name-and-form (nāma-rūpa), and this is what becomes a perception (saññā). This name-and-form is the 'naming' and the 'numbering.' Look at anything we talk about; it will invariably have a name and imply a number, a quantity. For example, when you say 'ten people,' you cannot give the name 'ten' without the number 10. The word 'ten' evokes a sense of ten individuals. That is perception. Or when we say the 'five aggregates of clinging' (pañcupādānakkhandhā), you can feel it, can't you? A sense of 'five-ness.'

That is the illusion (māyā) here. The strange, mirage-like nature of this perception is that it is always implying a quantity: 'five,' 'two,' 'ten,' 'one,' or even 'zero.' Do you see? With every recognition, this quality of turning a number into a 'thing' is born from this perception. I feel that what happens is that along with the act of naming, a form (rūpa) must be projected there. Without a form, the act of naming becomes meaningless. Likewise, you cannot name something without it having a quantity, a form. This is why it is said that what the Buddha points to here is a 'nature of naming.'

So, this perception is what needs to be understood here. As the verse states, it is due to not understanding this perception that a world of 'things' is received, and proliferation (papañca) occurs. It is due to ignorance of this perception. As the verse shows: ‘saññānidānā hi papañcasaṅkhā.’ It is with perception as the foundation that these conceptual proliferations, this acquisition of things, and the construction of a world of 'self' (internal) and 'other' (external) takes place.

So, when we speak of perception, consider those similes again. It's not that 'one' exists separately and the 'cup' exists separately, and then we say 'one cup.' It is that these two are co-dependent. But it's not even that two separate things are co-dependent. Because of this very dependency, when we say 'one cup,' it seems as though one cup exists independently. When we say 'two cups,' or when we say 'you and I,' the very act of naming it creates a 'two-ness.' When we speak, notice how the words themselves seem to imply a quantity. It is inherent in the perception. When we speak of 'we,' it implies a plurality. A 'two'? When I say 'I,' immediately, do you see? It feels like a 'one.' It is inherent in that perception—the sense that 'I' means 'one.'

But please understand, this is not real. This is why perception is called a mirage. As I explain this, do not get caught in it again, thinking, "Ah, right, this is an existing thing, this is what perception is." The Blessed One taught that all this is founded upon perception. Therefore, perception itself is not an independent thing. It is a conjunction of a name and a number. You can think of the number as the form (rūpa). It is because of the conjunction of these two that we have this recognition of a 'world.' The Three Baskets (Tipiṭaka), the Five Aggregates (Pañcakkhandha), the Noble Eightfold Path (Ariya Aṭṭhaṅgika Magga), the Four Noble Truths (Cattāri Ariyasaccāni)—which means 'four'—and so on, until finally, even 'oneness' (ekatva) is recognized as a 'something.'

And along with that recognition, the perception of a self (atta-saññā) as the 'recognizer' arises from it. In the very act of recognizing something, a 'knower' of that thing is fabricated right there. Because of the distortion inherent in this recognition, a nature like an 'I' who knows—"I know there is one thing here, many things there, or nothing here"—is born simultaneously with the act of recognizing. Because one has accepted the perception itself as a 'thing,' through that very acceptance, the sense of being a 'knower' who knows 'one,' 'two,' or 'zero' arises. This is how the notion 'I am' finds its existence. Now, let me offer another illustration to explain this. Before we proceed to the section where the Blessed One explains ‘na saññasaññī, na visaññasaññī, nopi asaññī, na vibhūtasaññī, evaṃ sametassa vibhoti rūpaṃ,’ I believe it is necessary for us to gain some understanding of perception (saññā). However, in the process of understanding perception, you cannot arrive at a 'correct view' that you have then grasped. This is the crucial point: the very act of correctly understanding perception must be the act of transcending it. Otherwise, if you feel, "Ah, today I have truly understood what perception is," that feeling of having understood is just another distorted perception that has recognized something as 'correct.'

This is the very nature of the Dhamma. One does not listen to the Dhamma in order to arrive at a correct perception. It is equally fruitless to conclude, "All this time, I have been recognizing everything wrongly." Both of these approaches are just another way of seeking a new recognition to hold onto. The Blessed One says that recognition itself is a mirage, but we want to correctly recognize that 'recognition is a mirage.' That is the great trap here. This Dhamma is for the purpose of crossing over. That is why the Blessed One said that the Dhamma is like a snake; if you grasp it by the wrong end, it will bite you. It is meant for transcending. Yet, we keep trying to arrive at a 'correct view,' a 'correct understanding.' As we listen, we try to grab hold of the 'correct thing,' to find a 'correct perception.' But when the simile itself states that perception is a mirage, then no matter what 'correct view' one arrives at, every such view is itself a mirage.

Why do we do this? Because if one could arrive at a 'correct perception,' then the 'I'—the 'I' who saw the truth, who realized liberation (Nibbāna), who understood this correctly—could be preserved. This is the very problem when one sets out to learn the Dhamma. This is where we get stuck. Even as we listen to this very sermon, the purpose should not be to arrive at a correct recognition. As this Dhamma is understood more and more deeply, the only thing that should happen is the act of transcending. That is all. If another acquisition occurs, that is just another perception, and that is proliferation (papañca). It is another act of grasping. If that happens, then one has once again fallen into ‘saññānidānā hi papañcasaṅkhā’—one has gone back to grasping, acquiring, understanding, and comprehending. One has fallen back into proliferation, believing one has found the 'correct thing.'

Let me give you an example to clarify this point. In the sermons of Venerable Katukurunde Thero, he often uses the simile of the dog. This point is illustrated by the dog that barks at its own reflection. The dog sees what it takes to be another dog there. It recognizes, "There is another dog." Its perception is: 'There is another dog there, just like me. It is separate, and I am separate.' Now, we can understand that the dog is in a state of completely distorted perception. That very recognition is wrong. There was no other dog there to be recognized. In a place where no dog existed, for that dog, one certainly did exist. It does not see that it is just a reflection.

Now, if we enter the mental state of that dog—and these are just similes, of course; we don't know what a dog actually thinks—but if we use the simile and imagine ourselves in its mind, we see that it barks and reacts because its perception is entirely based on the idea that there is another dog external to it. That very recognition is a distortion. That is why it is said that perception itself is a falsehood. No matter how you recognize it, that perception is distorted. Perception is a mirage. In other words, a second dog never existed there—not in the past, not in the future, and not even in this very moment. Even in the moment the dog thinks it sees another dog, if we were to say, "I was mindfully in the moment and saw the dog," that too would be a distortion. Why? Because even within that present moment, there was no dog there to be seen.

Or, if we were to say that the 'reflection-dog' arises and ceases in that very moment, that view, that perception, is also distorted. Even if you say the dog arises in that moment and ceases in that same moment, or if you say the dog is something that arises and ceases in the mind through that seeing, do you see what is happening? Again and again, one has recognized 'a dog,' one is holding onto 'a dog,' and then one theorizes that this 'dog' arises and ceases in the mind in that moment. Or one holds that a dog exists externally. Or one says a dog that did not exist before arose at that moment and then ceased. None of these positions can be the truth. If someone were to truly awaken to that situation, the necessary realization isn't simply to conclude, "There is no dog." Rather, they would understand how the perception (saññā) of 'dog' is constructed. They would recognize that this construction is happening in a place where such a construction is impossible. That recognition itself does not become a 'thing.' It doesn't become 'a dog.' It doesn't become 'something.' That recognition is not an ordinary recognition.

Now, look at that example. Is it useful? I say this because the way that simile often lands in our minds is slightly distorted. We might say, "Venerable Sir, the dog is deceived. It is deceived because there is no dog there." Then we might say, "Venerable Sir, that dog is foolish because there is no dog there." Look at what happens then. We feel that our way of recognizing the situation is correct, don't we? We feel the need to prove that 'there is no dog.' We might even ask, "Venerable Sir, what is wrong with that? There is no dog there." Do you see that you believe you have arrived at a correct perception? You think the realization 'there is no dog here' is the correct one.

But look at the actual event of 'seeing' in that situation. A 'dog' is completely irrelevant to it. We are holding on to something completely irrelevant and then declaring it either 'is' or 'is not.' In that event, the concept of a 'dog' has no place at all—neither to affirm its existence nor to deny it. Therefore, recognizing things in terms of 'is not' is also just an illusion of perception (saññā-māyā). That recognition is also a distortion. The recognition 'there is no dog' is still a recognition. Why? Because the whole story of a 'dog' is irrelevant to the present moment, to that event of seeing, to what is actually happening. We are conditioning our conclusion 'there is no dog' on something that is not pertinent to the situation.

Look closely at this. This is why the Tathāgata said that 'existence' is one extreme. One grasps the perception of 'dog,' accepts that recognition, and then one group says 'is not' while another group says 'is.' The world 'is,' the world 'is not.' 'I' exist, 'I' do not exist. You must understand that every recognition based on 'is' and 'is not' is a distortion, an illusion of perception. One has been fooled by perception. One has latched onto perception. In truth, a perception has arisen—a recognition in terms of 'is' and 'is not.'

But the real problem is not even there. The problem is that the way of recognizing, the very nature of recognition, always seems true to the one recognizing it. Look at this point in our own lives. For the dog, its way of recognizing 'a dog' is true for it. For a madman, the way he sees things is true for him; he doesn't think he's mad. The angle from which he sees is true for him. From our perspective, he is mad. From his perspective, we are mad. We say he is mad because we have adopted a different way of recognizing things, another recognition we have deemed 'correct.' So, because we have moved to some other recognition, we say his perception is wrong. But is our 'correct' perception actually correct?

This is our biggest problem. We believe, "I am right. We are right." This is why the Buddha said, "Idameva saccaṃ moghamaññan"—"This alone is true, all else is foolish." Whoever grabs a perception and clings to it, saying "This alone is true," is a fool. Why is he a fool? Because he doesn't see that he is trapped in a perception. He is trying to prove one thing is right and another is wrong, but he doesn't understand the nature of the trap itself. So, if someone claims, "I am the Buddha," they are mad. However, if one recognizes the nature of that madness, one has become a Buddha. But if one then thinks, through a perception, "I have become a Buddha," that is the madness. Do you see? The problem is, we cannot see our own madness. We always think that what we think, the way we recognize things, is correct.

Think of it this way. Someone might say, "Venerable Sir, only today did I realize that I have been wrong all this time." He thinks that today's recognition of having been wrong all along is correct. No. That is just another form of the same madness. We might think, "No, now I am humble. I have humbly understood that I was wrong." But then, from that, a new sense of self arises: "Now I have become humble. I have understood my mistake. I have realized I was in delusion." Then that perception, again and again, becomes 'correct.' Conceit is born from humility. From his 'correctness,' he has gone wrong again. By understanding that he was wrong all this time, he now thinks he is right. "Oh, I was wrong. So, Venerable Sir, if I was wrong, then understanding my wrongness must be right, mustn't it?" That sense of 'rightness' is another perception. You are caught again. Do you see? We even want to be 'right' about being 'wrong.' I need to be 'right' about being 'wrong.' Do you see? This perception has a very strange nature. On the surface, it appears so innocent. It seems so humble, so surrendered: "I accept my mistake, I admit I am wrong." To others, such a person appears noble, excellent, and truly humble. But they don't see the trap. They then praise that person, extolling their virtues, saying, "Oh, what a wonderful quality, they have understood their own wrongness." No. If your 'wrongness' is the correct thing you have found, if you have found 'rightness' in your 'wrongness,' then that is your greatest delusion. Just look, from then on, it's all about character and virtue. The person is deceived, and others are deceived. They think, "I have become humble." They do not understand. They don't see that they have simply taken the same perception that was clinging to 'rightness' on one side and flipped it over to cling to 'wrongness' on the other, thereby becoming 'right' in their 'wrongness.' They have latched onto 'I am wrong' as a new identity.

So, this is the nature of it. This is where the deception of perception lies. That is why the Blessed One said all these proliferations (papañca) arise with perception (saññā) as their foundation. So, whichever way you look at it, you are caught. If you think you've found the 'right' way, you are caught. If you think you've found the 'wrong' way, you are caught. If you think, "It is neither right nor wrong," and you hold that to be correct, you are caught in that too. Somehow or other, we need to arrive somewhere. That is the nature of this sense of self (mamatta). It is always trying to get to a 'correct perception.' Even as the Blessed One repeatedly states that perception is a mirage, we still want a 'correct perception' that 'perception is a mirage.' Look at this point very carefully.

This is why this verse is so profound. It does not allow you to settle on any side. Otherwise, we would find some way to settle on a perception about perception and cling to it as the truth. We need to latch onto a new perception as 'reality.' We need to latch onto another falsehood as 'correct.' At the very least, we want to be correct in our understanding that "all of this is false." Do you see how it latches on? "The only truth here is that there is no truth here." If you say that, you are caught again.

This is the issue. That is why when one understands this perception, there cannot be an attainment, a realization, or a 'knower' who has understood. That is why I say it must be an act of transcending. We are accustomed to collecting more perceptions, boxing ourselves into a new set of 'Dhamma perceptions.' We think, "All this time I was in the wrong, but now, here are the correct perceptions." But the Blessed One says that cannot be the way. You cannot cling to ordinary perception, but you also cannot discard your ordinary, mistaken recognitions only to take up a new set of 'Dhamma perceptions.'

Isn't that what happens to us? We think, "Ah, all this time we were in error. Now, having learned the Dhamma, we have come to the right understanding." We try to distort and twist our old perceptions. That is why the Blessed One said the Dhamma is like a raft. It is for crossing over. It is not a bundle of perceptions to be carried on your head. As it is said in the Alagaddūpama Sutta, even these words we are speaking are not things to take a stand on. They are not pointing to a 'correct thing.' When one sees the wrong as wrong, one transcends. It is not a matter of understanding a 'correct thing.' It is not an acquisition of a new set of correct perceptions.

This is what I believe his sermon points to. Even within this Dhamma talk, what is being given is another set of perceptions. We are using one set of perceptions to falsify another. If the task is completed correctly, which means the act of transcending occurs, then even the teachings given as 'Dhamma' must be let go of. The perceptions used to falsify other perceptions are themselves just perceptions. They are also just falsehoods.

It's like that story about Osho. During a talk, someone passed him a note. It said, "I think everything you are saying is a lie." Osho told the person who wrote it to stand up. When the man stood up, Osho said, "You and I are the only ones here who know the truth."

So, when wisdom (paññā) is engaged, there is a transcending of even these perceptions. One cannot receive a 'Dhamma' to accumulate. If there is an acquisition of a 'Dhamma,' then what arises from that is conceit. "We know. You people are of wrong view (micchā-diṭṭhi), but we are of right view (sammā-diṭṭhi)." Then one is just another madman, clinging to a new bundle of perceptions. Just look at how difficult this is. Do you see how Buddhists, not understanding this, use the very Dhamma of the Buddha to cultivate their own conceit? It's the same old defilements (kilesa) at work. They just change the perceptions. They distort the ordinary perceptions by reading a few suttas and acquiring a new bundle of perceptions, and then it's the same old game of judgment and conceit. The same arrogance that they used to look down on people when they knew nothing is now applied using a new set of 'Dhamma perceptions.' And you can see this in their practical lives. There is no sign of cooling (nibbida), no sign of transcending. It's the same old patterns operating.

Now, this is not to say that Dhamma discussions are impossible. They are possible for someone who has this understanding of perception. Such a person can engage in debate, but for them, there is no outcome of winning or losing. There is no such expectation. In that moment, they might use one perception to strike against another perception in order to break the other person's sense of self. But when the other side is let go of, this side has already been let go of. This is because they are using perception with the knowledge of its nature. They are not in a blank state of non-perception (nopi asaññī). They are not just sitting there mute, thinking 'nothing exists.' Internally, they have not become devoid of perception (asaññī).

So, at my level of understanding, as we gradually begin to comprehend this nature of perception, the first thing we must understand is our biggest mistake: we try to find the 'correct Dhamma' using these very perceptions. We try to find a set of 'correct perceptions.' The problem is, we can never succeed. Because while you are in a perception, you cannot see that it is a mirage. Why? Because an 'I' has been born from that very perception. A 'self' has been constructed through the seeming truthfulness of that very act of recognition. That 'I' has arisen there. And that 'I' cannot understand, "This is false." Why? Because that 'I' was born precisely because this false perception seemed true. There was no separate 'I' before that. The ghost, the shadow of 'I,' was constructed from this very distorted perception. Therefore, that 'I' can never understand that this is false.

This is where association with noble friends (kalyāṇa-mitta) becomes necessary. This is where the true Dhamma is needed. Because for us, for that 'I' who is caught in the mirage of perception, it is impossible to see that the perception is false. What it sees is just another 'truth'—"Ah, I realize now that I was wrong all this time." That is just another perception. See how dangerous this is? See what one can fall into when trying to figure this out alone. I am not saying one must always follow someone else. But in this matter, if we do not value the noble friend, we cannot understand.

Mr. Lasantha called me and gave me a beautiful example. He said a friend of his went to a shop to buy an item for 4,125 rupees. He had 4,000 rupees in one pocket. He gave the 4,000. He still had to give another 125 rupees. As he was reaching into his other pocket for the change, the shopkeeper gave him 875 rupees back. Imagine that! He is still searching his pocket for 125 rupees, and the shopkeeper is giving him change.

Look at what happened in that incident. It's clear that he actually gave 4,000. But in the shopkeeper's world, in his mind, he had received 5,000. In his perception, it was 5,000. So, the 'I' who knew '5,000' had become real for him. That's why he gave back the change. Look at that example for a moment. In the shopkeeper's world, he never received 4,000. If he had perceived 4,000, he would have asked for another 125 rupees. But he was operating from the perception of '5,000.' And at that moment, for him, that perception of '5,000' was correct.

That is the illusory nature of perception. That is its delusion. Because an 'I' arises along with the perception, for that 'I', whatever perception it grasps always seems true. It proliferates. He is in a state of 'having received 5,000.' We don't consciously think, "I am right, I am this way." We just act. We don't think, "Ah, I am correct." Look at how we think about different people at different times. When we think, "This person is like this," at that moment, it is correct. Then later, when we think, "Oh no, I was wrong, they are actually like this," that new thought becomes correct. Don't you see? Every perception that arises seems correct at the time. Look at how many different ways we think about the same person over time. On the day we think it, at the moment we think it, it is absolutely true for us. At that moment, we don't think, "This is what I think is true." The thought is the truth.

This is how it works. These aren't just theoretical words like 'perceptions.' We just think, "He is like this." And in that thought, "He is like this," a 'person' is created along with a 'number'—'he' is 'one.' When we think, "He is like this," there is an illusory quality in that perception that makes it seem absolutely real. Every single thought, every single recognition, seems true at the moment it arises. That is the mirage-like quality of perception. It is exactly like seeing water in a mirage. If we realized it was a mirage at that moment, the whole story about 'water' wouldn't even arise. But at that moment, what we see is water. In the same way, every single moment we recognize something, for us, in our world, that recognition is absolutely true. It has become a reality.

So, look at that practical story from the shop. It's a beautiful story. It shows us that the shopkeeper was operating in a reality where '5,000' had become true. The 'I' who knew '5,000' had arisen from that reality. If there was a separate 'I' who existed before that, he wouldn't have been fooled by the 4,000, would he? That 'I' was constructed simultaneously with the deception. Otherwise, we tend to think, "Ah, I existed before, and then I just made a little mistake." We say, "I got it wrong," and then later we think, "Ah, now I think it's 4,000, and this thought is correct." "I made a little mistake before; I was in a hurry." Do you see? Again and again, we make the '4,000' the new truth. So, in every instance, it's always "I am right." At the 5,000 moment, I was right. Later, when I say, "I made a mistake," I am right about that too. In every single place, it is "I am right, I am right." This means we have never, ever been wrong.

That is the problem. We have never, ever been wrong. Even when we are wrong, we know that we are wrong. So we are right. Because if he is right about being wrong—"Yes, I was wrong"—then he is right! "I know it." A correct person has been created who even knows his own wrongness. "I know that I was mistaken." So, he is right again. Do you see? Your entire life is a succession of 'right, right, right.' You have never been wrong. This view of 'I' that works through this is born from that sense of 'rightness.' It's a perception of permanence (nicca-saññā), isn't it? A perception of 'correctness.' A correct self-perception. Why? Because everything is correct. Just look, when were you ever wrong? You were never wrong. Even when you were wrong, you were right about knowing you were wrong. Look at this very closely.

A perception can only persist if it feels correct. That is how the 'I' persists. ‘saññānidānā hi papañcasaṅkhā.’ Whatever one recognizes, that recognition becomes true. And from that apparent truth, an 'I' is born. So the 'I' who thinks, "Oh, I messed up," is the same 'I' who is right about having messed up, and the same 'I' who thinks, "I got it right." It's the same process working again and again and again.

So, this is what we need to understand. But this understanding cannot become another perception, another 'correct' perception. That is why the Blessed One said this cannot be an ordinary perception, nor can it be a distorted perception.

Now, let me return to the point I was trying to make with that simile. Let's go back to the story of the 4,000 and 5,000 rupees. This is just a simile, so take only the meaning from it, because no simile can perfectly capture the Dhamma. In that situation, what did his two eyes actually receive? What did they see? They saw 4,000. Let's just assume for a moment that his eye-consciousness (cakkhu-viññāṇa) recognized 4,000. The eyes received 4,000. So, if his eyes received what was seen, then from where did he get 5,000? That's the big question. His eyes did not receive 5,000. Here is where the problem arises. If so, from where did he get this story of 5,000? His two eyes, at that moment, at the level of eye-consciousness (cakkhu-viññāṇa), received the event of '4,000.' But he is calculating based on 5,000. So then we see that the 5,000 he is using for his calculation does not belong to the eye-consciousness.

Then we have to understand: he is operating with 5,000 at the level of mind-consciousness (mano-viññāṇa). Let's call it a complete mental formation (mano-saṅkhāra), a perception created by the mind. So, this mental formation, this story of 5,000, has nothing to do with the 4,000 that is being seen. Now, again I say, this simile is flawed. Just take the meaning from it and then let the simile go. Because in reality, he didn't even 'see' 4,000 in the first place. We are treating that event as a reality to discuss it.

So, let's say he was given 4,000. But he operated with 5,000. That's one scenario. Now, let's say he was given 4,000 and he perceived it as 4,000. Then he would have asked for another 125 rupees. But look, in both cases, he is not reacting to what is being seen. Do you understand? Look closely at the simile. He is reacting to what he is thinking.

Have you seen people trying to break the clay pot (kanāmutti) during the New Year festival? Their eyes are blindfolded. They swing blindfolded. Some people manage to hit the pot by sheer luck. But it's a blind shot. Others miss completely. The case of the shopkeeper giving back change for 4,000 is like the shot that misses the pot. The case where he perceives 4,000 as 4,000 is like the blind shot that happens to hit the pot. But both are blind shots. You must understand that both were swings taken blindfolded.

Our lives are like this, a series of blind shots. We are not doing any of this with true knowing. We are swinging with our eyes closed, making guesses. Life, this thing we call perception, is like breaking the clay pot blindfolded. Some of our blind shots just happen to match up. We think, "I chose the right person," but it wasn't a choice; it was a blind shot that happened to connect. Just like that, some people in life say, "Damn, I ended up with the wrong person. That's why my life is ruined." But that's because they think they chose with their eyes open. No. It was a blind shot. And some blind shots will inevitably go wrong.

Then the mind gets confused. The mind says, "See? What you thought was right. You are amazing. What you think is what you see. What you think is what happens." But that is not the reality of the situation. As you try to understand this perception, you must understand this well. This thing we call our life is just a bundle of perceptions. Some things just happen to match up by chance. But even when they match, what you have recognized is not what was actually seen.

Let me take another example. Imagine there is a scarecrow in the distance. A few people are standing far away, and none of them can see clearly what it is. One person says, "It's a woman." Another says, "It's a man." A third person says, "It's a scarecrow." All three are guessing. These are not direct perceptions. As the three of them get closer, the one who said it was a scarecrow exclaims, "See? I told you so! I was exactly right!" He thinks he said it because he saw correctly. No. He made a blind guess, and his guess happened to be correct. The other two, who also made blind guesses, think, "Damn, we were wrong." It seems as if the one who was right is some kind of expert. But all three of them were guessing blindly.

Then, a connection is made: "What I thought and what is there are the same. What I see is what I thought. What I think is about what I see." This is how perception ties things together. It links thinking and seeing. One connects what one thinks to what one sees and concludes, "This is my mother that I am seeing. The mother I see is the one who is here." Then the perception becomes like a solid entity. It is no longer seen as a blind guess. It is not seen as a blind guess. The thought arises, "What I am thinking about is what I am seeing. What is there is what I am thinking." At that point, the mirage-like quality of perception disappears for us. The perception acquires a substance, a meaning.

Now, perception is just recognition. Imagine I make the sound "Om." When you hear the sound "Om," that sound is a recognition. But in reality, the sound "Om" has no intrinsic meaning, does it? After I say "Om," it's just a sound. If I were to ask you, "What did you recognize from the sound 'Om'?" You would just say, "The sound 'Om'." There is nothing substantial to be recognized. In the same way, although we recognize things, there is no actual 'thing' there that has been recognized. It is just like the sound "Om."

Now, you might understand this when I say "Om." But what happens when I say "chair"? When I say "chair," it is just a sound, the same as "Om." But when I say "chair," you instantly conjure up an image: "A chair is a thing like this, like that." Then you think, "I can go and look at it, I can touch it." Do you see? The perception instantly connects the thought to what can be seen. It connects it to what can be heard, to what can be touched. But in reality, when I say "chair," what you hear is the sound 'chair.' You recognize the sound 'chair.' But within that perception, that recognition of 'chair,' is there an actual chair?

Tell me, when I say "chair," you recognize 'chair.' But that recognition of 'chair' is not something you can ever see, is it? We can hear the word 'chair,' but we can never touch the word 'chair.' However, our mind says, "No, I have touched a chair. I have seen a chair." Then, if we investigate, what have we really seen? Have we seen a 'chair' or have we seen a 'color'? Even as you look at what you call a chair here, what you see is a collection of colors. And even that is a perception. Just take this as a simile, don't take colors and things as ultimate realities. Just take the meaning.

When I say "chair," you think there is a 'thing' called a chair somewhere that can be seen, touched, heard, and lifted; that has weight. You connect it to what is seen, heard, and sensed. Do you see? You give meaning to the perception 'chair' by assuming it can be seen, heard, and touched. Look at the illusory nature of this perception. Can you ever really see a 'chair'? If you look, what you see is the color brown. But within the color brown, there is no 'chair.' And besides, when I say 'brown,' that too is just a sound I am making for you. Look and see if there is a 'thing' called 'brown' in that sound. If you say 'brown' to a small child, will the child go and get the brown color? No. The perception 'brown' is just the perception 'brown.' It is not a 'thing' that is known.

Then, if I ask you to show me the brown color, you point to the chair and say, "The chair is brown." If I ask you to show me the chair, you point to the brown color. "There is the brown color. There is the square shape." Do you see? We explain one perception using another perception. We recognize 'chair' through conditions that are irrelevant to it. When I ask you to show me the chair, you show me 'that brown color,' 'that shape,' 'that thing that feels hard when I touch it.' Now, just focus on this feeling of hardness. Is there a 'chair' in that feeling? No.

Then you will understand. When I speak of a 'chair,' that recognition is nothing more than the recognition of 'chair.' It has no other inherent meaning. The recognition of 'chair' gets its meaning from the story that it can be seen, touched, and heard. However, if you bring your attention to the act of seeing itself, you will find that what is seen can never be thought about. If you think about this seeing, that thought has no connection whatsoever to the seeing itself. Look closely. It is through the view that 'what is thought is what is seen' that perception becomes a 'thing.' The perception becomes a substantial thing, a 'thing' that has been recognized, only when the thought is connected to what is seen. But we can understand very clearly that this very act of connecting the thought to what is seen is what we have been calling 'taking a blind shot.' That's the blind shot in the clay pot story. One takes a blind swing, believing, "What I am thinking is what I am seeing." And sometimes the pot breaks; the thought and the event match up. "What I thought is what I am seeing. I thought she would come today, and look, she came." You see? The thought came true. We quickly match up certain events and conclude that what is thought can be seen, what is seen can be looked at, what is seen can be thought about, and what is thought is what is seen. This is the point where we get caught, where perception is made into a reality.

However, if we were to understand this correctly one day, we would see that this 'chair' that has been recognized can never be 'seen.' Because in this moment, this event of 'seeing' is just seeing, and what is seen cannot be thought about. And even to say 'it is just seeing' is another thought. Even that thought is not true to the event of seeing. Then it is understood that what is seen can never be thought about. And what is thought can never be touched, seen, or heard. This means we have never seen, heard, or touched a single thing we have ever thought. Then you will understand: the existence of a thought is created by the view that it can be seen, touched, and heard. Similarly, the existence of 'seeing something' is created by the idea that it can be thought about. The existence of thinking is created by seeing, hearing, and feeling.

Now look. If you understand this correctly, you will ultimately see that seeing becomes void through seeing itself. Hearing becomes void through hearing itself. Feeling becomes void through feeling itself. And thinking, or recognizing, becomes void through recognition itself. But be careful. To say "recognition becomes void through recognition" is not another recognition, is it? One must be careful there. To say "seeing is void by seeing" cannot be another instance of recognizing something about seeing. If that happens, one has simply arrived at another understanding, like "In the seen, there is only the seen" (diṭṭhe diṭṭhamattaṃ), and then there is a 'knower' who has understood that, an 'arahant' who has realized it. Someone remains. Why? Because one has gone back to another perception.

This very sermon is being delivered using perceptions. As wisdom (paññā) ripens through it, there should be nothing left to latch onto, nothing left to acquire, nothing left to proliferate—not even the concept "in the seen, there is only the seen." There is no opportunity to join seeing and the mind together. This is what the Blessed One meant when he was asked by Bāhiya Dārucīriya to teach the path to liberation (Nibbāna) in brief: "In the seen, there is only the seen. In the heard, there is only the heard. In the sensed, there is only the sensed. In the cognized, there is only the cognized." This means that what is seen, heard, sensed, and cognized is void (suñña). But when I say 'void,' don't take it to mean 'nothing.' Don't grasp the idea that 'seeing is void' from a position of having experienced seeing and then negating it. This is where wisdom is needed. Otherwise, it is very easy to fall into a state of thinking, "Nothing is here," and then a 'knower' of that nothingness is constructed. One falls into a state of emptiness. This is why the Blessed One said this is not about making perception non-percipient (asaññī). Look at the wisdom in this verse. It doesn't affirm existence, nor does it advocate for the distortion of perception into non-existence. See how much wisdom is required here.

Now, a question might arise for someone: "Venerable Sir, how does what you are saying relate to the spiritual practice of a group of people who are developing mindfulness (sati)?" We should try not to just bring up a lot of arguments. The question is, how does this word of the Buddha connect to the spiritual path we are on? How do we connect it to our practice? I will take a little time to explain this.

This teaching of the Blessed One—‘na saññasaññī, na visaññasaññī, nopi asaññī, na vibhūtasaññī, evaṃ sametassa vibhoti rūpaṃ’—how do we, as a group developing mindfulness, as people cultivating sati, understand this in our practice? I will take a little time for this, and then I think the sermon will be complete. Otherwise, this might just seem like another collection of arguments.

Alright, let's consider this. After having recognized something about perception from this sermon, it's not that we have acquired a new understanding or another answer about perception. What must happen is the non-arising of perception itself. However, when practicing the foundations of mindfulness (Satipaṭṭhāna), when we practice mindfulness, we do, to a certain extent, grasp a perception. The reason is that even when we take the breath as our object, what we are taking is a sign (nimitta), a perception (saññā). It is also a kind of view (diṭṭhi). Even when we place our attention on the body, what we grasp as 'the feeling of the body' is, in a subtle way, a perception. It is this feeling that is felt as 'I exist.' So, if you feel anything at all, it is felt because of a perception that creates a duality of 'I' and 'the external.' It is because of a recognition. The breath is not something that exists independently somewhere. The body is not something that exists independently. The Blessed One shows this beautifully in the Poṭṭhapāda Sutta, where he speaks of a form-based acquisition of a self (rūpī atta-paṭilābha) and a formless acquisition of a self (arūpī atta-paṭilābha).

However, as we go on developing the foundations of mindfulness (Satipaṭṭhāna), we have listened to the sermons on perception. We have some wisdom regarding perception. But while holding this wisdom, we still take up a perception as our object. For instance, we place our attention on the perception of 'the body.' To be mindful of the body means we are holding on to the perception of 'the body.' But in holding on to this perception, there is a great deal of support for us. This is because a whole host of perceptions related to homes, doors, and the sensual feelings (kāma-saññā) that arise are shed from us.

So, we knowingly place our attention on the perception of 'the body,' or 'the breath,' or 'the feeling.' We do this with the understanding, "This too is not the ultimate truth; this too is a perception." However, we use this perception of 'the body' as a support to establish mindfulness (sati). We use the perception of 'the body' or 'the breath' as a support to develop our mindfulness. Instead of letting our attention wander to other things, we keep our awareness on this one perception.

As we continue to stay with this awareness, we understand what the Blessed One pointed to: this perception of 'the body' becomes more and more subtle (sukhuma). That is to say, as we continue to place our attention on this perception of the body, in comparison, the perceptions of the world gradually wear away, and after some initial difficulty, this perception of the body becomes a very subtle experience. It becomes more and more gentle. Being with the body, being with the wave of the breath, becomes a very subtle perception.

Then, gradually, this perception itself begins to transform (viparināma). Take an ice cube. At first, it is solid. Then, little by little, it turns to water, and then it evaporates. In the same way, although I establish mindfulness on 'the body' or 'the wave of the breath,' and although this perception feels solid like an ice cube at the beginning, it gradually begins to melt. It becomes like water, then vapor. This is why many people say that while meditating, the breath disappeared, or they could no longer feel the body. This is because the perception became subtle and faded away.

From this, we must understand the issue with calm-abiding meditation (samatha bhāvanā) alone. Those who practice only samatha strive to keep the perception at the level of the ice cube. If it is the breath, they try to keep the breath going continuously. If it is the body, they try to keep the mind fixed on the body. However, the purpose of keeping the mind on the body or the breath is to reduce the mind's running after other perceptions. But this object itself is a perception; it is also subject to transformation. It cannot be made permanent. It is not a 'thing.' It is just another recognized perception, another mirage.

Therefore, in the practice of insight (vipassanā), while we keep our attention fixed on it, we must have the wisdom to allow for this change. We allow for impermanence (anicca). We don't struggle to keep the ice cube as an ice cube forever. We don't ask, "Why can't I feel the ice cube anymore?" We know with wisdom, "This is a mirage. This is a mere perception. To hold on to this is a burden, a form of suffering (dukkha)." Even in this, a subtle sense of 'I-ness' is at work. One is subtly holding on to a sign, dwelling with a perception. Therefore, the weight of the self is in it; the weariness of the self is in it.

However, it is not there in a comparative sense. One is not burning in the same way as when one was struggling with perceptions of houses, family, and the world. The suffering is comparatively less. In this way, one understands more and more that although one has taken up a perception like the body or the breath, that itself is not liberation (Nibbāna). But to the extent that one can sink into that object, suffering wears away in a relative sense. Feeling wears away. But we do not say that the sense of self wears away 100%. It might diminish, but it might also increase if one turns that very practice into a proliferation (papañca) by practicing without wisdom or by entertaining doubts about it.

Therefore, we say that as one continues to meditate, go with the awareness. Little by little, that perception will wear away. And when that perception wears away, do not go looking for a new perception. Do not go looking for a new object, a new teacher, or a new technique. Venerable Dhammajīva used to tell a story. When some people's meditation objects would fade away like this, during the time he was a layman, people would say to him, "You've been here for about two years now. There are other Arahants, other good meditation methods. Why don't you go and check those out as well?" He would reply—Venerable Dhammajīva tells us this—"Do you really want to see an Arahant?" They would say yes. He would then tell them, "Sit with your body for about an hour, and then go and look in a mirror. You will see an Arahant." This means, don't go searching all over the place for the Arahant that is within you.

You just need to go into your awareness. As you stay with that awareness for an hour or two, that perception of the body will become more and more subtle, and it will wear away, wear away, wear away. Then go look in the mirror, and you will understand who the Arahant is.

So, in the same way, the crucial problem for us is that we do not persist in the practice when things become subtle. When the perception becomes subtle and starts to disappear, we don't continue with the practice. Why? Because it is difficult to do so. As the perception of 'the body' or 'the breath' wears away, wears away, wears away, we are faced with the absence of a perception. We are left without a sign (nimitta) to hold on to. And to remain there without grasping a perception, without grasping a sign, is like experiencing suicide while you are still alive. To be united with this truth, we all have to commit suicide while still living. We have to die while alive. No one likes this. No one is ready for it. Because as you go deeper and deeper into meditation, there is no perception, no breath, no body. But you know that there is mindfulness (sati).

Now, at this point, try to connect this to the verse. ‘Na saññasaññī’—'not with ordinary perception.' At this stage of meditation, there is complete mindfulness, complete awareness. The feeling 'I am here' is still present. But there is no breath, no body, no sign. This is becoming 'na saññasaññī'. There is no ordinary perception now. If the meditation object I took up was the breath or the body, that perception is now gone.

Then, ‘na visaññasaññī’—'not with distorted perception.' You are not insane. You haven't gone mad or anything like that. But at this point—and I don't know the exact reason—an inability to stay there arises. People come and tell me these days, "Venerable Sir, an incredible sleepiness comes over me. I just drift off." This is because when there is no perception, there are no defilements (kilesa). The experience of no-perception means there is nothing for the ego to construct itself from, because the 'I' is constructed from perception. There is no way for the 'self-identity' (sakkāya) to be formed.

Then Māra strikes. One starts cursing the teacher. "What the hell is this? He has led us down the wrong path, misled us." "What am I even doing?" Why? Because the 'I' needs to be rescued from somewhere. This disappearing 'I', this 'I' that has lost its footing, needs to be given a perception. "Venerable Sir, give us some candy, give us something to hold on to." But now, there are no more sweets. "Before, you gave us everything. You promised us cakes and pizzas. Now, in the end, it's just air." And now even the air you told us to watch is gone.

This is where the fear of death can arise. If the desire for life is still there, people will leave the meditation center without even telling the teacher. This is why some meditation centers lock their gates during a retreat. Because by the fourth day, people will be trying to jump over the walls to escape. Why? Because as they go deeper and deeper into meditation, perceptions disappear. And when there are no perceptions, they can't figure out what to do. They are lost. As perceptions fade away more and more…But if you look closely, you know you haven't gone mad. You haven't lost your mind. But now there is no breath, no body. There is nothing to hold on to as 'I exist.' Before, you were holding on to the gross idea of 'I,' but now even that is gone. On the other hand, you are not completely gone. You haven't become distorted in perception.

Then the verse says ‘nopi asaññī’—'nor without perception.' This means you haven't gone into a state where you don't feel anything at all. Sounds are still heard. They are understood. The method we were taught in Burma for this stage was this: go into that awareness as much as possible. When Venerable Dhammajīva was teaching me meditation, he said, "Go into that state in your meditation, and if you can, stay there for one and a half hours without any sign (nimitta)." There are no thoughts, but sounds are heard. It's like being inside a hall or a cave while it's raining outside; you are not disturbed by it. You are in that awareness. Sounds are heard, sights are seen, everything is felt. He told me to see if I could stay in that 'vibe' on the cushion for an hour and a half without doing anything at all.

At first, you can't. You can only manage two or three minutes. Then, little by little, you get the hang of it. But the thing is, after sitting like that for about an hour, it becomes completely tasteless. You start to think, "What the hell am I doing sitting like this?" For hours, you are just sitting in a state of 'nothingness.' The mind starts saying, "What is this nonsense? What madness is this? What kind of life is this?" It tells you all sorts of things. Either you've taken the wrong path, or something else is wrong.

This is the point. And what I was told was that if you introduce any perception at this stage, it will become a defilement (kilesa). There is no sign now in your mindfulness. If you think, "Wow, this is a great attainment, this is amazing," you get caught in that perception. Or if you think, "This is useless, I'm fed up," you get caught in that. After having this experience, the way you look at it is what starts the defilements. The 'I' starts to reconstruct itself. "I am fed up. This is a loss." Or, "This is amazing. This is a gain." Whatever you do, in this place where perceptions cannot be produced, you try to produce them again. You look at it as a loss or a gain. You see it as good or bad. And as soon as you do that, the eight worldly conditions (aṭṭha loka dhammā) are constructed.

At this stage, the eight worldly conditions have no footing. It is neither good nor bad. There is no gain in it, nor is there any loss. By staying in that awareness, nothing is lost, and nothing is gained. But our minds, these minds that run on profit and loss, are defiled. The 'I' is always looking for a business that eliminates loss and makes a profit. But here, no matter how long you stay, there is no profit and no loss. It's like eating plain white bread. No jam, no butter, nothing. And this defiled mind goes to this state and tries to turn it into a perception. It tries to label it: "I am in such-and-such a state of meditation. This is such-and-such a result." It tries to define it as a meditation state or a certain plane of existence. It tries to give a description to what cannot be described, a name to what cannot be named.

You must see this clearly. Through this naming, this labeling, the 'I' is revived. It gets nourished again. The self-identity (sakkāya) starts to rise up again. The self that was dying is prevented from becoming one with the truth. You see, you are still in this state of 'being,' this awareness. For liberation (Nibbāna) to be realized, even that awareness of 'being' must fall away. Even mindfulness must fall away. Before the awareness can be let go of, you must first become just the awareness. We who were holding on to a whole bundle of perceptions have finally come to the most subtle perception of all: the perception that feels 'I exist.' This is not a thought or a concept. It is the feeling of 'being,' of 'existing'—what we call bhava. It is like clay. The clay is there, but a bird has not yet been made from it, nor a pot. No creation has yet been made. You have gone to the root perception of existence (bhava). And that root perception is like pure gold. Gold only gets its existence as a 'thing' when it is made into a ring, an earring, or a bangle. But this state is before the bangle has been made. It is before it has been given a name. It is at the level of pure gold. It is at the level of raw clay. Don't make anything out of the clay yet. Don't form (saṅkhāra) anything. The difficulty is in staying at that level of raw clay. We always want to create something out of it. We want to make a pot, a house, or a bird. We need to engage in some kind of formation.

So, in the same way, you go to the root perception of mindfulness. By 'root perception,' I mean a perception that has not yet become a 'thing.' What is there is the level of 'being' (bhava), what is called the conceit 'I am' (asmimāna). Perception is at the level of 'I am,' 'I exist.' It is at the level of clay, the level of gold. It has not yet been formed or fabricated into a specific thing.

Go to that point in your meditation and see for how long you can remain in that awareness without forming, without fabricating. How long can you stay in that root perception? It is after this that 'I' become a body, a woman, a man, and hopes and dreams arise. Everything else starts from there. This is before the level of 'woman' or 'man.' This is what I call the Brahma-level. There is a Brahma-level in this awareness. Stay in that Brahma-level of awareness. Some non-dual (Advaita) traditions call this liberation (Nibbāna). But the Blessed One did not call this liberation. Even here, in a very subtle way, there is still the duality of 'I am,' 'I exist.' I am not yet a man or a woman, not a particular person, not yet a form (rūpa). It is like in the Nirvanashtakam of Adi Shankara, where he says, "I am not the body, I am not feeling, I am not the five sheaths." But in the end, he says, "I am Shiva, I am Shiva."

What the Blessed One taught was to go to this awareness and see that even this awareness is not-self (anattā). This awareness has not yet become a 'woman' or a 'man.' But even this root perception is not-self. The Blessed One did not say, "I am Shiva." I cannot judge; I don't know from what state of mind Shankara said that. We cannot judge a teacher, because only the teacher knows the meaning with which he brought forth those words.

But the Blessed One, having gone to this awareness, said, "Sabbe saṅkhārā aniccā"—'All formations are impermanent.' The conceptual worlds we build do not exist in reality; there is only this perception. And that awareness, that feeling of 'existing,' that root perception, is not-self (anattā). It is self-less.

Understand this point well. Because it is self-less, from it arise birds, women, men—the world of perceptions. Understand this point. Because it is self-less, after you have meditated for a long time and stayed in that pure awareness, you will notice that suddenly you get startled and come back to the body. You get startled and thoughts arise again. Lust arises, just like before. Anger arises, just like before. Sometimes desires arise even more strongly than before. Then you understand that although you were established in that awareness, because that awareness has no self, because it is anattā, it breaks, and these things become form (rūpa) again, feeling (vedanā) again, perception (saññā) again, formations (saṅkhāra) again. Because it is self-less, it is subject to transformation.

If there were an 'I' there, I should be able to stay there forever without moving, shouldn't I? But you cannot. You cannot stay in that blank awareness forever. This is not about eliminating perception (na vibhūtasaññī). We cannot just eliminate everything and decide, "I will stay in this awareness; I will not let lust or thoughts arise." That is why the Blessed One said that liberation (Nibbāna) is not an elimination of perception. It is about taking perception to its ultimate end, to that level of 'knowing that I exist,' and then understanding that even that perception is not stable. You cannot stay there. It jumps back into thoughts, back into concepts. Then you understand that even when you go to that root perception, to that empty space, it too is just a perception. And in the same way, when that awareness jumps back to concepts of houses, children, future plans, people, men, and women, it is still the same gold that was in the bangle that has been melted down. It is the same clay. Look closely. Until you reach that level, it is all just clay. The pot we talk about, the pan, the vessel—though we speak of them as separate things, they are all just clay. At any moment, the clay can become a pot, and at any moment, the pot can be melted down and become clay again. This is the nature of Dhamma. You have to meditate until there is no difference between these two states—between the pure awareness and the concepts. They are both just awareness. It is the same clay that at one time we call a pot, at another time a cup, and at another time, when it has no shape, we just call it clay. Look, this is a somewhat deep matter.

When your meditation develops to that point, a teacher will explain to you that from there onwards, this division you make must be abandoned. The idea that "being in the awareness is good, and concepts are bad" has to go. It is like thinking that the clay is good only when it is formless, but bad when it becomes a pot or a cup. No. In the place of the 'cup,' there is only clay.

Without this subtle understanding, meditators get stuck. They get caught in that state of non-perception (asañña) and think it is liberation (Nibbāna). They think that eliminating perceptions and staying in that awareness is Nibbāna. No. You have to go to that state and understand it. Understand that at one moment, that very awareness takes the shape of a bird. At another moment, it takes the shape of a concept. At another moment, it takes the shape of a feeling (vedanā), and at another, the shape of a form (rūpa). It is the same one thing that takes all these different forms at different times.

Go there and meditate until you see that whether it remains as formless clay or takes the shape of a bird, it is the same. Whether it exists as a thought or as emptiness, it is the same. Then, a mindfulness arises that does not choose between them. And at that point, even that mindfulness breaks. It falls away. That is what we call true mindfulness—a consciousness that cannot be aimed, that has no sign, that cannot be established anywhere (appatiṭṭhita viññāṇa).

Then, little by little, the path to consciousness without feature (anidassana viññāṇa) opens up. We do not choose. We don't choose the clay, nor do we reject the pot. Then the yogi begins to understand. Their life becomes like water. It takes the shape of any container it is put into. You cannot grasp them and say whether they are an Arahant or not. Why? Because they have no shape of their own. They take the shape of the vessel. For them, it is the same whether they exist as formless clay or as a bird.

This is why we cannot understand an Arahant. They are beyond our level. We imagine that they must exist in a state like pure, formless gold or clay. But for them, it is the same whether they are with a form or without a form. They are not established in either. They do not cling to either. Because they have passed through all of it and are liberated from all of it. They have not taken any of it as 'I.' They have not tried to establish a permanent footing anywhere. The impermanent, not-self nature of all things has become the very nature of the Dhamma for them.

So, you see, all the stories we have in our minds about what an Arahant is fall apart. An ordinary person (puthujjana) truly cannot find an Arahant. They seem to do ordinary things. If it rains, they get wet. If there's a fight, they fight back. When meditating, they are completely silent. You cannot put them into our frames. We always try to box liberation (Nibbāna) and mindfulness (sati) into a frame. "Mindfulness is a blank state." No. It is the wearing away of both. In the end, there should be no difference between a thought and mindfulness. There is no difference between a feeling and mindfulness. This doesn't mean mindfulness is gone or perception is gone. This is why the Blessed One said here that perception is not eliminated (na vibhūtasaññī). But there is a deep wisdom about the nature of perception. Whether one goes to the empty space or to the objects, it is all just perception. When perception is seen as merely perception, there is no clinging to either side. What occurs is the act of transcending.

Then we understand this verse. We see that the liberation (Nibbāna) the Blessed One pointed to is not a story about establishing oneself in yet another perception.

Very well, let us conclude for today. May all beings have the blessings of the Triple Gem.

Original Source (Video):

Title: අනිදස්සන විඤ්ඤාණය - 04 |Ven Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | නිහඬ අරණ

https://youtu.be/yKUSVFo5RGM?si=_wyDfu8NejFZxK3N

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