Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 09 | Ven. Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | Nihada Arana
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Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 09 | Ven. Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | Nihada Arana
Gnanaweera Thero:
"Well then, usually on Tuesdays we hold a discussion on monastic discipline (Vinaya). However, this morning, I had a thought. In our morning session, we were discussing the teachings of the Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero regarding 'Nibbana as Extinguishment,' the realization of the deceptive nature of the mind, and non-manifestative consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa).
Without going through the entirety of his text, there is a relevant section concerning Nibbana described in the 12th chapter. I thought we should discuss that briefly. We may not cover the full section today, but let us look at what is necessary for our understanding. In this text, the Venerable Thero provides an explanation. He references the ancient Indian prayer:
'Lead me from untruth to truth;
Lead me from darkness to light;
Lead me from death to immortality.'
This is the threefold supplication that emerges from Indian thought. While this prayer aligns with the highest aspirations commonly held by humanity, the Buddha utilized His fundamental teachings and the analytical method found in the Kālāma Sutta to reveal a path to make these three wishes truly fruitful. However, He did so in a way that was completely distinct from all other Indian philosophical traditions.
Until the time of the Buddha, the Truth—which is the key to the problem of existence—was accepted merely as a property belonging to a Creator God (Ishvara). It was believed that the light required to dispel the great darkness of the human mind could only be generated through an experience of merging with Brahma. To solve the problem of death—which is inevitably a tragic end for all living beings—they sought immortality (amata) within the celestial nectar of the gods in the heavens.
The crucial point we must understand here is that this opening statement—this prayer—is never in agreement with the Buddha’s teaching. Let us look at it closely. It begins with the plea: 'Lead me from untruth to truth... Lead me from darkness to light... Lead me from death to immortality.' In all these three phrases, there lies a fundamental error: Truth has been turned into a request or a plea. To treat the Truth in this manner is, if I may say so, quite an ugly thing.
When one turns the Truth into a request, implying 'give me the Truth,' it reflects a very selfish sentiment. It is akin to saying, 'Let me acquire the Truth for myself.' Now, consider how we, as Buddhist monks, approach ordination. We recite something with a very different meaning: 'Sabba dukkha nissarana nibbāna sacchikaraṇatthāya...' (For the purpose of realizing Nibbana and escaping all suffering...).
In that instance, it is not merely a plea. Yes, I ask for ordination. But I ask for it with the understanding that by receiving it, I must make the necessary effort to end all suffering. I am preparing to dedicate my entire life as an offering for this purpose. It is not a case of saying, 'give me ordination,' and assuming that Nibbana will simply be handed to me. The meaning of taking refuge in the Triple Gem does not carry that kind of expectation.
However, the Venerable Thero notes that this Indian concept—this idea of 'Merge me with Brahma' or 'God, take me into yourself'—is prevalent in other traditions. Yet, such an idea does not exist within the teachings of the Buddha. If you read the Pāli Canon (Tipiṭaka), you will see this. Perhaps in certain Mahayana and Tantric traditions that have mixed with Hinduism, there may be a trace of this nature; it is not entirely absent there. But this idea comes specifically attached to the concept of a Brahma, a deity, or a Creator God.
It implies that there is a nature higher than us, and we are asking to be taken up into that higher nature. Now, consider that even the Buddha, after attaining Enlightenment, reflected on this question: 'Who is my teacher?'
Usually, throughout His previous wanderings, He had been under various teachers. When one is under a teacher or a preceptor, there is a certain 'innocence' or submissiveness within us. There is a quality of surrender, where we do not simply act on our own desires. However, the ordinary human mind is eager to escape this state of surrender quickly. The mind does not like to remain in that submissive, innocent state continuously.
The crucial point here is that as long as we remain in that state of surrender under a teacher, we possess significant protection. This is because the moment we become independent—before we are truly capable of treading the spiritual path on our own—we have no one to point out our errors. There is no one to guide us or to say, 'Focus your work right here.'
Without that guidance, we become like a bull that has broken loose from its tether; we simply do not know where we are going. We do not understand how to manage ourselves, which direction to take, or what we should be doing. We become lost.
Why does this happen? Because when one acts alone, their own perception (saññā) convinces them that they are right. To them, their actions appear correct. Therefore, there must be someone present with a more powerful state of awakening. These errors are only detected by someone possessing a stronger mindfulness (sati) than our own.
However, simply being near a teacher is of no use if one does not surrender. One might physically be close to a teacher, but if they refuse to submit to the guidance of that superior mindfulness—if they insist, 'I am going to do it my way'—then there is nothing to be done.
We need someone who is more deeply established in that awakening than we are—someone more settled in mindfulness. In this path, the one we accept as a 'teacher' is someone who has developed the foundations of mindfulness (satipaṭṭhāna) and wisdom to a degree greater than our own. When we surrender to such a person, our own mindfulness settles down immensely.
The speed at which the mind runs outwards diminishes; the struggle with the external world subsides. We, too, begin to settle into that mindfulness. This happens when we surrender completely to their instruction, when we become 'innocent' and submissive. It happens when we cultivate humility. When we stop trying to challenge or argue with the instruction given, we arrive at a state of complete stillness.
The issue we face in modern times is that some individuals, after being ordained for only three or four years—not even five or six—suddenly start to formulate their own methods. They do not yet understand the path. They have been ordained for merely three or four years; they have not even completed ten years of seniority (vassa) or five years after higher ordination (upasampadā). They have no substantial foundation. As a result, they become spiritually destitute; they begin to drift aimlessly.
They imagine that with their tiny bit of mindfulness, they can undertake a massive task. Consequently, their old habits grasp them again; they revert to their old patterns. This is precisely why one is required to stay with a teacher for five years (nissaya). The teacher observes and determines when the student's level of awakening is sufficient. When the teacher realizes, 'Now this student’s mindfulness cannot be shaken by external factors,' only then does he say, 'Now you may go out and practice without fear.'
Until that time comes, the teacher keeps the student close, treating them almost like a child. It is similar to our custom where, when a girl attains puberty, she is kept protected within a room for a period. Even though she has physically come of age, she is not sent out immediately because she needs to mature further. It is the same in this training.
Consider the Buddha Himself. After attaining Enlightenment, His 'innocence' and His awakening were absolutely complete. Yet, even then, He reflected: 'Is there a teacher in this universe who is more established in this awakening than I am? Is there anyone with a more powerful state of awakening?'
Observe His attitude—He sought a teacher. He asked, 'Who can I take as my teacher now?' We cannot exist without a teacher. Without a teacher, we lack understanding. Our minds are not as beautiful as we imagine them to be. They are incredibly cunning; they are deceptive. The mind is always trying to go on a different journey to maintain its own existence.
Look at the humility of the Buddha; even after attaining Buddhahood, He searched for a teacher. He looked to see if there was one. Being without a teacher means we do not know what might happen to us or how astray we might go. Upon reflection, the Buddha realized that there was no being with an awakening more powerful than His own.
He saw no one stronger in mindfulness. So, what did He do? He honored that very state of Complete Awakening as His teacher. However, we do not yet have the right to claim that for ourselves. For Him, that complete mindfulness itself illuminated the path; it became the Teacher. This is why it is said He took the Dhamma as His teacher. Dhamma here means that state of complete awakening; it does not merely mean a collection of facts or doctrines.
Furthermore, the Dhamma is not merely a collection of data we have gathered from a Dhamma school or elsewhere. What I want to emphasize here is that the Buddha’s teaching speaks of an awakening—of becoming mindfulness itself—rather than merely discussing the practice of the foundations of mindfulness (satipaṭṭhāna) as a ritual. Therefore, we do not go around pleading, asking to be saved or rescued by someone.
We do not speak in that manner. However, later on, songs emerged addressing the Buddha as 'Budu Piyāṇeni' (O Father Buddha). This carries a vibe similar to theistic traditions—and I am not disparaging the Christian religion or speaking ill of Jesus—but I am referring to that specific sentiment. It provides a certain satisfaction to the ego. It is like saying, 'Oh Father, save me.'
When one speaks like that, there is an implication of seeking protection, help, or a foothold from the outside. It is akin to asking, 'Lift me up to some higher place.' That kind of feeling is implied in those words.
Consider the prayer we discussed: 'Lead me from untruth to truth.' It means, 'Somehow, take me to the truth.' 'Lead me from darkness to light.' It is a plea to be placed in the light. 'Lead me from death to immortality.'
Now, look at the next error within this statement. The very moment this sentence is uttered, 'untruth' is solidified as a real entity. The concept of 'I' (ma) becomes established as a real entity. Just think about the error within that sentence.
To be led from untruth to truth—does 'untruth' actually exist? By phrasing it this way, one starts to construct a path between untruth and truth. You must understand, this is not the word of the Buddha. The error here is thinking one needs to travel from untruth to truth. But untruth does not exist; it is something that is not there to begin with. Why would one need to switch from untruth back to truth?
See, the problem within this prayer, within this plea, is that it already assumes the existence of 'I.' It believes in the 'I' without having investigated it. What is ignorance (avijjā)? It is the failure to investigate the nature of this 'I'—the failure to ask, 'Who am I?'
Without that investigation, it acts as if untruth is a real thing. It acts as if 'I' am a real person existing separately. It implies that this 'I' exists, and somehow, little by little, 'I' must be placed into Nibbana; that 'I' should be gradually added to Nibbana. Do you realize how weak these words are? The language used here shows a significant weakness.
It leads us to think there is some kind of process to reach Nibbana. It implies that after moving from untruth to truth, 'I' have now become enlightened. 'I went from darkness to light.' 'I joined the truth.' 'I was in death, and now I have joined immortality.' It feels as if 'I' have attained a state where there is no decay or death.
The next weakness, or the trap we might fall into within these words, is hidden in the phrasing. It suggests that this 'I' can be added to a nature that is free from death, free from darkness, and free from untruth—a nature of Truth.
Now, think about this and try to understand. If only the Truth exists—if right at this moment there is only Truth—then there is no question of joining it again. If it is only the Truth that exists, why try to join it? Look closely; every one of those words implies an 'I.' If we do not have sharp mindfulness or wisdom, the problem that arises here is that we feel this 'I' is still very much alive and holding sway.
Consequently, we start developing a path to destroy this 'I' little by little. A practice of annihilation begins—of nullifying 'me,' of destroying 'me,' of killing 'me.' It becomes a rough, violent practice, like trying to kill a snake. We feel that somehow, 'I' must be crushed, pulverized, and destroyed. We feel 'I' must be invalidated and killed off.
This is the kind of idea that arises. In the Suttas, we see that people actually accused the Buddha of this. They asked, 'Are You preaching about the destruction of the self?' They asked if He was teaching nihilism (uccheda). 'Is Your teaching a path towards destroying the self?'
The Buddha replied that He never preaches about the destruction of a self. He effectively said that if someone claims there is a self to be destroyed, or if they are trying to destroy it, He does not even wish to see such a person. Why? Because the very statement 'I am going to destroy the self' gives existence to the subject 'I.' By trying to destroy it, you have already granted it existence. That means I have made 'myself' the grammatical subject; I have made 'I' the center of the issue. If we proceed towards a place of trying to destroy 'me' or trying to move away from 'myself,' every one of those words implies a certain reality to this nature called 'I.'
It becomes a practice of avoidance, of killing, or of transforming 'me' into the Truth. It becomes an attempt to transform 'me' into a Brahma or to elevate 'me' to a happy state of existence. The practice then grows in that direction—trying to add 'me' to the Truth, trying to add 'me' to immortality, or trying to bring 'me' into the light.
Or else, it moves towards trying to wipe 'me' out completely—to nullify 'me,' to destroy 'me,' much like trying to kill a venomous snake. This approach creates immense pressure. It creates a terrible strain, and the practice becomes increasingly oppressive and painful.
The path of liberation we are supposed to be cultivating does not bring us relief; instead, we become more and more depressed. We feel frustrated because we cannot seem to destroy this 'I.' No matter which way we turn, this 'I' gets caught; it reappears. We begin to feel immense pressure and depression. We start thinking, 'I cannot do this,' or 'I feel like giving this up,' or 'What on earth is this mess?' We feel that no matter what we do, the 'I' is only being nourished further.
It is akin to someone trying to hunt down and kill a deer hiding in a thicket. They are trying to destroy the deer in that area. In the same way, this path of liberation turns into nihilism (uccheda)—it becomes a path of annihilation for us.
That is why I believe that in these times, we must pay close attention to the specific words of the Buddha. There is a term called abhijānāti (to know directly and fully with superior wisdom). In many instances, such as in the Mūlapariyāya Sutta, the Buddha draws a distinction. He explains that the ordinary untrained person (puthujjana) perceives earth as earth (paṭhavī) and then conceives of it, identifying with it and delighting in it as a worldly reality.
However, the Noble Ones (Ariyas)—from the Stream-Entrant (Sotāpanna) up to the Non-Returner (Anāgāmi) and the Arahant—are described differently. It is said: 'Paṭhaviṃ paṭhavito abhijānāti'—they know earth as earth through superior wisdom. And because of that superior wisdom, they do not conceive of it (na maññati); there is no mental construction or identification.
So, observe carefully: what is important here is not destruction, but seeing with superior wisdom (abhijānāti).
The words used by the Buddha do not ask for one to be placed in a specific state. He does not say, 'Please put me in such and such a place,' nor does He say, 'Please destroy me.' Instead, the Buddha teaches: 'Paṭhaviṃ paṭhavito abhijānāti'—see this with supreme wisdom.
We must be very careful with these words because they are not merely words; they represent our feelings and attitudes. Words themselves are not the problem, but the feelings behind them are. For instance, the Buddha also used terms like anuppāda (non-arising). But when we use that word, our underlying feeling is often, 'I must make sure this does not arise,' or 'I must destroy this.'
I have been discussing this specific point continuously for the last three days because, when I check the meditation reports (kammaṭṭhāna) of some practitioners, I see they are still suffering. They are struggling with the thought, 'I haven't been able to destroy this yet,' or 'My ego is still there; I haven't destroyed my self-view (sakkāya diṭṭhi).'
It is while clearing these meditation reports that I realized something: unknowingly, these practitioners have cast aside the path of 'understanding through superior wisdom.' Instead, they are exerting a tremendous, unbearable pressure to destroy something in order to attain a certain state. They are making an incredible effort to 'get somewhere' or to establish a foothold (patiṭṭhā), even if that foothold is called 'non-manifestation' (anidassana) or 'non-arising' (anuppāda).
They believe there is 'something' here, and they keep trying to break it, remove it, and get rid of it.
If you proceed in that manner, you will never find an end. Think about it: if I want to destroy the concept of a 'chair,' and I break it down, I am left with the Four Great Elements (cattāro mahā bhūtā). If I try to break down the Four Great Elements, I find micro-matter (suddhāṭṭhaka). If I break that down, it becomes energy. If we keep breaking down energy, it moves into the realm of quantum states. There is no end to it. Once the mind enters that angle of analysis and destruction, it begins to extend infinitely. It eventually comes to the conclusion that everything starts from a blank slate, a void (suññatā). It assumes the beginning of all things is a void, and thus, the process becomes infinite. We end up becoming infinitely trapped. We drift off in a completely different direction. I am not sure if you grasp what I am saying or if you see the value in it—some of you are looking at me with fear; please do not gaze at me like that. I am simply asking you to look a little closer at the point I am trying to make.
Otherwise, without even realizing it, within our ignorance, we harbor a subtle belief that we can destroy this existence. We believe we can uproot existence (bhava) or tear it out. Do you see that every such attempt leads us towards a state of destruction? These are highly destructive thoughts. They are thoughts of annihilation—trying to take revenge on something, hating something, harboring anger towards it, and fuming because we cannot destroy it. All this does is cultivate defilement upon defilement.
Now, listen—an ordinary person who is just eating, drinking, and living a lay life does not face this specific problem. Their problems are different. I am telling you that this set of problems arises precisely when one sets out towards Nibbana. The ordinary person is content with watching a cricket match or finding some worldly entertainment.
But for the practitioner, this approach is exactly what the Buddha identified as an extreme: self-mortification (attakilamathanuyoga). What is self-mortification? It is practicing austerities to move away from something, to destroy something, or to annihilate something. When the monastic life is used to destroy or annihilate, it becomes pure stress. It creates immense pressure. You are simply trying to destroy one thing to become something else.
You try to grasp a nature that is 'non-nature.' You try to reach a place where there is nothing, a kind of void (suññatā). When you try to attain that, observe how it creates pressure. We subject ourselves to unnecessary suffering. In that state, we are not practicing 'understanding with superior wisdom' (abhijānāti).
The Buddha Himself walked this path for six years—the path of destruction. He tried to destroy craving, destroy the ego, and attain Buddhahood through annihilation. He knows the reality of that path very well; He knows it is meaningless. It results only in suffering. That is why He described it as base (hīna), vulgar (gamma), and ignoble (anariya). It is tormented. It might be slightly better than sensual indulgence (kāmasukhallikanuyoga), but the Buddha rejected sensual indulgence on five grounds and self-mortification on three grounds, if I recall correctly.
This is the pitfall that truth-seekers tumble into. A person engrossed in sensual pleasures does not engage in self-mortification. This is a trap specifically for those who come seeking Nibbana and the Truth. After traveling that path for six years, the Buddha realized that it only leads to stress. He said that He did not even attain concentration (samādhi) through it.
He mentioned that by the end of that period, engaging in self-mortification only caused Him to become more and more pressured. He was oppressed by it; He was tormented. That is precisely why the sentences in that prayer we discussed are so dangerous.
The feeling conveyed by those sentences is that 'I' must destroy darkness, 'I' must destroy death, 'I' must destroy myself, or 'I' must destroy self-view (sakkāya diṭṭhi). The Buddha's words have been distorted to such an extent. By hearing these same words over and over, we have contaminated them. We have turned them into actions to be performed, into mere 'doings,' and into states of 'becoming' within us.
But please understand this well: the important thing is not to destroy something to establish a foothold elsewhere. It is simply to know what 'untruth' is with superior wisdom. Do not try to destroy untruth to go to the truth. That is a clumsy approach. In that movement—moving away from one thing and trying to get close to another—lies suffering, craving, and the inherent dissatisfaction (atṛpti) of craving.
Look at this closely, or you will not understand. We get trapped here in the insatiability of craving. Why? Because we posit that there is an 'untruth' and there is a 'truth.' Now, consider the person in the middle trying to move from untruth to truth—consider their suffering, the burden they carry, their tension, and their exhaustion. They feel they must go from untruth to truth. They must go from death to immortality. That is what those three phrases dictate. They must go from darkness to light. Therefore, they must destroy darkness. They must destroy untruth. They must destroy death. To get to the other side, there is a journey again. There is a path again; there is exhaustion again.
Understand that there is no 'path' here in the way you might think. The sole task is to know what 'untruth' is through superior wisdom (abhijānāti), and that knowing itself is the extinguishment (nibbāna). Have you not heard of the three stages of knowledge regarding the Four Noble Truths (sacca ñāṇa, kicca ñāṇa, kata ñāṇa)? The untrained person does not know this. But the path is simply this: to realize with clear, direct knowledge (abhiññā) that 'This is suffering,' or 'This is untruth.' That realization is the path, that is Nibbana, that is the cooling.
It is not appropriate to construct a 'method' or a 'practice' to somehow travel from untruth to truth. It is simply the knowing of untruth as untruth. That is why there is no 'path' in this discourse; it is merely the act of knowing. It is the act of listening to this teaching; it is the application of this superior wisdom. There is no other practice.
Any other practice you undertake creates a path. It involves trying to move away from one place and arrive at another. And that, inevitably, is a stressful struggle. If you are doing that, it means you have not clearly seen what suffering (dukkha) is. When you see it clearly, the result is extinguishment. Nibbana is not the 'destruction' of suffering; rather, the cessation of suffering (dukkha nirodha) or Nibbana is the function inherent in that very superior wisdom.
Let me give you an example. Take the simile of the snake. Imagine we believe there is a snake in a place where there is actually only a rope. We think, 'There is a snake here.' But when we look closely and see clearly that there is no snake, do we then need to build a path to escape from the snake? No. The very act of seeing clearly with superior wisdom is the extinguishment of fear. That vision itself is the relief.
We do not need to formulate a method to escape the snake. We do not need a gradual practice to transform the snake into a rope or to turn untruth into truth. How can you build a practice like that? Where would you find such a path? The seeing itself is the liberation. That vision itself is the direct knowledge.
Otherwise, you end up in immense suffering trying to turn the snake into a rope. You try to go from untruth to truth—to turn the snake into a rope. In the end, you just grasp onto something else called 'rope.' You think, 'I must go from untruth to truth; I must turn the snake into a rope.' But then, no matter what you do, the feeling of 'snake' keeps coming back. Why? Because you are trying to turn a snake into a rope in a place where there is no snake to begin with! You are holding onto the concept of a snake and trying to travel from untruth to truth.
So, the pressure remains. No matter how much you do, the fear returns. No matter how much you try to forget it, it comes back. Do you see the point I am making?
Otherwise, in our search for truth, we act like someone who has merely heard from another person, 'Hey, there is no snake there; it's just a rope.' Having heard this, they make a firm conclusion: 'It's a rope.' But they haven't seen it with their own superior wisdom.
So then they ask, 'But Venerable Sir, I still see a snake. How do I make it into a rope? Should I look at it as elements (dhātu)? Should I look at it this way or that way?' They start building a practice. They have only heard that there is a rope. Now they want to prove to their mind that it is a rope. They are trying to validate another mental construction (saṅkhāra) they have created.
Just go and look! Why are you doing all this? Go and look. That is what the Buddha says: 'Ehipassiko'—come and see. It is through that direct seeing alone.
If we do not do this, we fall prey to sentences like the ones in that prayer: 'This world is a lie, the snake is a lie, the rope is real. Lead me to become the rope. Show me the rope.' That approach is a failure. In that scenario, we have both a snake and a rope, and we create a stressful path between them. We ask, 'How long will it take? I still haven't seen the rope yet. Why can't I see the rope?'
The rope is just a label you have applied. Now you are searching for the rope. But your task is not to search for a rope; your task is to go and see if that thing you call a snake actually exists.
Instead, we create a path: 'Somehow I must turn this into a rope. I must kill this perception of a snake. I must destroy this perception and make it a rope. The snake must be completely forgotten from my mind.'
Look at the immense pressure in that. You try to erase that perception. You might even go into a state of deep absorption (jhāna) to become non-percipient (asaññī). But you cannot stay like that forever. You might blank everything out and stay in that state for hours through sheer will or concentration. But eventually, the perception returns. Why? Because you haven't seen clearly.
Because I said so, you might try to force Nibbana to become a 'rope.' You are trying to move from giving up one thing to acquiring another. You think that is Nibbana. You think that by following such a path little by little, you will eventually reach that state of cooling.
No. Knowing untruth as untruth is itself Nibbana. That is it. Even when reading Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero's books, there is a problem people face... You see, we must understand the era in which Venerable Nanananda Thero lived and wrote his books. He was writing in the 1950s and 60s. At that time in Sri Lanka, the idea that one could attain Nibbana in this very life was almost non-existent. So, when he spoke about Nibbana, he often used similes and references from the Buddha’s teachings such as 'there is no sun, no moon, no stars' (referring to the state of Nibbana).
However, the ordinary mind (puthujjana) hears this through its own filter. Instead of seeing with superior wisdom (abhijānāti) what 'sun' actually means and realizing the truth, the ordinary mind interprets it as a literal place where the sun does not exist. The ordinary mind only knows 'things' and objects.
Ignorance (avijjā) and craving (taṇhā) are the domain of the ordinary mind. Ignorance essentially means the feeling that 'something exists'—whether it be 'this exists here' or 'that exists there.' The very feeling of 'existence' itself is ignorance. The moment you feel something exists, you immediately want to reach it. Craving arises. You feel 'Nibbana exists' or 'Samsara exists.' Or even the idea that 'non-existence exists.'
Then, craving compels us to move from existence towards non-existence, or from non-existence towards existence. Craving works hand-in-hand with the perception that 'something exists' (which is ignorance). The two are interlinked; they are causes for each other.
The characteristic of craving is the feeling of 'not enough'—the feeling that 'I am not yet full' or 'I am not yet complete.' One thinks, 'I am still in Samsara; I doubt myself. I am not yet in Nibbana. Nibbana is still a bit far away.' Even if you say Nibbana is 'near,' or 'close,' the very words 'near' or 'close' imply a distance. It implies, 'I am still separate from it. I am not yet complete.' Whether you say Nibbana is at your fingertips or right before your eyes, the language itself creates a duality.
However, language had to be used for the people of that time. Even Jesus or the Buddha had to speak in a way people could understand. Otherwise, people would think Nibbana does not exist at all. They would think, 'We should just eat, drink, and be merry.' Therefore, it had to be established for them: 'No, Nibbana exists; it is the Supreme Bliss.' And that is not a lie. There is a refuge.
But the ordinary mind takes this up and thinks, 'I must destroy things to attain a certain state.' Because throughout their lives, that is all they have done.
Venerable Nun:
"Venerable Sir, because of that very reason, we have created a huge Samsara even within the words of the Dhamma.
Gnanaweera Thero:
We try to practice those words. Our craving and aversion—that deep-seated anger we used to have towards others—now turn inward towards the 'self.' Before, we wanted to beat someone up or box them. Now, we take that same aggression and turn it against the 'I.' We use the Dhamma teachings to beat ourselves up: 'This self is bad; I hate this self.'
Venerable Nun:
When you spoke about 'mere arising' or 'mere formation' (sakas vīma-mai), I felt that was very practical. Because 'arising' feels like something happening in space—causes coming together. At that moment, it is just mere arising..."
Gnanaweera Thero:
"Yes, when I spoke about 'mere arising' in those sermons, this is what I meant: Imagine you go in front of a mirror. As you approach the mirror, you already have the wisdom regarding what a mirror is. But when you stand in front of it, an image appears.
However, within the very nature of that image's arising, there is wisdom present. The arising happens through impermanence (anicca) and the relevant conditions. If you take the 'mirror' as impermanence or emptiness, when you see the reflection through the wisdom of 'voidness' (knowing it is just a reflection), you do not see a 'person' there who needs to be made impermanent.
You do not think, 'This person in the mirror is impermanent.' Instead, you see the impermanence within the very nature of the appearance itself. You see how it arises."
Venerable Nun:
"Venerable Sir, so there, one does not need to try to see impermanence within the non-self nature? Because in trying to do so, one is already caught..."
Gnanaweera Thero:
" When you say ‘within’, one is already caught...Exactly. That is why I say, when we approach the mirror, we already have the wisdom regarding the mirror's emptiness and impermanence. So, no matter what image arises in front of it, that wisdom of impermanence encompasses it.
We do not then start a new practice to 'make this person impermanent' or to 'destroy this person.' We do not build a path like that.
So then, do we say, 'There is no person in front of the mirror'? No, we don't say that. Do we say, 'There is a person'? No, we don't say that either. We know that when we go in front of a mirror, it is just an arising, a formation. And regarding that arising, the wisdom of impermanence (anicca) and non-self (anatta)—specifically the wisdom of the 'mirror' itself—comes into play. That superior wisdom comprehends the manner in which this visible form arises.
Therefore, one does not say it is non-existent, nor does one say it is existent. In the face of that wisdom, there is no 'settling down' or establishing (patiṭṭhā) of a belief.
Now, we can think whatever we want about the person in the mirror. But even if we think about it, for even a moment, we do not establish a belief in the existence of that person within time and space. We do not grant it a reality.
You might ask, 'Can't I say: "I went in front of the mirror, I saw a person, and he smiled"?' Of course, you can say that. That is exactly how an Arahant behaves and speaks with people. Even while speaking like that...
But wait, we don't stand in front of the mirror and constantly think, 'This is just a reflection, this is just a reflection.' We don't think like that because as we approach the mirror, the wisdom is already there. It is a wisdom present in our life.
However, a bird does not have that wisdom. When a bird approaches a mirror, it does so with the perception of permanence (nicca saññā). It thinks the bird in the reflection will die someday (as a real bird). But we approach the mirror with wisdom.
Compare the bird to the ordinary person (puthujjana) and us (with the mirror wisdom) to the Arahants. Both live in this world; both use the 'mirror' of the world. The same image appears to both. But there are two different wisdoms at play. It looks the same to both—using the mirror—but there is a difference in knowledge.
For an Arahant, there is no magic show. It is simply a difference in knowledge, a difference in wisdom. There is no other magic involved. Some people dream that when one becomes an Arahant, they can perform magic. Just think about it—once you understand the story of the mirror and the reflection, there is no magic there.
Now, look at the bird again. The moment the bird sees the reflection, anger arises. It sees the other bird. It happens simultaneously. With the arising of 'self,' it sees the reflection as another 'person.' There is no story of a mirror for the bird. There is no such wisdom. It directly encounters a 'personality.'
Then it thinks, 'I must kill this rival! I must destroy my craving for him!' Or perhaps, 'I must first destroy my own craving.'
Because it has not seen the true nature of the reflection with superior wisdom, a path is created for it. 'I will somehow gradually reduce my anger towards him. I have a grudge against him. I will somehow eliminate lust, hatred, and delusion.' Thus, methods and paths are created to eliminate lust, hatred, and delusion.
But seeing with superior wisdom is Nibbana. The seeing itself is the cooling. When the one who sees with superior wisdom experiences arising again, within that very understanding, they become more and more cooled. They become more peaceful.
They do not have 'methods for Nibbana.' They do not have 'Nibbana practices.' For that wisdom, ignorance is met simply as ignorance. I am struggling to find the right words to express this...
That is why it is said that a Stream-Entrant (Sotāpanna) naturally tends towards cooling. Even if old habits or traits surface due to past conditioning, there is no continued existence (pavatta) for those traits. They are not trying to destroy the trait; rather, because of their wisdom, the vision (dassana) is present. The seeing is there.
So, in that sense, we are not going to oppress a 'self' or torture a 'self' here. We are not going to try to destroy anything. Remember what I said earlier about the question put to the Buddha?
'Do You preach about the destruction of the ego?' No. He does not say there is no ego, nor does He preach a path to destroy the ego. He says: 'I teach only the arising of suffering and the cessation of suffering.' That is all.
A Tathāgata shows the world how suffering arises. When wisdom is applied to that arising, the cessation of suffering (dukkha nirodha) happens. That is all. Look at the Suttas; that is all the Buddha says. 'I never speak of destroying a self. I speak of the origin of suffering (dukkha samudaya) and the cessation of suffering (dukkha nirodha).'
How does suffering arise? We experience suffering, don't we? In the Acela Kassapa Sutta, Acela Kassapa asks this question: 'Is suffering created by oneself (sayaṃ kataṃ)?' The Buddha replies, 'Do not say that.' 'Then is suffering created by another (paraṃ kataṃ)?' 'Do not say that either.' Suffering is neither created by oneself nor by another. Then they ask, 'Did both of us together create it? (sayaṃ kataṃ paraṃ kataṃ) Did both of us join forces to create suffering?' 'Do not say that either.' 'Then do You say suffering arises by chance (adhiccasamuppanna) without any cause? Or is there no suffering at all?' 'There is suffering.'
At this point, Acela Kassapa gets blocked. He thinks, 'You are saying strange things! When I ask if I created suffering, You say no. When I ask if another created it, You say no. When I ask if both created it, You say no. Then I ask if there is no suffering, and You say there is suffering! So, do You not know suffering?'
And the Tathāgata replies that He has understood suffering through superior wisdom. That is all.
Did you see that? He does not take 'myself' as the creator anywhere. He does not take 'myself.' He does not say 'I created it,' nor 'we both created it together because of our union,' nor does He say suffering arises without cause, nor does He say there is no suffering. He simply says, 'There is suffering.' However, the Tathāgata has understood it through superior wisdom.
From there, the Sutta moves into explaining that superior wisdom through Dependent Origination (Idappaccayatā Paṭiccasamuppāda). 'When this exists, that comes to be; with the arising of this, that arises.' That is the Dharma of Dependent Origination.
This means the Buddha’s teaching is not about destroying anything, nor is it about extracting a 'dharma' from one place and establishing it in the 'truth.' It is nothing like that. The Buddha’s teaching must be discussed entirely in terms of wisdom (paññā).
'Paññāvantassāyaṃ dhammo nāyaṃ dhammo duppaññassa'—'This Dhamma is for the wise, not for the unwise.' This is about wisdom. This belongs to those who are wise.
The unwise are the ones who create 'practices' and 'methods.' They try to destroy something. Like the foolish bird in the mirror analogy—trying to kill the reflection as much as possible is what the fool does. Trying to destroy that 'other bird' or trying to flee from it—why does it do that? Because the bird lacks superior wisdom. Because of its foolishness, it creates a practice; it plans how to attack or how to escape.
But a human being goes in front of that mirror. And for that human, there is no 'practice.' It is not even something they have merely 'thought up' as wisdom; it is a direct wisdom of impermanence. It is the wisdom of non-self. It is not that they simply thought, 'This is impermanent,' or 'There is nothing here.' It is a wisdom that has dawned. Look at it like that.
Regarding what the Venerable Nun said, let me add a small thought. She mentioned that this is actually light and easy.
In the early days, I, too, had the idea that by meditating, I could somehow eradicate my defilements, eliminate suffering, and attain Nibbana. I went to my teacher and asked, 'Will practicing Anapanasati (mindfulness of breathing) be enough? Is meditation alone sufficient? Don't I need to listen to Dhamma sermons? If I meditate, do I need to do anything else?'
Those were the questions I had when I was starting out. At that time, the idea that one could attain Nibbana was present. But there was a debate. Some groups said, 'You must meditate for this.' Others said, 'Listening to Dhamma sermons is enough.'
In my time, the question wasn't whether Nibbana was possible—that wasn't the issue. The debate was about the method. Some argued that hearing the Dhamma was sufficient, while others insisted, 'No, listening isn't enough; you must meditate to see Nibbana.'
I remember my teacher telling me this: 'Simply sitting down is Nibbana.'
This wasn't about sitting down to attain Nibbana later. The sitting itself is Nibbana. 'Whatever you do with mindfulness, you know Nibbana. That is all.'
Whatever you do with mindfulness—what more is there? You are cooled right there. You are Nibbana.
That is where I understood. All the pressure vanished. There was no more story about trying to destroy some rock-like obstruction inside me. There was no more question of 'how much meditation do I need to do to see Nibbana?'
Just now, you asked me, 'How many years have you been ordained?' and I said, 'Only two days.' All those things we build up out of conceit (māna)—what are they? Nothing. A person coming here and simply sitting in this hall—that sitting is Nibbana. There is no talk of Nibbana beyond that. Walking meditation (sakman) is Nibbana. It is not about walking to get something. Just walking and sitting with mindfulness—that is all.
Otherwise, our great ego always thinks, 'I am doing this now, and after doing this, I will receive Nibbana.' The thinking goes: 'I will meditate, erase my ego, and then after that, I will receive Nibbana.' And then the suffering returns. You think, 'My ego is still there. How many hours did I practice today? But sadness still comes to my mind.'
Acting like that is, frankly, quite ugly. That is why we often say: without knowing love, without affection, whatever you do for Nibbana will not work. A heart that hasn't felt love—why? Because a heart that hasn't felt love does everything with an ulterior motive. Whatever the hell it does, it does it with a hidden agenda.
There is always something underneath, like a tooth waiting to be pulled. No matter who they get close to, they aren't genuinely getting close. They get close just to see how they can manipulate the situation to get what they want. They are cunning, crafty, and scheming. They are like a 'fox'—sharp, tricky, and lacking any heart or sincerity.
Recently, when I went to the book fair, I met some of our old friends who used to be with us. We had a small friendly discussion. Since we hadn't met in a long time—people from various phases of our lives came together—we sat and talked in the evening.
I told them, 'Look, none of us here has an agenda now. We, the old crowd, don't have an agenda. We might be eating something or chatting, but there is no talk of "attaining Nibbana" or anything like that. Just sitting here together is the cooling. We aren't doing anything else inside this.'
I think they understood that. For those who hadn't met in a long time, it must have clicked. Look, what do we gain from this discussion after spending two or three hours? Nothing. We just spent time together, that’s all. But it’s not just that.
That is where our life needs to arrive. If I sit down, that sitting is it. It’s not about counting the number of hours I sat to calculate how close I am to Nibbana. Even if you sit for one second, if you are mindful, whatever you do—that is Nibbana right there. You are right there.
But we don't have the guts. We don't have the faith. We still think, 'There is something called "untruth" here. When that disappears, I will reach a state called "Truth." There is something called "untruth" here, and when it's gone, the state that arises must be Nibbana.'
That selfish mind—it does everything looking for a payoff. It thinks, 'If I catch this specific word, I’ll be saved. He’s speaking now... will the next word be the word? Will the word after that be it?'
But the truth is, the entire hour and a half I’ve been speaking is that word. If I spoke for an hour, every word in that hour was the word you needed. But no, you want to catch a different, special word. You think, 'If I catch that one, I’ll enter Nibbana.' You think, 'I haven't heard the right word yet.'
But in every moment you are present, you are hearing the words. We listen to words hoping that some 'self' will disappear and some dream-like state will take over. But right now, what you are hearing are just words. Even this is a word. And you think, 'This isn't enough! It can't be this simple. The words should be heard differently. There should be a "whoosh" sound, a sudden yellow light should appear, I should vanish, and...'
People have this fantasy that seeing Nibbana is like a magical event. They think it should hit the whole Three Worlds with a 'boom!' Like a bomb going off in the Three Worlds. The earth should tremble, there should be an earthquake, everything should shake and quake, and everyone should go crazy!
No. Just simply listening like this... this is said to be Nibbana. Sitting like this is Nibbana. Whether you listen to the sermon with mindfulness, sit with mindfulness, or do whatever the hell else with mindfulness—that is all there is to it. Do not go looking for anything beyond that.
But we aren't innocent enough for that. We aren't loving enough. Our hearts aren't free enough. To accept 'this is it' feels insufficient to our craving. The craving kicks in: 'Is that all? Just this?' It treats it like a sugar ball or a chocolate toffee. 'Is this just a kid's game?'
No, this isn't about sugar balls or chocolate toffees. But we want to carry a burden. We want a burden even heavier than the one we have—like the weight of the Atlas. But in this, it is just sitting to sit. That's all.
In Zen, they say it beautifully—I can't recall the English phrase exactly—but it means 'sitting just to sit.' Walking meditation (sakman) is just walking. That is all. Furthermore, it is not about receiving something from walking meditation. The going to walk itself is Nibbana. The entering into this practice with the intention that 'I must realize Nibbana'—that entry is Nibbana. The act of becoming ordained is a Nibbana. The act of meditating is Nibbana.
Now, do not misunderstand this and think, 'Oh, so I don't need to listen to Dhamma sermons or do anything else?' Do not take that meaning. Do not distort the meaning to suit laziness.
The ordination itself is a cooling. You might think, 'Oh, I've ordained but I haven't attained Nibbana yet.' But when you understand this, you realize that the act of ordination itself is Nibbana. This act of sitting is Nibbana.
Those who rush to put things ahead of themselves, aiming for a future result, end up acting like a soda bottle—fizzing up rapidly and then going flat just as fast. They do it for a while and then drop it completely. That is the Western mindset—the 'Western mind.' They try hard, exert willpower to achieve and conquer, and when they don't get the result, they feel pressured and give up. 'I did it, but it's not there,' they say, and they quit.
But we Asians, we are not like that. We go to a mountain and just stare at it. We stare at the sun. In the Asian mind, we don't make it into a 'big match' or a massive competition. We don't need to rush out of the robe. There is no big urgency or hustle.
The 'dreamers' who rush in fizzle out quickly. They go fast, trying to 'achieve' something like a goal. That is why some think, 'Oh, these old traditional people are useless; look at the Westerners, they are the real deal.' But look what happens—all that speed collapses.
We are not running at that speed. They might say we are trying to go to the moon on a bicycle, but we just take it little by little. We sit for a bit. We walk for a bit. We just stay with it. We haven't given up, but we aren't exploding like a soda bottle either.
That, I believe, is how spiritual progress should be measured. How long can this person engage in this? How long can they stay with it? It is about stopping (nawatīma).
Ultimately, without even realizing it, ten or fifteen years pass, and we are completely cooled. Yet, we weren't actively 'searching' for a Nibbana. We just came and sat that day. We came and listened to the sermon that day. We didn't seek anything from it. Just doing it was the happiness.
Some say, 'Just coming to a place like this is happiness enough. Just getting here is a joy. Seeing spiritual friends (kalyāṇa-mitta) is a joy.' That is all.
Otherwise, if you think, 'What did I get from them today? Nothing. Or, oh! I got a "feeling" today! I must go back tomorrow to protect that feeling!'—that is ugly. Just seeing is enough. That is all.
That mind—the ordinary mind—always moves forward with craving. It thinks, 'I am doing this now so that something will happen in the future.' It has a business mindset: 'I must invest something now to get a profit someday.'
That is not wrong for lay life. That is the worldly way. You deposit something to withdraw it later. But here, in this life of love, in this life of affection, there is no investment. In the monastic life, there is nothing like that. We don't collect into accounts.
If we don't get alms (dāna) today, we don't have a stash collected with difficulty to fall back on. We live day-to-day. We don't collect things thinking, 'Oh, I might need this later.' Maybe there are provisions for two or three days, and that's it. If there is no alms for those two or three days—well, sometimes there just isn't alms. Then we might go somewhere else or just manage. That's how it is.
We haven't collected for the day. If there is nothing when we go, then there is nothing. We don't know about tomorrow. If someone puts their name down on the list for alms, fine. Sometimes they put it down and then don't bring it. Did they bring it? Maybe not. We don't know.
There is no accumulation. No investment. Nothing saved up. It is purely day-to-day.
So what do we do? Whatever comes for the day. Some days we might get pizza. Other days, we might not even get rice porridge (kaenda). That's fine. On the pizza day, we eat pizza. If you like biryani and get it, you eat biryani. On the other days, you might just drink some water because there isn't even porridge, and you stay like that. That is all.
There is no complaint. But neither do we think about 'investing' for the future. There is no hustle. We don't think about investments.
However, I am not saying a lay life can be lived like this. I am speaking about the monastic life (samaṇa life). Lay life requires planning and organizing. But in this life where there is nothing of that sort, there is a significant amount of Dhamma.
There is the suffering of searching for food. If this need to maintain the body wasn't there, a huge part of suffering would be over. There is the exhaustion of maintaining this body. But even so, we don't need millions and billions for it. To a certain extent, we cannot maintain this body without effort. That is why the Buddha says that complete Nibbana (Parinibbāna) is attained only after this body is also abandoned. Until then, as long as we bear this body, we have to deal with it.
Until the karma is exhausted, we cannot leave the body unwashed for weeks; the people around us wouldn't be able to stand the stench. We have to bathe it. We have to feed it. We have to give it what it needs. That means we cannot eliminate 'intrinsic suffering' (kevala dukkha)—the suffering inherent to having a body.
We can eliminate the suffering caused by defilements (kilesa dukkha). We can only destroy the suffering of defilements, but the suffering that belongs to this physical body remains. That is intrinsic suffering.
Until Parinibbāna, even the Buddha took medicine, bathed, drank water, and did everything necessary. We don't need to debate that.
However, when we start talking about this, people start asking, 'So, does a body remain even after attaining Nibbana?' This can lead to wrong views (diṭṭhi). The mind tries to grab onto something unnecessarily. It thinks, 'Ah, so even if I attain Nibbana, I still have a body—like a solid mass.' It feels like, 'Oh good, even after Nibbana, there is still a "thing" left.'
The mind tries to latch onto concepts like that. But that is not the meaning. The mind wants to establish a foothold somewhere—either 'here' (with a body) or 'there' (after the body breaks up). It creates a path thinking, 'Ah, the real Nibbana is when the body breaks apart; that is the place I have to go to.'
So don't get caught in that trap either. For now, what we need to understand is this.
The point the Venerable Nun raised is good. It is a beautiful point. We do not need to have a struggle here. Just do whatever work you are doing with the understanding that the work is Nibbana. You don't do the work to get Nibbana; the work itself is Nibbana. Sitting is Nibbana. Walking is Nibbana. That is all.
In that moment, right there, it is 'momentary cooling' (tadaṅga nibbuti)—momentary Nibbana. It is not the 'Nibbana of cutting off' (samuccheda nibbāna) which is the complete eradication of defilements. The Buddha speaks of tadaṅga nibbuti. Right there, in that moment, you experience a momentary cooling.
But don't go analyzing this too much: 'So this is momentary (tadaṅga), then there must be another one called complete cutting off (samuccheda).' If you go into those analyses, the mind immediately starts mapping things out. 'Momentary, momentary, momentary... I will keep doing momentary ones until it becomes the great one.'
That is what usually happens. But there is no separate 'great one.' If you keep doing that—being in that 'momentary' cooling right there, whatever you are doing—as you keep doing it...
Let me give you a rough idea, just a sketch. As we engage fully in the work right there, our habits (vāsanā/purudda) still push back. Due to habit, certain old feelings or traits surface in the mind. For example, when we see certain people or go to certain places, we feel pulled towards them. We might say, 'My planetary influence (grahaya) is bad.' But it's not the planet; it's the addiction, the habit, the samsaric habit that pulls us.
But don't make that into a problem. Stay in that awakening. Don't judge it too much and cry, 'Oh, why is my mind still getting pulled even though I am so mindful? Why do I get angry even with this mindfulness? Why does lust arise even with this mindfulness?'
It is an inborn trait (janma gathiya). Think about it—we didn't come from a pure, holy place. We are purely the result of a mother and father engaging in a sexual act. Our very arising happened because we also had some craving to be born somewhere. We are sexual beings.
Now, as sexual beings, this state of 'sensory wakefulness' wants to propagate itself further. This mindfulness [in the worldly sense] wants to grow more and more. If mindfulness is not cultivated (towards existence), it becomes Nibbana.
Did you understand that phrase?
For 'sensory wakefulness' (in the worldly sense of existing consciousness) to continue, it needs fuel. A person being born means there is a certain aliveness, a consciousness. To keep this consciousness growing and extending in Samsara, it needs a body. You cannot develop that kind of consciousness without a body. For that consciousness to exist, it needs forms, sounds, smells, and tastes. To maintain forms, sounds, smells, and tastes, it needs to grasp a body.
Look at this carefully.
Venerable Nun:
[Inaudible]
Gnanaweera Thero:
"Yes. Now, don't look at the 'cooling' side of it for a moment. I am discussing the 'existence' side of this point.
Think about it: if we do not enjoy or delight in this 'sensory wakefulness' (consciousness/awareness), that awakening returns to its root. It becomes Nibbana. It cools down completely.
Right? Now, don't take that spatially. It is very difficult for me to express this because when I say it in language, you might think it moves from 'here' to 'there.' But it just cools down completely."
"So, to not be cooled—to remain uncooled—we need craving (taṇhā). Why do we need craving? Because people crave pleasant feelings (sukha vedanā). We crave pleasure.
Take creating children, for example. We don't engage in the act simply saying, 'Let's make babies.' No, we do it because we want the pleasure; we go for the sex. The body—the baby—is just a by-product.
When another body is created, consciousness (viññāṇa) has another place to go. It can propagate more and more. It multiplies. Through this multiplication, this thing called 'awakening' (in the sense of existing consciousness or bhava) undergoes development. The 'awakening' develops because of this propagation.
Now, what we are doing here—whether by ordaining or through this practice—is not exactly 'letting go' of awakening. But in truth, what we are doing is creating a problem for this 'sensory wakefulness.'
You see, the 'wakefulness' (or the drive for existence) wants to create more bodies, more generations, and maintain its story continuously. It needs that to sustain itself. 'Wakefulness' demands it. Without faculties (indriya), there is no way to be 'awake' or aware.
Think about it—when we fall asleep, do we exist or not? We don't know. We cannot maintain that 'wakefulness.' To be awake, we need seeing, hearing, sensing—we need the four elements. That duality is what lies within the view of 'being awake.'
Now, notice that sometimes in sermons, I speak of 'awakening' (avadhiya) as a view (diṭṭhi). In other places, I might use the same word to refer to Nibbana (as Complete Awakening). So, you must understand in what context I am using the word 'awakening' here.
Sometimes, I use 'Awakening' to mean the fulfillment of wisdom—Nibbana. Other times, I speak of 'awakening' as belonging to Samsara. When I speak of it in relation to Samsara, I mean that nature of hanging onto objects through craving. That is not 'me' doing it; it is a nature inherent in that very 'state of wakefulness' to sustain itself.
There is a craving within that 'wakefulness' to propagate the species. You can't just propagate a species without an incentive. There has to be some 'thrill' or pleasure inside it to make it happen. There must be an attraction to the opposite sex. Otherwise, humans wouldn't do it; the feeling wouldn't arise.
So, consider this. It is in a place like this that we realize... That is why, when I was meditating, my teacher told the Dhamma-passa (those looking after the meditators): 'You must treat the person who comes to meditate even better than you treat me.'
Why? Because that person has not come to do an easy task. That person has come to step away from even 'awakening' (in the samsaric sense).
Everything else in the entire universe is doing the opposite—nourishing that 'wakefulness.' Look at how people run around in the outside world, suffering and struggling. What are they running for? To propagate this 'wakefulness.' To maintain it.
Meditation can also become food for this 'wakefulness' in this sense: We only feel that we are 'awake' or aware when there is a separation between 'I' and the 'external.' Between the internal (ajjhatta) and external (bahiddhā).
That means, without the view of 'I,' there is no such thing as 'awakening' here. 'Being awake' exists because of the view (diṭṭhi). Whenever we feel we are awake, it is accompanied by the perception 'I exist.' 'I am not dead.' Yes, saying 'I am not dead' means 'I exist.'
And we take 'I exist' relative to an external object. We cannot speak of 'I exist' alone without a relative counterpart.
So, in meditation, what is often done is to stop at the feeling of 'I exist' within that awakening, without being shaken by thoughts. But even that is true—as you said, Venerable Nun—even there, 'wakefulness' is consuming food. It is feeding on that feeling of 'I exist,' that joy, that freedom, that feeling of floating. At that level, the 'wakefulness' receives satisfaction.
But the thing is, Nibbana is not like that. Nibbana means applying wisdom even to that place. Applying wisdom even to that state of 'being awake.'
And that is where 'sensory wakefulness' gets scared. Because even 'wakefulness' gets dropped. When 'wakefulness' is dropped... look, as long as there is 'wakefulness,' we feel we are up and existing. But imagine if 'wakefulness' suddenly disappears right here—we wonder, 'What will happen to me? Will I exist or not? What is this?' We become disoriented. We cannot imagine it.
So, we get startled at the prospect of losing 'wakefulness.' We get scared. That fear is exactly what we need to eliminate. We must wake up to that very fear. It is because of that fear that the mind instantly jumps back into an experience or jumps to the external world. Again and again, we desire the relief found in that state of 'being awake'—the joy found in absorptions (jhāna), the bliss (sukha), the applied thought (vitakka), the sustained thought (vicāra), and the one-pointedness (ekaggatā).
We feel we can stay cooled and comforted by all of these factors. But beyond that temporary comfort, there is nothing else there. We must not try to find ultimate satisfaction within that state of wakefulness.
What we often do is meditate, enter that joy of wakefulness, and then try to become satisfied and intoxicated by it. Now, I am not saying you must reject this entirely. Even the Buddha faced questions regarding this. He did not say to reject it completely; rejecting it is also wrong.
When one meditates, a wonderful sense of peace and love arises. Do not reject that. However, do not struggle to find your ultimate satisfaction in it, hoping to remain there forever.
Do not ask, 'Why isn't that joy here today? I want it again tomorrow.' Do not cling to it excessively. Why? Because this 'wakefulness'—in the worldly sense—implies a subtle experience of 'I exist.' It is the enjoyment of the experience that 'I am here,' whether through a pleasant feeling or a sense of floating lightness. It seeks 'being'; it seeks existence.
We must indeed give some value to this awakening, because otherwise, we get caught in the waves of concepts. To break free from getting lost in concepts, one must become like the vast ocean—one must become that total awakening.
But even within that, there is a subtlety. Consciousness is grasping consciousness itself. There is a subtle name-and-form (nāma-rūpa) present there. That is why I said a subtle name-and-form is being grasped. Even that sense of 'existing' must fall away. Wisdom must be applied even to that place.
Venerable Nun:
You mentioned earlier... well, there is nothing to fear there. [Inaudible]
Gnanaweera Thero:
There is absolutely nothing to fear. Ultimately, we see that in the entirety of life, there is merely an awakening. However, within that entire life, 'I' do not exist.
Venerable Nun:
Because that wisdom is applied, the life of such a person isn’t different from an ordinary human life.
Gnanaweera Thero:
Whether you speak of a murderer or a person in deep absorption (jhāna), it is the same 'sensory wakefulness'—the same base of consciousness. You cannot separate them. Separating them is the illusion (māyā). The act of separating and making choices means one is living within the illusion of wakefulness.
Many people think 'mindfulness' means just going into that wakefulness and staying cooled, or going into that wakefulness and remaining in concentration (samādhi). Look at that as belonging to Samsara.
You must go to that wakefulness, and then wake up to the wakefulness itself. Wake up completely to the nature of wakefulness. Do not build hopes within that wakefulness. Do not try to find satisfaction by that wakefulness.
Let us conclude here for everyone..."
Original Source (Video):
Title: අනිදස්සන විඤ්ඤාණය - 09 |Ven Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | නිහඬ අරණ
https://youtu.be/LPqI7FqJOe0?si=6EcgwiO3im9BIoFP
Disclaimer
The translations shared on this blog are based on Dhamma sermons originally delivered in Sinhalese. They have been translated into English with the help of AI (ChatGPT & Gemini AI), with the intention of making these teachings more accessible to a broader audience.
Please note that while care has been taken to preserve the meaning and spirit of the original sermons, there may be errors or inaccuracies in translation. These translations are offered in good faith, but they may not fully capture the depth or nuance of the original teachings.
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