Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 06 | Ven. Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | Nihada Arana

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Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 06 | Ven. Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | Nihada Arana 

A Note on the Source Text: This translation was prepared from a transcript of the original video recording. As the source transcript may have contained inaccuracies, there may be variations between this text and the original audio, particularly in the spelling of personal names, the titles of Suttas, and the rendering of Pali verses.

Gnanaweera Thero:

Very well. In this program, we are exploring the points from the Tripitaka concerning non-manifest consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa), as presented in the tenth chapter of the book 'The Mind's Illusion.' This is the section where Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero takes a discourse of the Buddha and explains it. Let us invite the Venerable Nun to read for us, continuing from where we stopped yesterday. I believe we spent two days explaining the nasaññāsaññī verse. Let us invite her to read the portion that follows from the book.


Venerable Nun:

With the permission of the Sangha.

Namo Tassa Bhagavato Arahato Sammā Sambuddhassa

Namo Tassa Bhagavato Arahato Sammā Sambuddhassa

Namo Tassa Bhagavato Arahato Sammā Sambuddhassa

It is the last paragraph on page 75.

On one occasion, the Lord Buddha was dwelling in the brick hall at Ātumā. A torrential downpour with flashes of lightning and claps of thunder occurred. During this storm, two farmer brothers and four oxen who were near the brick hall were struck by lightning and killed. Afterwards, a large crowd of people from Ātumā gathered at the site of the incident. At that time, the Lord Buddha emerged from the brick hall and began his walking meditation. The crowd of people approached Him, paid their respects, and stood to one side. Then, the following conversation took place.

"Friends, why has such a great crowd gathered?"

"Venerable Sir, just now, while the rain was pouring down, with lightning flashing and thunder crashing, two farmer brothers and four oxen were killed. That is why this great crowd has gathered here."

"Venerable Sir, where were you dwelling?"

"Friends, I was dwelling right here."

"Venerable Sir, did you see it?"

"No, friends, I did not see it."

"Venerable Sir, did you not hear the sound?"

"No, friends, I did not hear the sound."

"Venerable Sir, were you sleeping?"

"No, friends, I was not sleeping."

"Venerable Sir, were you conscious (with perception)?"

"Yes, friends."

"Then, Venerable Sir, while you were awake and conscious, as the rain poured down with lightning flashing and thunder crashing, you neither saw nor heard it?"

"Yes, friends."

(Mahā Parinibbāna Sutta, Dīgha Nikāya, volume 2, page 204)


This conversation may not seem strange to you, because you have already gained some insight that pierces through the ‘magic show’ of the mind. Nevertheless, this state of concentration (samādhi), which takes the form of a paradox, appeared strange not only to that crowd of people but also to a great many monks and nuns who were Arahants. We find instances where they repeatedly asked the Lord Buddha and his chief disciples whether such a state of concentration could exist and what it was like. Once, Venerable Ānanda…


Gnanaweera Thero:

Let’s pause there for a moment. Now, let’s focus our attention on the section that was just read.

So, a great explosion has occurred. We are told that two farmer brothers and four oxen were struck by lightning and killed. A large crowd of people has gathered. At that point, the Lord Buddha emerges from the hall and does his walking meditation. He asks, "Why is there such a large crowd?" Only then do they tell him that there was a great storm with thunder, and that two men—two brothers—and four cattle have died. And that is why so many people have gathered.

Then they ask, "Venerable Sir, where were you?" He replies, "I was right here, in this hall." They ask, "Did you see it?" "No." "Did you hear it?" "No." "Were you sleeping?" "I was not sleeping either." This means he wasn't asleep. He wasn't asleep, nor was he lying down resting. He did not hear the sound.

And it wasn’t that he was without perception (saññā). He had not become non-percipient; that is, he was not completely in a state of non-perception (asañña). So then they ask, "Venerable Sir, while you were awake and conscious, as the rain poured down with lightning flashing and thunder crashing, you neither saw nor heard it?"

So, the way I see it, what Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero is suggesting here is that the Lord Buddha appears to have been in a state resembling the complete cessation of perception and feeling. That is to say, it’s as if perception has completely ceased... where both perception and feeling (vedanā)... where feeling has faded away, and perception too... it's like what we call being in the state of cessation. It gives the impression that He was in the attainment of the cessation of perception and feeling (saññā-vedayita-nirodha samāpatti). Here, Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero includes this passage. So, we must consider why he would introduce a section like this—one that resembles the attainment of cessation (nirodha samāpatti)—at the very point where he is about to explain non-manifest consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa). I believe one reason for this is related to the historical context. This book was written in 1974. When we go back to the time he was writing these books, the era of 1974 in Sri Lanka, we are looking at a period about 50 years ago. We should investigate the prevailing mindset at that time. At that time, almost no one believed in attaining liberation (Nibbāna) in this very life. The idea that one could realize the truth in this lifetime was simply not present. This becomes very clear when we look at the writings of Venerable Madihe Pannasiha Mahanayaka Thero—for instance, his book on the lineage of insight meditation (vipassanā) written in the 1960s. He mentions that if someone claimed to be meditating, people gave them very little value or respect. Such a practice was not held in high regard. And besides, the concept of attaining liberation in this life was virtually non-existent.

However, a certain idea did exist among a small number of people. They believed that if one were to strive for such a goal, one would have to become a complete forest-dweller, be fully ordained, master the Tripitaka, and possess meditative absorptions (jhāna). So, even though a small minority believed that realizing the truth in this life was possible, their belief was tied to a debate that one must be a forest-dweller, one must be ordained, one must possess a certain high level of virtue (sīla), and have a comprehensive knowledge of the Tripitaka. There was also the condition that one must have attained certain levels of meditative absorption.

So, Venerable Nanananda Thero was writing in such an era. This is relevant to us today because, in our current time, there is no prevailing idea that one must necessarily become a forest-dweller to realize the truth. There is no idea that one must be ordained. There is no absolute requirement that one must have meditative absorptions (jhāna). It is good if one has them, but it is not a mandatory prerequisite. This means that if one possesses them, it becomes a great convenience. If one is ordained, one finds seclusion. If one has developed meditative absorptions, the mind possesses a greater degree of serenity.

Furthermore, consider the situation back then. If you went to a temple, the prevailing aspiration was something like, 'May we attain Nibbāna by listening to a single sermon during the dispensation of the future Maitreya Buddha.' The focus was on heavenly and human pleasures, culminating in rebirth in celestial realms. Liberation was considered a very distant story.

It was only after the 1980s that things began to change, little by little. Goenka centers were established in Sri Lanka. The Mahasi Sayadaw meditation methods from Burma were introduced. The Burmese meditation systems came to Sri Lanka. That is how, step by step, the change occurred. On another front, a certain group of people started studying the works of figures like Jiddu Krishnamurti and Dr. E. W. Adhikaram. Osho’s ideas also began to emerge at that time. This was one intellectual stream that developed. Then, after the 1960s, there was another group of people who knew about Ramana Maharshi. We see that even Venerable Balangoda Ananda Maitreya Thero went to see him. However, even then, the belief was not that these were individuals who had realized the truth. Rather, the perception was that they were ascetics who had attained high states of concentration (samāpatti). The idea of Nibbāna as we discuss it today was not part of the discourse.

This is because, if you look back, the practice had been in decline for some time. By the time of the Kandyan Kingdom, the Sangha had degenerated almost completely. There were hardly any fully ordained monks (upasampadā bhikkhus). It was later that Venerable Weliwita Saranankara Thero re-established the higher ordination by going to Siam and Burma. Before that, there were only ‘Ganinnanses’ who lived with their families in the temples. However, they did protect the books. Those ancient palm-leaf manuscripts were preserved by them, the ones we call ‘Ganinnanses’. They protected the texts and maintained the temples, but there was no real path to liberation being taught.

After that, virtuous societies were gradually formed, and people slowly became accustomed to visiting temples again, though it was still mainly for things like offering flowers. Little by little, it progressed. Then, after the Buddha Jayanti in 1956, which marked the 2500th anniversary of the Buddha’s final passing, things began to change more significantly. The insight meditation (vipassanā) lineage, started by leading monks like Venerable Madihe Pannasiha Mahanayaka Thero, began to spread. At the same time, that other intellectual stream of Krishnamurti and Osho also began to enter Sri Lanka more prominently in the decades of the 60s and 70s. However, this was not on a large scale; it was just a small, specific group. Then, as I mentioned, the Burmese meditation methods arrived. Things progressed in this manner until around the late 1990s and the beginning of the year 2000. Around that time, in the early 2000s, Venerable Kiribathgoda Gnanananda Thero brought forth the idea that this is achievable in this very life. The concept that one can attain this realization in this very life became a well-known idea.

Before that, of course, there were isolated forest monasteries in Sri Lanka, but one had to actively seek them out. In our area, around Gampaha, there was the Kanduboda meditation center at that time. Even though people went to such places to meditate, the idea that liberation was possible did not become a widespread public notion. There wasn't much discussion about a clear path, but the conviction that it is possible began to take hold. Venerable Thero started translating texts like the Satipatthāna Sutta, and around the late 90s or 2000, he published a book titled 'The Bliss of Nibbāna is Not Far From Here.' This meant communicating that Nibbāna is something that can be realized right here and now. The signal was given to people once again that this is possible, that this work can be accomplished.

After that, little by little, it has now become commonplace for us to hear that one can become an Arahant in this life, that one can attain Nibbāna. It has reached the point where, as the saying goes, if you shook a bush, an Arahant might fall out. This is a good thing, because it means people believe it is possible. It means that attainers of the path and fruit began to emerge, Arahants began to emerge. This is not a bad thing at all for a country that used to say it was impossible.

When Sri Lankans go to Burma, the Burmese people laugh. They say that Sri Lanka is the only country in the history of the world with the concept of a "last Arahant." They say that only in Sri Lanka do people talk about a final Arahant, namely Maliyadeva Maha Arahant. But that is not so. The Buddha's teaching is timeless (akālika). It can be realized in any era. Yet in Sri Lanka, it was as if a final seal had been placed on it, as if it were all over, that he was the last one. What that really means is that he is the last one about whom there is a well-known, written historical record. It does not mean he was the absolute last Arahant, but that narrative began to spread among the people—that he was the last. People widely accepted this mistaken idea. The written accounts of Arahants in Sri Lanka end with the details about Maliyadeva Maha Arahant. The story is that during a three-month rains retreat, he saw his mother’s sorrow, and striving with great energy during those three months, he attained Arahantship. After that, there are no more detailed accounts. But this does not mean that he was the last Arahant in Sri Lanka. Nevertheless, that idea took hold.

So, consider this: in a country where the "last Arahant" had supposedly passed away into final Nibbāna, in a place where people believed that this goal was completely impossible in this life, it is in such an environment that Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero is doing his work and writing this book. Therefore, from one perspective, this is a revolution. It is indeed a revolution.

Because in a context where everyone says it is impossible, the reason—as I understand it—that Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero brings this particular section into this book when discussing non-manifest consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa), the main reason he includes the chapter we are discussing today, must be to show that one can attain realization before the breakup of the body. The Lord Buddha did it while his living body was still present. That is, his consciousness was active. He had not yet passed into the final Nibbāna without remainder (anupādisesa-parinibbāna). He had not yet fully passed away into that final Nibbāna without remainder. But he experienced the bliss of Nibbāna. This section highlights the fact that he experienced the bliss of Nibbāna, that he entered the cessation of perception and feeling (saññā-vedayita-nirodha).

He was not dead, nor was he asleep. He had not passed into final Parinibbāna. This means he was still awake. That consciousness, that 'being conscious' (saviññāṇaka), that aliveness was present. This saviññāṇaka state is what we all have—the perception 'I am not dead'. So, while this perception of being alive, this conscious perception, was still present, He attained Nibbāna. He attained the cessation of perception and feeling. Now, as I see it—and of course, we cannot say this with certainty. We would have to ask Venerable Nanananda Thero himself why he included a section like this when explaining non-manifest consciousness. But we can infer that he is giving us a hint.

That is to say, the Lord Buddha states in the Purābheda Sutta from the Sutta Nipāta that if someone becomes an Arahant, they do so 'before the breakup of the body.' This means a person attains Nibbāna before this body breaks apart. If you look at the Purābheda Sutta in the Sutta Nipāta, the Lord Buddha explains throughout that the nature of a sage who has merged with the Nibbāna-element does so before this body disintegrates, before this living consciousness is lost. We all have this sense of being alive right now. The sutta goes on to describe how such a sage is not swayed by sounds and so on, that they do not have faith based on hearsay. Those details are beautifully explained there. Please take some time to study the Purābheda Sutta. You will find these points there.

So, in the context of our discussion, it is while this living body is still present that we too must experience the bliss of Nibbāna. It is then that we must merge with the Nibbāna-element and attain the truth.

So, I believe he included this to show that it is possible. At that time, the prevailing idea was that Nibbāna was a post-mortem affair. The general belief was that the bliss of Nibbāna could not be experienced while the conscious body was still alive. That is why even today you see signs at funerals saying, "May he/she attain the bliss of Nibbāna," implying it is something that happens after death. Ideas like this were prevalent throughout Sri Lanka, creating the impression that one could not merge with the Nibbāna-element until one dies, that the bliss of Nibbāna is only received after death.

This passage provides an answer to all of that. Here, the Lord Buddha, while still possessing a living body and conscious perception—while this aliveness was present—had withdrawn from perception and feeling (saññā and vedanā). He had become completely disengaged from the world. He was in a state of concentration (samādhi) that was untouched by the world. However, you cannot call it a state of non-perception (asañña), because the text says that perception was present. It does not say he became completely non-percipient.

This is why, as Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero points out regarding the verse we discussed over the past two days, we can get a hint about what the Lord Buddha is pointing to. I will try to explain this in a way that is somewhat digestible for us.

This cessation of perception (nirodha saññā) is not something we can ever encounter directly. A person cannot encounter the cessation of perception; what we encounter is the arising of perception (saññā samudaya). For us, the person we saw yesterday is the same person we see today. Again and again, the seer and the seen appear stable to us. For us, perception is continually arising (samudaya). But the Lord Buddha shows that for the Noble Ones, perception undergoes cessation (nirodha). Their perception is turned towards cessation, towards extinguishment.

Let me give you an example. Think about how we feel the perception of a 'person.' It is always connected to some kind of feeling (vedanā). For instance, if a thorn pricks our foot, we immediately say, "Oh, I am in pain." It is always through some feeling that the sense of 'me' is felt. But the moment feeling ceases, the sense of 'me' also vanishes. The awareness of my surroundings also vanishes. Now, please don't take this as me explaining exactly what the Buddha taught in that passage. I am just trying to point in a general direction, an inference, to help understand what happens internally when we are touched by cessation—what we call the attainment of cessation (nirodha samāpatti).

It is relative to a particular feeling that a 'me' is felt. We feel, "I feel cold," "I feel hot," "I feel sad." That "I" is felt. But notice that when feeling is absent (avedayita), I do not feel a 'me'. Take sleep as an example. When we fall asleep at night, we have no experience of ourselves, do we? This is because there is no feeling there. I don't hear sounds. I don't see forms. I don't feel anything in the body. This is just an analogy. I am using it as an analogy because in a place where feeling is absent, once feeling has ceased, there is no way for me to establish a 'me'. It is only when one is feeling something in some way that the sense of 'me' is felt. However, in deep sleep, feeling falls away from us. Once feeling has fallen away, we have no idea how long we have slept. We don't even know what happens during that time; it is not accessible to us in our current state of awareness. So, just think of it like that.

And yet, consider how much we are drawn to that state of not feeling anything. Just think about it. If a mother calls to her child, "Son, wake up and eat," he will say, "Just a little longer, just a little longer." In reality, a child loves non-feeling more than feeling. But if the mother asks, "Son, what is it that you are experiencing in that sleep?" He is experiencing nothing. We are drawn to the absence of feeling (avedayita). If you ask someone, they will say there is a feeling in eating, a definite experience. Yet, we are more drawn to sleep, where forms are not seen, sounds are not heard, tastes are not sensed, and there is no bodily contact. There is nothing at all. In that state of nothingness, we prefer non-feeling to feeling. However, if you ask, "What is the happiness you experience in non-feeling?"—if you ask about the bliss of non-feeling—it cannot be pointed out.

Whatever the feeling (vedanā), its end result is suffering; one gets trapped in it. In every feeling, there is a 'me.' In every feeling, there is a kind of grasping. There is a quality of clinging (upādāna), whether through rejection or through trying to hold on to something. But in this state without feeling, that is absent.

In the same way, if our mind is touched by this state without feeling, if it begins to be touched by cessation (nirodha), if it begins to touch the perception of cessation, then you cannot pull it away, no matter what anyone says. The mind will seek only that inner cessation. It develops a tendency to seek cessation, much like one becomes addicted to sleep. In a way, it is like an addiction. Whatever else you give it, nothing else satisfies. Perception and feeling both begin to go to zero.

I am not talking about the complete attainment of Nibbāna. But if one has experienced even a tiny bit of this cessation, if our mind has been caught even by a small moment of cessation of perception, it is impossible to pull it away after that. It is just like sleep. The mind desires only that, only that. It is the absence of feeling. There is nothing to be felt, and no one there to feel. And yet, the mind internally begins to seek that cessation.

That is why I say the only analogy I can use is that of sleep. There is nothing to experience in it, and no experiencer. And yet, we desire sleep in a profound way, more than we desire experiencing any sense object. This is because after feeling things all day long, we say, "I am so tired." We get tired from feeling, feeling, feeling all the time. One gets weary of this constant experiencing. That is why our minds have a slight, gradual inclination towards cessation. After feeling and feeling, we think, "What is this drudgery? Enough of this!" We feel and feel, and there is no end to it. And there is nothing of substance in it; it only leads to more and more exhaustion.

But in cessation (nirodha), there is no exhaustion. At first, cessation is felt relative to something else, but cessation itself is not an experience relative to anything. Let me give you another example for cessation.

Imagine you have a wound on your hand. As long as the wound is there, you feel pain. You feel distress, discomfort, and the feeling, "I need to heal this." Now, imagine the wound has healed. The wound has ceased (nirodha). The wound is cured. If you go to a person whose wound has completely healed and ask them, "Can you show me the 'experience' of the wound being healed?" Can they show it to you? Can I point to my hand and say, "Look, here is the healing of my wound"? I cannot. For that to be possible, there would have to be at least a faint line from the wound still present. Some small mark would have to remain for me to say, "See, my wound has now healed." The discussion of healing is always relative to the wound.

But if it has truly and completely healed, then the concept of 'healing' no longer applies there. Because there is no longer a wound to speak of. There is no longer suffering (dukkha) to speak of. That is why the Buddha only says, "It is extinguished" (nivunā). The lamp has gone out. Once it is extinguished, you cannot point to the 'state of being extinguished.' To do so, you would still have to refer to the lamp's flame. That is why the cessation of the Arahants is described as being 'extinguished like a lamp flame.' It has cooled. The perception has ceased. It is extinguished. Therefore, a person cannot understand extinguishment. Because if a person tries to understand it, it once again becomes relative to the wound; it's like saying, "This much of the flame has gone out." But at that point, you cannot show a flame. You cannot show a fire. Imagine there is a fire. Someone passes by when the fire is burning. If they come back later and the fire is gone, they relate it to the memory of the previous fire and conclude, "There is no fire here now."

But what about someone who comes for the first time, who did not see the fire before? Do they encounter a 'no-fire-ness'? No. For them, there is only the perception of cessation. The perception itself has ceased. Why? Because they have nothing to relate it back to. There is no way to turn it into another experience. Because to relate it back, the memory of that earlier fire, the state of existence (bhava) of that fire, would have to linger somewhere, even slightly, in order to then speak of the cessation of existence (bhava-nirodha).

Alright, this might suddenly become a bit more difficult. Perhaps it feels like I am just piling on theory. So, let's see. This is also a topic that cannot be oversimplified. This cessation of perception and feeling (saññā-vedayita-nirodha) that Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero is trying to bring up... the way I understand it at present, let me put it this way.

An Arahant does not consciously enter into cessation. Instead, try to understand it like this: their entire life is the perception of cessation. It is not a story of them being in the cycle of birth and death (saṃsāra) for a little while, and then going into cessation for another little while, switching back and forth. In the beginning, our experiences are like that. Our mind ceases for a moment, then it jumps back out and becomes relative again. Our mind ceases for a brief period—the perceptions fade away. We too have moments where we experience this cessation. For example, during meditation, when observing the gap between two breaths, we experience for a brief moment a cessation that cannot be pinned down in time or space. If you observe the very end of one breath and the beginning of the next, there is a phase that cannot be grasped by time or space. We connect with that.

Therefore, I believe that all of us who have practiced meditation and developed mindfulness (sati) are, at various levels, on this journey of cessation. Even if we have not reached complete, full cessation, we are on a path of relative cessation of perception. Everyone who develops mindfulness is on the path to Nibbāna. They are progressively moving towards extinguishment. The degree of extinguishment might differ from person to person. The strength of their awareness may vary, and there can be differences in the depth of their cessation. But we are on that path. We have had that experience.

Now, when we speak of the Lord Buddha and the Noble Ones, what is present there is the complete perception of cessation. It is not possible for them to ever depart from cessation. Their very life is cessation. For such a being, it is as if their inner reality has reached a state of cessation.

Now, this is just an analogy, and please do not build a definite shape from these analogies. With every analogy, the point is to grasp the meaning behind it, not to cling to the analogy itself. For example, there is a Sinhala saying, "like hiding jaggery in a drainage ditch." We know the meaning of this; we understand that it refers to a pointless act. However, the word 'ditch' itself does not mean 'pointless.' The word 'hiding' itself does not mean 'pointless.' Do you see? The meaning is understood through the wisdom of the analogy. If you look at the literal meaning of "hiding jaggery in a drainage ditch," there is no deeper meaning in the words themselves. But a person with wisdom (paññā) understands that what is being highlighted is the futility of the action.

In the same way, everything we are about to say regarding the perception of cessation is like that. So please, do not cling too much to the analogies. Because if we do, we will end up turning the perception of cessation back into something that arises (samudaya)....otherwise, we try to bring Nibbāna back into existence, back into the realm of a person's experience.

Alright, let me give another analogy for this perception of cessation (nirodha saññā). This state of having attained cessation... when a person’s mind, through developing mindfulness and cultivating profound wakefulness, wisdom, and clarity, begins to be touched by this inner cessation, their internal state becomes—to use an analogy—like the Bermuda Triangle. Whatever enters the Bermuda Triangle, from what we have heard—whether it's a boat or a plane—it gets pulled in and disappears.

In the same way, the cessation in a person’s mind... or let’s take the combination of mindfulness and wisdom. When the perception of cessation is developed—along with right view (sammā-diṭṭhi), of course—when mindfulness is applied with right view, when that combination starts to work within, then their inner state… now, even though I say ‘their’ inner state, a personal quality is not really involved there. As I mentioned when discussing analogies, that inner space becomes like the Bermuda Triangle. Or, as we have heard, it is said that no matter can enter a black hole. The moment something enters, it disappears. Similarly, that person begins to realize that their inner awareness is like a black hole. That is to say, the power of their cessation becomes incredibly strong. But when I say ‘strong,’ there is nothing to point to, no shape or form. And yet, the cessation begins to become immensely powerful.

It is like... for example, a bird caught in the destructive Veramba wind. Not even a single feather is left; the bird is torn to pieces. In the same way, when a worldly mind falls into that state of cessation, that nature of cessation—these worldly thoughts we have—they are like a bird caught in the Veramba wind. They are utterly pulverized. They are made to disappear. It is like multiplying everything by zero; it all becomes zero. All sense objects, all signs and objects cognized through the five senses… but this is not the same as a meditative absorption (jhāna). This happens when mindfulness and wisdom come together. Therefore, it happens together with a certain view, with right view. We talked about right view yesterday and the day before, so I won't repeat all of that.

In the presence of that person's mindfulness and wisdom, the power of any worldly thoughts that arise within them begins to break down. The great impulse within those thoughts, that momentum, begins to die down. It is like removing the fangs of a cobra. After the venomous fangs are removed, one sees that the cobra is still there in its normal way, but its venom is gone. Similarly, the feelings are felt. Thoughts are there as they were before. But their mind is established in cessation.

For a person who has attained such cessation, even if you curse them with obscenities, it might feel to us as if they are expressing love. Because all those feelings are now caught up in that cessation. Those thoughts, those feelings… that is why a person touched by cessation can switch moods instantly. They can manifest a wrathful form if needed. The response appropriate to the situation arises from them. These are not things they do deliberately. You might think, "Oh, so he thinks and decides to act like a demon." It is not like that. The response required by that mood arises automatically from within someone touched by cessation. For someone who has attained the complete cessation of perception, these things operate within them, but the emotional impulse is at zero. There are no emotional impulses. There are no sensual impulses. Sensuality is there, but not the impulse of sensuality. It is because sensuality is present that sages have been able to create beautiful works of art. Even the Arahant Mihindu created the great Mahamevnāwa Park. So, sensuality is not present as an impulse. In a mind touched by cessation, sensuality becomes void (suñña).

Think of it like this: a sensual thought is one thing. Lust (rāga) is one thing. Dispassion (virāga) is another. It is as if the dispassionate mind merges with the lustful mind. How so? We have four levels of perception. First, there is the level of sensual perception (kāma-saññā). Then there is the level of perception of form (rūpa-saññā). What we call the divine Brahma realms are at the level of formless perception (arūpa-saññā). So, these are the levels in the mind: the level of sensual perception, the level of form perception, the level of formless perception, and the perception of cessation (nirodha-saññā).

Now, don't break this down into four distinct categories right away. Don't try to cram these four concepts into your head. After listening, these ideas should just fall away. Otherwise, you will grab onto these four non-existent categories and start debating and arguing about them. When it comes to realization, it is not understood as four separate things. But for the purpose of explanation, let's provisionally take them as: perception of cessation, formless perception, form perception, and sensual perception.

Alright, I will describe these four stages using the analogy of watching a movie. When we are watching the film, we are not conscious of the movie screen at all, are we? At that moment, what we see is the actor, the actress, the hero, the villain. He hits him. He conquers the kingdom and becomes king. We see a whole sequence of events like this. The hero kills the villain. Or the villain captures the heroine and torments her. The beauty of the film lies in these things, doesn't it? The fighting scenes, the killing scenes. They fight, they kill each other, and then they run around a tree. The appeal of the movie is in these elements. If not for this, if a two-hour film just showed someone sitting in a cross-legged posture, no one would watch it. Imagine a three-hour film where someone comes to a meditation center, sits down cross-legged, and stays that way for three hours. We wouldn't watch that, would we? We watch a film precisely because of the fight scenes, the scenes of getting rejected in love, the hero trying to die for love, the heroine trying to save him, and all of that. Those are the things that make us want to keep watching. It's the drama that keeps us engaged. Our emotions are manipulated; at times we cry, then we laugh. We are put through a whole range of emotions and feelings. A song plays, then they fight again. Then they go on a picnic. Even if it is the same sequence, it becomes boring. That's why events in a film change rapidly, one after the other. Otherwise, think of certain films where, when you put them on, people fall asleep because they move at a single, slow pace. Some people fall asleep watching Zen-like films. The same mood, the same person, walking at the same pace. It becomes utterly boring after a while.

So, we understand that when we are watching at that level of the film, we are drawn to variety and vividness. This is what the Lord Buddha meant when he said that the sensual realm (kāma) is sustained by diversity and variety. Otherwise, we would get tired of the sensual world. That is why we don't eat the same thing for lunch that we ate for breakfast. We change our food. That's why, even though people are married, they fall in love with others in their minds. They seek novelty elsewhere. Because if sensuality is made monotonous, it becomes a punishment. Marriage is a punishment because it makes sensuality monotonous. When sensuality becomes monotonous, a person gets tired of it. Although people may not say it, they are under a lot of pressure. They have affairs secretly. This is why brothels exist. If there were no issues with monogamous sensuality, there would be no need for prostitutes. There would be no need for spas. Why? It is then that you understand why prostitution began—ever since the strange institution of marriage came into the world. Before that, such things did not exist.

The problem is, we do not see it this way. We have a framework of morality through which we view these things. It is from within that moral framework that we judge these things as right or wrong. We say they are right or wrong... a place where this became very clear to me was one day when Venerable Dhammajiva was giving a sermon. He told us a beautiful story. When he was practicing meditation in Burma, at the end of a retreat, his teacher, a learned monk, was receiving offerings of merit from the laypeople. It's a custom in Burma—I went there once myself. Every year, there is a two-month retreat. Many people from all over the world come to that learned monk's retreat; about 500 people attend. The residential facilities are built to accommodate about 100 people. For that country, the accommodation is quite well-provided. That retreat, I think, starts in November and ends around late January. By the first week of February, it is over, and then they take a group photograph. The learned monk, the teacher, also joins. Everyone who was in that group gets together for a photo at the end of the program.

One day, after one such program in the early days, after the picture was taken, Venerable Dhammajiva showed the photograph to the learned monk. The monk took one look at it and immediately said, "Tell those monks over there to straighten their robes!" He said, "Their robes are not worn properly." Do you see? The first thing he saw in that whole picture was himself. The second thing he saw was the robes. Why? Because what he sees is his own morality. What he saw was his own moralistic viewpoint. Otherwise, it is just a picture. But he couldn't see it that way. We are trapped in the same way. What we see is the corner we are trapped in. If we are a moralist, we see everything from that angle. That is how we make our judgments. And he judged himself from that same standpoint. He could not see the picture as just a picture. Because whenever we look at a photo, the first thing we do is look for ourselves, isn't it? The mind goes there and judges whether it looks good or bad. "Oh, my smile is not right in this picture," or "I'm pulling a long face." We say something like that and then, "Let's take another one, let's take another one," because "I look better this way." We see ourselves first. We don't notice how beautiful someone else looks, do we? We don't think, "Oh, that person looks so nice." No, it's about whether "I look a little fat in this one," or it's about our preferred angle, our moral framework that we see.

Anyway, in the story I was telling, in the sensual realm, if sensuality becomes monotonous, it becomes repulsive. Therefore, we are accustomed to changing things. That is what a film does. A film constantly changes the music, the scenes, the focus, over and over again. Only then can it hold our attention. Otherwise, we fall asleep. That is the main reason people fall asleep during Dhamma talks. Why? Because when the speaker continues in the same tone, in the same way, it's like listening to a lullaby. You fall asleep. A lullaby is sung in a monotonous rhythm without changing the tone. Then the baby falls asleep soundly. The diversity is removed. The variety is removed. So, to keep our minds at the sensual level, we need diversity.

This is very exhausting. This diversity and variety have to be maintained constantly. So, being in a sensual state of existence (kāma-bhava) is not as easy as we might think. It is very tiring. No matter how much you provide, you get tired of that too. You need to keep making things new. Therefore, living with sensual perception (kāma-saññā) involves a lot of suffering (dukkha). It is very exhausting.

Now, in any state of existence, the identity view (sakkāya-diṭṭhi) is present. However, relatively speaking, the identity view at the level of sensual perception is very tiresome. The identity view there is heavy. In the realms of form and formlessness, there is also identity view; there is no difference in that. However, when compared relatively, the weight of the perception of form and formlessness is less. The 'me' that wanders in the realm of sensual perception is heavy. Comparatively, there is more peace at the levels of form and formless perception.

Now, I don't think we need to explain sensual perception in great detail, because it is something we all know. We have all lived in it. So, within this sensual existence, there are three main characteristics. One is that everyone watches everyone else. I remember when I was a layman, my uncle used to constantly tell me, "Be like this, be like that." I realized then, as I spent time with him as a child... my father didn't really impose anything on me when I was young. My mother also didn't say, "You should become this kind of person." My father didn't say it either. But my uncle was always saying, "Be like this, or no one will respect you. Be this kind of person, that kind of person." I realized that he too had this inflated sense of self. He had adopted a certain role and believed he was someone important. But as I lived with him, I slowly began to see that the innocence, the kindness, the humanity he had in his early days, before he tried to 'become someone,' was slowly fading away. He started putting ideas into my head too: "You must become this kind of person, you must carry on the family name." It was then I understood that in this sensual world, everyone is trying to put on a character. Everyone feels they must breathe life into some persona. They adopt that persona and then look down their noses at the world.

This is one aspect of the sensual realm. Within this sensual existence, one major issue is that we adopt a role and, in doing so, lose our humanity. We divide ourselves into categories like 'lay' and 'monastic.' We grab onto some meaningless concept and box ourselves in. We cling to 'Buddhism' or 'Christianity' and that's the end of the truth right there. The moment we create 'man' and 'woman,' 'lay' and 'monastic,' we are just waiting to categorize everything. We are always trying to confine things within a perception, within a label. We don't let anything exist without naming it. Look at the sensual world; we put a label on everything and then put on the persona of "I am so-and-so." We take it upon ourselves. It's like putting on a costume.

The problem with sensual perception is that all of us in the sensual world are wearing a costume. Even now, we are wearing one. But now, we are becoming a little more conscious that we are wearing it, that this is just a role, a foolish act. We see that we have adorned ourselves with these carvings, that we are just wearing a mask. When we see this, we no longer try to puff out our chests. We don't try to hold our horns up high. We don't, because what is truly there is our shared humanity. There is no such category as 'monk' or 'layperson' or 'this race' or 'that race.' It is because we have become boxed in that we have lost something. When we were young, we didn't have this to such a great extent. Slowly, slowly, these categories started to increase. And as these boxes increased, the love that was in our original awareness, the kindness that was there in our initial state, died. It began to die within us.

So, once we get caught up in this movie, we get swept away. Then, it makes us get hooked on some addiction. This is the nature of sensual perception. Because to maintain sensual perception, one must be confined to a certain form. Otherwise, the sensual existence cannot be sustained. You take on a certain form, "I am so-and-so," and then there is someone else in another form.

The second thing required to maintain sensual existence is to become addicted to one subject. For example, if someone is a professor of a particular subject, they become obsessed with it. Beyond that, they don't understand anything else. They miss the fragrance of the truth. Look at the most brilliant students, the experts in any field; often, they lack basic humanity. When you see them, they seem socially awkward, almost like they are mentally challenged when they are with their peers. They don't know how to fit in, how to socialize and connect with people in a relaxed way. It's like what mothers say: "Look son, that boy got good grades, but is he on the right track?" When he is with other boys, he doesn't know how to join in. He doesn't know how to sit on a culvert and just hang out with the group. It is as if they are paralyzed in some way. They are not natural. They are like aliens, like some kind of extraterrestrial being. They become something strange.

The reason for this is that they have gone too deep into one subject, clinging to it and becoming addicted. This is a characteristic of the sensual realm. It's an addiction—either to drugs, or to men or women, or to sex. Or, as we say, to alcohol and gambling. There is no limit to it. This is the problem with sensual existence: one must be addicted to something. And then that person cannot live without it; they become like a mad person. After that is gone, that person cannot live naturally, they cannot just be mindful in the present moment. They keep getting drawn back to that addiction, again and again and again. So, understand this well: in the sensual existence, first, one puts on a persona. Second, one becomes addicted. Now, look at the third characteristic of someone still living within the sensual existence. They want to crush someone. They need to dominate someone in some way. Look at why people fight so fiercely for kingship. It is not just to serve the people. Underlying it is the desire for power—the ability to make other people stand when I say stand, and sit when I say sit. Look at why people seek fame. It is to control people, to attract people to me, to tame people. So, within this sensual existence, there is aversion (dvesha). We are waiting to establish, "I am the teacher, now you must live as I say," the need to crush others. There is this ferocious, animalistic desire within the sensual existence.

Look deep into the inner world of those who cling to sensual perceptions. They want to shape people the way they want. To change them the way they want. To transform them the way they want. There is this incredibly savage idea of crushing another human being, molding them. What is operating underneath is aversion. Within a sensual existence, within sensual perception, these are the three things that I see. To live in a sensual existence is to live in a beastly state. That's why we call it the animal plane. One is addicted to something, measures oneself by something, and then thinks, "One day I will become king and crush all the heretics." Or "I will become a Buddha and crush all those with wrong views." Or "I will become king and crush all my enemies." That savage feeling is there within the sensual existence. That is why people seek power.

This is exactly what we watch in a movie. The reason we cannot relate to a film about someone sitting in meditation is because a movie is all about this. We watch a character for hours who is addicted to something—to love, to sex, to killing people. We watch a character who has succeeded in life by stepping on others. Or a hero who becomes king and crushes all the villains. This is what we call a hero, isn't it? A superhero crushes all the bad guys. This is our life. Our life, this sensual existence, is defined by this very point.

Alright. Now, to move from the sensual existence to the form existence (rūpa-bhava)... the perception of form arises when, let's say, one gets tired of watching film after film. One gets fed up with all the fighting and killing. Watching it has made one weary. Then, one looks for an escape. To find that escape, one starts to meditate, to develop mindfulness. One goes to a meditation center like this, finds teachers, listens to their sermons, and begins to practice.

Once one starts to practice—and understand this well—the teachers do not give a varied object of meditation like before. They don't give an object that is varied and intoxicating like in the sensual realm. They give a very monotonous, neutral object. Because that can quickly bring the mind to a state of boredom. And it is in waking up to that boredom that concentration (samādhi) arises. Waking up to that monotony is concentration. It is not liberation (Nibbāna), but concentration. So, an object that quickly makes the mind monotonous is given, an object that makes the sensual desire subside. A sign (nimitta) is given that is monotonous, one that cannot be intoxicating. Take the breath, for instance. There is no way to get attached to it. There is nothing to hate about it. Just the breath, just the sensation in the body. A monotonous object like this is given to the student.

When the student is given this monotonous object, at first they come thinking, "I am so fed up with my old life, I will never go back. I don't need anything else. I will just practice. I don't even need a home." But they only have to practice with that monotonous object for three or four days, and they will start thinking, "My goodness, I miss my home!" Why? That monotony... much faster than we think, our perceptions begin to cease. Faster than we think, the sensual perceptions of the world begin to wear away. After two or three days of being given a meditation object, that monotony begins to set in. One practices the same thing in the morning, the same thing in the evening, does walking meditation, then sitting meditation. The same sign (nimitta) is noted over and over and over again. After a while, that monotony emerges from within. When that inner monotony arises, it doesn't take long at all. The movie starts to become blurry. The characters in the film begin to fade. The actor and actress become indistinct, and one starts to see just the blank screen.

This transition from watching the varied movie to seeing the blank screen happens while one is holding onto an object of form (rūpārammaṇa). This shift happens while one is holding onto the breath, or the body. This inner change occurs when we, who were in the sensual existence, grasp onto an object of form, like the breath or the body. When we grasp this form existence firmly, then... we mentioned this the other day, a tranquility (samatha) meditator is someone who tries to hold onto this object continuously, to make it stable. A practitioner of insight (vipassanā), however, is ready for the impermanence even of this object. They are open to the fading away of even the object they took up to wear away the sensual realm. When one is open to the object itself fading and the mind changing, we say their mind is inclined towards insight. But if they keep seeking the object again and again, we say their pattern is inclined towards tranquility. They are trying to make the object permanent and stable.

Alright. Now, one has to awaken to this monotony. The problem we face in awakening to this monotony is that when we keep our attention on a single monotonous object for a long time, our energy (viriya) drops to zero. And a deep sleepiness comes over us. At this point, one cannot fall asleep, and one cannot let the energy drop. But if one does too much contemplation, too much thinking and reflecting on this fading nature, that too becomes an unnecessary obstacle on the path towards the relative extinguishment of perception—where sensual perception has faded, form perception is fading, and one is moving towards cessation. So, the act of contemplating the object must also gradually fall away. But as contemplation falls away, energy must not decrease. The problem is, at that point, there is nothing to 'do' as energy. That is the real challenge in meditation. As the perception of form, which was taken up to wear away the sensual realm, begins to fade, what do we actually do? There is nothing to be done.

At that point, we have to find our own techniques. "How do I stay awake without falling asleep? How do I follow the daily schedule?" There is no enthusiasm to follow the schedule. It's like listening to a lullaby; one just feels sleepy.

At this point, something happens to some people. We mentioned this briefly yesterday. Even though they have let go of the sensual realm, as the meditation object becomes more and more monotonous, they get tired of it, and the world they renounced starts to look beautiful again. The phone they were fed up with—they feel like being on the phone again. The songs they were tired of—they feel like listening to them again. They even feel like listening to songs they never used to listen to. The meditation, the schedule—they feel like avoiding it as much as possible. When they hear, "There's no sermon today," they are overjoyed. When they hear, "The schedule is cancelled today," it feels like they have attained Nibbāna. On a day off, they feel, "Today is my free day, I'm going out!" and that day feels incredibly happy. The outside world, the world they renounced, the things they said they didn't want, start to look beautiful again. They start to think, "Maybe it's better to be out there. At least there are no problems like this. Even if I have to struggle, it's fine." Sometimes, the monotony of the formless—even though it is pure, it lacks variety—causes sensuality to return. As one starts to see the blank screen, as the empty screen appears, the sensual perceptions can arise again with strength. This is where the teaching on 'The Mirage of Perception,' which we discussed yesterday, is needed. One needs to have heard that Dhamma teaching. This means, even if I try to grasp onto something again, as we discussed in yesterday's sermon, it is a fabrication of the mind. I am trying to grasp onto something out of a fear of isolation and loneliness. As one practices meditation, one becomes more and more alone, like being lost in the middle of a desert. It is out of that fear that one tries to grasp onto an island. But we need to plant this idea in their minds: "The loneliness you are feeling, that state of being alone... as you go deeper into it, you will feel this fear." As a person goes deeper and deeper into that awareness and finds no branch to hold onto, a deathly fear arises from within. A fear of death. And when that fear of death arises, that is when meditators go mad and fall into strange, delusional states. They cannot express it, but when that fear of death comes and there is nothing to hold onto, the fear that arises... I remember one lady called me at midnight, or maybe 1 a.m. She was calling continuously. She had lost any branch to hold onto and had gone to the kitchen looking for a knife. Fortunately, there was no knife in the kitchen at that time. Then she ran to jump into the well, but there was a net over the well, so she couldn't jump in. Then, suddenly, she somehow managed to make a call, and I told her, "Just stay as you are until morning."

When there is nowhere to hang on, people fear that isolation so much—they fear Nibbāna. They fear it more than death. At that moment, they even try to cling to death. They try to commit suicide. Now, I don't know... so far, no one here has committed suicide. Maybe they will in the future. In the end, it shows how much they fear Nibbāna. When this 'me' goes into that state of awareness and finds absolutely nothing to cling to, they finally realize, "Oh my god, it would be better to be dead." They think, "If only I could just die." People actually die out of this fear of isolation.

As one progresses in meditation, as one guides the mind towards Nibbāna, one's inner world becomes more and more isolated. As I said, some people sleep excessively. Sleep is good; it provides some relief. But as one goes deeper into mindfulness, one gets a sense of what is about to happen. One senses, "Now it's coming to an end." "I am about to completely let go of myself, to let go even of the formless." As one senses this coming separation, one tries to cling to something, even to death. If all else fails, they will run to cling to death, making it a sign (nimitta) for their continued existence. Even death.

So, understand this well. As you go on with this practice... this is what is generally known as the insights of the Nine Great Stages of Insight in the development of the establishments of mindfulness. After the knowledge of dissolution (bhaṅga-ñāṇa), there is nowhere to cling, nowhere to take shelter. It is as if the mind is a tire spinning rapidly on an axle; it never stops, it never finds a foothold anywhere. The mind cannot establish itself on any sign. No matter what object arises, the mind cannot find a footing. The power of cessation is greater; like the power of the black hole I mentioned, nothing that comes can be held onto. One cannot stay, one cannot find a footing. Everything is lost, lost, lost. Wherever you try to place your foot, there is no ground, no leg to stand on. Faster and faster, the mind begins to attain cessation. As the mind attains cessation with such velocity, a great fear arises. A great fear of death.

At that point, for some people, their faith (saddhā) in the truth can be a great help. Secondly, this is where what we have heard comes in handy. Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero says here, "This conversation may not seem strange to you, because you have already gained some insight that pierces through the ‘magic show’ of the mind." We have heard these Dhamma talks from Venerable Nanananda Thero. This is what is important.

Some people who meditate do not like to listen to these deep Dhamma discourses. Those who listen to deep discourses are sometimes not interested in the path of developing mindfulness in terms of virtue (sīla), concentration (samādhi), and wisdom (paññā). What I am saying is, there needs to be a balance between the two. On the one hand, we must cultivate the path of practice, developing virtue and mindfulness. But we also need to listen to these deep discourses, like those of Venerable Nanananda Thero, which bring to light the profound teachings of the Buddha, such as on non-manifest consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa). I feel that both are important. I have found this balance to be very rare. Those who practice virtue, concentration, and wisdom often think theory is useless. They go to the forest and practice austerities. But they don't listen to these kinds of teachings. So they go to the extreme of self-mortification, practicing in a way that is very harsh on themselves. They do the practice, but they are just tormenting themselves, living with a subtle aversion towards the world.

On the other hand, those who listen to Dhamma from the endpoint, from the perspective of non-manifest consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa), often don't respect the foundational practice of mindfulness. They think, "Oh, what is all that? It's all about non-arising (anuppāda)." They grasp non-arising conceptually and talk about it. This gives them a convenient loophole. They don't have to reduce their addictions. They can say, "Oh, all this talk of virtue and concentration is useless. You don't need to make an effort. Are you mad?" It's a very cunning attitude. It is easy to superficially grasp these kinds of teachings with that cunningness. Because if you grasp these teachings, you can think, "If all perception is just a magic show, then what's the point of talking about virtue, concentration, and wisdom? What's the point of developing mindfulness?" They completely dismiss the practice.

As I see it, we must respect both. We should not be one-sided. To the best of our ability, we should develop mindfulness and concentration, respecting and honoring that path of practice. As we proceed along that path, these kinds of deep Dhamma teachings become incredibly important. Because in our practice, when we come to that point of the fear of death... it is through that very death that we must go to the deathless. We all have to embrace our own death. We have to welcome death with love. It is through death itself that we must reach this truth.

We have to make the ultimate sacrifice. The practice will demand a human sacrifice. At that moment in meditation when a human sacrifice is demanded, you cannot offer a chicken instead. If you offer a chicken, you will get nothing. You cannot offer another person. It is you that it demands. If you want Nibbāna, the price of Nibbāna is you yourself. "You, from your side, offer yourself as the sacrifice. Then you will attain Nibbāna." But then, there is no one left to attain Nibbāna. That is the only problem. Because what did I exchange for Nibbāna? I exchanged myself. And that is when we lose our address. If you want Nibbāna, you have to give up the 'me.' If you want the 'me,' you have to give up Nibbāna.

We are caught between these two. You cannot go forward with deceit. You have to be 100% honest here. You cannot cover this up. You cannot get away with offering a chicken or a few dollars. We have to face this moment. We have to offer our entire life right here. In this stage of meditation, having listened to teachings like those of Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero on non-manifest consciousness becomes helpful.

Let me give an example. Our mind beautifies the very illusion we have renounced and presents it to us again. The illusion that we renounced as meaningless and monotonous is made beautiful again. At that moment, you have to show your mind, "What you are trying to grasp again is just a mirage."

Let me give you an example from yesterday's sermon to remind you what is meant by a mirage. Whatever we know, whatever we recognize at this moment, is not something that truly exists. It has no lasting being. To help you understand, let's take the example of the bell from yesterday. Here is where the value of having understood what Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero calls 'the magic show of perception' is found.

If I ring this bell like this, and then I ask, "We heard a sound, didn't we?" you will say, "Yes, Venerable Sir, I heard a sound." Then if I ask, "Where did the sound come from?" you will say, "You struck the bell, so the sound came from the bell." Now, to understand the illusion of perception is to understand this point: we heard the sound. When we hear this sound, we think the sound is coming from this bell, don't we? We feel that the sound belongs to the bell. We are conditioned to immediately think, when we hear a sound, "This sound came from that singer." What forms instantly in our mind? "The sound came from the bell." But now, observe this point very carefully. Is there a 'bell' contained within the sound that is being heard? In the sound we are hearing right now, in this audible sound, there is no mention of a 'bell'. If I wanted to, I could ask you to close your eyes and I could play this very sound from my phone. Then you would again think, "Ah, that sound is coming from a bell." Do you see? So think about this point again.

Imagine a small child comes here. A very young child. And I ring the bell like this. After the sound, the child falls into the fundamental ignorance of thinking "a sound was heard." Let's not get too deep into this analogy, because even a small child operates from a viewpoint. Even though they don't have the label 'sound,' they fall into the ignorance of thinking "something was heard." That is why the child reacts.

What I am saying is, when we hear this sound, there is no 'bell' in the sound itself. Even for a small child, when this sound is heard, if there were a 'bell' within the sound, the child should be able to say immediately, "Mummy, is that a bell?" So we can understand that when we hear a sound, even though we say, "This is the sound of the bell," if we pay close attention to the sound itself—to the hearing itself—nowhere in that sound does the concept 'bell' apply. In that sound, in that hearing, such a label never applies. Because you cannot impose the story of a 'bell' onto the sound that is heard. If one observes carefully, one sees this. And yet, we think, "I heard the sound of the bell," "I heard your voice," "I heard that singer's song." Instantly, the 'sound' comes to us packaged with a singer or a bell.

But now, if we go back to the small child and play that sound, no sign (nimitta) of a bell arises for the child. No image of an actor with certain features, or a singer, or a monk is conjured up. If a child hears this sermon, the image of a monk is not conjured up in the sound. So then we can understand... now, look carefully. The sound being heard right now... but even to say 'sound' is another label. Don't get caught by that either. Even when we call this hearing a 'sound,' we are imposing another label.

So, look carefully at this point. Even the concept 'sound' does not belong to the sound itself. If I rang this bell for a small child, would the child say, "This is a sound"? Would they say, "This is a form"? Or if I said the word 'sound' to the child, the child might ask, "Is 'sound' something to eat or drink?" Because there is no 'sound' in the word 'sound.' If there were a 'sound' in the perception of 'sound,' then the moment I said the word 'sound' to the child, they should hear something like this [rings bell]. That doesn't happen.

Right at this point, if we have clear mindfulness, this is where we begin to incline towards the cessation of perception (saññā-nirodha) that the Buddha pointed to. The cessation of perception is not just seeing something arise and pass away. It is a mindfulness combined with wisdom. And what is mindfulness combined with wisdom? It is seeing that even though we take this to be a 'sound' or a 'bell,' there was no 'bell' in the sound. There was no 'sound' in the hearing either.

At this point, we begin to understand perception. We understand that 'bell' or 'sound' is merely a sign. It is merely a designation. For now, let's take this sign as a word, a mental fabrication, that arose in the mind. But then the question, "What is mind?" arises as another view. For now, I will just incline this point slightly towards the mind. But don't lean on it too heavily. I am only leaning towards the mind for the ease of explanation. Otherwise, one can fall into a view similar to the Consciousness-only school (Yogācāra), where everything is seen as a mere fabrication of the mind. This can lead to the position that the world arises from the mind, making the mind seem permanent. So, for now, although I use the word 'mind' in my explanation, we must not go there. There is the doctrine of Viññatti-mātratā-siddhi—that all is a mere fabrication of consciousness. The Yogācāra philosophy tends to lean heavily towards the mind. In materialistic philosophies, the world is seen as a physical reality. In mind-centric philosophies, the world is given an existence within the mind. We must not lean towards that. Both are extremes.

Without leaning towards either extreme, let us try to understand this analogy. When we do, we see that even though we say 'the sound of the bell,' the sign 'bell' was never present in the hearing itself. In the same way, we must understand that none of the signs we tie to experience—like 'mother' or 'child'—belong to the seeing. They do not belong to the hearing. They do not belong to the knowing.

Furthermore, the very labels I use, such as 'hearing' or 'knowing,' do not belong to the hearing itself. We talk about four things: seeing, hearing, knowing, and thinking. But look, even these four are just designations. The moment you tie the label 'a seeing' to this experience, an 'eye' and a 'form' are created there. Why? Because you tie the label 'a seeing'. You tie the label 'a hearing' to this hearing. The moment that label is tied, an 'ear' is created, and a 'sound' is created. The moment the perception 'this is a seeing' is tied, an 'eye' to see and a 'form' to be seen are created. A 'seer' is created. Look at that carefully.

Do you see, then, that in the event of seeing, the label 'seeing' was never established? In the hearing, the label 'hearing' has never arisen. In the knowing, there is no need to label the knowing as 'knowing.' In the knowing, there is no label 'knowing.' In the seeing, there is no label 'seeing.' In the hearing, there is no label 'hearing.'

I am saying that for a person without applied wisdom, 'seeing' exists as a separate experience. For a person who sees, there is the experience of 'seeing.' But for a person in whom wisdom has arisen, there is no analysis of seeing within seeing. To even speak of this, I have to use the perception of 'seeing.' I have to use the perceptions 'seeing' and 'hearing' to talk about it. But that state of 'seeing,' 'hearing,' 'knowing' is where a small child is. The small child, however subtly, is operating from that viewpoint.

Now, we are not there. We have gone beyond that to "a chair is seen," "a bell is heard." I am talking about a level even more fundamental than that—the root perception, the root ignorance (avijjā). It's not even a concept. The error (eraka) we are born with is this: the very level at which we encounter the world as 'seeing,' 'hearing,' and 'knowing' is itself a fundamental flaw. We have never had an experience without this error. If that error is not present, there is no 'me.' It is not an experience. That is Nibbāna. That is the cessation of perception (saññā-nirodha).

However, the one who has reached that cessation of perception is the one who has the wisdom to see the error as an error. For them, even the level of the child—'seeing, hearing, knowing'—has ceased. This is a very difficult knot for us to untangle. If you try to think about it, you will get confused. The Buddha sometimes uses the child as a metaphor for an Arahant, but the Arahant's state is different. A child, while not yet defiled by complex concepts of houses and property, is still equipped to react to the four fundamental inputs: the seen, the heard, the sensed, and the cognized (diṭṭha, suta, muta, viññāta). They have received these four as separate experiences.

Now, let me return to my main point. There is no such thing as 'experiencing' the state without this error. The one who has gone beyond the error, as long as they are in this existence, has understood the fundamental delusion of this existence. That is what is meant by using this reality like a dream. One uses this perception, but... let me try to simplify the point about the levels of 'seeing' and 'hearing' so it doesn't get tangled. Think about it. We can see that there is no 'bell' in the sound, right? We understand that. Now, take 'sound' to be like 'bell.' Just as we took the bell to be contained in the sound, the very concept 'hearing' is a perception tied to this event of hearing. Do you understand?

So, apply the same principle. Even though we break it down into four—seeing, hearing, knowing, thinking—the seeing is also void (suñña). The hearing is also void. The very concepts 'seeing,' 'hearing,' 'knowing,' and 'thinking' are themselves mere perceptions. This means that 'seeing' cannot be named. It is only because of the label 'seeing' that the event of seeing gained an existence. The event of hearing was turned into 'a hearing' by the power of that perception. It's just like how the sound was given life by the label 'sound of the bell.' And because of the bell, the sound gained value and existence. And because of the sound, the 'bell' gained an existence. Because of the name (nāma), form (rūpa) gained existence, and because of the form, the name gained existence. The existence of these two was fabricated, but in reality, neither of them truly exists.

I am not trying to say that they don't exist at all. What I am saying is that at the very root, this whole business of the seen, the heard, and the sensed (diṭṭha, suta, muta) is just a perception. The child is also in an illusion of perception. The child is right there. Where we create a 'bell' for the sound, the child feels it as 'a sound.' At the most fundamental level of 'something is seen,' the child is right there too. We cannot say the child is pure. We cannot say the child is an Arahant or is in a state of cessation of perception. Even at the level of a child, the four inputs are there. They react to 'something is seen,' even if they cannot articulate it. So, name-and-form is there, perception and feeling are there.

Now, let me return to the point I was trying to make. If we realize this wisdom at some point, we know: "Whether I remember this cup, this chair, or this bell, none of these fabricated signs are connected to the seeing, hearing, or knowing in the present moment." Not even the labels 'seeing,' 'hearing,' or 'knowing' are related to the seeing or hearing. But as I say this, you are already caught. Why? Because I am using the concept 'seeing' to say that it is not caught by 'seeing.' That is why I said at the beginning that a wisdom that transcends words must emerge here. As I said when I started, with the analogy of hiding jaggery in a drainage ditch, if you get caught up in analyzing the ditch and the jaggery, it is useless.

I am not saying there is 'no seeing.' Because to say 'no seeing,' one has to first grasp 'seeing' and then negate it. It cannot be like that. At the same time, one cannot hold onto the perception 'there is seeing.' This is why Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero says that to understand this level, the story of the magic show we discussed before, the verse n'eva-saññā-nāsaññā we discussed yesterday and the day before, becomes important. That verse, na saññī, n'āsaññī. If one has good wisdom, and through these analogies and teachings, wisdom arises, then one cannot be deceived again. That world of signs cannot be fabricated as a separate existence. Those signs cannot be tied to what is seen, heard, or known.

Then, those signs are not things that have truly arisen. The wisdom that signs have not arisen is what the Buddha meant when he said perception is a mirage. Signs are things like 'cup,' 'mother,' 'father.' The Buddha didn't equate a 'mother' to a mirage; rather, he was highlighting that the very nature of recognition is non-arisen. Recognizing is not some strange phenomenon. 'Perception' (saññā) in the Buddha's time referred to the signs by which we recognize the world. And the true nature of these signs, the Buddha said, is a mirage. So, we must understand what is being highlighted by the term 'mirage.' It is the non-arisen nature of the world we recognize. 'Non-arisen' (anuppāda) means it cannot be tied together at all. You cannot tie the 'bell' to the sound. You cannot tie the 'bell' to the seeing. Therefore, this nature of tying together something that cannot be tied to either seeing or hearing is itself a mental fabrication, a mirage, a dream. The delusion is in this very quality of contact. Now, I am saying that even this 'quality' does not exist. If you then try to grasp 'quality' and say, "It does not exist," you are still holding onto it. Do you see? You think, "Ah, so there is a quality, and I must see that it is false." It is not like that either.

This wisdom is not about negating something that exists. In a meditative absorption (jhāna), you negate an existing sign and establish the mind in a stable place. You forget one object, make the mind blank, and fix it somewhere, perhaps in empty space. Wisdom does not do that. It sees the true nature of the sign itself with wisdom. And when that wisdom is applied, arising (samudaya) cannot happen. This doesn't mean perception is absent. The Buddha was not asleep. It is not that perception was absent, but perception was not accepted as a 'thing.'

This is what Venerable Katukurunde Nanananda Thero is trying to explain. In cessation, in the cessation of perception, the Buddha is not talking about the mere absence of something that was there. For example, in a normal jhāna, let's say we are afraid of a ghost. To escape, we go home and lock the doors. But if wisdom were to arise, we would turn and look at the ghost. And with wisdom, we would see, "This is just my own shadow that I was afraid of, thinking it was a ghost." At that moment, see how the ghost is let go of. He does not go somewhere else and forget about the ghost. Right at the point where he saw a ghost, he saw its true nature with wisdom. He turned and looked at it.

See how perception does not arise then. Mahāyāna Buddhism and Tantra use an analogy for this. I have also seen it in Advaita Vedanta. It is the analogy of the snake and the rope. A man sees a rope in the distance and thinks it is a snake. Now, don't focus on the rope. The analogy is meant to highlight a different point. Let's say there is a rope. The man sees it from afar and thinks it's a snake. He gets scared. He could just say, "Oh my god, I'm not going that way," and go somewhere else. That is what is done in jhāna. That sign is frightening, so one avoids it and establishes the mind on another sign.

Another person might approach it to see what it really is. As he gets closer and closer, he sees, "Oh, it's just a stick." Now, when he sees it's a stick—and I'm saying, don't focus on the stick in the analogy, because that's not the point. If you focus on the stick, you get caught up in another existing perception. The point of the analogy is that as he approaches and sees the reality of it, what happens to the perception of 'snake'? The fear that arose when he thought it was a snake, the strategies he devised to escape from the snake—what happens to that perception of 'snake'? Right at the point where it arose, it is cut off. This doesn't mean he says, "There is no snake." As he sees the reality more and more clearly, he understands the true nature of the perception 'snake.' As he sees its true nature, he doesn't need to formulate the statement, "There is no snake." The very perception of 'snake' is a mirage. So he doesn't say, "There is no snake." As he sees the reality, what happens to the fear associated with the snake? What happens to the 'me' who saw the snake? What happens to that whole story?

A story like this is what we need to understand as we practice this awareness. That is why I say we need to develop mindfulness, we need to follow the path of virtue, concentration, and wisdom, but we also need to hear these discourses connected to Nibbāna (nibbāna-paṭisaṃyutta). Both are important. We should not be one-sided. Both are important for us. A meditator developing this awareness, developing mindfulness, while staying in that state of awareness, will see the world presented to them again in a beautiful way. At that moment, they must see it as a mere perception. Having heard these teachings, they can see that it is merely a fabrication of the mind, that these things are mind-made. As they keep seeing this, they fall completely to the level of the screen. All the signs have fallen away, and there is just a bare awareness, a mindfulness. Now, if they want, they can watch the movie. But what they see is the screen.

Now, the awareness, the mindfulness, develops to the formless level (arūpa). After practicing and reaching the level of the screen, one can have sex, one can fight, one can get married again, one can have children. One can watch the movie again. But one doesn't feel like it. It's not that one is incapable of doing anything. If someone says that as you develop this, you can't do this or that, that's not it. If one wants, one can turn one's attention back to the movie. But the person who has seen the screen is not that interested in it anymore.

This is not Nibbāna I am talking about. This is the formless existence. As I said before, relative to the cessation of perception, sensual perception fades away first. We were in that sensual perception of power, ego, and trying to be someone. When meditators come out of deep practice, that's when the outside world tries to pull them back in with its perceptions. At that moment, if this wisdom is applied, one awakens to that monotony. One awakens to that solitude, that loneliness. After awakening to that loneliness, our form existence also begins to wear away. The body, the breath, all forms are no longer felt, and it's like an empty screen without an object. The mindfulness reaches a state of bare, spatial awareness.

Then the meditator understands: "It is through this space that all these projections are cast. Through this bare, spatial, formless screen, forms appear. Then those forms disappear, and it becomes the screen again. In reality, although we say there are separate individuals, there are none. It is all an illusion projected onto the screen of awareness, a mere movie playing on the screen of mindfulness."

No matter how much this happens, once we are set in that awareness, our attention leans more and more towards the screen rather than the events. By 'screen,' I mean that events happen in life—we talk, we work—but we are as if stopped, blank. We don't feel any special happiness in those things. We don't feel any special sorrow when they are gone. We are not attached to what we gain. We know that whatever is lost, nothing happens to that awareness. Nothing happens to that mindfulness.

At this point, in the formless realm, Venerable Ānanda asks the Buddha in a sutta—I don't remember the name of the sutta—"Venerable Sir, is this state of spatial awareness, this formless perception, Nibbāna?" The Buddha says, "No, it is not Nibbāna. Someone who reaches this state can either realize Nibbāna or not realize Nibbāna." The Buddha says that this is not the perception of cessation either. Because even at this subtle level, one can make a proliferation (papañca) out of it. One can conceive of it: "I am someone who has reached this experience," "I am someone who is in a place where I feel nothing." One can still have conceit (maññanā) about this spatial awareness.

So, at that point, one needs to understand that this too is the most fundamental perception of existence. This mindfulness, this awareness, is the root ignorance, the primary illusion. This knowing. It is from this knowing that everything else—seeing, hearing—began to appear. This knowing is the original error. This very mindfulness is the root ignorance. This knowing, this feeling "I exist, I am not dead," is the basis on which everything else—seeing, hearing, feeling—appears.

So, one has to reduce it down to that level. After reducing it down to that level, the craving for both the movie and the screen must wear away. This means, as one continues to meditate, one neither hates the sensual world—thinking, "Oh, I'm fed up with family life and all that"—nor is one attached to it. That too is a perception. It is a mere projection of the mind. As we discussed about perceptions, sensuality is just a collection of signs. One neither rejects it nor says one is tired of it, nor says one wants it. Then, the breath or the body that one has been mindful of for so long—that too is a mere perception. One doesn't say one wants it, nor does one have aversion towards it. Then we went to the formless realm, that fundamental state of being, that spatial awareness without an object—that too is a mere perception. So, one must become equanimous towards all three. Whether in the sensual realm, the form realm, or the formless realm, it makes no difference. All three are just perceptions. All three are just illusions of awareness.

Before I finish, let me say one last thing. Nisargadatta Maharaj, in his final days, tells a beautiful story. He passed away around 1982. In his last four talks, Nisargadatta Maharaj says that at the time he wrote the book 'I Am That,' he knew that all this is awareness, that all these things are not experienced by a 'me,' that this whole illusion and all these feelings are felt by awareness itself, by knowingness itself. He knew there was no 'me,' that everything arises from awareness. When we wake up in the morning, that feeling of being awake—it is from that very awareness that everything arises. He says he knew this at the time he wrote 'I Am That.'

But in his last two talks, he says—and see how humble he was—"But subtly, subtly, the experiencer of that knowing, the 'me' who experiences these things, remained." He was 100% sure that there was no 'me,' that this was all an illusion of awareness at work. And yet, even though he knew this, he says he realized later that the sense of an 'experiencer' was still held onto. Within that awareness, the perception of 'awareness' was subtly held onto. And in that state, he was incredibly loving. That humanity was overflowing. He was supremely compassionate. Everything was felt with love; there was no discrimination, no religion, no race. And yet, Nisargadatta Maharaj says that even there, he felt over time that subtly, within that awareness, the 'experiencer'—though nothing was being named—was still operating at a subtle level, like that of a child. The sense of 'I am.'

But in his final talks, he says, "Now, even awareness is not mine. I have let go of awareness. I have let go of that knowing." And after letting go of that knowing, after letting go of awareness, that is what we call the perception of cessation. One has gone to the complete cessation of perception.

After letting go of that knowing, the living body is sustained until its karma is exhausted. That awareness arises again, we speak again. Until then, that perception is there. But even that perception has fallen away, it has ceased. What is it like when that perception is used after it has ceased? You will have to let go of it yourself to see. After letting go, you will have to see how one lives then. Otherwise, we will try to create a model even for the Arahants. How does that perception... when even the subtle knowing of 'awareness,' when even the 'I am' has been let go of, when one has gone beyond awareness, beyond consciousness (viññāṇa)... how does one live then, for as long as that body is sustained?

That is when it is said that there is no clinging (upādāna). The Buddha uses the analogy of a water droplet on a lotus leaf. The lotus grows in the mud, it is nourished by the mud, but it is not of the mud. It is nourished by the mud but does not remain in the mud. The lotus flower, the lotus leaf, does not get wet by the water. That is cessation.

Very well, let us end for today. May the blessings of the Triple Gem be with you all.

Original Source (Video):

Title: අනිදස්සන විඤ්ඤාණය - 06 |Ven Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | නිහඬ අරණ

https://youtu.be/D7i7cOlEAEE?si=OLwPoVY4arZtVdzx

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