Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 07 | Ven. Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | Nihada Arana

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Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 07 | 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, we are continuing our explanation of non-manifest consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa). Let us continue reading from where we paused.


Venerable Nun:

With permission from the Sangha.

Namo Tassa Bhagavato Arahato Sammā Sambuddhassa
Homage to the Blessed One, the Worthy One, the Perfectly Self-Enlightened One.

Namo Tassa Bhagavato Arahato Sammā Sambuddhassa
Homage to the Blessed One, the Worthy One, the Perfectly Self-Enlightened One.

Namo Tassa Bhagavato Arahato Sammā Sambuddhassa
Homage to the Blessed One, the Worthy One, the Perfectly Self-Enlightened One.


On page 76, the last sentence:

Once, the Venerable Ananda presented the following question to the Buddha: “Venerable Sir, could there be for a monk such a concentration (samādhi) wherein he would not perceive earth as earth, not perceive water as water, not perceive fire as fire, not perceive wind as wind; wherein he would not perceive the base of infinite space (ākāsānañcāyatana) as the base of infinite space, not perceive the base of infinite consciousness (viññāṇañcāyatana) as the base of infinite consciousness, not perceive the base of nothingness (ākiñcaññāyatana) as the base of nothingness, not perceive the base of neither perception nor non-perception (nevasaññānāsaññāyatana) as the base of neither perception nor non-perception; and yet he would still be one with perception (saññā)?”

The Buddha declared that a monk could indeed have such a concentration. When asked how, He explained it thus: “Ananda, in this Dispensation, a monk has such a perception: ‘This is peaceful, this is sublime, namely, the stilling of all formations (sankhārā), the relinquishing of all acquisitions (upadhi), the destruction of craving (taṇhā), dispassion (virāga), cessation (nirodha), liberation (Nibbāna).’ It is in this way, Ananda, that a monk can attain such a concentration.”

(Anguttara Nikaya, the Book of Sixes, page 14)

From this explanation, it becomes apparent that perception (saññā) is not entirely rejected here. Rather, instead of ordinary objects like earth (paṭhavī), water (āpo), fire (tejo), and wind (vāyo), something has been discovered that can be contemplated, which takes on the semblance of an object. That, indeed, is the cessation aspect of dependent origination (paṭiccasamuppāda). Through contemplating that cessation aspect, the force of formations (sankhārā) is pacified with regard to things as conditioned phenomena (sankhata). As a result, acquisitions (upadhi) fall away, and as the place held by the craving for becoming (bhava-taṇhā) is lost, the supramundane experience of the cessation of becoming (bhava-nirodha)—which is the supreme dispassion (uttaritara virāga)—is directly realized in this very life.

That this direct realization is a dynamic insight which discards all perceptions (saññā) and concepts (sankappa) from being treated as objects is revealed in the following explanation given by the Venerable Sariputta on another occasion when the Venerable Ananda raised this same question:

“‘The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna; the cessation of becoming is Nibbāna.’ Friend, with this, one perception arises in me, and another perception ceases. Just as, friend, when a splinter of wood burns, one flame arises and another ceases, even so, friend, with the thought, ‘The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna; the cessation of becoming is Nibbāna,’ one perception arises in me, and another perception ceases. Friend, at that moment, I abide with the very perception, ‘The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna.’”

(Anguttara Nikaya, the Book of Sixes, page 18)


Gnanaweera Thero:

Very well, let us now try to understand the section we read today. There is a rather profound point here. This refers to the question of whether there can be a concentration (samādhi) where there is no perception of earth in earth, no perception of water in water. The Blessed One says that such a state does exist.

Likewise, let's begin to explain a little, starting from that last sentence. It says: “‘The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna; the cessation of becoming is Nibbāna.’ Friend, with this, one perception arises in me, and another perception ceases. Just as when a splinter of wood burns, one flame arises and another ceases, even so, with the thought, ‘The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna; the cessation of becoming is Nibbāna,’ one perception arises in me, and another perception ceases. Friend, at that moment, I abide with the very perception, ‘The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna.’”

Now, there is a very beautiful phrase here. It’s just like a lamp: the arising of one means the ceasing of another. This means that to explain the cessation of becoming (bhava-nirodha), the analogy of a lamp is used. It is explained using the simile of a lamp.

Now, when a lamp is lit—let’s just consider this—we see the flame that is burning here as a continuous, unbroken thing. As we watch it, it appears to be burning continuously, one moment after the next. If this lamp has been burning for an hour, it seems as if this same flame has been burning continuously for the entire hour. We normally have the feeling that the very same flame that arose is the one that ceases and disappears. We feel that the flame which appeared is the same one that eventually goes out.

However, the simile used here to explain the cessation of becoming is this story of the lamp: “Just as when a splinter of wood burns, one flame arises and another ceases, even so, friend, with the thought, ‘The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna; the cessation of becoming is Nibbāna,’ one perception arises in me, and another perception ceases.” Now, let us try to understand this a little more through this simile. In reality, although we think that a lamp burns continuously and then goes out, that is just a perception (saññā) we have—that the very lamp which was lit is the one that went out. There is a perception within us that the very flame that arose is the one that ceased. However, if we were to examine the reality of that lamp, if we were to look at the actual phenomenon taking place, what is happening is not like that at all.

What happens there is this—let’s consider an example, and this is just an example. Let's imagine one drop of oil burns and produces light. Then, drop by drop, by drop, the fire arises as each one burns. Now, think about this example. What we perceive is not the discrete process of one drop of oil extinguishing as another ignites. We don't sense that a drop of oil is burning out and a new one is lighting up. What we understand is the story of a single, continuous flame. But when we examine its true nature, its reality, that is not what is happening. Very rapidly, a drop of oil comes to the tip of the wick. The oil at the tip is consumed, and the next bit of oil comes to that spot. It is through this continuous process of combustion, of one bit burning after another, that the flame is produced.

So then, even though we might believe that the drop of oil at the beginning is the same as the drop of oil at the end, that is merely what we think. That is how it feels to us. But if you look closely, it becomes clear that the drop of oil present at the start is not the same drop of oil present at the end. What existed at the beginning was one thing; what existed at the end was another. Therefore, we cannot speak of it as being the 'same' drop of oil.

Now, apply that very simile to the life of an ordinary person. A person in the ordinary world thinks that the very person who was born is the one who grows older and older, and is the one who dies after 45, 50, or 80 years. We get the very same feeling as we do from the lamp's flame: as if a single perception arose and that very same perception ceased. It's like a single flame was born and that same flame went out. Our minds have been programmed, have been conditioned, to think that the one who was born is the one who died. We think, “I was born when I was small, I became a youth, I grew old, and I died.” Then we think further that the very same person who died is the one who is reborn. From one existence to the next (bhava), from one becoming to the next, it is believed that a single being of the same nature is born, dies, is born again, becomes a youth again, grows old again, and dies again. It's as if one and the same person is being born and dying over and over.

It is just like that lamp, burning continuously, and that very same lamp is what is extinguished. That same one is lit, and that same one is extinguished. This is how our mind works, viewing it as the birth and death of a single, individual unit. We believe that we are born again and again in the long round of rebirths (saṃsāra). The same person dies again and again. The same person accumulates kamma, and that same one experiences its results. That person dies, and that very same person is reborn to pay for it.

This is exactly why this question is asked of the Buddha: “Venerable Sir, is it the very same person who died that is reborn?” He gives no answer. Then it is asked, “Or is it another person?” He does not answer that either. Now, just look at our ordinary way of thinking. Our minds work just like that lamp flame seems to—as if a single person is born here, that same person dies, is reborn again, and then ends the journey through the round of rebirths (saṃsāra) somewhere.

However, we understand from the simile of the lamp’s flame that this is incorrect, because the oil—the drop of oil that started the flame when the lamp was lit—is not the oil that is in the drop at the final moment. It is not the very same drop of oil, is it? Therefore, we cannot hold to the idea that the one who was born is the same one who dies. We cannot say that the person who was born in childhood is the same one who became a youth, grew old, and died.

Just look at it through the simile of the lamp. Take that simile of the lamp you see. That is what is being explained here. What is being shown regarding the cessation of becoming (bhava-nirodha) is that one perception arises, and another perception ceases. But that is not how we feel; we feel that the very perception that arose is the one that was destroyed. This is why the idea that the one who was born is the same one who ceased to exist—just like the very flame that was lit is the one that was extinguished—is rejected. What is being explained here, drawing from a discourse of the Buddha, is that it is not like that. It is not the case that the one who was born is the one who dies.

However, this is not to say that the one who died is reborn. It is not stated that the one who died is reborn, nor that the one who was born dies. Then a question arises for us: if the one who was born is not the one who dies, then is it a different person who is reborn? You see, this is the next question that comes up. So, if the one who was born is not the one who dies, and the one who dies is not the one who is reborn, does that mean it is a completely different person? Then the question arises: who, then, experiences the results of kamma? If it is not the one who died who is reborn, to whom do the karmic consequences come? Then, this series of questions begins to arise for us.

In response, the Buddha says that it is not a different person either. That is, the one who was born is not the same one who dies, and the one who died is not the one who is reborn, yet it is not a different person either.

To illustrate this, let me again take the simile of the lamp. Let us think about it in this way. Now, if we return to the story of the oil in the lamp, it is this process of consumption that we perceive as light. In reality, what we see as light is simply the combustion of the oil. Just as when we see a vehicle moving, what is actually happening is the combustion of fuel. It is this combustion that we refer to as ‘a vehicle moving.’ In the same way, from the combustion of oil—which is a process of consumption—we have constructed the idea of a single, constant light. But we do not perceive this consumption. We perceive the light. Although we have a perception (saññā) of a permanent light, what is really happening at great speed is a process of being consumed.

With the naked eye, we cannot see, “Look, the light generated from this bit of oil has now vanished. Now, the light generated from the next drop of oil has vanished.” We don't see it as a broken, flickering process because of its speed. If we take a fluorescent tube light, for example, we perceive a continuous light. We don't see it as something that is constantly turning off and on, do we? Because of its speed, it changes too rapidly.

Very well. Now, contemplate it this way. You have the drop of oil that is combusting. As the next drop of oil draws near, that approaching drop begins to heat up. Because of the heat from the first, the next one begins to ignite. Due to the heat from the combusting oil, the next drop of oil, in turn, begins to burn. Without the heat from that first burning drop, the subsequent drop of oil has no capacity to combust on its own. It has no such energy.

So then we understand: it is not the same drop of oil that continues to burn, yet without the heat—the energy of combustion from the preceding drop—the new drop coming from behind could not be ignited. The first becomes a condition (paccaya) for the next. Without that condition from the first, it is impossible for the next to arise.

Very well, now understand it in this way. The one who was born is not the one who dies; the one who died is not the one who is reborn. And yet, it is not a different person either. Why? Because without the support, without the condition (paccaya) provided by the former, the latter cannot arise. Without the condition of the preceding one, the new one has no energy to burn. At that point, we understand that there is a relationship of conditionality here. One arises in dependence on the other as its condition.

Very well. Now, let us take this phenomenon of the lamp and apply it to life. When we apply it to our own lives, we can see: it is not this very same thing that is reborn, yet without this, it is not something else entirely either. Without this, there is no energy for something new to arise independently. It has no separate capability or power on its own. Very well.

Now then, let us look at this point a little further by applying it to life to understand it more clearly. Now, consider the idea of being born. When we say, ‘we are born,’ this ‘birth’ is another perception (saññā), isn't it? The thought, ‘I was born,’ is another perception, another concept (sankalpa), another act of recognition. Likewise, ‘dying’ or ‘passing away’ is another act of recognition. But notice, ‘being born’ is one perception (saññā), and ‘dying’ is another perception.

Now, we tend to think that ‘being born’ and ‘dying’ are part of one single process. We feel that the perception of ‘being born’ and the perception of ‘dying’ refer to the same entity—we think, ‘the one who was born is the one who dies.’ This is how it feels to us when we speak of these two things. But now we can understand: ‘being born’ is not the same as ‘dying’; ‘being born’ is one perception, and ‘dying’ is another.

However—and look at this point carefully—you cannot speak of the perception of ‘death’ without first taking up the perception of ‘birth.’ Can we talk directly only about death? If we ask, ‘Who died?’, we must implicitly refer to the fact of having been born, mustn't we? Do you see? Without taking up the fact of birth as a condition (paccaya), the perception of ‘death’ has no independent existence.

These are two different perceptions. Try to understand this point through the simile of the lamp once more. In the same way, can we speak of a birth without grasping the idea of a death? Think about it. When we say someone has been born, perhaps we speak of a past life. Why is that? It is because that person is understood to have died. It is only from the standpoint of death that we speak of being born, of a rebirth. Otherwise, we could never formulate the concept of birth on its own. That is, the perception of birth cannot be established by birth alone. But this does not mean that the perception of birth is the perception of death. Death is a separate perception; birth is another perception.

However, the perception of ‘birth’ can never exist in a place where the perception of ‘death’ is absent. It is just like the chicken and the egg. A chicken is one perception; an egg is another perception. But without a chicken, there is no egg; and without an egg, there is no chicken. It is like that. Yet, the two are not the same thing. And one cannot exist without the other.

So, look closely. It is then that we begin to understand. When we think about birth (uppatti), we assume we are thinking about birth independently. But please understand, you cannot think about birth using only the perception of birth. If you try to look at the perception of ‘birth’ relying only on itself, that perception finds no ground to stand on; it has no existence. Its arising cannot be identified. That is, the perception itself loses its subsistence.

What you must understand is this: whenever we recognize something in the present—be it birth, death, or anything else—every such recognition derives its existence only by grasping a condition (paccaya) that is entirely unrelated to it, a condition that is un-arisen and un-experienced. Without grasping such an un-arisen, un-experienced condition, we cannot analyze or even recognize a ‘present moment.’ If we could, it would become non-manifest (anidassana). One would attain the cessation of becoming (bhava-nirodha). The arising of becoming would begin to cease.

Think about it. Can any of us truly talk about death? We all talk about death because we are holding onto the idea that ‘we have been born and are now living.’ Isn't that so? Look at any thought you have about your own death—‘One day I will die,’ ‘One day I will have to leave this place,’ ‘Death is my destiny.’ In every one of those thoughts, see what gives it its reality, from what it derives its power. What makes that thought feel so real? That perception of a ‘dying person’—the ‘I who will one day die’—feels real and substantial because it derives its power from holding onto the perception, ‘I am one who has been born.’ And yet, within the story of death itself, there is no mention of birth. The perception of ‘death’ receives its power, its energy, its very life, from the entirely unrelated perception of ‘being born.’ It grasps something entirely unrelated and treats it as real, as a condition (paccaya). This is why the Buddha taught: Paccuppannañca ye dhammā, tattha tattha vipassati—"Whoever sees things as they arise in the present, right then and there." What we perceive as the 'present' is, in reality, a cessation (nirodha). However, we do not experience this cessation. We do not experience the cessation of becoming (bhava-nirodha). We are always situated in arising (samudaya), yet we lack the wisdom to even know that we are in arising. We are always under the impression that we are in a life that goes on like this: being born, dying, growing old. We feel as if we are living a life characterized by birth, death, and aging. It feels as though I can experience birth, it is I who am born, it is I who will die, and it is I who am living now. This is precisely what is called becoming (bhava). The perception of becoming is what is operating, not the cessation of becoming.

However, we have no real understanding of this perception of becoming, of this thing called bhava—that it is a presently-arisen phenomenon (paccuppanna), something that has arisen from conditions. We lack that wisdom. To see that it has arisen from conditions, we must first engage in tattha tattha vipassati—insight into things right then and there. It is only when insight (vipassanā) is applied right there, in that very place, that the wisdom arises to see that this 'present moment,' this 'now,' this 'here,' this 'I'—this 'I am here now'—is not an absolute, independent reality. Instead, it is a relative moment that has arisen from conditions.

To put it another way, wisdom regarding how the experience of 'I am here now' actually occurs arises for the one who has never truly met an 'I am here now.' Did you understand that point well? If the wisdom arises that it is impossible to establish an 'I' or a 'here' or a 'now'—then for that person, the understanding arises that 'I am here now' is a phenomenon arisen from conditions. That insight dawns on the person for whom the wisdom has arisen that it is impossible to posit a state of 'here and now'. For the one who sees that a ‘present moment’ cannot be established... this is why the Buddha never said that a present moment exists.

Read the Buddha's discourses carefully. You will see that the Buddha’s teaching does not speak of a present moment in that way. The past is described as having ceased, and the future as not yet arisen. The phrase used is Paccuppannañca ye dhammā, tattha tattha vipassati. Read any sutta carefully, and you will understand that the Buddha's teaching does not speak of a 'present moment' as such. We use that word in meditation, but we use it as an instruction to see if such a thing actually exists. Otherwise, one simply creates a concept: "Ah, this isn't here, that isn't here." Then it is of no use, is it? One just forms another concept: "There is no present moment, there is no person, there is no I." Then, that is just adopting another concept one has heard. One forms an idea about something one has heard. That is not an application of wisdom or mindfulness. It is not going to the heart of the matter and realizing it for oneself.

So when we say, "be here and now," it is not to establish it as a stable reality. It is to ask you to see: "Is this 'here and now' real? Is this 'I am here now' a reality?" That is why the instruction "be here and now" is given. When we say, "Be present in this moment," "Be right here, right now," it is an instruction to see if it is possible to be here and now. The impossibility of it must be proven to you from within yourself. This meditation is given so that this can be proven to you, by you.

Otherwise, some people take it the other way around. They think the instruction "be here and now" is given to establish oneself in that state. They think, "The Venerable Sir must be telling us to abide in this state." No, the instruction to ‘abide’ is to see if it's even possible to abide. If I were to tell you from the start, "You cannot abide there," you would think, "Then what is the point?" and you wouldn't investigate. You would just go to an analysis like "there is nothing, there is no moment," without reaching direct realization. You would end up at a place of mere knowledge, and in the end, the 'I' who understands that remains. The 'I' who knows all this is what is left over.

Therefore, we must understand this well when giving meditation instructions. This is the paradox in the Dhamma. You are told to look at one thing, but what is realized is its opposite. You are told to look at 'I am here now,' and what is realized is the impossibility of establishing any such state. Do not think about what is being realized; if you do, it becomes a fabrication of the mind (maññanā). If you do that, it becomes a case of bringing liberation (Nibbāna) to the mind. It becomes an analysis of Nibbāna, a conceptual explanation for it. So, do not try to do that. That is to say, one must go to that state and see for oneself, rather than trying to think about it. The trouble is, when a sermon is given, we conceptualize it all. We think, "Ah, there is no 'I' here now, there is no 'here,' there is no 'that.'" It all becomes purely intellectual knowledge, getting stuck as information without any direct realization (pratyaksha).

And that is why these things must be mentioned in a discourse, but as soon as they are said, everyone listening is already done for. Why? Because they all now ‘know’ that there is no ‘I here now.’ Then, the mind tries to realize, ‘I am not here now.’ But just think, who is it that is trying to realize ‘I am not here now’? This is the way of the Dhamma. This is how the round of rebirths (saṃsāra) is created by listening to the Dhamma. This is precisely why the Buddha said the Dhamma is like a serpent. If you get caught by it, there is nothing that can be done.

Because what is being spoken of here is the truth. However, this truth is being spoken of from within existence. To speak of a non-manifest (anidassana) nature, one has to give manifest (nidassana) illustrations. And giving illustrations is, by its very nature, a falsehood. The Buddha speaks of the non-manifest, yet all the illustrations given for it are themselves manifest. So, they are false in that sense. This is why I say it has to be a paradox. Every word one tries to use to speak of the non-manifest is impure. Because with every simile used to talk about the non-manifest, the mind will inevitably try to experience that state. Or it comes to the conclusion, "There is nothing in this." I can do nothing about the terrifying danger in that. Perhaps some are reborn again and again precisely because they have engaged in this very activity, without knowing it.

When one speaks about non-manifest consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa), people go searching for it and end up creating a new consciousness, without even knowing it. A consciousness arises to search for non-manifest consciousness, and they don't even realize it. That must be a karmic result, mustn't it? The mind loves this sort of thing. If you talk about a country, the mind wants to go there. If you describe a food, it wants to go and eat it. In the same way, as soon as you speak of something non-manifest, the mind wants to go and find it. The mind has this curiosity. When you mention something, it creates a kind of tickle, doesn't it? A tickle that makes you want to go and see it, to experience it, to know it. This is the kind of problem that exists with this topic of non-manifest consciousness.

However, from the very beginning of this sermon series, this is what we have been saying. The work we are doing here is like eating yogurt with a sharp knife. You have to eat the yogurt, and you also have to realize non-manifest consciousness. But the tool being used is not a spoon; it is a knife. You could end up slitting your tongue. Because with every simile, if you posit ‘non-manifest consciousness’ as a thing, the mind, which only knows how to do this, will treat it as a goal it has not yet achieved: “Oh, when will I ever see non-manifest consciousness? Oh dear, I haven’t reached that place yet.” A whole new round of rebirths (saṃsāra) can be created out of non-manifest consciousness.

Never mind. Since this is our last day, it doesn’t matter if I say it or not. But you cannot just lose interest either. That won't work. That’s the problem with this. You cannot just give up and say, "Well, this is useless." That is not the right approach either. "If this is useless, then why talk about it? Why meditate? If non-manifest consciousness is something that cannot be experienced, then what's the point?" You cannot say that either. This means there must be an energy for this. There must be drive and enthusiasm. But there must be no goal. There must be no target. Think about what a supremely difficult state that is. If there is a goal, you can muster the energy. But here, you are told to muster the energy without being shown a goal.

Think, then, about what kind of understanding the listener must have. Yet this is beautifully presented. It has been taken from a sutta in the Anguttara Nikaya, the Book of Sixes, I believe. Look at this, even the deities… look at page 79. Please read the verse that begins, "Namo te purisājañña..."

Look, there is something very strange in this teaching on non-manifest consciousness. On page 79, this verse says it beautifully:


Venerable Nun:

“Namo te purisājañña, namo te purisuttama,
yassa te nābhijānāma, yam nissāya pajāyase.”

"Homage to you, O noble man! Homage to you, O supreme man!
For we do not know that depending on which you are thus."

"That on which you meditate—what it is, we do not know."


Gnanaweera Thero:

Look, even the deities are paying homage, but they don’t know what this monk is meditating for. This non-manifest consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa) apparently cannot be experienced, it cannot be attained. So, why listen to the Dhamma? Why practice meditation? This means there is nothing to grasp, nothing for me to realize or directly experience. And yet, here we are, listening to the Dhamma. Here we are, meditating since morning. We meditate, we listen to the Dhamma, we have discussions.

The deities are paying homage, saying, "Homage to you, O noble man!" because they cannot even figure out what is to be attained, what is to be realized, or where one is going. The goal cannot be grasped. There is no goal. In our entire lives, we have dedicated ourselves to targets, haven't we? To achieve such-and-such a target. But here, there is none. So just imagine what it is we are doing. Even the deities cannot figure it out. Are these people mad, or are they noble men? One would have to be either mad to show such dedication without a goal, or one would have to be the most supreme person in the world.

Because every other person is trying to get some piece of the pie, aren't they? Everything they do is to gain something, to wear some kind of crown. That’s what it’s all for. That’s what all the effort is for. But this... what is this for? Why has one gone forth into homelessness? Why are they doing walking meditation from morning till night? It is incomprehensible. No objective is visible. No target is visible. There is no such-and-such a place to get to.

So then, this question arises for us as well, doesn't it? "Why are we doing this?" There is nothing to be gained. Nevertheless, with some kind of inexplicable devotion, with some kind of faith, we do it. And so, this is why it is said that this extraordinary perception has no object to alight upon.

To put it the other way, that part is beautiful:


Venerable Nun:

“This extraordinary perception has no object for it to take as its subject.”


Gnanaweera Thero:

This is because, in reality, there is no such thing as non-manifest consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa) to establish oneself in. Since there is no one to be its subject, to attain or realize it, where is one to experience it? There is nothing to experience.


Venerable Nun:

“This direct realization of the cessation of becoming (bhava-nirodha), which is the Nibbāna attained in this very life, is the result of uprooting the conceit ‘I am’ (asmimāna).”


Gnanaweera Thero:

Very well, we will discuss this portion later. For now, we were in the middle of what we were discussing today. That verse came up because, in this journey of trying to understand the cessation of becoming, as I said, it is like eating yogurt with a sharp knife. You have to eat the yogurt—that is, the cessation of becoming must be realized—but you cannot do it by setting it up as a target and going after it. There is no goal, no target, no aim.

Very well. Let us return to the simile we were discussing regarding birth and death. We said you cannot look at one without the other. One must take something else as a condition (paccaya). That is, we describe this present moment by grasping something that is entirely unrelated to this moment. That is what it means to be ‘arisen from a condition.’ To be ‘arisen from a condition’ means that it has no connection whatsoever to this moment, to this time.

For instance, when we are talking about death now, we grasp the idea "I am born and living now." To say "I am living" is to say "I have not yet died." But this idea, "I have not yet died," has no connection at all to this present moment here, does it? It is completely unrelated. And yet, without grasping the idea "I have not yet died," the idea "I am living" has no existence in this moment. Can we speak of it otherwise? No, there is no other way to talk about it.

Let me give you another simple example to help you understand. Imagine we are sitting here now. We are sitting in this hall. Until I said to you, "You are sitting," you had no feeling at all that you were sitting, did you? None of us felt, "I am sitting." Yet, the moment I said, "Bring your attention to the posture of sitting," immediately......immediately, we begin to feel that we are sitting. Then, look closely. If I ask you, "How come you didn't feel it all this time?" you might reply, "That's right, Venerable Sir, all this time I didn't even know I was sitting. When you mentioned it, my attention went there right away. Now I've started to feel it."

Now, look at where the existence of this feeling, this feeling of 'sitting,' came from. It came from grasping the condition (paccaya) 'I didn't feel it all this time.' Without taking up that idea of 'not feeling,' is it possible to establish the feeling of 'I am feeling it right now'? Just see. "At this moment, I feel that I am sitting." Even when you say, "I feel that I am sitting," you grasp other things, don't you? You grasp the cushion, the body. "The body is sitting on the cushion." To explain the feeling, you grasp a cushion and a body. But if I ask you, "Did the cushion feel it all this time? Did the body at least feel it? Did the body say, 'I am sitting on this cushion'?" That didn't happen either. Do you see?

To explain the feeling... did you see that? When it cannot be explained on its own, a body is grasped, a cushion is grasped. But did the body say it was feeling this? Not at all. Did the cushion say it? Do you see? Because the feeling of 'feeling' cannot be explained on its own, another unrelated perception (saññā) is tied to it—that of a cushion and a body.

Do you see that if at any time we were to engage in tattha tattha vipassati—if insight were to be applied right then and there, in that very place, and mindfulness were brought to that exact point—then at that moment we would not find any story of a 'feeling,' a 'cushion,' or a 'body.' It would be just like before I reminded you—we didn't feel a thing. Not a cushion, not a body, not a feeling.

So, look at this simile closely. Now we can see that to describe a feeling, we take up another condition (paccaya). We take a cushion and a body. Because without a cushion and a body, we cannot give any substance to the feeling. The feeling, on its own, would just vanish. Likewise, to give existence to the feeling, to the perception "I am sitting," I quickly say, "I was sitting here all this time without realizing it." Do you see? "I was here all this time without any awareness."

So then I ask the question: in that state of 'not realizing,' did you feel that there was someone who was not realizing, or even that there was a state of 'not realizing'? You didn't even feel the 'not realizing.' You didn't feel that you were in a state of 'not having realized.' You didn't feel that there was an 'I' who was there.

So, when we look at it in this way, we can see that although we grasp a condition (paccaya) that is completely unrelated, even that condition is not ultimately real. We never had the experience of 'not feeling before I started feeling.'

Then it becomes clear. Suppose I then say, "Now you get up and go to your hut." Imagine that after this discourse is over, you get up and go to your hut. As you do, you say, "I got up." "I got up, and now I am going to the hut." Then I ask, "How do you say, 'I got up'?" If you look, you will realize again that the act of 'getting up' cannot be described by 'getting up' alone. To understand the act of getting up... if I were to talk about my getting up and going to the hut, the perception of 'getting up'... we feel as if the one who was sitting is the one who got up. No. 'Getting up' is another perception. 'Having been seated' is another perception. When you get up, there are simply two perceptions.

Now, look. Another perception arises, and the other ceases. This is what is being pointed to: "The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna. One perception arises, and another perception ceases." Let's take it this way: when we say, "I got up," the evidence for "I am standing" is taken from the state of "having been seated." But look, how do we speak of "having been seated"? How do I say, "I was sitting"? How do I establish that I am sitting now? The body didn't say it. The cushion didn't say it. To say "I am sitting now" is to say, "I am not in a state of having stood up." To say "I am seated" is to say "I have not stood." Do you see? To understand 'sitting,' we grasp the unrelated state of 'not standing.' When asked to describe 'standing,' we grasp some old, unrelated condition (paccaya): "I was sitting." We say, "I am standing now" based on the absence of the state of 'having been seated.' 'Standing' is made real by the absence of 'sitting.'

Now, if you were to apply tattha tattha vipassati to the state of 'sitting' itself, right in that very place, you would find no evidence whatsoever to say, "I am sitting." And if there is no evidence for "I am sitting," then where is the evidence for "I stood up"?

What you must understand then is that our entire lives are nothing but a cessation of becoming (bhava-nirodha). Becoming (bhava) cannot be established at all. If we apply mindfulness and wisdom completely to the present, the state of 'I am here now' does not arise. And because 'I am here now' is itself the cessation of becoming, it is said, bhava nirodho nibbānaṃ—"The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna." It is nothing but a cessation of becoming.

It is not that an existing person goes to Nibbāna. It is not that the existing 'I' ceases and then sees Nibbāna. What we realize is that this 'I' was constructed by conditions. This feeling of 'I,' this 'I stood up,' this 'I am sitting'—all of it arises conditionally. "I am sitting. Oh, I stood up. Oh, I came back to the sermon and sat down. Oh, I felt like getting up, so I got up." The existence of this story of 'I'—the existence of an 'I' who sits and performs these activities—is constructed in relation to these activities of standing and sitting.

But if you look closely, you will see that the perception 'I stood up,' if you examine that perception on its own, has never been born. Both 'sitting' and 'standing' are, in their own nature, un-arisen. Because there is no wisdom regarding this un-arisen nature of becoming (bhava), what happens? A presently-arisen moment (paccuppanna) is constructed. If insight (vipassanā) had been applied right then and there (tattha tattha), one would have known that none of these recognitions—'sitting,' 'standing,' 'birth,' 'death,' 'hearing,' 'not hearing'—none of these dualities can be independently established.

Just think about it. When we say we 'heard' something... we say, "Venerable Sir, I just heard your sermon." Then suddenly, "Oh, I didn't hear that." If you didn't hear it, how do you know you didn't hear it? You say, "I didn't hear that. The sermon suddenly stopped for me." But you have never actually encountered a moment of 'not hearing.' So how was a moment of 'not hearing' constructed? This 'moment of not hearing' is itself just another hearing. That is, holding onto the idea of 'hearing,' we say, "I am not hearing." If you are not hearing, how do you feel the 'not hearing'? You say, "Venerable Sir, I didn't hear what you said." Do you see? It is by holding onto the sound itself that you posit an absence of it in this moment.

Then you can see. When you say, "I'm not hearing," it means 'hearing is absent.' But look, the absence of hearing can never be known through the absence of hearing. When you say, "I don't hear," you are inevitably hearing the thought, "I don't hear." There is definitely a hearing taking place. Therefore, you have never in your life experienced an 'absence of hearing,' an 'absence of seeing,' or an 'absence of feeling.'

Understand this well: every one of these experiences comes to you... if you think you experienced an 'absence of hearing,' and if you were to truly experience an 'absence of hearing,' an 'I' would form: "Oh, I didn't hear anything." But what you think of as an 'absence of hearing' is not that. The state of 'not hearing' cannot be seen on its own terms. To say, "I didn't hear," is to affirm the absence of 'hearing' while holding onto the very idea of 'hearing.' But to experience that absence, we must hold onto the presence. Without taking up the condition (paccaya) of 'hearing,' how could we ever speak of an 'absence of hearing'? How could we experience an 'absence of hearing' or an 'absence of knowing'?

Whatever you have—"I didn't know," "I didn't hear," "I didn't think"—the very moment of knowing that is inevitably a presently-arisen (paccuppanna) moment, an event that has arisen from conditions. Otherwise, what we think of as Nibbāna or bhava-nirodha is just another state of concentration (samādhi) where one goes into a state of 'not feeling,' 'not hearing,' 'not seeing.' No, even that is a presently-arisen phenomenon. Even that is an experience that has arisen conditionally. It is an experience. Please look at this point carefully. Then you will understand that when there is no evidence for "I am sitting," where is the evidence for "I stood up"?

So then, for us, it feels as if the same 'I' who was sitting stood up. The same person sits, the same person stands up. The same person goes from here to the kitchen. That same person comes back to the hall and sits down again. It seems like a series of events is unfolding like this. But for one who has looked at this very perception with deep mindfulness, it becomes clear that this is merely an impossible succession of conditionally arisen phenomena.

When I say 'arisen from conditions,' the wisdom that should dawn is not simply, 'Oh, it has been born.' It is the wisdom that 'it is impossible for it to truly be born' that catches the delusion in the idea of birth. Otherwise, if I tell you it has arisen from conditions, you will just think, "Ah, right. Standing up comes from a condition." The wisdom of non-arising (anuppāda) is what must be applied here. The understanding must be, "This is impossible." Do you see? The words seem to point towards an understanding, but the wisdom that must arise is the very impossibility of understanding it in that way.

When I say that standing up and sitting down are conditionally arisen events, the wisdom that should arise is the opposite—that although we can speak of these things relatively, they cannot be established in any absolute, independent way. It is right there that you find the cessation of becoming (bhava-nirodha). When becoming (bhava) is understood in this way, one sees that what is actually present is a cessation of becoming. This is not an instruction on how to sit or how to stand. This is not an explanation of how I am born. When I explain how the 'I' is constructed, the wisdom that must arise is the very impossibility of constructing an 'I'. Otherwise, you will think, "This monk is teaching me how the ‘I’ is made. This monk is teaching how to stand, how to go." Do you see? The mind grasps it one way, but the realization must be the opposite. Otherwise, you will think, "This is how the 'I' is constructed." No. What is being said is that the 'I' cannot be constructed. That is the cessation of becoming. While pointing to becoming as a phenomenon, it is the cessation of becoming that must be realized.

When it is said, "one thing arises, another ceases," if you were to misunderstand this and think, "Ah, so the one who is born is not the one who dies. The one born is one person, and the one who dies is another"—that is extremely dangerous. One could think, "Then it doesn't matter if I do bad deeds in this life, because it's a different person who will be reborn." Why? Because the one who does evil, the one who dies, is not the one who is reborn. "It's a different perception, so it doesn't matter what I do!" One can fall into a view (diṭṭhi) like that. One uses the teaching on conditionality to conclude, "Right, whatever I do, it all ends here. So let me eat, drink, and be merry, because someone else will be reborn." If one goes down that path, it is perilous. The wisdom that must arise is the opposite of that. The wisdom of the other side.

Very well. Now, for us as a group of people who cultivate mindfulness (sati), the point at which this matter of the cessation of becoming begins to click, little by little, is this: as we continue to cultivate mindfulness and practice meditation, the yogi is told to remove the target. "Do not try to just watch the breath or the body. If the breath is apparent, watch it. If a sound is heard, rest your awareness on the sound. If a feeling is felt, stay aware of the feeling. Do not focus your awareness on any single place."

It is right there that for the meditating yogi, a small path towards non-manifest consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa) and the cessation of becoming (bhava-nirodha) begins to appear.

The point we must understand here is this: in the beginning of the meditation, as we explained before, we are told to focus the light, like with one of those old five-battery flashlights. You remember those flashlights from when we were children? You could twist the head to focus the beam into a single, sharp point. Then, if you twisted it the other way, the light would spread out and become diffuse. It is just like that.

Now, that intellectual explanation I gave about things arising from conditions—that is good for someone who already has wisdom. But for some, this may not be immediately clear. The point is this: after the mind has been focused on a single object, on one point, the yogi's mindfulness gradually becomes objectless. At that point, as they continue to meditate, they are developing tranquility (samatha) by aiming their mindfulness at that one point. Now, to turn this towards the cessation of becoming (bhava-nirodha), towards non-manifest consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa), one must remove this single-pointedness. Instead of doing one specific meditation subject, we move to an overall awareness. Mindfulness spreads out like a diffuse light.

At that point, nothing is being focused on. There is no object (nimitta). Do you know what it’s like? Right now, you are all focused on me. But now, try focusing on the space between you and me. What happens then? And don't just block me out and look at the carpet. Don't remove me from your awareness and switch to the wall. That's not necessary. Just try to focus on the space that is right between us. What happens when you try to focus on that middle space? You can't focus. It's impossible.

It is just like that. For the yogi who has been practicing to establish awareness, we slowly tell them, "Now, little by little, without focusing on any particular place, without focusing on any object, just be aware." Then they might ask, "Venerable Sir, what about the meditation subject then? What if a pain arises?" That pain is the meditation subject. If sadness arises, sadness is the meditation subject. If lust arises, lust is the meditation subject. If joy arises, joy is the meditation subject. At that point, mindfulness becomes objectless; it has no specific target.

This is where you see that for tranquility meditation (samatha), there are specific meditation subjects, specific objects. But for insight meditation (vipassanā), the entirety of experience is the meditation subject. There is no such thing as 'no meditation subject' for vipassanā. Anything and everything is like compost for vipassanā. Just as any kind of refuse can be turned into fertilizer, it doesn't matter if it is lust, sadness, or joy. Loneliness, emptiness—none of it is a problem for vipassanā. Whatever comes up, it puts it to work. If it gets its hands on something, it will make use of it. For vipassanā, it is enough that there is something to grab onto. It doesn't need the best ingredients; it will work with whatever is there. We take whatever is available and make a meal. All one needs is to eat. A good chef can make a meal with whatever ingredients are on hand. If a great chef is available, wonderful. But it's not a problem if not. You take the chef you have, throw a few things together, make a curry, and eat.

In the same way, insight meditation (vipassanā) has a strange quality: it has no specific meditation subject. There are no meditation objects (kammaṭṭhāna) for vipassanā. All forty of the traditional meditation subjects are only for tranquility (samatha). All those specific objects are only for samatha. As a yogi turns more and more towards insight (vipassanā), there is nothing like that. One is just, as they say, purely mindful. That’s all. Just being.

But then, if someone were to ask you, "Are you meditating?" you wouldn't know what to say. If you were asked to report on your meditation subject, you'd be in trouble. What would you write in your meditation report? "I was sitting. A sound was heard. I knew a sound was heard. A sight was seen. I knew a sight was seen. A painful feeling arose. I knew that too." You can't point to a primary meditation object. There is no single object that you can say you were mindful of.

It is then that we say that person's insight (vipassanā) has started to work. However, we do not tell anyone to start from there. One should start with the traditional method: developing insight with tranquility as a forerunner (samatha-pubbangama vipassanā). Begin with an object, become one-pointed with that object, and then, little by little, let go of the object and allow awareness to become a pure, bare knowing.

There is just one crucial point to remember here, the point that is most important for us: through that mindfulness, all these feelings are known—joy, loneliness, sadness, whatever experiences arise. Do not add the idea that there is a 'person' who is experiencing any of them. The problem is that with every knowing, an unrelated puppet named 'I' is attached to it. It’s like taking some random puppet, some random shadow, some random scarecrow from who-knows-where and crowning it king. One thinks, “Wow, what an amazing feeling I had. What terrible sadness I felt. What awful thoughts came to me. Oh, I’m so sick of myself.” A whole analysis is built around this scarecrow that was brought in from nowhere.

This is why you are told to watch the breath. It is for no other reason than to turn around and look at this analysis and see if this 'you' that is being talked about is actually there. See if there is a 'you' who is watching the breath. This is what is meant by vipassanā. Vipassanā is not about just watching the breath. Nothing happens from the breath itself. What is happening is that in every situation, a scarecrow is being brought to life. Life is being breathed into a scarecrow. This is what is happening: a scarecrow is being turned into a man.

But even as I say the word ‘scarecrow,’ I have already given it existence. The very idea of a ‘scarecrow’ has already been given the perception of a self (atta-saññā). But that is not the point I am trying to make.

In meditation, practicing vipassanā means looking at this very thing. Look: who is there watching the breath? Look at that pain. "Oh, I was watching the breath, and then I felt a pain. These days, these kinds of thoughts are coming to me." In that whole story of "I saw," "I felt," "I perceived," just look: where, in what corner, is this 'I' that is speaking? It is then that you will realize that this is a completely unrelated phenomenon. An entirely unrelated scarecrow has been brought to life; an entirely unrelated puppet has been formed.

Look at the story of your life. The protagonist of your story is you, this 'I.' But this protagonist, this scarecrow, is the very one who is not there. He is the one who is absent. He is the illusion. He is the one who makes all these flimsy stories seem real. The story is created: "This happened to me, that happened to me, on such-and-such a day I saw this, yesterday I saw that, today I had this experience." Look—this is where vipassanā needs to happen. But it should not happen as just another analysis. I will show you the great danger in it becoming a mere analysis. I came across a sutta today, the Sabbāsava Sutta. In the section on things to be abandoned by seeing (dassanā pahātabbā), the Buddha beautifully shows the illusory nature of this 'I,' and the trouble that arises if one approaches this conceptually, arriving at a place of 'there is no I.'

At the very beginning of the Sabbāsava Sutta, it describes how an uninstructed worldling (assutavā puthujjana) thinks. Let's look at that part... The Buddha beautifully shows here that as awareness is established, the problem lies in the view (diṭṭhi) through which every experience is seen. A stream-enterer (sotāpanna) is one for whom this very view has been abandoned.


Venerable Nun:

It reads: "Bhikkhus, the uninstructed worldling, due to improper attention, gives rise to one of six views."


Gnanaweera Thero:

Because he is always thinking, "I am experiencing, I am feeling, I am knowing," he is looking at the present moment through the lens of this non-existent scarecrow. After attaching this non-existent entity to everything, the Buddha shows how he then feels.


Venerable Nun:

One: For the uninstructed worldling, the view arises, "I have a self (attā)." This feeling arises for him as if it were completely real, as if it were a permanent thing.


Gnanaweera Thero:

He thinks, "Oh my, I feel this way. I am sensing this. People must be thinking this about me." He feels, "There is a person here, and the whole world is plotting against him. They are trying to curse him." This is the foolish analysis.


Venerable Nun:

Two: For the uninstructed worldling, the view arises, "My self is impermanent and will be annihilated.” This feeling also arises for him as if it were completely real, as if it were a permanent thing.


Gnanaweera Thero:

He thinks, "One day I will die. When I attain Nibbāna and am no longer reborn, I will be annihilated." It is by grasping a self that all these mental fabrications (maññanā) are made. We say, “Damn, I still feel this self. I still haven't realized Nibbāna. If I realized Nibbāna, this wouldn't exist, would it?” One fabricates a self like this. One doesn't see into it. Instead, one accepts that self and laments, “Oh dear, I still feel it.” This is the nature of 'I-ness.'


Venerable Nun:

Three: For the uninstructed worldling, the view arises, "It is with a self that I perceive a self." This feeling arises as if it were completely real.

Gnanaweera Thero:

"I exist. It is I, this small self, who will merge with the great self." We say, for example, that one becomes Brahman, that this small self (ātman) merges with the ultimate self (paramātman). It's as if the self realizes the self, or the self merges with its own great nature.


Venerable Nun:

Four: For the uninstructed worldling, the view arises, "It is with a self that I perceive what is not-self." This feeling arises as if it were completely real, a permanent thing.


Gnanaweera Thero:

He thinks, "Ah, now I have understood that there is no 'I' here. It is not I, not mine, not my self. It is not-self (anattā)." Do you see how, after going through these conceptual analyses, one thinks, "I have understood that there is no 'I' here." That is a joke, isn't it? "I have understood that I do not exist." If 'I' do not exist, then who understood it? You see, this is one of these fabrications. This Sabbāsava Sutta is beautiful. In this section on things to be abandoned by seeing, these wrong views are the very first things to be abandoned out of the seven methods for abandoning the taints (āsava).


Venerable Nun:

Five: For the uninstructed worldling, the view arises, "It is with what is not-self that I perceive a self." This feeling arises as if it were completely real, a permanent thing.


Gnanaweera Thero:

It's like thinking, "There is no 'I' here. This 'I' is the un-arisen nature (anuppāda). It is this un-arisen nature that has understood the self." It's as if the un-arisen has understood the arisen. But that's impossible. If there is the wisdom of non-arising, one doesn't then go and understand arising with it. It's like saying Nibbāna understands saṃsāra. "This Nibbāna, this not-self, is what understands the perception of self." It’s as if there is a real perception of self to be understood, or as if 'not-self' attains a 'self.' It's like not-self realizing self. Look how beautifully the Buddha shows these entanglements.


Venerable Nun:

Six: For the uninstructed worldling, this view also arises: "This self of mine is the one that speaks, that feels pleasure and pain, and that experiences the results of good and bad kamma here and there. This self of mine is permanent, stable, eternal, not subject to change, and it will remain the same for ever and ever."


Gnanaweera Thero:

This means that we think... this is what I was saying about meditation. This is the very view. With every feeling, "I feel pleasure, I feel pain. I did good, I did evil." Every experience that arises in the present moment of mindfulness is analyzed as if a separate person is experiencing it. There is someone there. So, investigate. Turn around and look. Where is this separate experiencer? Then you will see that it is impossible to posit such a thing. And if that is the case, then the experience itself loses its meaning. Why? Because the experience only has meaning because there is an experiencer. Then it will become clear what a falsehood this all is. What kind of liberation can be shown for such a falsehood?

All we want is for this very 'I' to realize not-self, to realize a not-self Nibbāna. It is for this very self. We want to realize the truth with this not-self and see that everything else is false. We want to see the perception of self with the not-self. All these confusions just spin us around in the same place. Look how we go in circles. The Buddha shows this so beautifully. This is the Sabbāsava Sutta, the second sutta of the Majjhima Nikāya. This is why I say, read the Buddha's discourses. When we read them, we realize the Buddha has said it all. There is nothing new for us to discover. We just don't do it. The moment we get some free time, we are off gossiping or chattering. Read them and see how beautifully these things are brought to light in the suttas, how the Buddha shows that this is precisely how it is all constructed.

Very well, read the last part of it:


Venerable Nun:

"Bhikkhus, this is called entanglement in views. This is called the thicket of views. This is called the wilderness of views. This is called the contortion of views. This is called the vacillation of views. This is called the fetter of views. Bhikkhus, the uninstructed worldling, fettered by views, is not freed from birth, not freed from aging and death, not freed from sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief, and despair. I say that he is not freed from any suffering."


Gnanaweera Thero:

Now, with this in mind, understand this: continue to establish awareness. But do not set a goal for your awareness, thinking, "I will watch this, I will watch that." Without any target, just sit and be aware. While doing walking meditation, just be. As you are just being, little by little, you will begin to feel everything: cold and heat, pain and pleasure. You will see and hear all of it. Do not give them names, do not analyze them. Do not try to understand any of this from the standpoint of a person, thinking, "I saw that person, that person saw me." Just let them be known to the bare awareness. That is enough. Trying to describe them, analyze them, thinking, "I'm going crazy these days, I'm losing my mind"... we love to indulge in this kind of unnecessary mental proliferation (papañca). It feels like we are so helpless, and we think, "Oh, what am I to do?" And then, to give life to this 'I,' we seek out teachers. "Venerable Sir, can't you be a refuge for me, a shelter, a protection?" All this for that non-existent puppet I spoke of, that scarecrow that has been brought to life.

So, vipassanā means to turn around and see: where is this person who has supposedly lost his mind? What is all this about? Turn back and look at yourself. As you keep turning back, turning in the opposite direction, this whole story of suffering, this whole drama, goes up in flames. It all explodes. But we are afraid of that explosion. If I turn in that direction, there will be nothing left to talk about. There will be nothing left to see. There will be nothing to experience. If I turn the inquiry of vipassanā around and ask, "Who is it that is suffering?", there's nothing there. Nothing to say, nothing to talk about.

But we can't accept that. We want a concrete answer. We want to be freed from these problems. We want something like Nibbāna. So, turn around and look in the other direction.

As you continue to cultivate mindfulness like this, just being aware, investigating a little, without focusing on any one point—at that moment, your meditation has no objective. There is no target. There is no, "I was watching such-and-such a thing." And when there is no objective, there is also no 'I.' The 'I' can only exist as long as it is focusing on something, as long as it is trying to get to some state. The perception of 'I' is bound up in that. But now, you are not trying to do anything. You are not trying to get anywhere. You are just sitting. Just doing walking meditation. Just eating your meal. Everything is just 'as it is.' You are doing it, but you don't even know why you are doing it.

Do you see? That is the state of “Namo te purisājañña, namo te purisuttama.” Little by little, even the mindfulness itself is not forced. It's just there. You don't try to analyze it too much; you just let it be. We struggle so much trying to understand what mindfulness is. But if you just let go of that effort to understand it, and just be, you will begin to realize that as you remain in that state of awareness, things start to loosen up. You are no longer trying to analyze every experience from the perspective of 'my self.'

And then what happens? Little by little, this world that seemed so solid begins to go blank. Then, even the blankness disappears. Before, you were holding on to the idea that "blankness is right." Then, as awareness becomes stronger and stronger, even the blankness—which had become the new object—starts to go. First there was an object. Then there was 'I' watching it. Then the object disappeared. There was just a sense of space, and 'I' was just kind of diffused within it. Then, as you continue to abide in awareness, even that space disappears. And after that... wow. There is nothing at all. There is no one to see, and nothing to be seen. That is the cessation of becoming (bhava-nirodha). Call that Nibbāna and the work is done. Be happy in that. That perception is the cessation of becoming. Rejoice in it. Be free from worldly delights (nirāmisa).

This is what is said at the very end here: "he abides with the perception, ‘The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna.’" To have the perception, 'The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna,' is to think, "It's fantastic that all of this is getting destroyed!" It’s to think, "It's wonderful that the whole thing is falling apart!" Then, on the day this body is left behind—"Ah, that's over with." This too is finished. You should be happy about that. Bhava nirodho nibbānaṃ. "Wow, wonderful! That burden has been put down." The trouble of maintaining this thing is over. Paying the water bill, the electricity bill, cooking, cleaning... all the things you have to do. The suffering involved in maintaining this thing... if there's too much chili, you get gastritis. If there's too much of something else, you get some other problem. You have to reduce this, reduce that. It's such a chore. If this thing wasn't here, my goodness, that suffering would be over. How many people do you have to scold just to maintain it? You complain that this isn't right, that hasn't been done, there's no water, there's no this, there's no that. After you're gone, it's all over. Those problems are over.

So, understand this well: it is a wonderful thing when anyone leaves us. At the time of departure, we feel a little fear. But think about it, after someone goes, there is no problem at all. Their absence hasn't changed a thing. Everything is just as it was before. Nothing strange has happened. There is nothing strange to happen, and nothing to be sad about. Whether they were here or not... if everyone just went quickly, it would be even better. We think, "They won't leave." But even if they do, it's no problem for me. In that way, you are free, aren't you? If I weren't here, there would be no sermon today. Nothing. No sadness. That pain wouldn't be there. So, there is nothing to be sad about if anyone is gone. "My goodness, a burden is over. A pain is over."

In this life of meditation, what happens little by little is that everyone who was close to us falls away. Everything we built up thinking it was stable gets destroyed. Everything in our lives falls apart. If you can smile at that point, then bhava nirodho nibbānaṃ. The Buddha said, "The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna." "Wow, it ceased. That too is a cessation. That trouble is over, that problem is over, that burden is over." People are terrified of this aspect of the meditative life. They are afraid of death, afraid of separation. We go mad trying to hold on, begging people not to leave.

But think about it. We would never ask our dead mother to come back to life, would we? If she were to rise up from her grave, we'd probably beat her back with sticks. Or we'd run to the temples, saying there's a demonic possession. After someone has gone, we don't want them back. But until they go, we beg them, "Oh, please don't ordain as a monk, please don't go."

After they are gone, people are free. They don't want them back. It is the same with this. So, don't leave, but if you do die, don't come crawling out of the grave. The others will hit you with a pole. Once you're gone, don't come back. The others will have already taken over your room. If someone leaves, I say, "Don't come back." Because by the time you leave, people are already claiming your things. "I'll take the bookshelf. I'll take that. I'll take the chair. I'm moving into your hut. I'm taking the bed." By the time you come back, you won't even have a hut. The others are just waiting for you to leave so they can take over your hut and everything in it. So you don't need to come back. For those people, it’s a great party. They've found freedom. Then they can stretch out their limbs and go to sleep. "I'll eat his share of the food too." So understand well what is meant by bhava nirodho nibbānaṃ.

When you understand it simply, it becomes very clear. Those initial explanations were a bit deep. When it was explained with those other similes, the head started to spin a little. But with similes like this, it becomes very clear. That is, as time goes on, everything you were holding onto gets destroyed. But we feel that with everything that is destroyed, we have become free. After everyone has left us, even though there was a fear at first, after you let them go, after you let go and say, "Make whatever decision you want," we realize, "It's okay if they never come back." There is no problem, no sadness. And if they do come back, there's nothing special about it either. If you come back, it's not a special occasion. It's better if you stay, but it's even better if you don't.

It's better. There was this lay devotee who went to a temple for an alms-giving and said to the monk, "Venerable Sir, please come to our house for alms. It would be good if you came. But it would be even better if you didn't." It’s good if you come, but even better if you don’t. If we could say that about everything... "It doesn't really matter, I don't reject it. It's good if you come, but even better if you don't." Because if they come, then you have to find them a bed, find their things, find their robes. Who knows where anything is? It's good if they come, but better if they don't, because then it saves you the trouble of finding all those things.

So, understand this well. Do not be afraid. When it is time to go, go quickly, because that is freedom. That trouble is over. That pain is over. The struggle of dragging this body around is over. The drama is over. As long as this thing is here, play your part safely. But be okay with it going. Be okay with it being destroyed. "That's good." If you look, you will see that when things are gone, nothing really happens in life. Look at how many people have left our lives. Was it not an end to the hardship we endured while they were here? Wasn't it a release? That exhaustion is over. That suffering is over. That pain is over. Otherwise, even if I didn't want to, I had to drag that person to the doctor, even carrying them on my back if I had to. Now that burden is gone.

So, little by little, let those who are going, go. For those who stay, think, "It's good if they stay, but even better if they don't." Then it's fine. But don't say this to their face! "It would be good if you died soon." If you say that, they will think you are angry with them and just waiting for them to die. Know it in your heart. Have no anger towards their departure. The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna. It is the departure of everything. Little by little, lose the fear of the 'I' disappearing, of the 'I' wearing away. The 'I' cannot establish itself. You must turn towards the signless (animitta), turn towards emptiness (suññatā). That is the fear you must let go of. The fear of death, the fear of loss, the fear of being alone—you must let go of that, little by little.

That is what is meant by "only the perception of the cessation of becoming remained." He abides happily in it. "That is Nibbāna. Your departure is my Nibbāna." He is happy. In that way, little by little, if you can smile at destruction, if you can be happy in destruction... that is what this is. We let go of everything and came here to meditate. Now, even the object of meditation is gone. That too has been let go. Everything has been let go. And yet, it is far more peaceful than when we were holding on to all those things. It is better than struggling with all that.

Let us end for today. May the Triple Gem bless you all.

Original Source (Video):

Title: අනිදස්සන විඤ්ඤාණය - 07 |Ven Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | නිහඬ අරණ

https://youtu.be/SvvRr659jdM?si=8LkBclFvDunDm6rW

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