Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 12 | Ven. Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | Nihada Arana
මුල් සිංහල වීඩියෝව සඳහා Play කරන්න
Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 12 | Ven. Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | Nihada Arana
This lower section explains that the Buddha realized that birth and death are two inevitable consequences of the conceit (māna) of existence. Even in the divine (deva) and Brahma realms, there is no room for an immortal existence when faced with the law of impermanence (aniccatā dhamma). Furthermore, the tendency to seek an immortal existence is merely a symptom of the deep-seated fear of death that is chronically embedded within beings. If the obsession associated with the fear of death can be removed, the problem of seeking an immortal existence will naturally be resolved. Therefore, the Buddha presented an entirely new solution to the problem of life and death. He showed that while there is no possibility for an "immortal" (eternal) existence, the Deathless (amata) can be realized and experienced in this very life. This is precisely what is meant when we say that Nibbāna can be realized in this very lifetime.
This means there is no such thing as an "immortal soul" that continues forever without change. However, the Buddha demonstrated that before this physical body breaks apart, one can realize the element of Nibbāna (nirvāṇa dhātu). By fully understanding the Three Marks of Existence (tilakkhana)—namely impermanence (anicca), suffering (dukkha), and non-self (anattā)—the "becoming" (bhava) that serves as the foundation for both birth and death is extinguished. The solution the Buddha presented is like a medical treatment that addresses the root cause of the disease rather than merely treating the symptoms.
It is a miraculous and subtle "homeopathic" method of healing, where the worldling (puthujjana)—who views impermanence as a toxic germ—is cured through a profound perception of impermanence (anicca saññā). He directed the treatment toward such a subtle root cause. He paved the way for a paradoxical yet meaningful and wonderful treatment: that by systematically practicing the perception of death (maraṇa saññā) as a meditation, one reaches the Deathless (amata). Instead of artificially numbing death with a "nectar of the gods," the Buddha revealed a path to bring "death" itself to death through a supramundane experience of the Deathless (amata) that can be attained in this world. There is nothing equal to that Dhamma—that state of fading away (virāga), that sublime Deathless (amata)—which the Sakyan Sage attained while in concentrated immersion (samādhi). This Dhamma is indeed sublime in its nature.
Let us now focus a bit more on that section. Here, the author (referring to the writings of Venerable Katukurunde Nyanananda Thero) mentions that the Buddha pointed toward this Deathless state. However, it is through the complete realization of the Three Marks of Existence—impermanence (anicca), suffering (dukkha), and non-self (anattā)—that "becoming" (bhava) is extinguished. As it is said: "The cessation of becoming is Nibbāna" (bhava nirodho nibbānaṃ). Therefore, Nibbāna is the cessation of becoming.
Now, to understand this cessation of becoming (bhava nirodha), it is shown here that the Buddha taught it through the complete realization of impermanence, suffering, and non-self. When we say we "fully realize" impermanence, suffering, and non-self, consider this: if we receive a description of something as being impermanent, suffering, or non-self, we are still dealing with a description. In that moment, we are perceiving the characteristics of impermanence and non-self. However, if one has truly and perfectly realized impermanence, suffering, and non-self, one can no longer find a "description" or a "definition" for it.
If an analysis or a description exists, it means you are inevitably perceiving the object as a separate entity; you have not perceived it in its entirety. It is precisely because of this lack of complete perception that we have descriptions for things, such as impermanence (anicca), suffering (dukkha), or non-self (anattā). If you had truly realized these qualities, you would not find a description for them. It would simply be the reality of impermanence, suffering, and non-self. Reflect on whether you can understand this.
How shall I put this? Consider a rose. If I ask you to describe this rose, the description does not come from the rose itself. To describe it, I must separate myself from the rose and bring forth an analysis from somewhere else—from a place not inherently connected to it. If you think about it, a rose has no description of itself. The reason a rose has no self-analysis is that it exists in the perfect, direct realization of impermanence, suffering, and non-self.
This means the rose exists within the element of Nibbāna (nirvāṇa dhātu), in the cessation of becoming (bhava nirodha). Because it is in the state of the cessation of becoming, the rose has no description of itself. However, when we attempt to describe something, we move away from that object. We move away and connect with our own knowledge—our "database." The moment we access that database, we are no longer describing the object itself. Instead, we are describing the data and memories stored within consciousness (viññāṇa); we are merely describing a collection of memories and data.
Suppose I place a rose before you and say, "Describe this rose, but do not use your stored data. In this moment, become the rose and describe it." If I ask you to transform into the rose to describe it, you can no longer find two separate things: "you" and the "rose." There can no longer be "the flower that I saw." Without being the one who sees the flower, but by becoming the flower itself, try to describe it. It is then that we realize that if we are still able to provide an analysis, we certainly do not yet have a perfect realization of the impermanence, suffering, and non-self of that flower. We still only have an incomplete knowledge of it.
Therefore, understand that if you have a description of something, your mindfulness (sati) has not yet become its true nature. You are separate from it, and what you possess is merely something you believe in—a set of views or ideologies (diṭṭhi), whether about the present moment or the rose. Look closely at this. I am saying that within the totality of the element of Nibbāna (nirvāṇa dhātu), your data is not required to describe it, because the totality itself is the element of Nibbāna. The totality is liberation (vimutti). The totality is the element of Nibbāna. See if you can feel the weight of that truth.
Look at it the way I am suggesting. A flower never asks, "Am I a rose? Am I a jasmine? Am I beautiful or ugly?" When one becomes the flower, those analyses—beautiful or ugly, good or bad, rose, jasmine, or marigold—do not exist. There is no such thing within the flower. If the flower were to even think, "I am a flower," it would have already distanced itself from being the flower. To say "I am a flower," it must separate from its own essence. It would have to return to a conscious experience (viññāṇa) and resort to an analysis of its own data.
However, if you still recognize yourself, or a flower, or anything else through a description or a definition, it means you do not yet have a clear and perfect vision of its reality. You do not yet have a complete understanding of its nature. You are still seeing it as something separate; you are sitting apart and describing yourself. But that description is merely something attributed to you. Look at this section carefully; if there is any confusion, please ask. This is the final day we will discuss this particular page. If there is anything about this analogy of the flower that you do not understand, or if you are unsure of what was meant, it is perfectly fine to ask. Because if you are able to "know" something about the flower, it means you are not the flower.
If you are able to know something about yourself—if you can think it, say it, or reflect upon it—that is not you. Those are merely things you think about yourself; they are things you say about yourself. Therefore, that cannot be you. All of that is a construction; it is all a mental formation (saṅkhāra), and all of it is impermanent (anicca). Even if you feel, "I cannot think about myself," that very thought is yet another mental formation. It is still not you. You might think, "I, myself, cannot think," but that analysis is not you. See if you can understand this point. Liberation (Nibbāna) is not a long, complicated story. Nibbāna is this very cessation of becoming (bhava nirodha). To put it another way, Nibbāna cannot be understood by the mind.
In another sense, you cannot be understood through any form of attention (manasikāra), name-and-form (nāma-rūpa), or knowledge. Yet, you exist in states of "I am" or "I am not," or "I am non-self" or "I am a self." Whatever the analysis may be, try to set it aside. Try to look perfectly without that description. When I speak of looking without a description—like the story of the tree—let us consider the analogy of the rose again. I will explain how the identity view (sakkāya) develops and how we encounter it based on the analysis we have been doing these past few days.
I will explain how this is constructed. In truth, teachers do not merely talk to you about roses. To provide an answer regarding the rose, a teacher often questions the student's very question. This is because we are always accustomed to reaching for an answer and then dwelling upon it. However, you must understand that every answer is itself a question. We must ask how every answer we know has been constructed. Every answer exists within becoming (bhava); every answer exists within the perception of permanence (nicca saññā). If an answer ever comes to you regarding what a rose is—defining it as "this" or "that"—look at where that answer originated the moment it appeared. Then the next question arises: how did it arise? In reality, the answers we find only lead to more and more questions.
Let us reflect on this cessation of becoming (bhava nirodha) through the direction I am suggesting. It is said here that the perfect realization of impermanence (anicca), suffering (dukkha), and non-self (anattā) is the cessation of becoming, which is Nibbāna. Now, consider this simile regarding how the event of "seeing a rose" actually occurs. How does it happen? Suppose a rose is brought before me. Is the rose actually there? No. Just look at this... take a flower. [To a listener] For someone who likes marigolds (dasapethiya), a marigold would be more suitable. That is fine. When you express that preference, the "I" is caught. The one who likes it and praises it—that is where the mental outflows (āsava) are revealed. Even if I try to talk about roses, you might end up seeing a marigold. That is simply your own mental outflow.
It does not matter, but once it is revealed, it is finished. Once you see it and hear the words that expose it, that mental outflow (āsava) loses its "address"—it loses its hold on your pattern of thinking. Now, let us take this flower. Consider this marigold. Think about the experience of "I see a marigold." Let us reflect on how we actually "find" this marigold.
If we reflect on how we encounter it, the reason we say we see this marigold is simply because it is being seen. Otherwise, we could not speak of it. If the act of seeing did not occur—if the event of "seeing" did not take place—then there would be no story of a marigold at all. Just think about it: could we speak of a marigold if we did not see it? If you were fast asleep, or if a blind person were to come here, the experience of seeing would not be present.
So, we arrive at this: I know there is a marigold here because I see it. That is our first piece of evidence—the act of seeing. It is through this seeing that I say, "I see." Now, we have discussed this point for the past two weeks. However, do not dismiss it thinking, "He is going to say the same thing today." Perhaps today, this point will become even clearer and more refined than it was yesterday. It is our lack of mindfulness (asati) that needs to become mindful (sati). We do not know when this shift will happen; wisdom (ñāṇa) matures day by day, moment by moment. Therefore, I ask you not to dwell on what was said in the previous weeks, but to stay in this present moment and observe.
When I describe this flower, I say, "I see it." If I were to crush the flower, you would hear the sound and say, "The Thero is striking the flower." You hear the sound. If I were to smell it, I would perceive a fragrance. I might say, "Venerable Sir, regardless of what you say, I can smell this scent." When I say that, I am relying on the seen (diṭṭha), the heard (suta), or the sensed (muta). Why? Because a scent is being perceived. Even if you were looking for a rose and found a marigold instead, the evidence for the existence of that marigold lies in the seen (diṭṭha), the heard (suta), the sensed (muta), or the tactile sensation of touching it.
When I touch it, I feel its softness or some other sensation. There is no evidence for the existence of a marigold outside of these four categories. Reflect on this; outside of these four, it is impossible to speak of a marigold. Whatever I say is about something I have seen, something I have heard, something I have touched, or something I have sensed—be it a smell, a taste, or a physical contact. Without these, one cannot even conceive of a marigold. This point is vital to emphasize as we bring out this Dhamma principle.
There is no other evidence. In truth, the story of a "marigold" only enters our lives through the seen (diṭṭha), the heard (suta), the sensed (muta), and the cognized (viññāta). It is through these alone that the "I" is constructed: "I saw," "I heard," "I touched," "I smelled," or "I thought." Look closely at this; the "I" arises only there. Aside from this, there is no other evidence available to us.
Consider how we even know our own mother. We do not actually "know" the moment we came out of her womb. We know our mother because we have seen her, heard her voice, or touched her. We know her by smelling her. Without these four modes of perception, the story of "mother" would not exist in our lives. Look even at the one called "I." I know myself through the scent of my body, the feeling of warmth, or the sight of my face. In reality, I have never perceived "myself" independently of these sensory experiences.
Whether I speak of "mother," or "myself," or even this "marigold," everything we discuss is merely the seen (diṭṭha), the heard (suta), the sensed (muta), and the cognized (viññāta). We have never independently perceived anyone or anything in this world—be it a famous actor like Shah Rukh Khan, a mother, myself, a father, you, a house, or a marigold. None of these have ever been encountered by us as separate, standalone entities.
We have known all these things only through seeing, hearing, and sensing. This is the core point we have been discussing over the past few days. Perhaps when stated from a different perspective, this knot can be untangled. It is by approaching the same truth from various angles that mindfulness (sati) can be sparked. See if you can grasp the perspective I am offering today. Look through this lens.
You will then realize that outside of these four modes, the story of "I" no longer applies. The story of "you" no longer applies. Think about it: when you see an actor in a teledrama, you only experience the visual image and the sound. Aside from that seeing and hearing, do you find a separate "actor" existing where those four are absent? In deep sleep, where these four do not function, do you find an "I" or a world? No.
In a place where these four do not arise, we cannot independently speak of an "I" or a world; there is no other "life" there. Reflect on this. Once I say this, you will realize: is there anything you know or any experience you have had that exists outside of these four? No. Without seeing, hearing, sensing, or thinking, have you ever encountered another person or even yourself?
For a moment, set aside seeing. Set aside hearing. Set aside thinking and sensing. Now, what happens? That is the cessation of the six sense bases (saḷāyatana nirodha) is Nibbāna; the cessation of becoming (bhava nirodha) is Nibbāna. That is all. Our struggle is that we tend to think this "cessation of seeing, hearing, and sensing" is something that only happens after death. Venerable Katukurunde Nyanananda Thero beautifully explains that this is not what the Buddha meant. This is something to be realized and experienced in this very life.
There should be no confusion up to this point, as we have discussed this for two weeks. We only know this marigold through these means. We have never experienced a "marigold" in our lives outside of these four modes of experience. There is no experience beyond them. In fact, the only evidence you have that "you" exist is these same four modes. You feel that a person called "you" is here only because of what is seen, heard, sensed, and thought in this moment. Without these, there is no one else to point to as "I." Try removing thought, seeing, hearing, and sensing. When these four are removed, what happens to that feeling of "you"? Just observe what happens then.
Even saying "it becomes empty" is just another thought. Set that aside as well. If the thought "it is empty" becomes real to you, then the idea "I am empty" becomes another reality. Look at what happens when you move beyond the reality of thought. It is then that you will understand: the cessation of the six sense bases (saḷāyatana nirodha) is Nibbāna; the cessation of becoming (bhava nirodha) is Nibbāna.
Now, I want to refine a word I used earlier; let me correct a slight error in my phrasing. I will show you the flaw in that expression. All the descriptions we have about this marigold being here are spoken in terms of seeing, hearing, and sensing. Very well. Now, here is the next point: try to describe the seeing, hearing, and sensing without using the "story" of the marigold. Do not take the "thing seen." After all, the "thing seen" is not the same as the act of "seeing." This marigold is not the same as the act of "seeing" or "sensing." Look at this very carefully. You only know a flower is here because the seeing, hearing, and sensing are perceived as real.
Otherwise, if there were no seeing, hearing, or sensing, the concept of a "marigold" could not even arise. Whether it is "I," "mother," or "home"—let us set those aside for a moment; we do not need them right now. We only knew of them through seeing, hearing, and sensing. So, set those objects aside and let us speak only of the seeing and the sensing themselves. I am suggesting that you set aside the "story" of the marigold—the idea that "this flower is being seen"—and focus solely on the act of seeing. What happens then?
Observe: try to describe "seeing" without mentioning the "thing seen." We only become aware of the "thing seen" because of the act of seeing and sensing. Very well, let us put the "thing seen" aside for a moment and try to describe the act of seeing itself. Look closely: has "seeing" ever occurred independently of "things seen"? Although we say, "I see," we are always referring to an object like this marigold. Have you ever actually encountered "seeing" as a standalone reality, even though we use the word so often?
We are always talking only about the thing seen. Look closely: this truth—this non-manifestative consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa), this cessation of becoming (bhava nirodha), this Nibbāna—is actually the wisdom (paññā) that perfectly perceives this process of construction. It is nothing else. It is because of ignorance (avijjā)—not knowing this process of construction—that we perceive it this way. To us, "seeing" does not seem like a construction; we take it to be a solid reality of life. That is the core of the problem.
See if you can realize this. From the conventional perspective of a "person," this cannot be realized; it requires a "knowledge not heard before" (pubbe ananussutesu dhammesu). If this knowledge and vision of things as they truly are (yathābhūta-ñāṇadassana) arises, the "person" loses their standing—their very "address" vanishes. This means that if this knowledge and vision of things as they truly are arises, there is no longer a place for the conventional designations of a "person." There is no longer a "personal story" to be told here.
So, reflect on this. You understand now that if I were to ask how you know this marigold is here, you would say, "I saw it, I heard it, I felt it, or I thought about it." Very well. Now, remove the marigold and try to describe this "seeing" for a moment. What is seeing? What is hearing? What is sensing? What is thinking? From morning until night, you feel that things are being seen, heard, sensed, and thought. Are these four not the very basis of your experience?
Yet, look closely: are these four not the very things you find impossible to truly define? In fact, you have never actually "found" these four as independent things. That is the crux of the matter. Look at it carefully. Yes, all four are constructions (saṅkhāra). But when I say they are constructions, do not simply grasp onto those four and label them as such. If the process of construction is truly understood, then the seen (diṭṭha), the heard (suta), and the sensed (muta) cannot be found as solid entities. If you still find a "seen" or a "heard" as a distinct thing, then to you, it is not a construction; it is something permanent (nicca).
Look, even in this final hour of our last day [laughter], at least today, try not to drift off. Even if it is just through this marigold, if you can realize this in this final hour, you will have succeeded. If this wisdom arises—the realization that this is merely a process of construction—then the things we considered independent, like "seeing," "hearing," or "sensing," are seen for what they are. Look at how we live; we speak as if these four have existed independently throughout our entire lives.
We say, "When I was a child, I saw that," or "When I was young, I saw this," or "I heard such things in my childhood," or "I felt this way then, and I feel this way now," or "As a child, I thought like this." See how we construct a story across the three periods of time—past, future, and present—and across concepts of far and near. All of it is based on that foundation. Everything concerning "me"—my past, my future, my present, what is far or near to me, my very nature—is all grasped through the seen (diṭṭha), the heard (suta), and the sensed (muta). Even when we speak of "my mother"—her complexion, the sound of her voice, her mannerisms—all of it is simply the seen, the heard, and the sensed.
It is something cognized (viññāta); something thought. Look closely at that point. It is when you look in this way that you begin to understand what the Buddha meant by "all formations are impermanent" (sabbe saṅkhārā aniccā). This "seeing" is merely a process of construction; there is no permanent "seeing." It is a formation (saṅkhāra), and all formations are impermanent (anicca). To us, this is a process of construction. However, if the true meaning of the word "construction" (saṅkhāra) is not realized, you will simply turn that word into another "thing" to think about.
That is the danger within words. We take a word like "construction" (saṅkhāra) and use it to replace the word "seeing," and then we treat that new word as if it were something permanent as well. This is why the Buddha said that the seen (diṭṭha), the heard (suta), the sensed (muta), and the cognized (viññāta) are all formations (saṅkhāra). They are things that have been constructed due to ignorance (avijjā). Now, here is the difficulty: even when I use the term "construction" to explain that "seeing" is a construction, people grasp onto that very term to talk about seeing. There is almost no other way to do it.
However, the moment we say "seeing," the realization of Nibbāna is gone. The moment we even utter the word "Nibbāna," Nibbāna itself is lost. It is finished. That is why this must become a direct wisdom (ñāṇa). When I bring in the words "Nibbāna" or "cessation of becoming" (bhava nirodha), "becoming" (bhava) has already been grasped. The moment I say "Nibbāna," I have already fallen back into the cycle of birth and death (saṃsāra). The moment I say "seeing," I am already caught in saṃsāra.
This is because a wisdom must arise here that cannot even be labeled with a word. The problem is not the word itself; the problem is the lack of wisdom regarding it. Once that wisdom has arisen, it does not matter what words are used. This must be why the Buddha initially hesitated to teach. No matter how you explain it, it gets tangled. No matter how you try to say it, the listener tries to understand it by grasping onto the concept of "seeing" once again.
They might say, "Oh, then seeing has never actually happened." But then they are trying to understand the absence of seeing while still standing upon that very same view (diṭṭhi) of permanence—the view that "seeing" is a solid reality. They stand on that perception of permanence (nicca saññā) and then try to conclude that "seeing has not arisen." But if something has truly not arisen, there is no need to speak of "seeing" at all.
When we try to express this, we run into this confusion because we are using present-moment phenomena (paccuppanna dhamma) to demonstrate dependent origination (paṭicca samuppāda). We are talking about this process of construction (saṅkhāra). These dependently arisen phenomena—seeing, hearing, and sensing—are constructed due to a lack of understanding regarding formations (saṅkhāra). We grasp them as permanent. The moment we put this into words, it is already muddled.
Words are not capable of describing something like Nibbāna. Words are skilled at talking about the Dhamma, about saṃsāra, or about falsehoods. But words cannot speak of the ultimate Truth (Satta). Yet, we face a dilemma: we cannot avoid talking about it. If we do not speak of it, how can anyone even begin to conceive of how to realize it?
Our entire lives are spent within ignorance (avijjā). Ignorance means not knowing; we do not even know that we are in a state of not knowing. That is why we feel all day long that "I see, I hear, I sense, I feel." Our whole life is rooted in this not knowing. This entire construction happens through ignorance. We do not even know that this is a process of mental formation (saṅkhāra).
The difficulty is that an "I" who has been constructed through not knowing cannot understand that this very construction is a falsehood. This "I" is made of that very lie. How can an "I" constructed from a lie understand the Truth? This is why, even after practicing for ten or twenty years, it is not realized. How can a "false I" understand the Truth? Reflect on this: because the experiences of seeing, hearing, and sensing are taken as real, the view "I see" and "I hear" is maintained and protected.
How can that view understand an experience where there is no seeing, hearing, or sensing? Think about it: even in dreams, one's experiences are of the seen, the heard, the sensed, and the cognized. Even when we say "it was just a dream," it is still based on those modes. What kind of Dhamma is this? It is almost inconceivable because every other experience we have is processed through those same modes. We can understand everything else in the world through the seen, the heard, the sensed, and the cognized. But this—and only this—cannot be understood through them.
Yes, that is exactly what we are doing now. We are associating with a noble friend (kalyāṇa-mitta), listening to the True Dhamma (saddhamma-savana), and practicing wise reflection (yoniso manasikāra). We take an hour and a half or two hours a day for this purpose. We are doing this to gradually, step by step, bring this wisdom deep within ourselves to see how "seeing" is constructed. But the trouble is, when the word "seeing" is heard, the mind immediately thinks, "Ah, seeing exists; the Venerable Thero is about to explain how it is made."
It is not like that. The mind has already arrived at a pre-conclusion. It assumes, "The Venerable Thero is going to explain how the act of seeing is constructed." No, I am trying to explain that "seeing" has not even been truly encountered; it is a mental formation (saṅkhāra). It is merely a process of being constructed.
Then you might think, "Ah, I see, you are showing that seeing is a construction." And right there, the understanding ends again! That is the problem. You think, "Okay, he is teaching that seeing is a construction." But an analysis of seeing is not the goal. You do not understand "seeing" through the act of seeing itself. You accept the concept of "seeing" as a given and then say, "This is how seeing is made." Do you understand what I am trying to say? By that point, we have already moved a step ahead into "becoming" (bhava). You have accepted "seeing" as a reality and think this sermon is merely about how that thing called "seeing" is constructed.
No. It is because of the ignorance (avijjā) of the process of construction that "seeing" and "the one who sees" are constructed in the first place. They are "obtained" as if they were real. When wisdom (ñāṇa) regarding the process of construction is applied, formations become de-constructed (visaṅkhāragata). The direct realization of the non-constructed—of cessation (nirodha) and liberation (Nibbāna)—then arises.
It is like saying, "It is hot, it is hot." It is close, yet we are still just trying to describe seeing or hearing. We have already accepted that the seen, heard, sensed, and cognized (diṭṭha, suta, muta, viññāta) exist as solid things. Or we say, "It is all a dream." Do you see? That is where all the analysis comes in. We say, "What is seen and heard is an illusion (māyā)," or "Seeing and hearing is a dream," or "Seeing never truly existed," or "Seeing is non-arisen (anuppāda)." Look at how every such description works.
The word "seeing" is not the act of seeing itself. You accept the concept of "seeing" and then provide descriptions of it. Then you feel, "I know what seeing is." Look closely; when such things are heard, the mind might drift into sleep or find it impossible to grasp. It cannot be understood if the mind is not truly present. For a "self," this creates a great confusion. This Dhamma is not meant to give the identity view (sakkāya) a place to exist. This is not a story caught within the seen, heard, sensed, and cognized.
Think about what kind of wisdom is needed to realize such a Dhamma. A worldly person can hardly imagine what this discourse is truly about. I am not saying you need to study extensively. Just reflect on what I said: in our lives, we have never actually encountered the act of "seeing" as a standalone experience.
We have always seen something. Either I see you, or I see an empty space, or I see a blank. Look: are we describing "seeing" or the "thing seen"? It is always the thing seen. If I ask you to describe "hearing," you will say, "I heard the Thero scolding me," or "I heard something good about myself," or "I heard a song," or "I heard a bird." Look: is that "hearing" or is it the "thing heard"?
Look closely, and you will notice: we have never actually spoken about "hearing" itself. We use the word, but we have never truly encountered it. We speak of "seeing," but we have never encountered it. We speak of "sensing," but we say, "Oh, it is so cold today," or "It is hot," or "That person grabbed me tightly." Look: that is about the person or the cold—the thing sensed (muta).
I am asking about the act of "sensing." Cold is not the act of sensing; heat is the thing sensed—a sensation of coldness or hardness. I am asking about the sensing itself. There is no description for that sensing nature. We only talk about the thing sensed. By grasping the thing sensed, we say, "I felt it." We say, "I saw the tree," or "I saw the marigold." We speak of "seeing" or "hearing" only by grasping onto something else.
That is what I mean when I say that although we talk about "seeing," we have never encountered it independently. That is why it is called a formation (saṅkhāra). It is a process of construction, not a solid, factual reality. Look: if seeing has not been encountered, and if seeing is a formation, then the "I" who saw that seeing is also a formation. The "I" who thinks is also a formation. When I say these are formations (saṅkhāra), you can no longer find "seeing" or "the one who sees," nor "hearing" or "the one who hears." This is why I began by saying, "Look at the flower as the flower."
Then you will realize that Nibbāna cannot be understood by the mind. Nibbāna is the unconstructed (asaṅkhata); everything else is constructed (saṅkhata). Yet, when we use the word "Nibbāna," that word itself is a construction—a mental formation—and a volition (cetanā). We tend to think that Nibbāna is something that can be seen, heard, or placed within the seen, heard, sensed, and cognized (diṭṭha, suta, muta, viññāta). Yes, even the word "Nibbāna" is a formation (saṅkhāra).
Look closely at what I am saying. This is where the purification must happen. Right here, repeatedly, is where our confusion lies. When it is realized that this is a formation (saṅkhāra), then "seeing" becomes impermanent (anicca).
Do you know what people usually think? They think the Buddha meant that the things we see are impermanent. They think he meant this marigold is impermanent and will eventually wither [laughter]. No. When it is said that "seeing is impermanent," it means seeing is a formation (saṅkhāra). It is not "seeing" as we know it. To say "seeing is a formation" means the very story of "seeing" cannot be applied. That is why the Buddha called it impermanent (anicca). People think he was talking about the impermanence of things in the world. It is not that. In a place where "seeing" is not encountered, there is no need to bring in the story of "things seen." Do you understand? If "seeing" is something that has never truly occurred in your life, then without encountering that "seeing," what is there to say about "things seen"?
There would be no need to even say "things seen are impermanent." Reflect on the level from which the Tathāgatas spoke when they said "all formations are impermanent" (sabbe saṅkhārā aniccā), and compare it to what people assume they meant. You do not need a vast education or deep knowledge to say that a flower will one day wither. Look at whether the marigold is actually "found" and how it is found.
Then you will know that in a place where it is impossible to truly find anything, a formation (saṅkhāra) appears as if it were found. It is not a "thing." Because of ignorance (avijjā)—not knowing this reality—there is a process of construction, a tendency to feel that "something exists here." That is the nature of impermanence (anicca). It is not that a "constructed thing" is impermanent; rather, the very process of construction is impermanent. Do not accept the construction as a reality and then try to see it as impermanent.
All of these are concepts (paññatti). "Marigold" is a concept; "rose" is a concept. But look closely: if we do not take a marigold or a rose—if we do not take "something"—how can we even speak of "seeing"? Try it yourself. Try to speak of "seeing" without making it into a "thing." See if you can even think about "seeing" without turning it into an object. Even when we try to think of it, we think of a flower, or an empty space, or a blank—we are still thinking of "things." Look closely.
Then you will understand the story behind this. In this discourse, I am showing the path—the story of the "cinema screen." I am asking you to come to the root of mindfulness (sati). We discussed how the greatest delusion is this "seeing, hearing, and sensing." In that practice, I say: move from the movie to the screen, and finally, see if the screen itself is a reality. Look for the evidence of "seeing." What I am saying now is that without the movie, there is no screen.
Without a screen, there is no movie. The projection exists only because of the screen, and the screen exists only because of the projection. Our delusion is thinking that even if the projection stops, a separate screen remains. We think there is a screen without the projected images. This is the same as thinking that concepts exist apart from the seen, heard, and sensed. We fail to realize that these two are tied together in a single process of construction (saṅkhāra). They are not two separate things; it is a state of conditioning (paccaya). It is because of this conditioning that they appear as two. Just as the number three is the result of an addition, it is not that one, two, and three exist independently; the "three" arises through the act of adding. This is the principle of cause and effect that Venerable Ānanda (Venerable Ānanda) once called "easy," only to be corrected by the Buddha: "Do not say so, Ānanda." It is the failure to understand these causes and conditions (hetu-paccaya) that keeps beings entangled in an endless cycle of birth and death (saṃsāra), "tangled within and tangled without" (anto-jaṭā bahi-jaṭā). This very matter of causes and conditions is what people find so difficult; it is the essence of Dependent Origination (paṭicca-samuppāda).
We are discussing the present-moment Dhamma (paccuppanna dhamma) taught by the Buddhas. Because we do not understand this present-moment reality, we perceive "seeing" as one thing, the "marigold" as another, and the "I" who sees as a third, separate entity. This is why we feel we can go and see our mother again, touch her, and serve her. We believe that even if we walk away, the marigold remains there, waiting to be seen again. We assume that seeing and hearing exist independently of the object, and that we can return to the object to see or hear it once more. This is how the past and the future are constructed. This is what is called "becoming" (bhava). As long as this view (diṭṭhi) persists, even at the moment of death, you will feel that you can still see and hear—that the marigold exists independently of the act of seeing, hearing, or sensing. But look closely: try to think of a marigold without the experience of seeing it or hearing about it. If you try, you will only find yourself thinking of a yellow color or a specific shape—which are themselves just more instances of seeing and hearing.
Do you see? If you are asked to talk about the marigold, you speak of it in terms of having seen or heard it. If you are asked to talk about seeing or hearing, you end up talking about the marigold. Once these two have become mutually conditioned, how can anyone escape? As long as the perception (saññā) of the marigold and the seen, heard, sensed, and cognized (diṭṭha, suta, muta, viññāta) are joined, the marigold exists as long as the experience of the seen and heard exists. And the seen and heard exist as long as the marigold exists. How then can one be liberated from this cycle of birth and death (saṃsāra) when they are so interlinked? I speak of them as "two," but they are not even two; they are simply the process of conditioning itself. To use the word "two" is technically incorrect. Understand that as long as the marigold is real to you, you cannot negate the reality of the seen, heard, sensed, and cognized. And as long as the seen, heard, sensed, and cognized are real, you cannot negate the marigold. It is at this point of understanding that the analysis dissolves. This is when the wisdom (ñāṇa) arises that this is all a process of construction (saṅkhāra). Neither the marigold nor the act of seeing, hearing, and sensing are independent realities. As you listen to this discourse, you realize that it isn't simply about seeing and hearing "vanishing" or saying they "arise due to causes"—those are just more labels.
None of these labels or applications truly apply; there is only the "extinguishing" (Nibbāna) or the "crossing over." That is all. There is no "thing" that is actually gained in this crossing over. Was there a flower to begin with that you must now escape from? Was there a "seeing" to begin with? That is the point. When the realization of the process of construction (saṅkhāra) arises, you do not find a separate "place" of non-construction. The very process of construction is itself the delusion—this not-knowing. But be careful not to grasp at the word "not-knowing" either; these words can be dangerous.
Every word we use tends to suggest a separate, solid entity. Words like "delusion" or "construction" or "seeing" make it sound as if these things exist independently. Before, we believed that "seeing" existed on its own; we did not realize it was a process of conditioning (paccaya). Because of the nature of language, words signify separate things, and the fluid nature of conditioning is often lost. To describe the marigold, one must rely on the seen, heard, sensed, and cognized (diṭṭha, suta, muta, viññāta). Yet, to prove that "seeing" is happening, one must point to the marigold. So, which of these is the reality? Is it the marigold, or is it the seeing, hearing, and sensing? If you say both are false, you have simply created another analysis by grasping at the seen, heard, sensed, and cognized to say, "I do not see, I do not hear, I do not feel." You are caught in the same knot.
Do you see? No matter which analysis you use, it is difficult to escape. Whatever reflection you engage in, the mind tends to grasp at the seen, heard, sensed, and cognized. This is why it is said that "all formations are impermanent" (sabbe saṅkhārā aniccā). For one who realizes this perfectly, "becoming" (bhava) does not occur for even a single moment. It is not that something arose from nothing and then vanished; for one with wisdom regarding conditioning, "becoming" never truly took hold. Did a flower truly take birth and then die? Did an experience of the seen and heard truly arise and then cease? If you believe it truly happened for even a moment, then you are affirming that "becoming" is a reality outside of ignorance. That is the crux of the matter. This is why I said that as soon as you put Nibbāna into words, it sounds like something that can be experienced through the seen, heard, sensed, and cognized.
People start thinking, "I can see Nibbāna," "I can go to Nibbāna," or "I can feel Nibbāna." Do you see the identity view (sakkāya) there? They turn Nibbāna into a "thing," just like the marigold. They think, "I will see Nibbāna one day," or "I am experiencing Nibbāna." The Buddha said that the worldling (puthujjana) even performs "imaginative conceiving" (maññanā) regarding Nibbāna. They turn it into a formation (saṅkhāra) because they do not realize its true nature. Even to talk about seeing, I have to use the word "seeing." But look: can you provide a description of "seeing" that is entirely independent of a "thing seen"? If you cannot, then your "seeing" is merely a mental fabrication, a construction. Therefore, the instruction "in the seen, let there be only the seen" (diṭṭhe diṭṭha mattaṃ) refers to a wisdom, not a mere thought, an experience, or a feeling. Nibbāna is not an emotion; the mind cannot approach it as a mere sensation.
The Buddha was not wrong when he spoke of "in the seen, only the seen" (diṭṭhe diṭṭha mattaṃ). When you look at seeing through the lens of seeing itself, you will realize that what you took to be a solid experience was actually impermanent (anicca). But the point is not just that things are impermanent. It is that because of not knowing impermanence, we gained the false impression of a permanent "seeing." Usually, when people say something is "impermanent," they mean that a thing which exists then ceases to exist.
We often get the immediate impression that impermanence means something that was there is now gone. That is not it. We spend our entire lives caught up in the feelings that arise alongside our thoughts. That is not what the Buddha’s words are pointing toward, yet that is how we have grasped them. This is why I emphasize that as much as possible, you should not get lost in these analytical descriptions, but rather proceed with mindfulness (sati).
No matter which direction we take in our discussion, we always seem to return to mindfulness (sati), much like the story of the student who always brought every subject back to a "tick." I feel that no matter what I try to explain, it is like trying to describe a dog but ending up talking about the tick on its back; I will likely have to conclude today’s sermon with mindfulness (sati) as well. On one hand, wisdom (ñāṇa) must be applied. Without that awakening—without that "tick story"—I do not see how we can progress. No matter where we go, I feel we just grasp onto a concept and return to another analysis, trying to provide yet another description for the seen, heard, sensed, and cognized (diṭṭha, suta, muta, viññāta).
Whether we call it a dream, a lie, the absence of seeing, a mental formation (saṅkhāra), or impermanence (anicca), we are simply trying to assign a meaning to the seen and heard. Look at it through the experience itself. Then you will realize that whenever we spoke of "seeing," we were not actually talking about the act of seeing, but about the thing seen. We were using something else to talk about something else. This is because you cannot describe seeing through seeing itself, as "seeing" is never truly encountered as a standalone reality. Subsequently, we talked about the "thing seen" not through the thing itself, but through the lens of "seeing"—through something unrelated—because the thing seen does not truly persist.
Why is this? If you isolate and examine what the "thing seen" truly is, you will not find a solid reality. It is merely a mental fabrication. If you are asked to talk about seeing, the very concept of "seeing" is just a formation (saṅkhāra), a mere fabrication of the mind. However, if you grasp what I am saying in the wrong way, there is nothing I can do. You might simply earn the "fortune" of continuing further in the cycle of birth and death (saṃsāra). If wisdom (ñāṇa) is not applied to these words and you take them literally as mere fabrications or nonsense, what else can I say? You will be caught by that misunderstanding, and I cannot help you there. I am responsible for what I say, but I cannot be responsible for how you choose to understand it. I take responsibility for my words, but how can I be responsible for your interpretation?
Therefore, we must discuss. It is through discussion that we learn; otherwise, I do not see another way. If all else fails, simply apply mindfulness (sati) as a universal remedy; eventually, it will settle into the place where it is needed. Mindfulness (sati) settles in a very peculiar way. Let me give you an example. When we talk about mindfulness (sati) to someone who has heard this discourse, it reminds me of how the Buddha used the lotus as a simile to explain direct realization (paccakkha) and liberation (Nibbāna). Generally, when describing Nibbāna, the lotus is used as a symbol; that is why almost every Buddha statue is depicted with a lotus.
Look at any Buddha statue; it is seated upon a lotus. The lotus (padma) is frequently used by the Buddha to describe the state of Nibbāna. The lives of the Buddhas and the Arahants (arahant) are compared to a lotus. To lighten the heavy atmosphere of this deep discussion, let me explain this simply. Consider a lotus plant. Suppose we bring a young plant. We recently brought some lotus plants; does every lotus plant not contain the potential for a flower? The flower exists within the lotus seed. But look, some have not yet bloomed. We have planted lotus plants in front of the Avalokiteśvara (Avalokiteśvara) statue, brought all the way from Kurunegala (Kurunegala).
But the flowers have not appeared yet. Does that mean the flowers are not there? Does the lotus plant not contain the seed of the lotus flower? Is it there or not? It is there. In the same way, the "Buddha-seed" exists within every being. Whether it is I or you or any other being, the Buddha-seed is present. There is no one who lacks this Buddha-seed. Even in an animal, the Buddha-seed exists.
The potential for this lotus of Nibbāna to emerge and bloom exists in everyone. The blooming of this lotus represents the complete realization of impermanence (anicca), suffering (dukkha), and non-self (anattā). However, for some, it is still just a bud. For others, the seed has not even begun to sprout. It remains just a seed. In some lotus plants, the seed has not yet even begun to surface.
If you look at them, some have not reached the surface yet. But we cannot say when they will emerge. If it is a lotus plant, it inherently possesses the seed-energy to produce a lotus flower. This is why we cannot look at any human being and say, "Oh, you can never realize Nibbāna." Everyone carries the Buddha-seed; everyone is a Bodhisatta (Bodhisatta); everyone possesses the Buddha-nature. Every lotus plant has the potential to produce a lotus flower.
That energy is within the seed of that plant. Yet, no one can see it yet. Even if it is not visible, it is there. This is why, if a person comes seeking the Truth, we cannot chase them away saying, "You are a sinner" or "You are a fool." What right do we have to do that? If everyone is a Bodhisatta in essence, if the Buddha-seed is throughout the universe, and if every person is a lotus plant with the seed of a lotus flower within them, we cannot judge anyone.
We cannot pass judgment on anyone. However, for that lotus to bloom, three conditions are necessary. We cannot simply leave it out in the open. It absolutely needs mud. Without mud, it cannot grow. That is why we went to the fields and brought mud. We put that mud in front of the Avalokiteśvara (Avalokiteśvara) statue. But mud alone is not enough; it needs water.
So, we put in the mud and then used a motor to pump in water from the canal below. Mud is essential. A lotus seed cannot grow in a perfectly "pure" or sterile place. To become a flower, the lotus plant needs an "impure" place; it needs mud. It draws its energy from the mud. It is from the mud that it begins to bloom.
Furthermore, if the plant remains hidden inside, it will not grow. It needs the sun. If the sunlight does not reach it, the flower will not rise to the surface and bloom. Thus, while every being has the Buddha-seed and every lotus plant has the seed-energy to bloom, the nutrients, the water, and the sun must be provided. If we expect it to sprout and bloom without these three, it will never happen.
The sun represents the noble friend (kalyāṇa-mitta). Without the noble friend, that seed will never become a flower. It will not rise up. It will remain stuck in the mud like a lump of clay forever. It will stay buried in the mud, even with the potential to bloom, until the sun appears—until the noble friend appears. However, when the sun—the noble friend—shines upon us, we also need the strength to surrender.
Otherwise, it still won't work. I noticed a beautiful moment in the life story of Ramana Maharshi (Ramana Maharshi). One of his disciples, Annamalai Swami (Annamalai Swami), wanted to stay with him. Ramana Maharshi did not easily allow people to stay in his ashram; he would often send them away, telling them to face life and awaken through those experiences. He wouldn't keep anyone for very long.
Annamalai Swami, however, did not want to leave. He wanted to remain as a disciple by Ramana Maharshi's side. But Ramana Maharshi had no interest in creating disciples. He wanted them to hear the message and then go out into the world to face life's events, its experiences, its problems, and its troubles, and to awaken through all of that. That was Ramana Maharshi's teaching.
Anyway, Annamalai Swami (Annamalai Swami) said, "No, I have a desire to meditate; I want to practice walking meditation and develop concentration (jhāna)." However, from the moment he arrived at the ashram to be ordained, Ramana Maharshi (Ramana Maharshi) told him, "Go and work." For the next ten years, he had Annamalai Swami build every single building in the ashram.
He was not allowed to remain idle for even five minutes. In his later years, Annamalai Swami would tell people that although he came to be ordained and meditate, from the very first day, he was only given buildings to construct. The Master did not let him just "be." He was not given any time to meditate—not even five minutes to sit in the cross-legged posture (pallaṅka).
That opportunity was given to everyone else. Others were allowed to sit in silence with Ramana Maharshi, in that "blank space" or emptiness. But since Annamalai Swami had committed to dedicating his entire life to the teacher, he could no longer make his own decisions. This is the difficult part—this concept of surrender. Annamalai Swami said he would give his life to Ramana Maharshi, yet he still tried to reach Nibbāna according to his own wishes.
The teacher broke exactly that. You cannot go that way. If you truly say you are committed, then you must surrender. Otherwise—and this is a very important point—no matter what we do, we want to reach Nibbāna in our own "style." Annamalai Swami had his own method for reaching Nibbāna: through sitting in meditation and practicing mindfulness (sati).
That is why it is said that a teacher gives different meditation subjects (kammaṭṭhāna) to different people. While one person is told to meditate and listen to sermons, another might not even be allowed near the meditation hall. Because he is a great teacher, we cannot judge the things he does. Great teachers appear in this universe only rarely. When such a teacher asks you to do something, it is not a joke. It is not intended to merely oppress you or cause you pain and suffering (vedanā) through toil.
But we do not feel like listening to that. We have our ego (ego); we have our own "system" for attaining Nibbāna. Therefore, a teacher must give meditation subjects (kammaṭṭhāna) relative to the individual. This is why such instructions for realizing Nibbāna cannot be given to hundreds of thousands of people at once. It varies from person to person because everyone’s mental outflows (āsava) are different. The patterns they hold onto and their methods of clinging (upādāna) are different.
Think about Annamalai Swami, who came to be ordained and stay with the teacher; the teacher broke his desire to attain Nibbāna in his own way. We do not know how many lifetimes it might take for that barrier to break—to truly adapt and surrender to a teacher. Simply listening to these words is not enough to reach that point. This is the practical aspect. In practice, for many, the quest for Nibbāna becomes a mere pretension.
Ultimately, no matter how much they listen, there is a hidden place within them. They have their own "known" method for attaining Nibbāna. If you insist on your own known method, then why sit for hours listening to a teacher? You already "know" it, then. If you truly know it, then why not go and share that message? Why stay here?
If you do not know, you must choose one of two paths. If you do not know, be humble and do as Annamalai Swami did. That is all. If you know the way, you do not need to stay with someone like Ramana Maharshi. If you know, why stay for menial tasks? If you know, you should not stay; you should spread the message. But our way is often different: we do not know, yet we insist on our own preferred method for realization.
That is the point. The "Buddha-sun" may rise, but if we are not ready to provide the nutrients and water—meaning, if we are not ready to surrender—the sun alone is not enough. Lotuses do not bloom simply because the sun has risen. Even though the Buddha lived at the Jetavanārāmaya (Jetavanārāmaya), not everyone there realized Nibbāna. Not everyone wore the robe, even in the Buddha's time. Not everyone was ordained. Even Devadatta (Devadatta), who lived in the same monastery, opposed the Buddha and plotted against him.
Even while living in the same monastery, some fail to surrender. Do you see how this applies to us? Some might think, "My mindfulness (sati) isn't very good these days." This implies they have a personal standard for how mindfulness should be to reach Nibbāna. They might say, "I've lost my way a bit; my mind is cluttered, and my concentration (samādhi) is disturbed." This shows they have a fixed idea that Nibbāna is only possible if concentration (samādhi) exists in a specific, predetermined way.
In all of this, can you see our sense of personal authority? The individual has their own "way." They think, "The monastery must be like this; Nihanda Arana (Nihanda Arana) must be like this; the teacher must be like this; and the meditation subject (kammaṭṭhāna) must be given to me in exactly this manner." If you insist on your own way, why even stay with a teacher? A true teacher will often provide a meditation subject (kammaṭṭhāna) that completely contradicts your expectations.
It is not what you think it should be. Look at Annamalai Swami (Annamalai Swami); he came for one purpose, but for ten years, he was made to build the ashram. Then, after ten years, the teacher suddenly said, "Stop everything. Even if the hut is half-finished, stop. Go to the forest and meditate for years." By then, Annamalai Swami had no ego-driven "hunger" for meditation. When he was told to sit, he simply sat. When he was told to go, he went. That was it. The moment he heard the command, even the hut he was building was instantly forgotten. That is the level of surrender required.
I do not know—and we cannot know—with what intention Ramana Maharshi (Ramana Maharshi) gave those instructions, nor do we know the inner state of Annamalai Swami. We do not possess the same level of mindfulness (sati) as such a teacher. We have no right to judge or analyze why a teacher tells one student to meditate and another to work. This leads to the next point: out of ignorance and intellectual pride, people often criticize teachers, potentially committing the grave mistake of disparaging the Noble Ones (ārya upavāda).
We try to use our limited understanding to question, "Why did he do this to him but that to me?" This is unnecessary and obstructive. If a student seeks out a teacher and offers their life to that guidance, they must accept whatever comes. If they insist on their own way, they aren't truly seeking to "die" to the self. To end the self, one cannot maintain one's own preferences. This is where the discussion of non-manifestative consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa) moves from theory to the practical level.
In this practical stage, "my story" ends. If the teacher says "work," you work. If the teacher says "sit," you sit. The "I" is finished. Suppose a person truly seeks ordination for the sake of the total ending of suffering (sabbadukkha-nissaraṇa), saying, "I do not want a Nibbāna of my own making; I want total liberation." We do not know what the teacher might require then. He might tell you to stand on your head for ten years! You must be ready for anything.
If we aren't ready for that, we might as well stay home with our families and possessions. If I want to live according to my own whims, I should stay in the world. Why come here? In the world, I can have my own way, surrounded by my "army" of relatives—mother, father, sisters—who cater to my ego. But here, whether one had great wealth or a large circle of kin, all of that must be set aside.
Whether one had wealth, relatives, or anything else—all of it was left behind. Yet, you do not know what the teacher might do next. You do not know if he will strip away the little that remains of your sense of self. You do not know what situation you will be placed in. You might have come here to meditate, but from tomorrow, you might be assigned to build buildings. Or you might be told to tear down what was built. Or to rebuild what was torn down.
We cannot judge these things. How do we know that one cannot reach Nibbāna (Nibbāna) by building? We do not know whether it is possible or not. If that "innocence of not knowing" arises within you, then you are open to the path. But if a person says, "I cannot reach Nibbāna by building," then they are claiming to already know the whole story from A to Z, and such "knowledge" is useless. This total letting go—that is what true ordination (pabbajjā) is.
It means no longer making your own decisions or maintaining your own "story." It means not trying to create an environment or a background for Nibbāna according to your own wishes. You stop trying to manipulate your surroundings. You abandon all of that and surrender. But it is not easy. It is not easy to live as a true monk (samaṇa). It is much easier to be a layperson; they can come and go as they please.
For laypeople, it isn't such a monumental shift. But nowadays, even some who have taken ordination (pabbajjā) live like that. they live as if they were still at home. They go back to their families whenever they want without asking anyone. That is not what ordination means; it is something else entirely. True ordination means you have sacrificed yourself for the Truth. You have completely forgotten yourself.
Suppose we then begin to practice mindfulness (sati). If we are told to sit in meditation or perform walking meditation, we do it. If we are told to build, we build. We do it, but we do it with mindfulness (sati). Whether building, working in the kitchen, or coming to the hall—whatever the task—we do it without questioning.
We have said there is only one requirement: apply mindfulness (sati) to whatever you do. That is all. Whether you are building, sitting, or going to the kitchen—the teacher manages the "screen" (the external activity). Your only responsibility is to remain awake and aware (avadhaya) in what you are doing. That is all. "I do not know anything else."
"I only know the task my teacher gave me." I will give you tasks day by day, and your job is to apply mindfulness (sati) to every single one of them. Do not try to decide, "Should I do this or that?" or "Is this profitable for Nibbāna?" Do not try to create your own "programs." Without making such plans, just continue doing the work with mindfulness (sati) and awareness (avadhaya).
As you continue with this constant awareness, a problem eventually arises. This is not easy for the ego (ego). This sense of "I-ness" (mamatvaya) begins to think, "What a burden this is! Even when I had a job, I had weekends off. Here, there isn't even a holiday." As you keep applying mindfulness (sati) continuously, complaints begin to surface. This doesn't happen in the first few days.
It might happen after a year or two of being here. By then, new people have arrived. The monk might start coming to the sermons only when he feels like it. He begins to revert to his own "style." Having been in this environment for a while, he starts trying to shape it to his liking. If he cannot shape the environment, he tries to leave, or he starts challenging others. He might say, "If those people aren't coming to the sermon, why should I?" I remember someone saying exactly that. As they continue, the ego starts making excuses: "I can't come, my body hurts." Their harsh nature begins to emerge.
If you observe closely, you will see a person become incredibly harsh. When they first arrived, they were so humble and quiet you could hardly notice them. But now, you cannot even look them in the face to speak with them.
My goodness, look at that! When they first arrive, they are as humble and innocent as a new bride or groom. Look at that initial humility. But after a year or so of being ordained, it starts. Then they say, "I cannot stay here; my hut is too noisy. I cannot stand the snoring." They start demanding that their rooms be soundproofed.
They want everything soundproofed. My goodness, at that point, one feels like saying, "Please, just go back home." What kind of mindfulness (sati) is that? That is not practicing the path (magga). Understand this clearly: when someone begins to grow weary of this path and is about to stray, the first sign is that they start demanding things for themselves. They begin to complain, "I cannot do this. I cannot follow this routine. It is too much for me. I cannot perform these duties."
"I cannot follow this routine. I cannot do this work. It is too much." Then you realize their progress on the path is coming to an end. They try to see if they can dominate others. If there are people they can intimidate, they try to take charge. But if there are seniors who hold authority and they cannot play those games, they start withdrawing from the environment. First, they try to exert influence, acting out, making noise, and behaving aggressively to see if they can live according to their own whims and shape the place to their liking. When they realize it is not working and the teacher is firm, they see they cannot succeed. Look at what happens then—look at how few people come to the sermons now. Look at all the empty spaces in the back.
That is because they come only when they feel like it. If they feel like it, they come to the sermon; if not, they stay away. If they feel like it, they come down at 5:00 AM; if not, they do not. They follow their own desires. Why is that? Is it a "game"? Gradually, even though they are physically present, they can no longer bear this discourse that moves in tandem with mindfulness (sati). As one practices more and more, and dispassion (virāga) begins to arise while lust (rāga) fades, one draws closer to Nibbāna. As they get closer to the element of Nibbāna (nirvāṇa dhātu), the first sign of them wanting to escape is that they start seeing faults in the place. They start criticizing everything. If three or four of them gather in a hut, they spend hours tearing the monastery apart.
It starts with the teacher and goes all the way down to the newcomers; they have criticisms for everyone. I understand, son. Their "unlucky period" has begun. It starts with the teacher. Then, two or three of them gather in a hut for six or seven hours, just tearing the whole monastery to pieces. They even dig up history—I do not know where they find it! They might tell someone who has been here for five or seven years, "You did this back then, and you did that too. Do not try to act tough with us; you were just like this." Look at how these accusations arise; it is unbelievable. This is why the Buddha said that if you are making an accusation against someone, it is actually your own problem. If we have given up everything to be ordained and live as mendicants, how can we keep demanding things? We must be content with whatever is provided.
We left behind our homes, our possessions, and our children. Having come as mendicants, how can we demand such things? It is improper to even ask for soundproofing. The very act of asking shows that one is straying from the path to liberation (Nibbāna). It is as if a newlywed has arrived and is trying to beautify the environment to their own liking. Within the monastery grounds, they try to create a space for their own comfort—waking up whenever they want, or staying away from duties whenever they feel like it. It is just like the youngsters at home who sleep until 10:00 AM.
That is when it becomes clear that their path is wrong. Truly, such a person should be told to return home. What kind of liberation (Nibbāna) is this? They cannot even wake up early. From morning until night, whether in the garden or the huts, they spend their time criticizing others. They do not even attend the scheduled programs. Instead, they make demands and complaints. There is no use in them staying; beyond a certain point, their old habits from home begin to resurface and nourish the identity view (sakkāya). Yet, there are those who persevere. They do not abandon the goal of realizing liberation (Nibbāna). Even if the routine or the discipline is monotonous, they continue steadily. When they meditate for long periods, the body might shake or experience various sensations. The advice given is to simply allow it.
Do not try to control anything in your life. Do not think, "My body must remain perfectly still while I meditate." Do not control it. Step away from the "I" and let mindfulness (sati) experience whatever state arises. Let the body be natural. Do not try to govern or manage it. This is different from what we discussed earlier. Now we are talking about how to experience the reality of liberation (Nibbāna) in a practical sense. In the first hour of this sermon, and over the past few days, we approached the topic through logic and reasoning to gain knowledge. We discussed emptiness (suññatā) through logic. Now, we are discussing what emptiness (suññatā) means within practical life—how one becomes empty in life. Both are necessary. You must hear the theory, but it is useless if you fail in the practical application. Both must go together. Therefore, as much as possible, remain aware (avadhaya) and let the body do what it does.
If mindfulness (sati) breaks, let it break. If it reforms, let it reform. Do not try to create a "method" for liberation (Nibbāna) within your own control. Do not decide, "The mind should be like this" or "It must be like that." Do not construct your own personal way to liberation (Nibbāna). As the elders used to say, "Do not build the trellis and then try to force the creeper to grow on it; rather, build the trellis wherever the creeper naturally goes." If you try to force it, you are not moving toward the original truth. This was the greatest advice given when refining meditation subjects (kammaṭṭhāna): do not build a trellis to direct the vine. Build the path in the moment. Often, we think, "Step one should be like this, step two like that, then the mind should do this." When we do that, we do not allow for the reality of impermanence (anicca), suffering (dukkha), and non-self (anattā) in the present moment. We try to construct a "liberation" based on permanence and pleasure. We do not allow the natural law (dhammatā) to work; instead, we try to shape it to our liking. That is the act of constructing (saṅkhāra). In practice, realizing this means simply allowing whatever happens to happen.
Gradually, one begins to let go of the control they exert over their life. One lets go of the rigid idea that they must reach liberation (Nibbāna) through their own specific method. Having let go, suppose that person no longer finds fault with anything. They do not blame anyone or the monastery. They do not talk about their rights; they remain very innocent. That "new bride" quality I mentioned earlier still remains within them.
It is not easy to maintain that "new bride" quality; as time goes on, everything tends to be forgotten. But suppose one does maintain that initial innocence and humility. As mindfulness (sati) grows over a long period of consistent practice, one eventually reaches a place where the mind can no longer find a footing.
As we discussed, mindfulness (sati) reaches a point where the mind cannot grasp a solid experience. It is like seeing the space between two breaths. We can perceive the in-breath and we can perceive the out-breath, but it is very difficult to catch the "gap" between them. Similarly, we catch one thought, and then we catch the next thought, but we cannot easily catch the strip of space (avakāsha) between them. In that space, time does not exist, and the "person" cannot exist.
As you practice mindfulness (sati) diligently over time, you "fall" into that middle ground between two thoughts or two breaths. Staying in that middle ground is the difficult part. That middle ground is what we call Nibbāna. It cannot be made into an object (ārammaṇa); it has no signs (nimitta), no marks, and no definitions. How long can one stay there? If one can stay there, that is Nibbāna. I was told to go to that place and stay there. However, one cannot "aim" for that gap between thoughts as a typical object of focus.
I was advised to organize my daily routine so that this awareness increases. In all the activities of life, one should try to dwell in that state which is not caught by the mind—the space between two breaths or the gap between two thoughts. But when you try to increase this awareness (avadhaya), the eight grounds of laziness (aṭṭha kusīta vatthu) begin to manifest. Have you heard of the eight grounds of laziness?
The eight grounds of laziness (aṭṭha kusīta vatthu) are the excuses a lazy person makes. For instance, if they haven't eaten, they think, "I can't go to meditation today because I haven't eaten properly. I didn't have my evening medicinal drink (gilampasa). I can't go." They use that as an excuse because they are actually afraid of the "empty space" they encounter in meditation. They feel their body is too weak to face it.
Or, if they have eaten well, they say, "I ate too much today; I cannot meditate." They use food as an excuse to avoid the retreat, the meditation, or the walking practice. They feel they need to lie down and rest. Do you see? This happens because as that "empty space" grows, there is nothing for the mind to cling to—there is no object for lust (rāga). They cannot yet appreciate that state of dispassion (virāga); they do not understand how to be content in the absence of lust. To truly "love Nibbāna" is to be comfortable in that space, but the ego is not yet ready for it. So, they complain they ate too much or too little. The Buddha said a lazy person thinks, "I feel like I am falling ill today. My body hurts. It is getting too cold. It is not good to go out early this morning; I need to rest." Do you see? The real reason is that they are terrified of being in that empty space. That is where they are stuck now.
Then what happens? They take a nap. They use a slight body ache as an excuse to stay in bed. Then, when they are recovering, they think, "I have only just started getting better; it is not wise to go out in the early morning and aggravate the illness again." That is how they think. I am mentioning the morning specifically because people have not been showing up, but this is exactly what is described in the eight grounds of laziness (aṭṭha kusīta vatthu).
These are not my own words; they are from the Tripitaka (Tipiṭaka). In the Sutra Pitaka (Sutta Piṭaka), the Buddha explains how these grounds of laziness obstruct the path just as lust (rāga) is fading and one is drawing closer to dispassion (virāga) and liberation (Nibbāna). They think, "I have only just recovered; I am only starting to regain my strength. There is no need to struggle in the early morning yet. Let us take it slow and 'rewire' ourselves gradually." Thus, they procrastinate.
Then, if they have to travel—say, to Colombo—they think, "I have a lot of work and travel today, so I should not come to practice this morning." Thinking of the journey, they decide to stay in bed. Or, after returning from Colombo or elsewhere, they say, "Oh, I cannot go this morning. It was so late last night; I must rest." They use the previous night's travel as an excuse not to show up.
The Buddha says they might also use the cold as an excuse. "Oh, I cannot go meditate in this winter cold. I will get sick in the early morning. I have a sinus (pīnasa) problem." Notice how some people do not have sinus issues when they first arrive. After they have been here a while, they suddenly develop a "special" sinus problem. When they were working a job in the world, they had the same sinus issue, but they still went to work because they had to eat. Here, because they are provided for, they use it as a ground of laziness (kusīta vatthu). The lazy person says, "Oh, it is so cold these days." Or, "The hall is burning hot like fire; I cannot go, it is too sweltering." They grasp onto the heat as an excuse to delay their practice. These are the eight grounds.
The Buddha explains that the energetic person (vīriyavanta) uses those same eight situations as motivation. They think, "I have not eaten today, so my body is light and relaxed. I will go and sit in the cross-legged posture (pallaṅka) or do some pleasant walking meditation (caṅkamana)." Or, "I have eaten well today and have plenty of strength; I should do extra walking meditation." When falling ill, they think, "If this illness gets worse, I will not be able to walk or sit. I must put in extra effort now while I still can."
While recovering, they think, "I cannot just keep sleeping. I am getting better now, and I missed so much practice because of this illness." They use the illness itself as a reason to practice more. Before a journey, they think, "I might not be able to practice tomorrow because of this trip, so I must do extra today." Upon returning, they immediately start: "I could not practice yesterday because of the trip, so I must start right now."
As for the cold—think about it—if I just stay curled up like a lazy person because of the cold, life might simply slip away while I am in bed. Who knows when death will come while we are complaining about being sick? Perhaps you feel the cold or heat so intensely because the end is drawing near! You do not even know what is coming. There was a certain monk who, realizing he must practice before it was too late, would go out and meditate in the freezing snow and ice. When asked, "Venerable Sir, why are you meditating outside in the cold? Please come inside," he replied, "No, I am using the cold as my object of meditation."
"If I just stay here complaining that it is cold and difficult, and if I pass away without realizing the Truth, I might be reborn in a 'cold hell' (sīta naraka) somewhere. In such a place, what opportunity would there be for a Buddha's appearance? How would I practice the Dhamma there? I will take this very cold as my sign (nimitta); because of this cold, I will increase my practice." In the summer heat, he would meditate while feeling the burning sensation.
When asked why he did not come inside, he would say, "If I shrink away from this heat and difficulty, I might end up in the fires of the Avici (Avīci) hell due to my defilements (kilesa). Compared to Avici, this heat is nothing; it is a good reminder for me. Taking this as my object, I will do extra practice outside." See? The person who wants to increase their energy (vīriya) uses those very things to do so.
They use the illness and the discomfort. They use them to strengthen their resolve. The lazy person, however, uses them as an excuse to sleep a little longer. As you practice mindfulness (sati) consistently for three or four years, it becomes clear: is this person going to be a lazy one or an energetic one?
Day by day, it becomes evident. Day by day, the grounds of laziness (kusīta vatthu) begin to increase in their schedule. As soon as those grounds increase, they have a ready answer: "Oh, it is so cold," or "I feel sick." If they had taken those very things as a motivation to increase their meditation, it would have been fine. But they do not think like that. Instead, they immediately cast blame: "I cannot meditate because of this." They throw it out there: "The cold is too much," or "The people here are not right."
"The vibe is not right." They find some reason for their own inaction. "I am lonely; I am fed up with everything." If you are fed up, then do the practice with even more joy until that feeling of being fed up is exhausted! You should use that very feeling as a reason to practice more. But instead, they use it as an excuse for their laziness, to avoid doing the work. That is why people leave the robe.
They feel fed up because their practice is not yet strong enough. Therefore, they should increase the practice. Instead, the person who wants to go home finds some excuse and leaves. But the energetic person, the one who wants to stay, takes that very problem and uses it to practice the path even more intensely. They dive deeper into the path because of it. That is how we know who will succeed; without that fertilizer of energy (vīriya), the lotus will not bloom.
You must apply energy (vīriya) for the lotus to bloom. At the very point where you feel most lazy, you must surrender even more to the practice. When you feel like giving up on the path, it actually means the path is developing; you must increase your practice right there to wear down that lust (rāga). You must dive into that very feeling of being fed up. You must dive into that loneliness. But that is not what usually happens. As soon as someone feels a bit fed up or lonely, they say, "This isn't for me," and they leave.
"Oh, I cannot do this anymore; it is too hard. I am fed up. Maybe I rushed into this? Maybe I was too hasty in getting ordained? I need to rethink my life." Or they say, "I haven't enjoyed the world enough yet." All sorts of excuses come out during those "unlucky periods." They start making these "complaint-songs." When that happens, I honestly do not know—I am still searching the Tripitaka (Tipiṭaka) to see what the Buddha advised in such a situation. I do not know what to do when that "unlucky period" hits. No matter what I say, they will likely leave. No matter what I say, they will jump ship. I am still looking for the scriptural answer for that moment.
For now, my only understanding is: do not sit there grumbling [laughter], do not spread your negativity, and do not attack others—just leave quietly. Some people leave with such a noise, dragging everyone else down with them. "Oh, it was so bad there!" Their complaints echo everywhere. At that point, the burden they feel is passed on to me as well.
What is there to do? They go back out and get entangled in some mess once more. It is far better than being scolded by a mother or beaten by a husband. They might say, "Oh, this is so blissful; this is peaceful." That is how it is. Someone might come and say that after they left, they have no attachments, no entanglements, and that solitude is a great bliss. But while they were here, why couldn't they stay? While they were here, they couldn't bear it. They spent their time acting foolishly, being restless, or just sleeping. But once they leave, they don't even sleep because they have to wake up early to go to work.
They claim they have no "love," no attachments, and no troubles—that they are doing fine. But they couldn't stay while they were here. That is the thing. While they have the opportunity for solitude, they act erratically and behave strangely. They even use their phones in secret. Why? Because as the path develops further and further, the mind full of defilements (kilesa) simply cannot bear it.
However, even if they go out, that is what they will have to face. When they go out, they eat with a sense of "happiness," yet while they were here, they ate with a long face. Someone who went back out met me recently and said they went to a party, but even there, they couldn't enjoy it. They tried to maintain an attachment, but it felt wrong; they felt they didn't need attachments anymore. If someone tries to form a relationship with them, they find that they don't really want it. They come and tell me, "Venerable Sir, if someone tries to connect with me, I see that I don't want it anymore." It eventually becomes a problem for them. The reality is that once someone has tasted this, no matter what world they go to, this is what they will feel.
There is no escape anymore. Whether they go home, to another world, or even get married, life will never "fit" them again. Once they have fallen into this, they can only come out by going through it. No matter where they go, even if they go seeking enjoyment, they will realize—why did I feel this way? For a person who has felt this, it is a tragedy to go back to eating the "scraps" of the world. If they could just appreciate that feeling and sink deeper into the stillness, it would be over. One can do that even through hardships. But why suffer so much? Once you have felt this, there is no life left for you except liberation (Nibbāna). Now, what else is there to do? There is nothing left but to realize Nibbāna. As that feeling grows, we find we can do nothing else. When you reach the point where there is nothing left to do, and you have been with the teacher for a long time, you might not even know if you are on the right path or not.
You don't know if you are moving or not. You don't even understand what to do. At that point, the most important thing is to make your eyes blind. Do not look at anything. A blind man has no path to follow; he has no target. Remove the target. If your eyes are open, you will go and grasp something. This is what is meant by the instruction: even if you have eyes, be like a blind man. If you are not blind, you will ask the teacher, "Am I close? Is it still far?" A blind man does not ask that. He cannot see "near" or "far." He cannot see his surroundings. Therefore, [metaphorically] pierce your eyes with a needle. Pluck them out with a sharp knife. Cut off your ears. Because if you have eyes, you will look around and get entangled in some trouble.
Even if you have eyes, be like a blind man. If you have life, be like a corpse. You won't be able to ask about "near" or "far." Even if you have life, be like a dead body. Even if you have ears, be like a deaf man. Even if you have eyes, be like a blind man. If you are a "fool" [lacking worldly cleverness], you can walk this path. But if you are "wise" [in a worldly, intellectual sense], it is over. The "wise" man has eyes; he looks around and gets caught in some trouble. Or he measures the path and judges it, saying, "This is not easy." Therefore, I say: be like a blind man before the teacher. A blind man simply walks; he has no preconceived idea of where he must go. He has no target.
There are no targets. As we gradually cultivate mindfulness (sati), our goals must dissolve. Eventually, the teacher will say that the journey has reached its end. Yet, we ourselves might not even realize it. This is how the path to liberation (Nibbāna) should unfold—without our conscious knowing. The teacher might signal that it is finished, even when we no longer feel a desperate need to reach a finish line. The ending of the cycle of birth and death (saṃsāra) happens in this way. You cannot reach it by "knowing" it in the conventional sense; if you try to reach it through intellectual knowledge, you only arrive at a destination you have imagined. It is not like that at all.
As we deepen our mindfulness (sati), we lose the sense of where we are going next. In truth, we may not even realize whether we are moving forward or not, or even if we are practicing the path (magga) at all. This is actually a good sign. In that state, do not go seeking the path. Simply be with the teacher—cut the grass, peel the coconuts. Just live in the presence of the teacher. That is sufficient. Do not go searching for a "path" beyond that.
Beyond that point, do not try to reach a destination you have conceived in your mind; do not try to measure whether you are "near" or "far." From there on, simply live in freedom. Pick flowers, follow butterflies, bathe, walk, and simply exist with the teacher. While living in this way, there will come a moment when the teacher taps you on the shoulder and tells you that the cycle of birth and death (saṃsāra) has ended. In truth, you weren't even trying to end it anymore. Though you initially came to end it, you forgot that goal while picking flowers and following butterflies with the teacher. In the end, you have crossed over to the other shore without even realizing it. Those who are anxious, constantly measuring if they are close or far, often end up going back home because they are constantly judging their progress. Therefore, a journey must unfold within us—one that we ourselves are not even aware of. This is how I see the practical side of it.
When practiced, this path to liberation (vimukti) is felt, sensed, and understood in a very peculiar way. We truly do not know if we are moving or if we have already arrived. It is like being a small child following a butterfly; there is no target, no goal. We may not even know why we are here. Just as a child does not know why they were born or what the ultimate destination of their life should be—they simply live. In the same way, as mindfulness (sati) gradually develops, the very idea of "Nibbāna" as a target is forgotten. The one who seeks Nibbāna as a goal, the one who measures and judges whether it is near or far—that is the "I."
Gradually, that "I" wears away until you become like a blind man, a deaf man, or a corpse. The moment you become like a corpse or a blind man, you have already reached your destination. If you still have "eyes" or "life" [in the sense of ego-driven vitality], you will keep searching for a path. You will keep looking for an end. You will judge, you will feel regret, and it will feel heavy. You will think, "Oh, how much longer must I endure this?" This exhaustion and burden exist only because there is still a target. Allow all of that to gradually wear away. Very well, let us conclude here. May the Triple Gem bless you all (theruwan sarana).
Original Source (Video):
Title: අනිදස්සන විඤ්ඤාණය - 12 |Ven Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | නිහඬ අරණ
https://youtu.be/NRxLLhgIv9A?si=3ZUNvxgsJRLn2-uZ
Disclaimer
The translations shared on this blog are based on Dhamma sermons originally delivered in Sinhalese. They have been translated into English with the help of AI (ChatGPT & Gemini AI), with the intention of making these teachings more accessible to a broader audience.
Please note that while care has been taken to preserve the meaning and spirit of the original sermons, there may be errors or inaccuracies in translation. These translations are offered in good faith, but they may not fully capture the depth or nuance of the original teachings.
This blog does not seek to promote or endorse any specific personal views that may be expressed by the original speaker. The content is shared solely for the purpose of encouraging reflection and deeper understanding of the Dhamma.
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