Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 14 | Ven. Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | Nihada Arana

මුල් සිංහල වීඩියෝව සඳහා Play කරන්න

Non-Manifest Consciousness (Anidassana Viññāṇa) - 14 | 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.

However, over the past few weeks, we have been discussing the featureless consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa). Following that, yesterday we held a discussion on how one has understood this featureless consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa). I believe we had to conclude that discussion due to the midday alms offering (dāna). At that point, I felt the need to elaborate a bit further on one of the questions asked. That is, as we continuously discuss the featureless consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa) and...

...then we speak of the established consciousness (patiṭṭhita viññāṇa), which stands in contrast to the featureless consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa). We often refer to these concepts in terms of the mundane (lokiya) and the supramundane (lokuttara). Now, when we hear about the featureless consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa), it sounds to us like something supramundane (lokuttara). Conversely, the ordinary life in which we form attachments feels mundane (lokiya). The issue here is that we begin to feel—and we touched upon this briefly during the morning session as well—

...that we must detach ourselves from this mundane nature and attain a supramundane state. That is to say, we begin to develop a feeling that we must abandon the established consciousness (patiṭṭhita viññāṇa) and reach or attain the unestablished consciousness (apatiṭṭhita viññāṇa) or the featureless consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa). The problem that arises then is that we start to believe there are two distinct entities in this life: the mundane (lokiya) and the supramundane (lokuttara).

Consequently, in a very subtle manner, we once again become trapped in duality (dvayatā). Because, even though we use the terms mundane (lokiya) and supramundane (lokuttara), in ultimate reality, two such separate natures do not exist. We then begin to think that everything we see, hear, sense, and cognize is merely an illusion, and that somewhere beyond all this, something called liberation (Nibbāna) must exist. We start to perceive life as being split in two, thinking that we are currently living a mundane life.

We convince ourselves that we must somehow attain the supramundane life, to reach liberation (Nibbāna). When we look at it from that perspective, we must be very careful. As we have been continuously discussing the featureless consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa) for two or three weeks, the mind can easily fall into such a trap. The mind can construct an illusion in this exact manner.

That is to say, the mind creates the illusion that there is the cycle of rebirth (saṃsāra) on one side, and liberation (Nibbāna) on the other. It assumes that we are currently trapped in the cycle of rebirth (saṃsāra) and that we must somehow attain liberation (Nibbāna). It generates a feeling that we must "realize" liberation. Generally speaking, for an ordinary person—someone who is not deeply investigating the Dhamma—holding such a view is not a fault. Their intention is simply to cross over the cycle of rebirth (saṃsāra) and attain liberation (Nibbāna).

The thought that one must realize liberation (Nibbāna) is actually beneficial for a beginner. There is nothing wrong with it. It serves as their determination, their motivating feeling. It is because of this very feeling that they begin to practice meditation or listen to Dhamma discourses. However, as they progress and gradually step into a deeper understanding of the Dhamma, there is a profound truth they must realize. They must come to understand that in reality, there is no such division in life as the mundane (lokiya) and the supramundane (lokuttara), or the worldly and the spiritual.

Such divisions are merely born of their own views (diṭṭhi). All of this is simply a view. What we call consciousness (viññāṇa), or this grand illusion, is precisely this tendency to split things into two and present them as separate entities. Even when we say "everything is one," we are still speaking in relation to something else. Therefore, you must understand this very clearly. Otherwise, as you continue to listen to these discourses over a long period, these concepts could set like concrete within you. The idea that there is a strict duality of the mundane (lokiya) and the supramundane (lokuttara) could become deeply and rigidly embedded within your inner being.

Consequently, our inner being can become trapped in a struggle where the 'mundane I' desperately strives to attain a 'supramundane state'. We begin to believe that there are two distinct realities: a mundane (lokiya) nature and a supramundane (lokuttara) nature. Then, much like how we once struggled to pass exams, or competed to find jobs, win, and achieve success in ordinary life, we might turn the journey from the mundane to the supramundane into yet another competition. We might end up running a race.

Alternatively, one might fall into a rigid view (diṭṭhi), thinking, "I do not want this liberation (Nibbāna)." They might conclude, "I do not need liberation." That is quite dangerous, isn't it? Striving towards liberation is good. But if one says, "Oh, I do not want liberation; this worldly life is fine," that view is very difficult to break. Just the other day, someone came to me and said, "I do not want to realize liberation." I asked them, "Do you even know what liberation is?" They insisted, "I really do not want liberation." I replied, "You say you do not want it, but do you even know what liberation (Nibbāna) actually is?" Without having the slightest idea of what liberation (Nibbāna) is, some people are terribly afraid of it. Others turn liberation into a competition. Observe this carefully: some people say, "Oh, I absolutely do not want liberation." They say, "I do not want liberation right now." Yet, they do not even know what it is they are rejecting. If you observe this carefully, you will understand. Fundamentally, it is the illusion of our consciousness (viññāṇa) that constantly divides reality into two distinct natures, perceiving the cycle of rebirth (saṃsāra) on one side and liberation (Nibbāna) on the other.

Consequently, one begins to feel that this world in which we form attachments, this world we cling to, is merely a dream. That it is an illusion. What we see with our eyes... Now, observe carefully, sometimes I too use these words. However, that is when I am explaining a different perspective or method (pariyāya). As you listen today, please understand it in this specific context. Do not compare this with previous discourses.

If you do, you will become confused. In the perspective (pariyāya) I am going to explain today, you should only use these similes to highlight the specific context being discussed. Do not compare it to the discourse from yesterday or the day before. On certain days, during a discourse, I might say that what is seen and heard is a dream. I might say that seeing and hearing are dreams, that they are illusions of the mind. However, I say that because it is necessary for the specific topic of that day.

Therefore, observe this carefully. This is what it means to listen to a discourse as if it is entirely brand new every single day—fresh, like the 'previously unheard Dhamma'. You should not constantly compare it with what you have heard before. Instead, align yourself with the present discourse and allow wisdom (paññā) to arise. Engage in investigation and inquiry. I am not telling you to stop investigating. However, direct your inquiry and apply your wisdom in alignment with this specific discourse.

Do this relative to the perspective (pariyāya) being discussed today. Otherwise, this is what happens: consider the concept of impermanence (anicca). When the Buddha uses the term anicca, we tend to generalize and say, "Everything is impermanent." However, when the Buddha speaks of impermanence (anicca), He precedes it with a specific phrase: sabbe saṅkhārā—meaning all conditioned formations are impermanent. He refers to all constructed or fabricated natures. If you simply think of impermanence (anicca) without understanding that crucial aspect of "conditioned formations," you miss the point entirely. The entire understanding of the discourse goes wrong.

What exactly did the Buddha declare as impermanent (anicca)? That specific context must be highlighted. I am trying to explain a similar point here. Today, when I state that there is no division between the mundane (lokiya) and the supramundane (lokuttara), you must apply your wisdom relative to the specific point being emphasized in this discourse. Now, we often get this kind of idea: we feel that this world we see, hear, and sense—this world in which we form attachments—is merely an illusion.

We think it is a falsehood. Now, observe carefully: the moment you declare, "This is a falsehood," or "This is an illusion," do you not feel that your statement itself is the "truth"? Think about it. You conclude, "Ah, exactly! This is an illusion. It is a mirage. It is a dream. It is just like the Matrix, like a simulation." You label it as some sort of illusion. When you think in that manner, pay close attention to what I am saying: the moment you feel that way, you instantly establish a new "truth"—the truth that "this is all a falsehood."

That is exactly where the sense of self establishes itself. Why? Because you think, "Now I know that all of this is a falsehood." Consequently, you have found a new "truth" in life—the truth that "everything is a falsehood." Observe how dangerous this is: the notion that "this is a falsehood" has itself become your absolute truth. Our consciousness (viññāṇa) has turned the concept of "falsehood" into a "truth." We believe we are living in a simulation, and the fact that it is an illusion becomes our truth. Simultaneously, we believe that someday we must attain the supramundane state and realize liberation (Nibbāna), making liberation another "truth." Thus, our consciousness (viññāṇa) becomes trapped between two established "truths."

There is a 'truth' that says 'this is a falsehood', and we call that the mundane (lokiya). Then, there is a 'truth' called liberation (Nibbāna), and we call that the supramundane (lokuttara). Consequently, we have ended up with two truths. There is a truth which is a falsehood, and there is a truth which is the absolute truth. I do not know if you are understanding this or if your mind is getting tangled. Please observe this carefully. I am explaining a very subtle aspect of this. That is to say, from that point onwards, consciousness (viññāṇa) splits reality, concluding, "There is a falsehood here, and there is a truth there."

Then we begin to feel that there is a duality in this life. We feel that there is a dual nature (dvayatā). That is exactly the illusion of consciousness (viññāṇa)—this duality. Why? Because now there are two truths. There are two truths: meaning, there is a conventional truth (sammuti sacca) and an ultimate truth (paramattha sacca). There is a mundane truth and a supramundane truth. There is the spiritual and the mundane.

Observe carefully: once you get caught in that knot... Over the past few weeks, we did discuss how this world is somewhat of a falsehood, didn't we? Today, however, we are deconstructing that very duality. Because otherwise, after continuously listening to these discourses for two or three weeks, our consciousness (viññāṇa) might attempt to 'realize' something called the featureless consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa). It might try to distance itself from the mundane and strive to attain a supramundane nature, the nature of liberation (Nibbāna). Once you fall into that trap, it is very difficult to escape. It is because it appears to be so correct. The person does not see the trap. They have found a 'truth' that this world is a falsehood, and thus, they have established a truth in their life. Then, they develop the mindset: "I am living in a falsehood; someday, I must wake up from this dream. I must awaken from this slumber."

"I must awaken from this cycle of rebirth (saṃsāra). I must free myself from the cycle of rebirth (saṃsāra), I must awaken, and I must realize liberation (Nibbāna)." They gradually develop that kind of mindset. However, once you fall into that state, the next problem arises: no matter how hard we try to escape this 'falsehood', we repeatedly get caught in it again; we become attached to this world. We get entangled. So, no matter how much effort you put in, over and over again, you find yourself back in this mundane life. It is attachment all over again. You end up getting stuck somewhere once more. Then, the person experiences the suffering of not attaining liberation (Nibbāna). They lament, "I still have not been able to attain the liberation I sought. I still have not realized liberation. Alas, I still have my old mundane habits." On one hand, there is the suffering of possessing those mundane habits. On the other hand, there is the frustration of feeling, "I haven't achieved anything yet; so many years have passed, and still, nothing has happened."

They think, "I haven't even seen a glimmer of light, not even as dim as a flickering tube light. I haven't truly seen any illumination yet." That is the suffering of non-attainment. They become oppressed from both sides. They become exhausted from both sides. Furthermore, there is the suffering of searching for a supramundane life. That is, the suffering of striving to attain something unobtained. The suffering of trying to detach and distance oneself from what is currently present. It is as if we came to escape suffering, but our suffering has only doubled. We become increasingly trapped in suffering, more pressured, more stuck, and more oppressed. Observe this carefully: this is precisely what consciousness (viññāṇa)—that great illusion—always does. It splits everything into two. It divides reality and dictates, "This is bad, and that is good." Consequently, one exerts immense effort, exhaustion, and struggle to move away from what is labeled 'bad' and to draw closer to what is labeled 'good'.

Therefore, I urge you to observe this carefully. As a result, we now have one 'truth' asserting that this world is a falsehood. And we have another 'truth' asserting what is true; we have now established two truths. Following this, we begin to measure ourselves. The question arises: "At what level of the supramundane path am I currently? Am I close to liberation (Nibbāna) now?" We do not know. Once these two extremes are formed, a massive problem arises. One wonders, "Am I still mundane?" We are no longer sure if the path we are on is correct. We wonder, "Have I truly attained Stream-Entry (Sotāpanna)? Or have I not? I don't know." "Have I become an Arahant? No, I am sure of that, I think I probably haven't reached that yet." These kinds of thoughts arise. Those tendencies surface. "I probably haven't achieved that yet." Look at the multitude of questions that follow. "Have I not attained it yet?" From that point on, it is nothing but pure doubt (vicikicchā).

"Is this path correct? Is this teacher right for me? There is a slight flaw here; perhaps they said something incorrect?" Doubt (vicikicchā) arises. One is no longer sure of the teacher or the path. "Is what I am doing even correct? I don't know. Is this really what one must do to realize liberation (Nibbāna)?" This cannot be proven, can it? So, with what metric can we measure it? Because no matter who you look at, no one seems entirely certain.

No one is sure. No one is certain. "Are we truly on the right path? Or is this just another illusion? Are we all trapped in yet another illusion of the mind? Are we stuck in yet another deceptive state?" It is not clear. It cannot be understood. Therefore, on one hand, one doubts their own path. One doubts the very journey they are on. One does not even know how close or how far they are from the goal.

So, out of sorrow and frustration, one declares, "I do not want liberation (Nibbāna)." It is like the story of the fox and the grapes. Since they cannot reach it, they say, "No, I do not want liberation. I don't need it. I came here just to eat, drink, and live freely as I always have. I don't want this." Just like the fox who couldn't reach the grapes and declared they were sour. In the same way, we deceive our own minds. Why? Because the ego dislikes the feeling of being unable to attain something. When it fails to attain what it desires, it creates a beautiful excuse.

"I don't want it. I prefer these worldly things." One fabricates stories just to soothe their own mind. It is an attempt to console oneself. They try various excuses like that. However, they realize that no matter how much they try, no matter what they say, there is a growing pressure building up inside them day by day. Even if they say the grapes are sour, or that they do not want liberation (Nibbāna), they are still not happy. If you truly do not want liberation, then you should be able to live happily, but that is not the case either.

Then they realize that despite the words they use to soothe their mind, despite the various excuses they make, there is a severe pressure inside. There is suffering. There is oppression. Because the suffering of not attaining liberation (Nibbāna) is still there. The pain of not realizing the goal is still there. The exhaustion of failing to realize what they set out to realize is still there. They look at others with a gloomy face, thinking, "Maybe that person has achieved it, and I am the only one who hasn't." They struggle and strain, yet it still feels as though they have achieved nothing.

So, the point I am trying to make here is this: observe this carefully. All these problems arise because we have divided reality into two: the mundane (lokiya) and the supramundane (lokuttara). When we hear terms like established consciousness (patiṭṭhita viññāṇa) and unestablished consciousness (apatiṭṭhita viññāṇa), they become like concrete within us. That is to say, they gradually solidify and turn to stone.

There is a book, I believe it is called "A Glimpse of Truth" (Satya Avabodhayaṭa Kṣaṇikamak) or something similar. In that book, every other page says, "Drop this and throw it away. Are you crazy to be reading this?" Then, you read the next page, and it says again, "Are you still crazy? Throw this book away!"

Yet, you keep reading. Even though I constantly say "do not do this" in these discourses, I do not stop speaking, and you do not stop listening. I say "do not do this" because there is no end to the speaking, and there is no end to the listening either. What happens through all of this is a process of 'concreting'. We increasingly solidify the belief that "things are like this, like this, and like this." It becomes more and more rigid.

The nature of views (diṭṭhi) becomes increasingly dense and solid within. However, the only way to break that is through continuous discussion. We concrete it again, and then we break it again. We build it up, and then we must break it down. Otherwise, without even realizing it, these concepts turn to stone within us. Right now, we have turned the concept of liberation (Nibbāna) into stone. We are trapped within the concept of liberation (Nibbāna).

Who knows how many lifetimes we have been trapped like this? We are trapped in this concept of liberation (Nibbāna). Furthermore, it has been elevated as the most supreme and noble goal. Therefore, as I see it, after hearing about this path of liberation, many people exert a tremendous amount of effort to transform from the mundane to the supramundane, to abandon the mundane. However, in this spiritual discussion, in this spiritual path, we advise: do not strive to transform from the mundane to the supramundane.

Because no such duality exists here. Some people strive, thinking there is a mundane (lokiya) life and a supramundane (lokuttara) life. They ask, "Venerable Sir, can't we balance these two? Please tell us how to balance them. We have our duties. We wake up in the morning, come to the alms hall (dānasālā), perform our chores, and we have our own life. Then, in your discourses, you speak of an entirely different life."

"You spoke about something called the featureless consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa) for weeks, and we don't understand it. We don't even know what it is. So, the next question is, how do we balance these two?" Some people think like that. They say, "We have our ordinary life to live. Can't we realize liberation (Nibbāna) while living our ordinary life?" Look at how we get stuck on the next question. Some people try this because they believe they have an 'ordinary life' on one side...

...and on the other side, there is this unimaginable, unreachable life that you speak of in your discourses. They assume these two exist separately. They wonder, "Perhaps, by listening to these discourses or by meditating, I might somehow be able to reach that life you speak of. Maybe such a thing exists." Alternatively, they might conclude, "No, this won't work."

"Listening to these discourses and living our mundane life cannot be done together." As a result, they stop coming to the discourses altogether. That is another mindset people fall into. They conclude that these two cannot be done together. Look at the nature of this illusion. Look at how a mind that has not truly understood the path of liberation reacts. Sometimes, they simply stop listening to the discourses.

Because they feel that if they listen, they won't be able to live their mundane life. They believe there is a mundane life, and that the discourses speak of a completely different life. But no such thing exists anywhere. They are overthinking it. We call it being delusional (maññaṃ); they are trapped in a delusion. It means either their craving (taṇhā) is too strong, making them unwilling to investigate and deeply inquire into this teaching...

...either their craving is too strong, or they still harbor the misconception that listening to these discourses will destroy their mundane life and somehow turn them 'supramundane'. They fear they will be pushed into some unknown state. But there is nothing of the sort here. It is like building massive anthills out of nothing. It is an unnecessary, baseless fear.

It is like telling someone, "Don't go there, there's a ghost." We used to see this here in the past. Over there, near the Avalokiteshvara statue, there used to be a wooden house where a man had hanged himself. We would challenge each other, saying, "I'll give you ten rupees if you go there at midnight." Ten rupees was worth a lot back then.

No one would even try. No one would go past that point. Before it got dark, everyone would retreat to their cabins. I didn't even know the truth of it; it was just a story someone told me. They would say, "Go there at night if you can." Back then, it wasn't like this; it was covered in jungle and overgrown with trees. So, that spot near the Avalokiteshvara statue seemed very far away.

People were terrified to go there. It was just a massive, fabricated fear. We didn't actually know anything; we just repeated what someone else had said. We had never even seen the place where the man supposedly hanged himself. Yet, the fear remained: "Don't go that way, who knows if he's still there?" In the same way, it seems to me [laughs] that our minds are filled with similar massive falsehoods—the cycle of rebirth (saṃsāra) and liberation (Nibbāna), the fear that "if I go this way, this will happen," or "that will be lost."

One group is stuck thinking, "I cannot balance these two." Another group struggles, trying to figure out, "How do I balance this attachment and this liberation (Nibbāna)?" Yet another group strives, thinking, "I will somehow abandon the mundane and become supramundane." In this manner, deep within all of us, there is some fabricated notion regarding liberation (Nibbāna) and the mundane life.

Because of these delusions (maññanā), concepts (saṅkappa), and views (diṭṭhi) we have fabricated, we are constantly condemning ourselves. We are living in regret. Or, we are completely terrified. We fear that if we realize liberation (Nibbāna), everything will be lost. The path of liberation is not about any of that. In reality, there is no such division between this conventional, mundane life we live from morning till night, and the path to liberation (Nibbāna).

There is only one truth. The Dhamma simply explains this very life. It describes the ordinary life we live; it explains that our life is exactly this. Think about it: we don't perform bizarre actions to realize liberation (Nibbāna). We simply engage in our daily activities from morning until night. There is nothing peculiar or extraordinary about what we call a 'supramundane life'.

It merely consists of the basic activities a human being performs: eating, drinking, walking, and so on. Observe this: any ordinary person, from the moment they wake up, simply engages in a series of activities. There is the activity of waking up, the activity of brushing one's teeth, the activity of coming to meditate. What do we do after that? The activity of partaking in alms (dāna), the activity of cooking, the activity of sweeping, the activity of listening to a discourse, the activity of bathing, the activity of attending the Buddha Puja, the activity of sleeping, the activity of talking.

Observe carefully: there is no distinction of mundane (lokiya) or supramundane (lokuttara) in any of this. This is all that every single human being does. When you examine any human life, there is no story of the mundane or the supramundane. From the moment they wake up until they go to sleep, everyone is simply performing a series of activities. We perform these activities from within the monastery. We think, "We are doing this inside the monastery," while some others think, "We are doing this outside." But that is merely a thought.

When you observe this carefully, you will realize that what we call our entire life has no story of the mundane or the supramundane; it is merely a continuous stream of activities. However, it is through these very activities—such as "I bathed," "I woke up," "I ate," "I came to the discourse," "I bathed"—that we feel there was a continuous "I" existing from morning until night.

Try to see if you can establish the existence of an "I" without an activity. An "I" cannot be described without an activity. "I was looking at you, Venerable Sir." That too is an activity. "I was listening to the discourse you delivered." That is also an activity. Life is simply a collection of activities.

It is within this collection of activities that the view (diṭṭhi) of "I" is anchored. Observe this carefully. What I am explaining is profound, but it is not something strange. There is no strange, mystical thing called the featureless consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa). It is simply seeing the true nature of these activities—seeing them exactly as they are. That is all. It is incredibly simple. Truly, I feel that this Dhamma is profoundly simple.

It is so simple: it is merely knowing the nature of that moment, in that moment. That is all. The featureless consciousness (anidassana viññāṇa) is the simplest of the simple. But when you read it in a book? It is incomprehensible. When we try to understand this by reading a book, our minds get tangled in knots. If we take a book and try to read this... Look at the tenth chapter; after discussing it for two weeks, our minds feel...

...numbed, wondering what it all means. However, that tenth chapter is not talking about anything strange. It is simply discussing the true nature of the activities we call 'living'. It is the method of seeing an activity purely as an activity. That is all the Dhamma is. The Dhamma is naturalness (sabhāva). To become natural, to return to naturalness—that is all.

How simple is that? How incredibly simple? Becoming natural—that is all. Now, at this point, someone might wonder what it means to 'become natural'. Let me provide a simile for that. The first thing we must remove from our minds is the notion that anyone possesses a 'mundane life' or a 'supramundane life'.

There are no such two things. Creating and holding onto such a duality is merely our own conceit (māna). It is our own arrogance. It is a fabrication, an assumption, a form of pride. The next question then is: what exactly is the Dhamma? If so, why do we come to places like this? What, then, is the Dhamma? What is this entire discussion about? What is being explained here in such great detail?

This is exactly where we need to gain some clarity. I mentioned earlier that an ordinary person's life is simply a collection of activities. In those activities, the Dhamma teaches us to see the true nature (yathābhūta)—to see things exactly as they are. It means seeing an activity purely as an activity. That is all the Dhamma is.

Right. Then the question arises: what does it mean to see the true nature of any activity—whether it is waking up, eating, partaking in alms (dāna), washing one's face, sweeping, cooking, bathing, sleeping, or listening to a discourse? What does it mean to see its true nature? Now I am explaining the essence of the Dhamma. What does the Dhamma mean? Seeing the true nature means seeing something without making it relative to something else. It means seeing it without comparing it to another thing, without trying to understand it in relation to something else. It means seeing it purely as it is, in its own nature. We are accustomed to seeing everything through comparison.

Instead of seeing through comparison, one must see the nature of the thing precisely as it is. Let me give you an example to help you understand this. Consider a teaching from the Dhamma. Take the Majjhe Sutta, for instance. In the Majjhe Sutta, the Buddha states: "Yo bhante viditvāna majjhe mantā na lippati"—"Monks, one who knows both extremes and does not become smeared in the middle is a Great Man (Mahāpurisa)."

The one who knows both extremes and does not become smeared in the middle is the one who is freed from craving (taṇhā). He is the Great Man (Mahāpurisa). He is the one who has realized the truth. Right. Now, I will give you an example. Then you will understand how we get tangled up in this. In that Sutta, a monk says, "Venerable Sir, the way I understood it is that the past is one extreme...

...the future is the other extreme. The present is the middle. If one can abandon the extreme of the past, abandon the extreme of the future, come to the middle which is the present, and remain unsmeared in the middle, he is a Great Man (Mahāpurisa)." The Buddha accepts this. He acknowledges that the way the monk understood it is not wrong. The Sutta records the perspectives of several monks. But observe this carefully in relation to the point I am making. Now, we face a problem. We think, "The Buddha said the past is an extreme.

Abandon the extreme of the past. The future is an extreme. Stay in the present." So, we try to do this. "But how can I? I keep remembering the past. No matter what I do, memories of the past arise. I keep thinking about the future. So, Venerable Sir, no matter how much you or the Buddha say to stay in the present, I cannot do it." The mind becomes completely stuck.

Why? Because the Sutta says the past is an extreme, the future is an extreme, and the present is the middle. It says to remain unsmeared in the present. But observe what we conclude from this. Do you know what we think? We believe that as long as the mind dwells in the past or the future, it is mundane (lokiya), and if it dwells in the present, it is spiritual. That is how we have heard the discourses. Consequently, we try to keep the mind in the present, preventing it from going to the past or the future.

But the more we try to hold it there, it is like trying to gather frogs in a basket—they keep jumping out. It is exhausting to try and hold the mind there. We cannot keep it still. While trying to do this, who knows where the mind wanders off to? Look at this discourse, for instance. When I look at some faces, they look sleepy. This happens. Some people are lost in various thoughts, staring blankly at the pillars. Some are right on the verge of falling asleep.

Then we feel, "This is a massive problem. We are told to stay in the present. The Dhamma says so. But if we are to stay in the present, how do we plan the trip for next month?" Let's take this as an example. We are planning a trip for next month. But we are told to 'stay in the present'. Now, going on this trip has become a huge issue. If we are going on a trip next month, how do we plan it? That becomes a major problem.

It is like being given a cup and told to hold it without grasping it. You try to figure out, "How do I hold this without grasping it?" It becomes a puzzle: "Don't grasp it, but hold it." The Buddha says the past is an extreme and the future is an extreme. We are told to stay in the present. So, how are we supposed to live? Despite what is said, we still have to find food and alms (dāna) for tomorrow.

Even if the past is an extreme and the future is an extreme, we still have to find food for tomorrow, find alms for today, and do our jobs. We have to plan what we are going to cook tomorrow. The problem arises: if we are told to stay in this present moment, to stay in the present, no one can actually live like that. If we are preparing for a merit-making event (piṅkama)... for instance, if we are preparing for the Kathina ceremony...

We are preparing for a Kathina ceremony, a massive merit-making event that will happen in the future. We are painting, doing this and that. Then the question arises: "This Dhamma and our actual lives seem completely contradictory." Please understand what I am saying. This is when the conflict arises. When we read the texts, it says one thing: "The past is an extreme, the future is an extreme. Do not think about the past, do not hope for the future. Stay in the present."

It says this is an extreme, so we feel we must either forget about it entirely... but we cannot live if we forget about it. That is when we conclude that the Dhamma is one thing, and life is another. That is where the internal conflict is born. Why? Because we cannot live the way it is described. To live, we have to organize for the future. Whether we are organizing a merit-making event (piṅkama), or arranging a meditation retreat, whatever we do, we are planning today for what will happen next month or at the end of this month.

Yet, the Dhamma says the future is an extreme. This creates a massive problem for us. It creates deep confusion within us. We think, "This is impossible. Either this Dhamma is not practical, or there is something wrong with how I am understanding it." That is exactly what I am pointing out. Observe carefully: when this kind of situation arises, how do we understand it? We end up thinking, "Alas, I am still in the cycle of rebirth (saṃsāra). I am still planning.

I am still doing this and that. I am not yet supramundane (lokuttara). I still cannot remain in this moment without any expectations." We end up regretting and condemning ourselves. We think, "My mind still wanders to the future, organizing and planning. I am not yet spiritual; I am not yet living the Dhamma." We get that kind of feeling. What I am saying is, you don't need to go down that path. Here is the point: we have this tendency to plan for the future.

Even as we sit here, we might think about the trip next month. To be in the present does not mean stopping all of that and forcing yourself to stay in the present. It does not mean that the nature of thinking about the future is wrong. Neither does it mean thinking, "Staying in the present is the ultimate truth (paramattha), and the future is conventional (sammuti). I will deal with the conventional in a conventional way, and the ultimate in an ultimate way." It is not that either. Do you see how all of these approaches create a sense of duality (dvayatā) within?

We constantly think, "Well, there's nothing to be done about conventions. It is a conventional truth (sammuti sacca). Venerable Sir, we have to deal with conventions. We cannot live conventionally without organizing for the future. But when it comes to the Dhamma, yes, we must stay in the present." Deep down, we hold the ultimate truth (paramattha) as one thing, but believe that conventions (sammuti) are necessary for life. Do you see that? Do you see how everything is split into two? Through all of this, consciousness (viññāṇa) divides reality into two: the Dhamma versus conventional life, or the ultimate life versus the conventional life.

It splits reality into conventional truth (sammuti sacca) and ultimate truth (paramattha sacca). And we believe that we cannot live according to the ultimate truth. We believe we must live according to the conventional truth.

Observe how there is a flaw in every one of these approaches. What exactly is the ultimate truth (paramattha sacca)? When we say we cannot live according to the ultimate truth, what do we mean by ultimate truth? Observe that. That is something you must investigate. In reality, we are constantly living in this duality, splitting reality into 'the Dhamma' and 'life'. We divide it in two. Right. Now, what we need to do is this: we do not need to change this life that we usually label as mundane (lokiya)—this life where we organize the future and remember the past.

We are not telling you to change the ordinary way you live, from the moment you wake up, living like a normal human being. You only need to apply wisdom (paññā) to understand the mechanism of this—to understand how this is constructed. The Dhamma does not mean altering the activities of this life. Trying to stop thoughts is exhausting. Trying to block thoughts or force yourself to forget things is incredibly tiring and stressful.

Therefore, please understand this clearly: do not try to block the natural mechanism of how the ordinary mind works. If you block it, it will warp into a different pattern. That is very dangerous; it becomes distorted. Even with sensual desires (kāma), if you forcefully block your desires, they become distorted. Why? Because you are applying immense effort to suppress the normal working mechanism. It causes distress to the system.

What happens then is that the entire mechanism of our mind and body gets disrupted, and you start developing various illnesses. It starts with things like hemorrhoids, and then chest and stomach issues—a whole host of diseases begin to appear. The person is forcefully controlling their feelings, desires, and thoughts. This puts immense physical pressure on the body.

When they try to block this mechanism, that pressure directly affects the body. Consequently, they are constantly sick. Why? Because it is like building a dam against nature; they are trying to block the river, to restrict it. They do this because they believe the Dhamma is some mystical achievement. They think, "If I block this, I will attain something."

"If I block this and hold it in, something magical will happen to me." Nothing will happen except that you will become a patient. You will end up spending days in the hospital having parts of your body removed. Why? Because they are not understanding the mechanism. They are not understanding how it works. "How does this happen? How does this process occur?" Understanding this mechanism itself is what we call insight (vipassanā) or wisdom (paññā).

One observes how this is constructed; one applies wisdom (paññā). One directs their intelligence. Now, do not misunderstand wisdom as merely 'thinking' about something. Complete wisdom means knowing a thing purely by its own nature. You do not need a degree for that. You do not need to read 500 Suttas for that. Just recognize it by its own nature.

Because, anyway, that is the only truth. In this very moment, the only truth is what is present right now. There is no duality of 'truth' and 'falsehood' here. You see the nature of the thing precisely as it is. Let me give you an example. Imagine we are planning a trip for next month. Grasp the point through this example. Imagine we feel we should go on a trip next month.

Someone even asked me, "Shall we go somewhere after the Kathina ceremony?" I said, "Alright." Now, imagine someone came today and asked, "Venerable Sir, shall we go somewhere after the Kathina ceremony?" I replied, "Well, find a place and let's go." Then I added, "I don't really have a need to go, but if you are going, I will join."

So, let's take an example. When we say, "Let's go next month," how does that feel to us? When we hear "next month," what kind of feeling arises within us? This is just an ordinary conversation we might have. For instance, today afternoon we discussed, "Let's go next month." Right. Now, what is the true nature (yathābhūta) of this?

Do not take this to mean that the concept of "next month" is a falsehood. Right. Now, if I ask you, "What does 'next month' mean?" what would you say? If you were asked to explain the concept of 'next month'. Now, I am asking Mahanama: what does 'next month' mean? Explain it to me a little. What is 'next month'? It is very simple.

What does 'next month' mean? Explain the concept of 'next month'. Explain it purely by its own nature. Ah, what does it mean to say, "We are going on a trip next month"? If you are asked to explain it using only the concept of 'next month', how do you understand it? What is 'next month'? Yes, you cannot use 'this month' to explain it. If you do that, it is incorrect. The moment we say "it is not this month," we are bringing in the concept of 'this month', which is unnecessary.

To talk about a trip 'next month', we do not need to bring in the story of 'this month', nor do we need to grasp the concept of 'this month'. What I am saying is, 'next month' refers to the future. Explain the future using only the future. Do not say, "It is not this month." The story of 'this month' is not needed for 'next month'. Observe this: this is our life, this is the very phrase we used: "Let's go next month." Right, I am asking, what is 'next month'? It is like the story we tell children about the 'Bālagiri' demon: "Not today, tomorrow."

It is a very simple concept. When the demon comes and sees the sign "Not today, tomorrow," he thinks, "Ah, tomorrow." If he comes back the next day, the sign still says "tomorrow." In reality, in the phrase "Not today, tomorrow," when exactly is 'tomorrow'? Do not bring 'today' into it. You do not need to talk about 'today' to talk about 'tomorrow', do you? If you are talking about 'today', talk about 'today', without bringing in 'tomorrow' or 'yesterday'. If you are talking about 'this month', you do not need to bring in 'next month'. You do not need to bring in 'last month' either.

Explain 'this month' using only 'this month'. If you are talking about 'next month', explain 'next month' using only 'next month'. If you are talking about 'last month', the past, explain 'last month' using only 'last month'. Just observe what happens inside your mind when you do this. What I am saying is, this is just our ordinary life. I am not telling you a strange, mystical story. This is how we normally speak: "We are going on a trip next month," "Last month was like this," "This month is the Kathina ceremony."

These are the ordinary things we discuss and experience. You must see the truth through these very experiences. You must see the truth within them. You do not need any other explanations. You do not need to introduce strange Dhamma concepts into this. You do not need to add Dhamma concepts, or stories about illusions, or stories about dreams. None of that is needed. Without adding any of that, without saying "next month is a dream" or "next month hasn't arrived yet"...

Just observe what 'next month' actually is. Then you will understand. In reality, we have no description or explanation for the concept of 'next month'. Do you know what happens then? We realize we simply do not know. We become someone who does not know. We become innocent. Even though we use the phrase 'next month' in our lives, 'next month' is just 'next month'. That is all it is.

Apart from that, there is no other meaning to 'next month'. Observe how simple this truth is. Without comparing it to anything else, try to understand and realize the concept of 'next month' purely through 'next month'. Apply investigation, apply wisdom (paññā). Do you understand? Applying wisdom does not mean getting lost in a world of thoughts. The moment wisdom is applied, everything zeros out. It stops.

This running, this race, stops. Without this understanding, when we hear the words 'wisdom' or 'investigation', we think it means analyzing data or making comparisons. It is not that. Applying wisdom means seeing a thing exactly as it is. It means applying mindfulness (sati). Try applying this to other things as well. Apply it to the past, for example. Then you will understand. When the Buddha says to abandon the future, that the future is an extreme, understand this: the future becomes an extreme only for the one who looks at 'next month' relative to something else. For them, 'next month' becomes an existence called 'the future'.

A person possessing this wisdom will still speak of the "future". However, for them, it does not become an extreme. It does not become an acquisition. It does not become a "thing". They do not find an occasion that exists within a certain timeframe. In the concept of "next month", they do not find a place, a time, a thing, or a person. That is wisdom (paññā). Yet, both the wise and the ignorant use the exact same phrase: "next month". The difference is that one possesses the wisdom that sees the true nature of "next month" purely as "next month".

The ignorant person, on the other hand, foolishly understands "next month" by comparing it to something else. Consequently, they acquire a concept of "time". Even if they try not to think about "next month", they are still dwelling in the extreme of the future. Even if they claim, "I am not thinking about it," they are still fixated on the future. Saying "I am not thinking" is not an inaction. What is it that they are not thinking about? The future.

The very act of "not thinking" is itself an action. Who is not thinking? What are they not thinking about? The future. And what is the future? It is merely a formation constructed out of ignorance (avijjā). Observe this point carefully. Apply your investigation right there and observe. Otherwise, we might fall into a misunderstanding. You know the story of how people asked the Buddha, "Why are your disciples so happy?"

The Buddha replied, "My disciples do not sorrow over the past. They do not yearn for the unborn future. They maintain themselves with what is present—they remain mindful of the present phenomena (dhamma) within the present moment." Now, when we hear this, we tend to think, "Ah, they must be actively suppressing memories of their past lives. They must be completely avoiding any thoughts about the future." We assume they are remaining in the present by performing the action of 'not thinking'.

We think they simply stay without thinking about the future or remembering the past. However, in their wisdom, no such "thing" as the past or future is even acquired. That is exactly what is called the joy of the Dhamma (dhamma pīti). Observe this carefully. These two states are as different as the sky and the earth. An ordinary person abandoning the past and future to stay in the present, and a Noble One (Ariya) abandoning the past and future to stay in the present—these are two completely different things, like heaven and earth.

We practice "not thinking" about the future while still believing in a world where the future exists. Because of their wisdom, Noble Ones can think about the future as much as necessary; they can plan as much as they want. But even as they plan, think, and organize, they do not acquire a "thing" to talk about. It is completely empty (suñña) right there. Yet, it is not an empty "thing" either.

I understand that when I use these words, what comes out is not exactly what I want to convey. For the one who has applied wisdom, it is not a matter of "staying empty" or "not thinking". True knowledge (ñāṇa) has been applied there; wisdom (paññā) has been applied. They possess the wisdom of knowing exactly how the "future" is constructed. They know what the past is and what the present is. Therefore, for a Noble One, the past, future, or present is never acquired as a solid "thing".

However, they still speak using the exact same conventional words. Now, as I explain this, you might think, "Ah, so there is something called the past, future, and present. The Noble One hasn't acquired it, but I have." That is exactly how you split reality into two once again. In truth, what is being discussed here—what is seen (diṭṭha), heard (suta), sensed (muta), and cognized (viññāta)—is not about splitting these four into separate entities.

In every discourse, the core message is to clearly comprehend this very process of seeing, hearing, sensing, and cognizing. It is not telling you to alter or stop the seeing and sensing. Nor is it saying that what is seen and sensed is an absolute truth. Seeing, hearing, sensing, and cognizing—these four make up what we call "living".

You must see the true nature of these four. However, do not try to see them comparatively against something else. Seeing, hearing, sensing—what we call living is simply this. See these exactly by their own nature. So, observe this: the Dhamma is not some strange, dense, or mystical concept. It is simply the explanation, analysis, and deep investigation of our very own life.

Right. Now, observe this. Following that, just like we examined the concept of a 'month', let's take the concept of 'time'. We perceive time in seconds, minutes, and hours, don't we? Right. If you can, tell me: how much time is an hour? Come on, try to explain it. How much time is an hour?

How much time is an hour? How much time is an hour? Now, you must explain an hour using only the concept of an hour. Do not use minutes. Do not say, "An hour is 60 minutes." Because an hour... Imagine if I told a small child, "An hour." When the child hears the word 'hour', do they understand it as 60 minutes? They have no such understanding. Listen to this with the innocence of a small child. If I tell a child "an hour," apart from the mere word 'hour', do they have any concept of how much time it actually is?

If so, is there an actual 'time' or duration inherent in the concept of an hour? Observe carefully: how much time is an hour? We say, "An hour is..." and then the monk will explain it. We talk about a 'mind-moment' (cittakkhaṇa). How much time is a mind-moment? We say, "It is like a snap of the fingers." But if you snap your fingers in front of a child, will they understand it as a mind-moment? To explain what a mind-moment is, we use the snap of a finger.

If asked to explain how much time an hour is, we use minutes. If asked to explain how much time a day is, we use hours. How much time is a day? Observe this carefully. Then you will understand: seconds, minutes, hours, days, months—you must see each of these exactly as they are, in their own nature. Then you will realize something.

Apart from the mere feeling that "a minute is this much time," do these things actually exist? What is a mind-moment, an hour, a day, or a month? When you see them purely by their own nature, you will begin to understand clearly that this thing we call 'life' is entirely unknowable. A minute is unknowable. A second is unknowable. An hour, a day, a month, a week—these are all unknowable natures.

Even when I say "unknowable," do not get caught up in the words. Where exactly is this wisdom applied? Observe this. Then we understand that all these things we talk about... We say, "I have lived for this many years, I have lived for this many days, I have lived for this many hours." But what is an hour? What is a day? What is a month? If you apply wisdom to see them purely by their own nature, without comparing them to anything else—if wisdom (paññā) is applied to know them exactly as they are—observe what happens.

What else is there to this thing we call 'living' other than these days, hours, and basic activities like eating, drinking, waking up, and bathing? Right, let's examine the activity of 'eating'. Look at the feeling of 'eating'. Try to explain the feeling of 'eating'. Do not use the concept of 'rice'. Do not use the concept of 'chewing'. Do not use the concept of 'heat'. Do not use the concept of 'salty'.

Do not use the concept of 'sour'. Do not use any of those. Understand the act of 'eating' purely through the concept of 'eating'. It is very simple. See how incredibly simple the Dhamma is. Understand the act of 'eating' solely through the act of 'eating'. Then you will realize that this is all there is—just the act of eating. However, when you say "eating," do not compare it to anything else. Do not bring in 'rice', do not bring in 'chewing'. 'Chewing' is not 'eating'. Just the act of 'eating'. The concept of "I am eating."

Then you will understand. In truth, even if I say "I am eating right now in the present," the very act of "eating" is what I cannot truly comprehend. It is entirely unknown. It is unknowable. It is precisely because it is unknowable that we try to explain and analyze the act of eating using external concepts like 'rice', 'chewing', and the 'plate'. That means we are living in a reality that is fundamentally unknowable.

We live our lives... our months, our days... but do not misunderstand this. It does not mean that something happens and we simply cannot know it, nor does it mean that nothing happens at all. Look deeply into your life. That is exactly where true mindfulness (sati) arises. That is where it becomes genuine mindfulness (sati). Observe this. Whether we speak of days, weeks, months, or the act of eating—what else do we actually do? That is all there is to our lives: eating, drinking... look closely at any of it.

Then, what else do we repeatedly do? You might say, "Now I am looking at you, Venerable Sir. I am listening to your discourse." Let's examine those very things. Right, see if you can explain the act of "seeing." Try to explain the act of seeing without bringing the concept of "you, Venerable Sir" into it. If I say "I hear a sound," what exactly is a sound? What does it mean to say "a sound"? Understand the concept of "sound" purely through the nature of "sound."

"Sound" does not mean this discourse. The act of "hearing" does not mean hearing bad words. Those are just the objects being spoken or heard—profanity, Dhamma discourses, or songs. Those objects are not the act of "hearing" itself. See it purely through itself. When I say "observe this," do not immediately jump into thinking about it. I am not telling you to think. Apply wisdom (paññā) and observe. Without comparing it to past memories or anything else, take it back to its own pure nature: "hearing," "seeing."

So, observe this. We often say, "There is the sound of a beetle." But try to isolate just the sound and see if a "beetle" is actually relevant to the sound itself. Do you see? We entangle the sound with something completely unrelated to it. We think, "A beetle is flying," and immediately a feeling arises: "Oh, I'm scared!" "Oh, where is it? I hear the sound of a beetle."

Look closely to see if there was actually a beetle within that sound. If you take the sound purely as a sound, can you even establish a solid "thing" called a sound within that mere sensation? Take your observation right to that point. Take it to its very own nature. If you apply wisdom (paññā) to see the true nature of what is seen (diṭṭha), heard (suta), sensed (muta), and cognized (viññāta), the reality of your day-to-day life will become profoundly clear.

So, come back to the point I am making. Apply this to every event in your life. Even the activities you perform throughout the day—life is just a series of activities. That is what we consider "living" throughout the day. Whether it is thinking about the future or thinking about the past, try to isolate it to just that. Isolate the activity purely to the activity itself. Once you isolate and observe it, you will understand. We may have thought in a certain way, we may have separated these into four distinct categories: seeing, hearing, sensing, and cognizing. But ultimately, look at what this "seeing" actually is, by entering into the very nature of "seeing."

See the act of "hearing" purely through the nature of "hearing." Now, if I say the word "seeing" to a small child, what meaning does that have for the child? To that child, "seeing" is just seeing; there is no complex meaning attached to it. If I say "hearing," does that child understand that seeing is one thing, hearing is another, and sensing is yet another?

Do they split it into four, thinking "cognizing is another separate thing"? No, they do not. But why does it split into four for us? Because the moment we say "seeing," we immediately entangle it. We entangle it with a form (rūpa), like "you, Venerable Sir." We say, "Ah, I see." Or, "Ah, I sense." Right. When I say "I sense," I immediately think, "I sense the ground on my foot." Do you see? We do not look at the act of "sensing" purely through itself. We immediately jump and tie it to a "foot" and the "ground."

We entangle the act of "seeing" with another perception (saññā). We tie it to "you, Venerable Sir," and to the "eye," concluding, "It is seen by the eye." Do you see how we entangle the act of seeing with "you"? Do you see how we entangle the act of "hearing" with "I heard a discourse" or "I heard a song"? When we repeatedly entangle and knot these things together, because of that very entanglement, we fail to see the thing in its true nature. Instead of seeing it in its own nature, we possess this tendency to entangle.

That is to say, the tendency to knot things together. Observe that. That is exactly the flaw. However, then we realize that this very tendency to entangle is the flaw here. We never see life purely as life. If we were to see the event purely as the event in that moment, we would realize that the act of "hearing" has no inherent meaning whatsoever. The act of "seeing" has no inherent meaning.

The act of "sensing" has no inherent meaning. Consequently, you cannot even categorize them as four distinct things. We split them into four because we entangle the act of "seeing" with something else. In reality, we feel as though life is split into four distinct actions: seeing, hearing, sensing, and cognizing. We think, "I saw, I heard, I sensed, I thought." And because we split it into four, we then create further divisions within: "seeing belongs to the eye, hearing to the ear, sensing to the nose and body, and thinking to the mind." A continuous process of division occurs within.

Observe that right there. Gradually understand this mechanism. As you gradually understand this, you will realize that you can think about anything—whether it is next month or last year—without comparing it to something else. Even if you think about it, there is no clinging, no internal establishment. Why? Because wisdom (paññā) is operating there. There is the knowledge (ñāṇa) of seeing each thing precisely in its own place.

That knowledge is present. That is exactly what we call mindfulness (sati). This is precisely what we do during meditation. When we meditate, we try as much as possible to stay in the present moment, without trying to understand what is seen, heard, or sensed by comparing it to something else. We remain in that pure awareness. We remain in that mindfulness (sati). We do not compare what is seen to something else. We do not compare what is thought to something else. When memories of the past arise, we do not compare them.

Without analyzing or comparing anything, we remain in complete awareness. That is what we call practicing meditation. Throughout the day, we speak and we explain things. However, we remain in complete mindfulness (sati). As we remain in this complete mindfulness, we gradually begin to understand that our inner being is much like a movie screen.

This is a simile I often use. Think about watching a movie. We are watching a movie, and five minutes ago, we saw the actress in the kitchen. Then, about twenty minutes later, we see the actress in the living room. In reality, what is being shown are just frames of pictures. But we assume, "Ah, she was in the kitchen five minutes ago, and now she has come to the living room."

Even though we assume that, please understand this simile: even though we assume that, no such event actually took place. We merely thought about it, while on the movie screen, only two projections appeared. Now, just think about it: those two projections, those two pictures... direct your mind towards the screen. If you look from the perspective of the screen, did someone who existed in the past just appear in the current projection? No.

What hits the projection is always just the picture of that exact moment, in that exact moment. Was it the exact same person from the kitchen who appeared in the next scene? Observe this carefully. Was it the woman from the kitchen? When you watch a movie, does the exact same physical form of the woman from the kitchen appear in the next moment? No. They are two separate pictures. But observe this: as these two pictures are projected in the movie, we feel that the exact same woman we saw five minutes ago has now walked into the living room.

But think about it: did the story we constructed in our minds actually project onto the screen? No such thing happened on the screen. Only two frames of pictures appeared on the screen, that is all. Through our mental formation (manasikāra), we assume, "Ah, this is the continuation of the woman who was in the kitchen." However, these two pictures have absolutely no connection to each other. Neither that picture, nor this picture.

But without those two pictures, you cannot even construct that thought. Now, observe this carefully. As we try to understand this process, what happens if we look at the picture projected in that exact moment purely as that picture, without comparing it to the picture from the kitchen? Then, this projected picture loses its constructed meaning. Yet, this is exactly what happens in our lives all the time. Our lives are just like this movie screen—constantly, new frames of pictures are being projected.

If you direct your mindfulness (sati) purely to that specific frame, purely to the act of seeing in that very moment, then you will no longer find a continuous existence of a woman walking from the kitchen to the living room, and from the living room to the office. This sense of continuous existence becomes empty. This continuous path of existence begins to disappear. If you truly direct your mindfulness to that exact point in the movie, without comparing it to anything else, and just observe the act of seeing in that moment, see what happens.

What happens then? We become the screen itself. As mindfulness (sati) grows and deepens, our lives become exactly like the events on that movie screen. Everything is projected onto the screen of the present moment. Gradually, we begin to see the story. We see the story, and we see the actress appearing again and again. If someone comes and asks us, we might even say, "Yes, that is the same person who was in the kitchen."

But imagine if we truly became the screen. If we became the pure nature of that moment. Even as we speak those words, we would not actually acquire a "woman who came from the kitchen" in the living room. In reality, the very concept of "a woman in the living room" loses all meaning. That act of seeing loses all interpretation. It is exactly like a small child watching a movie.

Imagine a small child sitting in that theater. What kind of vision do they have? For that child, there is no complex interpretation of what is seen. That is exactly what begins to happen within us. Gradually, gradually. That is what happens when we remain in true mindfulness (sati). What happens when we remain awake and aware in this present moment, here and now? We become the nature of that screen. The danger here is this: do you know what people who approach this discourse through mere logic do? They think, "Well, there's nothing here anyway, so why bother meditating? Why practice walking meditation?" They mentally conclude, "Ah, there is no past. Everything is relative."

They think like that and reduce it to logic. Right, I explained those points to address the logic. That is where I spoke about wisdom (paññā). But the trap many people fall into is that they go beyond that and conclude, "Right, there is no chair here. There is no past here. There is no future here. There is no present here." They take this discourse purely intellectually and turn it into nonsense.

Right, think about this: just because you heard this and grasped the logic of it, it does not mean you have realized it (paccakkha). This discourse you heard must become a direct realization for you. You must become the true nature of the past, future, and present. You cannot achieve that simply by thinking, "Ah, there is no duality here." That is why we constantly emphasize the cultivation of mindfulness (sati). That is why we say to keep your mind anchored on the body, to maintain your attention on the body, and to remain continuously in the present moment, here and now.

Because otherwise, this entire discourse will just become a logical exercise. Anyone can analyze this logically. If someone listens to this recording about fifty times—no, not even fifty times, someone with a good education in mathematics or engineering, someone with that kind of analytical ability, can easily explain this using logic.

But that is not enough. You need to hear these words, yes. But after that, from the moment you wake up in the morning, there is work to be done on this path. That is when we say: let this wisdom guide you, listen to this discourse, and throughout the day, remain in a state of inner mindfulness and wakefulness. As you continue to remain in that state, without even realizing it, your life will become like that screen.

You will become the screen. But to become empty, because you possess the wisdom heard in this discourse, you will not cling to anything. You know that if you try to establish yourself anywhere, it is only relative to something else. Because you have that wisdom, your mindfulness (sati) is not a mindfulness that clings. Why? Because it is a mindfulness accompanied by wisdom (paññā). Having listened to the discourse, having associated with noble friends (kalyāṇamitta), and having developed the wisdom of relativity, you practice the foundations of mindfulness (satipaṭṭhāna) from morning till night, performing your activities while remaining in that wakefulness.

As you perform your activities in that wakefulness, guided by the discourse, you begin to understand that this entire movie is projected in a single moment. Even if we watch a three-hour movie, it is not as if one single person sat there and the exact same actor acted continuously for three hours until the end. In each and every moment, there was merely a projection creating the illusion that an actor was present.

That is what we call an illusion. Everything in this life is merely a projection within this present moment. It is just like that. As you increasingly become that screen, you will understand. Even if we say the Buddha appeared 2,500 years ago, or if we think Maitreya Buddha will appear in another 2,500 years, all of this is like that three-hour movie. Even if we say the movie started with the birth of Gautama Buddha and ended with the birth of Maitreya Buddha, both of these events are merely projections on the screen of the present moment.

It is not as if Gautama Buddha appeared an hour ago and Maitreya Buddha appeared three hours later. All of it is merely a projection, a reflection, occurring in that exact moment on the same screen. And that projection is entirely empty (suñña). That projection is nothing but a reflection on the screen. However, as long as there is a screen, there is a projection. As long as there is a projection, a screen is found.

Therefore, ultimately, even this screen is relative. Mindfulness (sati) is also relative. The present is also relative. That is to say, even if we establish mindfulness (sati) and find something—even a mere projection—it is still relative to the screen. That is exactly why the Buddha says: come to the middle, but do not become smeared in the middle either. Remain in the middle. Because the projection exists as long as the screen exists, and the screen becomes relative as long as the projection exists.

There is a very subtle knot there. That is why the Buddha says to abandon both extremes, and do not even linger on the screen, the middle. Do not turn the screen into a "thing." The screen is not a place to establish yourself or cling to. It is like the level of a small child. When a child goes to watch a movie, even though they have no complex interpretations, they still have the basic sensation of seeing, hearing, and sensing. They feel, "I am seeing something."

The teaching says do not even cling to that point. Do not establish yourself even there, because that too is relative. It is not an absolute truth. Even for that child... the child may not know the concepts of "man" or "woman" yet, but they still see something on the screen. They have the feeling, "I am seeing something," the feeling of "sensing." In meditation, you become that wakefulness, you become the movie screen.

However, this is the reality: this is all we can do. We cannot actively "do" anything beyond that mindfulness (sati). The maximum we can do, while listening to this discourse, is to settle into that state of wakefulness. The greatest justice we can do for this truth, while holding onto this wisdom, is to simply remain in that state of wakefulness without proliferating thoughts (papañca).

Becoming that wakefulness is itself the beginning of realization. This life, which we have taken so seriously, begins to turn into a mere play. Gradually, gradually, our own life... For example, think of a play. In a play, I might say, "I am Nanda." I am acting in the play. In the play, I declare, "I am Nanda."

But while acting in the play, I say, "I am Nanda, I did this to the king, I did that, I did this." When I say "I am Nanda" within the play, the actor playing that role, even as they say "I am Nanda, I acted like this, I will become a queen in the future," does not feel even the slightest genuine attachment to those concepts.

They do not feel, "This is my past, this is my future." Even though they use the word "Nanda," if you ask, "Who is Nanda in this role?" there is no real interpretation for "Nanda." That is what it means for it to become a play. Nanda is just Nanda, that is all. Did the character Nanda exist in the past? Does the actor playing Nanda in a television drama exist in the past? Will they exist in the future? And even in the present, when they speak as Nanda, who exactly are they calling Nanda? The concept of Nanda is just a mere play.

Even the meaning we give to the concept of a "play" and to "Nanda"—remove that as well and observe. It is exactly like that. Now, within the play, when Nanda speaks about Nanda, can she not speak? Can she not explain, "I am Nanda. I am this person. I danced with that person, I danced with this person. I will dance with that person in the future"? Nanda will say, "I danced with so-and-so."

When Nanda says, "I danced, I will dance in the future," the very nature of Nanda, the past and future of Nanda, is never truly acquired. But imagine if we, while watching the play, forget it is a play. As Nanda explains her story, we might think, "Wow, Nanda is talking about her past. Nanda is this kind of character." We might think like that. But the actor playing Nanda does not feel any of that.

Do you see? For the one playing Nanda, no such reality is established. Even as they speak about Nanda, they know it is just a story. In the same way, as you continuously cultivate mindfulness (sati), as you develop mindfulness, you will gradually begin to understand. We also talk about our past. We say, "I was like this, I will be like this in the future." That is exactly like the character Nanda describing her story in the play. The character Nanda in the play never possessed a real past, a real future, a real present, a real place of existence, or a real person. Did Nanda ever truly exist? Is there a time when Nanda existed? Is there a place where Nanda existed? Is there a specific moment when Nanda existed? No. It is completely empty (suñña) of time, place, and space.

It is just "Nanda," that is all—Nanda in the play. The Nanda in the play has no past, no future, no present, no place to exist, no house to live in, and no current location. But the audience can suddenly forget this. The audience might think, "Nanda has a past, Nanda is acting now, Nanda has a future." In the exact same way, if you ask an Arahant—someone who has perfectly realized this truth—"How are we going on the trip next month?" they will reply, "Yes, let's go on the trip next month. Let's go at this time, let's travel this way, let's do this."

However, when someone without realization hears "we are going on a trip next month," they feel a sense of joy related to a "time." They feel there is a "place" to go, they feel there is a "next month." They acquire a "place." They acquire a "thing." They acquire a destination, and they acquire a "person" who is going. But the one who has realized the truth, the one who has seen the true nature of things, will also say, "Let's go on the trip next month."

They will also plan. They will organize. But as they organize and plan, they do not take "next month" relative to something else. Therefore, "next month" is not a destination to reach. "Next month" is not a period of time. Since there is no "time," no "person" who goes is found. No "place" to go is found. They use the exact same words: "trip next month." But for one person, talking about it brings joy or sorrow.

For them, there is a time, a place, a thing. But for the one who sees it perfectly in its own nature, without comparing it to anything else, what is "next month"? Is it a known thing, a known time, a known place? They remain entirely in a state of 'not knowing'. In reality, a "person" cannot exist in a state of 'not knowing'. A "person" arises from the illusion of "knowing." Observe this: do you understand now that there are not two separate lives—a life of Dhamma and a life of non-Dhamma?

In truth, the life we live, the life rooted in ignorance (avijjā), is a state of 'not knowing'. The mass of formations (saṅkhāra) that arise from this 'not knowing' is what we call the existence of an ordinary person (puthujjana), as stated in "with ignorance as condition, formations come to be" (avijjā paccayā saṅkhārā). The life of a Noble One (Ariya) is the realization of this very 'not knowing'. They have realized the 'not knowing' through the 'not knowing'.

Therefore, whether they speak of next month, next year, a second, or an hour, it is all grounded in the reality of 'not knowing'. That is the truth of life. The truth is that our life is fundamentally unknowable. It is from this unknowable state that we perform all these activities. To the ordinary person (puthujjana), the activities of next month, next year, a second, or an hour seem real. They believe there is a real time, a real second, a real place, a real life. The Noble One (Ariya) speaks of these exact same things, like a child.

But they have become like a child through wisdom (paññā). They have become like a child through profound understanding. Because of this wisdom, they can speak and say anything. When they say "next month," they do not have the feeling of the ordinary person who thinks, "Not today, tomorrow." Yet, they can do as much work as needed for "next month."

They can speak, they can converse. But the heavy burden is not there. The sense of a "person" is not there. The attachment to joy and sorrow is not there. The emotional turbulence is not there. So, this is what I have tried to remind you throughout today's discourse. Please understand clearly: there are not two separate lives called the mundane (lokiya) and the supramundane (lokuttara). The Dhamma is simply the continuous, deepening vision of the true nature of this very life we speak of.

As you attain the vision of the true nature, you do not find a duality of "false vision" versus "true vision." You simply find the pure nature of the thing itself. Then, the Arahant also says "next month," but having seen its true nature. The ordinary person (puthujjana) also says "next month," but without having seen its true nature. Very well, let us conclude for today. May the Triple Gem bless you all (Theruwan Saranai).

Original Source (Video):

Title: අනිදස්සන විඤ්ඤාණය - 14 |Ven Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | නිහඬ අරණ

https://youtu.be/AtLnYijPyqs?si=oX9IvuDG61i_7zhF

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.