ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» º º º BuddhaNet: Buddhist Info Network Buddha Dharma Education Assoc. º º Web Site: www.buddhanet.net PO Box K1020 Haymarket NSW 2000 º º Email: bdea@buddhanet.net Tel: +61-2-92123071 AUSTRALIA º º º ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍͼ * DEVELOPING AWARENESS * by Patrick Kearney (c) Spring 1994 Tonight we are beginning a practice called satipatthana vipassana. This is an ancient form of Buddhist meditation which comes from the time of the Buddha himself. The root text of the tradition is the Satipatthana-sutta, which can be found in the Digha and Majjhima Nikayas. Satipatthana vipassana as we practise it here comes to us through a tradition popularised by the late Mahasi Sayadaw. Born in 1904 in upper Burma, north of Mandalay, Mahasi Sayadaw studied the Buddhist scriptures before taking up meditation practice under the guidance of Mingun Sayadaw. After completing his training, Mahasi Sayadaw returned to his home monastery to teach. This monastery had a big drum, maha si in Burmese. Sayadaw literally means "royal teacher", and is a title of respect given to a senior Burmese monk. So Mahasi Sayadaw was the Big Drum Teacher. He was given this name because of the drum in his monastery, and because of his fame as a teacher: he beat the drum of the dharma, and many people heard it. When Burma became independent in 1948 the new government sponsored a revival of Buddhism. This included creating a centre in Rangoon to teach meditation practice, especially to laypeople. Teaching meditation to laypeople was an innovation, as in traditional Buddhist societies meditation is generally practised only by monks and nuns. Mahasi Sayadaw was invited to be in charge of the new centre. The Mahasi Sasana Yeiktha (or Mahasi Centre, as it is generally referred to in English) now teaches thousands of students every year and has over 300 branch centres inside and outside Burma. It remains one of the most important centres of Theravada Buddhism in the world today, and the source of one of the most influential meditation lineages in Theravada Buddhism. The Buddha talked about meditation in terms of two aspects: calm and wisdom. Depending on how we goes about our meditation practice, we can practice with a focus on developing either calm or wisdom. Satipatthana vipassana is a wisdom practice, and is essentially about understanding the real nature of ourselves and our world. Satipatthana is a compound word derived from sati and upatthana. Sati means "awareness"; upatthana means "foundation"; so satipatthana means "the foundation of awareness". Vipassana comes from the root pas, meaning "to see"; passana means "seeing", and the prefix vi denotes separation. Vipassana means seeing separately, seeing distinctly, and therefore seeing with penetration. Satipatthana vipassana is the penetrating vision which is founded on awareness. Usually this kind of meditation is called vipassana meditation, or insight meditation, but strictly speaking, vipassana or insight is not something that we do. Insight is what happens as a result of what we do. What we do is develop awareness; the development of awareness is the entirety of the practice. Buddhism is a wisdom tradition. The word buddha comes from the root budh, meaning "wake", or "know". A buddha is an awakened one, one who knows. The English word "enlightenment" is a bit misleading. This word was used by early translators of Buddhist scriptures, but it comes from a European tradition which upholds the supremacy of reason. Enlightenment in the European sense refers to the light of reason. Enlightenment in the Buddhist sense has got nothing to do with the thinking mind. The Pali equivalent is bodhi, "awakenment". We are concerned here with awakenment; this is the essential goal of meditation practice. The Buddha began his teaching with the simple statement that we have a problem; everyone has a problem. If we who are gathered here tonight did not have a problem, none of us would have come. This universal problem, or rather the fact that everyone has a problem, the Buddha called dukkha. Dukkha is usually translated as "suffering", but can more accurately be translated as "unsatisfactoriness". Dukkha is a technical term which refers to the fact that every aspect of our experience is not quite perfect; every aspect of our experience is unsatisfactory. Dukkha ranges from the most gross physical pain on one extreme through to the slightest imperfection on the other. An experience of exquisite pleasure is, from the Buddhist point of view, dukkha, unsatisfactory, because even as we enjoy this pleasure, at the back of our minds a shadow lurks - the knowledge that this too will end. If an experience was perfect it would not end - it would just go on forever. Hence, people have the ideal of heaven as the goal of the religious life - the place in which there is happiness, permanently. In other words, a place where there is no dukkha. We haven't actually met anybody who has been to heaven, because in terms of human experience permanent happiness never occurs. There is no situation, no aspect of our experience, which is perfect. The body is unsatisfactory; the body is uncomfortable. This can be tested. Try going home and adopting the most comfortable position that you can, so you are at your most relaxed and most comfortable. Then see how long you can remain still before you must move. As soon as you move, check yourself and ask: "Why do I want to move?" The answer will be it's because I'm not comfortable, I want to get comfortable. That's why we move. And if we want to get comfortable, that means we are un- comfortable. The same applies for the mind. If the mind was comfortable, we could rest the mind on any experience and just leave it there; but we can't. The mind is incredibly restless, moving from one thing to another, to another, to another, to another. It does this for the same reason that the body moves - because it's always looking for satisfaction and never quite getting it. We have a problem, and the way to resolve the problem is to understand the problem. Satipatthana, the development of awareness, is all about learning how to look. If we look, then it's possible we may see; if we see, in that seeing there is understanding. To see is to understand. Further, when there is understanding, the problem dissolves. Understanding is the cessation of suffering. This is a pretty radical statement. Why the Buddha saw things this way is something we will talk about as the weeks go by. But the basic principle guiding our practice is this: to see is to understand; and to understand is to solve the problem. The kind of understanding we are talking about is not intellectual. It has nothing to do with philosophy. The looking and seeing in meditation practice is extraordinarily simple, and the reason why it is so difficult is precisely because it is so simple. We are constantly trying to make things complicated. As soon as we start to think about things we complicate them. Meditation practice is the simplicity of direct experience, rather than the complexity of thinking about experience. What we do is look at our experience, the experience of the body and of the mind; the mind-body process. The Buddha called his way to awakenment the noble eightfold way, the way which has eight aspects. Of these eight aspects, three deal directly with meditation, and we will be working with these three aspects each night we are here. They are: vayama; sati; and samadhi. Vayama is usually translated as "effort", but is really "energy/effort"; sati is "awareness"; and samadhi, usually translated as "concentration", is "calm". We are developing these three aspects - energy, awareness, calm - and the central one is awareness. Awareness is that which knows what is happening as it is happening; that which knows what is happening, now. The first thing to notice about awareness is that awareness always refers to what is happening right now. I cannot be aware of what will happen; it's impossible. I cannot be aware of what did happen; that also is impossible. I can only be aware of what is happening, right now. The field of our investigation is right now. Awareness requires energy. If there is no energy there can't be any awareness. When we are asleep we are not aware, except in dream images. This is because the energy levels of the body and mind are very low. When we full of energy the mind is clear. The energy which is required in the meditation practice is purely and simply the energy necessary to turn the attention to some specific experience. Awareness is always awareness of some specific experience. There is no such thing as awareness in a vacuum; awareness always has an object. "I'm aware" means that "I'm aware of some thing". Awareness is specific. The energy involved in the meditation practice is the effort necessary to deliberately turn and aim the mind to "What is it that I'm aware of right now?"; "What is this, right now?" Imagine I'm walking down the street with a friend and my friend says, "Look at that!", giving no indication of what he is referring to. There is a lot going on in my field of vision, so how can I know what he is talking about? If he points and says, "Look at that over there!", then I can turn my attention and look at that specific thing there. This is the energy involved in meditation practice: the energy necessary to turn the attention and look at that thing there. In walking down the street physical energy is involved as I turn my head; in meditation the energy is not physical, but purely mental. Just turning the attention to that something. So energy and awareness always go together. The energy, the effort involved, is to turn the attention to what is happening, right now; what is happening, now; what is it, now?; what is it, now? If awareness is continuous over a period of time, then spontaneously and quite naturally the mind will calm down. We then have our third factor, calm. Samadhi, or calm, is usually translated as "concentration" Samadhi comes from the root dha, "to put" or "to place"; the prefix a, which means "toward"; and the prefix sam, which here means "together" or "with". It means "to put together" or "to bring together". Samadhi is defined in the Buddhist scriptures as the "unification of the mind". Bringing everything together into one. Samadhi is the capacity of the mind to rest upon a single experience. Note the use of the word "rest". When I started practising meditation I was confused by the use of the word "concentration", because for me concentration was something which I had to do in school, when sitting hunched over a desk with a worried frown on my face. But that is not concentration, it is strain. Samadhi is calm. It is the capacity of the mind to rest and be still. Normally the mind is rushing from one thing to another. We can compare the movement of mind with the movement of steam. The steam molecules are rushing all over the place. When the steam cools and becomes water, the molecules are sliding around but they are not moving so violently. The temperature drops further and ice forms. The molecules are still moving but their movement is very restricted. The more the temperature drops, the more restricted the movement of the molecules, until we reach absolute zero temperature. Here the molecules are completely still. Just as there is absolute zero temperature, so there is absolute samadhi, where the mind is completely motionless. Tranquillity practice, where the aim of the practice is simply to make the mind motionless, is samatha. There are various benefits which arise from calm. The most obvious is bliss. The more still the mind is, the more blissful the experience. You could say that the mind is naturally blissful, and this bliss manifests, quite spontaneously, to the degree that the mind calms down. That is one of the major attractions of this kind of practice. If we go through a period each day when we still the mind and experience a bliss which is not dependent upon external circumstances, then obviously this is going to be very beneficial, very therapeutic. There are these three aspects of mind: energy/effort; awareness; calm. We must have balance between these three aspects. If there is not enough energy and too much calm, then the mind is very peaceful, still, and having a good time; but heavy, dull, not knowing. We may even fall asleep. If there's too much energy and not enough calm, then the mind becomes very tense, very restless, and although it's working very hard, trying to concentrate, it can't actually penetrate the experience. It can't get below the surface of things. The mind just becomes very agitated; controlled, but agitated. Energy on the one hand and calm on the other must be balanced; the balancing factor is awareness. You can have too much energy; you can have too much calm; you can not have too much awareness. Awareness brings energy and calm into balance. When they are in balance then you find that the whole practice opens. Awareness functions as a balancing factor for all mental factors, for all aspects of the mind, not just these two. If we have a balanced mind, we have a balanced life. What brings balance to the mind is awareness. When there is a great deal of awareness in the mind upekkha manifests. Upekkha means "equanimity". In early translations upekkha was grossly mistranslated as "indifference". Enlightened people are supposedly indifferent to what's going on. Equanimity, however, is not indifference. Indifference is a dull state of mind and presupposes a lack of awareness. Where there is strong awareness, there is balance. A mind which is balanced is completely alive, intimate with every experience and interested in what's going on. Indeed, one thing we discover in the practice is that when there is strong awareness everything becomes interesting. If you walk into a meditation hall and look at what people are doing, you see them sitting still or doing slow walks up and down, 30 minutes or 60 minutes at a time. You wouldn't have to stand there very long before thinking: "This is incredibly boring! How can they do this?" But as one actually practises, as awareness develops, it becomes endlessly fascinating. Doing the walking meditation we discover that every step is uniquely different. When we are indifferent, or bored, everything is the same. Every day is the same. But when there's awareness, every moment is totally unique, and because it's totally unique, it's endlessly fascinating. The extraordinary thing is that every moment is totally unique; this moment is unique. This is the way things are. But we don't see it. Where there is strong awareness, we actually begin to see it. We begin to see things as they are. We are developing energy, awareness and calm, and to do this we give the mind something to be aware of, calling it the primary object. We make this primary object the breathing as sensed in the abdomen. As I breathe in the abdomen moves, it swells, or as they say in Burma, the abdomen "rises". As I breathe out, again there is movement in the abdomen, the abdomen "falls". There is a "rising" and a "falling". The rising and the falling of the abdomen are the primary object. Here, "rising" and "falling" are code for the actual physical sensations experienced in the body when I breathe in and when I breathe out. We focus attention on the abdomen because for most people most of the time the sensations involved with breathing are the most gross and obvious in this area. However, as you look for these sensations that occur in the body as the result of breathing - movement, pressure, tension, and so on - focus on wherever they are most predominant in this moment. They may be in the abdomen, they may be in the chest, they may be moving around. It doesn't matter where the sensations occur, what is important is that you examine them where they are most obvious and distinct. If you are in any doubt, focus on the abdomen. Don't spend time thinking about "What am I supposed to be looking at?" That's one of the reasons why we have this primary object, it eliminates the need for internal discussion. We are looking at the breathing process and discover that, directly experienced, the in-breath is a series of sensations - movement, pressure, tension and so on - within the body. The out-breath is a series of changing physical sensations. It is these actual sensations that we are looking at. And just as when walking down the street my friend indicates something by pointing to it, in the same way we use a pointing technique; we use labels. As we look at some experience we stick a label on it. While breathing in we use the label "rising; rising", mentally repeating the words. While breathing out we use the label "falling; falling". If a different label spontaneously arises, one which describes the sensation more appropriately, then feel free to use it, but if you have no particular objection to them, just use "rising" and "falling". These are simply labels; they are not what we are looking at. When someone points to something to indicate it to us, we look at the thing indicated, not the finger that points. The attention is not on the label, the attention is on the actual sensation, the actual experience, of breathing in and breathing out. So, I'm looking at my breathing. Inevitably, at some point I realise that my mind has gone off somewhere; I realise I am "distracted". As soon as I realise that, I am faced with a choice. I could, for example, begin to think: "I'm not doing it! I'm supposed to be looking at my breath. I was doing it a moment ago, but now I've lost it." When we do this we abandon the practice. The secret of this practice is the continuity of awareness. If I react to my loss of attention and then return to the breath I have deliberately and knowingly created a gap in the awareness. But what I want to do is to narrow the gaps as much as possible, to ensure that awareness is continuous. To do this I make the distraction itself the practice, and call it the secondary object. This brings us to our alternative. I'm sitting here observing the breath. I start off watching the inhalation, the exhalation, and as I'm doing this I'm making the label "rising; falling". Pretty soon I fall into a dream state, until I suddenly awaken with the realisation, "I'm dreaming". At this moment I look at the experience - "dreaming; dreaming" - and I stick the label on it. I identify it. Right now, this is what I'm doing: "dreaming; dreaming"; "thinking; thinking". Awareness is that which knows what is happening now. If what is happening now is a distraction, then my awareness can only be awareness of this distraction itself. If I fail to grasp this, and seek to drop my "distraction" in order to return to my "meditation", then in fact I deliberately postpone the meditation in order to pick it up again some time in the future. But awareness postponed is awareness denied. The complete instruction for the practice is: "Be aware!". How can I be aware all the time? I can't. But what I can do is be aware now. I can be aware of anything, including the fact that I am no longer aware. To be clearly aware of my distraction is awareness; it is the practice itself. Note that what I am not doing as I investigate my distractions is looking at the content of the mind; what I am doing is looking at the process of the mind. If I realise that I'm daydreaming about something, I am not interested in what the daydream is about. That is completely and utterly irrelevant. What I am interested in is simply the fact of daydreaming. The mind is like a television on the information superhighway, with ten thousand channels available twentyfour hours a day, seven days a week. I have a remote control device, and can instantly switch from any one of these ten thousand channels to any other. Every channel plays a single soap opera, and the star of every soap opera is me! All of these soap operas are endlessly fascinating, and none of them come to an end. I do not want to get caught up in the soap opera. It's the difference between someone sitting in a room watching television and being absorbed in the drama, and someone who comes into the room, sees that person is watching the television, simply observes, "George is watching the soap opera", and leaves. Both of these people are seeing exactly the same thing, they are both seeing the same television and the same soap opera. But there is a difference in attitude between the two. One is absorbed in the drama; the other is simply observing - "Television is on; soap opera". That's all. And that's the kind of looking we are developing in this practice. When there is thinking, just make the label "thinking; thinking", and try to watch simply the fact of thinking. "Dreaming; dreaming". An emotion will come, a feeling will arise. Identify it. "Boredom; boredom". "Worry"; "sorrow"; "pleasure"; "anticipation"; whatever it is. Watch it. Know what it is. Feel it, taste it, investigate it. Investigate it not by thinking about it, wondering "What's going on here? Why am I feeling this? I was feeling differently a moment ago. What happened to me ten years ago that I should be feeling like this now?" The investigation of the feeling is simply observing the feeling, now, with penetrating attention. I realise I'm feeling irritated. What does it feel like? What does irritation actually feel like? What does it feel like in the mind? What does it feel like in the body? The Buddha said "Anger burns". Does it? Is there any heat, any change in the body, when I'm feeling angry? Where is it? Is there any tightness? Do I get tight in the belly? In the neck? In the head? I sit watching the sensations in the abdomen, when suddenly I realise I'm thinking of something. I watch "thinking; thinking", and go back to the primary object. But then I realise I'm thinking about the same thing again, and it becomes clear there is something else going on here - "anxiety; anxiety". The thoughts are motivated. Underneath those thoughts there is a feeling, "anxiety; anxiety", and I watch anxiety. What does it feel like? I might discover that the stomach is tense - "tension; tension". Then I feel hardness in the back - "hard; hard". It is a continuous and everchanging investigation. Whatever is happening now, that's what I'm looking at. Please remember: it doesn't matter what the object of awareness is; what matters is the quality of the awareness. We can be looking at anything, and the meditation will work. When we are not looking, the meditation is not working. Beginners must be careful, however. It's easier to look at physical experiences. Physical experiences are fairly gross and obvious. They stick around for a while. The mind is incredibly slippery, incredibly fast. It's very difficult to catch. Also we are much more likely to identify with the mind. If a thought arises we see it as my thought; if a feeling arises we see it as my feeling; and we get caught up with them. We also identify with physical sensations, but they not quite as gripping. In the beginning it's better to stay in the body as much as possible. We sit here and we start to hurt. I'm sure some of you are feeling a bit achey already, sitting in this unusual posture. What does it feel like in the buttocks? If I put my attention to the buttocks I feel: hardness; sharpness; the touch of the foot against the thigh - warmth; pressure. There are all sorts of sensations going on, and they become uncomfortable. Pretty soon I can observe "pain; pain". Pain is very interesting, partly because it compels our attention, and partly because if we actually look at it, it breaks up. There is the physical sensation and the mental response to the physical sensation, the response of "I don't like this". Both of these can be investigated. But when we look at some aspect of experience, we must be clear about what aspect we are looking at. When I look at physical sensation, just sensation; when I look at the mental response, just "dislike; dislike"; "aversion; aversion". Awareness is precise; it is awareness of this specific experience and not any other. In brief, we are looking at the body and mind as they manifest from moment to moment; the body and mind as they manifest, now. Our central reference point is the breath. We keep coming back to the breath when we are in any doubt about what's happening, if we don't know if we're doing it right, or if we have any questions or whatever. Whenever the mind goes somewhere else, as soon as I know that the mind has gone I identify that experience: "thinking"; "seeing"; "touching"; "feeling"; "hard"; "soft"; whatever it is. And in both cases, whether it's the breath, or whether it's anything else, I'm really looking at it closely. I want to know what it is. What exactly is this? Don't take anything for granted. The way of awareness presupposes an absolute refusal to take anything for granted. The attitude of the meditator is rather like the attitude of a certain rabbi who lived in a town in eastern Europe. Every morning before dawn he would get up and cross town to the synagogue. His route always took him across the town square. Every day, just as the sun was beginning to rise, the rabbi would appear in one street on the side of the square, walk right across and disappear down the opposite street. In the town square was a policeman, who was on that particular beat. And every day, at dawn, the policeman would see this particular rabbi appear out of one street, cross the square and disappear down the other street. One night the policeman went out on the town drinking, got home late and was severely scolded by his wife. Then he had to get up very early in the morning and stagger off to work. So that particular dawn he was standing in the square and feeling in a very bad mood. When the rabbi appeared at his usual place something snapped in the policeman. He called out, "Hey you!" "Me?", replied the rabbi. "Get over here!", the policeman said. The rabbi came up to him. The policeman demanded, "Where do you think you're going?" "I don't know." The policeman was furious. "Don't give me cheek! Where are you going?" "I don't know." This infuriated the policeman even further, and he grabbed the rabbi and shook him and said, "For the last time, where are you going?" The rabbi just looked him in the eyes and said, "I don't know." This was enough for the policeman. He dragged the rabbi off to the police station, thinking of the innumerable charges he would throw at him. He was in the very act of hurling him into a cell when the rabbi looked up and said, "You see! You never do know, do you?" This is the way it is. In actual fact we never do know. We take things for granted and switch into habit mode. We sleepwalk through our lives. As John Lennon says, "Life is what happens while we're busy making other plans." That is how we live most of the time. We take things for granted, we drop into habit. Taking things for granted, this habitual half- awake half-asleep state, is the norm. Here we are practising paying very close attention to what it is, right now. So don't take anything for granted. Look. Investigate. What is this inbreath? What does it actually feel like? Where is it? How long does it last? Look at it. Look at it. What about this outbreath? What is this? What's happening? Suddenly I'm distracted. What is it? What is this distraction? Come back to the breath. What is this breath? And do it now; do it now; do it now. Suddenly I realise I'm not doing it. "Thinking; thinking". Come back now; come back now. Don't postpone! Just do it now. The doing itself is incredibly simple. Just turn the attention to what is happening, right now. It could not be simpler. Just look - now! If we are looking, now; if we are simply observing what is happening, right now, then regardless of what is happening, regardless of what actually is, that's it. That's all we have to do. The path unfolds. If we are not doing it now, we're gone. Nothing is happening. There is a Zen expression: if you miss by a hair's breath, you are off by ten thousand miles. Ten thousand is the traditional Chinese number for infinity. If we miss by a hair's breath, we are off by an infinite distance. On the other hand, if we are here, we're right here! So simple. So difficult. (end of file)