Ajahn Chah's World of Meditation

1. A Brief Biography of Ajahn Chah

Ajahn Chah (1918–1992) was born into a large farming family in the Lao-speaking region of northern Thailand. From age nine to seventeen, he served as a samanera (novice monk), and at twenty he was ordained again. In 1946, he spent a brief time in the company of Ajahn Mun, who gave him this teaching that brought a deep realization: "Whatever arises in the mind, see it right there in the present moment — this itself is the true path of practice."

In the following years, Ajahn Chah often chose to practice in forests frequented by wild beasts to overcome his fear of death. In 1954, he was invited back to his hometown and established Wat Pa Pong. His teachings were strict and the practice austere, aimed at developing his disciples' patience and determination. Ajahn Chah did not emphasize any particular method of sitting meditation, nor did he encourage participation in intensive retreat courses. When guiding meditation, he first taught people to observe the in-and-out breath, then supplemented this with observation of bodily and mental changes. Maintaining a simple, natural attitude toward life, together with observing the mind, formed the essence of his practice.

II. Right View

Letting Go of Pleasure and Pain, Letting Go of Clinging

Developing the Mind — The Training of the Heart

Maintaining Awareness

Other

The spirit of practice at Wat Pa Pong is to establish correct understanding, then apply it together with mindfulness in every task and situation. This method of practice can be applied in any busy life as well.

Letting Go of Pleasure and Pain, Letting Go of Clinging

We cannot attain liberation because we still cling to craving and desire.

Before you enter true practice, you must clearly see the value of removing desire. Only then is real practice possible.

Of the two defilements, pain and pleasure, pain is easier to perceive. Therefore, we must bring up suffering so that we may put an end to our suffering. (The Four Noble Truths: "suffering," "the origin of suffering," "the cessation of suffering," and "the path.")

Pleasure is not our destination; pain is not our destination. The inner peace of the mind is our true destination. Know things as they truly are, and let go of attachment to all outer conditions. Take a heart free of clinging as your refuge.

The head of the snake is suffering; the tail of the snake is pleasure. Do not speak only of the head—even if you merely grasp the tail, it will turn and bite you just the same. Pleasure and pain, joy and sorrow, all arise from the same "snake"—desire. So when you are happy, the mind is not truly at peace.

Where do pleasure and pain exist? They both arise from clinging.

You must let go of both your liking and disliking, your pain and pleasure. Everything has two sides; you must see them completely. Then, when pleasure comes, you will not be carried away; when pain comes, you will not lose your composure. When pleasure arises, you will not forget pain, because you know they depend on each other.

When you feel hatred and resentment, you must practice loving-kindness with right view. In this way, your mind will become more balanced and stable.

A knife has a blade, a back, and a handle. When you pick up the knife, all three parts are picked up at once. By the same principle, if you have not learned this (neither good nor evil), you will not have true realization. If you pick up the good, the bad follows; if you pick up pleasure, pain follows. Train the mind until it can transcend good and evil—only then is practice complete.

We do not seek evil, nor do we seek good; we do not seek burden or ease, nor pleasure or pain. When our desires come to an end, peace is firmly established. The Buddha called this highest realization "Nibbāna," like the extinguishing of a fire.

If we think pleasure is ours, and pain is ours, then we are inviting trouble, because we will never be able to jump beyond the point of "having something on the mind." Ah! This is liking... It is nothing at all, only the arising and passing of a feeling.

Pleasure is unstable; it has arisen many times before. Pain is unstable; it has also arisen many times before. This is their way—they are "just that much." When you can see things as "just that much," then they remain "just that much." Once you are aware of clinging, there is no clinging or grasping. They will disappear. There is only arising and ceasing, and that is peace.

Based on the teaching of impermanence, we understand that pleasure and displeasure are both inconstant; neither can be relied upon, for nothing is permanent. With this realization, we will gradually cease believing in the various emotions and feelings that arise in the mind. Misunderstanding will diminish in proportion to our ceasing to believe—and this is the meaning of untying the knots.

When pain arises, it disappears. And when it disappears, pain arises again. There, it is simply the arising and disappearing of pain! Everything is only arising and ceasing, not as though anything were enduring. This view will give rise to a calm, even-minded feeling toward the world. We do not consider pleasure to be "ours," and likewise we do not consider dissatisfaction and unhappiness to be "ours." When we no longer think in that way, no longer cling to pleasure and pain, what remains is simply the true nature of things.

When does pain arise? It arises at the very moment we come to know that we have obtained something. This is where pain resides. If we hold the idea of "self," then everything around us becomes "mine," and confusion follows.

All things are merely things; they are not the cause of anyone's suffering. This is like a very sharp thorn—does it cause you pain? No, it is just a thorn; it does not trouble anyone. All things in the world are simply things; it is we who provoke them. If we leave them alone, they will not trouble anyone. Therefore the Buddha said: "Nibbāna is the highest bliss."

If you still have pleasure and pain, you are a person who has not yet eaten their fill. You must cast away pleasure and pain together—they are only food for those who have not yet eaten their fill. In truth, pleasure is pain in disguise. If you cling to pleasure, it is the same as clinging to pain. Therefore, be careful! When pleasure arises, do not be carried away; do not be pulled along. When pain comes, do not despair; do not lose yourself in it. See clearly that pleasure and pain are of equal value.

When you grasp hold of a particular thing, is there pleasure in it? Or displeasure? If there is pleasure, can you hold onto that pleasure? If there is displeasure, can you hold onto that displeasure?

One who knows sees things as they truly are, and is neither pleased nor saddened by changing phenomena.

When things are going well, the mind does not rejoice; when things are not going well, the mind does not grieve.

The Buddhist teaching concerns abandoning evil and cultivating good. And when evil has been abandoned and good has been established, we must let go of both good and evil.

Practice is for letting go of both right and wrong; in the end, throw everything away.

Do not cling to goodness; do not cling to evil—these are the nature of the world. We practice in order to transcend the world, thereby bringing these matters to an end.

If it is good, do not hold onto it; if it is bad, do not cling to it. Both good and bad can bite people, so do not grasp hold of them.

The desire for pleasure kicks from one side, while pain and dissatisfaction kick from the other. These two sides have been besieging us all along. The Buddha taught us to continually let go of both sides—this is the correct path of practice, the way that leads us out of "birth" and "becoming." On this path, there is neither pleasure nor pain, neither good nor evil.

If we act only to get something in return, it will only give rise to suffering. Practice is no longer about gaining something; it is about letting go!

If you do not abandon your likes and dislikes, you have not yet made a true effort. Not letting go shows that even if you go searching for peace, you will not find it. Go and experience this truth for yourself!

The ultimate teaching of Buddhist sitting meditation is "letting go." Do not hold onto anything! Separate!

Leave some space; do not cling to things; hold, but do not cling. Hold it just long enough to consider it, understand it, then let it go. You do not need to know everything. For practitioners of the Dharma, just this much is enough—to know, and then to let go.

Train the mind until it is steady, until it lets go of all experiences. Then, things will come, but you will be aware of them without clinging. You do not need to force the mind and external objects apart. As you practice, they will naturally separate, revealing the basic elements of body and mind.

To separate the five aggregates from affliction (defilement) and clinging is like clearing the undergrowth in a forest without cutting down the trees. Everything is simply continually arising and passing away—afflictions have no foothold. We are simply born and die along with the five aggregates—they come and go according to their nature.

All good practice must ultimately return to one essence—non-clinging. In the end, you must let go of all meditation methods, even the teacher. If a method can guide us to let go, to non-clinging, then this is correct practice.

Even concentration (stillness) should not be clung to.

Let it go—all grasping and judging. Put it down. Do not try to become anything. Then, in that stillness, you can see through the entire illusion of self; nothing at all belongs to us. When our minds are still and awake, we naturally and freely reach this state of awakening. There is no permanent self; there is nothing inside at all. It is all merely the play of consciousness!

If you do not "want," then you will not practice; but if you practice because of desire, you will not see the Dharma. We practice with desire; if we had no desire, we would not practice. "Conception" and "transcendence" coexist. It is like a coconut—the flesh, the skin, and the shell are all together. When we buy a coconut, we buy the whole thing; if someone wishes to criticize us for eating the coconut shell, that is their business. We know what we are doing.

Sitting meditation is not about "gaining" anything, but about "removing" everything.

We are "born" in the very moment we think of things as "mine"—we arise from "becoming." Whatever we cling to, we "are" and exist in that moment.

"Existence" means "the realm of becoming": sense desire is born in forms, sounds, smells, tastes, tangibles, and mental objects. We identify with these things, and the mind tightly grasps and clings to sense desire.

Understand that everything that arises in the mind is merely feeling. They are brief and changing; they arise, exist, and disappear. They are simply that. They have no self or being; they are neither "us" nor "them." They are not worth clinging to—nothing at all is worth clinging to.

If there is grasping, this is called "birth." Both birth and death are built upon clinging to "formations" and dwelling on "formations."

If you cling to the feeling of anger toward someone, you will feel angry. What kind of practice is that?

If you want to keep on living, it will only bring you suffering. But wanting to die immediately, or wanting to die quickly—is that not also suffering?

The heart of one who practices does not scatter about, but abides in its own place. When good and evil, joy and sorrow, right and wrong arise, he is aware of them all. The meditator simply knows them, but does not allow them to "wet" his heart; in other words, he does not cling to any of them.

If someone curses us, but we have no sense of self, the matter ends at the words, and we do not suffer. If an unpleasant feeling arises, we should let it stop there, aware that the feeling is not us.

No one can teach you this (the truth). Only when the "mind" comes to know it for itself can it extinguish and abandon clinging.

Desire is always present; it is simply a state of mind. A person of wisdom also has desire, but without clinging.

Developing the Mind — The Training of the Heart

It is just like falling from a tree—before we understand what is happening—"Thud!"—we have already hit the ground. (The process of the fall is unclear.) This is the same as the Twelve Links of Dependent Origination. The suffering we directly experience is the result of having passed through the entire chain of the twelve links. This is why the Buddha exhorted his disciples to examine and fully know their own minds, so that they might catch themselves before they "hit the ground."

Do not do only what you like; do not indulge your thoughts. Stop this blind following. You must continually block this stream of ignorance, and this is called "training."

If you do not counteract your mind, then you simply follow the emotions. This kind of practice is incorrect, like indulging a child's every whim. Training your own heart must be the same: do not indulge its whims.

Train yourself with the Dharma, in place of emotional indulgence!

The heart of training is observing one's motives and examining the mind.¹ If we train this mind to possess a sense of shame and fear of wrongdoing, then we will exercise restraint; we will be cautious... Once this is so, our mindfulness will become stronger, and we will be able to maintain mindfulness at all times.

But read your own heart.

The responsibilities of the meditator are mindfulness, calm, and contentment. These can put an end to the habits of our "untrained mind."

In training the mind, you must not cling to praise or blame. Our habits keep the heart unsettled—these patterns follow us from our past actions, troubling us at every turn. Only a mind free of defilements can be truly at peace. You have to look inward, examining the faults committed through your body, speech, and mind. Aside from your own body, speech, and mind, where else could you possibly practice?

Making the mind strong means calming it, stopping it from wandering into idle thoughts. A peaceful mind finds the right balance. If you’ve reached a state of equanimity, accept it; if you can’t find peace, bear that too—that’s just how the heart is. We each have to find our own path of practice and sustain it consistently.

Focused training steadies the mind and makes it resilient. This kind of practice leads to deep inner calm. A heart that has been embanked, held in check, and trained consistently will reap immeasurable benefits.

Don’t just go along with your moods. Whether you’re feeling lazy or full of energy, keep at it—whether in sitting meditation, walking meditation, or even lying down, watch your breath. Talking about practice without actually doing it will never get you anywhere, but pushing too hard will just as easily lead to failure, and never trying at all obviously won’t work either! A steady, consistent effort over time is far more important than short bursts of fierce motivation. Practicing day after day, month after month, year after year—that’s the real skill.

Right practice is unbroken, consistent practice. Practice has to be continuous; this means that practice, including sitting meditation, happens in the mind, not the body. When your sitting meditation ends, don’t assume you’re done—recognize that you’ve only changed posture. If you reflect this way, you’ll find tranquility. This is what we call steady practice.

Put in the effort! All of you should strive to follow the path of practice—this is training. When you’re lazy, practice; when you’re diligent, practice; stay clearly aware of time and place—this is called "developing the mind."

Sometimes your sitting meditation goes well, other times it doesn’t. There’s no need to worry—just keep going. As you persist in practice, concentration will arise on its own; then use it to grow wisdom. See clearly that both joy and aversion spring from sense contact, and don’t cling to them. Don’t long for results or fast progress—babies first crawl, then walk, then run. Just strengthen your virtue and keep practicing steadily.

This is how we slowly find our own path: pulling in the net carefully, not missing a thing. We keep feeling our way forward—this is practice. If you enjoy it, do it; if you don’t, do it anyway—just keep going. This is our approach to meditation.

Practice is rooted in few desires and contentment. If you have energy, you practice; when you’re lazy, you still practice.

Whether you feel like practicing or not, you practice the same way. Whether you’re happy or unhappy, you practice the same way. If you’re comfortable, you practice; if you’re sick, you still practice. This is why past practitioners kept up continuous training of the heart. If something feels off, let it stay only in the body!

Right effort isn’t about forcing a special outcome. It’s the effort of staying awake and alert in every moment, the effort that overcomes laziness and mental defilements, the effort that keeps every activity of our day within the space of meditation.

Steadily observe what’s happening in the present moment. When you first start practicing, mindfulness comes in fits and starts, like drips from a faucet. But if you keep applying yourself diligently over time, eventually the gaps between the drops will disappear, and you’ll have a continuous flow. This steady stream of mindfulness is exactly the goal we’re working toward.

If you’re lazy and unmotivated, when will suffering ever end? If you’re lazy and unmotivated, what will you ever accomplish? Build up your practice—transcend laziness!

If you only listen to the teachings without putting them into practice, you’re like a ladle left in the soup pot every day—it’s surrounded by soup, but knows nothing of its flavor.

You can’t truly understand anything just by hearing about it. After you hear the teachings, you have to test them and explore them for yourself. No one else can do this work for you, and just listening to others speak won’t cut through your doubts. The only way to cut through doubt is to let go completely and try it for yourself.

When our practice starts to slacken, we have to watch the mind right away, steadying it. After a while the mind gets back on track, then slips again—this is how the mind keeps us trapped. But a person with mindfulness will strengthen their resolve, continually rebuilding themselves from the ground up. Turn back, try again, train again, and use this method to develop yourself.

You can’t walk the path of the Dhamma with your body alone—you have to walk it with your mind to gain its benefit.

For Buddhists, sitting meditation is about the mind—it exists to develop your own mind. A person who practices and develops their mind is someone putting the Dhamma into practice.

The Dhamma arises within practice itself. The teachings only point the way to understanding; if you want to understand the Dhamma, you have to bring those teachings into your own heart.

Only this body is locked in prison—don’t let your heart be locked up too.

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Maintaining Awareness

Our defilements are like fertilizer for our practice. It’s like using dirty things like chicken droppings and cow dung to fertilize our fruit trees—the fruit ends up sweeter and more plentiful. There is happiness within suffering; there is peace within confusion.

If used skillfully, defilements are incredibly useful. It’s like mixing chicken or cow droppings into soil to help a papaya tree grow. For example: when doubt arises, look straight at it, examine it in that very moment—doing this will help your practice grow and bear sweet fruit.

People often think that if they go somewhere where nothing ever happens, they’ll find peace. But in truth, if we lived in a very quiet place where nothing ever arose, could wisdom arise? Would we be aware of anything at all? Where things arise is where the cause lies—where the cause arises, that is where we must pay attention.

It’s best to practice with an even, balanced mind. If nothing is bothering you, there’s no need to fix anything; but when problems arise, you have to solve them right on the spot! Live with an even mind—there’s no need to go searching for anything special. Stay attentive, stay alert! When nothing is happening, that’s perfectly fine, but when difficulties arise, you have to bring your mind to bear on them, hold to right view, and you’ll naturally be able to resolve everything.

In everything you do, you have to be fully aware, completely clear in your heart. When you see things clearly, there’s no need to force or push yourself. You only feel obstructed and burdened because you don’t understand this point!

Practice is just about the heart and what the heart feels—it’s not something we have to chase after or fight to get. All you need to do is try to stay awake.

In practice, when you do walking meditation, resolve fully to walk; when you sit in meditation, focus only on that. Whether you’re walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, strive to stay calm and present.

Practicing the Dhamma doesn’t require you to search all over or exhaust yourself trying to achieve it—you just observe the different feelings that arise in your mind: when the eye sees form, the ear hears sound, the nose smells scent, the tongue tastes flavor, and so on—all of these come to this heart, a heart that is clear and awake.

Where these feelings arise is where we can awaken, where wisdom can be born.

When the sense bases and their objects make contact, they swiftly relay this to consciousness; after consciousness thoroughly examines and inspects it, it returns to the center—this is how we abide. Maintain alert, clear conduct, constantly observing with wisdom, and in this way our practice is complete. Knowing the mind’s reactions to objects clearly at all times is very important. Understand how they come and go, how they appear and vanish—all of this must be fully understood. Just as a spider nets various insects in its web, the mind gathers thoughts with the net of impermanence, suffering, and non-self. This is nourishment for our heart, nourishment for someone who is awake.

If we can stay awake often, our mindfulness will be like that unbroken stream of water; but if our heart wanders, our mindfulness will only be like those dripping drops.

Awakening doesn’t mean aversion to the world—it means the heart sees clearly, understanding that things can’t be fixed, that the world has always been this way. Understanding this, you let go of clinging, releasing with a heart that is neither joyful nor sorrowful, observing through wisdom, understanding the natural flux of "all conditioned things," and abiding in stillness.

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Other

Your duty is to practice—whether your progress is fast or slow, just know it as it is; don’t try to force it. This approach to practice will give you a solid foundation.

The three essential practices to put into action are: sense restraint, moderation in eating, and wakefulness. For a meditator, danger comes from external sense objects, which is why sense restraint is necessary—in fact, it is the highest virtue. Fasting constantly is far less valuable than learning to eat mindfully, taking only as much as you need, and learning to tell the difference between "desire" and "need." To cultivate wakefulness, you have to keep making effort, just like breathing, which has to continue no matter the situation.

The truth of impermanence is the simplest thing in the world, yet also the most profound.

If we have mindfulness, we will see impermanence in all things; we will see the Buddha, and transcend the suffering of cyclic existence.

Uncertain! How could it be any other way? Everything is like this!

Whenever anything arises in your heart, whether you like it or not, whether it seems right or wrong, simply cut through it with the thought "this is uncertain." This uncertainty is truly essential—it is what develops wisdom.

Impermanence and patient endurance—this is how we approach the Buddha’s teachings... Impermanence: everything is uncertain! That uncertainty, that fleeting, ever-changing nature!

When we speak of impermanence from the heart, taking truth, change, and the uncertainty of the world into account—this is called having Dhamma talk in the heart.

Our houses, our families, our wealth are just social conventions. From the standpoint of the true Dhamma, none of them are ours—even this body doesn’t truly belong to us. Just because we imagine it does doesn’t make it so. It’s like grabbing a handful of sand and agreeing to call it salt: does that make it salt? Oh, sure, you can call it that—but only in name, not in substance. Imagining sand is salt doesn’t make it salt.

This is the nature of Nibbāna: it is the extinguishing of fire, the cooling of heat; it is peace, the cessation of the cycle of birth and death. It is the permanent ending of greed, hatred, and delusion in our hearts. It transcends pleasure and pain—it is complete tranquility.1

Where confusion arises is where peace can arise; wherever there is confusion, through wisdom, peace is there too.

The place where suffering exists is exactly where the end of suffering can arise—it ceases right where it is born. If suffering arises, you have to work with it right there; you don’t need to run away. You should resolve the problem on the spot. Running from these things is not practicing in line with the true Dhamma. When will you ever see the truth of suffering?

The more doubts I have, the more I sit in meditation, the more I practice. Whatever doubt arises, I practice right at that very point.

Practice arises when you try to counteract mental afflictions (defilements), when you refuse to feed old habits. Where conflict and difficulty arise, that is where you have to put in the work.

Don’t think that meditation only happens when you’re sitting or walking—anything, anywhere, is practice.

Real practice happens where the heart meets its sense objects. The point of sense contact is where practice lives.

Our discontent comes from wrong view. Because we don’t restrain our senses, we blame the outside world for causing our pain. Once we let go of wrong view ourselves, we’ll be content no matter where we go.

Sense restraint alone, though essential, is not enough. No matter how much you restrain the eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind, without wisdom to understand the true nature of craving, liberation is impossible.

The Buddha taught restraint—but that doesn’t mean we don’t look at anything, don’t listen to anything, don’t smell, taste, touch, or think about anything. That’s not what he meant.

If you cling to the senses, you are like a fish on a hook.

We have to see things as they truly are: feelings are just feelings, thoughts are just thoughts. This is how we end all our problems.

Calmness is the foundation from which wisdom arises, and wisdom is what calmness brings forth. What causes you to suffer isn't the body but your wrong views. When you misunderstand, you get confused. In our practice, we need to firmly establish concentration before wisdom can arise. A focused mind is like a light switch—wisdom is the light that follows; concentration is like an empty bowl—wisdom is the food placed within it. With no bowl, there's nowhere to put the food. The practice of the Dhamma comes down to correcting your views.

Even if we've studied and practiced the Dhamma but still don't see the truth, we're just wanderers with nowhere to call home. The purpose of meditation isn't only to calm ourselves and shake off worry and distress—it's to see through and cut off the very causes that kept us from being calm in the first place.

You've seen water that flows and water that's still, haven't you? When your mind is tranquil, wisdom can unfold. Your mind will be like flowing water, yet still. Though it moves, it almost seems still, so I call it "still flowing water." That's where wisdom can appear.

Don't complain that the well is too deep—turn around and look at your own arm. If you can see this, you'll make progress on the spiritual path and find happiness.

If jhana appears in your practice, that's fine—just don't cling to it. For meditators, the greatest danger is jhana—deep, sustained calm, samadhi. At this stage, samadhi can become an enemy, because without clear knowing of right and wrong, wisdom can't arise.

If your mind reaches calm and concentration, you have a very useful tool. But if you sit only to attain concentration so you can feel joy, you're wasting your time. The practice is to sit and bring the mind to stillness and concentration, then use it to examine the nature of body and mind—to see them more clearly.

The same is true in sitting meditation: the mind may be calm, but the defilements haven't truly settled. So "samadhi" isn't something you can rely on. To find true peace, you must develop wisdom. Samadhi is a temporary calm, like a stone pressing down on grass.

Compassion is the essence of generosity, kindness, and helpfulness. These are the foundation of a pure heart.

When your moral conduct is pure, honesty and compassion toward others arise naturally.

Don't get angry with people who don't practice, and don't speak ill of them. Just keep advising them. When their hearts open, they'll move toward the true Dhamma.

The sick person should remember those who show compassionate care, and patiently endure the pain. Make good use of your own mental energy; don't let the mind scatter. And don't add to the burden of those who care for you—let those who tend to the sick arouse compassion and virtue in their own hearts.

There's nothing wrong with the way the body grows old and falls ill; it's simply following its own nature. So it's not the body that causes us to suffer, but wrong thinking. When we misunderstand, we're bound by confusion.

Even the Buddha and the noble ones encountered illness through natural processes and treated it with medicine as appropriate. If it heals, it heals; if it doesn't, it doesn't.

We're merely visitors to this body, like guests in a hall—it doesn't really belong to us, we're just temporary lodgers. The Buddha taught that no lasting self exists within this body.

Keep death and decay continually in mind, and disenchantment with the world's sensory pleasures will arise, leading to concentration and samadhi.

Don't fuss over enlightenment. When you plant a tree, you plant it, water it, fertilize it, and remove the pests. If you do all this well, the tree will grow naturally. How fast it grows isn't something you can control. In the beginning, patience and perseverance are essential, but after a while, faith and resolve will arise. Then you'll see the value of the practice, and you'll continue.

No matter whether I sleep late or not, the moment I wake, I get up right away. Don't make a big deal of looking after sleep—just cut it off there and then.

Any teaching that speaks of reducing defilements, that leads to freedom from suffering, that mentions the renunciation of sensory pleasures, of contentment with little, of humility and indifference to social status, of seclusion and solitude, of diligent effort, of being easy to care for—these eight qualities are the hallmarks of the true Dhamma, the Buddha's teaching.

The "surface" obstructs the "transcendent," preventing people from seeing clearly. If you let the "surface" rise up and reveal the "transcendent," you'll attain the truth and see clearly; you'll cut through the "surface" and cut through clinging.

Look! This "self" is just an appearance. You must peel away the appearance to understand the core—that's the transcendent! Go beyond the surface to find the transcendent.

If you spend at most ten percent of your time looking at others, and ninety percent looking at yourself, this is the practice.

III. Adjusting the Body (Breath)

When we sit in meditation, simply pay attention to the breath. Don't try to control it. If we force the breath, making it too long or too short, we won't feel balanced, and our minds won't become tranquil. We must let the breath happen naturally. Don't fuss over how long or short it is, how weak or strong—just be aware of it. We simply let it follow its own nature, and we follow along.

Don't force the breath to be longer or shorter than usual. Just let it continue as it normally would.

Place your attention on the breath. As you observe it, don't deliberately make it long or short, strong or weak. Just let it enter and leave at a normal pace, naturally. Relax; don't think about anything. There's no need to think about this or that—the only thing to do is place your attention on the in-breath and out-breath, noticing the beginning, middle, and end of each breath. When inhaling, the breath begins at the tip of the nose, moves to the heart, and ends at the abdomen. When exhaling, it's the reverse. Develop awareness of the breath: one at the nose, two at the heart, three at the abdomen. Gathering your attention at these three points will resolve all your worries.

Maintain awareness of the in-breath and out-breath. Don't feel distressed because the breath is too long or too short; just observe it. Don't try to control or suppress it in any way; don't cling.

When inhaling, breathe in fully, then send it out. Don't deliberately control the breath. It doesn't matter if the breath is long or short. Just sit and notice the natural entry and exit of your breath; that's enough.

In walking, standing, sitting, and lying down, we continually change postures. We use these postures in daily life, so we must develop awareness in each one and put them to good use.

When calm, the breath becomes fine, the body becomes light, and the mind becomes at ease. Everything is just right. Keep going! Until you seem to be sitting there with no in-breath or out-breath at all! Yet you're still alive. Don't be afraid and pull away, thinking the breath has stopped. Just be fully clear about every process that occurs, and don't be fooled by any of the conditions that arise.

If the breath is coarse, we know it's coarse. If it's subtle, we know it's subtle. As it grows more subtle, we follow it more closely, keeping the mind awake. Finally, the breath disappears completely, and all that remains is the feeling of clear knowing and awareness. This is called "seeing the Buddha."

If you want to change posture, endure the pain to its very limit before doing so! If the pain becomes so great that you can't continue holding the mantra Buddho in mind, let the pain become the object of your awareness. Let "pain" replace "Buddho." Use this method until the pain disappears, and see what happens. But that comes gradually. Don't force yourself too much; just keep going slowly and steadily.

When you sit correctly, there's no need to measure or force. Sitting in meditation has no goal, no destination. Don't pay attention to time. Simply let your practice maintain a steady pace and grow gradually. Eventually, you'll find you can sit comfortably for a long stretch, and practice correctly.

When practicing walking meditation, we try to continually notice the feeling of the feet touching the ground.

IV. Adjusting the Mind

A mind out of control is like a restless monkey, jumping here and there without awareness. You must learn to control it, to see into the mind's true nature: impermanent (temporary), suffering (unsatisfactory), and empty (without essence). Don't just let it jump around—learn to be its master. Tie it down, then let it exhaust itself to death. That way you have a "dead monkey," and in the end you'll be at peace.

In practicing the Dhamma, we don't need to strike out at others; rather, we conquer our own "mind." We patiently bear with and resist all our emotions.

Right now, your only responsibility is to focus your mind and bring it to calm.

The basic element of sitting meditation is the continuous awareness of the present breath, so you can be mindful of each in-breath and out-breath as it occurs.

Begin sitting meditation, knowing clearly: at this moment, your only responsibility is to observe the in-breath and out-breath.

If your attention wanders from the breath to something else, awareness is broken. Whenever there is awareness of the breath, the mind is right there. Just stay with the breath and with this steady, continuous awareness, and your mind is in the present moment.

If your attention wanders off to other things, try to pull it back to the object of focus. Try to let go of all other thoughts and concerns. Don't think about anything—just observe the breath.

Don't let it (attention to the breath) slip away. If it slips away, stop! See where it went. Find it, and bring it back.

Even if someone is "putting on a show with spirits and tricks," that's their business; don't be disturbed by it. Simply focus on the entry and exit of the breath. Just be clear about your breath; that's enough. If you do this with perseverance, the breath will become fine and light, and body and mind will become soft and at ease. There will be no confusion, no drowsiness, no dozing off. Everything becomes easy and relaxed. At this time, you are at peace!

Thoughts of knowing or seeing something may arise during sitting meditation, but once they appear, let them disappear on their own. Don't pay too much attention to them.

Whatever feeling or emotion arises in the mind during sitting meditation, let it go. Whether these emotions are good or bad doesn't matter. There's no need to pay attention to them; just let them fade, and return your attention to the breath.

The examination in sitting meditation is the examination of "cultivating" and "letting go." By "examination," I mean: whenever the mind experiences a feeling, are we still clinging to it? Are we still creating problems around it? Are we still feeling pleasure and aversion about it? In simple terms: are we still lost in our thoughts? If we're clinging to anything, we sense that we are clinging; we know what state we're in, and we strive to correct ourselves.

Let go of everything except awareness. When sitting, don't be fooled by the thoughts or voices in your mind. Let them all go; don't cling. Simply abide in "non-dual" awareness. Don't worry about the past or the future. You'll reach a state that is neither forward nor back, where nothing stays—where there is nothing to grasp or cling to. Why? Because originally there is no self. There is no "I" or "mine"; everything is empty. The Buddha taught us to use this method to empty everything, to let nothing bind us. Understand this, and then let go!

Even if you find yourself thinking, that's all right, as long as you think with wisdom, knowing the thought's true nature. If you understand things with wisdom, you can let them go without suffering. At this time, the mind is bright, happy, and calm, free from all disturbance. The mind is concentrated. What can help and support you now is the breath.

Let the calm mind stay with the breath; let the breath be the sole object of knowing. Gather your focus until the mind grows ever more subtle, until feelings no longer matter and the mind remains clear and aware.

"Oh! It was that sound that disturbed me." If we think a sound has disturbed us, we'll suffer because of it. If we look more deeply, we'll see that it was we who went out and disturbed the sound.

When the ear hears a sound, examine the mind. Has it fallen into the sound and begun to react? Has it been disturbed? If you're aware of this, simply stay there and remain aware. Sometimes you may want to flee from the sound, but that's not the solution. You must, through awareness, find freedom.

You must take care to maintain the awareness of mindfulness, and try to bring the mind back. It may seem as though you are pulling the mind back, but really it has gone nowhere—only the object of awareness has changed.

Concentration is much like breathing: if you decide to force your breath to be deep or shallow, fast or slow, breathing becomes very difficult. In the same way, any attempt to force yourself to be calm is itself a form of clinging and desire, and will only get in the way of your attention settling.

If the mind is troubled, raise mindfulness, then take a deep breath until you can take in no more. After that, exhale it completely without holding anything back. Do this two or three times, then re-establish your concentration; the mind should then become calm.

Afflictions (defilements) are like a stray wild cat: if you give it as much food as it wants, it will always be coming around you begging for more. But if you stop feeding it, after a few days it will stop coming back.

Observe and tend to the mind with mindfulness. No matter what state the mind is in, maintain this awareness—don't let it grow scattered or wander off in all directions.

During sitting meditation, you may have strange experiences or visions, such as seeing lights, angels, or Buddhas. When you see such things, you should first examine yourself to discern what state the mind is in. You should regard them as not-self, for they are all impermanent, suffering, and not-self. Although they arise, there is no need to pay them much heed. If they do not go away, simply raise mindfulness again, place your attention on the breath, and take at least three deep breaths; in this way you can dispel them. Stay focused. Don't hope for visions to appear, and don't hope they won't.

Close the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body, leaving only the mind. The meaning of "closing" is to gather in these five sense faculties, leaving only the mind to be observed.

With mindfulness overseeing and controlling the mind, once mind and mindfulness are united, a new awareness will arise. The mind, having grown calm, is restrained by that calm, much like a chicken shut in a coop. The chicken cannot run around outside, yet it can still move about within the coop. Its coming and going causes no trouble because it is confined by the coop. In the same way, when the mind possesses mindfulness and is calm without causing trouble, the awakening that arises is similar—sensations arise within the calm state, and the mind experiences both sensation and calm simultaneously, undisturbed. Problems only occur when the "chicken" escapes from the "coop." For example, you may be observing the in-and-out of the breath, then forget yourself, allowing the mind to leave the breath and run about—the mind has departed from its calm foundation.

Mindfulness is the awareness of the present moment, the knowing and awakening to what is here. Clear, lucid understanding knows what is happening in the present. When mindfulness and clear knowing work together, their companion—wisdom—will always help them complete whatever needs to be done.

Mindfulness is the power of recollection; clear knowing is self-awakening. When there is mindfulness and clear knowing, understanding will follow; we know what is happening.

"Mindfulness" and "clear knowing" must exist simultaneously. "Mindfulness" is the power of recollection; "clear knowing" is self-awakening. In the present moment, you are clearly aware of the breath. This practice of observing the breath assists "mindfulness" and "clear knowing" to grow together; they divide the work and cooperate. When there is "mindfulness" and "clear knowing," "panna (wisdom)" will arise in that same place to assist. In this way, the three support one another.

You might begin thinking of a friend, or have thoughts about where you will go tomorrow. In sitting meditation, you should handle these things by regarding them as "unstable, unstable," and continue this awareness. You must abandon all thoughts—the inner dialogue and doubts. In sitting meditation, do not allow these things to bind you. In the end, only the purest forms of "mindfulness," "clear knowing," and "panna" remain in the mind. Try to cultivate mindfulness until you can maintain it continuously at all times. In this way, you will fully understand "mindfulness," "clear knowing," and "panna."

Sit cross-legged: place the right leg on top of the left leg, the right hand on top of the left hand, keep the back straight, and then say to yourself: "Now I will set down all burdens and troubles!" At this moment, cast all worries aside!

Place your attention on the breath. While observing the breath, do not deliberately make the breath long or short, do not make it strong or weak—simply let it come in and go out at its natural pace.

Relax. Think of nothing. There's no need to think about this or that. The only thing to do is place your attention on the in-breath and out-breath, noting the beginning, middle, and end of each breath. When inhaling, the beginning is at the tip of the nose, the middle is at the heart, and the end is at the abdomen. When exhaling, it is the reverse. Develop awareness of the breath: one, at the tip of the nose; two, at the heart; three, at the abdomen. Gathering "attention" at these three points will resolve all your troubles.

At this time, other thoughts may enter the mind—it may think of other subjects and distract you—but pay them no heed. Simply maintain the breath as the object of your concentration. The mind may also fall into analyzing and exploring emotions, but continue your practice! Keep up the clarity at the beginning, middle, and end of each breath.

Eventually, the mind will know the breath at these three points at every moment. When you have practiced in this way for some time, the mind and body will grow accustomed to this work. Fatigue will vanish, the body will feel lighter and more at ease, and the breath will become finer and more subtle. "Mindfulness" and "self-awareness" will be able to protect the mind and watch over it well. We practice in this way until the mind becomes peaceful and tranquil, until it becomes "one." The meaning of "one" is that the mind is wholly concentrated on the breath, not separated from it. When the mind becomes calm, we then place our attention solely on the breath at the tip of the nose, and no longer follow the breath up and down, to the abdomen and back. This is called "calming the mind"—letting the mind relax and be peaceful. This is a beginning, the foundation of our practice. Wherever we are, we should try to practice it every day.

This is called "mental training," and it must be practiced in the four postures. The key is that we must know what state the mind is in at every moment—is it pleasant or painful? Is it confused? Is it serene? By knowing the mind in this way, we make it tranquil.

If we continue to worry and then think: "I am suffering; I must stop thinking," this wrong view only complicates matters.

Even when we strive in our practice, trying to reach calm, many thoughts and feelings will still move and shift, because this is simply the nature of the mind—there is no other way.

If we can see this clearly (accepting the true nature of things), then we can step away from thinking and feeling. When the mind truly understands, it lets go of everything. Thoughts and feelings will still be there, but each will be unable to do anything.

The mind is just the mind. Thoughts and feelings are just thoughts and feelings. Let things simply be themselves! Why must we go to the trouble of clinging to them? If we can think and feel in this way, then this is renunciation and non-clinging.

When you sit in meditation, expecting to have no sensory contact, no thoughts—such expectation itself is desire! The more you struggle with thoughts, the stronger they become. Simply forget them and continue your practice. When you make contact with external objects again, contemplate: impermanent, suffering, not-self. Put everything into these three characteristics and continue observing.

Calm has long existed, yet you know nothing of it. Whoever you ask will not be able to tell you clearly. Simply understand your own breath coming in and going out—that is enough! When your mind becomes calm, it will naturally understand. You will be able to sit through the entire night until dawn arrives, without realizing you are meditating. You will be filled with the joy of Dharma—a joy that cannot be described!

The five basic meditation subjects: hair, body hair, nails, teeth, skin. What is their true nature? Are they beautiful? Are they clean? Do they have any real substance? Are they solid? No... they are nothing at all.

A calm mind has five factors: initial application, sustained application, rapture, happiness, and one-pointedness.

When practicing samadhi, we focus our attention on the breath at the tip of the nose or upper lip, on the in-breath and out-breath. "Lifting" the mind to focus in this way is called initial application, or "raising." When we have "raised" the mind and focused it on an object in this way, it is called sustained application—contemplating the breath at the nose. We use sustained application to think about the various sensations that arise. When sustained application becomes scattered, we again "raise" our attention with initial application. Our practice at this point must be carried out without clinging. Seeing sustained application interacting with the feelings in the mind, we may think the mind is confused and become averse to this process. We are unhappy only because we want the mind to be still. Now, if we do not cling, if we practice through "letting go"... acting without clinging, and within non-clinging, acting... then sustained application will naturally become less distracting.

At first, sustained application goes everywhere; when we understand that this is simply the mind's natural activity, it will not disturb us—unless we cling to it. We let go, just as we would let water flow past; sustained application becomes increasingly refined. When the object of contemplation is right there, a feeling of pleasure will arise. It may appear as goosebumps, coolness, or lightness; the mind is ecstatic. This is called "rapture." There is also happiness—pleasure, the arising and passing of various sensations, and the sphere of one-pointedness, or one-pointedness itself. As the mind becomes increasingly refined, initial application and sustained application become coarser, so they are abandoned, leaving only rapture, happiness, and one-pointedness. When the mind becomes purer, rapture finally departs, leaving only happiness and one-pointedness. The mind progressively discards whatever is too coarse for it, until only one-pointedness and equanimity (calm) remain. There is nothing else—this is the limit!

If our mind stops being stirred, sustained application will tend to contemplate the Dharma, because if we are not contemplating the Dharma, the mind will return to being scattered.

As for walking meditation, between two trees, take a straight path of about seven or eight arm-lengths. Gather yourself, make a firm resolve—now, to begin with the right foot, walking at a normal pace. Continually focus your attention on both feet. If you feel unsettled, stop until you are calm and then continue. You must be clearly aware of the starting point, middle point, and end point of the path, and also know when to turn back. At every moment "know" where you are! Walk back and forth. If you grow tired, stop, turn your attention inward, calmly observe your breath, and allow the mind to rest.

Have you practiced walking meditation? How did it feel? "Thoughts flying everywhere!" Then stop walking until the mind returns. If your mind is truly very scattered, then hold your breath until you cannot bear it, and your mind will return.

5. Insight

With a tranquil mind, you can go on to observe the object of meditation—the body. We will see that the entire body is composed of four "elements": earth, water, fire, and wind. Whether broken down into earth, water, fire, and wind, or assembled into a "human being," everything is impermanent, suffering, empty, and not-self. Our bodies are unstable, constantly changing and shifting. Our minds are the same, constantly changing. They are not "I" or an entity; they are not truly "us." The mind is unstable. If we lack wisdom and believe in this mind of ours, it will constantly deceive us, and we will spin endlessly between suffering and happiness.

Once the "mind" sees this clearly, it will remove clinging to self—"I" am pretty, "I" am good, "I" am evil, "I" am in pain, "I" possess, "I" am this or "I" am that. When you reflect and come to understand impermanence, suffering, and not-self, you will no longer cling to a "self." The mind that recognizes this will give rise to disenchantment and weariness; it will regard all things as impermanent, suffering, and not-self. Then the mind will "stop." The mind becomes "Dharma"! Greed, hatred, and delusion will gradually lessen bit by bit, until only the "mind"—the pure mind—remains. This is called "the practice of meditation."

When the mind is tranquil and concentrated, loosen your focus from the object of concentration—the breath—and begin to examine the body and mind composed of the five aggregates. You will clearly see that they (the five aggregates) are all impermanent.

The impermanent nature of things means they cannot satisfy us or conform to our desires. They come and go of their own accord—there's no "self" directing things; what is found there operates only according to the natural unfolding of cause and effect. All phenomena in the world share these characteristics—constant change (impermanence), the inability to bring lasting satisfaction (suffering), and the absence of any permanent self or soul (non-self). Observing the whole of existence from this perspective, our clinging and attachment to the aggregates gradually diminishes, because we come to see the true nature of the world. We call this the arising of "wisdom."

We must reflect on pleasure in order to see its uncertainty and its limits. Once things change, suffering arises. This suffering too is uncertain—don't regard it as fixed or solid. This kind of reflection is called "contemplation of danger"—reflecting on the incompleteness and limitation of the conditioned world. Rather than accepting pleasure at face value, we should see it as unstable. We shouldn't grasp it tightly, but hold it and then let it go, understanding both the benefits and harms of pleasure. To meditate skillfully, you must see the imperfect nature within pleasure. You must steady the mind, repeatedly contemplating that this suffering and unpleasantness is simply something unstable; in the end, it is impermanent, suffering, and non-self. No matter how defiled the mind may be in any respect, no matter what arises, you should contemplate its impermanence and instability. Because you regard things in this way, they will gradually lose their importance, and your clinging to the defilements in the mind will steadily decrease. Observe the mind; observe the arising and passing of experience. At first, the movement is ceaseless—just as one thing passes, another immediately arises. It seems we see more arising than passing. As time passes, we will see more clearly and understand how swiftly they arise, until one day we reach the point where they arise, pass, and then arise no more.

Samadhi serves as the foundation for vipassana and contemplation, and it does not need to be a very deep samadhi. Simply examine what has arisen and continue observing cause and effect. In this way, we use the concentrated mind to contemplate forms, sounds, smells, tastes, tactile sensations, and mental objects.

VI. States and Experiences

If the mind withdraws from this level (access concentration), we will gain a kind of insight through awareness of mental objects and psychological states, because at the deeper stage (where the mind is fixed on a single object) there is no cognizing or knowing.

The mind will remain in this state for a while, and then it turns back again, entering a deeper level of stillness. If such a state of concentration is reached, we should simply be aware of the actual conditions and maintain our observation until the mind withdraws again. Once the mind comes out, various questions will arise within it. This is where we can awaken to and understand many different things. This is where we should observe and examine the biases and issues that affect the mind, so that we may understand and see through them clearly. Once these issues are resolved, the mind will gradually turn inward, toward deeper levels of concentration. The mind will settle there and mature, until it must come out again.

All of this is simply "formation (the aggregate of volitional formations)" and does not yet become prajna. Wisdom grows in this way: when we listen to and understand the mind, we reflect on its impermanence and instability. The realization of its impermanence will bring about the relinquishment of the "cause" of things at that point. In this way, wisdom arises right there. At that point, we will attain wisdom and insight.

It is not that I do not hear the singing coming from the village, but I am able to prevent myself from listening. When the mind is fixed on a single object, if I turn it toward the sound, I can hear it; when I do not turn it toward the sound, it is quiet. I can see that my mind and its object are separate, just like this bowl and water kettle here—the mind and the sound have no connection at all. I see what binds the subject to the object, and once that binding breaks apart, true peace reveals itself.

When I lay down, and my head touches the pillow, a turning inward arises in the mind. I do not know where it turns, but it turns inward, as if an electric current had been switched on, and my body burst open loudly. The awareness was extremely subtle, and through that point, the mind entered a deeper level, where there was nothing at all—utterly empty; nothing entered, and nothing could arrive. Awakening remained there for a while, and only later came out. I did not cause it to come out; I was merely a spectator, one who knows.

When I came out of this state, I returned to my ordinary mental state, and then the question arose: "What was that?" The answer said: "These things are simply as they are; there is no need to doubt them." With just these words, my mind was able to accept it.

After a pause, the mind once again turned inward. I did not turn it—it turned on its own. When it went inside, as before, it reached its limit. The second time, my body shattered into tiny pieces, and then the mind went in even deeper—stillness, utterly unapproachable. As it entered, I let it stay as long as it would, and when it came out, I returned to the ordinary. During this time, the mind acted on its own; I did not use any special method to make it come and go, but simply was aware and observed. I had no doubts—I simply continued sitting in meditation and contemplating. The third time the mind went in, the whole world split apart—the earth, the grass, the trees, the mountains, human beings—all were simply empty, nothing remained. When the mind went in, I let it stay as long as it could, and then it withdrew, returning to its original state.

I do not know how it stayed; such things are difficult to see and to speak of. There is nothing it can be compared to. When I emerged from this experience, the entire world had changed, and all my knowledge and understanding had been transformed.