The Practice and Enlightenment of Guanyin Bodhisattva

Author: Shen Jiazhen, lay Buddhist practitioner

The author of this article, Mr. Shen, studied science in his early years and has deep spiritual roots. In recent years, he has run a business in the United States and is now a leading figure in the aviation industry. He studied Buddhism alongside Professor Zhang Chengji of the University of Pennsylvania, and the two were close associates; he has extensive expertise in both the Chan and Esoteric traditions. This text is a lecture Mr. Shen gave at the Great Enlightenment Temple in New York. Its content is sharp and original, and we are reprinting it here to make the Dharma’s flavor accessible to all. — Editor

The Buddhadharma aims to free all sentient beings from suffering. The most universal forms of suffering are birth, aging, sickness, and death. When a baby is born, it wails loudly—no one’s ever born laughing. This tells us birth is inherently painful. In youth, we don’t grasp the pain of aging; only when we grow older do our teeth loosen, our vision fades, and walking grows labored. Anyone who has lived through it knows the countless hardships of decline all too well. Sickness is a pain nearly everyone has experienced. We have not yet died, but from all we hear and see, almost no one finds death a joyful experience. It forces us to abandon everything we love and depend on entirely, and casts us into a vast, unknowable future.

Other hardships include parting from loved ones, failing to meet those we long to see while constantly crossing paths with those we detest, and being unable to obtain what we desire. Buddhists call these three “separation from loved ones,” “meeting with the disliked,” and “not getting what one seeks”—all are forms of life’s suffering.

Joy does exist in life, but it is often short-lived. Worse, these fleeting pleasures can lead to even greater, longer-lasting pain. Grand mansions, beautiful partners, wealth, status—none of it lasts. For this reason, alongside the seven sufferings listed above, Buddhism also counts “impermanence” itself as a form of suffering.

If Buddhism paints life as so full of suffering, wouldn’t following the Dharma make a person pessimistic and downcast? On the contrary, the opposite is true. To understand this, we first need to recognize the Buddhist view of reality. The Dharma teaches that all life’s suffering stems from deluded thinking and attachment. These delusions and attachments give rise to false distinctions: we mistake illusions for reality, and our innate nature of lasting, true joy is buried beneath them. This is the root of all suffering.

Every person already has this perfect, joyful nature within them. If we can clearly see deluded thoughts and attachments for what they are, and let them dissipate like smoke and drift away like clouds, all suffering will fade with them.

Can we truly eliminate deluded thoughts and attachments? Buddhism answers with a resounding yes. The Dharma does not ask us to simply pray to gods or Buddhas, or beg a divine being for grace. These practices may offer temporary comfort or a sense of refuge, but they cannot root out deluded thoughts and attachments at their source, and so they cannot free us from suffering once and for all. Shakyamuni Buddha set a living example for us through his own direct experience of awakening. Guanyin Bodhisattva, the focus of our talk today, is another such example. These stories show us that with our own effort, we can uncover our innate nature, and eradicate the root of all suffering—deluded thoughts and attachments—entirely. It is like a dark room that has been shut away from light for years: the moment you light a bright lamp, the darkness disappears entirely.

The example set by Shakyamuni, along with the countless practitioners across history who followed his path to uncover their true nature, has made this understanding part of the Buddhist tradition for all people. This understanding gives us hope that we can be liberated from suffering.

Shakyamuni Buddha also taught that if a person applies themselves fully and single-mindedly—just as any dedicated scientist, philosopher, or great achiever throws themselves into their work, forgetting to eat or sleep—then in this very lifetime, without waiting for death, a day will come when conditions are ripe: deluded thoughts and attachments will fall away entirely, and suffering will be fully liberated, once and for all. This is why studying the Dharma is truly an act of courage: it means facing reality head-on, with real tools, perseverance, optimism, and a proactive spirit. The Buddha’s aspiration was not only to free himself from suffering, but to bring lasting, true joy to all of humanity. At the very least, it can ease the many sufferings of people everywhere.

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Let’s go a step further: if Buddhism holds that suffering can be overcome, what concrete, practical methods help us eliminate deluded thoughts and attachments, and reveal our innate nature of lasting joy? There are countless methods, but two of the most common and foundational are generosity (dāna) and Chan meditation (dhyāna).

What is generosity? In short, it is giving away something you love to someone else. First, we have to recognize that anything we cling to, anything we hate to part with, is a form of attachment. The deeper our attachment, the harder it is to give that thing away. This is why generosity is such a powerful practice for letting go of deluded thoughts and attachments.

What is Chan meditation? Samadhi (known as dìng in Chinese) is a state of mind in which deluded thoughts are like reflections in a mirror: they appear in the glass, but have no real hold over it. Chan is the path to reaching this state. The word Chan (from the Sanskrit dhyāna) is translated into Chinese as jìnglǜ, or “quiet contemplation.” It is a practice that trains the mind to focus, gradually bringing about shifts in both body and mind, until one enters the state of samadhi.

Chan meditation does not mean sitting as stiff as a block of wood or stone. It is a practice that trains our ability to focus the mind. The path deepens with each step, as the saying goes: “Past one mountain, another rises.” Only when deluded thoughts and attachments fade like chasing wind or grasping at shadows—when even the names and concepts for them no longer exist—will we see a true sign of progress.

As Venerable Ledu noted just now, we humans are incredibly fortunate: we have the greatest chance of eliminating deluded thoughts and attachments to reveal our true nature. If we are reborn in the heavenly realms, the pleasures there are so abundant that we will be too busy enjoying them to think of practice. By the time our heavenly merit runs out and we want to practice, it is already too late. Animals and beings in hell have no opportunity to hear the Dharma, and do not know how to practice. Only humans have the stimulus of suffering to spur us to practice, and the karmic conditions to hear the Dharma and learn how to practice. Everyone here today has not only attained a human life, but has also encountered the Dharma. You are truly the most fortunate of all sentient beings. This means you must have cultivated diligently for many lifetimes; being here today is no coincidence.

The above served as an introduction, briefly touching on the aim of the Buddhadharma and the Buddhist view of reality. I also touched on the two core practices of generosity and Chan meditation, and took this chance to remind everyone not to let this rare opportunity of human life go to waste.

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I have two reasons for introducing Guanyin Bodhisattva’s practice method today. First, Guanyin has made profound vows to care for the beings of our world, and so shares an exceptionally deep karmic connection with us. Countless people know the name of Guanyin Bodhisattva. Because of this close affinity, studying and practicing the method Guanyin used is especially likely to bring results. Guanyin has attained the highest level of mastery in both generosity and Chan meditation. His generosity extends far beyond the material giving and Dharma teaching we can easily imagine: he also dispels all fear and terror for men, women, adults, and children alike. For this reason, people also revere him as the “Bestower of Fearlessness.” Today, however, I will focus specifically on Guanyin Bodhisattva’s process of cultivating Chan meditation.

Second, this meditation process was recounted by Guanyin Bodhisattva to the assembly at the Śūraṅgama Summit, at the suggestion of Shakyamuni Buddha. At that gathering, twenty-five highly accomplished practitioners each shared their own methods and realizations. Afterwards, Shakyamuni Buddha asked Mañjuśrī Bodhisattva to summarize their accounts. Mañjuśrī specifically pointed out that Guanyin’s Dharma gate of cultivating meditation through the faculty of hearing is the most suitable practice for the humans of this world.

For these two reasons, Venerable Ledu selected the topic “Guanyin’s Perfect Penetration” and asked me to share what I have learned with all of you, for your reference and discussion.

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As mentioned earlier, “Guanyin’s Perfect Penetration” refers to the process of cultivating meditation through the faculty of hearing, as recounted by Guanyin Bodhisattva in the Śūraṅgama Sūtra. I will now write the original passage from the Sūtra on the blackboard. It reads:

At first, within hearing, one enters the stream and lets go of the object of focus. When both the one who enters and the object grow still, the two marks of movement and stillness cease to arise. Thus advancing gradually, hearing and what is heard are both exhausted. When hearing is exhausted without clinging to that state, the perceiver and the perceived are emptied. When emptiness and awareness are perfectly complete, emptiness and that which is being emptied are extinguished. When arising and ceasing are both extinguished, unmoving stillness manifests. Suddenly transcending both the worldly and the world-transcending, perfect brightness pervades the ten directions.

Please remember two key points: First, Guanyin used the faculty of hearing in his practice, so all our discussion will revolve around the act of hearing. Second, what Guanyin Bodhisattva described is his own process of cultivation, so it moves from the simple to the profound. Most of us are still in the early stages of practice, so Guanyin’s early experiences are particularly relevant to us. I will explain these in as much detail as I can, so that everyone here can take something valuable away.

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To follow Guanyin’s path of cultivation, we first need to clearly understand five key terms: “self” (the sense of “I”), “hearing-nature,” “hearing,” “listening,” and “sound.” These five terms correspond to five levels of deluded attachment. “Sound” is the shallowest, most obvious form of attachment, while “self” is the deepest, subtlest, and hardest to eliminate. Below, I will walk through how Guanyin Bodhisattva eliminated these attachments layer by layer, to reveal his inherent nature.

“Sound,” “listening,” “hearing,” and “hearing-nature” are often used interchangeably, but there is a crucial, fundamental difference between them. Guanyin’s early practice began with recognizing this distinction. Legend has it that Guanyin practiced meditation by the sea, where he heard the tides come and go each day. He would wake early to total silence, then the distant rumble of the tide would roll in, breaking the calm. Soon the tide would recede, and quiet would return. Then the tide would come again, and the quiet would fade.

Guanyin observed the comings and goings of the tide’s sound, and realized that these two phenomena—the sound of the tide and silence—rose and fell alternately within his auditory awareness (the hearing-nature). When the tide’s sound arose, silence ceased; when the tide’s sound ceased, silence arose. But they shared one key trait: neither lasted long, both were subject to arising and passing away. Auditory awareness, however, was different: it was always present. Because this awareness was there, he could hear the tide; when the tide receded, the awareness did not leave with it, because what he heard then was silence. If the awareness had left with the sound of the tide, he would not only have been unable to perceive silence, but when the tide returned, how could he have heard the next wave? The sound of the tide comes and goes, arising and ceasing, but auditory awareness neither comes nor goes, neither arises nor ceases. (Note 1)

This point—that sound comes and goes, arising and passing away—is extremely important, because the deluded attachments of ordinary people stem from chasing after these transient, impermanent sounds. To make this clear, let me give another example: I strike a bell now. Dong— I ask, “Is there a bell sound?” You all answer, “Yes, there is.” A moment later, when the sound has faded, I ask again, “Is there a bell sound now?” You answer, “The sound is gone.” That is correct: the bell sound came and went, or we could say it arose and ceased.

Now I strike the bell again. Dong— I ask, “Did everyone hear that?” You all say, “Yes, we did.” A moment later, when the sound fades, I ask again, “Did everyone hear that?” Someone answers, “I can’t hear it anymore.” This response has a logical flaw—it is like a blind person saying they cannot see. Why? Because a blind person does not see nothing; they simply see darkness. Right now, it’s not that you can’t hear: you are just not hearing the bell, but silence or other sounds instead. Think about it: if your auditory awareness were gone, how would you know the bell’s sound had stopped? And if your auditory awareness were gone, how could you still hear me speaking now? Clearly, what disappeared was only the sound of the bell, not your ability to hear. The bell’s sound comes and goes, arising and ceasing, but auditory awareness is always present: it neither comes nor goes, neither arises nor ceases. This still, ever-present capacity for hearing is what Buddhism calls the “hearing-nature.”

The two examples above illustrate the difference between “hearing-nature” and “sound.” What rises and falls around our ears all day, never lingering for a moment, is “sound.” What remains continuously, without arising or ceasing, is the “hearing-nature.” Even a deaf person has the “hearing-nature,” but they are unable to perceive actual sounds.

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※So what do we mean by “hearing”? And how does hearing (tīng) differ from perceiving (wén)? We all know the ears pick up sound. To be more precise: external vibrations strike the eardrum, travel to the auditory nerve in the brain, and that is how we hear sound. So “hearing” is the function that arises when the perceiving nature acts through both the ear and the brain to generate the sensation of sound. But you may not realize that the sensation of sound does not require the ears at all. Over ten years ago, in Montreal, Canada, a Dr. Vincent ran experiments using electrodes pressed against the human brain. He opened a section of a woman’s skull, and when a pair of ultrafine electrodes brushed a specific spot in her brain, the woman suddenly reported hearing a familiar song. No one was singing at the time. When he removed the electrodes, the singing stopped; when he touched that same spot again, the same song returned. It was clear her experience of hearing came only from the brain, with no involvement of the ears at all. We call this function “perceiving.” The same is true of hearing someone speak in a dream: the ears aren’t involved, so this is only “perceiving,” not “hearing.” By now, these four terms should be clear to everyone. Let me summarize: the perceiving nature is the innate hearing faculty everyone has; it has no coming or going, no arising or ceasing. When this faculty acts through both the brain and the ear, we call it “hearing”; when it acts through the brain alone, we call it “perceiving.” Sound is the object of either hearing or perceiving; it has coming and going, arising and ceasing. In fact, every distinct sound arises and vanishes in an instant. With a clear grasp of these four terms, we can now more easily follow the cultivation process Guanyin describes.※

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※Guanyin says: “At the start, while engaged in perceiving, one enters the flow and loses the object” (Note 2). The phrase “at the start, while engaged in perceiving” means: “In the early stages of my practice, I worked with the faculty of hearing.” I ask you all to pay close attention here: in the early stages of his practice, Guanyin Bodhisattva was just like us ordinary beings. He still had: first, a strong sense of self; second, awareness that he was employing the “perceiving nature”; third, the functions of “perceiving” and “hearing”; and fourth, he heard “sounds” — like the tide mentioned earlier. Why do I stress that Guanyin, in the early stages of his practice, was like us ordinary beings, still clinging to these delusive attachments: the sense of “I,” the “perceiving nature,” “perceiving,” “hearing,” and “sound”? I say this to show how Guanyin later eliminated each of these delusive attachments one by one. As we noted earlier, Guanyin practiced meditation on the seashore. Watching the tide’s ebb and flow, he saw that sounds arise and vanish in an instant within the perceiving nature: they are not permanent, not truly real. He also saw that all human delusive afflictions spring from attachment to these passing sounds. This is why Guanyin took up the method of “entering the flow and losing the object,” so that sounds would no longer be the root of affliction. Let’s break “entering the flow and losing the object” into two parts to examine them closely. First, let’s talk about “entering the flow.” “Entering” is a technical Buddhist term for the phenomenon of a person’s sense organs making contact with the external world. This is why Buddhism speaks of the “six entrances”: the collective term for the contact of the five external sense organs — eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body — with the outside world, plus the contact of the mind consciousness with external thoughts. Here, “entering” refers specifically to “ear-entering”: the phenomenon where external vibrations strike the eardrum to produce the sensation of sound. The meaning of “flow” is “non-abiding.” The Diamond Sutra often teaches: “Do not abide in form when giving rise to a mind; do not abide in sound, smell, taste, touch, or dharma when giving rise to a mind.” “Non-abiding” means you should not let the “entering” linger or come to a stop; instead, let it flow away the moment contact is made. This is why Guanyin’s “entering the flow” matches the Diamond Sutra’s teaching of “not abiding in sound when giving rise to a mind.” To put it more plainly: “entering the flow” means not clinging to each individual sound (each single tone) that arises when the ear contacts the external world. Instead, you let each single tone flow onward continuously, like water. This may sound simple, but it is actually very difficult. Our habit as human beings is exactly this: we hold onto these single tones, string them together into words, build them into sentences, attach meaning to them — and from this, delusive attachments, affliction, and suffering arise. If you’d like to test this, let’s try a small exercise. I’ll ask Dharma Master Zhihai to speak three single syllables; please listen closely. Guān. Shì. Yīn. Now, what did everyone hear Dharma Master Zhihai say? Many people answer: “Guānshìyīn.” Anyone who answered “Guānshìyīn” did not practice “entering the flow.” You didn’t let the three single tones — Guān, Shì, Yīn — flow away the moment they entered your awareness. Instead, you held onto all three, strung them together into the word “Guānshìyīn.” Many of you also pulled up everything you already knew about Guanyin Bodhisattva along with it. This is delusive attachment! No matter whether the word “Guānshìyīn” is positive or negative, it is still delusive attachment. To let go of delusive attachment, you must practice “entering the flow.” After this little test, some of you might be thinking: that really is hard — the brain is wired to hold single tones and string them together. How are we supposed to “not abide” and let them flow? That’s not quite right, though. If you think it over, “entering the flow” isn’t as hard as it seems. Right now, there are countless sounds around you from contact between your ears and the outside world: cars passing, children playing outside, the person next to you breathing, and many more. Yet you let all these sounds flow past without abiding in them, completely naturally. The only sounds you don’t let flow are the ones coming from me speaking. Why? Because you’re paying attention to what I’m saying, trying to follow my words. So you hold onto these “enterings” instead of letting them pass, which is why you can hear my speech, and why all sorts of thoughts and reactions pop up in your mind. Take those three single tones from Dharma Master Zhihai again: if you don’t hold onto them, and let each tone flow the moment it reaches your ear, then a single “Guān,” a single “Shì,” or a single “Yīn” on its own can never combine to form the word “Guānshìyīn” or any of the associations that come with it. You can all test this principle for yourselves in wider situations, and you’ll find that the method of “entering the flow” is remarkably effective. The “losing” in “losing the object” means to let go of, to eliminate. The “object” here is shorthand for the thing you hear, and all the mental objects that arise because of that hearing. Buddhist texts often refer to the pair “subject and object.” The “subject” is the agent capable of functioning: for example, the “I” that hears, the “I” that sees. The “object” is what that function acts on: for example, the sound that is heard, the color that is seen. Most of the phenomena we experience in the world are created by this dualistic framework of subject and object, and it is the main form delusive attachment takes. So “losing the object” means that in practice, you let go of the sound you hear, and all the mental constructs that arise because of that sound. Let me give an example. I recall a lay practitioner once saying: “The subway (meaning New York’s subway) is so loud. The second I sit down on it, that terrible clattering noise gets on my nerves and annoys me.” When we analyze this sentence, we find four layers of attachment: first, sitting on the subway, the ears make contact with the outside world (“entering”); second, each single tone is held onto (not allowed to flow, but made to abide), and you become aware there is sound (the object heard — this is the first “object”); third, this sound is a deep, rumbling roar (the single tones are strung together to form a meaningful object — this is the second “object”); fourth, this rumbling sound is the sound of the subway (other associated memories are triggered — this is the third “object”); fifth, the noisy subway sound is so irritating (past experiences of annoyance are triggered, giving rise to the feeling of frustration — this is the fourth “object”). Now let’s work backwards through these layers, letting go of each one by one. First, even if you know it’s the sound of the subway, you don’t call to mind past times you’ve been annoyed by that same noise — this is “losing” the fourth “object”; second, even if you hear the rumbling sound, you don’t bother to sort out whether it’s an airplane, a subway, or something else entirely — this is “losing” the third “object”; third, even if you register that there is sound, you don’t label it as a rumble, a squeak, or any other specific type of sound — this is “losing” the second “object”; fourth, you let each individual tone flow away the moment it reaches your ear (this is “entering the flow”), not holding onto or stringing them together, so no sensation of sound arises in the perceiving nature — this is “losing” the first “object.” At this point, all “objects” have been let go of. This state is what we call “entering the flow and losing the object.” Does everyone now understand the full meaning of this phrase? In the early stages of his practice, this was exactly the method Guanyin Bodhisattva used: within the perceiving nature, the ear’s contact with the world does not abide, and all objects are released. This method can also be practiced in stages. Those with a stronger foundation can go straight to the core, beginning directly with “entering the flow.” Those weighed down by heavier afflictions can work through “losing the object” step by step, which makes progress easier to come by. Take the subway example we just went over. Someone with a strong foundation can step onto the subway and keep their mind clear and calm, completely unaffected by the noise — this is “entering the flow.” Someone with heavier afflictions can first train themselves not to be irritated by the noise, then train themselves not to identify what kind of sound it is, gradually working their way up until they reach the state of “losing the object.”※

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※Guanyin continues: “Once the entering has grown still, the two characteristics of movement and stillness no longer arise, and this is clear.” These three lines describe what happens as your practice of “entering the flow and losing the object” deepens over time. At this stage, there are no more audible objects in the perceiving nature (“the object is still”), and no more phenomenon of the ear faculty making contact with the external world (“the entering is still”). The perceiving nature is perfectly clear, yet not drowsy, numb, or unaware (hence the term “clearly”). What you experience at this point has neither the quality of movement (since sound arises from movement) nor the quality of “stillness” (the opposite of movement). This is already the state of meditative absorption. But absorption has degrees of depth, and you must progress through them layer by layer; what we are describing here is only the initial, entry-level stage of absorption. In this state, of the five delusive attachments we mentioned earlier — the sense of “I,” the “perceiving nature,” “perceiving,” “hearing,” and “sound” — only the attachments to “sound” and “hearing” have been released. Even so, letting go of these two attachments already greatly reduces the amount of suffering we experience as human beings. Anyone who can reach this state can already enjoy a great deal of happiness and freedom. At this point, the function of “perceiving” still remains active in the mind. Guanyin did not stop here, though. He kept pressing forward, deepening his investigation to push his meditative absorption to ever greater depths. This is why he says: “Thus it gradually increases.”※

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※This brings me to a parable I’d like to share. Many of you may have already reached the stages of practice we’ve described up to this point. But everything that comes after this is work done within meditative absorption, and it is not easy for ordinary people to grasp. I share this parable not just to keep things interesting, but also to clarify my own position for you. You know that before a tadpole grows legs, it can only live in water. It has to wait until it matures and its legs develop before it can venture onto land. One day, a mother frog came back from the shore and said to a group of tadpoles who could only live in the water: “My little ones! The land is such a wonderful place! The sun is so warm, and the breeze is so cool and gentle!” Do you think the tadpoles could have had any real sense of the experience she was describing? The tadpoles clamored for her to explain more clearly, but no matter how many words the mother frog used, she could not make them understand the true experience of being on land. Only when the tadpoles themselves grew legs, hopped onto the shore, and saw for themselves did they realize: so this is what mother frog had been trying to describe! Some of you here may be like the mother frog, already knowing the truth of these teachings. But I myself am only a little tadpole. Everything I have shared today is just a tadpole’s retelling of the mother frog’s words. If some of you are also little tadpoles, still groping in the dark, then all we can do is guess and fumble together. But we hope that one day, all of us tadpoles will grow legs and hop onto the shore, and only then will we truly understand the truth Guanyin Bodhisattva taught.※

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※Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva then continues: "Hearing and what is heard are exhausted; yet the exhaustion of hearing does not rest." At this stage, both "hearing" and the "nature of hearing" are still present. In samādhi, Avalokiteśvara probes further: what, ultimately, is the difference between "the hearing self" and "the object that is heard"? Pressing the inquiry to its limit, a sudden awakening dawns: the "hearing self" and "the object heard" are indistinguishable. Hence the phrase: "Hearing and what is heard are exhausted." The first "hearing" refers to the capacity to hear—the "hearing self" or "hearing nature." The "what is heard" that follows is the object of sound. When the inquiry has run its course, one sees that no distinction can be found at all; this is what's meant by "exhausted." At this point, the concepts of "hearing nature" and "hearing" have fallen away entirely. The mind is at peace, naturally pure and joyful. All ordinary suffering—save for the pain of birth and death—can be said to be fully eliminated. Yet Avalokiteśvara doesn't settle for this state, nor does he stop here. He keeps pressing the inquiry further, hence the line "the exhaustion of hearing does not rest." Even after pushing the distinction between hearing and what is heard to its absolute limit, he doesn't pause. The next line reads: "Awareness and what is aware of are empty; empty awareness is perfectly whole"—a yet deeper stage of samādhi. In this state, only a single "awareness" remains in meditation. But who is this "awareness" for? It is the "self" that is aware. As long as the thought of awareness lingers, a "self" is still present. Avalokiteśvara probes again, asking: what is the difference between "the aware self" and "the object of awareness"? Turning the question over and over until the inquiry reaches its end, he finds that the "aware self" and "the object of awareness" are also indistinguishable—both are the ungraspable "emptiness." Hence it is said: "Awareness and what is aware of are empty." Within this samādhi, the physical "self" is no longer present; the suffering of birth and death is fully liberated here. This sense of "emptiness" stretches to the farthest reaches of the three realms, unbound by time; it pervades all space, with no spatial limit. For this reason, Avalokiteśvara describes his state at this stage as "empty awareness is perfectly whole." But this stage hasn't yet reached ultimate completeness. Continuing his practice within emptiness, the next line follows: "Emptiness and what is emptied are extinguished." This marks a further deepening of samādhi. Even so, a faint sense of "emptiness" still remains. Who is it that feels this emptiness inside emptiness? Though the physical self is gone, a very subtle "self" still lingers in the depths of consciousness; in other words, there's still a tiny trace of delusive attachment that hasn't been cleared away. This state is easy to mistake for the peak of practice, but the most crucial final step is still missing. You absolutely can't stop here. Even when you've reached the top of the hundred-foot pole, you must climb one step higher, pressing the inquiry urgently: what is the difference between "the self that empties" and "the object emptied—emptiness"? Pressing the inquiry to its end, one discovers that not only are "emptying" and "emptied" without distinction, but suddenly even "emptiness" itself vanishes without a trace. Hence it is said: "Emptiness and what is emptied are extinguished."

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※ ※At this stage, all thoughts, feelings, and contemplations that have arising and ceasing—that can arise and can cease—such as "hearing," "awareness," "emptiness," "self"—are fully stilled and extinguished… Not a single thread of delusive attachment remains; all human suffering is fully liberated. Just as when darkness is dispelled, all is light. Hence it is said: "Arising and ceasing both extinguished, still extinction appears before one." This is the image of the mother frog climbing onto the shore. So the phrase "still extinction appears before one" must not be misread as meaning it appears in front of one's face. To guard against this misunderstanding, the Sixth Patriarch Huineng explicitly stated (in the "Dharma Meeting" chapter of the Platform Sutra): "This is then still extinction appearing before one; yet at the moment of its appearance, there is also no measure of appearance." At this stage, the notion of "self" has fallen away entirely, so "appearing before one" means the whole of reality is fully present, with no sense of before or after, no comparison of more or less. Hence the next line: "Suddenly transcending the worldly and the supramundane." All delusive attachments of the worldly realms, and every successive stage of samādhi traversed along the way, no longer stand as obstacles. There's no essence or object that can hold you back. Original nature manifests fully. All Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva can do to describe this state is say: "Perfect illumination of the ten directions." "Ten directions" refers to the absence of any fixed center: no "self," no fixed orientation. "Perfect" means complete, lacking nothing, reaching everywhere without boundary. "Illumination" means free of all obstruction. This is the closest human language can come to describing the state of original nature, even if it falls short. The phrase "perfect illumination of the ten directions" makes clear that beyond original nature, nothing at all can be found: no Buddha, no sentient beings, not even empty space itself. This is what Buddhist scriptures call "original nature," or "body"; it is also known as "Buddha-nature," "Tathāgatagarbha," and "True Suchness"—all different names for the same state.

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※ ※The Śūraṅgama Sūtra records that Avalokiteśvara then spoke two more lines, describing how "function" arises from "essence." After realization, this is the spontaneous manifestation of great compassion and universal salvation of sentient beings from within the empty essence. At this stage: affliction is Bodhi, and Bodhi is affliction; all dharmas are not separate from original nature, and all dharmas are original nature itself. But for ordinary people like us, with our grasping, fixated minds, this state is very easy to mistake for worldly delusion. If you cling to "function," it'll only obstruct your progress in samādhi. For this reason, these two lines are left unexpounded. The good news is that anyone who awakens to "essence" will naturally express "function." The two are ultimately one, not two. 我这样的小蛙，还得先好好的在‘入流亡所’上痛下功夫，至少可以去掉一些人间的执著烦恼；也希望大家的烦恼苦痛，可以因为学习观世音菩萨的修法而为之减轻。

Note 1: The "hearing nature" mentioned here has no coming, going, arising, or ceasing—this is said in comparison to sound and silence. If we speak in terms of True Suchness and original nature, however, even the hearing nature is still a dharma of arising and ceasing. To go further: anything that has a name and form falls within the realm of arising and ceasing. Even the label "original nature" is itself a dharma of arising and ceasing. Only when arising and ceasing are both fully transcended, reaching the ineffable state, can we speak of what is truly real.

Note 2: Generations of commentators have produced many exegeses of the Śūraṅgama Sūtra. Most interpret "entering the flow" as swimming against the stream, corresponding to the fruit of Sotāpanna (stream-entry). The idea is that ordinary beings follow sounds and drift along the current, which is called "going out"; Avalokiteśvara turns hearing back to rest on self-nature, which is called "entering." This interpretation doesn't fully align with earlier commentaries. My aim is to use the simplest, most accessible explanation so that new practitioners can easily understand and put it into practice. If there are any points that are off the mark, I humbly ask for correction from respected teachers.