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cattasallaThe pericope for mindfulness practice has a simple form:
We discussed what it means to be ardent, alert, and mindful, and the four fields of objects which might be chosen for mindfulness practice. Now, the third part: "having put away covetousness and sorrow for the world".
The basic, underlying tension that generates dukkha is simply want. Wanting something, wanting things to be different. Attraction and repulsion. These fundamental forces push us from experience to experience, and if the ancient Indians are to be believed, lifetime to lifetime. These fundamental forces never allow us to really rest for more than a few moments. Liberation from dukkha means liberation from them. This is what is meant by "having put away covetousness and sorrow for the world". For just a moment, achieving freedom from those forces of attraction and aversion that constantly push around our minds and prevent us from settling here and now.
And it is this that brings us to samādhi, the word typically translated as "concentration".
The text we are following, SN 48.10, now goes on to discuss samādhi. I think this time I'm just going to leave it in the Pāli, and discuss it a bit first. My translation, then, of the next few lines:
It is this relinquishment, this letting-go, that is key to samādhi. We practice mindfulness on some object, settling the mind, resting the mind on that object. But we don't achieve this by forcing our attention to stay on the object so much as letting go of everything but that object. We don't tense up and fix ourselves on the object so much as relax everything else around the object. This is why "concentration" is sometimes regarded as not the best word for samādhi, because it implies a certain amount of force, of holding attention in a tense way.
So, we've established our attention on some object, and are ardent and mindful and alert, and have let go of everything that might pull us away from that object, all of the attractions and repulsions. At that point, we reach a unification. All of those forces, those attractions and aversions, fragment the mind. They divide the mind, send it on quests, introduce separations between subject and object, between I and mine. But once those forces are allowed to settle down and rest, and all that's left is the object, then a profoundly new mental state can emerge. A unification of the mind and heart around that object, whether it be the breath or the body or the feeling of loving-kindness, whatever the meditation object, until it becomes the totality of one's own experience.
Gil Fronsdal has offered "composure" as an alternate translation. That brings a sense of the imperturbability of samādhi. When it is achieved, nothing can push you off of that object, it seems. There's an image in the Āgamas (the Sanskrit version of the Pāli Nikāyas) for this: A candleflame in a room with no doors or windows, so no wind can disturb it. It is bright, and burning, and dynamic, and full of energy, but also quiet, and still. Both motionless and full of motion.
This is a state of profound peace, stillness, and clarity. And while this is not the goal of the practice--it is not enough to achieve permanent liberation--it is an important tool. The clarity and stillness and peace provide a stable foundation from which to then begin to probe into the nature of being.
But we're jumping ahead of ourselves. The next post will explore some of the aspects of states of concentration.
For those just tuning it, this post is in a series of posts on the five spiritual faculties, the remainder of which are at:
Ardent, alert, and mindful, they abide watching X in X, having put away covetousness and sorrow for the world.
We discussed what it means to be ardent, alert, and mindful, and the four fields of objects which might be chosen for mindfulness practice. Now, the third part: "having put away covetousness and sorrow for the world".
The basic, underlying tension that generates dukkha is simply want. Wanting something, wanting things to be different. Attraction and repulsion. These fundamental forces push us from experience to experience, and if the ancient Indians are to be believed, lifetime to lifetime. These fundamental forces never allow us to really rest for more than a few moments. Liberation from dukkha means liberation from them. This is what is meant by "having put away covetousness and sorrow for the world". For just a moment, achieving freedom from those forces of attraction and aversion that constantly push around our minds and prevent us from settling here and now.
And it is this that brings us to samādhi, the word typically translated as "concentration".
The text we are following, SN 48.10, now goes on to discuss samādhi. I think this time I'm just going to leave it in the Pāli, and discuss it a bit first. My translation, then, of the next few lines:
And what, O monks, is the spiritual faculty of samādhi?
Here, O monks, a noble disciple, having a foundation of relinquishment, gains samādhi, gains unification of the heart and mind.
It is this relinquishment, this letting-go, that is key to samādhi. We practice mindfulness on some object, settling the mind, resting the mind on that object. But we don't achieve this by forcing our attention to stay on the object so much as letting go of everything but that object. We don't tense up and fix ourselves on the object so much as relax everything else around the object. This is why "concentration" is sometimes regarded as not the best word for samādhi, because it implies a certain amount of force, of holding attention in a tense way.
So, we've established our attention on some object, and are ardent and mindful and alert, and have let go of everything that might pull us away from that object, all of the attractions and repulsions. At that point, we reach a unification. All of those forces, those attractions and aversions, fragment the mind. They divide the mind, send it on quests, introduce separations between subject and object, between I and mine. But once those forces are allowed to settle down and rest, and all that's left is the object, then a profoundly new mental state can emerge. A unification of the mind and heart around that object, whether it be the breath or the body or the feeling of loving-kindness, whatever the meditation object, until it becomes the totality of one's own experience.
Gil Fronsdal has offered "composure" as an alternate translation. That brings a sense of the imperturbability of samādhi. When it is achieved, nothing can push you off of that object, it seems. There's an image in the Āgamas (the Sanskrit version of the Pāli Nikāyas) for this: A candleflame in a room with no doors or windows, so no wind can disturb it. It is bright, and burning, and dynamic, and full of energy, but also quiet, and still. Both motionless and full of motion.
This is a state of profound peace, stillness, and clarity. And while this is not the goal of the practice--it is not enough to achieve permanent liberation--it is an important tool. The clarity and stillness and peace provide a stable foundation from which to then begin to probe into the nature of being.
But we're jumping ahead of ourselves. The next post will explore some of the aspects of states of concentration.
For those just tuning it, this post is in a series of posts on the five spiritual faculties, the remainder of which are at: