Introduction This is a work in progress. Eventually, I hope to make available in English a much larger collection of Ajaan Lee's talks to add to the collections already available: Lessons in Samadhi, Food for Thought, Inner Strength, and The Skill of Release. But for the moment, in keeping with the title of the collection, I'd like to start out small. The passages translated here had their beginnings in talks that Ajaan Lee gave to groups of people while they were meditating. In some cases, the people were his followers; in others, total strangers. In every case, Ajaan Lee found it necessary to cover the sorts of questions that occur to people new to meditation — Why meditate? How should I meditate? And why in that particular way? — and in his own style he provided not only straightforward answers to these questions but also vivid analogies, to help his listeners relate their meditation to familiar activities so that they would feel less intimidated by the uncharted areas of the minds they were trying to tame. One aspect of Ajaan Lee's teachings that might strike you as foreign is his analysis of the body into four properties: earth, fire, water, and wind. This mode of analysis dates back to the time of the Buddha, although Ajaan Lee develops it in a distinctive way. Think of this analysis, not as an attempt at biology or chemistry — the sciences we use to analyze the body from the outside — but as a way of analyzing how the body feels from the inside. This is an aspect of awareness that we often overlook and that, in English at least, we have a poor vocabulary for describing. As you gain through meditation a greater familiarity with this aspect of your awareness, you'll come to see how useful Ajaan Lee's method of analysis is. The passages included here have taken a fairly circuitous route from Ajaan Lee's mouth to your eyes. One of his followers — a nun, Mae Chii Arun Abhivanna — took notes during the talks, from which she later worked up reconstructed versions of what Ajaan Lee had said. Ajaan Lee had a chance to review and revise the reconstructions of the talks dated prior to 1957. As for the talks made after that year, Mae Chii Arun didn't get around to making reconstructions until after Ajaan Lee's death in 1961, and so these were printed without his input. Although the talks make for great reading, they make for even better listening. If you meditate with a group of friends, try arranging for one member of the group to read a passage while the others are meditating. In that way, you can best recreate the context for which the talks were originally intended. Thanissaro Bhikkhu

October, 1999

Brightness Within May 18, 1958 For people to be happy or sad, good or bad, all depends on the heart. The heart is what's in charge, the most important thing to be found in our body. That's because it's lasting and responsible for all the good and evil we do. As for the body, it knows nothing of pleasure or pain, happiness or sadness, and it's not at all responsible for anyone's good or evil actions. Why is that? Because the body isn't lasting. It's empty. To say that it's empty means that as soon as it's deprived of breath, its four properties of earth, water, wind, and fire separate from one another and return to their original nature. The parts coming from the earth property return to be earth as they originally were. The parts coming from the water property return to be water as they originally were. The parts coming from the wind and fire properties return to be wind and fire as they originally were. There's nothing about them that's "woman" or "man," "good" or "bad." This is why we're taught, rupam aniccam, physical form is inconstant. Rupam dukkham, it's hard to bear. Rupam anatta, it's not-self, empty, and doesn't stay under anyone's control. Even if we try to forbid it from growing old, growing sick, and dying, it won't behave in line with our wishes. It has to fall in line with the processes of arising and wasting away in accordance with the nature of natural fabrications. This applies to everyone. But you can't say that the body is entirely anatta, for some parts of it are atta. In other words, they lie somewhat under our control. For instance, if you want the body to walk, it'll walk. If you want it to lie down, it'll lie down. If you want it to eat, it'll eat. If you want it to take a bath, it'll take a bath. This shows that it lies somewhat under your control. So the body is both anatta and atta. But even so, both aspects are equal in the sense that they're empty and not responsible for the good or evil things we do. No matter how much good or evil you do, the body doesn't have any part in the rewards. When it dies, it gets cremated and turns into ashes either way. It's not responsible for anyone's happiness or sadness at all. When people do good or evil, the results of their good and evil all fall to their own minds. The mind is what's responsible for all our actions, and it's the one that experiences the results of its actions as well. This is why the Buddha taught us to cleanse our hearts and minds, to make them pure as a way of leading us to future happiness. What do we use to cleanse the heart and mind? We cleanse the heart and mind with skillfulness — in other words by developing skillful qualities within it through practicing concentration. We cut away all the thoughts of greed, anger, and delusion within the mind, such as the Hindrances of sensual desire, ill will, torpor & lethargy, restlessness & anxiety, and doubt. All of these qualities are things that soil the mind. When the mind is soiled in this way, it's bound to suffer. It's headed for darkness because of its own actions. Our unskillful actions can be divided into the different ways they're dark. Some are dark like the darkness of night, i.e., totally devoid of any brightness. Some are dark like clouds, i.e., they alternate between being dark and bright, just as when the moon is bright at some times and covered by clouds at others. Some of our unskillfulness is dark like haze, obscuring all our vision whether by day or by night. This third kind of unskillfulness is ignorance, or avijja. It obscures the mind at all times so that we can't recognize which of the mind's objects are past, which are future, and which are present. This is why the mind concerns itself with past, present, and future so that it can't stay firmly in any one place. It has no certainty about anything. This is ignorance. From ignorance comes craving, the cause of all stress and suffering. To get rid of this haze we have to meditate, getting rid of thoughts and concepts of past and future by seeing them as inconstant, stressful, and not-self; seeing all the aggregates of form, feeling, perception, thought-fabrication, and consciousness as inconstant, stressful, and not-self, to the point where there is no past, no future, no present. That's when the mind is released from the clouds and haze of its Hindrances and enters into brightness. There are two kinds of people in the world. Some are like those with good eyes. They're the ones who develop skillful qualities within themselves, and so they see the brightness of the world both by day and by night. Then there are those who don't develop skillful mental qualities. They're like people born blind: even though the light of the sun and moon may be shining, these people are in the darkness — in this case, the darkness of their own minds. This is why the Buddha taught us to remove the darkness from our minds, to remove our minds from darkness, as in the Pali verse, Kanham dhammam vippahaya sukkam bhavetha pandito, which means, "Having abandoned dark qualities, the wise person develops the bright." When people develop brightness within themselves, they can use that brightness to illuminate all their activities. This will bring them success in all they do. But if they're in the dark, it's as if they were blind, so that the things they do won't succeed in full measure. For example, they may listen to the Dhamma, but if their minds are still wandering out all over the place, it's as if they were obscured by the clouds and haze of their Hindrances. This is why we're taught to practice tranquillity meditation, fixing the mind on a single preoccupation. Tell yourself that the qualities of the Buddha aren't separate from the qualities of the Dhamma, which aren't separate from the qualities of the Sangha. They're actually one and the same, as the Pali verse tells us: Buddho dhammo sangho cati nanahontampi vatthuto

Aññamaññaviyoga va ekibhutamapanatthato "Although the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha may be different as objects, seemingly separate from one another, they are actually one in meaning." Thus when we make the mind firm in its awakened awareness, it contains the qualities of the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha all in one. That's when our concentration will develop in the proper way. So I ask that you abandon unskillful mental qualities and cleanse the mind so that it's clean and pure. Brightness will then arise within your heart. This way you'll experience ease and happiness without a doubt, as the Pali passage guarantees: Citte sankilitthe duggati patikankha. Citte asankilitthe sugati patikankha. "When the mind is defiled, a bad destination can be expected. When the mind is undefiled, a happy destination can be expected."

The Light of Discernment August 23, 1958 Our discernment is like light, and there are three levels to it: low-level discernment, which is like the light of a torch; intermediate discernment, which is like the light of a candle or a kerosene lantern; and high-level discernment, which is like electric light. To get light from a torch, you need to use a lot of fuel. And even though it's bright, it creates smoke. This is like the discernment that comes from being generous: it requires a lot of financial resources, and you sometimes have to contend with resistance from people outside. The light of a candle or gas lantern is like the discernment that comes from observing the precepts. You have to exercise a lot of care and use your powers of endurance to keep them pure. Lantern-light requires fuel and a wick. As for candlelight, it requires a wick and some wax. If you have wax but no wick, you can't get any light. And both lantern-light and candlelight create smoke and soot, so neither of them counts as being entirely good. As for electric discernment, there's no need for fuel, and it doesn't create smoke or soot. It's easy to use: whenever you want it, by day or by night, just flip on the switch. This refers to the discernment that comes from developing concentration. The power of the mind, when it's pure and firmly established, gives rise to the light of knowledge — liberating insight — enabling us to see events clearly, both in the area of the world and of the Dhamma. When we can make the mind clean and pure, it gives rise to concentration and to the light of discernment — pañña-pajjoto — which is like electric light, or the light of the sun, which shines all twelve hours of the day. This kind of discernment is the discernment of the noble ones. All three forms of merit — generosity, virtue, and meditation — depend on discernment. When we develop discernment, we'll know how to look for merit on our own. And what kind of light will we want — torch light, candlelight, lantern-light, or electric light? Death is like darkness. When the time comes to die, outside light won't be of any use to us. Our speech, hands, feet, arms, and legs won't be of any use to us. They won't be able to help us at all. Our eyes won't be able to see any light. No one will hear what we have to say. Our hands and feet won't be able to move. Our possessions won't be able to help us. The only resource that will be able to help us is our discernment, making sure that greed, aversion, and delusion don't get provoked, maintaining the mind in a state free from greed, free from aversion, free from delusion. We'll be able to separate these three things — body, mind, and defilement — out from one another, in the same way that we separate the wick of a candle from its wax. The fire of defilement will then have to go out, because the wick and the wax lie in separate places and don't make contact. In the same way, if we can separate the body from the mind, our normal awareness will have to go out. But when it goes out, that doesn't mean that awareness is annihilated. It's still there, but as a special form of awareness that doesn't depend on the body or mind and yet can still be aware. It's just like fire going out from a candle: it's not annihilated. There's still plenty of fire potential left in the world. It's there by its nature, simply that it isn't involved with any fuel. This kind of fire is better than the kind that requires fuel, because it doesn't wear anything out. It's simply there by its nature. This kind of merit is more wonderful than anything else. If we can separate the body, the mind, and defilement from one another, there'll be no more heat. The mind won't be hot, and instead will be cool at all times. The light of fire arises from the spinning of waves. If there are no waves, there'll be no spinning. The waves are like defilement. If we can cut through the waves, the spinning will stop. There will be no more birth. Greed, aversion, and delusion are like waves — or like the wick of a candle. If we cut out the wick, leaving only the wax, fire will have no place to catch hold and so will have to go out. When the candle goes out, it's like the death of human beings: the fire leaves the candle, but the fire potential isn't annihilated. In the same way, the mind that goes out from the body isn't annihilated. If it can remain on its own, without having to depend on a body, it doesn't appear in any way, shape, or form anywhere at all. That's the awareness of nibbana. This is the kind of awareness that's really like electric light. Whenever we want it, it's there for us to know. Sometimes even if we don't want to know, we still end up knowing. As for ordinary people, even if they want to know things, they often don't know; they often don't see even when they want to see. That's like torch light or candlelight: if there's no fuel, there's no way it can be bright. This is why we're taught to train our minds to be firmly established in concentration — for the mind well-trained is what gives rise to the light of discernment that doesn't get deluded: the discernment that knows for sure.

Clinging September 9, 1957 Clinging is the cause of all suffering and stress. It's what gives rise to states of becoming and birth. It's not at all safe. Whatever appears and takes shape is bound to create suffering. Just as when a person's money appears in a way that other people can see: there are bound to be thieves who will steal it away. When you have money, you're afraid if people see it. You're afraid even if they don't. In the same way, when people cling to the five aggregates as their self in this world, they suffer. When they die and go to the next world, they suffer still. The clinging we feel has three kinds, or three time frames: past, present, and future. In each time frame there are five aggregates, which means that each of us has 15 aggregates. And when we have so many aggregates to carry around, it's no wonder we suffer. When we look ahead, we start wondering: "If I live until 60, 70, or 80, what's it going to be like? If I fall into poverty, what will I do?" When we think like this, we start worrying in all kinds of ways. If we think about good things, we get enthralled. If we think about bad things, we get disheartened. Some people think about bad things so much that they get really discouraged and despondent. That's because they cling to their thoughts and preoccupations. This is called having five heavy stones placed in front of us. Then we turn around and look behind us: "When we die, what will happen to our children and grandchildren?" We might think of giving them part of the family fortune so that they'll be able to set themselves up in life. But then we think of how foolish they can be. "If they take our family fortune and gamble it all away, what will we do?" When we think like this, it makes us discouraged. Other times we think of our own good qualities, our children's good qualities, in the present, and it makes us happy. That's another five heavy stones. So altogether we have five stones in front of us, five stones behind us, and five stones in the present. Our right hand clings to physical phenomena, our left hand to mental phenomena. We hold on to form, feeling, perception, thought-constructs, and consciousness as our self. So we carry a burden in our right hand, a burden in our left hand, and more burdens placed on a pole over our shoulder. If we keep carrying these things around without ever putting them down, we'll meet with nothing but suffering. Then we grab onto the suffering so that we suffer even more, to the point where our faces are all contorted and our shoulders twisted out of shape. This is why the Buddha had such compassion for us and taught us to cago patinissago, to relinquish and let go. Whoever doesn't put down the pole on his or her shoulder will never get away. If we can first let go of our thoughts of past and future, things will be somewhat lighter. If we're only carrying things in our hands there's some hope that we'll be able to keep going. In other words, if we don't practice concentration, keeping our minds still and away from the Hindrances, we're still carrying a pole over our shoulders with burdens in front of us and behind us, all because we can't let go of our thoughts of past and future. Thoughts of past and future are things we don't need to think about. Whether they're our own affairs, the affairs of our children or grandchildren, or our business or financial affairs: when we've come to meditate like this, there's no need to think about anything at all. Be intent on sitting still. Keep your body straight, focus on watching only the present — the breath — and light will appear. Even though your right and left hands are still holding onto physical and mental phenomena, at least you've put down both burdens that were on your shoulders. As for the physical phenomena that are still heavy, that's because the King of Death keeps sprinkling poison on them. For example, our eyes: At first they are clear. Everything we see is sharp and bright. But then the King of Death sprinkles his poison in them, making them murky and dark, or giving us cataracts. So we have to go running to have our eyes examined, to get glasses for them, to put medicine in them, to go in for surgery. They make us suffer in every way, so that our tiny little eyes start weighing as much as a fist in the face. As for our ears, at first they can hear all kinds of sounds. Then the King of Death comes and sprinkles his poison in them so that they start ringing or going deaf. We can hardly hear what other people are saying, we can't understand what they're getting at, and this makes us irritable. They say bad things, and to us they sound good. Or they say good things, and to us they sound bad. We get things right and wrong, and this gives rise to quarrels and disagreements. The same with our nose. At first it's in good shape, but then the King of Death sprinkles poison in it, so that tumors and growths develop. We have to go looking for medicinal snuff and inhalers, or for doctors to zap the growths with electricity. Our nose starts smelling bad and disfigures our face. As for the tongue, body, and mind, they pile us high with pain in just the same way. This is why we're taught, rupam aniccam: all physical forms are unstable and inconstant. If we get stuck on thinking about these things, it sets us on fire. Our skin and flesh grow flabby and wrinkled, our backs get bent, and as we grow older like this it's a burden both to our own hearts and to the hearts of our children and grandchildren. In addition, it's a burden in terms of the money we need to spend to look after ourselves. Whoever holds onto unstable things as being his or her self will have to walk in an unstable way. Most of us tend to cling to the body and other physical things as being ours. Sometimes we cling to mental phenomena — feelings, perceptions, thought-constructs, and consciousness — as being ours. This is called carrying things in both hands. Still, it's better than carrying loads on a pole over our shoulder, for as long as our burdens are only in our hands we're able to sit or lie down. But if we have burdens on a pole over our shoulder, we can't sit down. We have to keep standing. For this reason we should train our hearts to be peaceful and still — in other words, to develop concentration. When the heart's tranquil and still, discernment will arise. When discernment arises, we'll understand our own birth: When we were born, we didn't bring along even a single tooth or piece of cloth. However we came is how we'll have to return. We won't be able to take a single thing along with us, aside from the good and evil that will take us to be reborn in good or bad destinations or that will send us to nibbana. People who can meditate in this way will become light and unburdened, for they'll be able to let go of what they're carrying in their hands. In that way they'll be happy, for they've received three jewels to adorn themselves. When they get to the other side, they'll be able to sell them for a good price. As long as they stay here, they'll have good things to dress up with. Whoever has the intelligence to practice letting go in this way will receive wealth that's of value everywhere — like gold: No matter what country you go to, gold is recognized as having value. It's not like paper money, which is recognized only in your own country. For this reason, when we can train the mind to let go — so that it's released from holding on to the future, the past, and the present — it's as if we've received an entire ingot of pure gold. We'll be happy at all times. But if we're stupid enough to hold onto things as our own, we'll set the mind on fire so that it won't know any peace. This is why the Buddha has warned us: Whoever clings to physical or mental phenomena, or to mental labels and thoughts, will have to be so burdened that they won't be able to get anywhere. Ultimately, they'll have to die stuck in the world, like the monkey who stole melons from the old couple's field and ended up getting stuck in a tar trap and dying on the spot. It's a story they tell as an analogy of how painful and difficult clinging can be. The story goes like this: Once an old couple lived at the edge of the forest near the foot of a mountain. It so happened that their rice fields were flooded and they couldn't grow any rice, so they cleared fields on the mountainside and planted them with corn, beans, watermelons, and cantaloupes to have enough food to make it through the year. At night, though, porcupines and other animals kept coming to eat their crops; while during the day, birds and monkeys would come and harass them. So eventually the old couple decided that they'd have to sleep out in the fields to keep watch over them and set out traps to protect them. The old man would keep watch at night, while the old woman would keep watch by day. One day a troop of monkeys came and invaded the field. No matter how much the old woman tried to chase them away, they wouldn't leave her alone. They'd jump from that tree to this, teasing and pestering her to the point where she had no time for her midday rest. So she came up with an idea. She went into the forest and found some tree sap that she boiled until it was a nice sticky tar. Then she took the tar and spread it all over any trees or stumps that the monkeys liked to use as their perches. The next day a huge troop of monkeys came, stealing watermelons and cantaloupes and eating their fill. Now one of the monkeys, a female, had two babies. One of her babies was sick, so she left it home with her husband for him to look after, while she came along with the troop with the other baby hanging down in front of her chest. While eating the melons she thought of her sick baby, so she decided to take some back for the baby and her husband. When she had eaten her fill, she stuffed two tiny melons into her cheeks for her baby and grabbed a largish melon that she hugged to her chest for her husband. As for the baby hanging in front of her, she had it hang onto her back. Just as she was all set to go, the old woman — carrying a shovel — happened to come across the monkeys and gave chase. Startled, the monkeys all ran off — except for the mother monkey, who could do nothing but jump back and forth because she was so weighed down: weighed down in front, weighed down in back, weighed down in her mouth. She tried calling for help, but no sound came out. She happened to jump up onto a stump that the old woman had smeared with a thick, soft glob of tar. The old woman came straight at her with the shovel, so the monkey decided to jump away but she couldn't budge. Her tail was curled up and stuck in the tar. She tried to pry her tail loose with one of her paws, but the paw got stuck. She used her other paw to pry off the tar, but that one got stuck, too. Seeing that the tar on her paw was black and sticky, she sniffed it, only to get her paw stuck to her nose. With one of her back feet she tried to push herself off the stump, but the foot got stuck. Then she used the other foot to wipe the first one off, but her two feet got stuck together as if they were tied up with a rope. She couldn't move. All she could do was look around grimacing, just like a monkey. After a moment's thought she bent down and bit the tar in furious anger. She wanted to bite the old woman but all she could do was bend down and bite tar. As for the old woman, when she saw the monkey all stuck in the tar like this, she called the old man to come and see. Then the two of them found a red ants' nest and broke it over the monkey. Then they set fire to her hair, tormenting her there on the stump. Finally one of them took a hoe handle while the other took a shovel handle, and the two of them beat the monkeys — mother and baby — to a miserable death. This is the result of clinging and attachment: clinging to the future, clinging to the past, clinging to the present: the baby on her back and the melon she was holding to her chest. That's why she had to suffer so much. For this reason, the Buddha taught us to let go of labels and thoughts of past and future, and all five aggregates in the present. Physical phenomena are like the melon the monkey held to her chest; mental phenomena, like the baby hanging from her back. We can't get away because of our heavy burdens. Whoever clings is said to be heavily burdened. As long as we're alive, we have trouble finding true goodness. When we die, we have heavy burdens lying in our way. This is why the Buddha teaches us to let go. Don't grasp onto thoughts of past, future, or present. Make the mind like water on a lotus leaf, which doesn't seep in. It reaches a quality that doesn't die, doesn't come back to be born in this world or any other. Free from suffering and stress, it reaches the highest, most excellent ease. So we should all try our best to lighten our burdens.

Letting Go Notes from a talk, April 21, 1953 Letting go. One of the important reasons why the Buddha taught the Dhamma was to teach us to let go, not to hold on to things. The more we really know the Dhamma, the more we can let go. Those who know a little can let go of a little; those who know a lot can let go of a lot. As a first step we're taught dana — to be generous, to give donations — as a strategy for getting us to learn how to let go. The next step is caga — renouncing rights of possession — which is letting go at a higher level than dana. And finally, on a more refined level, we're taught to relinquish all our upadhi, or the acquisition-defilements in the mind. This is the level on which we examine and explore until we can gain total release. Dana means giving away material things. If we don't give them away, they're hard to let go. For the most part, if we don't give things away, we hold rights over them and regard them as belonging to us. But if we give them away, we no longer have any rights over them. Things we hold onto are dangerous. (1) They can cause us harm. (2) They cause harm to people who steal them from us. And (3) once those people have stolen them, then they claim rights over them. The Buddha saw these dangers, which is why he taught us to be generous, to learn how to give things away. People who develop the habit of being generous reap many rewards. Their act of generosity comes back to them both in the present and on into the future. They have lots of friends. Other people trust them. Their hearts are light — they aren't weighed down with worries about looking after the things they've given away. And these same results will keep coming in the future, just as when we have a bucket of rice grains: if we plant them in a field, we'll reap ten buckets of rice in return. The same holds true with the goodness we develop in this lifetime. It gives enormous returns. That's how people of discernment understand it. Caga is the next step. Dana is something that even crazy people can do, but caga is a type of giving that only wise people can do, because their sense of personal possession has to end immediately in the act of giving. They see that all material things are common property: things don't really belong to us, they don't really belong to other people. If you see things as belonging to you, that's addiction to sensuality (kamasukhallikanuyoga). If you see things as belonging to others, that's addiction to self-affliction (attakilamathanuyoga). When we're born, we didn't bring anything along with us when we came. When we die, we won't take anything along when we go. So what really belongs to us? Our sense of possession has to fall away from the heart if our giving is to count as caga. The third level of letting go is relinquishing what's in the heart. Whether or not we give things away, we let go of them in the heart every day. We let go of the things we have. We let go of the things we don't have. Just as a person has to wash his mouth and hands every day after he eats if he wants to stay clean at all times. What this means is that we're not willing to let anything act as an enemy to the heart by making us stingy or grasping. If we don't do this, we're the type of person who doesn't wash up after a meal. We're not clean. We stay asleep without ever waking up. But when we let go in this way, it's called viraga-dhamma, or dispassion. The lower levels of letting go are things we can do only from time to time. Dispassion is something we can develop always. Ordinarily our defilements tie us down hand and foot, and then nail us to the floor. It's hard to get free, which is why we need a high level of skill, called bhavanamaya-pañña — the discernment that comes from developing the mind in meditation — to gain release. Dispassion is a mental quality that's really delicious and nourishing. Whoever hasn't reached this level of the Dhamma has eaten only the rind of the fruit, without knowing the taste and nourishment of the flesh. The good part of the flesh lies deep. The upadhi-kilesas, or acquisition-defilements in the mind, are ignorance, craving, and clinging. If we reach the level where we see the Dhamma for ourselves within us, then we take responsibility for ourselves. We can take care of these things on our own, just as when we come of age in terms of the law. If we can get our minds into the first jhana, we can let go of the five hindrances. Most of us are like inexperienced children: when we eat fish or chicken, we eat the bones along with the flesh because we haven't developed any intuitive insight. When this insight arises, it's more dazzling than the light of a fire, sharper than a spear. It can consume anything: meat, bones, rice, husks — anything — because it's smart enough to pound everything into a powder. It can consume sights, sounds, smells, flavors, tactile sensations, and ideas. Good or bad, it isn't picky. It can eat them all. If people praise us, we can use it to nourish the heart. If they criticize us, we can use it to nourish the heart. Even if the body is in terrible pain, the heart can be at its ease, for it has all the utensils it needs to fix its food properly: grinders, mixers, steamers, pots, and pans. The fog of ignorance will scatter. Everything that ties us down — the nails of the five clinging-aggregates, the three ropes (love for spouse, love for children, love for material possessions), and the eight chains of the affairs of the world (loka-dhamma) — gain, loss, status, loss of status, praise, criticism, pleasure, and pain — will all fall away. Stupid people think that staying in jail is comfortable, which is why they keep on doing more and more evil. They see the world as pleasant and so they're like prisoners who don't want to get out of jail. As for people with discernment, they're like the caged quail who keeps looking for a way to get out of the cage. As a result the chains that hold them down will fall away one link at a time. The eight affairs of the world are like the chains put on criminals to keep them bound. Stupid people think these chains are necklaces of gold to wear as ornaments. Actually, they're things that defile the mind. People who get tied down by them will never get away, because they're afraid they'll lose their wealth and status, afraid of criticism and pain. Anyone who is stuck on pleasure, who is afraid of criticism, will never manage to come to the monastery to practice. The Buddha saw that we're like monkeys tied to a chain. If we don't develop liberating insight, we'll never get free from our chains. We'll never make it to dispassion. In the first stage we let go of evil and start doing good. In the second stage we let go of evil and some forms of good. In the third stage we let go of everything, good and evil, because everything is fabricated by nature and thus undependable. We do good but we're not attached to it. When you let go, you have do it intelligently, and not in a ruinous way — i.e., by not doing good. You can't hold on even to your opinions, much less to material things. When you do good, you do it for the sake of the living beings of the world, for your children and grandchildren. You do everything in the best way possible, but you're not attached to it, because you know that all things fabricated are inconstant. This way your heart can be clear and bright like a jewel. If you get caught up on criticism or praise, you're foolish. It's like drinking other people's saliva. When you act rightly, there are people who will say that you're right and those who will say that you're wrong. When you act wrong, there are people who will say you're wrong and those who will say you're right. There's nothing constant about good or bad, for they're all nothing but fabrications.

Three Principles July 6, 1956 In brief, there are three principles that are really basic to meditation: 1. The right intention: You have to make up your mind that you're going to let go of all thoughts and preoccupations dealing with the world. You aren't going to keep them to think about. Every thought and concept dealing with the past or future is an affair of the world, and not of the Dhamma. Make up your mind that you're going to do one thing right now: the work of the religion, and nothing else. In other words, you're going to work on the immediate present. This is called the right intention. 2. The right object: This means the right theme or focal point for the mind. The theme here is dhatuvavatthana, or resolution into the properties, one of the themes in taking the body as a frame of reference (kayanupassana-satipatthana). In short, we're going to look at the four properties that make up the body: the properties of earth, water, wind, and fire. The earth property covers the hard parts of the body, such as the bones. The water property covers the liquid parts, such as urine, saliva, blood, and pus. The fire property covers the heat and warmth in the body. The wind property covers the feelings of energy that flow in the body, such as the breath. Of all these properties, the most important one is the wind property, or the breath. If other parts of the body get damaged — say, if our eyes go blind, our ears go deaf, our arms and legs get broken — it can still survive. But if it doesn't have any breath, it can't last. It'll have to die. So the breath is an important object because it forms a basis for our awareness. 3. The right quality: This means the feelings of comfort or discomfort that arise in the body. When you take care of the in-and-out breath so that it flows freely through the various parts of the body, it'll give rise to results. Take good note of whether the results that the body and mind reap from the breath are good or bad. Does the body feel open and at ease, or does it feel tight and constricted? Does the mind feel calm, quiet, and pleasant, or is it irritable, distracted, and chaotic? If the body and mind feel at ease, that counts as good results. If the opposite is true, then that counts as bad results. So you have to gain a sense of how to adjust the breath so that it becomes comfortable. As for the right qualities of the mind, those are mindfulness and alertness. Try to keep following these three basic principles every time you practice concentration. Only then will you get results that are full and correct. As for the rewards of concentration, there are lots of them. They arise in line with the power of the mind of the person meditating, as I'll explain at a later date.

Three Strands of a Rope August 19, 1959 If you've never meditated, these two easy principles are all you have to understand: (1) Think of the qualities of the Buddha; and (2) think of bringing them into your mind. What this means is, be mindful to make the mind firmly established solely in the breath, without forgetting it or letting yourself get distracted. Not forgetting the breath means being mindful of the in-and-out breath at all times. Not getting distracted means that you don't grab hold of anything else to think about. If the mind is focused but you're thinking about something else, it's not called Right Concentration. Your mindfulness has to keep within the bounds of the work you're doing, in other words, staying with the breath. Don't put pressure on the breath, tense it up, or hold it. Let it flow easily and comfortably, as when you put a fresh egg in cotton batting. If you don't throw it or push it down, the egg won't get dented or cracked. This way your meditation will progress smoothly. The breath is one thing, mindfulness is another, and your awareness, still another. You have to twist these three strands together so that they don't break away from one another. In other words, your awareness has to stay with the act of mindfulness, thinking about the breath. And both your awareness and mindfulness have to stay with the breath. Only then can you say that these things are factors of meditation. When you can twist these three strands into a single rope, focus your awareness on observing the in-and-out breath to see whether it's comfortable or not, expansive or confined, broad or narrow. Whichever way of breathing feels comfortable, keep breathing in that way. If the breath isn't comfortable, keep changing it until it is. If you force the mind too much, it's bound to pop away. If you loosen your grip too much, it's going to get lost. So try to tend to it in a way that's just right. The important point is that your mindfulness and alertness be circumspect, making adjustments throughout the breath. Don't let the mind go flowing out after other preoccupations. Mindfulness is like a person who's awake and alive. If the mind lacks mindfulness, it's like we're sleeping with dead bodies in a cemetery. There's nothing but foul smells and fear. This is why we're taught to be mindful of ourselves in the present moment at all times. Cut away all thoughts of past and future without grabbing onto them to think about, for these things are deceitful and illusory, like spirits and demons. They waste your time and pull you down. So be aware simply of the breath, for the breath is what gives life and leads you to higher happiness. Mindfulness is like a magic soap that scrubs the breath. Alertness is another bar of magic soap for scrubbing the mind. If you constantly have mindfulness and alertness in conjunction with the breath and the mind, your body and mind will be valuable and pure, so that as long as you live in the world you'll be at your ease; when you die, you won't be put to difficulties. If the mind is focused but forgets the breath and goes thinking about other things, that's called Wrong Concentration. If the mind drops some of its Hindrances, such as sensual desire, by falling asleep, that's called Wrong Release. Only if the mind is firmly focused on mindfulness and the breath is it in Right Concentration. Only if it drops its Hindrances by being wise to their tricks is it called Right Release. If mindfulness and alertness are constantly established in the mind, our views will become straight, our concentration will become right, just as when two beams of light meet: they give rise to the bright light of discernment. There are times when discernment arises for only a tiny moment in the mind, and yet it can kill off enormous defilements. For example, it can let go of all the clinging-aggregates. It can abandon self-identity views by letting go of the body; it can abandon attachment to practices and precepts by letting go of feeling; and it can abandon uncertainty by letting go of perception, mental fabrications, and consciousness. We're taught to develop this sort of discernment by practicing Right Concentration. Even if it arises only for the flash of an eye, it can bring us many, many benefits. Just like an atomic bomb: even though it's only a tiny thing, it can bring destruction to the world in an awesome way. The discernment arising from within the mind is something that can't be described. It's a tiny, little thing, not like the knowledge that comes from studying and memorizing in school. That's why we can't talk about it. The Buddha even laid down training rules for the monks, forbidding them from talking about their spiritual attainments. This is why we can't know if other people are noble disciples. It's something that each noble disciple can know only for him or herself alone.

At the Gate of a Cattle-pen August 23, 1959 I'd like to recommend the basic principles of sitting in meditation for newcomers who've never done it before. 1. Make up your mind that you're not going gather up anything else to think about, that you're going to think about only one thing: the qualities of the Buddha, or the word buddho. 2. Be firmly mindful of the breath, thinking bud- with the in-breath, and dho with the out. Or if you want, you can simply think buddho, buddho in the mind. 3. Make the mind still and then drop the word buddho so that you can simply observe nothing but the in-and-out breath. It's like standing at the gate of a cattle-pen and keeping watch over the cattle to see their characteristics as they come in and out of the pen. What color are they — black? red? white? spotted? Are they old or young? Are they calves or fully grown? Make sure you don't go walking in with the cattle yet, for they might kick you and break your shins, or gore you to death with their horns. Stay right at the gate. What this means is that you keep your mind still in one point. You don't have to make it go in and out with the breath. Observing the characteristics of the cattle means learning how to observe the breath: Does breathing in short and out short feel good, or does in long and out long feel good? How about in long and out short, or in short and out long? Learn to recognize which type of breathing is most comfortable, and then stick with it. So there are three steps you have to follow: the first step is to stay mindful of the word buddho. The second is to be mindful of the breath, thinking bud- with the in breath and dho with the out. Don't forget. Don't get distracted. The third step, when the mind is still, is to drop the word buddho and to be observant of nothing but the in-and-out breath. When you can do this, the mind will grow still. The breath will be still, too, like a dipper floating in a barrel of water: the water is still, the dipper is still, because no one is pressing on it, tipping it, or hitting against it. The dipper will keep floating in perfect stillness on the surface of the water. Or you can say that it's like climbing up to the top of a very tall mountain, or like floating up above the clouds. The mind will feel nothing but a cool sense of pleasure and ease. This is the root, the heartwood, the apex of all that is skillful. It's called the root because it's a good quality that runs deep and tenacious right down the middle of the heart. It's called the heartwood because it's solid and resilient, like the heartwood of a tree that insects can't burrow into and destroy. Even though insects may be able to nibble away at the tree, they can go only as far as the bark or the sapwood. In other words, even though distractions may come and bother us, they can reach only as far as the sense doors: our eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body. For example, when sights strike against the eye, they go only as far as the eye. They don't get into the heart. When sounds strike the ear, they go only as far as the ear, and not into the heart. When smells strike the nose, they go only as far as the nose. They don't enter the heart. This is why we say that the goodness of meditation is the heartwood of what's skillful, because the various forms of evil can't easily destroy the goodness of the heart when it's solid and stable, in the same way that insects can't bore into heartwood. The skillfulness of a mind in concentration is called the apex of all that's skillful because it's high in quality. It can pull all other forms of goodness into the mind as well. When the mind is still, its goodness spreads out to cover the entire body, so that we stop doing unskillful things with the body. It will cover our speech, so that we stop saying unskillful things with our mouth. The unskillful things we've done with our eyes, ears, hands, will all get washed away. In this way, the goodness that comes from meditating will wash out our eyes and ears, will wash our hands and all the various parts of our body so that they all become clean. When we have cleanliness in charge of our body, it's a goodness that's high in quality — just as rain falling from high up in the sky spreads to cover everything. The higher it comes from, the more territory it covers. When the mind is high in quality, its goodness spreads to cover our eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body. It spreads to cover sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and tactile sensations. It spreads to cover our thoughts of past and future. In this way, this goodness spreads out until eventually it covers the entire cosmos. These, in short, are a few of the rewards that come from meditation. The high-quality goodness coming from meditation is like rain falling from high in the sky. Not only does it wash away the dirty things on the ground, but it also nourishes the plants so that human beings can depend on them. In addition, it refreshes people with its coolness. The Buddha showered his goodness on the world beginning from the very day of his Awakening, and his goodness is still raining on us 2,500 years later. The Buddha was a Great Being because of the high-quality goodness he developed through his meditation — the same meditation we're doing right now. To put it simply: every aspect of meditation is good. No matter how much you do, even if you don't seem to be getting any results, it's all good regardless. Even when you simply repeat the word buddho, it's good for the mind. When you're mindful of the breath, it's good for the mind. When you can make the mind still with the breath, it's good for the mind. For this reason, meditation is something you should do at all times. Don't let the time and opportunity to meditate pass you by.

Starting Out Small May 17, 1959 The power of the Buddha is more tremendous than that of all other beings, human and divine. His body is enormous, in that we've been making representations of it from ancient times up to the present and yet still haven't finished the job. His mouth is enormously wide. Many are the things that he said only once but that other people have repeated without ceasing: here I'm talking about his teachings, which members of the Sangha have copied down into texts and delivered as sermons for us to hear up to the present. The Buddha's physical mouth was small, but his words are amazingly great, which is why we say that his mouth is wide. His eyes are wide as well: they've seen the true nature of the entire cosmos. This is the way it is with people who are really good: they tend to have this kind of enormous greatness. Big things like this have to come from small things. Before the Buddha could become enormous in this way, he first had to make himself small. In other words, he cut himself off from his royal family and went alone into the forest to sit under the branches of the Bodhi tree on the banks of the Nerañjara River. He let his in-and-out breathing grow smaller and smaller until it was extremely subtle, and there the fire of his defilements and mental fermentations went totally out without trace. He awakened to the foremost right self-awakening, becoming a Buddha. His heart, which he had let grow so extremely subtle and small, exploded outward in goodness in a way that is still blatant to us even today. So I ask that we all set our minds on really practicing concentration. Don't worry about the past or the future or anything else. When the mind is firmly set in concentration, knowledge and discernment will arise without our having to worry about them. Don't let yourself think that you want to know this or see that. These things will come on their own. As the proverb says, "Those with a lot of greed get only a little to feed on; those content with only a pinkie's worth will get a whole thumb." Keep bearing this point in mind. For the mind to range far and wide, wandering after outside concepts and preoccupations, saps the strength it needs to deal with its various affairs. Whatever it then thinks of doing will succeed only with difficulty. It's like a gun with a broad-gauged barrel. If you put tiny bullets into it, they rattle around inside and don't come out with much force. The narrower the gauge of the barrel, the more force the bullets will have when you shoot them out. It's the same with the breath: The more you narrow its focus, the more refined the breath will become, until eventually you can breathe through your pores. The mind at this stage has more strength than an atomic bomb. Intelligent orchard owners get their bananas to help them plant their orchard, get their mangoes to help them plant their orchard. They don't have to invest a lot of capital. In other words, they clear the land bit by bit, plant it bit by bit, harvest bit by bit, sell bit by bit, until the orchard grows larger and larger all the time. This way they don't need to invest much in terms of labor or capital, but the results they get are large and lasting. As for stupid people, when they start an orchard, no matter how large, they pour all their money into it, hiring people to clear the land, plow it, and plant it all at once. If they run into a drought for three days or seven days running, their plants all wither and die. Grass and weeds spring up and overrun the place. At that point, there's nothing the owners can do, because the orchard is way too big for them. They don't have the money to hire the workers again, because they used up all their funds right at the beginning. All they can do is sit with their arms around their knees, blinking back the tears. They've lost all their capital and have no profits to show. That's the way it is with people who are greedy. As for those who keep at their work steadily, bit by bit, the results keep growing bigger and bigger all the time.

Housework & Fieldwork August 4, 1956 When we sit and meditate, there are three things we have to work with: 1. The breath: make it the object of the mind. 2. Mindfulness: think of the meditation word bud- with the in-breath and dho with the out. 3. The mind: keep the mind both with the breath and with the meditation word. Let the breath flow comfortably. Let the mind be at ease. Don't force the breath or try to put the mind into a trance. Keep the mind firm and upright, and don't let it slip off here or there. These are the things we have to study — not just so that we'll know them. We study them so that we can put them into practice, i.e., we practice them so that we'll come to the knowledge we really want. In keeping the mind pure, we have to cut away perceptions so that they don't stick in the heart. It's like looking after a white sheet spread on our bed. We have to watch out for any dust that will blow in on the wind and land on the sheet, and for any insects — such as ants or bed bugs — that will come to live there. If we see any dust, we have to take the sheet and shake it out. Wherever there are any stains, we have to launder it immediately. Don't let them stay long on the sheet or else they'll be hard to wash out. If there are any insects, we have to remove them, for they may bite us and give us a rash or keep us from sleeping soundly. When we keep looking after our sheet in this way, it will have to stay clean and white and be a comfortable place for us to sleep. The dust and insects here are the Hindrances that are the enemies of the heart. We have to look after our heart in just the same way we look after our bedding. We can't let any outside perceptions come in and stick to the heart or nibble at it. We have to brush them all away. That way the mind will become calm, free from distractions. When we meditate, we're giving rise to skill in three ways: we aren't harming anyone with our body; we aren't bad-mouthing anyone with our speech; and we're getting the mind to stay with good intentions. In other words, we're staying with buddho with every in-and-out breath, so we're not thinking of doing anything evil, and we don't think thoughts of anger or hatred about anyone. This way our body, speech, and mind are pure. This is what gives rise to merit and skill, for we're not doing any evil at all. When we think of the breath in this way, it's as if we're painting a picture on a piece of white cloth. Our mind in its ordinary state is like a plain piece of cloth, with no patterns or designs. When we raise the mind to a higher level and think of the factors of meditation, it's like drawing a mental picture on it. For example, the word buddho is a mental picture, inasmuch as we can't see it with our eyes, but we can see it through our thinking. If we think of it constantly, it's as if our ink or paint seeps deep into the cloth. If we don't think buddho, or think of it in only a superficial way, it's like drawing with a pencil. The picture won't stick and seep into the heart. It might get smeared or entirely erased. Then we add details to our picture: this is what's meant by evaluation (vicara). If we keep at it, our picture will become more and more elaborate. As the picture becomes more and more elaborate, we'll notice whether the in-and-out breath has become comfortable or not. If it's easy and comfortable, keep it that way. Sometimes you'll notice that the mind is comfortable but the body isn't; sometimes the body is comfortable but the mind is irritable and distracted; sometimes the body is reasonably comfortable and at ease, and the mind has settled down and isn't jumping about. So when you see any aspect that isn't comfortable, you should fix it, in the same way that a rice farmer has to keep careful watch over the sluice gates in his field, clearing out any branches or stumps that will cut off the flow of the water. When you see anything that isn't good, you should get rid of it. You have to stay observant of the breath, to see if it's too slow or too fast, or if it's making you tired. If it is, change it. This is like plowing or harrowing your field. When the big clods of earth get broken up and spread around, the field will be level. When the body gets level and smooth, keep it going that way. The mind will then become level and smooth as well — for it lives with the body, and now it gets to stay in a place of comfort. Whether it's good in every part, or only in some parts, you'll know. When we give rise to skill in the mind like this, it's as if we've gained wealth. And when we gain wealth, things are bound to come and disturb us, just as a tree with beautiful, fragrant flowers tends to have caterpillars or insects disturbing its flowers. When the virtues of the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha arise in the heart, there are bound to be things that will disturb or destroy them, such as visions or Hindrances, just as when a flower is pestered by insects, it may fall away from the tree. When it falls off the tree, it won't be able to bear fruit. The same with your mind: Don't let your goodness fall away under the influence of the Hindrances. You have to keep after it, to make sure that it stays still and established in the body until there's no sense of anything disturbing it or trying to destroy it. The mind will then be like a spray of mango flowers nourished with drops of mist. In no long time it will bear fruit, and you'll be able to harvest the fruit and eat it in comfort. In the Dhammapada, the Buddha says that a person who is forgetful or heedless is like a dead person. In other words, if mindfulness lapses for a moment, you've passed out for a moment. If it lapses for a long time, you've passed out for a long time. So if you realize that it's lapsed, you have to correct things immediately. In other words, you re-establish mindfulness right away. If you've realized it's lapsed, there's at least some hope for you. Some people don't even know that it's lapsed: those are the ones who are hopeless. As the Buddha said, pamado maccuno padam: heedlessness is the path of death. This is because heedlessness is delusion, the root of unskillfulness. When delusion arises, it opens the way for all kinds of evil and unskillful things. So we should try to uproot it immediately before it starts growing and spreading its branches far and wide. When mindfulness lapses, it opens the way for us to think of all kinds of things, making it hard for us to finish our work. To say nothing of keeping track of the breath, if mindfulness keeps lapsing we couldn't even finish writing a single letter. So we have to be especially careful to maintain mindfulness. Don't let yourself forget or lose track of what you're doing.

Strength for the Journey May 7, 1958 When you sit in concentration, you have to keep being observant to see whether the mind is established in all the component factors of meditation. Your practice of concentration has to be composed of three component factors for it to count as correct in line with the principles of meditation that will give rise to the full results that we all want. The component factors of meditation are: 1. The right object. This refers to the object on which the mind settles — or in other words, the breath. We have to focus our awareness on the breath and not let it stray out in other directions. This is the "thana" or foundation of our kammatthana. 2. The right intention. Once we've focused our awareness on the in-and-out breath, we have to keep our mindfulness fixed solely on the breath by thinking bud- in with the in-breath, and dho out with the out. We have to keep doing this until the mind is still and in place. Then we can drop the meditation word. Once the mind is still and doesn't go wandering off in other places, mindfulness will stay snug with the breath without slipping away or growing absent minded. This is the intention, the kamma of our kammatthana. 3. The right quality. This refers to the skill with which we can improve, adjust, and spread the breath so that it becomes comfortable. For example, if short breathing is uncomfortable, change it so that it's a little longer. If long breathing is uncomfortable, change it so that it's a bit shorter. Observe long breathing, short breathing, fast or slow breathing, and then keep on breathing in whichever way is most comfortable. If any problem or discomfort arises, make further changes. But don't tense up the breath or try to hold it. Let the body breathe in and out with a sense of ease. The breath will then feel wide open, agile, and spacious. It won't get bottled up in any one spot, won't feel heavy or confined. When this is the case, a sense of fullness and refreshment, a cool sense of ease will arise in the mind. As for the body, it'll feel at ease as well. This is the essence of what is good, the skillfulness that we all desire. When we can train the mind to stay firmly in these three factors of meditation, it'll become tame and obedient, and no longer stubborn — because once our mind becomes skillful and intelligent, it'll gain a sense of what's good for us, what's not, what are the affairs of other people, what are our own affairs. When this happens, there won't be a lot of confusion. It's the same as when we've trained an ox. We can put it to good work and won't have to waste a lot of rope to keep it tied down. That's when we can be at our ease. Even if we let it wander off on its own, it won't get lost. When it goes away, it'll come back to its pen on its own, for it knows which pen belongs to its owner, which pens belong to other people, which person is its owner and which people are not, which plants are the grasses it can eat, which plants are the rice plants it shouldn't. This way it won't invade the fields of other people, trampling their crops and eating their rice, which would give rise to all sorts of controversies and bad feelings. That way, we can live in peace. It's the same with the mind. Once it's trained, it'll become tame. It won't go traipsing off after external thoughts and preoccupations. Normally, the mind doesn't like to stay with the body in the present. Sometimes it goes flowing out the eyes, sometimes out the ears, sometimes out the nose, the tongue, and the body, so that it splits into five different currents, just like a river that splits into five channels instead of staying in one: the force of the current gets weakened. And in addition to leaking out the five sense doors after sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and tactile sensations, the mind also goes flowing out after thoughts of the past and thoughts of the future without ever staying firmly in the present. This is why it knows no peace, because it doesn't get any time to rest. As a result, its strength begins to fail, and when the strength of the mind grows weaker, so does the strength of the body. When this is the case, we can't bring any of our projects to completion, either in the area of the world or of the Dhamma. When this happens, we're like a sick person who's a burden on his doctors and nurses. The doctors have to keep making visits to check up on his symptoms. The nurses have to feed him, give him medicine, and take him to the bathroom. When he tries to sit up, he needs someone to support him. The people looking after him have to go without sleep both by day and by night, and can never leave him alone. As for the people financially responsible, they have to run around trying to find money to pay the medical bills. The whole family is worried and concerned, and the sick person himself can find no comfort. He can't go anywhere, can't do anything, can't eat solid food, can't get any sleep: everything becomes a problem. In the same way, when our minds aren't quiet and still, and instead keep flowing out after concepts and preoccupations, we're like sick people. We don't have the strength to bring our work to completion. This is because the untrained mind goes wandering off as it likes and is very stubborn. You can't tell it to do anything at all. If you tell it to lie down, it'll sit down. If you tell it to sit down, it'll get up and walk. If you tell it to walk, it'll start running. If you tell it to run, it'll stop. You can't really control it at all. When this is the case, all sorts of unskillful qualities — ignorance and defilements like greed, anger, and delusion, or the five Hindrances — will come flowing into the mind, overcoming it and possessing it in the same way that people get possessed by spirits. When this is the case, we're in all sorts of trouble and turmoil — all because the mind doesn't have the strength it needs to withstand ignorance or to drive it out of the heart. The Buddha saw that this is the way things are for people by and large, causing them to suffer, which is why he taught us to gather up the strength of body and strength of mind we need to fight off these various forms of suffering. In other words, he taught us to practice concentration so as to make the strength of our mind firm and solid. Practicing concentration means training the mind to be quiet and still. As the mind stays quiet and still for longer and longer periods of time, it'll become clear. When it's clear, the light of discernment will arise within it. This discernment is the strength that will enable the mind to contend with all sorts of events, both good and bad, for it'll have the intelligence enabling it to wise up to all the preoccupations coming in by way of the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and intellect. It will be able to identify perceptions of past, present, and future. It will be acquainted with the properties, aggregates, and sense media, knowing what's good, what isn't, what's worth thinking about, what's not, what's untrue, what's true. When it knows this, it'll become dispassionate, disenchanted, and will let go of all thoughts and concepts, let go of its attachments to the body, let go of its attachments to things outside, all of which arise from the process of fabrication and have no real enduring essence. When the mind can let go of all thoughts and preoccupations, it'll become light and agile, like a person who has put down all the burdens she's been carrying on her shoulders and in her hands. She can walk, run, and jump with agility. She can sit down or lie down with ease. Wherever she goes, she's comfortable. When the mind has experienced a sense of comfort, it'll become happy and full. It won't feel hungry. When it's full and happy, it can rest. Once it's rested, it'll have strength. Whatever tasks it undertakes, in terms of the world or the Dhamma, will succeed. If the mind lacks a sense of fullness, though, it'll be hungry. When it's hungry, it's in a lousy mood: irritable and upset. When this is the case, it's like a sick person who doesn't have the strength to complete any task with ease. As for people who have practiced concentration to the point where their minds are quiet and still, they're no longer hungry, for they have a sense of fullness within them. This gives them five kinds of strength — conviction, persistence, mindfulness, concentration, and discernment — which will enable them to advance to even higher levels of goodness. When the mind is still, it develops mental serenity. When the body is still, it develops physical serenity as well: the various properties within it are peaceful and harmonious, and don't quarrel with one another. The whole body is then bathed in the purity that comes flowing out the currents of the mind through the properties of earth, water, fire, and wind, caring for them and protecting them. When things are protected and cared for, they don't run down. In this way the properties of the body reach a state of harmony, giving them the strength they need to withstand feelings of pain and weariness. As for the mind, it'll develop greater and greater strength, enabling it to withstand all sorts of mental torments. It'll keep getting more and more powerful, like the gunpowder used to make rockets and fireworks. When it's lit, it explodes and shoots all the way up to the sky. When we practice concentration, it's as if we were gathering provisions for a trip. The provisions here are the skillful qualities we develop in the mind. The more provisions we have, the more comfortably we can travel and the further we can go. We can go to the human world, the deva worlds, the brahma worlds, or all the way to nibbana. When we have a lot of provisions, our traveling is easy, for we can afford to go by car or by boat. We can stay in comfortable places and have plenty of food to eat. The trip won't tire us, and we can go far and fast. As for people with meager provisions, they can't afford the carfare, so they have to go barefoot, walking on gravel and stepping on thorns, exposed to the sun and rain. They can't stay in comfortable places; they're lacking in food; their progress is tiring and slow. By the time they reach their destination they're ready to give up, for they're all out of strength. But whether we travel quickly or slowly, we're all headed to the same destination. For example, suppose we're all going to Bangkok. Those who go by foot will get there in three months; those who go by car, in three days; while those who get on a plane will arrive in three minutes. For this reason, you shouldn't get discouraged in your efforts to do what's good. Develop as much strength as you can, so that you'll have the provisions and vehicles you'll need to help speed you along to your goal. Once you've arrived, you'll experience nothing but happiness and ease. When you practice the Dhamma, even if you don't reach the paths, their fruitions, or nibbana in this lifetime, at the very least you're developing the conditions that will help you along the way in the future. When we meditate, it's as if we were driving a car on a trip. If you have a sense of how to adjust and improve your breath, it's like driving along a smooth, paved road. The car won't run into any obstacles, and even a long trip will seem short. As for people who aren't centered in concentration, whose minds are slipping and slithering around with no sense of how to improve their breathing, they're driving their car along a bumpy, unpaved road full of potholes. In some spots the bridges have collapsed. In others the road is washed out. What this means is that their mindfulness lapses and they let their minds fall into thoughts of the past and future. They don't stay put in the present. If they don't know how to repair their road, they'll keep running into dangers and obstacles. Their car will keep getting bogged down. Sometimes they spend weeks and months stuck in one place, and their short trip turns into a long one. Sometimes they go back to the beginning point and start all over again. Running back and forth like this, around and around in circles, they'll never be able to get to the goal. So I ask that you all remember this discussion of the Dhamma and take it to heart. Try using it to make adjustments in your mind and see what happens. If you train the mind correctly in line with the three factors of meditation that I've mentioned here, you may well meet with the peace and happiness for which you aim.

Into Position Undated, 1958 When meditators "get into position," exactly what are they doing? "Getting into position" means making the mind stay in place, making it stay with the body, not letting it go stay with other people or think about anything else at all. If the mind stays outside of the body, it's like a battery without any current. You can't get any use out of it. You can't use it to produce heat or give off light. So this is why we're taught to keep the mind inside. When trees are withered and dry, it's because they don't have any water to nourish them. The same holds true with us. If the mind doesn't stay inside the body, the body won't flourish. It'll have to wither and wear out, grow ill in one way or another, and eventually die because of this disease or that. So the mind is like water that permeates the body to give it nourishment. If the mind focuses its attention outside of the body, then the body won't be able to gain any sense of freshness, fullness, or ease. This is because the mind is the most important factor influencing the body. It's our most valuable resource. Now, when the mind is a valuable resource in this way, we should learn how to look after it. We have to hand it over to someone we can trust. In other words, we entrust it to somebody venerable. But the word venerable here doesn't mean the external venerables, like monks, because not all monks are trustworthy. Some of them are good monks, some of them aren't. If we let them cheat us out of our valuables, we end up even worse off than before. No, venerable here means internal venerables: the venerable qualities of the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha within the mind. When we meditate, we're handing our minds over to these venerable qualities. They're qualities that are kind and considerate. They won't abuse us or cause anyone any harm. This is why we can wholeheartedly entrust our valuables — our mind — to them. For example, when we meditate buddho, buddho, we have to be sincere to these qualities. We really have to think about them. We don't just think about them in jest. "Thinking in jest" means that we think without really being intent. We have to be really intent on keeping buddho with the mind, and the mind with buddho each and every time we breathe in and out. This is what it means to be sincere in our thinking. It's the kind of thinking that serves a purpose. The purpose here is to develop something of real and abundant essence within ourselves — to create results that will be lasting. Things that don't serve any real purpose are those giving results that don't last. When we talk about lasting results: for example, when you sit here and meditate, you'll find that the results will continue appearing even after you die. But if you aren't really meditating, if you let your mind think about other things, you'll find that the results will vanish at death, because the things you think about aren't certain or sure. They're not lasting. They'll have to change, deteriorate, and end up disappearing and dying in the same way that you will. When we make ourselves quiet and still — when we put the mind into concentration — it's as if we're charging our battery. Once our battery is charged, we can put it to use whenever we want. When our battery is fully charged — full of discernment — we can use it for any sort of purpose at all. We can hook it up to a wire and use it to cook our food or light our home. If we simply charge it, without connecting it up to anything, the current will stay there, cool in the battery, without causing danger of any sort, like the current in a flashlight cell. If a battery is just sitting there, we can touch it with our hands and see that it feels cool, not the least bit hot — and yet there's still the fire of electricity in there. If we need light or want to cook our food, all we have to do is hook up a wire and turn on the switch, and the electricity will come out of the battery to achieve whatever aims we have in mind. Our "battery" is the mind in concentration. If we hook up the wire of ardency to roast our defilements, the power of our current, or discernment, will burn them to ashes. As when we cook food to get rid of its rawness: the food will be saved from going spoiled and will benefit the body. In the same way, people who have discernment within themselves can eliminate all the defilements that present a danger and cause suffering to the body and mind. This is why we're taught to develop concentration: so as to accumulate the discernment that will benefit us both in this present lifetime and on into the next.

Two Guardian Meditations August 11, 1956 When you sit and meditate, keep observing two important factors: 1) the body, which is where the mind dwells; and 2) the mind, which is the factor responsible for good and evil. The mind is a factor that's extremely fickle and fast. It likes to slip off looking for all sorts of nonsense, for things that bring us nothing but trouble. It doesn't like to stay in place. Now it goes running here, now it goes running there, bringing back different kinds of suffering. That's why we say that it's fickle and fast: easily diverted, hard to look after. Now, since our mind is so fickle and fast, the Buddha had to search for a method by which we can take this weak point and turn it around into something good. He teaches us to develop concentration by focusing on the body. In other words, he has us fix our attention on one of the really important factors of the body, the breath. The breath is what helps us find comfort and ease in all the parts of the body. It's what keeps the body alive. All of our sense doors — the eyes, the ears, the nose, the tongue, the body, and the mind — depend on the breath to create the sensations by which they receive impressions of outside things and bring them in to have an effect on the body. For instance, the function of the eyes is to receive impressions of forms for us to see. The function of the ears is to receive impressions of sounds for us to hear. The function of the nose is to receive impressions of aromas for us to smell. The function of the tongue is to receive impressions of flavors for us to taste. The function of the body is to receive impressions of tactile sensations for us to touch. The function of the mind is to receive impressions of the various things that come in via these other five senses. So when we meditate, we have to close all of these sense doors off tight. We close our eyes: we don't have to look at pretty sights or ugly ones. We close our ears, so that we don't listen to anything that isn't necessary — i.e., anything that isn't beneficial to listen to. Only the words that advise us to do good should we listen to. As for the nose, it's necessary for life. If we don't have the nose as our breathing passage, we start having problems in the other parts of the body, so we keep it open. As for the mouth, we keep it closed. And as for the body, we keep it in one position, as when we sit with our legs crossed, like we're doing right now. We have to try to keep these sense doors closed off, so that we don't use our eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, or mind in any other activity aside from practicing concentration. We herd the mind into one preoccupation, so that it stays in its home, the body, with the windows and doors all shut. The mind is the heart-property or heart-element. The nature of the mind is that it's faster than the wind in the air, which flows to and fro, up and down, and never stays in place. So we have to bring our mindfulness into the mind so that we can take this weak point and turn it around into something good. This is called bhavana, or mental development through meditation. We focus on the breath and recollect the qualities of the Buddha. When we start off recollecting the Buddha in this way, we simply think of the word, buddho. We don't yet have to analyze what it means. Buddho is a name for mindfulness. It means being aware, being awake. But if we simply think of the word buddho, it doesn't fulfill all the factors for mental development through meditation. When we think the word, we have to steady and adjust it so that it stays in rhythm with the breath. When we breathe, we have to breathe just right, not too slow, not too fast, whatever feels natural. Then we think buddho back and forth with the breath, adjusting our thinking so that it merges with the breathing. That's when we can say that we're fulfilling the factors of meditation. This is called recollection of the Buddha, in which we think of the qualities of the Buddha in an abbreviated way, depending on the breath as our focal point and keeping our mindfulness in charge of the thinking. When mindfulness becomes one with the breath and with our awareness in this way, our various senses will grow even and calm. The mind will gradually grow more and more quiet, bit by bit. This is called getting established in the first "guardian meditation" — recollection of the Buddha — in which we use our thinking as a path of practice. This kind of thinking gives results for Buddhists of all sorts. At the same time, it brings us into the factors that are helpful for the mind — mindfulness and alertness — the factors that support the mind in getting established in goodness. The second guardian meditation is good will. The word good will — metta — comes from mitta, or friend. As a quality, it means love, benevolence, familiarity, intimacy. When we imbue our mind with good will, we escape from animosity and hostility. In other words, we should remind ourselves that we're going to stay with our friend at all times. We won't go wandering off. We won't leave our friend in a lurch. Our friend, here, is the body, because the body and mind have to depend on each other at all times. The body has to depend on the mind. The mind has to depend on the body. When people are friends they have to love each other, wish each other well, stick with each other, be intent on helping each other at all times. They don't abandon each other. So tell yourself that when the body breathes in, you're going to stick with the breath. In Pali, the breath is called kaya-sankhara, or bodily fabrication, because it's what fixes the body to keep it alive. It's like the cook who fixes food in a home so that the people in the family can eat their fill and be happy. If there's something wrong with the cook, then there's going to be turmoil and chaos in the house. If the cook of the body — the breath — gets weird, everyone else in the body — the properties of earth, water, wind, and fire — will all have to suffer and get thrown into a turmoil as well. So we can say that the breath is the property that looks after all the properties in the body. For example, we inhale the breath into the lungs. There it cleanses the blood in the lungs, which gets sent to the heart. The function of the heart is to send the blood out to nourish all the parts of the body, so that the blood and the breath energy flow normally. If the breath isn't as good as it should be, the lungs won't be as good as they should be. The heart won't be good, the blood it pumps out won't be good, so all the various parts of the body will have to suffer as a result. This is when the properties of the body are said to be defiled. If the mind really has good will for the body, then it has to look after the breath in the body to keep it functioning properly. So we have to keep after our "cook" to make sure that she isn't filthy, lazy, or apathetic. Otherwise, she'll put poison in our food to kill us, or filth in our food to make us sick. So we have to make sure that our cook is clean and pure in her habits, as when we breathe the qualities of the Buddha in with the breath. The breath accompanied by buddho is called the sukka breath, or the clean, clear breath. When the master of the house is clean and circumspect like this, the cook will have to be clean and circumspect, too. All the employees in the house will have to be clean. In other words, when we're mindful, the breath that goes into the body will be a pure breath. When it reaches the heart, it will cleanse the blood in the heart so that it's pure as well. When the heart pumps this pure blood, sending it to nourish the body, the body will be purified, too. And then the mind will have to feel well. In other words, the heart is good, the nourishment in the blood is good. When the mind is in good shape like this, the blood won't become abnormal. And when this good blood is sent to nourish the nerves throughout the body, the body will have to function well. It won't feel tired or aching. This is because we've adjusted our breath well, so that we can treat all kinds of diseases and pains. When the purity of the breath spreads throughout every blood vessel, the bad things already there in the body will have to scatter. Those that haven't yet appeared won't be able to appear. This will help the body to be balanced and normal. When the breath is in good shape and the heart is in good shape, then the fire property in the body won't be too strong. If the breath isn't right, or if it's too hot, then the fire property gets thrown out of balance. When it grows too hot, the blood thickens and gets stuck in the capillaries, making us sleepy or giving us a headache. If it grows too cold, it gives us the shivers or makes us feverish. So the breath is more important than any of the other the properties in the body. It assists the fire property, which in turn distills the liquid property. The liquid property in the body falls into two sorts: the part that hardens and turns into earth, and the part that stays liquid by its nature. When the breath functions properly, all the other properties function properly, and the body will feel rested and at ease. This is called showing good will for yourself. The mind sticks with the breath, the breath sticks with the body, the body sticks with the mind. They don't abandon one another. They're affectionate, intimate, harmonious — they're good friends. When people stay together they become intimate and familiar with one another. If they don't stay with one another, they can't become familiar with one another. And when they're not on familiar terms, they don't really know one another. When people are friends and on familiar terms, they trust one another. They tell one another their secrets. They don't hide what's going on. In the same way, when we become close friends with the body and on familiar terms, we're going to learn all the body's secrets. For instance, we may learn what kamma in the past led to the birth of the body the way it is — what our previous lifetimes were like, what good and bad things we did, that led to the body's being like this or that. We'll learn how the four properties of the body function. We'll learn how things arise and pass away at the properties of the eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and intellect. We'll get to know the secrets of the various affairs connected with the body, because it will have to reveal its true nature to us in every way — just as when we open the cover on a serving dish, enabling us to see what's there in the dish. When we come to know how things function in the body this way, that's called vijja, or clear knowing. This sort of clear knowing arises from the stillness of the mind. When the body and mind are both quiet together, they give knowledge to each other. Just as with people: if we're friendly with them, they're bound to be friendly with us. If we're antagonistic with them, they're bound to be antagonistic with us. In the same way, when the body is friendly with the mind, the mind is bound to be friendly with the body. In other words, it can help the various parts of the body. It can help make the body act in line with its thoughts. If, for instance, there's a feeling of pain or weariness, we can gather the power of the mind at full strength to think of the feeling going away, and that feeling of pain or weariness may completely vanish, simply through the power of a single mental moment. People who have helped each other in the past have to help each other all the time. If we can help them, they're bound to be able to help us. The ability to do this comes from the power of the mind that's capable of giving orders in line with its aspirations. When we can make our friend good through the power of our thought, then all our friends can become good. For example, when we think of purifying the breath, the breath will help improve the fire property. The fire property will help improve the liquid property. The liquid property will help improve the earth property. When all the properties help one another in this way, they become balanced and a help to the body, so that the body can be healthy. As for the mind, it grows cool and calm. Anyone who comes near will pick up some of that calmness as well. Just like a mountain cool in its depths: whoever walks past will be cooled as well, even though the mountain didn't make a point of splashing water on them to cool them off. Here we've been speaking about the body. As for the mind, when it's pure it gives even greater results. When we think using the power of the pure mind, the currents go faster than lightning through the sky, and they can go all around the world. If anyone wants to come and harm us, they can't get near, because the current of a pure, strong mind has the power to ward off all kinds of danger. Take the Buddha as an example: No one could kill him. People who thought of killing him, as soon as they got near him, saw him as their loving father. Those who were subject to the current of the Buddha's purity let go of their evil habits and turned into good people; they let go of their violence and viciousness, becoming gentle and mild. Angulimala, for instance: If he hadn't been willing to listen to the Buddha, he would have been swallowed up by the earth. But he was able to think, "The Buddha won't kill me. I won't kill anyone." He immediately put down his weapons, gave up killing once and for all, ordained, and became one of the Buddha's noble disciples. So in the same way, we should think of the qualities of the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha with every in-and-out breath. When we stay within the territory of the Dhamma in this way, it's as if we were having an audience with the Buddha himself. Even though — when we keep thinking of the qualities of the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha — we keep going over the same old territory over and over again, what's wrong with that? Actually, when we use our powers of directed thought (vitakka) and evaluation (vicara) back and forth this way, the results we end up with are positive: a sense of fullness that spreads throughout every part of the body. The mind will feel full and bright. The heart will feel blossoming, established in the sense of fullness, or rapture (piti), that comes with thoughts of good will. When the heart is full in this way, it's at ease, just as when we've eaten our fill of food. And when the heart is full, its friend the body is sure to feel full and rested as well. We'll be at our ease both in body and in mind, just as when we see our children and grandchildren well-fed and sleeping soundly. This is called pleasure (sukha). And when we see that something gives pleasure to our children and grandchildren, we have to focus our efforts on it continually. This is how the mind reaches singleness of preoccupation (ekaggatarammana), entering into a state of peace, free from every sort of disturbance and danger.

Playing Host September 27, 1956 When you sit and meditate, tell yourself that your body is like your home. When you repeat the word buddho in with the breath, it's like inviting a monk into your home. When people invite a monk into their home, what do they do in order to qualify as having good manners? 1) They have to prepare a place for him to sit down. 2) They provide him with good food or drinking water. 3) They have to converse with him. When we meditate, "preparing a place to sit down" means thinking bud- in with the in-breath, and dho out with the out. If we're mindful to think in this way, the word buddho will always stay snug with the breath. Whenever our thinking slips away from the breath, it's as if we put a rip in the seat we're preparing for our guest. And don't forget that before you prepare a seat, you first have to sweep the place clean. In other words, when you first start out, you should breathe in long and deep and then let the breath come all the way out, two or three times. Then you gradually allow the breath to grow lighter, bit by bit, until it's just enough for you to follow comfortably. Don't let it grow any weaker or stay any stronger than just right. Then you start combining buddho with the in-and-out breath. When you do this, your visiting monk will come into your home. Now make sure that you stay with him. Don't go running off anywhere else. If your mind runs off to hang around with external concepts of past or future, it's as if you've run away from the monk you've invited into your home — which is really bad manners. Once the monk has sat down in the seat you've prepared for him, you have to give him some good food or water, and then find good things to converse with him. The good food here is the food of intentions, the food of sensory contact, and the food of consciousness. The food of intentions stands for the way you adjust the breath so as to make it comfortable both for the body and for the mind. For instance, you're observant to see which kind of breathing is good for the body, and which kind is bad. What kind of in-breathing feels easy? What kind of out-breathing feels easy? Does it feel good to breathe in fast and out fast? How about in slow and out slow? You have to experiment and then taste the food you've prepared. This is one kind of food for the mind. This is why being intent to stay with the breath is called the food of intention. When you adjust the breath to the point where it feels comfortable and in good order, it'll give rise to a sense of fullness and ease. That's when you can say that you've provided your visiting monk with good, nourishing food. When he's finished his meal, he's going to chant blessings for the sake of your well-being and happiness, so that you'll be free from pain and suffering. Or, as the saying goes, the power of the Buddha gets rid of suffering. In other words, when you've adjusted the breath properly, the pains in the body will disappear. Even though there may be some that don't disappear, they don't impinge on the mind. As for pain and suffering in the heart, that will all disappear. The mind will cool down. When it cools down, it'll be at its ease — quiet, blooming, and bright. And as for the saying, the power of the Dhamma gets rid of dangers: the various forms of Mara coming to disturb the body, such as the pains of the aggregates, will all vanish. The mind will be free from dangers and animosities. And as for the saying, the power of the Sangha gets rid of disease: all the various diseases in the mind — sorrow, lamentation, pain, distress, and despair — will disappear. This way, once you've invited this monk into your home and provided him with good food, he's going to give you three kinds of blessing: you escape from pain, from danger, and from disease. This is part of the blessing that your visiting monk will give you. But if, when you've invited a monk into your home, you go running off outside — in other words, if you forget the breath or go hanging around with external thoughts — it's really impolite, and the monk is going to be put to difficulties. It's as if you had invited him into your home but had forgotten to prepare his meal. So if you aren't really intent on the breath and don't really welcome your monk into your home, you won't get this kind of blessing. The last part of inviting your monk into your home is to converse with him. Once he's eaten his fill, you talk with him. This stands for the qualities of directed thought, evaluation, rapture, pleasure, and singleness of preoccupation. You connect all six types of breath energy in the body so that they all flow into one another — as when you put up a telephone line. If the line stays in good shape, you can hear what they say all over the world. But if the line is cut, you can't get word of what they're saying even in Bangkok just down the road. So when you keep your line in good shape, you can hear anything being said anywhere at all. When the mind stays in the first jhana this way, it's as if your visiting monk is talking with you, and you're talking with him. And the things you're talking about are all Dhamma. This puts you in a good mood. As time passes, you feel so good that you don't even want to eat. This is rapture: the body feels full. At the same time, the mind is free from disturbances and so feels pleasure. Wherever you get a sense of pleasure, you keep staying interested in that point: this is singleness of preoccupation. When you welcome your visiting monk in this way, he's going to keep coming to visit you. No matter where you go, he'll be able to reach you. Even if you're staying in the mountains or forest wilderness, he'll be able to give you whatever help you need.

An Image of the Buddha August 31, 1958 Our goodness: what can we do to make it really good? For today's goodness I want each of us to set our minds on casting a Buddha within the mind to protect ourselves, because Buddhas are things that are more sacred and numinous that any other object in the world. They can protect us and help us survive all sorts of danger and suffering. As we're told in the Pali chant, "Sabba-dukkha sabba-bhaya sabba-roga vinassantu," which means, "All sufferings, all dangers, all diseases can be destroyed through the power of the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha." Whoever has an inner Buddha is protected from all three major fears. The first kind is the fear of suffering, i.e., birth, aging, illness, and death. The Buddha isn't afraid of these things at all, for he has warded them off in all their forms... (2) The various kinds of danger, such as danger from criminals: Whoever might try to come and steal his valuables, the Buddha isn't the least bit afraid, for his valuables aren't the kind that anyone can steal. The danger of fire: Don't mention house fires or being bombed by nuclear weapons. Even if the fires of the end of the aeon were to burn up the entire world, he wouldn't be startled or fearful. The danger of floods: even if water were to flood from the earth up to the sky, he wouldn't be concerned. The danger of famine, drought, and pestilence wouldn't make him suffer or put him to any hardship. (3) The various diseases that arise in the body don't cause him any fear. Just look at the Buddha image in front of you: What dangers is he afraid of? From where? No matter what anyone does to him, he just sits there perfectly still, not afraid of anything at all. This is why we should cast a Buddha within ourselves so that we can wear it around our neck and protect ourselves from fear wherever we go. Now, when they cast a Buddha image, what do they do? The first thing is to make a mold that's beautiful and well-proportioned. Then they heat it until it's hot through and through. Then they pour molten metal into the mold. Then they let it cool. When it's thoroughly cooled, they pull off the pieces of the mold, leaving only the Buddha image, but even then the image is still rough and unattractive. They have to polish it until it gives off clear reflections, or else paint it with lacquer and cover it with gold leaf. Only then will they have a finished Buddha image in line with their aims. So now that we're casting a Buddha within ourselves, we have to heat our mold before we can pour the metal into it. Pretend that the body here is your mold; your mind is the expert craftsman. I want us all to set our minds on casting a Buddha within ourselves. Who's going to have the most beautiful Buddha will depend o