Foreword During my second year as a monk, I was invited to give a Dhamma talk to the woman — whom I knew only as "Aunty" — who had raised the woman who had sponsored my ordination. Aunty had suddenly fallen ill, and her relatives were sure that she didn't have much longer to live. In her time, she had known many of the great masters of the forest tradition, so rather than give her a talk of my own, I decided to read her some by Ajaan Lee. When I finished, she asked, "Whose talks were those?" "Ajaan Lee's," I told her. "That's what I thought," she replied. "Nobody could give a Dhamma talk as beautifully as he." I've often thought of her comment since then and, in particular, of what she meant by beautiful. For most Thais of her day, a beautiful talk was one that made use of formal, courtly language, with heavy literary embellishments, often saying as little as possible with a maximum number of words. That, however, was not Ajaan Lee's style. What I think Aunty meant was a different kind of beauty: a directness and clarity of expression, with imaginative similes and metaphors. Ajaan Lee was skilled at making obscure points of Dhamma clear, and more familiar teachings memorable. Although he had a poet's sense of how to play with words, the beauty of his talks was more a natural beauty of the mind than of studied verbal effects. In this book, which is drawn from Ajaan Lee's collected talks, this is the kind of beauty I have kept in mind in selecting the passages for translation. Only in the last year of his life were any of Ajaan Lee's talks tape-recorded. We owe our records of his earlier talks to a handful of followers who took notes while he spoke: a nun, Arun Abhivanna; a monk, Phra Bunkuu Anuvaddhano; and a lay woman, Thao Satyanurak, who included some of Ajaan Lee's talks in her diary, which was published after her death. In compiling this book, I have drawn on notes made by all three. Of the three, Arun Abhivanna was by far the most prolific. For years she took notes of Ajaan Lee's talks — sometimes simply jotting down catchy phrases, other times reconstructing entire talks. Her notes — together with those by Phra Bunkuu and transcripts of the recorded talks — have more recently been collected in two large volumes. Because of their haphazard arrangement, the collections are hard to read straight through, but they are excellent companions for meditators who simply want to open to a passage at random, read enough to throw light on their problems, and then return to the practice. Ajaan Lee was unique among the forest masters in leaving behind systematic guides to meditation and Buddhist practice in general: books like Keeping the Breath in Mind, The Craft of the Heart, Frames of Reference, and Basic Themes. Anyone who wants to understand the general outlines of his teaching should turn to those books first. His talks, though, are where he reveals something of his rough-and-ready personality, giving small asides that throw a revealing light on his more systematic teachings and making points that he makes nowhere else. I have already translated a number of the talks in Lessons in Samadhi, Food for Thought, and Inner Strength. Those volumes, though, consist entirely of reconstructed talks that fit around specific themes. In this volume, I have given a more general selection, including a few full talks, some short passages, and sometimes even half-thoughts, if they seemed provocative enough. This book is designed to be read reflectively, a little at a time. Many of the short passages, in particular, will reveal their meaning only after repeated thought. Also, some of the passages that present Ajaan Lee's personality will challenge many current ideas on how a Dhamma practitioner ought to speak. As Ajaan Lee cautioned his listeners, Dhamma teachings should not be accepted or rejected right off hand. Instead, they should be listened to with an open mind and then put to the test in experience to see if they can help uncover unwitting preconceptions. This is how I hope this book will be read. In the course of selecting the passages that make up this book, I found that two themes in particular stood out. The first, which has provided the book with its title, is Ajaan Lee's frequent portrayal of Buddhism as a skill. This skill involves mastery not only of the techniques of meditation, but also of adroit ways of viewing the world and events in daily life so that one can gain freedom from all the burdens that the unskillful mind places on itself. This approach culminates in what he calls the skill of release, the awareness that brings about the mind's total liberation. The second theme concerns the central role that breath meditation plays in developing this skill. For Ajaan Lee, Buddhist doctrines show their true meaning only when one refers them to the practice of keeping the breath in mind. To underline this point, I have included a section on the Wings to Awakening — the Buddha's own list of his central teachings — to show how Ajaan Lee interprets them in terms of the breath. Although the passages presented here have been arranged so that the book will stand on its own, they are also meant to fill in some of the gaps left by Ajaan Lee's other writings. My hope is that this will give the English-speaking world a more rounded picture of the skill of release and of the beauty with which Ajaan Lee presented it. Thanissaro Bhikkhu (Geoffrey DeGraff)

Metta Forest Monastery

Valley Center, CA 92082

November, 1995

By Way of Introduction I like going different places, not just for the fun of it but also because I want to learn. To learn something of value depends on three things: seeing, listening, and thinking, i.e., using all of your senses so as to serve a purpose. Sometimes when you meet people and find that their beliefs and practices are on a level lower than yours, you can serve a purpose by teaching them to get started on the right path. But when you see with your eyes, hear with your ears, and are convinced in your heart that something is really good, don't think about whether it's yours or theirs. Remember it and put it into practice yourself. Because my heart has been set on serving the purposes of the religion, I've kept on trying to do what's good. No matter whether I'm in a high place or a lowly one, I always think only of serving a purpose. As for the question of manners — in other words, how to benefit advanced people and people not so advanced — that depends on the situation. The religion isn't the exclusive property of homes or monasteries, of this or that city or nation. The religion is something meant to benefit everyone everywhere. It belongs to the world. The further we can spread its benefits, the better. But even though I've meant well, practicing in line with these thoughts, I can't escape being criticized, probably because the people who criticize don't understand. Just a short while back — last April 20th — I was talking with an old nobleman, but I didn't want to come down too hard on him. His criticism, to put it briefly, was, "You spend an awful lot of time involved with lay people, so how can you practice for the sake of release?" I answered him frankly — but first I asked him, just to make sure, "What are you getting at?" "Teach people to reach nibbana," he said. "Don't get too involved with them." So I said, "I like teaching people to reach nibbana, but it's hard. I like it, mind you, I like it, but if I did as you said, I'd be crazy. Suppose you plant some rice. When it's golden and ripe, can you harvest just the white grains of rice? Without taking anything else? I take everything. People may say I'm crazy, but why should I care? I take the whole plant because it has lots of uses. The straw you can keep to feed water buffaloes, or sell, or use as kindling. As for the rice husks, you can use them to feed pigs." "You know," he said, "you're right." And that was the end of the matter. I'm different from most other monks in that I don't like to eat only one flavor of food, i.e., the physical food we eat every day. I like the kind of food that has three flavors in every bite. It's a fine food — food for the heart, not food for the body. Its three flavors are the food of sensory contact, the food of consciousness, and the food of intentions. If you were to compare it to durian fruit, it's the type that's sweet and rich and a little bit bitter, all at once — the kind of durian that people really love to eat. The nourishment of the food of sensory contact here means likable sights, sounds, smells, tastes, tactile sensations, and ideas. The nourishment of the food of consciousness means taking note of likable things by way of the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind. And the nourishment of intentions means the success of the good things we aim at. Taken together, these things are called Dhamma food: three flavors in a single bite. Whoever keeps eating this kind of food regularly will have a long, happy, and healthy life. This is the kind of food I want. To put it in simple terms, it's the sense of satisfaction I get when I see my students — monks, novices, and lay people — practicing rightly. This isn't rice food, it's people food. I'm a monster monk: I like to eat people. If anyone acts in a way to make me feel happy and satisfied, that's going to help me live longer. If anyone misbehaves, that's going to make me die faster. The reason I'm here is to help benefit the religion, to benefit the world. I'm looking for a living, hoping to make a profit. If the rice I plant produces big, fat grains and good profits, I'll hang around for a good while. If all I get are stunted grains and nothing but losses, I'll be on my way. So if I see that staying on will serve a purpose, I'll try to breathe good and long, good and long. If I see that staying on doesn't serve a purpose any more, I'll try to breathe shorter and shorter until I go in an instant. That's when I can be at my ease, the kind of happiness that nothing else can match, with no need to sit here tormenting my body, listening to anyone's troubles any more: shining bright, all by myself, with no worries or concerns at all. So that's the kind of food I like. As for food for the body, I eat it because I have to, that's all. It's not that I really want it, for there's no real substance to it. You eat it today and tomorrow you have to get rid of it. But with food for the heart, what you eat in one day can stay with you for ten years, 100 years. You never grow tired of it, and you stay full until you forget what it's like to be hungry.

The Affairs of the World Turmoil comes from our own defilements, not from other people. You have to solve the problem within yourself if you want to find peace. Whatever has anything to do with the world, no matter how good it may be, is all an affair of stress and suffering. If you have one dollar, you have one dollar's worth of suffering. If you have $100,000, you have $100,000's worth of suffering — because the affairs of money are heavy and weighty. As for the affairs of the Dhamma, they're light, with no need to wrap them up and carry them with you: nothing but shedding, setting aside, and letting go. Our major loves are our major enemies. Our minor loves are our minor enemies. Whatever we don't love at all is simply neutral. Things of the world at best are either good but not true, or true but not good. Other people's thoughts, words, and deeds are things that aren't true. They're affairs of the world. The Dhamma, though is really true and really good and really beneficial. It's an affair of the heart, something very profound. So when we know that the affairs of the world aren't true in their goodness or good in their truth, we shouldn't latch onto them. We have to brush them aside. If people say we're good or bad, there's no truth to their words — because "good" is true only in the mouth of the person speaking, and the same is the case with "bad." So don't latch onto anything they say. Focus instead on the good and bad that are actually within you. Don't latch onto outside words. If people say you're good or bad, or if they curse you, let them keep it for themselves. If there's a dog barking in the middle of the road, kick it off to one side. Barking dogs don't bite. Silent dogs might, so watch out. Ears that listen to gossip are the ears of a pitcher, not the ears of a person. Don't believe everything you hear. If they say you're a dog, check to see for yourself if you've got a tail. If you don't, then they're wrong. The world is taken with words, but I don't go along with that. I'd rather take hold of the truth in the heart. As for words, they're things you spit out, not things you should keep. They're not the truth. The truth lies in your heart. So whether your words are good or not, pleasing or not, make sure at least that your heart's good. Being easy-going and being at ease are two different things. Easy-going means that you're slow and laid back and don't finish the things you should. You spoil your work and waste your time. Being at ease means that there's a subtle comfort and coolness in the heart, with no inner stress or turmoil mixed in at all. People who can be at ease in this way are people the world really wants — and the Dhamma wants even more, because coolness is like medicine that can drive away fever and soothe burning pain. "A person in charge of the work" means that we use concentration and discernment to get the job done. "Work in charge of the person" means that we're lacking in concentration and discernment, and think of the work even when we're lying in bed. "Work in charge of the work" means that everything is all out of control. My motto is, "Make yourself as good as possible, and everything else will have to turn good in your wake." If you don't abandon your own inner goodness for the sake of outer goodness, things will have to go well. "Don't cut down a tree that gives you shade." Give it fertilizer and look after it so that it will grow. Don't forget the people who have helped you. Find some way of doing good to repay them. If you can't do it with your words or actions, then at least do it with your thoughts. If people can kill off their own goodness, there's nothing to keep them from killing off other people as well. If what you're going to say isn't good or true, keep still. Even if it's good and true but serves no purpose, it'll still cause harm. A stupid person can sit in a gold mine but won't have the sense to make anything of it. An intelligent person can take dirt and grass and turn them into silver and gold. Even if a stupid person gets a huge inheritance from his parents or grandparents, he won't be able to prevent himself from creating a lot of bad kamma with it. An intelligent person, though, even if he has only an ax to his name, can use it to set himself up for life. Most of us know so much that there are no bounds to our knowledge. When our knowledge has no bounds, it's like a forest fire that burns everything in sight. In other words, we're so smart that we outsmart ourselves. We know what's right and wrong but can't keep ourselves from doing what's wrong. This kind of knowledge serves no purpose and can only cause us harm. That's why it's like a forest fire that goes out of control and destroys everyone's orchards and fields. People like this end up a total loss. They know everything in the world except for themselves. Knowledge with no bounds can cause two sorts of harm: We ourselves are harmed by it, and other people get harmed as well. People who are thick with ignorance see turmoil as something fun, just like a fish that sees waves in the ocean as a fun place to play. Greed means getting fixated and attached to things: our own things or those of others. If we get attached, it's like getting sucked into an electric current until we die. The nature of everything in the world is that it spins around with each moment, just like an electric generator. If we touch the wires without any insulation, the current will suck us in until we're fried to a crisp. We see the current as something pretty and bright, and so we want to fondle it — and it'll electrocute us. If we latch onto things, our desires will get us stuck right there. Don't let defilements inside make contact with defilements outside. If we have defilements at the same time that other people do, the result will be trouble. For instance, if we're angry when they're angry, or we're greedy when they're greedy, or we're deluded when they're deluded, it spells ruination for everyone. People aren't equal, but you have to make your heart equal for everyone. If you see other people's bad side, turn your eyes around until you can see their good side as well. A person who makes a mistake is better than a person who doesn't act at all, for mistakes can be corrected. But if you don't act, how will you know how to correct yourself? — for you don't know whether you're mistaken or not. The fact that you don't act is a mistake in and of itself. The more you study the affairs of the world, the more they branch out. The more you study the affairs of the Dhamma, the more they narrow down and converge.

The Treasures of the Dhamma The treasures of the world last only as long as our breathing. As soon as we die, they go to somebody else. The King of Death keeps changing our clothes — our eyes, our hair, our skin, etc. — as a way of forewarning us that we're going to be evacuated to another country. If we don't get our provisions ready, we're going to be in trouble when the evacuation order comes. This body that we've borrowed from the world: The original owners keep coming to take it back bit by bit without our realizing it. For example, the hair on our head: They take it back one or two strands at a time, turning it gray. Our eyes they take back one at a time, making them blurry. Our ears they take back bit by bit as our hearing starts to go. Our teeth they take back one by one. A tooth will start feeling loose, then it stops for a while, and then it starts growing loose again. Eventually it whispers to the dentist to take all the teeth out. The original owners also cut away our flesh bit by bit as our muscles atrophy and our skin gets loose and wrinkled. Our spine they keep coming to pull forward until it's so bent that we can't straighten up. Some people end up having to crawl or to walk with a cane, stumbling and swaying, falling down and picking themselves back up, a sorry sight to see. Ultimately, the owners come and call for the whole thing back, in what we call "death." If you look carefully at the body, you'll see that what you have here is the four states of deprivation, nothing wonderful at all. The first state of deprivation is the animal kingdom: all the worms and germs that live in our stomach and intestines, in our blood vessels, and in our pores. As long as there's food for these things to eat in there, they're always going to be with us, multiplying like crazy, making us ill. On the outside of the body there are fleas and lice. They like staying with whoever doesn't keep himself clean, making his skin red and sore. As for the animals living in the blood vessels and pores, they give us rashes and infections. The second state of deprivation is the kingdom of hungry ghosts, i.e., the properties of earth, water, fire, and wind in the body. First they feel too cold, then too warm, then they feel ill, then they want to eat this or that. We have to keep pandering to them, running around to find things for them to eat with no chance to stop and rest. And they never have enough — like the hungry ghosts who starve after they die, with no one to feed them. These properties keep pestering you, and no matter what you do, you can never please them. First the food is too hot, so you have to put ice in it. Then it's too cold, so you have to put it back on the stove. All of this comes down to an imbalance in the properties, sometimes good, sometimes bad, never coming to a stable state of normalcy at all, making us suffer in various ways. The third state of deprivation is the land of angry demons. Sometimes, when we get ill or lose our senses, we run around naked without a stitch of clothing, as if we were possessed by angry demons. Some people have to undergo operations, getting this removed or cutting out that or sucking out this, waving their arms and moaning in a way that's really pitiful. Some people get so poor that they have nothing to eat; they get so thin that they're all eyeballs and ribs, suffering like the angry demons who can't see the brightness of the world. The fourth state of deprivation is purgatory. Purgatory is the home of the spirits with a lot of bad kamma who have to suffer being roasted, speared with red-hot iron spikes, and pierced with thorns. All the animals whose flesh we've eaten, after they've been killed and cooked, gather together in our stomach and then disappear into our body in huge numbers. If you were to count them, you'd have whole coops of chickens, herds of cattle, and half a sea's worth of fish. Our stomach is such a tiny thing, and yet no matter how much you eat you can never keep it full. And you have to feed it hot things, too, like the denizens of purgatory who have to live with fire and flame. If there's no fire, they can't live. So there's a big copper frying pan for them. All the various spirits we've eaten gather in the big copper frying pan of our stomach, where they're consumed by the fires of digestion, and then they haunt us: Their powers penetrate throughout our flesh and blood, giving rise to passion, aversion, and delusion, making us squirm as if we were burned by the fires of purgatory, too. So look at the body. Whose is it? Is it really yours? Where did it come from? No matter how much you care for it, it's not going to stay with you. It'll have to go back to where it came from: the properties of earth, water, fire, and wind. The fact that it's able to stay for a while depends entirely on the breath. When there's no more breath to it, it starts to decay, and no one wants it then. You won't be able to take it with you when you go. No one can take his arms, legs, feet, or hands along with him. This is why we say that the body is not-self. It belongs to the world. As for the mind, it's the one that does good and evil, and will be reborn in line with its kamma. The mind is what doesn't die. It's the one that experiences all pleasure and pain. So when you realize this, you should do as much good as you can for your own sake. The Buddha felt compassion for us and taught us in this way, but we don't feel much compassion for ourselves. We prefer to fill ourselves with suffering. When other people teach us, it's no match for our teaching ourselves, for other people will teach us only once in a while. The possibility of being a common animal, a human being, a heavenly being, or of reaching nibbana all lie within us, so we have to choose which one we want. The good you do is what will go with you in the future. This is why the Buddha taught us to meditate, to contemplate the body to give rise to dispassion. It's inconstant, stressful, and nothing of ours. You borrow it for a while and then have to return it. The body doesn't belong to the mind, and the mind doesn't belong to the body. They're separate things that depend on each other. When we can see this, we have no more worries or attachments. We can let go of the body, and three hunks of rust — self-identity views, attachments to precepts and practices, and uncertainty in the Path — will fall from our heart. We'll see that all good and evil come from the heart. If the heart is pure, that's the highest good in the world. § Someone once came to Ajaan Lee with a problem. Some of his friends had said to him, "If the body's not-self, why can't we hit you?" Ajaan Lee said to answer them by saying, "Look. It's not mine. I've borrowed it, so I have to take good care of it. I can't let anyone else mistreat it." The Dhamma doesn't belong to anyone. It's common property, like unsettled land: If we don't lay claim to it by developing it, it's simply vacant, uncleared land without any crops. If we want to lay claim to it, we have to develop it in line with established principles if we want it really to be ours. When difficulties arise — poverty, pain, illness, and death — we'll then have something to protect us. But if we haven't followed the established principles, then we'll put the blame on the Buddha, Dhamma, Sangha, and inner worth in general for not helping us when these things arise. And that will discourage us from developing any inner worth at all. The mind is the most important factor in life, the most important factor in the world, for it's the basic foundation of our inner worth. If the mind is dark and defiled instead of being bright and pure, then no matter how much we practice generosity, virtue, or meditation, we won't get any results. The Buddha knew that we're all going to have to go abroad (start a new life after death), which is why he taught us to develop inner worth as a way of knowing how to get our provisions ready. We have to know how to get to where we want to go, how to dress properly, and how to speak their language. We'll also have to put money in the bank so that we'll be able to exchange it for their currency. "Putting money in the bank" means generosity in making donations and being charitable. Learning their language means knowing how to say that we take refuge in the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha. Being complete in our virtue is like having fashionable clothes to wear. Yet even if we have funds to exchange, good clothes to wear, and know how to speak their language, but are basically loony — i.e., our minds are wandering all over the place, with no basis in concentration — we still won't pass inspection. This is why the Buddha wanted us to develop our minds as much as possible, making them pure and bright. When our wealth and inner merit are complete in this way, they'll spread to our children and other people around us. All people have inner worth within them, but whoever doesn't know how to lay claim to it and develop it won't get any benefit from it at all. Human treasures aren't important. Thieves and fools can find them with no problem at all. But the treasure of a human rebirth is something that people without virtue can't gain. The Buddha taught that with noble treasures (ariya-dhana), whoever has a lot isn't poor, whoever has even a little isn't poor. The important thing is that you give rise to them within yourself, and you'll always be wealthy. For example, if you make up your mind to donate a material object to Buddhism, it immediately turns into the noble treasure of generosity in your heart. When you abstain from evil in your words and deeds, they turn into the noble treasure of virtue. When this is the case, your treasures are within you. You haven't deposited them with anyone else. Your generosity lies within you, your virtue — the virtue of restraint of the senses — lies in your eyes, your ears, your mouth. When your treasures are with you like this, it's like keeping your money in your own pocket, without depositing it with anyone else: There are bound to be no problems. You don't have to worry that they'll swindle or cheat you. When you've got your money right in your own pocket, what is there to fear? The Buddha teaches us not to be possessive of things. Let them go in line with their nature and take only the nourishment they have to offer. Material things are dregs and leavings; their nourishment is the joy we feel when we're willing to give them away. So don't eat the dregs. Spit them out so that they can be of use, both to others and to yourself in the sense of inner worth that comes from being generous. We have to build up our inner worth, our perfections as quickly as possible, because our conviction in these things isn't yet sure. Some days it shrinks out of sight: That's called turtle-head conviction. Some days it stretches back out again. So if it stretches out today, act on it. Tomorrow it may shrink back in again. Two legs, two arms, two hands, two eyes, one mouth: These are your perfections. Put them to use. People who don't believe in goodness rarely do good, but people who don't believe in evil do evil all the time. Evil isn't something natural that happens on its own. It happens only if we do it. The Buddha teaches us to develop inner worth by meditating on good will, but you have to be intent on really doing it if you want to get real results. Even if it's only for a short time — the wiggle of an elephant's ears or the flicker of a snake's tongue — it can give rise to amazing power, like the power of an elephant or a snake in being able to kill off people or other animals in the twinkling of an eye. All an elephant has to do is wiggle his ears just once, and people trip all over themselves trying to run away. But if you're not really true in what you do, the power of truth won't appear in the mind, and you won't be able to use it to get any results — like the ear of a dog or a cat: It can wiggle all day long and yet it won't cause anyone any fear. Mindfulness and alertness are the quality of the Buddha. The cool sense of happiness they give is the quality of the Dhamma. If you can maintain that coolness until it hardens into a block of ice — i.e., you make that goodness solid and strong in your heart — that's the quality of the Sangha. Once you've got a solid block of goodness like this, you can pick it up and put it to any use that you like. Being a slave to the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha is called being a slave to a noble family, the kind of people we can willingly be slaves to. But being a slave to our moods — cravings and defilements — is like being a slave to bandits and thieves. What sort of valuables are they going to have to give us? But even though it's proper to be a slave to the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha, it's still no match for not having to be a slave to anyone, for the word "slave" means that we're not yet free. So the Buddha teaches us to learn how to depend on ourselves — attahi attano natho, the self is its own mainstay. That's when we'll be able to rise up free, released from our slavery, with no need to have anyone order us around ever again. When we come to the monastery we come looking for peace and calm, so don't go releasing tigers, crocodiles, and rabid dogs into the monastery grounds, endangering everyone who comes here. Tigers, crocodiles, and rabid dogs stand for our very own greed, anger, and delusion. We have to chain them and cage them and lock them up tight. Make absolutely sure that they don't come escaping out your thoughts, words, and deeds in any way. People who don't get ahead in life are the ones whose bodies are human but whose minds drop down to lower levels. In other words, they're all right in physical terms, but not in terms of their minds. For instance, when we come to the monastery, we depend on our feet to walk us here, but then when we get here if we let our minds and manners fall into lower ways, we're no different from bats that hook their feet up on high places and then let their heads hang down low. The Dhamma is an affair of the heart. The words spoken are Dhamma, the intention in speaking is Dhamma, and you have to make your heart into Dhamma if you want to hear it as Dhamma. When these three factors come together, listening to the Dhamma can give countless rewards. When we listen to the Dhamma it's as if the monk is giving us each a knife; it's up to us to accept it or not. When we get back home and run into problems or issues in our families, we can use the knife to cut right through them. But if we throw the knife down right here or hand it back to the monk, we won't have any weapon to use when we meet up with issues at home. The study of the Dhamma is like reading a cookbook. The practice of the Dhamma is like fixing food. The attainment of the Dhamma is like knowing the taste of the food. If we simply read the texts without putting them into practice, it's like knowing that there are such things as peppers, onions, and garlic, but without having them for a meal. If you study the Dhamma without practicing it, it's as if you're missing parts of your body. If you study and practice, it's like having two eyes, two hands, and two legs. You can do things a lot more easily than a person with only one eye, one hand, or one leg. Having self-respect means that you respect your thoughts, words, and deeds. Respect for your deeds means that whatever you do, you always follow the three principles of skillful action: no killing, no stealing, no illicit sex. Respect for your words means that whatever you say, you always follow the four principles of skillful speech: no lying, no divisive tale-bearing, no harsh language, and no idle chatter. Respect for your thoughts means that whatever you think, you always follow the three principles of the skillful mind: trying to keep your views straight, with no greed or ill will. Having broken precepts is better than not having any precepts to break. Wearing torn clothes is better than going around naked. Lots of dead beings have gone into your mouth — pigs, chickens, cattle, etc. — so make sure that it isn't possessed by their spirits. Before you say anything, no matter what your intention, look right and left and speak only when you're sure that it's just right for the situation. Don't give in to bad manners. Concerning Right Livelihood: Even if our basic livelihood is honest, but we practice it dishonestly, it's considered wrong. For example, we're farmers, but we lay claim to other people's fields as our own: This is Wrong Livelihood, and the crops we grow on that land will do us harm. There are two kinds of foulness: the kind the Buddha praised and the kind he criticized. The kind he praised is the filth and foulness of the body, for it makes us see clearly the aging and unattractiveness of compounded things so that the mind will gain a chastened sense of dispassion, grow disenchanted with its attachment to suffering, and set its sights on developing its inner worth so as to escape from that suffering. As for the foulness the Buddha criticized, that's the foulness of an evil mind, which defiles our thoughts, words, and deeds. This is something the Buddha criticized and penalized in very heavy terms. So we have to keep washing off our actions in all situations. Only when our thoughts, words, and deeds are clean will wise people praise us as being uncomplacent and good. Restraint of the senses means that we bring the senses and their objects into proportion with one another. For instance, guarding the eyes means that we don't let our eyes get bigger than the sights they see, and we don't let the sights get bigger than the eyes. If the sights are bigger than the eyes, they get lodged there. We think about them night and day. If the eyes are bigger than the sights, that means we can't get enough of those sights and keep wanting to see them more. In either case, we give rise to greed and delusion. The fires of passion, aversion, and delusion burn our eyes and make us suffer. One important noble treasure is meditation, keeping the mind from wandering aimlessly around in all kinds of issues. When we keep the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha in mind, it's as if we were soaking in their virtues. When that's the case, the mind will have to become saturated with inner worth. It's the same as if we were to take a handful of bitter herbs and soak them in syrup until the syrup saturates them. Their bitterness will disappear and be replaced with sweetness. No matter how shoddy a person's mind, if it gets constantly soaked in goodness, it will have to become more and more refined, like bitter herbs sweetened in syrup. Whatever you do, be true in doing it if you want to meet up with the truth. If you're really true in what you do, doing just a little bit can be enough. One million in real money is better than ten million in counterfeit bills. When you speak, stay right with your speaking. Whatever you do, stay right with what you're doing. When you eat, stay with your eating; when you stand, stay with your standing; when you walk, stay with your walking; when you're sitting, stay with your sitting; when you're lying down, stay with your lying down. Don't let your mind get ahead of the truth. The heart is like food in a serving dish. Mindfulness is like a cover over the dish. If you lack mindfulness, it's as if you left the dish uncovered: Flies (defilements) are sure to come and land on it and contaminate it with all sorts of germs so that the food becomes toxic and can make you sick. So you always have to be careful to keep the dish covered. Don't let flies land on it. That way your heart will be clean and pure, and will give rise to wisdom and knowledge. A deserted house, a house where someone has died, gives you the chills. Only if there are people in the house will you feel secure. A person who is not mindful of the present is like a deserted house. When you see such a person, you don't feel secure. Defilements are like sand bars or stumps in a river that will keep our boat from getting to shore. In other words, passion is something that snags us, anger is something that bumps into us, and delusion is something that makes us spin around and sink. There's a story they tell of two men who were hired to row a boat along the rivers and canals to sell plowshares, shovels, and hoes. If they sold all the wares in the boat, their employer would give them their full wages of one kahapana, which was equal to about four dollars, a day. The first day their employer went out with them, and they sold all their wares. After that, he didn't go out with them, so the two of them went out to sell their wares on their own. One day, as they were out rowing along, calling out, "Plowshares, shovels, and hoes!" their minds wandered and they started getting drowsy. All of a sudden they crashed smack into a stump and ran aground on a sandbar. Even after they got free they were so shaken up that instead of calling out, "Plowshares, shovels, and hoes!" they started calling out, "Sandbars and stumps! Sandbars and stumps!" all along the river, but nobody wanted to buy. When evening came, they rowed back to their employer's house, their boat still full of plowshares, shovels, and hoes. They hadn't been able to sell a thing. So the employer gave them each only a dollar for their day's wages. One of the men took the money back to his wife, who was surprised to see that she was getting only one dollar, instead of the usual four. "Maybe he's given the rest of the money to another woman," she thought, so she gave him a piece of her mind. No matter how much he tried to explain things, she wouldn't listen. So he told her to go ask the employer. If what he said wasn't true, he'd be willing to let her hit him once on the head. The wife, impatient because she was so angry, said, "No, let me hit you first, and then I'll go ask." As she said this, she reached for a shovel handle, but all she could grab was the stick they used to drive the dog out of the house, so she used that to bash her husband three times on the head. Later, of course, she found out the truth, but by that time it was too late, for the husband had already gotten three free hits on the head. This story shows the harm that can come from not being mindful. If you let your mind wander away from what you're doing, you can end up getting yourself into trouble. There's danger that comes from being good. If you're not especially good, nobody gets fixated on you. The important thing is that you know how to use your goodness to your benefit. If you're a good person but don't know how to use your goodness — i.e., you use it at the wrong time or place, or in a way that gets other people upset — it won't benefit you, and will instead cause you harm. In this way your goodness turns into evil. So you have to be circumspect in how you let your goodness show. Keep your evil intentions to yourself, and be careful with your good intentions, too. It's like handing a knife to a person: You may have good intentions, hoping that he'll put it to good use, but if he uses it to kill someone, your intentions backfire on both of you. Goodness comes from evil, in that once you really take a good look at evil, it loses. Whatever you look at, look at it from all sides. This is why they don't let you look a long time at pretty things or beautiful women, because after a while you'll see that they aren't all that beautiful after all. So if you see something lovely, look at it long and hard until you see that it's not as lovely as you thought. If someone makes you angry, contemplate them until you feel compassion for them. The same principle holds for delusion. If you're wise, then greed, anger, and delusion can help you. If you're wise, even desire can help you by making you want to develop your inner worth. So don't look down on these things. You're sitting here listening to a sermon. What made you come? Desire did. When people ordain as monks and novices, what gave the order? Craving. So don't look only at the drawbacks of craving and desire. If you don't have the desire to be good, you can't develop inner worth. People who develop their inner worth have to start out with the intention to do it. Ignorance is good in that when we know we're ignorant we'll do something to remedy the situation. Ignorance leads us astray, but in the end it will lead us back. Knowledge never led anyone to look for learning. Ignorance is what leads people to look for knowledge. If you already know, what's there to look for? When we practice the Dhamma it gives three kinds of benefits: We help ourselves gain release from suffering, we help other people, and we help keep the religion alive.

Why Meditate? Wherever there are effects, there always have to be causes. The world we experience comes from the heart as its cause. If the heart is good, the world will have to be good. If the heart is bad, the world will have to be bad. The mind, when it's not with the body in the present, is "world." When it's with the body in the present, it's Dhamma. If it's world, it has to be as hot as fire. If it's Dhamma, it's as cool as water. Don't be complacent. Remind yourself that we're all being chased out of the world day by day. In other words, aging rears up, illness roars, and death runs up the score. So don't be oblivious, partying around with your defilements. Associate with the qualities of the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha until your mind develops Right Concentration. That way you won't have anything to fear from the dangers of the world. Believing other people is all right, but it's not really special. It's like borrowing money: We'll have to share the return on our investment with our lenders. When we don't yet know, can't yet have any real conviction in ourselves, and still have to believe what other people say, it's like being an infant who has to depend on its parents. If we don't get stronger, we'll have to keep being nursed all the way through old age. If we don't try to train the mind until it's firm and unwavering, it won't give rise to the strength of concentration and will have to keep on being a child. When we're able to shake off all the issues in the mind, leaving just the mind in and of itself, three gems will appear in it: the Gem of the Buddha, the Gem of the Dhamma, and the Gem of the Sangha. Once these three gems appear within us, we won't have to load ourselves down by carrying around much of anything else. Simply put them under your arm if you like, or even up your nose. When you have this kind of wealth, your mind can be light, and noble treasures will arise within you. In other words, conviction in the qualities of the Buddha will appear within the mind. Then you practice in line with those qualities until you gain the various results they have to offer. You'll see the true Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha in your heart. If you try to take refuge in the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha on the outer level, you're going to die for sure. The Buddha on the outer level entered nibbana a long time ago. The Dhamma on the outer level is just letters in books. The Sangha on the outer level is the monks with shaven heads and yellow robes that you see roaming all over the country. If you try to hold onto these things, it's like carrying a heavy hoe that won't do you any good. But if you hold onto the virtues of the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha within you and then put them into practice, you'll realize that what you're looking for is right here in the heart. And then what do you want? To return to the human state? To attain a heavenly state? To attain nibbana? Or go to hell? They're all possible, without your having to look for them anywhere else. The Buddha taught that the five aggregates are a heavy burden, because they all get to the point where we can't bear carrying them around anymore and have to throw them down in the mud. If you don't keep cleansing them, they keep getting heavier and heavier. If you then try to go depending on other people, you weigh them down, and you yourself are helpless. This is because stashing things away in the heart is like taking pictures without ever developing the film. What you eat gets put on the film, what you say gets put on the film, what you hear gets put on the film, but that's as far as it gets: on the film. You've never stopped to look at what kind of pictures you have, pretty or ugly. If you want to see your pictures, you have to take the film into the darkroom, by closing your eyes and practicing concentration, attaining the first jhana, directing your thoughts to the present and evaluating it until you can see yourself clearly. If you don't go into the darkroom now, someday the King of Death is going to blindfold you, tie up your feet and hands, and drag you into his darkroom. In other words, when you're on the verge of death you won't be able to open your mouth or eyes. Nobody will be able to feed you. You'll want to eat but won't be able to eat. You'll want to speak but won't be able to speak. Your ears will get closed off so that you can't hear anything clearly. You won't be able to see your parents, family, children, or grandchildren. You won't be able to tell them your last wishes. That's called the darkroom of the King of Death. The mind is the only thing that senses pleasure and pain. The body has no sense of these things at all. It's like taking a knife to murder someone: They don't hunt down the knife and punish it. They punish only the person who used it to commit murder. If your mind isn't good, then the goodness of your actions isn't really good, and the goodness of your words isn't really good, either. You have to develop power within yourself, like stocking up on gunpowder. If a gun has no gunpowder, it can't be used to destroy anything. People who have to be servants are the ones who lack the power to be anyone else's boss. As for the people who have that power, all they have to do is point their fingers, and other people will jump up and run. If we don't develop our own powers, we'll have to be servants — slaves to defilement — throughout time. The body is like a knife. If you have a knife but don't keep sharpening it, it will get coated thick with rust. In the same way, if you have a body — physical elements, aggregates, and sense media — but don't train it and keep it polished, it'll get coated thick with defilements. If it were a gun, it wouldn't even kill a fly. Normally, the mind doesn't like to stay where it is. It keeps flowing out the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body — like a river that splits into five streams instead of flowing as one. In a river like that, the force of the current is weakened and can't run at full strength. In addition to flowing out the five senses, the mind also leaks out through thoughts of the past and future, instead of staying firm in the present. This is why the mind has no peace or strength, because it never gets to rest. When the mind loses strength, the body loses strength as well and won't be able to succeed at anything. If the mind doesn't stay with the body in the present, and instead wanders around exposed to external perceptions, it's bound to get into all sorts of difficulties, just like a person who doesn't stay in his house and instead goes running around outside. He's bound to be exposed to sun and rain, and he may get run over by a car or bitten by a rabid dog. If we stay in our home, then even though there may still be some dangers, they won't be too serious, and we won't get into difficulties. When the mind isn't quiet, it's like running around with a flaming torch. You're bound to burn yourself. Only when you stop running will you be able to cool down. People who accumulate merit but don't develop the heart's foundation are like people who own land but don't have a deed. They might be able to sell it for money, but they're an easy mark for a swindler, because they don't have any firm basis for their claim. If you practice generosity and virtue but not meditation (the heart's foundation), it's like taking a bath on a hot day only from the waist down. If you don't bathe all the way from the head on down, you won't get totally refreshed, because the coolness doesn't go all the way to the heart. External merit — generosity and virtue — is like the skin of a fruit. Internal merit — meditation — is like the flesh of the fruit. You can't have one without the other. If fruit doesn't have skin, its flesh won't grow. If it has skin but no flesh, you can't eat it. Each helps the other, but they differ in quality. External merit is what protects internal merit, while the internal merit nourishes merit outside. Today I'm going to talk about how to drill a well. This is a difficult skill, not like simply digging or plowing. We all want happiness, but we don't really know what happiness is. Real happiness is nothing other than the inner worth and skillfulness of the heart. So where are we going to find inner worth? Inner worth is like a well. The first kind of well is simply a depression in the ground for catching rain water, like a pond. We can't get too much use out of this kind of well because there are times when water buffaloes, cattle, and other animals get in the water to bathe and drink, making it muddy. If you want to use the water, you have to filter it many times. This kind of well is like generosity, which gives only shallow rewards, like the water in a shallow depression. The second kind of well is like a deep reservoir. Cattle can't bathe or drink in it. The only animals that go into the reservoir are toads and frogs, but even so, if we want to use the water we have to filter it first. This kind of well is like the virtue of observing the precepts, which gives deeper rewards than generosity. The third kind of well is an artesian well with a constantly running spring. No matter how much water you use, it never runs dry. This kind of well is so deep that even mosquitoes (your defilements) can't get down into the water. To drill this kind of well you need to use a drill with a diamond bit and a strong steel shaft if you want to reach the underground water. This kind of well is like meditation, because you have to use strong mindfulness, discernment, persistence, and endurance if you want to succeed at drilling. Mindfulness has to be like the diamond bit; and endurance, the steel shaft. When you use your persistence to drill on down, the results will arise as inner worth and skillfulness that keep flowing in, bathing the mind, like the waters of immortality that provide the mind with a constant stream of refreshment and delight. If we don't have a safe place for our inner worth, how is it going to help us? It's like raising horses or cows but not fencing in a place for them to stay. If they go wandering off, it's your fault, not theirs. If you don't practice virtue, concentration, and discernment on your own, you're going to get taken in by the symbols of refuge, and never get to the real thing. The symbols of refuge are: Buddha images, which are just symbols of the Buddha; Buddhist texts, which are symbols of the Dhamma; and Buddhist monks and nuns, who are symbols of those who have practiced rightly and well until becoming noble disciples. If you get stuck on the outer level, you'll never meet with the real thing. Inner worth is like money. If your pocket has a hole, it'll let your money slip right through. If you do things that give rise to inner worth but don't keep that worth in your heart, it won't stay with you. When you're about to die and you call on it to help you, what will there be to answer your call? When this is the case, you can't criticize all the good things you've done for not helping you. You have to put the blame on yourself. If you stick a dollar in your pocket but your pocket is torn, then when the time comes to buy a cup of coffee you won't have any money to buy it. In that case, what are you going to blame: the money or your pocket? To practice meditation is like harvesting your crop of inner worth and eating it. If you don't harvest it, it'll spoil. If you eat it in time, it'll nourish your body. If you don't eat it in time, it'll go to waste. If you don't take your inner worth into your heart, you'll never feel full. Generosity is something that poor people can't practice, but crazy people can. Virtue is something that crazy people can't practice, but poor people can. As for meditation, everyone can practice it, no matter what their age, sex, or station in life. A mind without concentration is like a pile of wooden posts left lying on the ground for people and animals to step all over. But if we stand the posts up and plant them in the soil, we can get good use out of them. Even if they're not tall — only a meter or so — but we put them close together in a line, we can fence in our yard and prevent people and animals from coming in and traipsing all over our property. It's the same with the mind. If we take a firm stance in concentration as the heart's foundation, keeping our mindfulness and alertness close together in line, we can keep defilements from slipping into the mind and making it soiled. The Dhamma is something constant and true. The reason we don't see the truth is because we're always on the move. If we're riding in a car, we can't clearly see the things that pass near by us on the road, such as how big the stones on the ground are, their color or shape. We look at trees and mountains, and they all seem to be on the move. If we've been in a car since birth, without stopping to get out and walk around on our own, we're sure to think that cars run, trees run, and mountains run. What we see isn't in line with the truth. The running is in us, in the car, not in the mountains and trees. Whoever develops concentration will end up with three eyes. In other words, your outer left eye will see good things, your outer right eye will see bad things, and they'll send them in to the inner eye, which will remain normal. You'll also have three ears: Your outer left ear will hear praise, your outer right ear will hear criticism, and they'll send them in to the inner ear, which will stay normal. This is how you can receive all the guests the world sends your way. As for the eye of the mind — intuitive insight — it will receive your defilements. Once it really understands them, it will be able to send them packing. That way you'll be able to live in the world without suffering. If you really apply yourself, you can accomplish all kinds of things even with a single pocket knife. In the same way, if you really apply yourself to making the mind still, you can get much better results than a person who studies and memorizes hundreds and thousands of texts. Making the mind still is something we can all do. If it were beyond our powers, the Buddha wouldn't have taught us to do it. The paths and fruitions leading to nibbana aren't the property of stupid people, and they don't belong to smart people, either. They belong to those who are true and really determined in developing goodness for themselves. The body is like a mountain containing all kinds of minerals. There's gold, silver, and diamond ore buried here in this rock — i.e., the Unconditioned is in here. And there's also the Conditioned, which is like trees, weeds, dirt, and rocks where all sorts of people and animals — monkeys, tigers, and elephants — dwell. As for the gold and silver, they're not a dwelling place for animals at all. So if we act like monkeys, tigers, and elephants, we'll meet up with nothing but trees, weeds, dirt, and rocks. We'll never meet up with things of value like silver or gold. To act like monkeys means that we never apply ourselves to anything. We wander everywhere, with no fixed place to eat or sleep, swinging from branch to branch as we feel like it. What this means is that our minds have no firm place to stay, no concentration. We wander here and there in the past and future in our thoughts and moods, with no time to stop and stay in place. This is what it means to act like a monkey. As for tigers, they're violent and fierce. This stands for the anger that arises in the human heart and erupts outward, smothering whatever goodness we may have. As for elephants, they like to hear nothing but sweet words and praise. They can't take criticism at all. This is like people who, when they do something wrong, can't stand to be told that it's wrong. If they do something right and get a little praise, they smile until their cheeks hurt. This is what it means to be like an elephant. So we have to get rid of the monkeys, tigers, and elephants in ourselves so that we can turn into human beings. That way we can look at our mountain and realize that if we want valuable things, we'll be able to get valuable things out of it. If we want worthless things, we'll get worthless things out of it. We can then gather all kinds of treasures. We can level the dirt and turn it into fields. We can take the rocks and extract the silver and gold. As for the trees, we can cut them down and turn them into firewood or charcoal so that we can cook our food and fire our smelter, or else turn them into posts and boards so that we can build ourselves a home. All of these things we'll be able to get from our mountain, but we have to apply ourselves and really be persistent. If we want silver and gold, we have to set up a smelter and heat the rocks to see which elements are there in a pure form (the Unconditioned) and which ones are mixed (the Conditioned). This is how we do it: (1) We have to get a lot of fuel; (2) we have to set up a furnace; and (3) we have to start a fire. Only then will we be able to extract the ore from our rock. Finding lots of fuel means being willing to let go of things both inside and out. As for setting up a furnace, we have to find a place with good, solid ground and a roof that doesn't leak. This stands for our persistence. Once we've got our furnace, we start a fire. This refers to the ardency of our practice. Once our practice is ardent, the various elements in our rock — the body — will melt and separate out on their own, just as when they melt down minerals, the silver, lead, and tin, etc., will separate out on their own. The same holds true with the body. When it undergoes ardent inspection by the mind, the pure ore and the various impurities will separate out of their own accord. But most meditators nowadays want to separate things out even before they've put their rock into the smelter. They think things out on their own without a single one of the tools needed for smelting. No fuel, no furnace, no fire, a leaky roof and a piece of caved-in ground: What are they going to smelt? They say that the transcendent has to be like this, insight meditation has to be like that, stream-entry has to be like this; you have to let go like this and that in order to reach this and that stage; the stages of once-returning, non-returning, and arahantship have to be reached in this and that way; the four levels of jhana have to be done in this and that way. They try to separate things out in line with their own ideas, but no matter how much they try, they can't get things to separate, because they don't have any fuel, any fire, any furnace. Where are they going to get any results? Results don't come from thinking. They come from the qualities we build into the mind. So don't try to separate things out in line with your own notions. Some people see a person carrying a big hunk of rock to his home and think that he's a stupid fool. First of all, the rock is heavy, and besides — what can there be of any value in a plain old rock? So they take a shovel to the mountain to dig up only the silver and gold — not too much, just some tiny, light nuggets to wrap up and carry back home in a cloth. But they end up with nothing at all, because the nuggets they want are firmly embedded in the mountain; they'll need more than a shovel to get them out. As for the "stupid" person, as soon as he gets home he clears out a space, builds a furnace, gathers fuel, starts a fire, and throws the rock in. When the rock is subjected to strong heat, the various ores in the rock will begin to melt and to separate. The silver will come seeping out and go one way, the gold another, the tin and lead another, the diamond another, without getting mixed. This way the stupid person will be able to choose the silver, gold, and diamond as he likes. As for the people who think they're intelligent, who know that this is this and that is that, that you have to reach this level before you can reach that level, that concentration is like this, insight meditation is like that, the transcendent is like this: In the end they have nothing to swallow but their own saliva. They gain no valuables at all. The person who thinks he's stupid, when he encounters something, has to keep contemplating, reflecting, digging away, until he comes to an understanding. If we want happiness, we have to give rise to the causes: (1) Gather a lot of fuel. What this means is that we're willing to give up the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, tactile sensations, and ideas within ourselves, as well as being generous with outside things, by making donations, observing the precepts, and practicing meditation. This is how we burn away our defilements through the perfection of generosity (caga-parami). The perfection of generosity is excellent fuel for roasting our defilements. (2) Set up a furnace. This stands for the effort we put into abandoning physical pleasure and sitting in meditation, thinking of the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha as a way of calming the mind. Then we keep pumping the breath into the body, in the same way that they pump air into a furnace for casting a bronze Buddha image. We make the heart steady and firm, with mindfulness and alertness constantly in control. This way the inner fire of our ardency will get stronger and stronger. As we keep pumping the breath in, the sense of inner light will get brighter and brighter. Once you're able to keep this up, gather your body and mind together into one. Don't try to crack or divide them up at all, for that's the way of a fool who thinks he knows everything beforehand. As the fire of our ardency keeps getting stronger, the various elements in the body will melt and separate out of their own accord. When you practice the Dhamma, don't worry about how it's going to go. Don't try to plan or arrange things to go this way or that. When the fire of your practice reaches full strength, all the various impurities will fall away on their own, leaving just the pure ore. The rock clinging to the ore — the various Hindrances (nivarana) — will fall away from the heart. But if your furnace is full of holes, the fire will flicker outside and the heat inside will dissipate. You won't be able to burn away the heart's various impurities. So you have to learn how to act like a person making charcoal. (3) Start a fire. When people make charcoal they start their fire and then close off their furnace (i.e., we close off our senses), leaving just a tiny air vent (i.e., our nose). With the furnace entirely closed off in this way, the wood they place in the furnace won't burn up or turn into ashes. When they finally open the furnace, they'll find hard, high-quality charcoal. In the same way, once we can remember our meditation word without getting distracted, the closing off of the furnace means that we close off the various perceptions that register by way of the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and intellect. We close off the Hindrances and don't let the mind flicker out after outside perceptions. Once everything is closed off in this way, the wood will keep smoldering away in the furnace. When the time comes to open it up, we'll find that there are no ashes and that we've ended up with good, hard charcoal of high quality. The solid goodness we develop in the heart is like charcoal that we can then use to smelt our ore. This way, the elements within us will gain strength, able to separate themselves into the Conditioned and the Unconditioned. Once we give rise to the four stages of jhana, unskillful mental states — the rock — will separate out and fall away. Sensual desire will separate out, ill will, torpor & lethargy, restlessness & anxiety, and uncertainty will all separate out and fall away. The mind will be totally absorbed in jhana, with directed thought and evaluation in charge. Just this is enough for insight to arise. We'll be able to see clearly what's diamond, what's silver, and what's gold. The silver is the sense of fullness or rapture, the gold is the sense of pleasure and ease that arises within. Once there's pleasure, no disturbances will appear in the mind, like a burning lantern when there's no wind to disturb the flame. This is the light of the Dhamma (dhammo padipo) or the brilliance of discernment (pañña-pajoto), i.e., insight meditation, arising. We'll see the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha within. The heart will give rise to treasures. This is like setting up a furnace and using charcoal to smelt ore. The various elements in the rock will separate out, leaving the Unconditioned. Insight meditation is the fire we use to heat the rock. If we want things to separate out like this, we have to use insight meditation. Don't try to separate things out on your own. Whatever is going to turn into light, ashes, charcoal, or smoke will do so of its own accord. This is how we get past the Conditioned. The Unconditioned will separate out to one side, the Conditioned to another. This way we'll get to see what's really true. But however things separate out, you have to keep using your discernment even further. If you get attached to good things, they can backfire on you. If you get attached to bad, you've gone wrong.

Beginning Concentration When we practice breath meditation, we've been given methods for warding off the various Hindrances that will destroy the good results of what we're doing. We're told to focus on the in-and-out breath and to keep mindfulness in charge, together with the meditation word, buddho, buddho, in and out with the breath. If you want just to think buddho, you can, but it's too light. Your awareness won't go deep. It's the nature of shallow things that dust and dirt can blow in easily and fill them up quickly. As for deep things, dust and dirt can't easily blow in. In the same way, when the mind is deep, it isn't easily affected by preoccupations. So when you simply focus on buddho, buddho, it doesn't carry much weight. It's like taking a knife and slicing away at the air. You don't feel much of anything because there's nothing for the knife to strike against. But if you take the same knife and use it to slice away at a stump or any other object, you'll feel that your hand has more weight and your arm gains strength, able to ward off any enemies that may threaten you. This is why we're taught to focus on a single spot so that the mind will gain strength, solid and steady in a single preoccupation. Take as your target any of the meditation objects in the basic list of forty. Your mind will gain strength; your mindfulness will mature into Right Mindfulness and Right Concentration. Buddho is the meditation word. Being mindful and alert to the in-and-out breath is the actual meditation. Once the mind is in place you can let go of your meditation word. The meditation word is like bait. For example, if we want a chicken to come our way, we scatter rice on the ground. Once the chicken comes for the rice, we don't have to scatter any more. Being mindful, remembering to stay with the breath, is one thing. Alertness — examining the breath sensations that flow throughout the entire body, knowing whether the breath feels constricted or broad, shallow or deep, heavy or light, fast or slow — is something else. Together they form the component factors of meditation. The in-and-out breath is like the wick of a candle or a lantern. Focusing mindfulness on the breath is like lighting the wick so that it gives off light. A single candle, if its wick is lit, can burn down an entire city. In the same way, mindfulness can destroy all the bad things within us: defilement, unawareness, craving, and attachment. Mindfulness is the consuming fire of the practice. Being mindful of the breath is like casting a Buddha image inside yourself. Your body is like the furnace, mindfulness is like the mold. If mindfulness lapses, the bronze will leak out of the mold and your Buddha image will be ruined. Letting mindfulness lapse is like getting a hole in your clothes. Letting it lapse again is like getting a second hole. If you keep letting it lapse, it's like getting a third, fourth, fifth, and sixth hole in your clothes until ultimately you can't wear them. There are three ways in which mindfulness lapses. The first is by bringing inside things out to think about. In other words, you grab hold of any lights or visions that may appear, and in this way your path washes out. The second way is by bringing outside things in to think about, i.e., abandoning your meditation object. The third way is by losing consciousness. You sit there, but it's as if you were asleep. All of these things are called a washed-out path, like a road that washes out and is full of deep potholes. To keep preoccupations out of the mind is to cut a path in the mind. To let outside preoccupations in is to let the path wash out. When the path washes out, there's no way that insight or discernment will arise, just as when a road washes out, no cars or trucks can run along it. When concentration gets extinguished in this way, you can't practice insight meditation. There's nothing left but thoughts about insight, thoughts about concentration, thinking, guessing, groping in line with your old preconceptions. The virtues of your heart disappear without your realizing it. If you want to go back and start all over, it's hard — like going back over a washed-out road. The mind in concentration is like genuine silver, malleable and white because nothing else is adulterating it. We can make it into whatever we want, easily and quickly, without having to waste time placing it in a crucible and heating it to get rid of the impurities. The mind not in concentration is like imitation or adulterated silver: hard, brittle, and black, because it's mixed with copper or lead. The more the impurities, the lower its value. A pure mind is thus like genuine silver. The various thoughts that darken the mind are like the impurities that make the silver black, brittle, and dull. So if we let thoughts get mixed up in the mind, we turn the mind into imitation silver. We won't be able to find any purity in it at all. When this is the case, the mind will have no stillness. But if we brush away the various thoughts and preoccupations adulterating the mind, it will become firmly established in concentration, in line with the factors of the path. Once the mind turns into the path, we have to watch over it carefully, in the same way that we try to keep a road from washing out. We have to survey it continually to see where it's getting rutted or forming potholes. Wherever it needs repairing, we fix it right away. If we don't fix it immediately, and let it get full of potholes or wash away, it'll be really hard to repair. Once the mind is following the path, any Hindrances that interfere are a break in the road. If we don't hurry up and repair it, the break will get wider and deeper until the road turns into an ordinary piece of ground. So while you're trying to develop the path, if you let yourself be forgetful — if you let your mindfulness lapse, letting distractions into the mind — the state of mind that forms the path will immediately be destroyed. Your meditation will be spoiled, your concentration will be spoiled, the mind will return to its ordinary state and won't be able to find the path to genuine goodness. While we're sitting in concentration, if our mind doesn't stay with the body in the present, it's as if we've earned some food but don't watch over it. Dogs and cats are bound to come and eat it. The dogs and cats, here, are the five Hindrances — sensual desire, ill will, torpor & lethargy, restlessness & anxiety, and uncertainty — that we like to keep as our pets. As soon as our back is turned, they're going to sneak in and eat up our food — the happiness and inner worth that we should have received from our practice. Being lost is better than being asleep. Being aware, even if you have defilements, is better than being absent-minded. If you know you have defilements, you can work to end them. A person who's not aware is dead. If your mind doesn't stay in one place, it's like standing on a lawn: If you stand in ten different places, the grass will grow in all ten places, because first you stand here for a while and then go stand there for a while and then go stand over there. If you don't stay long in any one place, grass will grow everywhere. But if you really stand still in one place, how will the grass grow there? No grass will be able to grow on the spot where the soles of your feet are standing. In the same way, if your mind stands firm in one place, always mindful of the in-and-out breath, no Hindrances or defilements will be able to arise. The path we're following is a short-cut. It's a path worn smooth. Following a smooth path means that there are no weeds growing on it, no obstacles in our way, no need to stop here and there and slow down our progress. The reason we don't yet know how to follow this path is because we don't know how to walk. We walk like people in general all over the world: going forward, turning back, looking left and right. This is why we keep running into one another all the time, falling down, and then picking ourselves back up. Sometimes, even when nobody runs into us, we stagger. Even when nobody trips us up, we fall. Sometimes we get lazy and lie down to rest. Sometimes we stop to look at things we meet along the way. This way we never get to the goal because we aren't really intent on walking. We wander here and there without following the path. So we have to learn a new way to walk, the Buddha's way. What is the Buddha's way? The Buddha's way of walking is to walk like a soldier. Soldiers don't stagger back and forth the way we do. They walk standing up straight, staying in place, stamping their feet on the ground. This way they don't get tired, because they don't have to go far. If we were to walk in place for three hours, the grass beneath our feet would be flattened out. Any grass that tried to grow in its place wouldn't be able to get above ground level. It's the same with the work we're doing right now, being mindful to focus on the breath. If we're really intent on it, focusing our attention solely on the breath without letting it wander off and disappear, all the various Hindrances — thoughts of past and future, good and bad — won't be able to reach in to touch us. All the Hindrances, which are like grass, will have to be flattened out. No evil, unskillful thoughts will be able to appear in the heart. When this is the case, the mind won't have to follow the paths to deprivation, and instead will keep following the path that goes higher and higher. This is called following the path worn smooth, in line with the Buddha's way. Practicing meditation is like digging a diamond mine. The body is like a big rock; mindfulness is like a shovel. If you don't really dig — i.e., if you dig little shallow holes here and there, instead of digging away at one place — you can dig for a month and yet get no deeper than your knees. But if you're really intent on digging away at one place, the hole you dig will keep getting deeper and deeper until you get down to the rock. Now, when stupid people hit the rock, they throw down their shovels and run away. (This stands for people who practice meditation but can't endure feelings of pain.) As for intelligent people, when they meet up with the rock, they keep chipping away at it until they get past it, and that's when they find the valuable diamond that lies on the underside of the rock. If it's a diamond seam, they won't have to work again for the rest of their lives. Gems and diamonds that are really valuable lie deep, so we'll have to dig deep if we want to find things of value. If we don't go far beneath the surface, we'll end up with dirt and sand that sells for only five cents a bushel. When we're true in what we do — when we don't stop or grow lax or give up — the results, even if they show up slowly, are bound to be great. The fact that they are all growing at once is what makes them slow. It's like a tree with lots of branches to protect itself and give lots of shade. It's bound to grow more slowly than a banana tree, which has only one stem and gives good fruit, but is exposed to lots of dangers. Some people get results quickly; others more slowly. The slower people shouldn't compare themselves or compete with the quick ones. The quick ones shouldn't compete with the slow ones. It's like polishing boards and mirrors. Polishing a mirror so that you can see your reflection in it doesn't take all that much talent, because the nature of the mirror is already reflective. But to polish a board so that you can see your reflection in it, even though it may take a long time, is a sign of real expertise. 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 that we spread on our bed. We have to watch out for the dust or insects that blow in on the wind and land on the sheet. 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 that 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. Once you cut off thoughts of past and future, you don't have to worry about the Hindrances. When you think about things outside, you have to choose carefully what you're going to think about. Think only about good things and not about things that will cause harm. When you think about things inside, though, you can think about anything: good or bad, old or new. In other words, mindfulness and alertness can handle whatever comes their way. It's as if we have our curry in a pot that's tightly covered, where no flies can get to it. Whether it's bland or salty, it's all safe to eat. "Thinking about" is long. "Thinking of" is short. You have to focus them both into one when you're making the mind still. "Thinking of" means that you focus on a single preoccupation. "Thinking about" means that you examine and evaluate, to see that when you arrange the causes a certain way, what results do you get: good or bad? If you look with both of your eyes you won't be able to see your target clearly. If you want to see it clearly you have to look with one eye, in the same way that when people shoot a rifle or an arrow, they use only one eye to aim. If you make your mind one with its object, you'll be able to see things clearly within yourself in just the same way. You have to practice concentration in all four postures. When the body sits, the mind sits with it. When the body stands, the mind stands with it. When the body walks, the mind walks with it. When the body lies down, the mind lies down with it. If the body sits but the mind stands, or if the body walks and the mind sits or lies down, that's no good at all. The six elements in the body are earth, water, fire, wind, space, and consciousness. You have to keep familiarizing yourself with them until they become your friends. They'll then tell you their secrets and won't put you in chains or throw you in prison. The mind is like a child. Mindfulness is like an adult. The adult is responsible for looking after the child and taking good care of it. Only then will the child eat and sleep properly, without crying and making a fuss. You have to give the child good food to eat, by focusing the mind on the qualities of the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha. Then you have to give it four big dolls to play with: the properties of earth, water, fire, and wind in the body. When the child is well-fed and has dolls to play with, it won't run outside and get into mischief. If you let it go wandering outside, all kinds of dangers can happen. But if it stays in the house, even though there are some dangers, they're not all that serious. You have to teach the mind how to play around in the elements of this body: a cubit wide, a span thick, a fathom long. That way it won't get into trouble. Once the child gets tired of playing, it will lie in its crib. In other words, the mind will settle down in jhana, the resting place of sages. That way the mind will gather into oneness.

The Basics of Breathing When the body is still, you gain knowledge from the body. When the mind is still, you gain knowledge from the mind. When the breath is still, you gain knowledge from the breath. Ordinary, everyday breathing doesn't do anything special for you except keep you from dying. The breathing on which your awareness is intent can give rise to all kinds of good things. Ordinary breathing is the breath of suffering and stress. In other words, when it comes in it reaches a point of discomfort, so it has to go back out. When it goes out it runs into discomfort again, so it comes back in. This kind of breathing isn't called meditation. Meditation means gathering all your awareness into the mind. The present aspect of the body is the breath. The present aspect of the mind is mindfulness and alertness. So bring the present of the mind together with the present of the body. The breath is like water. Mindfulness is like soap. The mind is like clothing. If you don't keep washing the mind, it'll get dirty. When your clothing isn't white and clean, it doesn't feel comfortable to wear. Don't put pressure on the breath, force it, or hold it. Let the breath 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. If the mind isn't yet still, just watch the in-and-out breath without trying to notice whether it's comfortable or not. Otherwise, the mind will start to stray. It's like a farmer planting an orchard: If he mows down too much grass all at once, he won't be able to plant all his trees in time and the grass will start growing again. He has to mow down just the area that he can plant in one day. That's how he'll get the results he wants. Whether or not the breath is even, you have to keep your mindfulness even. The breath is like waves. Mindfulness is like a boat. The mind is like a person sitting in the boat. If the waves of the breath aren't still, the boat will tip or overturn, and the person in the boat will drown or at the least get into difficulties. You have to make your mind still like a boat that has cast anchor in the middle of the sea when there's no wind or waves. The boat won't tip, and the person in the boat will be still and at peace. This is the point where the mind enters the noble path: It's a free mind with full power, released from the sway of the Hindrances. The breath in the body isn't limited just to the breath that flows in and out the nose. The breath in the body spreads out to every pore, like the vapor that gets exhaled from an ice cube. It's much more refined than the air outside. When the internal breath goes out the pores, it gets reflected back into the body. This breath is called the supporting breath. It helps keep the body and mind cool and still. So when you breathe in, let the breath fill the inside of your body; when you breathe out, let it spread in all directions. When you breathe in, you have to feel the effects of the inner breath in three parts of the body: (1) the lungs & heart; (2) the liver, stomach, & intestines; and (3) the rib cage & spine. If the breath doesn't have an effect all over the body, you're not getting the full results of concentration. Hot breathing is destructive. It gives rise to pain and makes the body age. Cool breathing is constructive. Warm breathing is like medicine. The common breath is like an emetic. The refined breathed is like a curative. The intermediate breath is like a food supplement. The common breath is long and slow. The refined breath is short and light. It can penetrate into every blood vessel. It's a breath of extremely high quality. If the breath is heavy, you can keep it in a narrow range. When it's light, you have to make it broad. If it's so light that it's very refined, you don't have to breathe through the nose. You can be aware of the breath coming in and out through every pore all over the body. Wherever there's pain in the body, focus on making the breath go past it if you want to get results. Suppose you have a pain in your knee: You have to focus on breathing all the way down to the ends of your toes. If you have a pain in your shoulder, focus the breath past it to your arm. Breath subdues pain. Mindfulness subdues the Hindrances. When we meditate it's as if we were milling the rice grains in our granary so that they'll be ready to cook. The mind is like grains of rice. The Hindrances are like the husks. We have to crack the husks and then polish away the dirty red skin underneath. That's when we'll end up with good, white rice. The way to polish is to use directed thought and evaluation. Directed thought is when we focus the mind on being aware of the in-and-out breath, which is like taking a handful of rice and putting it in the teeth of our mill. We have to make sure that the teeth of the mill are in good shape. If we're aware of just the in-breath and then get distracted with the out-breath, it's as if the teeth of our mill were broken. When this happens, we have to fix them immediately. In other words, we reestablish mindfulness on the breath and brush away all other perceptions. Evaluation is being observant, taking careful note of the breath as we breathe in, to see what it's like, to see whether it's comfortable, easy, and free-flowing. We then let the good breaths spread throughout the body to chase out the bad breath sensations. All the properties of the body will become pure; the mind will become bright. The body will feel cool and at ease. We have to look after the breath in this way, in the same way that we catch baby chicks to put in the coop. If we hold them too tight, they die. If we hold them too loosely, they run away. We have to gather them in our hands in a way that's just right. That way they'll all end up safely in the coop. When we use directed thought and evaluation, it's as if we polish away the dirty red skin from our rice grains. We'll end up with nice, white rice (rapture, pleasure, and singleness of preoccupation). If we take the rice to market, it'll fetch a good price. If we cook it, it will taste good and nourish the body. This is why we should all be intent on polishing the rice in our granary so that we'll end up with Grade A rice. The factors of jhana — directed thought, evaluation, rapture, and pleasure — all have to be gathered at the breath if you want to reach singleness of preoccupation. Directed thought is like laying claim to a piece of land. Evaluation is like planting it with seed. When the seed bears fruit, that's rapture and pleasure. Keeping awareness with the breath is directed thought. Knowing the characteristics of the breath is evaluation. Spreading the breath so that it permeates and fills the entire body is rapture. The sense of serenity and well-being in body and mind is pleasure. When the mind is freed from the Hindrances so that it's one with the breath, that's singleness of preoccupation. All of these factors of jhana turn mindfulness into a factor of Awakening. Spreading the breath, letting all the breath sensations spread throughout all the elements and parts of the body — the blood vessels, the tendons, etc. — is like cutting a system of connecting roads through the wilderness. Any country with a good system of roads is bound to develop, because communication is easy. If we constantly adjust and improve the breath in the various parts of the body, it's like cutting away the dead parts of a plant so that it can begin to grow again. Directed thought, focusing on the breath, is like putting food in your mouth. Evaluation — adjusting, spreading, and improving the breath — is like chewing your food. If you chew it carefully before swallowing, the food will digest easily and give full benefits to your body. The digesting is the duty of the body, but if you want to get good results you have to help with the chewing. The more refined you can make the breath, the better the results you'll get. There are two kinds of evaluation when we meditate on the breath. The first is to evaluate the in-and-out breath. The second is to evaluate the inner breath sensations in the body until you can spread them out through all the properties of the body to the point where you forget all distractions. If both the body and mind are full, there's a sense of rapture and ease that results from our directed thought and evaluation. This is Right Action in the mind. One of the benefits from working with the breath is that the properties of the body become friendly and harmonious with one another. We spread the breath all over the body, and then when it grows still it gives you a sense of physical seclusion. This is one of the physical benefits. As for the mental benefits, mindfulness becomes enlarged. When mindfulness is enlarged, awareness is enlarged. The mind becomes an adult and doesn't go sneaking off like an ordinary mind. If you want it to think, it thinks. If you want it to stop, it stops. If you want it to go, it goes. When the mind is well-trained it gains knowledge, like an educated adult. When you converse with it, you understand each other. The mind of a person who hasn't trained it is like a child. This kind of mind doesn't understand what you say and likes to slip off to roam around — and it goes without saying good-bye. You have no idea what it takes with it when it goes, or what it brings back when it returns. When the breath, mindfulness, and awareness are all enlarged, they all become adults. They don't get into spats with one another: the body doesn't quarrel with the mind, mindfulness doesn't quarrel with the mind. That's when we can be at our ease. When you spread the breath as you evaluate it, mindfulness runs throughout the body like an electric wire. Making yourself mindful is like letting the current run along the wire. Alertness is like the energy that wakes the body up. When the body is awake, pains can't overcome it. In other words, it wakes up the properties of earth, water, fire, and wind so that they get to work. When the properties are balanced and full, they put the body at ease. When the body is nourished with breath and mindfulness like this, it grows into an adult. When the properties are at peace, they all become adults: the great frame of reference (mahasatipatthana). This is called threshold concentration, or evaluation. When the mind is broad, wandering after outside perceptions, it loses the strength it needs to deal with its various affairs. Whatever it 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. It's the same with the breath: The more you refine your 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. Making the mind snug with mindfulness and the breath is like weaving cloth. If the weave is so fine that water won't pass through, the cloth will fetch a high price. If you use it to sift flour, you'll get very fine flour. If the weave is coarse, the cloth won't be worth much. If you use it to sift flour, the flour will come out all lumpy. In the same way, the more refined you can make your awareness, the more refined and valuable the results you'll get. When the breath fills the body, awareness gets more refined. The breath that used to be fast will slow down. If it used to be strong, it will become more gentle. If it used to be heavy, it will grow light — to the point where you don't have to breathe, because the body is full of breath, with no empty spaces. It's like water we pour into a vessel until it's full. That's the point of enough; you don't have to add any more. This sense of fullness gives rise to a feeling of coolness and clarity. There are five levels to the breath. The first level is the most blatant one: the breath that we breathe in and out. The second level is the breath that goes past the lungs and connects with the various properties of the body, giving rise to a sense of comfort or discomfort. The third level is the breath that stays in place throughout the body. It doesn't flow here or there. The breath sensations that used to flow up and down the body stop flowing. The sensations that used to run to the front or the back stop running. Everything stops and is still. The fourth level is the breath that gives rise to a sense of coolness and light. The fifth level is the really refined breath, so refined that it's like atoms. It can penetrate the entire world. Its power is very fast and strong. The most refined level of awareness, which is like atoms, has the same sort of power as an atomic bomb buried underground that can explode people and animals to smithereens. When the refined mind is buried in the breath, it can explode people and animals to smithereens, too. What this means is that when the mind reaches this level of refinement, its sense of "self" and "other" disappears without a trace. It lets go of its attachments to body and self, "people" and "beings." This is why we say that it's like an atomic bomb that can explode people and animals to smithereens.

The Skills of Jhana Momentary concentration is like a house roofed with thatch; its posts are made out of softwood. Momentary concentration isn't jhana. Threshold concentration is like a house made out of hardwood with a tile roof. Fixed penetration is like an immovable concrete building. This is where we become "one" in a single preoccupation on the single or direct path (ekayana-magga). It's like sitting alone in a chair or lying alone on a bed, without anyone trying to come and take up our space, or like being alone in a room without anyone else coming in to disturb us. When we're alone in a room, we can be at our ease. We can even take off our clothes if we like. We can behave with good manners or bad, and no one will complain. This is why a mind with jhana as its dwelling can be at its ease. It has a deep well so that it can get plenty of water — to the point where it can drop directed thought and evaluation, leaving nothing but pleasure: This is where feeling becomes your frame of reference (vedananupassana-satipatthana). The body feels full. All four properties — earth, water, fire, and wind — feel full. When the mind feels full in this way, nothing is lacking. That's rapture. You don't want any more of the four properties. When the mind soaks for a long time in this sense of rapture, it's like something you've soaked in water for a long time: The water is bound to permeate it to a point of saturation. This sense of rapture is the second jhana. When the sense of rapture begins to move, you don't feel at ease, in the same way as when a boat begins to sway you want to get back on land. So once rapture fills the body, you let go of it, leaving nothing but pleasure and singleness of preoccupation. When the mind has soaked itself in pleasure to a point of saturation, it lets go, leaving an empty sense of equanimity. When the mind is really empty, it feels spacious and light. The more it soaks in equanimity, the more still it gets, giving rise to an inner sense of light. When the light is really intense you arrive at Right Mindfulness. Directed thought — focusing on the breath without getting distracted — is like planting a tree. Evaluation is like loosening the soil around the roots, giving it fertilizer, and watering it from the roots to the topmost branches. The body, which can be compared to the soil, will soften, allowing the fertilizer and water to penetrate down to the roots. Rapture is like the tree's being fresh and green and bursting into bloom. (There are five kinds of rapture: (1) an unusual sense of heaviness or lightness in the body; (2) a sense of the body floating; (3) a sense of coolness or heat; (4) a sense of thrill passing over the surface of the body; (5) the body beginning to sway.) Pleasure means stillness of body and mind, free from Hindrances. Singleness of preoccupation means being neutral toward other things, perfectly still in a single preoccupation. This is what the Buddha was referring to when he said that concentration matured with virtue is of great benefit, great rewards. Directed thought is like standing and looking out a window. Whoever walks past, we know, but we don't call out to them or turn to look after them as they walk down the road. We simply stand perfectly still at the window. Directed thought and evaluation applied to the breath are like car mechanics. The mind is like the head mechanic. When we drive our car, we have to be observant and keep checking all the mechanical parts — such as the steering wheel, the springs, the tires, the gas line — to see if anything is wearing out or not working properly. If we find that anything is not working properly, we have to fix it immediately. That way the car will take us safely to our destination. When you practice concentration, you have to be observant, checking your breath to see whether or not it'