Practicing Samadhi
Photo by Zoltan Tasi
In the fifth talk in a series on the Eight Awarenesses of Enlightened Beings, Zuisei speaks on the sixth awareness: practicing Samadhi.
Samadhi, also understood as single-pointed focus, is an access point of profound awareness. With intent presence, we are able to see the arising and passing of all phenomena. Samadhi is the state in which subject and object merge. We become the breath, the koan, awareness itself.
This talk was given by Zuisei Goddard.
Transcript
This transcript is based on Zuisei's talk notes and may differ slightly from the final talk.
Practicing Samadhi
I read a story recently that really inspired me. It was something that reinvigorated and reinspired my practice and zazen. It is the story of a woman named Flora Courtois. As a young woman, she always had a proclivity for wondering about and investigating the world. When she was sixteen years old, she had surgery, and while going under anesthesia, she saw a great spiraling light, and a voice came to her and said, “When the light hits you, you will understand.” When the light did hit her, she lost consciousness, but when she woke up, she was convinced that she could contact the Truth, that light.
When she was in college, she studied philosophy, literature, and psychology. She found it strange that with all the books in the world, all the laws, and all the advice from parents, teachers, and priests, no one could tell her how to live fully in each moment, since each moment was unique. She wondered about what she called the Law of the Moment. She went to church, as she was raised Catholic, but that felt like more doctrine.
She knew that it’s more about how we do something rather than what we’re doing. And she thought, “Surely there must be something that applies even to the everyday tasks of life, even to how I wash dishes. But how do I find it?”
In one of her psychology classes, she was taught that “the world is simply a projection of the neural activity in the visual centers of the brain.” So, she came to the conclusion that all the world, even the universe, was her. And she trusted this sense of things. She really wanted to explore then, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching—all her senses and attention. She had an experience of feeling the space around her, behind her, in front of her, and through her, in the middle of a lecture. In Zen, any point is a point of entry.
So she kept asking herself, how do you comprehend reality all at once? Or, another question, how can you think with your feet as well as your head? Learning how to ask a question is part of what koan study helps us do. All of your being is asking.
She said that it would take her all afternoon to iron a shirt because she was investigating the question of who was perceiving what. Then she started having clear visions. That, as human beings, we’ve been cast from nature and that it’s as if we’re stuck in a cubicle, but all we have to do is walk out. At one point, she wasn’t eating; she was consumed with investigation. People became worried for her.
She sensed that silence was essential to this investigation. She said that it was a kind of waiting. And she kept saying to herself, “No, not this, no, not this.” Then, one day she’s sitting on the edge of her bed, and she realizes all at once that she was not on the earth, but of it. That she was not separate from the desk, from her parents, or from the bed she was sitting on. That everything was a perfect whole, which also meant that she was perfect and whole as well.
“If God was the word for this Presence in which I was absorbed, then everything was either holy or nothing; no distinction was possible. All was meaningful, complete as it was, each bird, bud, midge, mole, atom, and crystal of total importance in itself. As in the notes of a great symphony, nothing was large or small, nothing of more or less importance to the whole. I now saw that wholeness and holiness are one. If I could continue in this state of ‘Open Vision,’ I felt certain that whatever happened, everything would be right just as it was.”
Many years later, she came across a group of people that began to sit in what became the Zen Center of Los Angeles. She spoke to Yasutani Roshi and told him her story. He confirmed that she’d had a profound experience, and she learned that there was a framework for that. When later she met Maezumi Roshi, she knew that he had also experienced it—a deep state of meditation that we call samadhi.
Practicing samadhi is the sixth awareness of an enlightened being. Don’t forget that each of these teachings is an awareness. It’s a knowing, what we must hold in mind. In the case of samadhi, this is a single-pointed awareness, which is both single and pointed as on the breath. Or, it is a steady awareness of the flow of thoughts that can result in insight, sometimes profound insight, as in Shikantaza.
The Buddha said:
When you, friends, unify your minds, the mind is in samadhi. Since the mind is in samadhi, you know the characteristics of the creation and destruction of the various phenomena in the world. For this reason, you should constantly practice with diligence and cultivate all kinds of samadhi. When you gain samadhi, the mind is not scattered, just as those who protect themselves from floods guard the levee. This is also true for practice. For the sake of the ‘water of wisdom,’ then, cultivate samadhi well, and do not let it leak. This is called ‘samadhi.’
In his commentary on this passage, Master Dogen said, “Dwelling in the dharma undisturbed is what is called ‘samadhi.’” Dwelling in the dharma undisturbed. We could more simply say “Dwelling undisturbed.” We could also say “dwelling.” Dwelling in the dharma undisturbed, dwelling in our minds, in our bodies, unmoving, we are able to see: “Know the characteristics of the creation and destruction of the various phenomena in the world…” What does the Buddha mean by this? In the Dogen translation done by Shasta Abbey, this line says, “You’re able to know the world, birth and death, as well as the characteristics of all things.”
Practicing samadhi, dwelling undisturbed, we’re able to know the birth and death of all things. We’re able to know the birth and death of this one thought, feeling, thing. In other words, we’re able to see how a phenomenon arises, how it persists, and how it passes away.
Maezumi Roshi's translation is even more pointed, as we’re able to see its creation and destruction. Who creates and who destroys? When a feeling arises and we suddenly find ourselves being angry, where and by whom was that feeling created? Who or what gave birth to it? Where does it go when it dies, when it’s destroyed? Why is this important?
Dogen uses the Japanese word zenjo to refer to samadhi, Zen, dhyana (meditative absorption), jhana, ch’anna, ch’an. Jo is the state of absorption itself. Samadhi is a state in which subject and object merge. You become breath, become koan, become awareness itself. And as the Buddha is alluding to here, there are different kinds of samadhi.
In the Visuddhimagga (Path of Purification), Buddhaghosa speaks of access and absorption samadhi. Access samadhi is concentration before or after absorption—as you’re entering or coming out of jhana—which gives access to insight and wisdom. In absorption, or absolute samadhi, there is nothing. There’s no subject, no object, and no one meditating or concentrating or exerting effort. There’s no suffering, no end to suffering, no wisdom or compassion, and no insight. There’s just the dropping away of body and mind. Access samadhi is the way that we enter and exit absolute samadhi. And it is the “place” in which insight arises.
You cannot force samadhi. You can only practice single-pointed awareness until there is a dropping away of body and mind.
There’s also mundane and supramundane samadhi, with and without happiness, limited, exalted, measureless, etc. We speak of it in simpler terms: absolute samadhi and relative or working samadhi. The Buddha said to work with all of them. Cultivate all kinds. In working Samadhi, subject and object merge, but there’s movement, action, and doing. Chopping wood, swing of the ax, breath flowing in and out, the moment the ax connects with the log so perfectly it splits like a stick of butter, no resistance. In sports this is called flow. And this is good, but it doesn’t necessarily lead to insight.
Flora Courtois knew none of this. She just knew she needed to understand. And she could not rest until she knew. That hunger she had has to be the hunger in which we engage our zazen. She knew that what she perceived with her senses was not all there was and that in order to truly perceive reality, she had to go beyond her eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind. She had to tame her senses and then go beyond them.
This taming is real. And we need not worry about if we’re practicing right; we just need to see a thought and then let it go. And one perspective is that a distracted mind, a thinking mind, is all mind, so you can’t do it wrong. But if you’re just sitting there thinking, then you’re also not doing zazen.
Chinese masters called samadhi cheng shou “right receiving.” The right receiving of reality. Guarding the levee, we protect the waters from spilling all over the place. We contain the flow without forcing it, but more through holding it, allowing it to flow undisturbed, as it wants to, allowing it to settle as it will. If we cooperate, then we’re able to receive reality. We’re able to perceive what’s always been there.
It’s like washing a window and removing layers of grime and cobwebs and dead insects, and being able to see straight through to what lies beyond. We’re so often stuck at the level of grime and dead insects that we can’t really enjoy the view, and we’re not even aware that there is a view out there.
But that’s what’s interesting—in absolute samadhi, there’s no view. It’s only after, when you, in a sense, turn back and look and realize there’s a whole vista you had, until now, only partially been aware of. You realize, “Oh, there’s a window. And not only that, there’s a view. There’s a whole world out there that I was too busy to pay attention to.” It’s not even too busy; it’s too wrapped up—literally—as if we were wrapped in cellophane from head to foot. How can you possibly come in contact with reality like that?
The Sixth Ancestor said, “Samadhi is the substance of wisdom; wisdom is the functioning of samadhi.” In fact, the next awareness (seventh) is Cultivating Wisdom. So concentration, single-pointedness of mind—as I’ve said many times—is not enough. You can be very concentrated and very deluded at the same time. Concentration needs to lead to insight. But without concentration, wisdom cannot function effectively, like trying to build a house and deciding you’re too busy to pour the foundation. And if you try to use your intelligence, it’s even harder because you can become convinced that you can think your way out of things.
I remember working on a koan for what felt like a long time, and I went and saw Daido Roshi, desperate. And I asked him, “Why am I having such a hard time?” He replied, “Because Vanessa needs to know.” It is that mind that wants to know intellectually.
Life will bring you koans, and your question will become “How do I meet this with my whole being?” We say, “I’m too busy to practice—but I’ll be mindful all day.” That’d be fine if we were able to really do that, but we can’t, not really.
In the Sedaka Sutta the Buddha set up this scenario. There’s a throng of people; on one side there’s a pleasure-seeking person who’s not too curious about life and death—let’s say that’s you—and you’re given the task of putting a bowl brimming with oil on top of your head, and you have to make it through the crowd to where a dancing queen is on the other side. If you drop a single drop of oil, your head will be cut off. That’s mindfulness. That was the Buddha’s example.
If we could maintain that kind of mindfulness all the time, we’d be fine. But since we don’t, practicing samadhi when we’re sitting, and when we’re working, and living our lives, helps.
Someone asked the Dalai Lama, “How do you make time for formal practice every day when you’re so busy?” And he said, “When I’m really busy, I practice formal meditation three hours per day. When I’m really busy, I practice four hours a day.”
He knows what he needs in order to continue doing the work that he does; he knows he needs that peaceful dwelling, that undisturbed dwelling. He knows what he needs to be able to deeply rest his body and mind in order to turn outward and serve. That’s why the Buddha said, “Protect your mind.” That’s why Shantideva said, “Guard introspection.”
If we speak of samadhi as stilling the waves of the mind, we could say that when we don’t practice samadhi, it’s like being in the middle of the ocean during a hurricane, and we’re holding on to a little log (ourselves and all our ideas) and hoping and praying that it will keep us afloat.
But when we understand what gives rise to the wave and what makes it subside, then we no longer need a log or a raft or a boat of any kind. We realize we ourselves are the ocean, and when it’s calm, we are calm; when it’s raging, we ride out the storm knowing we are the storm. And we know that, like every other created thing, it will change; it will pass.
Also, understanding we’re the ocean, we no longer have to still the mind. The ocean’s nature is to flow, to have waves. Sometimes it’s still, sometimes it’s moving, and either one is perfectly right. Without deep stillness, we cannot see this, we cannot trust this. That’s why I think stillness and silence may just be the thing that saves us from ourselves.
But how do we do this hard work of concentrating? Sometimes people speak of stopping the flow of thoughts. Here, the Buddha speaks of guarding the levee, but what kind of guarding is this? How do we contain the flow of thoughts without suppressing or denying them?
In Essentials of Mahamudra, Khenchen Thrangu Rinpoche says:
What exactly do we do with thoughts and appearances as they arise? The first mistake is to obstruct or dam up thought and appearance so that it is either halted or it doesn’t appear clearly. The other mistake is to follow after or be led along by thoughts and appearances so that we become completely distracted and lose our mindfulness.
Our mistake is to try to suppress thoughts and appearances or to be led by them and become distracted. The mind thinks; that is not a problem. Objects appear, that is not a problem either. We must work with the thoughts and appearances that arise from the six consciousnesses (senses). No matter what their objects are or how they appear, we maintain the understanding of them as being of a nature that defies any of our efforts to categorize, grasp, or define them.
He says it quite clearly: we maintain the understanding that they’re of a nature that defies our definitions. Every single thought and appearance, whether material or not, is empty— that is its nature. So if I’m caught in a whirlpool of jealousy, or grief, or anger, it doesn’t help to pretend it’s not happening, and it doesn’t help to thrash about and kick and splash either, because this just stirs up the pool even more.
Coming close to the thought, feeling, however we come to understand its nature, we realize, "This is not what I think it is." I’m working hard to label it so I can get a handle on the situation, but actually, this thought, this appearance, comes without handles, it cannot be grasped. That’s why I’m having such a hard time.
See, there’s nothing wrong with us, we’re just… stubborn. We keep reaching for and trying to grab empty space to put it in a box. No wonder we’re so tired and discouraged.
But if we just open our hand If we just release our grasp. And we don’t have to do it for very long, a single moment is enough. An instant of turning towards rather than away from—that’s all it takes. If we wanted to explain to someone very simply, very succinctly, and very practically what Buddhism is about, we could say it’s about closeness. It’s about closeness so close it becomes redundant.
Courtois was not actually close to her desk. At a certain point, she was neither near nor far, as we chant in the Identity of Relative and Absolute. At a certain point, speaking of closeness or distance, of subject and object of concentration or distraction, all falls apart. Words fall, effort falls, and doing it right falls.
So, today, trust your practice like you have never trusted anything yet in your life. Have faith in yourself, in the teachings in the Buddha, and in your noble friends on the path.
In the Old Testament, faith is “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” I would say that in Buddhism, faith is the “substance of things recognized and the evidence of things not yet seen.” In Buddhism, having faith means knowing that you already are that which you seek, and it is sitting in and practicing with that recognition. It is knowing that you can use mind to go beyond mind. That you can use the body to let the body fall away, not to leave either of them behind, but quite the contrary, to realize that there is no place they are not.
Sometimes your zazen will feel deep, sometimes it’ll feel shallow. It doesn’t matter, you sit as deeply as you can in a moment of practice. Trust your capacity to do this, to dwell undisturbed in the dharma. And know that this is who you and I truly are.
Practicing Samadhi, a dharma talk by Zen Buddhist teacher Zuisei Goddard. Audio podcast and transcript available.