Right Concentration
Photo by Mitchell Griest
Right Concentration, the eighth and last factor in the Noble Eightfold Path, is made up of the four jhanas or deep meditative states that the Buddha experienced leading up to his enlightenment. They are ever more intimate states of meditative absorption whose purpose is the development of insight into the nature of the self and reality.
As the Buddha said, Right Mindfulness, the seventh factor in the Noble Eightfold Path, is remaining focused on the body, on feelings, on mind, and thoughts or “mental qualities.” In other words, being mindful means being aware of the totality of human experience, in order to see whether our actions create suffering or alleviate it.
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.
Right Concentration
The Buddha said, "I do not perceive even one thing, O friends, that is so unwieldy as an undeveloped mind. An undeveloped mind is truly unwieldy. I do not perceive even one thing, O friends, that leads to great harm as an undeveloped mind, as an untamed mind, an unguarded, unprotected, unrestrained mind. I do not perceive even a single thing that leads to such great suffering and great harm as an undeveloped and uncultivated mind. I do not perceive even one thing, O friends, that leads to such great benefit as a developed mind, a tamed, guarded, protected, and restrained mind. I do not perceive even one thing, O friends, that, when developed and cultivated, entails such great happiness as the mind."
This is from the Ika Dharma Sutras, the Single Thing Sutras, in the Numerical Discourses of the Buddha.
A few months ago, I spoke of a simile of a traveler that the Buddha gives for the Noble Eightfold Path. And this is a traveler who is journeying through a path in the wilderness and comes upon an ancient city, inhabited by people of former times, it says, complete with parks, groves, and ponds, walled and delightful. And the traveler says to the ruler, "Rebuild this city so that later it will become powerful, rich, and will populate it fully grown and prosperous." And in the same way, says the Buddha, he saw an ancient path, an ancient road, traveled by the rightly self-awakened ones of former times. And this is the Noble Eightfold Path of right view, right thought, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration. And I wound myself, my way, through this path, myself.
And this is the eighth factor of the Noble Eightfold Path, right concentration, that because it's a spiritual path, it doesn't actually have an end. And it seems to have a beginning. It seems to have a point of turning, that point in which we turn, the mind turns, and we begin to ask, "What is this, really?" We turn to the Dharma. But just as birth is a kind of beginning, when you look at it closely, in reality, you see that this path extends back through all of space and time, and it extends forward through all of space and time. So there is no point at which you can say, "I'm here." We try. We try, but it's like setting a flag in empty space.
And the image that came to me as I was reflecting on this was of Ouroboros, the snake that eats its tail. And it's a symbol for cyclicality, a symbol for the identity of life and death, beginning and end. And it's been used, especially in Hinduism, as a symbol for samsara, of being stuck in that loop. But I was thinking, instead of that snake consuming itself, instead of that stuckness, I was thinking of it as a self-nourishing organism, so that with each consecutive bite, it grows in size instead of diminishing. And so its nourishment increases as well. So even if its appetite grows larger, it never exhausts its food, its nourishment, its source of strength and power. As long as it's the right food, it will never be depleted.
And so it is with this Noble Eightfold Path of rightness, of skillfulness, the path that develops what is wholesome, that renounces what is unwholesome. Or we can think of it as a web whose strands extend outward in all directions. And at its center is right concentration. And really, you could put all of the factors at the center. And in the Sutras, it says that right view is the forerunner of the path. So in one sense, you could say it's the beginning. But I kept thinking of right concentration as the true center of it, Samyak Samadhi, because it deepens and clarifies right view, right thought, right speech. And on it goes, building on itself, gaining strength from the center and always returning to it. It's like a base camp, and from it you journey forward.
And classically, right concentration is spoken of as the four jhānas, the states of meditative absorption. And Zen, as you know, derives from the Chinese Chan, which derives from the Sanskrit Dhyāna, from the Pali Jhāna. And it is the state of mind in which the mind is still and fully immersed in the object of concentration. In our case, for a good long while, it's the breath. And we refer to it as that single point in the depth of mind as Samādhi. And although in Zen we don't, mostly we don't explicitly speak of the jhānas, we speak of that very deliberate entering into, cultivating, abiding in each of these states. I thought it's helpful to know them because Theravāda Buddhism is the basis for all the schools of Buddhism that followed. So it's a kind of knowing where we come from, if you will. But also because these states of mind, or aspects of them at least, are present in our meditation. And they're not an end in themselves, just as in Theravāda Buddhism, they're not an end. They're really seen as preparation for the mind. They're usually taught as a precursor to insight.
And so there is concentration or serenity meditation, and then there's insight meditation. There's stopping and seeing: śamatha and vipaśyanā. And sometimes insight is developed without concentration, or before, or simultaneously. But in general, it is understood that for the attainment of insight, concentration is most helpful. Because to try to study an untamed mind is like trying to see to the bottom of a lake that is being pelted by stones, has been roiled by wind, covered with a mass of little pieces of paper. You know, a single piece of paper is so innocuous, like a thought, it's just a thought. But what about when it's a thought, and a thought, and thought, and thought, and thought, and thought? It becomes very difficult to see what's really going on in the mind and in the body. They become obstructing. And we speak of this all the time. There's nothing wrong with thought. It's when it obscures the natural clarity of the mind that it can become an obstacle. And so we must create the right circumstances in which to cultivate concentration.
Striving for Stillness
This is the Buddha in one of the early sutras: "In search of what is wholesome, seeking the supreme state of sublime peace, I wandered by stages in the Magadhan country until eventually I arrived at Uruvelā. There I saw an agreeable piece of ground, a delightful grove with a clear-flowing river, with pleasant, smooth banks and a nearby village for alms going. And the thought occurred to me, 'This will serve for the striving of a clansman, intent on striving.' And I sat down there thinking, 'This will serve for striving.'"
And that first piece of the sutra that I quoted, I actually shortened; I took out most of the repetition, and I was reflecting that in a tradition that was oral, an oral tradition, it was necessary. That repetition created this rhythm, like a chant, that would help recollection, aid comprehension, hopefully. But I also wondered how much of it was the Buddha's recognition and the teachers that followed him, the recognition that when something is really important, it needs to be said over and over again: "This place will serve well for the striving of a seeker, intent on striving. I sat down there thinking, 'This will serve for striving.'"
In other words, we won't stumble across right concentration. We won't happen upon it. It requires striving. It also requires profound trust and deep relaxation, more profound trust and relaxation than I think we even know at the outset. But make no mistake, it requires striving. It takes effort to turn your attention and to keep it, and to return it, to bring it back every time you become distracted, to return it to that object of your attention, whether it's your breath, a word, a question in the form of a koan, a life koan, or awareness. To return to it and sustain it, to keep it there.
And so Buddhism understands that the mind needs preparation. Dōgen said in Fukanzazengi, for zazen: "A quiet place is suitable. Eat and drink moderately. Put aside all involvements and suspend all affairs. Retreat. Retreat." You enter into seclusion, which is spoken of in the first of the four jhānas. And the way they're laid out, it's a very methodical journey. In the first one, it says, "Secluded from sense pleasures, secluded from wholesome states, a student enters and dwells in the first jhāna, which is accompanied by initial and sustained application of mind and filled with rapture and happiness, born of seclusion."
So there is, first, secluding yourself, retreating from everyday occupations. Second, apply your mind and sustain it. And the sutras speak of the five factors of absorption, which certainly apply to our meditation, to zazen. The first one is that initial application: taking your awareness, your attention, and putting it in a point of your choosing. Then there is sustaining that application, keeping it there. Bliss or rapture, which is described as delight and joy in the simple object of your meditation, followed by happiness, just a pleasant feeling that comes from concentration, comes from absorption, and then one-pointedness of mind.
And rapture and happiness seem very similar, and so they're described as if you're lost in the desert. Rapture is that first glimpse of an oasis. Happiness is actually drinking, going to the oasis, drinking the water and resting. And to make these very clear and very alive, the Buddha assigned a simile to each one: For the first one, it's like being released from debt, from slavery, from imprisonment. If you're lost, finding your way, it's the first jhāna. And so naturally, in the circumstances, you would be suffused with rapture, with happiness.
And that application, that initial and sustained application, is like someone who's taking a bath, and they're taking powdered soap, very gently wetting the soap, kneading it into a ball, and letting the water suffuse the ball of soap powder completely, allowing the water to do what it does. And then rapture and happiness, born of seclusion, pervade your body.
Like a carpenter knocking at a coarse peg with a fine one. If you think, "I can't," just replace it with the thought, "I can."
If you have sat for any length of time, you have at some point experienced that moment where your mind is unified, even for a moment, and it feels good. It feels good to be still. It feels good for your attention to be unified as opposed to fragmented, as it is most of the time. But you don't stay there, right? That’s very important because it does feel good. And so, rapture and that happiness, they're not an end in themselves.
So you enter into the second jhāna. Gaining inner confidence and mental unification, you let go, you become free of the initial and sustained application. But you are filled with rapture and happiness born of concentration. And in each successive stage, there's less effort involved. So in the second jhāna, it's like a river flowing in one direction. Or as the sutra says, like a lake without outflow. And water is welling up from underneath, suffusing the whole lake with cool water, drenching and steeping it. When there is no other place for the water to go, it does what it does naturally. It rises. And so rapture and happiness born of concentration pervade the body.
And then when that rapture fades, in the third jhāna, the student dwells in equanimity, mindful and clearly comprehending, dwelling happily in the body. So with that fading of the bliss of rapture, there is room, there is space for mindfulness and equanimity to be established. Like blue and red and white lotus flowers, and some of them are completely immersed in water, and some of them are halfway, half-submerged, half on the surface, and some of them are sitting just on the top, the surface of the lake. And still, that cool water pervades from the roots all the way to their tips. And the lotus flowers, they're just sitting there quietly. And the cool water does, again, what it does.
And then abandoning all pleasure and pain, all joy and grief, you enter into a stage which has neither pleasure nor pain, but has purity of mindfulness due to equanimity. So you see the sequence: there is bliss or rapture, there is happiness, there is equanimity, and there is mindfulness. And this is like sitting with a white cloth covering you from head to toe, letting your whole body be covered by mindfulness, be pervaded by mindfulness, by that pure, bright mind that has always been our mind.
And so now your body is perfectly at rest, and your mind is clear and open and lucid. And now you can turn your attention to seeing things as they are, because that's how the Buddha described his own enlightenment. All of this work, all of this preparation, to get to a place where his mind was fully open so he could turn and see very simply, very clearly things as they are. With my mind thus concentrated, purified, bright, unblemished, rid of defilements, malleable, wily, steady, I directed my knowledge to the recollection of my past lives. Every being he had ever been, in every life, and in this life, he saw clearly. He saw the passing away and rebirth of all beings, the cycle, that cycle of saṃsāra, the chain of interdependent origination, how it comes to be that we are in this form, and how it continues, and how we choose, in fact, to perpetuate it, and to perpetuate the cycle of suffering.
Seeing Clearly, One Mind at a Time
And then he saw the Four Noble Truths. This is suffering, this is the root of suffering, this is its cessation, this is the path to its end. And he saw the origin of the taints, and the taints are sensual desire, being, and ignorance. And this was called the realization of the three knowledges of his past lives, death and rebirth, and the cessation of suffering, and the taints. And at that moment, he was like a person standing on the bank of a lake, and being able to see all the way through to the bottom, and seeing the shoals of fish swimming, and the fish resting, and every single pebble, and every single bit of a plant, every bubble of the mind he could see.
And with this clear seeing, this all-pervading vision, he understood: birth is destroyed. The holy life has been lived. What had to be done has been done. There is no more coming back to any state of being. I often try to imagine what it must have felt like for him at that moment—to see, in one sense, very clearly, very simply, very ordinarily, who he was. And also probably knowing the momentousness of that happening. And knowing that as he was free, every single being, throughout all of space and time, was free as well.
So this is right concentration, Samyak Samādhi. And we do speak, in our practice we do speak, and Dada Roshi, in fact, used to speak about it all the time, about the importance of cultivating Samādhi, that single pointedness of mind. Because, you know, without it, it's like trying to build a building without a frame, and without a foundation. So the first sign of weather, it collapses. It collapses into thought. And he would speak about how students were always very impatient to work on koans: "Give me something meaty, give me something to focus on, to grapple with." But we need to trust that without that foundation, we just sit there thinking. Even with that foundation, we just sit there thinking.
It took me a long time, a long time to trust that that foundation of silence, really, the silence of Zuisei, was sound. And not because I didn't like silence—I craved it—but because I didn't trust that anything that I wasn't doing was happening. I didn't trust that if I wasn't actively using my mind in the only way that I knew how, which was to think, that the answer to a question would appear, would reveal itself. I mean, later, I realized, how could it not, if we are speaking about what has always been present, has always been visible? How could it not appear if I got out of the way? I just couldn't see it, you know, and it seemed that the harder I tried, the less I could see it. But the thing is, I knew I needed to try. I knew I couldn't just sit there waiting for something to happen—that wasn't going to work. You know, I knew that. But what the nature of that trying, of that effort had to be, that took much longer for me to uncover and then to trust.
I've told some of you the story. I was really stuck at one point in my practice. I was really stuck and kind of desperate. And I went into Doksan with Dido, and I presented, and he said no and keep going. And I was really just desperate. I was probably crying. And I said to him, "You know, why is this so difficult? Why am I having such a hard time with this?" And he looked me straight in the eye and he started laughing. And he said, "Because Vanessa needs to know." Ding, ding, ding, ding—he rang me out. And at the time, you know, I was already Zuisei. And afterwards, I thought, you know, Zuisei might trust a different way of doing this if I let her, but Vanessa—no way. I did need to know. And I had no example, I had another way to see what, how else can I use my mind? And I thought I knew how to use it relatively well, except my range was about this wide.
And so I had to learn to focus my mind for sure, but also to let it be open and clear, you know, how to learn to let it come to rest naturally, without pushing. Like that lake, with no outflow.
But what about when it's not like that? What about when all that we see is that endless stream of thoughts pouring uncontrollably, it seems? And maybe we succeed in reigning them in for a little while, and then it just gets worse. In fact, I've experienced that many times after what I think is a particularly quiet period of Zuisei, and the next one is just out of control. And people ask all the time, you know, why does this take so long? You know, I used to think that, and now I'm starting to think, it doesn't nearly take long enough to truly get to the bottom of the human mind. It's not nearly enough time. And most of the time, we're just moving too fast. And so, a big part of it is learning to slow down, to be patient, that this will take—I mean, I always say to people, if you've used your mind in a particular way for 20, 30, 40, 50, 60 years of your life, expect that it's going to take a little bit of time to learn to use it differently. So we can't rush it. Believe me, I tried. You can't.
And we have the… really, we have everything we need. We have that basic teaching. You see the thought, you let it go, and you come back. But it seems so simple. It's too simple, right? It can't possibly be all there is. When people complain, you know, it's boring to be with your breath. It's boring to count your breath. There's nothing happening. It's just, you know, and I'm going on automatic. I know how to count. Are you sure? Are you really counting? Or are you cheating? Because we're very good at that, right? You know, so we know how to count. We do it all the time. And in the background, there's just this movie. Sometimes it's a silent movie. Sometimes it's not so silent. It's just like this murmur.
Taming the Untamed Mind
So we're really doing two things at once. When we say single-pointedness of mind, we really mean single-pointed. That every ounce of your being is on your breath. But, you know, we're so addicted to drama. It feels like our stories are so much more interesting than reality. And I remembered when I was writing that I was looking for subway ads for something. And I came upon this story just accidentally this past winter: there were people riding the G-train at night, late at night. And people noticed that there were a couple of women in the back, you know, towards the back of the train, and they made their way to the front. Middle-aged, perhaps a little bit older, completely ordinary, no uniform, any distinguishing characteristics. So they make their way to the front. Everybody is just talking, not paying attention. But then they make their way all the way to the front, the first car, and then they knock on the door of the conductor's cabin.
So a couple of people turn to look. And the conductor pokes his head out, and they have a little conversation, and so now a couple more people are looking. And the conductor goes back in. A few moments later, the subway stops in between stations. So now there's a little wave of alarm going through the car. And people are kind of looking at each other and wondering what's going on. The women are still there. The conductor comes out, and he goes to one of the subway ads, and it turns out to be a panel, a secret or hidden panel. And so he opens it, and there's a lever. He pulls the lever, and the door's open, and there's this pitch black tunnel right in front of the doors. And the two women just get off the train and walk right into the tunnel. And the conductor just says, "Oh, have a good night." He pulls the lever, the door's closed. He goes back to his cabin without saying a thing, and the train just keeps going. And so everybody's looking at each other like, what the hell was that? And one guy yells out, "That's some Harry Potter shit."
And the article, of course, presents this whole story, and it goes on at quite some length to pour fuel on the fire. And everybody starts writing in, "Yes, it was this other train, and I saw the train, so this guy in a tweed suit, and he was carrying a briefcase, and he walked into the train, he had this special key in his pocket, the other doors opened, he went through and disappeared also, middle of nowhere." And all these people are talking about it, and there's all sorts of theories flying around: secret tunnels, secret agents, etc. Until finally, one—an MTA employee—wrote in and said, "Your mysterious tunnel and the two women: there is a signal tower in between those stations, Bedford, Nostrand, and Myrtle, Willoughby. And it's not uncommon for MTA employees to not wear uniforms when they're behind the scenes." That's probably who they were. And the conductor just did them a favor by leaving them at their stop so they wouldn't have to walk on the tracks and go up this filthy ladder in the darkness. So that's probably what it was, just a signal tower. And the article says at the end, "It's not as interesting as the story of the mysterious train station."
And I think that, we believe that our stories are much more interesting than reality. And I wonder if we're really paying attention if we feel that. Because we don't even have that many stories. I mean, it's just one or two that we just recycle. And we change the characters, we move them around a little bit, and we just keep them going. And we find that interesting. And so, but they are compelling. They are compelling sometimes, and so actively we have to renounce them. We have to give them up.
And I don't remember, I was trying to remember, I don't know if it was Shugun Sensei who said it this way, or I just came up with it myself. But I thought, "You know, I'm renouncing my right, my ability to wallow in my self-preoccupation, my right to revel in the stories of me, by me, featuring me, with a cameo appearance of me. I'm renouncing my right to be self-involved." Always, no—not quite. But when I phrase it to myself in that way, it's actually quite, quite effective.
But if you can't let go of a thought, and you want to—you actually do want to—but you can't, the teachers, the teachings cover this, too. There's help, there's a method. And so they say, first, if there's a sign that arises of something that is unwholesome—desire, distraction, boredom, dullness—just replace it with a sign that is wholesome. Like a carpenter knocking at a coarse peg with a fine one. If you think, "I can't," just replace it with the thought, "I can." If there's a desire, replace it with a thought, "I let it go," very consciously and deliberately.
But if you can't, even with replacing the sign, you turn to what is unwholesome. And then it says, reflect on the danger of such thoughts. And the image here is quite graphic: say, imagine that you have the corpse of a snake or a dog or a person hung around your neck, and you wouldn't really want that, right? And so, just so, examine the danger of these thoughts to reestablish your concentration.
And if that still doesn't work, because we are resourceful, and we can justify anything to ourselves, we can justify why I should be thinking right now about work or about what my partner said or what my teacher said. It says, just forget these thoughts. Just don't feed them with your attention. Don't fuel them. I've been rereading Cloud of Unknowing, and that's what the author says. He actually says, we think—everybody thinks it's a he—that there is a cloud of forgetting. So you are, and I think Evelyn Underhill also says, you're ignoring any other stimuli and focusing on the one thought that you do want to focus on. So just as you would shut your eyes if there was something that you didn't want to see, in the same way, forget these thoughts. Abandon them. Turn away from them.
Which must be done judiciously so that you don't suppress or ignore anything. That's why we give that instruction. In Zuisei, in Beginning Instruction, if you can't let go of a thought, if it recurs every time you let go of it, it's probably telling you, it is telling you, it needs to be acknowledged, it needs to be looked at, it needs to be seen. And after a while, you know, you can distinguish what is just noise and needs to be let go of and what needs to be fully acknowledged. And if you still can't let go of the thought, then you still the thought formation of these thoughts. In other words, you look at its root, you ask yourself, what is the cause of this thought? What is the cause of its cause? So you're slowing down the process and tracing it back. It's like tracing the train back to its engine. And the example that is given is that if you're walking fast, ask yourself, why am I walking fast? What if I walk slowly? And then when you begin walking slowly, ask yourself, why am I walking slowly? Why don't I just stand? Why don't I sit? Why don't I lie down? So each time you take a more subtle posture. You're slowing down the train of thought.
And if all else fails, crush these thoughts. Beat down, constrain, crush mind with mind. That is a direct quote. And this is hard to hear. We like the non-doing part. We like the letting it happen part. But there are times when the only way is to crush mind with mind. Śantirakṣita says, to beat anger, my enemy. When replacing with a good sign, when warning yourself, when forgetting, when slowing down, stilling the thought is not enough. You use force to meet force. If you are too smart to be reasoned with—which we all are at some point—otherwise, why would the Buddha speak of this? Why would he even mention this if he didn't know about such a state of mind? If all these other more peaceful but equally deliberate ways didn't work, then you meet force with force. And then the Buddha says, you will have severed craving, flung off the fetters, and with complete penetration of conceit have put an end to suffering.
Seeking the supreme state of sublime peace, I saw an agreeable piece of ground, a delightful grove with a clear flowing river with pleasant, smooth banks and a nearby village for alms going. And the thought occurred to me, this will serve for the striving of a seeker intent on striving. And I sat down there thinking, this will serve for striving.
We too have an agreeable piece of land, a delightful shelter with abundant food and water, a seat labeled for every last one of us so that there's no mistaking our place, no mistaking our right to sit here, to be here. A place that serves well for the striving of a seeker intent on striving, intent on finding that sublime peace. And if at times it feels like a lot of work, just remember that it takes infinitely more work to live with an untamed mind. If you're not sure, just look around you, or closer, look at your own mind, look at your own life. Has it been easier? Because if it has, then yes, why do this? When you could do something much more comfortable, maybe more pleasurable.
But if it's not easier, if it's not easier to live with an undeveloped, untamed, unguarded, unprotected mind, then a little striving is not too high a price to pay. Don't you think?
Right Concentration, a dharma talk by Zen Buddhist teacher Zuisei Goddard. Audio podcast and transcript available.
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