Chapter 1
Some Background
This chapter is part of Vipassanā in Jhāna: A Personal Narrative and Practical Guide, by Gary Buck.
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Chapter 1: Some Background
Reading Time: about 20 mins, 4,000 words.
Getting Established
I was born at the end of the Second World War, and grew into adulthood during the 1960’s, a time of great social change. In Europe, the first half of the twentieth century was a difficult time of war and economic depression. Times were very hard; economic conditions were terrible for most working people. Most people struggled. On top of that, my grandfather’s generation experienced the horrors of the First World War, and my father’s generation went through those of the Second World War. My generation wanted none of that. Our idea was to “make love, not war.” Many rejected the values of our parents and grandparents and looked for alternatives. India and its long spiritual tradition was attractive to many, and young people flocked in droves to study Indian spiritual traditions. I was one of those, although in truth, I was more attracted by the excitement of exotic places, especially those where hashish was readily available, rather than by any spiritual quest.
However, while in Sri Lanka, I came across the teachings of the Buddha, and for reasons I cannot explain, I was not only convinced by what I read, but I felt a deep and abiding conviction that the Buddha was right, and that following his path was the way to live my life. I still feel exactly the same, many decades later. My studies told me that I needed to adopt some basic moral precepts, and learn a particular type of meditation, called vipassanā. So I adopted five precepts (not to kill, steal, lie, take intoxicants, or commit sexual impropriety), and I began my search for a vipassanā teacher. All I knew was that vipassanā practice had been revived and taught by a Burmese monk, Mahasi Sayadaw. I traveled all around Sri Lanka searching for someone who could teach me his technique, but to no avail. Eventually, someone suggested that I should search in India, and so I did, visiting places of Buddhist pilgrimage, asking monks and pilgrims if they knew of such a person.
Eventually, after months of searching, I was told of a Burmese monk, Sayadaw Revatadhamma, a scholar living in Benares, North India, who had studied with Mahasi Sayadaw. I traveled to his residence, a small Buddhist vihāra (a refuge for pilgrims), knocked on his door, and asked him to teach me vipassanā. At first he simply smiled and declined. He suggested that instead, I should study with an Indian vipassanā teacher, called Goenka. I told him that I knew nothing of this Goenka, but I did know about Mahasi Sayadaw, and that is what I wanted. I persisted, and eventually he kindly agreed to let me share the simple food he ate, sleep in an old shed in the grounds of his temple and meditate all day in the upstairs room of the temple.He insisted that I keep Eight Precepts which are ancient rules of conduct traditionally followed by Buddhist laity while in monastic situations. They are to refrain from: killing, stealing, lying, sexual conduct, intoxicants, eating after midday, luxurious beds, and singing, dancing and personal adornments.
I stayed there for a few weeks, and every day he instructed me, and every day I meditated alone in that room. It was a very hard time for me. New to meditation, eight hours a day was a serious struggle, but I persisted. Then a few weeks later, this Goenka came to town to teach two ten-day vipassanā retreats. I took them both. I was very impressed by Goenkaji (as I now respectfully called him). His technique was also very hard, but I felt it suited my inclinations better than the technique of Mahasi Sayadaw.
So, I made the decision to give this a technique a serious try for five years, and if I did not get enlightened during that time, I would try something else. Well, over fifty years later, I am still not enlightened, and still giving it a try. I now look back with amusement, and chuckle at how naive and unrealistic I was. But I also look back on that as the most important decision I have ever made in my life.
Since then, I have continued to practice the vipassanā technique I first leaned from Goenkaji; the technique which he in turn had learned from a famous Burmese lay teacher, called U Ba Khin. I have since studied with a number of other teachers in the U Ba Khin tradition, who taught the same technique as Goenkaji. I shall refer to this as the U Ba Khin technique, from now on.
Over these many years, I have done my best, as a busy layman, to follow the Buddha’s path. I have continued my studies of the Buddha’s teaching, I have kept five precepts, fairly strictly; I have taken innumerable retreats, some as short as three days and others as long as thirty days; and I have tried to keep a daily practice of two hours meditation a day, as best I could. This practice has given me a wonderful life, and I owe a deep debt of gratitude to all those who have guided me along this path.
A decision to follow the Buddha’s path, such as I made, is not as simple as it seems. Of course it takes hard work, determination and considerable self disciple to follow the path. But long before any of that, you must first choose which of the many interpretations of the Buddha’s teaching you will follow. There are many schools of Buddhism: Theravāda, Mahayāna and Vajrayāna are the most common, and within these schools there are many, many different variants. These obviously share much in common, they have a common core, but there are also many differences. Their ideas about the Buddha are very different from each other: they have different scriptures, they use quite different terminology, and promote different practices. Within these broad categories, there are a large number of sub-schools, teaching widely different practices. And each of these different schools claim to represent the true teachings of the historical Buddha. To someone coming into Buddhist practice from outside, such as a westerner like myself, it is not at all clear what a person should practice. This is a considerable dilemma.
Some westerners solve this by practicing a bit of everything: a bit of Theravāda, a bit of Tibetan and a bit of Zen. They seem to assume that since the Buddha is the common core of all these, then this is the safest way. Perhaps they are right, but personally I find this approach rather confusing. Many take the opposite approach, and choose one school of thought, and select one particular practice within that, and then put all their effort into developing that. This is what I have done.
I decided to work within the Theravāda tradition. There are two reasons for that decision. Firstly, and most obviously, I encountered the Buddha’s teaching in Sri Lanka, which follows the Theravāda tradition. That is how I first learned of the Buddha and his teaching, and it was those teachings that first attracted me. I simply followed what seemed obvious.
But there is another, deeper reason that I have followed the Theravāda tradition. My confidence was in the Buddha, and I wanted to find out what the Buddha himself taught, not what some other person said he taught. The Pāli Canon, the set of ancient scriptures which record the Buddha’s life and teachings, are regarded by most scholars as the oldest Buddhist texts that have survived. And these form the basis of Theravada practice. It seems to me that these are more likely to be the actual teachings of Gotama the Buddha than those written centuries later by someone who never met him. And while it is clear that there are many parts of the Pāli Canon which were composed long after the Buddha’s death, and some parts that even seem to contradict other parts, there is wide agreement among scholars that the oldest parts of the Cannon—the Vinaya Piṭaka, and the oldest parts of the Sutta Piṭaka,—the Dīgha Nikāya, the Majjhima Nikāya, the Saṃyutta Nikāya and the Aṅguttara Nikāya—represent the teachings of the historical Buddha. Since vipassanā claims to be based on the teaching of these older texts I have tried to base my practice on this oldest vipassanā tradition.
This notion, that I am a follower of the historical Buddha has informed my whole life. I have practiced in the U Ba Khin tradition, not because I am a follower of U Ba Khin, even less because I am a follower of Goenkaji, but because I believe they are teaching what the Buddha taught. This means that when I have a question, or need advice, my first thought is to search for what the Buddha said. When I take refuge in the Buddha, it is not a formality, it is a commitment. Of course, I have benefited greatly from the help and advice of many teachers, writers and scholars, most especially the vipassanā teachers I have have studied and worked with. I respect them deeply, but only because they have helped me to understand the teaching of the Buddha, not because they taught me something else.
Obviously, I shall be forever grateful to those who have helped me along this path; especially my “dhamma-baba,” Sri S. N. Goenka. I cannot thank him enough for what he gave me; namely a technique to unlock the benefits of following the Buddha’s Noble Eightfold Path.
However, gratitude is one thing, blind acceptance is quite another. Whatever Goenkaji said, whatever he advised, I have to review that in the light of what the Buddha taught in the Pāli Canon. And I apply, or at least I attempt to apply, this yardstick to every teacher, every writer, and anyone who offers me advice on how to tread the Buddha’s path. The question is always, what did the Buddha say?
This may seem like a sensible practice, and I believe it is, but again, it is much harder than it seems. The Canon is not only written in an archaic, dead language, but since it was preserved through recitation for many centuries before it was written down, it is stylized, systematized, and formalized in such a way as to make recitation much easier. This makes interpretation extremely difficult. Add to this that Pāli is a dead language, with no native speakers to consult, so ambiguities are hard to resolve. Pāli scholars engage in intense debate about many subtle meanings. Hence there is still considerable debate among practitioners about exactly what the Buddha actually taught.
There is one particular topic that has been the subject of the most intense disagreement and debate within the community of Theravāda scholars and Buddhist practitioners, namely the topic of jhāna; and most especially how jhāna fits into the practice of Buddhist meditation. These jhānas are intense states of concentration which arise during meditation, in which the meditator becomes immersed in a state of concentrated bliss. For centuries both meditators and scholars have argued back and forth about exactly what these states are, and how they should be incorporated into the practice of the Buddha’s path. This issue is the focus of my book.
A Taboo Topic
I want to start with a simple quotation of the Buddha, from the Mahāsaccaka Sutta, in the Majjhima Nikāya of the Pali Canon, (MN 36). In this sutta, the Buddha explains how he came to understand the path to enlightenment. He is reported to have said:
I considered … could jhāna be the path to enlightenment? Then came the realization: “That is the path to enlightenment.”
Those who study the Buddha’s teaching in the Theravāda tradition will recognize the above quotation, or will have encountered other statements like it. In the Pāli Canon, the Buddha frequently taught the benefits of concentrating the mind to attain states of jhāna. Yet within the community of vipassanā meditators that I know, not only is jhāna not practiced, it is not much discussed, and further, discussion is actively discouraged. Indeed, it seems to me that there is a taboo surrounding the whole topic of jhāna among modern vipassanā meditators.
The ancient suttas are full of talk about jhāna, However, it is rarely mentioned by any of the vipassanā teachers I have met, and if any discussion does arise, in my experience it is quietly but firmly discouraged. This taboo is widespread within the tradition in which I have practiced—the U Ba Khin tradition. My impression is that this is also prevalent across other vipassanā traditions. However, I should clarify that I am talking here about lay traditions. I believe the situation is different within the Buddhist Sangha, the order of monks, where many do practice jhāna, or so I am told.
It is easy to think of sensible reasons why these lay vipassanā traditions should discourage talk of jhāna. Firstly, it is clear that it takes considerable time and effort to get the mind into the state of one-pointed concentration necessary for jhāna to arise. Most lay practitioners do not have sufficient time. So perhaps it is better not to worry about it. Further, the whole idea of vipassanā meditation is to observe whatever arises, to see reality as it is, with understanding and equanimity. So the idea of striving to attain any particular state of mind seems completely alien to the practice. And since the time of the Buddha, the whole Theravāda Buddhist tradition has been steeped in the idea that boasting of spiritual attainments is unwholesome and undesirable behavior. Those with true wisdom do not make a display of their knowledge! Thus, among practicing vipassanā meditators, there is indeed a strong reluctance to discuss the nuts and bolts of our meditation. Furthermore, words are just too ambiguous, and concepts are just too vague and undefined, to discuss our subjective experience. So meditators rarely talk about their experiences.
I have also commonly heard another reason why jhāna is not discussed: namely, the fear that if meditators once taste jhāna, those wonderful, blissful states of mental concentration, they will become attached to them, wander away from the path of vipassanā, and spend too much time in states of jhānic bliss. I get a sense of this from both ancient texts and modern meditation writers and teachers.
However, it seems to me that historical tradition is the main reason that people discourage jhāna. In the fifth century of the present era, about nine hundred years or so after the Buddha lived, Buddhaghosa wrote his famous meditation text, The Visuddhimagga (The Path of Purification). In this, he separated Buddhist meditation practice into two types: samatha-bhāvanā, which was based on developing high-level concentration, aiming for jhāna; and vipassanā-bhāvanā, which was based on developing insight into the nature of reality by objectively observing mind and matter. Buddhaghosa suggested that only vipassanā could lead to enlightenment, since in samatha—that is, in jhāna—the mind was too deeply absorbed into the object of meditation to observe objective reality.
This division of Buddhist meditation into two separate streams, samatha-bhāvanā and vipassanā-bhāvanā, is what seems to have led to the common belief, among both modern vipassanā teachers and modern Theravāda scholars alike, that jhāna has no place in vipassanā. Given this widespread belief, it is not surprising that teachers and writers alike might not feel comfortable when the topic arises.
However, while there are perhaps good reasons not to discuss jhāna with vipassanā students, there is also a serious problem with that: namely, that some students do, in fact, attain states of jhāna while on vipassanā retreats. It is not uncommon. It happened to me, for example, as a fairly new meditator many decades ago. I was staying in a small vihāra in Nepal, meditating for a few hours every day. One day, while doing ānāpāna-sati (meditation on the awareness of breathing), in a moment of idle curiosity, I switched my attention from the in-and-out breath to the vague light that had appeared in my mind’s eye. Like many, I had read about the light that sometimes appears when the mind becomes concentrated, and I knew that some meditation traditions recommended focusing on that. So I fixed my attention on that light. After a while, my mind did indeed become more concentrated, and I slipped into a very different mental state. My mind was very concentrated; I felt elated, filled with intensely pleasant sensation, and I seemed locked in the most pleasurable mental embrace. After that sitting ended, I never experienced that state again. I had read about jhāna, so I simply assumed that I had slipped into the first jhāna—interesting, but nothing to get too excited about.
A few months later, while staying at the International Meditation Center in Rangoon, Burma—U Ba Khin’s centre, but a few years after he had died—studying under some of his most respected disciples, I mentioned this experience in a private interview with one of them. The teacher dismissed the experience as something trivial and told me not to give it any more thought.
At that time—and even to this day—I thought this was essentially a dishonest response. I regarded this man as a teacher, and he knew me as a serious Dhamma student, keeping strict moral precepts and meditating regularly. I was clearly describing jhāna, and to brush it aside without explaining what it was—and more importantly, without offering advice about what to do if this state arose again—seemed both unkind and disrespectful.
I have occasionally broached the topic of jhāna with other vipassanā friends, including senior teachers appointed by Goenkaji. And, of course, I found that I am not the only vipassanā student who has experienced such states. A number of them told me that they had had similar experiences. I spoke with one old friend, for example—long a senior teacher in the U Ba Khin tradition—who told me that he himself had experienced jhāna, and did so regularly on retreats. He also told me that while leading long, silent retreats, where students practice mindfulness of breathing for ten days or more, it was normal for at least one student to come for advice about the jhāna they had experienced. Nor am I the only student I know who has experienced jhāna and asked their teacher for advice, only to be rejected in response. A life-long vipassanā friend, now a senior and respected teacher himself, told me that long ago he approached Goenkaji for advice about the concentrated states of mind that kept arising in his meditation. However, Goenkaji flatly refused to discuss the issue. The message seems clear.
I cannot say how prevalent jhāna is among my fellow vipassanā students. Much of my understanding of this amounts to little more than cursory statements, hints, and innuendo. I do not have much hard evidence of how prevalent jhāna actually is. I doubt it arises much on ten-day courses, since they are shorter and have more distractions. But it does arise on longer courses, where the participants are generally well-established meditators. Given this, should we provide some sort of guidance? I believe that on longer retreats, students should be offered guidance about what to do if jhāna arises. In fact, I would go further, and say that meditation teachers have a duty of care towards the students meditating under their guidance, and that this means offering reassurance, explanation, and advice to those students who experience powerful altered states of consciousness. In my view, the failure to provide such guidance amounts to serious neglect of the meditation teachers’ responsibility.
I say that because of my own experience. I myself would have benefited greatly from such guidance when I encountered jhāna again, many decades after my first experience referred to above.
A few years ago, over the course of five years, I attended six long, silent vipassanā retreats: one of twenty days and five of thirty days. In all of those retreats, after a few days of concentrating the mind by observing the breath (ānāpāna-sati), jhāna arose and became my normal meditative state. This persisted throughout the whole period of ānāpāna and into the period of vipassanā. When I started vipassanā, I remained in jhāna. I followed the vipassanā instructions I had been given by my teachers—the same instructions all students receive, the same instructions I had followed dutifully over many decades of practice—except that I did so while in jhāna. These states arose naturally; they came uninvited, and I felt I had little choice but to go along.
Initially, I had no idea what was happening, nor how I should react. I was blundering around, trying to understand what I was experiencing and what to do about it. But two things became very clear during this period. Firstly, it was quite possible to attain jhāna; it just required very focused and sustained effort to get the mind sufficiently concentrated. Secondly, not only was it quite possible to practice vipassanā while in any of the jhānas (there are actually four different states, or levels, of jhāna), but because the mind was so very concentrated—firmly fixed and one-pointed—vipassanā meditation was far stronger while in jhāna than otherwise.
This happened quite a number of years before I began writing this, and for whatever reason, I did not mention this to any of my vipassanā colleagues. I told no one. I am not exactly sure why; I just felt that such discussion would not be welcome. But recently I became eighty years old, and the question arose in my mind: “Should I take this experience to the grave, or should I share it with others?” I know full well that many of my fellow meditators will be unhappy with what I have to say, especially those teachers and assistant teachers with a strong emotional attachment to Goenkaji and to the tradition he represents. Many may think that I should have remained silent. But as a vipassanā student myself, if this had happened to one of my peers, I am sure that I would have wanted to hear all about it. My attitude would have been, “Just tell me exactly what happened, give me all the details, and then let me decide for myself.” So that is what I am doing.
If anyone thinks I should have remained silent, I can only say that they do not understand the Buddha’s teaching in the same way I do. In the Kālāma Sutta (AN 3.65), the Buddha famously states that we should not believe things because of tradition, because scripture says so, or because our teachers tell us so, but rather when we ourselves experience that these things are good, that they are praised by the wise, and that when practiced they lead to benefit and happiness, then—and only then—should we adopt and practice them. Wise words indeed, and the foundation on which we should build our spiritual practice. This is why I have decided to publish my story. To my peers, I can only say, “Try it and see for yourselves.” If you agree with me that jhāna can and should be incorporated into our practice of vipassanā, then do so. And if you find that your experience is different, then practice in the manner you think fit.
Please understand: I am not a meditation teacher. I have no training as a teacher, and I have never taught meditation to anyone. I am simply describing what happened, what I did, and what I thought about it, both at the time and then later, after I had time to reflect. Perhaps it will help—or even inspire—other meditators to work towards enjoying these wonderful experiences. I like to think so. And if they do attain them, perhaps it will also help them to avoid the many misunderstandings and mistakes I made.
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