Chapter 4
How Jhāna Changed MeReferences
This chapter is part of Vipassanā in Jhāna: A Personal Narrative and Practical Guide, by Gary Buck.
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Chapter 4: How Jhāna Changed Me
Reading Time: about 21 mins. 4,200 words.
Changes to My Life
I am writing this a number of years after the events I described in Part One. Now, I can look back on these experiences and reflect on what happened, what I learned, and how this affected my life. I have also had time to consider carefully the many questions that naturally arose from these unexpected events.
To summarize: over six silent vipassanā meditation courses, each lasting twenty to thirty days, jhāna arose in all of them. In two retreats, I spent most of my time working in the first jhāna but did not progress beyond it; in the other four retreats, I attained all four jhānas and spent most of my time in the fourth jhāna. Furthermore, in two of these four, after attaining the fourth jhāna, I also experienced all four arūpas—or arūpa-jhānas, as they are sometimes called. Across these six retreats, I likely spent more time in the fourth jhāna than in all the other states combined.
Simply spending time in these states of higher consciousness was a wonderful and unforgettable spiritual experience. However, the most important point is that, in all four rupa jhānas, I was able to continue my vipassanā meditation in the normal manner. I practiced strictly according to the instructions of my teachers in the U Ba Khin tradition—both those I had met and those whose words I had read. The only difference from my earlier meditation before I attained jhāna was that my mind was no longer focused on external senses, but fully concentrated on the internal world of mind and matter. The meditation was far more focused, far more powerful, and, I believe, far more spiritually productive.
I had not intended to work toward attaining jhāna. I had never imagined that vipassanā meditators could reach jhāna during their normal practice, let alone that vipassanā could be practiced while in jhāna. I was completely surprised and did not know what to do about it; I was swept along by forces I did not understand. At the time, I recognized that the experience of jhāna was a wonderful privilege—a remarkable spiritual experience. Yet I had no idea how to use these powerful states in my practice. In retrospect, I now believe I should have simply accepted them as a natural development and continued my practice as before. Instead, I spent far too much time focusing on the jhānas themselves, trying to understand what they were, how they differed, and how to move between them.
It is clear that these experiences had a deeply profound effect on my life. Indeed, they turned my entire belief system upside down. Let me explain some of these important effects. As I have already mentioned, the experience itself was incredible and deeply meaningful, leaving me with a great sense of privilege and gratitude for having had such good fortune. Without a doubt, this is one of the defining events of my life. The impact has been considerable, both in terms of my feelings about the world in general and my understanding of the Dhamma, the Buddha’s Eightfold Path, and the tradition in which I practice.
But first, before taking about the many benefits, I must address a very serious danger of attaining jhāna; namely the issue of ego. Very few people get to experience these states, and it is hard to exaggerate how special this makes one feel—or how quickly pride can rear its ugly head. It is important to be aware of this and to counter such unwholesome states of mind. The great benefit of strong concentration, and the jhānas that follow, is that they help us eradicate impure states of mind. The worst thing that can happens is that these jhānas should lead to an increase in impurities, through inflated ego and pride. This requires constant vigilance. My antidote has been to try to cultivate thoughts of gratitude and humility. I have to constantly try to remind myself to be grateful for these wonderful experiences, which arose naturally as the result of my effort—simple cause and effect, nothing more. I have tried to maintain the understanding that I have been fortunate, rather than allow myself to think that I am special. Ego is a powerful force that must be confronted. It is very important to maintain a sense of humility; which is much easier said than done, under the circumstances.
As for the benefits, they are considerable. I believe that my regular meditation practice has improved enormously. My concentration is far better, both in daily life and during meditation. I feel that I have a much deeper understanding of the Dhamma. My whole being seems calmer, wiser, and more centered, despite the fact that, as a householder, my responsibilities have often kept me from intensive meditation. Metta arises more easily, and I experience greater equanimity, becoming less troubled by the vicissitudes of life and the challenges of old age. I am more grounded in wholesome states of mind and experience far fewer negative states. My general mindfulness has significantly improved. In my daily practice, both my concentration and my mindfulness has improved markedly. Moreover, I am much more skilled at bringing my mind under control and enhancing my focus. My daily practice feels far more productive. and perhaps more importantly, my awareness of anicca has improved considerably. I believe that practicing vipassanā in these higher states of consciousness has been the cause of these significant changes.
And, not only is my daily practice much stronger, it is also far more enjoyable. The Buddha called jhāna “a pleasant abiding;” a pleasant state in which to spend time. It is certainly that. Not only does the meditator enjoy pleasant physical sensations, but also experiences a mental, or emotional, feeling of well-being. Over the course of my life, I have found it relatively easy to maintain good sīla, but maintaining a daily meditation practice has been much more challenging. It requires considerable discipline, and at times family or career responsibilities have pushed the meditation aside. And to be frank, sometimes it was just my hobbies or other interests that pulled me away. That has all changed. Meditation has become such a joy that I have no difficulty keeping a strong daily practice. That is a considerable benefit in itself. But this pleasure in my meditation practice has also leaked out into my daily life. Life is simply far more pleasant, far more enjoyable, far richer and far more meaningful.
I also have a much deeper, much more sophisticated understanding of mind and matter (nāmarūpa). As explained earlier, the Buddha’s teaching is that a human being—the totality of a person—consists of four mental components (nāma), which are viññāṇa (consciousness), saññā (cognition), vedanā (feelings) and saṅkhāra (reactions), as well as one physical component, rūpa (matter). Notice that according to this understanding of what comprises a human being, vedanā (feelings or sensations) are part of the mind. This always left me with a question; namely if the sensations I feel throughout the body are part of my mind, as the Buddha teaches, what do I make of the obvious physical sensations, such as sweat running down my skin, the hardness of my seat, or the pain in my knees after sitting cross-legged for long periods. Surely these are physical sensations, and are part of my body, not part of my mind. I can now see a clear distinction between the physical sensations of my body and the vedanā of my mind. When I sit, obvious physical sensation are there, and I can associate those with specific parts of my body. But I am also enveloped in a cloud of sensation that is not associated with particular parts of my body. This is pervasive throughout my whole physical structure, but not closely associated with any one part of it. This is vedanā, a constituent of the mind. This became quite obvious while in jhāna.
Jhāna has also allowed me to see the workings of the mind much better. Once the mind becomes one-pointed, and thoughts stop arising and the monkey mind stops flitting here and there, we experience a wonderful inner quiet: a one-pointed mind. I used to assume that this meant that the mind had stopped. After a while, it became obvious that the mind had not stopped, not at all, but rather that it is only the conscious mind that has stopped. The mind itself is still working away, outside conscious awareness. It is still knowing things, collecting information, processing that information, making decisions, planning and so forth. Although it is not possible to observe this directly, at least not for me, it is clear that it is happening, and that this is what is guiding my life—somehow that inner quiet is not quite as quiet as I first thought. The mind is in a continual process of flux, with mental phenomena arising and passing away. Anicca is very clear.
A similar thing happens with emotions. Let us say that I am aroused about something—interested, fearful, annoyed, excited, or whatever—normally this would lead to a considerable amount of conscious mental activity, the mind flitting here and there thinking, speculating, imagining and such like. If I then quieten my conscious mind though meditation, and enter jhāna, all that conscious mental activity will stop, but it is still possible to sense the underlying agitation still bubbling away, in the unconscious mind.
It has become clear just how little we actually need our conscious minds in order to function normally in our lives. Everything seems to be managed perfectly well without ‘my’ input.
Working with jhāna has also given me tremendous confidence in the teachings of the Buddha and the Eightfold Path. For reasons I do not fully understand, I have had confidence in the Buddha since I first encountered his ideas, long before I began meditating. This confidence has been an important guiding force in my life. However, it is now reinforced by direct experience. I have come to understand, through my own experience, that many of his teachings are true. Many of us have read ancient texts filled with dry technical terms. We are told that these teachings are important, but they often seem obscure, whether in Pāli or English, and appear disconnected from our personal practice. The jhāna experience brought many of these teachings to life. I now understand them on a personal, experiential level. This is bhāvanā-maya paññā—wisdom through personal experience.
I have no doubts about the jhānas—their existence, nature, or qualities. They are familiar friends. As I explained above, the jhāna factors vitakka and vicāra—thought conception and discursive thinking—are no longer abstract ideas, as they once were, but real phenomena. I now understand what concentration is, how it develops, and how it differs from awareness. I know what equanimity is and why the Buddha valued it so highly. These experiences have given me tremendous confidence in the Buddha and his teachings. It is all true! I know because I have experienced it—or at least some of it. That confidence is a wonderful feeling.
The future also seems more assured. I cannot claim to definitively believe in the Theravāda idea of saṃsāra—the cycle of life and death through many realms of existence—nor in the workings of kamma over numerous lifetimes. Perhaps it is true; perhaps not. I will know only if and when I experience it to be true. But whether true or not, it is a sensible framework on which to base one’s life, and I have always tried to live as though it were true. If it is true, the seeds sown during these six retreats will bear wonderful fruits in future lives, giving me a deep sense of well-being. If it is not true and there is nothing after death, then I have lived a rich and meaningful life in the here and now.
These experiences have also significantly changed my understanding of life itself. Evolutionary biologists describe the development of life as a process driven by natural selection: organisms with advantageous traits reproduce more successfully, passing on their genes, so that these traits are propagated over long periods, eventually leading to new life forms. This is the conventional biological explanation. Previously, I believed that all life I had observed, in all its diversity, could be explained in this way. Yet it seems evident to me that jhāna cannot be accounted for by evolution through natural selection. As far as we know, jhāna arises in only a tiny fraction of humans and offers no adaptive advantage in the conventional sense. Moreover, most of those who attain jhāna are celibate monks or ascetics, who generally do not propagate their genes. Jhāna appears to be an integral aspect of consciousness that cannot have arisen through known biological processes. Through my own experience, I have come to know that there is much more to life than current biology can explain.
Understanding of Dhamma
The most significant changes, however, are in my understanding of our practice and how we relate to the Buddha’s teachings. I now appreciate the enormous impact of developing strong concentration, which can lead to highly beneficial states of consciousness and, in turn, turbocharge our vipassanā practice. I also have a new understanding of the relationship between vipassanā and ānāpāna, and how these practices work together with jhāna. Finally, I feel I better understand how all of this relates to the Buddha’s teachings. Let me explain each point in turn.
Regarding concentration, it is widely accepted that the more concentrated the mind, the better the meditation. U Ba Khin (1981) states that explicitly, and emphasizes that building concentration should be a central focus of our efforts. I certainly have always believed this to be true. Yet progress is not linear. I found that as the mind becomes increasingly concentrated, it naturally shifts into a different state of consciousness. These states can be regarded as milestones, which indeed they are, indicating the depth of our concentration—but they are far more than that. The consciousness of jhāna is qualitatively different from ordinary sense-sphere consciousness and is far more attuned to observing both sensations and mental processes. This is called Fine-Material consciousness in the Abhidhamma. Unlike ordinary consciousness, which focuses on the senses, this consciousness is inward-focused and ideal for vipassanā. By developing concentration, we not only gain the benefits of improved focus, but we also enter states of consciousness that greatly enhance our ability to practice vipassanā. The extra effort to improve concentration thus provides a double benefit—two for the price of one.
Curiosity about the nature of these different states of consciousness is natural in such circumstances, but for me, it became something of a distraction. They are fascinating phenomena, and I spent too much time trying to understand and analyze them rather than using them for my practice. Some simple guidelines would have been helpful.
It is difficult to explain the difference between the two types of consciousness: namely normal sense consciousness, in which we live our daily lives, and the fine-material consciousness of the jhānas. Simply put, jhāna consciousness is far more suitable for meditation—very much so! Ancient texts often use similes to explain complex concepts. When considering the difference between vipassanā practiced in normal sense-sphere consciousness and vipassanā practiced in the fine-material sphere of jhāna consciousness, one simile comes to mind. Imagine a long journey along an old dirt road, full of ruts and potholes, while you bump and rattle along in a rusty old truck. This represents vipassanā in normal sense-sphere consciousness. Now imagine speeding down a high-speed freeway, resting comfortably in a silent, air-conditioned luxury car. This represents vipassanā in jhāna consciousness. The destination may be the same, but the experience for the traveler is vastly different.
I also have a different understanding of ānāpāna and its relationship to vipassanā. But before exploring that, first I want to clarify how ānāpāna is done, or at least how it is done in the tradition in which I practice. Ānāpāna is mindfulness of breathing. In my experience, most instructions are to observe the breath coming in the nostrils, and the breath going out. And this is how Goenkaji teaches it to new students. But then after a few days, he asks them to switch their attention to the observation of a small sensation on the upper lip. This is a different method of doing ānāpāna. Thus there are three possible ways to do ānāpāna: the first method is observation of the in-and-out breath; the second method is observation of the sensation on the upper lip; and the third method is the observation of both together. I do ānāpāna as observation of the sensation on the upper lip, and I pay little or no attention to the in-and-out breath. This is how I have done it all my life, and as a result, that sensation on the upper lip is almost like a permanent fixture. It is very strong, and readily available at all times. I find that observation of the sensation on the upper lip is far more intense and far more focused than observation of the in-and-out breath. I find that it is much better for building concentration, and is more suitable for vipassanā, since it is sensation-based. I find that observation of the in-and-out breath is more rhythmical and far more calming, but the mind is not so intensely focused, and concentration is not so strong.
However, in talking to other meditators, it is clear that some meditators find that focusing on the in-and-out breath is more congenial, and others seem to maintain a focus on both the breath and the sensation. I assume that this is a matter of personal preference or habit, and that people do what makes sense to themselves. The point I wish to make is that in the following discussion of ānāpāna, I am talking about ānāpāna done as observation of the sensation on the upper lip. I assume that everything I say will also apply when ānāpāna is done as observation of both the in-and-out breath together with the sensation on the upper lip, since there is awareness of sensation. I do not know if anyone practices ānāpāna as awareness of only the in-and-out breath with no awareness of sensation, but if they do, I doubt the following will be relevant, but I cannot say for sure.
I previously regarded ānāpāna and vipassanā as distinct practices, since that is how they are traditionally taught, but now I hardly distinguish between them. Ānāpāna involves observing the sensation on the upper lip, while vipassanā involves observing sensation on other parts of the body. The consciousness is the same; the only difference is the location of the sensation being observed. To me, they have become two aspects of a single practice. It has become quite natural to practice both simultaneously. For example, when the mind is concentrated in jhāna, I can focus on the sensation of the upper lip, while also being fully aware of the whole body suffused with strong sensations, aware of mind moments arising and passing away, knowing that all of this is impermanent and insubstantial. It is both pleasant and beneficial to abide in this state, simply relaxed, experiencing anicca.
However, there is more to it than this. Consider the ānāpāna section of the course. If a meditator is observing the intense sensation on the upper lip and then enters jhāna, a strong body sensation, pīti, arises throughout the body. The meditator will be aware of this pīti—it would be impossible to ignore this strong, pleasant tingling sensation throughout the whole body—at the same time as being simultaneously aware of the sensation on the upper lip. Although technically practicing ānāpāna, the meditator is essentially doing the same practice as in vipassanā, namely observing sensations throughout the whole body.
People might argue that this is not quite true, and that in fact there is a difference between ānāpāna and vipassanā, because while doing vipassanā we focus our attention on sensations throughout the body, whereas while doing ānāpāna in jhāna, we focus our our attention on both the sensation on the upper lip as well as sensation throughout the body. I believe this is a very minor distinction, and while it may be true in many cases, often it is not. Awareness of the sensation on the upper-lip becomes such a deeply ingrained habit, cultivated over a lifetime, that the mind naturally remains there even when observing sensations throughout the body. So when in jhāna, whether practicing vipassanā or practicing ānāpāna, the mind is often aware of sensation on the upper lip as well as sensation throughout the body. It became clear to me that switching from ānāpāna to vipassanā involved very little change in practice; I was essentially doing the same thing before and after the switch.
This observation has significant implications for our practice. I have repeatedly emphasized that vipassanā practiced after entering jhāna is conducted in the same manner as before entering jhāna: sensations are observed in the same manner with the same understanding. The only difference is that consciousness in jhāna differs from normal consciousness. This is not the case with ānāpāna. Ānāpāna in jhāna is very different from ānāpāna in normal sense consciousness. The reason is simple. When entering jhāna, the whole body becomes suffused with pīti, which is a strong sensation, so while focusing on building concentration, we simultaneously observe these intense bodily sensations. This applies to all four jhānas. These sensations are clearly anicca, arising and passing away rapidly, with nothing substantial. In this sense, ānāpāna in jhāna is essentially no different from vipassanā. For me, once in jhāna, ānāpāna effectively became vipassanā.
The difference between the ānāpāna and vipassanā, for me, generally comes down to one of purpose. If the intention is to develop concentration, then a focus on the sensation on a small area of the upper lip helps concentrate the mind, wheres if the intention is to understand the nature of mind and matter, namely anicca (constant change) and anattā (the lack of any self, permanent substance or soul), then a focus on sensation throughout the body seems more appropriate.
This new understanding of ānāpāna helped me answer a question I had often pondered. In the suttas of the Pāli Canon, we are told that the Buddha attained enlightenment by practicing ānāpāna. He also repeatedly exhorted his monks to practice ānāpāna as the path to enlightenment. For years, I wondered why, if the Buddha recommended ānāpāna, we primarily practice vipassanā. The answer now seems clear: practicing ānāpāna within jhāna is essentially the same as practicing vipassanā.
At first, I thought this idea was radical, and yet the more I reflected on it, the more it made sense. To me, this clarified what the Buddha meant in the Mahāsaccaka Sutta when he says that jhāna “is the path to enlightenment.”
I decided to explore this idea by revisiting the old texts, and the answer was easy to find. In the Pāli Canon, the Ānāpāna-sati Sutta (MN 118) explains how to use ānāpāna to attain enlightenment. The sutta clearly states that mindfulness of breathing is not only beneficial but also fulfills the practices described in the Satipaṭṭhāna Sutta, and when developed and cultivated, lead to enlightenment. Since the Satipaṭṭhāna Sutta provides the theoretical foundation for our practice of vipassanā, the Buddha is essentially saying that ānāpāna can lead to the same results as vipassanā. The sutta then provides several stanzas describing the process. In a formal and formulaic manner, it describes how a meditator practicing ānāpāna, first becomes aware of the body, then develops awareness of strong bodily sensations, and finally becomes aware of the mind and important mental objects. In my experience, this is exactly what occurs when practicing ānāpāna in jhāna, and is no different from vipassanā. The Buddha teaches that observing sensations in jhāna is integral to the path to enlightenment, whether it is called ānāpāna or vipassanā.
This insight arose from my personal meditation experience, where I came to realize that both ānāpāna and vipassanā can—and should—be practiced in jhāna, as they are simply different approaches to the same practice. Then, through my later study of ancient texts, I discovered that this is precisely what the Buddha himself taught. He states clearly and explicitly that jhāna is the path to enlightenment, and that when done as he recommended, in jhāna, both ānāpāna and vipassanā lead to the same goal, liberation.
To conclude, these experience have had a huge impact on myself and my life, in so many ways. But the most important one is that now, as a result of my experiences on these six long retreats, I feel that my practice aligns far better with what the Buddha taught than it did previously. This provides me with great sense of reassurance. I feel much more firmly established on the Buddha’s path, and I see every reason to believe that good things will follow.
I also believe that others can achieve the same benefits—a topic I will address in the next chapter.
End of Chapter 4
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Chapter 5: What This Means for Other Meditators
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